To Hold the

Crown

Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

Genealogy

The Birth of a Prince

The Baker’s Boy

Coronation

The Death of a Queen

Perkin

Henry Duke of York

The Scottish Court

Tyburn and Tower Hill

The Spanish Princess

The Bride and the Widow

The Princes in the Tower

Birth and Death

The Search for a Queen

The Prince Discovers His Conscience

Shipwreck

The End of a Reign

King Henry the Eighth

Bibliography

A Reader’s Group Guide

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKESPEARE’S HENRY IV, PART 2.

To Hold the

Crown

The Birth of

a Prince

There was great consternation in the Palace of Winchester on that misty September day, in the year 1486 for the Queen—who was not due to give birth to her child for another month—had started her pains.

It was extraordinary for only eight months had passed since the marriage. Everyone had been delighted by the Queen’s promise of fruitfulness, and to have given birth nine months after the marriage would have been a most welcome sign, but to do so in eight months was a little disconcerting, though no one could believe for one moment that this might mean anything but the birth of a premature child.

Queen Elizabeth was sitting quietly with her sisters, Cecilia aged seventeen and Anne who was just eleven, working on an altar cloth, which the King’s mother, of whom they were in considerable awe, had decided was an appropriate occupation for them at such a time when all the favors Heaven could grant them were needed. Even Anne knew—for it was spoken of continually—that it was of utmost importance that the Queen should give birth to a healthy boy.

The Queen and her sisters had come through difficult times and still remembered them. They had been pampered and petted by their magnificent and all-powerful father but they had also suffered privations in the Sanctuary at Westminster when they had feared for their lives. If they had learned a lesson from life it must surely be that it was fraught with insecurity and could change drastically in the space of a few days.

At last Elizabeth was married to the King and although there had been a period when they had wondered whether Henry Tudor was going to honor his pledges, they now felt comparatively safe; and if the baby who was about to be born was a healthy boy, their chances of making good marriages and living in comfort—and perhaps even of survival—would be greatly increased.

As Cecilia stitched at the hem of the Madonna’s robe in a silk thread of exquisite blue, she was wondering when her time to marry would come. She hoped her husband would be someone at the King’s Court for she did not want to have to go away from home. At one time she had thought she was going to be sent to Scotland to be the Queen of Scots but that had come to nothing in the manner of so many of these proposed marriages. As for Elizabeth herself she had once been destined for the Dauphin of France and for a long time their mother had insisted that she be addressed as Madame La Dauphine. The fact was that one never knew where one would end up. Who would have believed that Elizabeth, after the humiliation of losing the Dauphin, would, through her marriage with Henry Tudor, become Queen of England?

Although one never spoke of it now, the King should have been their brother Edward. But where was Edward? What had happened to him and their brother Richard? Some people said that both had been murdered in the Tower. It must be so for if they had not been, surely the King of England should have been either Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth—not Henry the Seventh.

Their mother had said: “It is a subject which it is better not to discuss. We have to be careful not to upset the Queen who is in a delicate condition.”

Still it was strange not to talk of one’s own brothers. What should one talk of? The weather? Whether Elizabeth would have a coronation when the baby was born? The christening?

“Don’t talk too much about the baby,” their mother had warned. “It might be unlucky.”

Then of what did one talk?

Cecilia was saved the trouble of searching for a suitable topic of conversation for Elizabeth suddenly turned very pale, put her hands to her stomach and said: “I believe my pains are starting. Go at once to our mother.”

Cecilia dropped her part of the altar cloth and ran while Anne sat staring at her sister in dismay.

Queen Elizabeth Woodville, the Queen Mother, was alone in her apartments at the castle. She was longing for the next month to be over that she might hold her healthy grandson in her arms.

She was certain it would be a boy. If not her daughter Elizabeth must quickly become pregnant again. She had no doubt that Elizabeth would breed well, as she herself had.

She was congratulating herself on a return to prosperity. She and her family had passed through some very difficult times, during which she believed she had come near to disaster. King Richard had never liked her; he had always deplored his brother’s marriage to a woman, as he would have said, of low quality. Naturally he had never dared say much against her when Edward was alive; and after Edward’s death Richard had preserved his loyalty to his brother. Even when she had been caught with Jane Shore in conspiring against him, he had been lenient. Now everything was changed. He was dead—slain on Bosworth Field and the new King had become her son-in-law.

She was wishing Henry’s mother was not in the castle. The Countess of Richmond with her quiet air of superiority irritated Elizabeth Woodville. It was true that Margaret Beaufort had royal blood in her veins, even though as Elizabeth often reminded herself it came from the wrong side of the blanket. Oh, everyone knew that John of Gaunt had legitimized his Beauforts but that did not alter the fact that they had begun in bastardy, and it was true that those who were unsure of their claims always asserted their rights to them most forcefully. She herself was one of those, for ever since King Edward had become so enamored of her that he had married her and raised her to such dizzy heights, she had had to make sure that everyone remembered the respect due to her.

So it was with Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, and now that her son had become King this set her somewhat above the mother of the Queen, though, mused Elizabeth, none could doubt that the young Queen, as daughter of the late King Edward the Fourth, had more right to the crown than Henry Tudor who had won it by conquest rather than inheritance.

It was not a matter to brood on, for Henry now had the crown firmly in his grasp and he had fulfilled his contract to unite the houses of York and Lancaster, which he had done when he married Edward the Fourth’s eldest daughter.

Such times we live through! the Queen Mother often thought sadly, dreaming of the days of her glory when an ardent young King had first seen her in Whittlebury Forest and pursued her with such fervent devotion that he had lifted her from her humble position and made her his Queen.

While he had lived she had been secure as Queen of England, surrounded by her family whom she had made prosperous; but alas he had died suddenly at the age of forty-four although he had seemed in almost perfect health up to that time. Then had come the greatest blow of all—the shattering declaration that Edward had been married to Eleanor Butler who was alive at the time when he had gone through a ceremony with Elizabeth—thus making her marriage no marriage at all and her children illegitimate.

And her dear little boys—young Edward, who had briefly been Edward the Fifth, and the little Duke of York…where were they now? It seemed they had vanished into obscurity. There had been rumors that their uncle, Richard the Third, had murdered them in the Tower. But why should he find that necessary? He had declared them illegitimate. Why should he have needed to murder them? Whatever had happened to them, they were lost to her…her little darlings. She mourned them deeply for although she might be a vain and selfish woman she was a good mother and had loved all her children dearly. There was mystery everywhere. She remembered long dreary days, cold sleepless nights in Westminster Sanctuary when she had not known from one day to the next what would become of her and her family.

Richard had not been unkind after a while. There had even been talk of his marrying young Elizabeth. It was not serious of course. How could an uncle marry his niece? However, young Elizabeth was destined to be the savior of her family, now Henry, the new King, had married her. This meant that he did not consider her illegitimate…and yet if she were not, the young Princes also were not, and if they were alive…what right had Henry to the throne?

It was too complicated, too frightening to brood on. So she must put the past behind her. She must say: We have come so far and we are now as safe as any can be in this dangerous changing world. My daughter is the Queen of England. My little boys are lost to me forever. It might be true that Richard had murdered them in the Tower as one rumor had had it, yet why he should since they had been proclaimed illegitimate, she could never understand.

There was too much mystery; there had been too much misery; now they were moving forward into brighter times. She must forget the past.

If this child were a boy, contentment would settle on the country. The new dynasty of the Tudors would be accepted and the child would be the vital link which bound the Houses of York and Lancaster together and settled their differences forever.

What was most important now was to care for the young Queen and to bring this all-important child into the world. There was a whole month to wait and waiting was so irksome.

Cecilia had rushed into the room. She was about to reprove her daughter, reminding her that she must remember that she was not only the sister of the reigning Queen but also the daughter of great King Edward who was still mourned with such affection by his subjects….

But this was no time for a lecture on deportment. Cecilia was breathless.

“My lady…come quickly…it is my sister…. She is in pain.”

The Queen Mother felt fear grip her.

“No…It cannot be….”

She was out of the room running as fast as she could to her daughter’s apartment.

One look at Elizabeth was enough. “Send for the midwife!” she cried.

Then with the help of her women she took the Queen to the lying-in apartments, which by good fortune had already been prepared for her.

When Margaret Countess of Richmond heard that the Queen’s confinement had begun she went at once to the lying-in apartments. She had prepared them herself, so she knew that everything was in readiness and exactly as it should be.

Let there be no misunderstanding. This was the most important occasion the country had known since the crowning of the new King.

On the orders of the King’s mother, the lying-in chamber, which she had graciously allowed the young mother-to-be to choose herself, was hung with rich arras that was draped even over the ceiling. It hung at the windows, shutting out the light. This was fitting for a royal birth, said the Countess, and as the King accepted her word in all such matters, so must it be. Only women should be with the Queen at the time of the birth and the Countess had appointed members of her own sex even to such posts as butler and pages, positions usually occupied by men.

She knew that Elizabeth Woodville would have liked to countermand her orders; but she dared not. The King had no great liking for his mother-in-law, and the woman knew that she remained at Court on sufferance, because he could not ignore his wife’s mother; even so she would have to understand that she must fall in completely with his wishes if she were to retain her place at Court, and that meant those of his mother also.

The Countess of Richmond was a very determined woman. She had been a beauty in her youth—not such a dazzling one as Elizabeth Woodville, but nevertheless a woman of striking good looks. Her features were regular, serene and so stern that they could be called frigid. She was a woman who kept her own counsel, but there was one thing which was certain—and that was her complete devotion to her son.

She had been not quite fourteen years old when Henry had been born, already a widow for her husband Edmund Tudor had died in the November before his son was born the following January. The bewildered mother had been glad to retire to Pembroke Castle where her brother-in-law Jasper offered her a home. It was Jasper who became the guardian of the young baby and who had brought him through many dangers to his present position.

The Tudors were staunch Lancastrians and Margaret had watched the progress of the Wars of the Roses with alternate fear and hope. The deaths of Henry the Sixth and his son had made the way clear for Henry. How she had hoped and prayed for his success and naturally she had not been above a little scheming too; and at last her seemingly hopeless dream had become a reality. Her Henry—whose claim to the throne even she had to admit was a trifle flimsy—had landed at Milford Haven and from there marched to Bosworth Field where he had had the good fortune to put an end to the reign of the Plantagenets and begin that of the Tudors.

It was dramatic; it was the fortunes of war; and Margaret had played her part in it. Henry did not forget that and he deferred to her. She was glad of that. He was a serious young man, her Henry; she was convinced that he would make a good king. Of course he would. He would always be ready to listen to his mother.

Critically she looked now at that other mother. She had never approved of Elizabeth Woodville and had always thought King Edward must have been wanting in judgment when he married her. Of course everyone knew that he had been a lecher. All the more reason to wonder at his actions in marrying the woman. Still, it was all long ago and Edward and his Queen had given the country the present Queen, a charming girl who would do her duty and would not prove too difficult to handle, Margaret was sure. Moreover the girl, with Henry, had united the Houses of Lancaster and York thereby silencing those fierce Yorkists who might want to drive Lancastrian Henry from the throne. It had all worked out as well as could be hoped, thought Margaret.

But Elizabeth Woodville would have to realize that the King’s mother was in charge of the King’s household, and as the most important part of it at this time was the lying-in chamber, Margaret would be in absolute control.

“It is well,” she said, “that we came to Winchester early as it is the King’s wish that the child should be born here.”

“I should have preferred Windsor,” commented Elizabeth Woodville.

“It is of course the King’s wish that must prevail in these matters. Great King Arthur built this castle.”

“Is said to have built it,” interrupted Elizabeth.

“King Arthur is an ancestor of the King.”

“Oh my dear Countess, there are so many who claim they have descended from Arthur.”

“That may be but the King has in fact. He always had a great admiration for King Arthur. When he was a boy he was constantly reading of his deeds and those of his knights; and when he knew he was about to become a father he said, ‘I wish my son to be born in Arthur’s castle.’ That is why the Queen is here.”

“We hope it will be a son. One can never be sure.”

“Your daughter will be fertile, I have no doubt. You yourself have been.”

Elizabeth smiled complacently. She felt superior to the Countess in that respect. For although Margaret might have had three husbands she had produced only one child. True, that child had become King of England, but so had Elizabeth’s tragic little Edward the Fifth—if only for a few months before he retired into mysterious obscurity.

“There should be some light in the lying-in chamber,” she said.

“One window has not been fully covered. That will give her all the light she needs,” retorted the Countess.

Elizabeth was irritated. When she considered the number of times she had given birth she would have thought she knew more about it than the King’s mother.

“When I think of my little son…born in Sanctuary…”

“I know, but the King’s son will soon be born in Winchester Castle and that is what we must concern ourselves with.”

“My lady, is it not unlucky to talk of the sex of the child with such certainty?”

“I do not think so. I feel sure it is a boy the Queen carries. A little boy…who is so impatient to be born that he cannot wait his full time.”

“I trust Elizabeth will be all right. I do not like premature births. I almost wish that it was not premature…that…”

The Countess regarded her with horror. “Do you mean that you would have the King forestall his marriage vows…? You cannot mean…?”

“Oh no…no…I am sure he would never do that. But if the baby comes before its time, will it not be a little…delicate?”

“It is sometimes so, but Elizabeth is a healthy girl. I doubt not that if he should be born weakly we shall soon have him strong.”

“Well, she is young. This will be the forerunner of many it is to be hoped.”

Thus the two women talked while they waited to hear the first cry of the child. Elizabeth Woodville was hiding her apprehension. Her daughter had suffered recently from the ague and she was more worried than she would admit because the birth was premature. If Elizabeth died…No, she would not think of that. She had had too much bad luck with her beloved children. Elizabeth would survive. Elizabeth was the hope of the House of York. If she died, and the child with her, would the conflict begin again? The Yorkists would be ready to drive the Lancastrian from the throne. She knew that in some circles Henry was referred to as “the impostor” and it was only this marriage with the daughter of the House of York which made him acceptable. Once the child was born—and pray God it should be a boy—that alone would seal the pact.

“Elizabeth, my darling daughter,” she prayed, “live…live and give us a healthy boy…for the sake of the country, for the sake of us all.”

The Countess of Richmond was less confident than she appeared to be. Premature births were dangerous and it could not possibly be anything else but a premature birth. Elizabeth would never have taken a lover and Henry would never have forestalled his marriage vows. No…no…the child was coming a month before it was due. It had happened before. The main thing was that it should live and that Elizabeth should go on to give more children to the country. This conflict between York and Lancaster had to end. For thirty years—on and off—those wars had persisted. The strength of King Edward the Fourth had held them at bay but it had been seen how easily they had broken out when he had died. And now…Lancaster was in the ascendancy but the Yorkists were content because though the King was a Lancastrian the Queen was of the house of York. An ideal settlement, but it must stay firm. The Queen must remain the Queen and there must be a child.

It had all seemed hopeful until the Queen began to give birth prematurely.

If she died, thought the Countess, and if the child died…what then?

She had been watching Cecilia. The girl was comely—all Edward the Fourth’s daughters were beauties, with that magnificent golden hair inherited from the mother. It was hardly likely that they could be other than handsome with parents who had been generally proclaimed as the best-looking man and woman in the country.

If Elizabeth died could Henry marry Cecilia…? It would be tricky but it had always been the Countess’s custom to be prepared for all eventualities.

Meanwhile the Queen was awaiting the birth of the child. The pains were intermittent now. She felt very ill and wondered if she were going to die. She had been unprepared when the evidence of the child’s imminent arrival became apparent and she was very alarmed. It could not be yet. It was not due for another month. They had brought her to this darkened chamber and she longed for more light, but it was against royal etiquette, her mother-in-law had said—and it was the Countess who made the rules in this household.

The King deferred to the Countess and Elizabeth must defer to the King. She was not sure whether she loved her husband. He was not what she had imagined him to be. When the marriage had been suggested she had thought of him as a hero of romance. He was coming to protect her from her Uncle Richard—not that she had ever been greatly in fear of her uncle. She remembered his visiting her father when he was alive and what affection there had been between the two of them, though Uncle Richard had been quite different from her big jovial exuberant father. Quiet, retiring, speaking very little, being intensely serious—that was Uncle Richard. Yet Anne Neville had loved him; and Anne had been a good friend to her.

The truth was that she was in awe of her husband. He had shown her affection and stressed that he was delighted with his marriage, but there was something she did not understand about him, something withdrawn…aloof. Behind those eyes were secrets she would never discover. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that she did not.

She was overanxious that she should produce a healthy boy because that was her duty. It seemed, looking back on her life, that it was what she had been born for. All her life she had been buffeted, it seemed, from this one to that…. First one marriage was important…then another. At one time she had been offered to the son of Margaret of Anjou. That came to nothing because he was affianced to Anne Neville when Anne’s father, the Kingmaker Earl of Warwick, turned his coat and went over to Margaret of Anjou, deserting his old friend and ally Elizabeth’s father. Later she was destined for the Dauphin of France. What a grand opinion she had had of herself then. So had her mother, who had insisted that she be called Madame La Dauphine throughout the Court.

Then of course the King of France had decided to give his son to another bride and that, it was said, so shattered Edward the Fourth that it was one of the causes of his death. And eventually here she was…Queen of England.

At least that side of her life was settled. She would like to live quietly now…at peace…with many children to occupy her days. That was what she wanted and for once it coincided with most other people’s wishes for her, so perhaps there was a chance of its coming to pass.

Perhaps she was wrong to be afraid of her cold-eyed husband. Perhaps she felt so because having lived close to a father like Edward the Fourth, she had expected to have a husband like him—full of good humor, full of laughter, handsome, dressed extravagantly, charming everyone with his smiles and well-chosen words. She remembered an occasion when the Lord of Grauthuse visited the Court and her father wished to do honor to him. There had been a great many entertainments and at one of the balls her father had led her out onto the floor and danced with her. She must have looked tiny beside his great bulk, but how exalted she had felt—particularly when the dance was over and he had lifted her up before them all and kissed her. That must have been one of the happiest moments in her life. She remembered her mother, so beautiful that she seemed like a being from another world, looking on at the scene and smiling benignly—oh yes indeed, the happiest little girl in all the Court…in all the world perhaps. But one quickly learned that happiness was a fleeting moment…here…and gone…but it did leave something behind…a memory to bring out now and then and glory in.

Now, lying in her bed in this darkened room with so many people about her, listening to the whispering voices, waiting for the next bout of pain, events from the past would keep coming into her mind.

She was thinking of her young brother Edward’s birth, which had taken place on a dark November day in the Sanctuary at Westminster where she with her mother and her sisters were sheltering from their enemies. She would never forget the exultation when it was learned that the new baby was a boy. Her mother had said: “This is the best news the King could have. Now he will regain his throne.” She remembered the little boy’s baptism in that grim place. There was no royal ceremony then, and yet that little boy was the King’s son, the heir to the throne.

Little Edward, she thought. Where are you now? Where is my brother Richard? Little Edward, true King of England, what happened to you?

One must not think of the boys, her mother had said. They must have died…. It is the only explanation.

Of course it was the only explanation, for if they lived and were not illegitimate as her Uncle Richard had proclaimed them to be, then Henry had no right to the throne and she was not the true Queen. And he must declare them legitimate for how could the King of England marry a bastard, for she must be one if her brothers were.

One certainly must not think of such things, particularly when one was about to bring a child into the world.

But the thoughts would keep intruding…terrible thoughts. There had been a rumor when her aunt, Queen Anne, wife of Uncle Richard was near to death that she, Elizabeth, and the King had conspired together to poison her. It was monstrous. It was absurd. Her Uncle Richard had never shown anything but devotion toward his wife and never never had she, Elizabeth, considered marriage to him. Her own uncle! It was criminal. And all for the sake of being Queen of England!

He must have felt the same horror for when the Queen died he sent her away from Court, and she had been more or less a prisoner at his castle of Sheriff Hutton in the North because he knew that there had been a secret betrothal to Henry Tudor.

That was her life—buffeted from one situation to another. Never was she consulted as to her wishes. They would do with her as best suited them. Received at Court one day, petted and pampered; and the next, banished to exile in what was more or less a prison.

At Sheriff Hutton she had been very much in the company of her cousin Edward, Earl of Warwick, who was the son of the Duke of Clarence—that brother of her father’s who had died in the Tower of London by drowning in a butt of malmsey. Poor Edward, his lot had been very sad. He had been only three years old when his father had died; his mother was already dead and poor little orphan that he was he was happy for a while in the care of his aunt Anne, then Duchess of Gloucester soon to be Queen of England. There had been a time, after the death of King Richard’s son, when Richard had thought to make young Edward his heir but the boy had continued at Sheriff Hutton, so that when Elizabeth had come there, she had found him already installed and a friendship grew up between them.

There they had been together at the time of the fateful battle of Bosworth, which was to change the lives of so many, among them the two who were virtually prisoners at Sheriff Hutton.

Elizabeth had come to Court to marry the new King; and the young Earl of Warwick for no other reason than he was a threat to the new King’s position was brought to London and lodged in the Tower.

Elizabeth was concerned for him; she would have liked to visit him, to ask her husband—or her husband’s mother—for what reason her young cousin Edward was confined in the Tower. What had he done—apart from being the son of the Duke of Clarence who might be said to have claim to the throne?

When she had broached the subject with Henry, that cold veiled look, which she was beginning to know so well, had come into his eyes.

“He is best there,” he had said with a note of finality in his voice.

As the Countess of Richmond had said: “The King will know how best to act.”

But it is wrong…wrong…she thought…to imprison him just because…

She tried not to think beyond that, but the thoughts would persist: Just because he has a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor…. After the sons of Edward the Fourth there is the son of his brother George Duke of Clarence…. But where are the sons of Edward the Fourth? Where are my little brothers Edward and Richard?

It was amazing how her thoughts came back and back to that question.

But the pains were starting again, and there was nothing else she could think of.

The King was out hunting when he heard the disturbing news that the child was on the point of being born. He was alarmed. It was too soon. Not only must this child be a boy, he must live. He was sure that if this could come about he would be secure upon the throne.

It meant everything to him. He believed he had all the gifts necessary to kingship. He believed he knew what England needed to make her a great country and he could bring this about. He hated war, which he was sure brought little profit to any concerned in it. He had seen what the Hundred Years War and the Wars of the Roses had done to England. He wanted peace. He wanted trade. Edward the Fourth had seen the virtue of that and it was obvious that the country has prospered under him. He wanted to encourage the arts for he felt they enriched a nation; he wanted to accumulate wealth, for if the coffers of the exchequer were fuller a country lost its vulnerability and the money could be used to encourage commerce and exploration, which would result in new markets; he could enrich the country through architecture and learning; the taxes enforced on the people should be used for its prosperity, not squandered on useless wars and other futile extravagances.

He knew what the country wanted and he knew he could give it. He knew too that he had reached the throne through good luck. The battle of Bosworth might so easily have gone the other way and probably would have done so but for the defection of his father-in-law’s brother, Sir William Stanley. Then he had his mother to thank for so much. She should always be near him…cherished, revered. Well, here he was and here he intended to stay; but he must never forget that his position could not be firm, coming down through bastardy as it did. Many would say that his grandfather Owen Tudor had never been married to Katherine of Valois and therefore their children were bastards—part royal bastards though they might be. Then even his mother, daughter of John Beaufort, first Earl of Somerset, and his sole heir, descended from John of Gaunt, could not be completely free from the taint of bastardy. He would have been the first to admit that his claim to the throne was a very flimsy one, which was the reason why he must be very careful and ever watchful that those who might be said to have a greater claim were in no position to rise against him.

He was uneasy about Edward, Earl of Warwick, but he was safely in the Tower and there he must remain. It was fortunate that the only legitimate son of Richard the Third had died. The Yorkists would say that Elizabeth of York was the heiress to the throne. Well, she was his wife. That had been the only possible marriage for him and he had to thank his good fortune that he had been able to bring it about. Elizabeth not only had a claim to the throne but she was also a good wife. His mother had said: “She will bring you great joy and little trouble.” That was what he needed. So he had his gentle Elizabeth, the legitimate daughter of Edward the Fourth, who had already shown that she could be fertile.

There was the core of his anxieties. If she were legitimate then so were her brothers.

He did not want to think of those boys who had been lodged in the Tower. He kept telling himself that he need not worry anymore about them. Richard had been a fool to remove them from the public eye after those rumors of their death. He had made one or two mistakes in his lifetime—the thoughtful Richard. Trusting the Stanleys was one—that had cost him his crown; and removing the Princes into obscurity had lost him his reputation.

“I am not by nature a cruel man,” mused the King. “I am not a natural murderer. But sometimes what would seem to be evil deeds are necessary for the good of many. Then surely they cease to be evil. And what are the lives of two little boys compared with the prosperity, well-being and lives maybe of an entire kingdom?”

He must put unpleasant thoughts behind him. That would be easy enough if it were not for the constant fear that ghosts could arise from the past to confront a man when he least expected them; and if that man were a king, the results could be disastrous. But it was folly to see trouble where it had not yet raised its head. Time enough for that when the moment of danger arose.

There was one big threat to the throne and that could come through Clarence’s son. Henry’s enemies might decide to strike at him and use the boy as a figurehead. There would always be those to remember that Henry was a Lancastrian and the Earl of Warwick a Yorkist heir to the throne—providing the young sons of Edward the Fourth were truly no more. But unless it was absolutely necessary the boy must not die yet. There must not be too many deaths.

These were uneasy thoughts, but a king’s thoughts were often uneasy, and he had always been prepared for that. Life had never been smooth. How many times had he believed his to be at an end? And how grateful he should be now that he had a chance to reach his destiny!

His good friend John Morton, Bishop of Ely, had assured him that God had chosen him. Morton should have the Archbishopric of Canterbury. He deserved it, and Henry was going to bestow it on him next month. He owed his life to Morton and that was something he would never forget. He promised himself that he would be ruthless toward his enemies, but every man who had shown friendship to him should have his gratitude.

His Uncle Jasper and Morton were the best friends he had ever had—not counting his mother, of course, but complete devotion was something which came naturally from a mother…perhaps an uncle too. Morton though—without ties of blood—had been his greatest friend.

He did, however, owe a great deal to his uncle Jasper Tudor. Jasper had been true to the Lancastrian cause even when its fortunes were at their very lowest. His mother had told him how very alarmed she was to be left alone with a young baby and she could not imagine what might have befallen them but for his uncle Jasper.

“I remember the day he came to me,” she had told her son. “He embraced me. He told me that he looked upon you as a sacred charge. The Tudors always stood together and as you had lost your father he was going to do for you all that a father should. I never forgot that. And he did, Henry. He carried out his word. Never forget what you owe to your uncle Jasper.”

No, he would never forget Jasper. As soon as he had come to power he had created him Duke of Bedford and made him a Privy Councillor; he had restored the earldom of Pembroke to him and made him Chief Justice of South Wales. No, he would never forget Jasper.

His education had been supervised by his uncle who had provided him with the best tutors.

“We have a boy here,” Jasper had said, “who loves learning. It would be a sin not to let him have the best.”

His mother had fully agreed with these sentiments, so he had become immersed in his lessons, particularly stories about the Kings Arthur and Cadwallader whom he claimed as his ancestors. He had quickly become aware of the uncertainty of life, for his uncle Jasper was constantly engaged in battles as the war raged, with the Lancastrians victorious one day and the Yorkists the next. After one heavy defeat, when Henry was only five years old, Jasper had been obliged to fly to Scotland; the boy had been taken from Pembroke Castle to the fortress of Harlech where he had remained in Lancastrian hands until he was nine years old.

That had been a terrifying time. Henry hated war. He would do so all his life. He was not going to be one of those warrior kings like Henry the Fifth and the First and Third Edwards who, it seemed to him, sought to make war when it was not necessary to do so and when it would have been so much better for them and their countries to have lived in peace. He could not say the same of his family’s arch enemy, Edward the Fourth, for he had fought only when war was forced upon him, when he had to make it or risk losing his crown. Henry could understand that a crown was something well worth fighting for.

When he was nine years old William Herbert had come and taken the castle of Harlech for the Yorkists—and young Henry with it. Then Henry had a new guardian and he was amazed that he could quickly grow fond of the Herberts, particularly Lady Herbert who treated him as he had never been treated before—as a child. Oddly enough he enjoyed that. She scolded him and looked to his comforts and was as affectionate toward him as though he were her own son. Lord Herbert had been given the title of Earl of Pembroke for this had been taken away from Jasper. Henry and young Maud Herbert did their lessons together, rode together, quarreled together and in truth found each other’s company very agreeable. Lady Herbert watching, thought that one day they might enter into an even closer relationship. Then there had been a new development in the war. Fortunes had been reversed. The newly created Earl of Pembroke was killed in battle, the Lancastrians were restored to power, Edward the Fourth fled the country, and Uncle Jasper returned.

That had been a very important time in young Henry’s life because he was taken to London and there presented to King Henry the Sixth, his father’s half-brother, who welcomed him warmly, complimenting him on his handsome looks and musing in his somewhat absentminded way that it might well be that in time a crown would grace that head.

That was when young Henry first began thinking of the possibility of becoming a king. He had noticed the deference bestowed on the King; he was delighted to hear that he was related to him; he went back to Wales and read more and more of Arthur and Cadwallader. He was one of them. He could one day be a king.

Uncle Jasper had been full of high hopes at that time. The King was gracious to his Tudor kinsmen. It was clear that he had been impressed—as far as his addled mind could let him be—and had been struck by the looks and learning of young Henry.

“If he stays secure on the throne,” said Jasper, “there will be a high place for you at Court, my boy.”

But poor mad Henry did not stay secure on the throne and it was not long before the mighty Edward returned to claim the crown and hold it with such firmness of purpose which, combined with the will of the people who had always loved him, showed quite clearly that York would be triumphant as long as the magnificent Edward was there to make it so.

Edward was shrewd. He did not like the thought of that boy being nurtured in Wales.

“It is clear that we are unsafe here,” said Uncle Jasper.

So they had left intending to go to France but a strong wind had blown them onto the coast of Brittany where they were cordially received by the Duke, Francis the Second.

It became obvious that it had been a wise action when Edward asked the Duke of Brittany to deliver young Henry Tudor to him. “I do not intend to make him a prisoner,” Edward had declared. “I would like to arrange a match for him with one of my daughters.”

Jasper had laughed aloud at that and decided they would stay in Brittany until what he called a more healthy climate prevailed in England.

Henry had often thought that one of the saddest things that could happen to a man or woman was to be an exile from his or her own country. Pray God it never happened to him again.

He would not be here this day if it were not for John Morton. What a good friend he had been—one who was ready to work for a cause and place his life in jeopardy! He had come through some difficult times, had John Morton. In spite of his Lancastrian leanings he had managed to win the confidence of Edward the King. What fools some men—even great men—were. Both Edward and Richard, whom he was ready to concede were wise in many ways, had been fools. They never seemed to doubt the loyalty of those about them; it appeared to be good enough for a man to profess friendship, for these Kings to accept his word. King Henry the Seventh would never be caught like that. He would trust no one who had not proved his worth—even then not too deeply. His mother he would trust with his life; and Morton, yes, but not even him completely. He would always remember Richard’s trust in Stanley. How could he have been such a fool! That act of folly had lost him his crown—or contributed to it.

So Edward had trusted Morton and made him an executor of his will, and as Bishop of Ely Morton had been in a strong position when Edward died. Yet Richard had suspected him. Had he not been arrested at that famous council meeting in the Tower when Hastings had lost his head? But what had Richard done? Put the Bishop in the care of Buckingham. How could Richard have trusted Buckingham as long as he did!

The more he looked back to the past the more he saw that a king must be wary; he must be suspicious of all and he must not weaken in his vigil and his purpose and those who stood between him and the throne must in due course be eliminated. Not only for the sake of Henry Tudor but for the peace and prosperity of the land.

Be watchful then even of good friends like Morton who had once saved his life. He would never forget it; he would reward Morton; but he would be watchful of all men.

Yes, even Morton, though it was he who had sent warning to him when Richard was planning to capture him in Brittany, and so enabled him to escape to France in time. He owed his life to Morton. From Buckingham’s care Morton had escaped to Ely and from there to Flanders where he had joined Henry with plans for the landing, for the conquest which should give Henry the Kingdom.

And now here he was…married to Elizabeth, heiress of York, awaiting the birth of his son.

Who knew, at this moment the child might have arrived.

He spurred his horse and rode with all speed to Winchester.

The Queen lay back exhausted and triumphant. It was over. She had heard the cry of her child, and the Countess of Richmond was at her bedside holding the infant.

“A boy!” she cried. “Healthy enough…though small, as to be expected coming a month too soon.”

“A boy,” said the Queen, holding out her arms.

“Just for a few moments, my dear,” said the Countess. “You must not tire yourself. We are going to get you well as soon as we can. That would be the King’s command.”

“Where is the King?”

“He will be here soon. I long to see his face when he hears we have our boy.”

The Queen could see her mother standing there and she smiled at her.

“Dearest lady,” she said.

The Queen Mother was on her knees at the bedside. “We have our boy, my dearest,” she said. “A darling little boy. We must call him Edward after your father. And let us pray that he shall be such another as his grandfather.”

The Queen nodded and looked down at the child. But her mother-in-law was already taking him away.

“The Queen should have the baby for a while,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “He will be such a comfort to her.”

“The Queen is comforted indeed by the knowledge that she has a son. She is exhausted now and it is best for her to sleep.”

The Countess signed to the nurse. “Take the child now.” As the nurse did so she said, “I hear sounds of arrival. The King is here.”

She hurried out of the chamber and went to greet him. She wanted to be the first to tell him.

There he was, eager and apprehensive. She bowed. She never forgot the homage due to the King. Elizabeth Woodville had said that at every possible moment she reminded herself and everyone that he was the King and was warning all not to forget it.

He was looking at her expectantly.

“All is well,” she said. “We have our child….” She could not resist holding back the vital information, perhaps because she felt that a few moments of anxiety would make the news more joyful.

“Healthy,” she said, “strong, perfect in every way,” still prolonging the suspense. Then she let it out. “A boy. My son, we have our boy.”

He was overcome with joy and relief.

“And all is well with him?”

“He is small…being a child of eight months. But we shall soon remedy that.”

“A boy,” he said. “We shall call him Arthur.”

“A fitting name. The Queen’s mother has already suggested Edward.”

The King shook his head. Edward? Never Edward. To remind everyone of that great handsome king whom they loved even more now that he was dead than they had when he was alive, although they had been fond of him even then! Edward, to remind them of that little Prince who had disappeared in the Tower!!

Never.

“I must see the boy,” he said.

“Come.”

She led him up to the lying-in chamber. To her annoyance the Queen had the baby in her arms. The Woodville woman must have countermanded her orders as soon as she went down to greet the King. She would have to do something about that, but this was not the moment.

The King went to the bed and looked with wonder at the child.

The Queen was smiling at him. He smiled at her.

“I am happy,” he said.

“It is wonderful,” answered the Queen quietly. “I dared not hope for so much joy.”

“We have our boy…our first boy. Now you must recover quickly.”

It was almost as though he were saying, we should have another soon, so don’t waste time recovering.

His eyes were cold. She, who had grown up in a warmly loving family where displays of affection were commonplace, was repelled by her husband’s coldness. Even at such a time he was in complete control of his emotions. He was delighted that she had come safely through and they had a son, but was that because it would have been extremely awkward if she had died; and of course a son and a living Yorkist wife were what he needed to make his position very secure.

She said: “Is he not beautiful? He has a look of my father.”

The King shook his head. How could that red-faced wrinkled creature look in the least like the magnificent Edward.

“We should call him Edward,” said Elizabeth Woodville. “It is a good name for the son of a king.”

“No, he is to be Arthur,” replied Henry. “He is born in Arthur’s Castle. I am descended from Arthur. That is what my son shall be called. Arthur.”

“That,” said the Countess, “is just what I thought. Come, little Arthur. Your mother must rest.”

With a triumphant look at the Dowager Queen, the Countess took the child from his mother’s arms and handed him to the nurse.

It was all very satisfactory. They had their son. The country would rejoice and Elizabeth Woodville and her daughter had learned yet again that they must obey the wishes and commands of the King and his mother.

The Baker’s Boy

Making his way through the streets of Oxford Richard Simon had often paused by the baker’s shop to watch the graceful young boy helping his father there. Richard Simon, humble priest, disgruntled, inwardly complaining with much bitterness of the ill luck which had been his, often wondered what he could do to better his position. In the beginning he had had grand dreams. So many priests rose to greatness. One needed influence of course; that, or some great stroke of good fortune, and if only he could find it there was no end to what could happen to him. Bishoprics might come within his grasp and once he had got onto the first rung of the ladder to fame he would rise, he knew it.

He had ingenuity and imagination; he had courage…everything a man needed to rise; but as the years passed and he could not take that first step he was becoming more bitter and disillusioned every day.

In fact he was getting desperate. If good fortune would not come to him, he must go out to find it. There he was—personable and clever. He often thought he would have made a good Archbishop of Canterbury. There were some people who had the looks of distinction even though they were set in humble circumstances.

Take the young boy in the baker’s shop for instance. He moved with a natural dignity. He fascinated Richard Simon. How did a boy like that come to be working in a baker’s shop? That boy would have looked quite at home in the house of a nobleman.

He called in at the dwelling of a fellow priest and they sat together over a flagon of wine in a room which was darkened because the only light that came in came through the leaded windows. His own house might have been a replica of this one. It was a roof, a shelter, little more.

They talked of the country’s affairs, of the new King, of the marriage of York and Lancaster, of the newly born Prince.

“It looks as if fortune is smiling on King Henry,” said Richard Simon’s companion.

“Some are lucky. Look how he came to England. He defeated King Richard. Then he married King Edward’s daughter and within eight months—eight, mark you—he has a child and that child a boy. Does that look like fortune smiling on him? Why, Providence even cut short the time of waiting and made his son in eight months instead of the customary nine.”

Richard Simon’s lips curled with bitterness. There was nothing he would like better than to see the luck of Henry the Seventh change drastically. He would like to see him brought low…lose everything he had gained. Not that he cared which king was on the throne. He just hated the successful because he was a failure.

His companion admitted that it certainly seemed as though God were smiling on King Henry. “He is a man to wipe away all obstacles,” he said.

Richard Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Like King Richard…the little Princes…”

“King Richard was slain in fair combat and it was Richard who disposed of the Princes in the Tower. They were killed long ago.”

“It was rumor. Why should Richard kill them? They were no threat to him. And if they were bastards as Richard would have it, does that not make the Queen herself one since she came out of the same stable.”

“You talk rashly, Richard my friend.”

“I speak as I find. I wonder what happened to those boys….”

“There is a tale going round that they escaped from the Tower and are living somewhere…in obscurity.”

“Yes…I had heard that….” Richard narrowed his eyes. “It could be true. They must be somewhere…. I remember that story about King Richard’s wife, the Lady Anne Neville…. Clarence wanted to get rid of her and wasn’t she working in a kitchen somewhere? She, a high-bred lady, a kitchen maid. That was a story you’d scarce believe.”

“Yes it was true enough. It was well known at the time so my father told me.”

“So you see, there’s no end to what can be done.”

Richard Simon rose and said he had business to attend to. He went back to the baker’s shop. The boy was serving a customer. He might be listening to a petitioner, thought Richard Simon. He has all the grace of royalty.

He went into the shop. The baker came out rubbing his hands, smiling at the priest.

He had come for a cob loaf, he said.

“Lambert,” called the baker. “Get a cob for the gentleman.”

He watched Lambert. How gracefully the boy moved, how delicately he took the loaf and wrapped it. There was a diffidence about him and great dignity.

“Thank you, my boy,” said Richard.

Lambert inclined his head. Where did he learn such manners? Richard wanted to linger, to ask questions. He could scarcely say to the baker, How did you come to sire such a boy as this?

“I hear your bread is of the best,” he said to the baker.

The baker was smiling broadly; he rubbed his hands together. “You’re not the first who has heard that, Father. I’ve a reputation hereabouts. Have you ever tried my simnel cakes?”

“No, I have not.”

“Then you must. Then you must.” The baker leaned forward smiling broadly. “I’m so noted for them that they’ve called me after them.”

“Oh…what do you mean?” Listening to the father’s chatter he was still watching the boy.

“I’m known as Baker Simnel. That’s after my cakes, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would indeed. And your boy is a great help to you, I’m sure.”

“Oh he’s young yet…coming up for eleven. Still he’ll be useful when he’s a year or so older.”

One couldn’t spend the whole afternoon chatting over one cob loaf. Reluctantly Richard Simon left the shop.

He walked thoughtfully to his lodging.

The boy haunted him. What if it were really true that the Princes had not been murdered after all, that they had escaped…or perhaps been taken away and hidden somewhere…and where would be the best place to hide a prince? Where it would be least expected to find him. Clarence had made Anne Neville a kitchen maid. She might never have been found but for the determination of King Richard. Just suppose that boy Lambert Simnel was either King Edward the Fifth or the Duke of York. And suppose he, Richard Simon, humble priest, had found him. Suppose he restored him to the throne. The luck of King Henry the Seventh would change then would it not, and so would that of Richard Simon.

It had become an obsession. He went to the baker’s shop whenever he could, where he engaged young Lambert in conversation. The boy did not speak like a royal prince—as soon as he opened his mouth it was apparent that he was a baker’s son. But speech was something that could be changed. How long could he have been with the baker? Three years? A boy could change a great deal in that time. He was on the point of questioning the baker, but that would have been folly. There was no doubt that the baker would have been paid well to take the boy, but he would never admit that he had; moreover, and perhaps this was the real reason for his hesitation, the baker might call him mad and prove without a single doubt that the boy Lambert was his. The dream would be shattered. Richard Simon could not bear the thought of that. He had been happier since wild schemes had been chasing each other round in his head than he had for a long time. Perhaps he only half believed them. It did not matter. They were there; they were balm to his bitterness. He saw himself being graciously received by the King whom he had restored to the throne. Whether it was Edward the Fifth or Richard the Fourth he was not sure. That did not matter. The King was there; the upstart Henry the Seventh was deposed.

“I owe it all to my newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury,” he heard the new King saying.

“What I did, my lord, was what any of your loyal subjects would have done had God favored them with the good fortune to see the truth.”

He saw himself riding into Canterbury, the Archbishop who had saved the throne for the rightful king and rid the country of the impostor.

But these were only dreams—pleasant to indulge in for a while, but insubstantial. There must be some action some time.

He visited his friend frequently and often he was on the point of telling him of his discovery, but he refrained from doing so. He was afraid of bringing his theories into the light of day because he greatly feared they would immediately evaporate.

Instead he talked of events of the days of great Edward and the accession of Richard.

“The Tudor has a very flimsy claim to the throne,” he insisted.

His friend always looked furtively over his shoulder when he talked like that. He was a timid man. “It is of little concern to us,” he said. “What difference does it make to the life of a humble priest what king is on the throne?”

“I like to see justice done,” said Richard piously.

“We all do as long as it doesn’t do us any harm. We know it could have worked so differently. As you say, Richard might not have died at Bosworth. He might have lived to have sons. Or there might have been others to come to the throne. There’s young Edward of Warwick and his sister Margaret. They are children, I know. But there is John de la Pole, the Earl of Lincoln. They say that Richard made him the heir to the throne…in case he didn’t get children of his own…on account of the Earl of Warwick’s being but a boy.”

“The King has young Warwick under lock and key in the Tower, which shows he’s afraid of him. What has this young boy done…a boy of ten years or so, to deserve imprisonment? Why he’s as innocent as…as…”

A vision of the young Lambert Simnel came into his mind. He must be about the same age as the imprisoned Earl of Warwick.

“I wonder,” he went on, “why some of them don’t rise up and, er…do something about it.”

“Oh, Henry Tudor is safe on the throne, particularly now he’s married Elizabeth of York…uniting the houses…and as they’ve got a son…young Arthur…well, he’s safe enough now.”

“But I reckon some people feel angry about it. I reckon there’s the Earl of Lincoln for one….”

He was excited. He wanted to get away to think. He had to be practical. What hope had a poor unknown priest of bringing about a rebellion? Why hadn’t he seen before that he needed help? He was reluctant to share the glory but on the other hand shared glory was better than no glory at all.

Suppose he went to the Earl of Lincoln. Would the mighty Earl receive a humble priest? But perhaps he would want to see a priest who believed he had made a great discovery.

And then it seemed to him that he had a sign from Heaven.

It was his friend who imparted the news to him. He had been wondering how he could find the Earl of Lincoln when his fellow priest said: “Have you heard the latest news? They say that the young Earl of Warwick has escaped from the Tower.”

Richard’s heart began to hammer against his side. Escaped from the Tower! When? It could have been some time ago because such news took a long time to get around.

The young Earl of Warwick was aged about ten. He must look rather like the boy in the baker’s shop.

Now he must act. This had decided him.

It was not easy to get an audience with the great Earl of Lincoln but when Richard Simon eventually succeeded in doing so what he had to say received the Earl’s full attention.

John de la Pole was about twenty-three years old. He deeply resented what he called the usurpation of the Tudor. In his view Richard the Third had been the undoubted King and he believed that the children of Edward the Fourth were illegitimate, which made the Earl of Warwick the heir to the throne. Nobody wanted a child king; nothing was worse for the stability of the country; therefore the Earl of Lincoln himself was the one who should be wearing the crown. His mother had been Elizabeth, sister to Edward the Fourth, and therefore he considered his claim indisputable. Richard the Third had thought so too for he had named him his heir.

“I was struck by the looks of this boy called Lambert Simnel as soon as I perceived him,” said Richard. “He quite clearly did not begin his life in a baker’s shop.”

“But you do not know what the Earl of Warwick looks like.”

“That is true, my lord, and my first thoughts were that here was one of the Princes…son of Edward the Fourth.”

“They are illegitimate. They haven’t the same claim to the throne as the Earl of Warwick.”

“And now that we hear he has escaped from the Tower…”

The Earl nodded.

“Has he the looks of an earl? Has he the manner?”

“He has indeed, my lord.”

“And have you spoken with him?”

Richard hesitated. “His speech is a little rough…like that of apprentices in the streets of London.”

“Not like an earl…eh, and a royal earl. Of course speech is acquired and if he has been long in the baker’s shop, it would be natural for him to adopt that method of speech.”

“So thought I.”

“The people would not accept him unless he appeared perfect in every respect. There would be those who would call him an impostor even though he were proved conclusively to be the Earl of Warwick.”

The Earl of Lincoln was thoughtful. Then he went on: “There would be many who would support the Earl of Warwick against the Tudor.”

“I know that well, my lord. There are many who murmur against Henry Tudor. One hears whispers in the streets.”

“It is among people in high places that we should look to support this cause. When we have that, the people in the streets may flock to our banners.”

“My lord, I would do everything within my power to see this wrong righted.”

The Earl nodded. “The Irish have always supported the House of York,” he said. “They deplore the coming of the Welshman. My aunt, King Edward’s sister, the Duchess of Burgundy would help us I know. I have a feeling that the Dowager Queen is not very happy even though Henry Tudor has made her daughter Queen. I will leave England and sound out these people. In the meantime it would be well for you first to have an audience with the Queen Dowager, sound her. She could be a very good ally in the very center of Court itself.”

Richard’s heart was bursting with pride. His wildest dreams were becoming realities. He, to have an audience with the Queen Dowager! It was beyond belief. But he would do it. He would bring this about. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was not far off.

“Then,” went on the Earl of Lincoln, “you must get the boy and bring him to Ireland. There we will make sure that he has forgotten none of those customs and modes of speech which would be becoming in the Earl of Warwick.”

It was very irksome for Elizabeth Woodville to be frustrated at every turn by the Countess of Richmond. She wanted to shout at her: “I am a queen. What are you? A countess! Your husband was the son of a bastard; and you yourself come from the bastard Beauforts. I am a queen I tell you. I reigned with Edward. He was my devoted husband until the day of his death. My daughter is now Queen of England. How dare you adopt this patronizing manner toward me!”

It had been worse since the baby had been born. It was the Countess of Richmond who gave orders in the nursery. What did she know of the care of children? She had been thirteen when her son was born…the only one too, and when Elizabeth considered her own brood—most of them healthy—she wondered how Margaret Beaufort had the impertinence to try to tell her what should be done.

Little Arthur was not exactly robust. How could one expect an eight-month child to be? He needed very special care. He needed a little coddling. But the Countess would have none of that. She wanted him to grow up sturdy and strong, she said. “And I”, had retorted Elizabeth Woodville, “want him to grow up!”

It was frustrating and the Queen seemed very much in awe of both her husband and her mother-in-law. How things were changed since those days when Edward was alive and she had managed to get her own way, which he was prepared to grant providing she did not interfere with his love affairs. Not that she ever attempted to for she had been secretly glad that there were other women to cater for his insatiable sexuality. They were the good days. How different it would be if the Countess of Richmond were not here! Then she, Elizabeth, could step into her rightful role as grandmother to the heir to the throne. Dear child. She was sure he had a look of Edward. He should have been called Edward of course. Arthur! What a name for a king. He would be constantly compared with the mystic Arthur and that was not going to be of much help to him. Every time anything went wrong the magical name would be recalled. Oh no, Arthur was not going to find life easy with a name like that and it was a great error of judgment to have saddled him with it.

If only they had taken her advice….

But they would never do that.

She was in a very disgruntled mood when she heard that a priest was asking for an audience with her. He came on the recommendation of the Earl of Lincoln.

The Earl of Lincoln had been a firm adherent of Richard, and she was not sure how he regarded her. One of the most shocking moments of her life had been when she heard that Richard was declaring her children to be illegitimate. He had revived that absurd story of Eleanor Butler’s marriage with Edward and as Eleanor Butler had been alive when he had married her, Elizabeth, that meant their marriage was invalid and her children illegitimate.

Nonsense! Nonsense! she had wanted to cry; but it had been accepted as fact and Richard therefore became the King; he had behaved as though her two sons, young Edward and Richard, did not exist as claimants to the throne. He had considered Clarence’s son, the young Earl of Warwick, as his heir but because he was only a boy and the country needed a strong man he had named Lincoln.

She could imagine how Lincoln was feeling now…ready for revolt against the Tudor, she did not doubt.

Well, that gave them something in common for she felt the same.

Therefore she was ready to receive the priest who was Lincoln’s protégé.

Richard Simon was overawed. Elizabeth Woodville could be very regal when she wished; but that she was eager to hear what he had to say was clear.

He came quickly to the point and told her that he had seen a boy whom he had reason to believe was the Earl of Warwick. He was at the moment working in a baker’s shop. He had reported his discovery to the Earl of Lincoln who, as she knew, had suggested that the matter be imparted to her. The Earl had left for the Continent. He was going to see the Duchess of Burgundy, so strongly did he feel that this matter should not be brushed aside.

The priest was aware of a terrible fear in that moment. There was a cold glitter in the Queen Dowager’s eyes. What a fool he had been to come! True, she was of the House of York, having married the great Yorkist King—but her daughter was now the wife of Henry Tudor. Would she work against her own daughter?

For a few moments he visualized himself seized, dragged away to a dungeon, tortured to reveal things he did not know. Fool…fool that he had been to deliver himself right into the lions’ den.

But he was wrong. Elizabeth Woodville had always reveled in intrigue ever since she and her mother had plotted to entrap Edward in Whittlebury Forest. She was furiously angry with the Countess of Richmond, who treated her as though she were of no account at all. Her daughter, Queen Elizabeth herself, was treated as though she were merely a puppet by these Tudors.

Of course Henry was an impostor. What of her own little boys? Where were they? Sometimes she dreamed of them at night. They were stretching out their arms to her, calling for her. She kept thinking of the last time she had seen the younger of them, little Richard, who had been taken from her to join his brother in the Tower. “I should never have let him go.” How many times had she said that?

And where were they now? She never mentioned them to their sisters. The Queen never wanted to talk of them. There was that horrible slur of illegitimacy which King Richard had laid on them and which Henry had ignored. And if he ignored it…then the true king was little Edward the Fifth. But where was he? And where was his brother?

When she thought of her boys she thought of Henry Tudor and that he had no right to be on the throne. If he had been humble, a little grateful because she had allowed her daughter to marry him, she would have felt differently.

But every day the Countess of Richmond gave some indication that the King and his mother were the rulers while the Queen and her mother did as they were told.

An intolerable situation, and if she could make trouble for Henry Tudor—no matter with what consequences—she was ready to do so. Moreover life was dull nowadays; she thought longingly of the intrigues of those days when she was the King’s wife and had ruled him in many ways of which he was ignorant.

So now she was ready for a little divertissement. It would be welcome.

“And how did you discover this boy?” she asked.

“Strangely enough, my lady, I went into the baker’s shop to buy a cob loaf. I noticed at once his grace, his dignity. It was unmistakeable.”

“Have you spoken to him of these matters? Have you spoken to the baker?”

“My lady, I have spoken only to the Earl of Lincoln. He is convinced that this boy is the Earl of Warwick. He was most anxious that he should have your approval of this matter before proceeding. It is dangerous, he said. I know if we went to the King and laid the matter before him we should be clapped into prison and never heard of again.”

“That is very likely,” said the Queen, and Richard Simon began to breathe more easily.

“So the Earl suggested that we come to you.”

“What help does he expect to receive from me?”

“He wants your approval, my lady. He wants to know whether you would consider it wise to pursue this matter.”

“He asks me?”

“He remembers your judgment…when you were able to give it. He remembers how you were of such help to our great King Edward.”

“Ah.” She sighed. “There was a king. We shall never see his like again.”

“It is true, my lady, but we must make the best of what is left to us. The Earl wished to know if you thought it wise for us to take up this boy, to discover more of him. And if he did indeed prove to be the Earl of Warwick, attempt to get him to that place where he belongs.”

The Queen nodded slowly. “The House of York would be reigning again. The House of Lancaster was never good for this country.”

“My lady.” He had lifted his eyes to her face and they were full of admiration for her beauty, of course. Elizabeth Woodville had been used to such looks all her life—though they came more rarely now. She had never grown tired of them and never would. “I shall proceed with a good heart. My plan is to take the boy to Ireland.”

“The Irish were always friends of York.”

“So said my lord of Lincoln. He is on his way to Burgundy.”

To Edward’s sister Margaret, of course, the forceful Duchess. She had always been a strong adherent of the House of York and had, like all the family, idolized her magnificent brother Edward. Naturally she would want to see a member of her family, her own nephew on the throne; she hated the usurping Tudor.

“I should be kept informed,” she said.

“We shall see that you are, my lady. And you will be here in the Court. You will be able to keep an eye on what is happening here. The Earl was most anxious that he should have your approval. I think if he did not have it he would want to go no further in this dangerous matter.”

She was delighted. She would keep her eyes open. She would be watchful and any discovery she made would be passed on to the Earl of Lincoln or her sister-in-law of Burgundy.

The priest left her. She felt as though she were alive again. Something was happening and if this were successful she would be the recipient of much gratitude. Land perhaps…wealth…and above all the opportunity to show the Countess of Richmond that she was not nearly as important as she had believed herself to be and indeed must now be subservient to her archenemy Elizabeth Woodville.

The next step was to get possession of the boy. Richard Simon strolled along to the baker’s shop. Baker Simnel recognized him at once as the priest who came in now and then for his cob loaf.

“There it is, Father,” he said. “All waiting for you. Don’t stand there like a zany, Lambert. Wrap it for his lordship.”

Richard watched Lambert wrap the loaf. Then he turned to the baker.

“I would like to have a word with you. Is there somewhere where we could go in private?”

The baker looked alarmed. He immediately began to search his mind, wondering if he had said or done something which could be brought against him. The priest had seemed very interested in his shop for some time.

“Oh yes…yes…,” he said. “Come this way. Take charge of the shop, Lambert. And call me if I’m wanted.”

Richard followed him into a dark little room at the back in which were two stools. Richard took one and the baker the other.

“This is good news for you, my friend,” said the priest. “It concerns your boy.”

“Lambert? Why so, Father? What has he done?”

“He has done nothing for which he can be reproached. He is an unusual boy.”

“He’s not so bad, you know. Not as bright as some you might say but he’ll improve, I shouldn’t wonder. He is getting quite good in the shop.”

“He is amazingly handsome.”

“Oh yes, a good-looking boy. He takes after his mother. ’Tis a pity she went….”

“Went?”

The baker raised his eyes. “She was took to Heaven seven years since. It was when our other boy was born.”

“So you have another son.”

“Bright he is…brighter than Lambert…. He’ll be coming along.”

“I’m glad to hear it because I am going to ask you to let me take Lambert into my service.”

“Into your service…but for what purpose?”

“He has an air of dignity, which is appealing. I think he might be trained for the Church.”

“Trained for the Church? My Lambert? Why he’s not…well…you don’t know it, Father, because why should you…but Lambert is what we say here, one groat short.”

“You mean he is different from the rest of you. I perceived that.”

The baker tapped his forehead. “A good boy, mind you…but well, shall we say somewhat simple.”

“Nothing that a little learning wouldn’t put right, I’d say. In any case, if you are willing I will take the boy into my household and have him taught. I am traveling to Ireland very soon and should like the boy to be one of my party. There will be little duties for him to perform but if he shows the slightest aptitude he could go far.”

The baker was bewildered. If the man had been any but a priest he would have been highly suspicious. Of course it had been known for some young apprentice to catch the eye of a nobleman and be taken into his service. Why shouldn’t this happen to Lambert?

“Send for the boy,” said the priest.

The baker hesitated.

“On second thoughts,” went on Richard, “let us discuss this matter first. Let us work out a plan. Then it can be presented to the boy and if he agrees we will go ahead.”

“Lambert will do as I say.”

“So much the better for I see that you are a wise man. You will know what is best for the boy and let me remind you this is an opportunity such as will never come his way or yours again for as long as you live. I promise this boy a good future if he is ready to learn.”

“I think if he had opportunities to learn, he would.”

“That is well. He would have a good future. He could become affluent, a comfort to his father in his old age.”

“Tell me more of this.”

“I should like to take him on trial. He will come away with me and soon we will sail for Ireland. He will be taught to read and write and speak like a gentleman. Then he will be ready to study for his profession.”

“You choose Lambert for this? Lambert who is a little…simple, you must understand. My other boy…”

“No, it is Lambert or no one.”

“I admit the boy has a way with him. I sometimes wonder how I and his mother got him….” The baker laughed sheepishly. “Though she was a good-looking woman, I will say that for her….”

“Well, what is the answer?”

“Lambert shall come with you.”

“Good. I will call for him this day…when the shop closes. Say nothing of this to anyone. There are such rumors nowadays.”

The baker swore secrecy and later that day Lambert Simnel left his father’s house in the company of Richard Simon.

Richard Simon quickly realized that he could not have chosen a better subject for his purpose. He had not been mistaken in Lambert. He had a natural dignity, a graceful deportment and, dressed in appropriate clothes, could indeed pass for a boy of high degree. Richard Simon had immediately tackled his speech, which was halting and carried the accent of the streets.

He was sure that could be remedied. It was true that Lambert was simple, but that in itself proved an advantage. He did not question very much. Simon was amazed at the calm way he accepted his transition from his father’s household to that of the priest. It was as though he thought it was the most natural thing in the world for bakers’ sons to be whisked away from their natural environment to become someone else.

He had a natural gift for mimicry and in a matter of days his speech had improved. The Earl of Lincoln had supplied Richard Simon with funds and Lambert was fitted out in a velvet coat, which reached almost to his heels and had elaborate hanging sleeves slashed to show an elegant white shirt beneath it; he had gray hose and pointed shoes and a little hat with a feather. He was delighted with his appearance and moved and walked with even greater grace so pleased was he.

Richard Simon devoted the first few days in teaching him to speak. That was the most important. He must also learn to read a little and write a little. Not much would be demanded in that respect but of course he must have some ability in these arts.

When a few days had passed, Simon was delighted with his results and the more he was with the boy the more pleased he was by his simplicity.

It would have been impossible to impress on a normal boy that he was something other than he actually was. It was different with Lambert. That which his father called simple meant that his mind was pliable.

Simon realized this as soon as he tested him.

“You were not born in a baker’s shop,” he told the boy.

Lambert opened his eyes very wide.

“No. You were born in a noble palace…in a castle…and your father was not the humble baker. He was a great duke.”

Lambert still continued to stare. Oh yes, it would not be difficult to mold him.

“The great Duke of Clarence. When you were three years old your father died. He was drowned in a butt of malmsey when he was a prisoner in the Tower.”

“The Tower.” He knew the Tower. Like other inhabitants of the capital he saw its gray walls often. It was regarded with a mixture of awe, apprehension and pride. It was one of the landmarks of London. He knew that terrible things happened there. Far away in the maze of his mind he remembered hearing something about a duke who had been drowned in a butt of malmsey.

“Yes, your father was the Duke of Clarence. Your mother was the Lady Isabel. She was the daughter of the Earl of Warwick who was known as the Kingmaker. Your mother died before your father…. So you see you soon became an orphan.”

He was still wide-eyed, taking it all in, not questioning what the priest told him. Priests often told of strange happenings…the resurrection…the Holy Ghost visiting the disciples…things such as that, and compared with them the fact that he was in truth the Earl of Warwick did not seem so strange. He had his velvet coat; he wore pointed shoes. They showed that he was different.

“The man who now sits on the throne is a usurper. That means he took what did not belong to him and when that is a throne all good and true men want to take from him that which he has stolen and put it back where it belongs.”

The boy nodded.

“My dear little lord, the crown belongs on your head not that of the wicked Tudor who now wears it. Do you understand?”

The boy nodded vaguely. “Well,” went on Simon, “there is no need to…yet. There is much to be done. We are ready now to sail for Ireland. You must work at your words. You must throw off the accent you acquired while working in the baker’s shop, where the wicked Tudor put you.”

Lambert could not remember the wicked Tudor putting him in his father’s shop. He thought he had always been there, but if the priest said he hadn’t then he supposed it was right. Priests always spoke the truth. A boy had to listen to them and obey them, otherwise he would not go to Heaven.

So before they reached Ireland, Lambert was speaking with a dignity which matched his deportment and he already believed that he had been a prisoner in the Tower of London and had been taken out by the wicked Tudor and placed in a baker’s shop.

So smoothly was everything working out that Richard Simon was certain that God was on his side. The Archbishopric of Canterbury was coming very near.

The King was disturbed. This was the most ridiculous assertion he had ever heard and yet it made him very uneasy. He had no doubt that he could quickly deal with this trouble but it was a warning to him. He was sure that throughout his life he would be beset by such annoyances.

There would always be those who sought to rebel against him for it was invariably so when one was not the direct heir to the throne. He would be the first to admit that he lacked that personal charm, charisma, aura of royalty, whatever it was which Edward the Fourth had had in abundance. Henry the Fifth, Edward the First and Edward the Third had had it. Was it something to do with making war? It might well be. It was more than that. It was the power to make men follow. But whatever it was, he lacked it.

He prided himself on facing facts. He knew that he would be a good king…if the country would let him. And after a few years, here was the first rebellion.

It was a foolish assumption. The Duke of Warwick masquerading under the name of Lambert Simnel who was the son of a baker! Ah, not the son of a baker was the rumor. The son of the Duke of Clarence and daughter of the great Earl of Warwick…the next in line to the throne.

Nonsense. A boy of eleven or so. Moreover he was in the Tower at this moment…a prisoner.

Yet…the people who were behind this rebellion alarmed him. There was the Earl of Lincoln whom Richard the Third had named as heir to the throne; there was Margaret of Burgundy, a formidable woman with vast forces at her command; there was Francis Lovell, a former adherent of Richard the Third. Well, how could they say they had the Earl of Warwick when the real one was in the Tower…his prisoner?

But rumor knew how to lie. Even though he proved to them that he had the Earl of Warwick in the Tower, even though he showed the boy to the people, there would still be some to say that this Lambert Simnel was the true Earl and that the boy the King was showing to the world was some creature he had set up in his place.

His mother came to him. She knew of his trouble. She had her ear to the ground, as she said, and she was ever watchful.

“You are uneasy about this Lambert Simnel,” she said. “It is the most arrant nonsense. You have young Warwick in the Tower. How can they have the effrontery to say he is with them.”

“It’s true. I must have the young Warwick paraded through the streets.”

“That will settle the matter once and for all.”

“Nay, my dear lady, not so. There was a rumor some time ago that young Warwick had escaped. That will be believed, you will see. It will be said that the boy whom I shall parade through the streets is a substitute. I know it is nonsense…but there will be some to believe it. My enemies will make all they can of this.”

“They will not succeed.”

“They must not succeed. Imagine if they did. This baker’s son would be set up as the King…oh, only a figurehead of course…but Lincoln would be there to govern the country…and you can imagine Margaret of Burgundy dictating what should be done. Men like Lovell will support them. No, my lady Mother, it is nonsense. I grant you, and I shall overcome it, but in the meantime I like it not.”

“Who does like these disturbances? I hear it is an unknown priest who has started all this—a certain Richard Simon.”

“It is. But I daresay it is taken out of his hands now. They have dared crown this Lambert Simnel in Dublin.”

“That is impossible.”

“Alas, not so. They have support from Margaret of Burgundy and two thousand German troops with them. The Germans are good fighters.”

“And what do they propose to do?”

“You can imagine. They will land here and we shall have to do battle. I thought the Wars of the Roses were at an end.”

“They are at an end. They must be at an end. You and Elizabeth have joined up York and Lancaster. There shall be no more wars.”

“That is my fervent hope. But we must always be wary of troublemakers like this upstart priest.”

“Richard Simon…why he came here once!”

“Came here!”

“Why yes, to see the Dowager Queen.”

Mother and son looked at each other intently.

“So Elizabeth Woodville is concerned in this,” muttered Henry. “The Queen’s mother! It seems incredible.”

“I would believe anything of that woman. You have given her so much but she is quite ungrateful. I am sure she tries to manage everything here in the Queen’s household and because she cannot, will turn the Queen against you.”

“I have no fear that I shall not be able to influence the Queen.”

“Elizabeth is a good creature, I grant you. I have no complaint of her. She will be a docile wife and she admires you and is of course grateful because of what you have brought her. But I have never liked Elizabeth Woodville, an upstart from the beginning. I should like to see her removed from Court.”

“If she is involved in the slightest way with this affair of the baker’s son then she shall most certainly be removed from Court.”

“My son, leave this to me. I shall discover and when I do I shall ask for the privilege of dealing with the woman. You know you can trust me.”

“I never was more certain of anything,” answered the King. “I leave the matter of the Dowager Queen in your hands.”

The Countess found the Dowager Queen in her apartments surrounded by her women. One of them was reading while the rest of them worked on a piece of tapestry.

The Countess said: “I wish to speak with the Queen Dowager alone.”

The women immediately arose and, bowing, began to retire.

“Wait,” said Elizabeth in her most imperious manner. “I feel sure that what the Countess has to say to me can be said before you.”

“I do not think you would relish that, my lady,” said the Countess grimly, and Elizabeth felt a shiver of apprehension. She knew that preparations were going ahead on the Continent, that Lambert Simnel had been crowned in Dublin, that Margaret of Burgundy had decided to support the boy whom she called the son of her beloved brother Clarence, and that Lincoln had succeeded in getting an army of Germans together to fight the Tudor. It was satisfactory progress, but all the same she hoped that Henry had not discovered too much for he might resort to all kinds of drastic conduct if he knew how far this plot had gone against him.

She did not stop the women’s leaving and when they had gone she said with a strong resentment in her voice: “Countess, it is my place to give orders to my servants.”

“I am of the opinion that they might not be your servants much longer.”

“I do not understand. Are you suggesting that you will choose my attendants for me?”

“I am suggesting that you may not be here at Court much longer.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I am sure my daughter, the Queen, would not wish me to leave her.”

“I think she will when she knows what you have been doing.”

“You had better explain, Countess.”

“On the contrary it is you who should explain. Of what did the priest Richard Simon speak to you when he came on the instructions of the Earl of Lincoln to visit you?”

Elizabeth turned pale. So they knew. It was inevitable. The King would have his spies everywhere. Did it matter? He would soon know when the troops landed.

Elizabeth decided to be brazen. She was the mother of the Queen, so they would not dare harm her.

The Countess was saying: “It is no use denying that Simon came here. He is now in Ireland with that foolish baker’s boy whom they have had the temerity to crown in Dublin.”

“You mean the Earl of Warwick.”

“You know the Earl of Warwick is in the Tower.”

“I know he was there, poor child. Put there as my own sons were because of their claim to the throne.”

“You speak treason, Elizabeth Woodville.”

“I speak truth, Margaret Beaufort.”

“The King and I have a way of dealing with traitors.”

“I know you have a way of dealing with those whose claim to the throne is greater than that of the Tudor.”

Elizabeth felt reckless now, which was rare with her. But she believed Henry Tudor was no fighter and there were many in the country who resented him; they had accepted him because they wanted an end to the war, but no one could say that his claim to the throne was very strong.

Now was the time to take sides.

“You admit that you are involved in this nonsensical conspiracy?”

“I admit that the priest came here. I admit that I know the Earl of Warwick escaped from the prison in which your son had put him—poor child, little more than a baby and his only fault being that he had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor.”

“You go too far, Elizabeth Woodville.”

“Well, what is it to be? The Tower? Do you think the Queen will allow that? And what do you think the people will say when they hear that the Queen’s Mother is sent to prison merely for saying the Tudor has a very shaky claim to the throne? If you imprison people for saying that, you will have the whole country in captivity.”

“Silence,” cried the Countess. “You are to leave for the nunnery at Bermondsey without delay.”

“A nunnery! I am not ready for that.”

“You will have a choice. It is the nunnery or the Tower. If you go to the nunnery it can be said that you go for your health’s sake. The King and I give you this chance.”

“You and the King do not wish the country to know that I believe the boy Lambert to be the true Earl.”

“That matter will soon be settled. Prepare to leave for the nunnery.”

“I will see my daughter first.”

The Countess lifted her shoulders.

“You must be ready to leave before the end of the day.”

When she was alone Elizabeth felt deflated. The victory was theirs, but she was sure it was a temporary one. Power was in their hands now. It was true they could have sent her to the Tower and she was not so popular with the people that they would greatly care what became of her.

To be sent to the Tower, put in a dark cheerless cell—those places of doom in which a prisoner spent long days and nights, to be forgotten and remembered only when he or she was no longer there and none could be sure how that prisoner had died and none cared.

My little boys, where are you? she wondered. Do your ghosts roam the Tower by night?

And what of the Earl of Warwick? Had he really escaped? Had he gone the way of the little Princes? Who could say?

The Queen came to her. She looked disturbed. So the Countess had told her what was planned.

She went to her daughter and took her in her arms but the Queen was somewhat aloof. The Dowager Queen had never been demonstrative…not like King Edward, and it was not possible to become so just when the moment demanded it. It would be so easily detected as forced.

“They are asking me to leave for Bermondsey,” she said.

“I know. You have been involved in this foolish uprising…if that is what it will come to. How could you!”

“How could I? Because that boy in Ireland whom they have crowned has more right to the throne than Henry Tudor.”

“How can you say such foolish things! Henry is my husband. I am the Queen. Our marriage has put an end to the Wars of the Roses. York is honored in this marriage as much as Lancaster.”

“Is it? You are the King’s puppet. You do as he says. I am treated as of no importance. Lancaster is in the ascendant. Where is York now?”

“My son is of the houses of both York and Lancaster. Henry is going to make this country great. He knows how to do that but he must have peace. We want none of these foolish troubles…and this is a particularly stupid one. I am surprised that you received that priest. I think that Henry is being very lenient in sending you to Bermondsey.”

Elizabeth’s spirits sank. They had taken her daughter from her. They had made her one of them. Perhaps she had been foolish to become involved in this affair. After all would it be so good for her if the young boy was on the throne when her own daughter was Henry’s Queen? But Elizabeth was too meek. She was already one of them. She was on their side against her own mother.

Elizabeth Woodville began to realize that she was lucky merely to be banished to Bermondsey.

There were crowds in the streets of London watching a young boy on a white horse. He was some twelve years old, very pale, for he had been a prisoner in the Tower since the King’s accession and before that had lived in some restraint at Sheriff Hutton.

He was a little bewildered now and looked about him with a kind of dazed wonder as the people pressed round to look at him. He was on his way to St. Paul’s Cathedral where he could hear Mass and confess his sins, which would not take long for there were few sins a prisoner of twelve years old could commit.

The people studied him intently. Was he the real Earl of Warwick as the King said he was? Or was he a substitute? Who could say? Important and influential people said the true one was in Ireland now…coming to England to claim the throne.

Who could know the truth?

The King and the Queen were present and the Earl rode close behind them. Looks of recognition passed between the young boy and the Queen, and they shared memories of Sheriff Hutton where they had both been in restraint before the battle of Bosworth. Both had been buffeted from one position to another and all because of who they were.

The young Earl knew why he was in the Tower. His father had died in the Tower, killed they said on the orders of his own brother the great King Edward, to whom Clarence had been a menace. That was the trouble, they were all menaces if they were in the line of succession to the throne—except Elizabeth. She had other uses. She was a Princess and by marriage had joined the Houses of York and Lancaster.

The boy looked at her pleadingly. She understood. He was saying: I should like to be free again. I should like to go into the country, to ride out, to smell the grass and the trees. Freedom is the most important gift in the world and one which is not appreciated until it is lost.

He was hopeful. Elizabeth was kind and she was the Queen now. She would remember their friendship at Sheriff Hutton. Perhaps she could persuade the King to let him go free. If he could only be released he would promise never to try to gain the throne. He would barter all his claims…for freedom.

So he rode through the streets where the heralds proclaimed him—Earl of Warwick, son of Clarence…alive and well and lodging at the Tower.

The people had seen him. They should know now that the boy those traitors were threatening to bring to England was an impostor.

At least, thought the young Earl, I have had one day of freedom because of him.

So from St. Paul’s he went back to his prison in the Tower.

Elizabeth Woodville was at Bermondsey; the young Earl of Warwick was back in the Tower; but this was not an end to the matter. It had gone too far and there were too many powerful people at the center of it.

The Earl of Lincoln had joined the not inconsiderable army gathered together in Ireland and they were ready to cross the water and make good their claim.

Young Lambert had almost forgotten the days when he had worked in his father’s baker’s shop. He had been an earl and now he was a king. People bowed to him, spoke to him with respect and all he had to do was smile at them and obey his good friend Richard Simon. He was always a little alarmed when Richard Simon was not there. The Earl of Lincoln and Sir Francis Lovell were very respectful to him but they frightened him. He need not be afraid, Richard had told him; all he had to do was speak as he had been taught to and do exactly as they told him. Then he could keep the beautiful crown which had been put on his head.

He had learned to ride and rode at the head of all the soldiers. The Earl of Lincoln was on one side of him and Sir Francis on the other. He was a little nervous because Richard Simon was some way behind. “Don’t be afraid,” Richard had told him. “I shall be there.”

So they boarded the ships and crossed to England with all the men in their splendid uniforms and all the beautiful horses. They landed near Furness in Lancashire and then they started to march.

“The people will flock to our banner,” said the Earl of Lincoln. “They are weary of the Tudor and they know he has no right to the throne.”

But by the time they had reached the town of York it was realized that the people were quite indifferent to their cause. It might be that the Tudor’s claim was slight but they had had enough of war. They had thought the royal marriage had put an end to that and now here was some remote member of the House of York trying to start it all up again.

The Earl of Lincoln grew less optimistic, especially when he heard that the King’s forces were on the march.

The opposing armies met at Stoke and battle ensued. The Germans fought valiantly and, professional soldiers that they were, came within sight of victory; but the King’s forces were too much for even them and gradually they had to face defeat.

The Earl of Lincoln was slain; Lovell managed to escape and Lambert Simnel and the priest Simon, who were not actually involved in the fighting, were surprised together in a tent and taken prisoner.

“It is all over,” said Richard Simon fatalistically. He would never be Archbishop of Canterbury now. He visualized the terrible fate which was customarily meted out to traitors, and for the first time Lambert saw him without hope. The boy was frightened. He did not quite understand what had happened but he did know that something had gone terribly wrong.

They put him on a horse and he rode to London. Richard was on another horse beside him. He supposed now that they would send him back to his father’s baker’s shop. Now that former life seemed more real to him than what had happened since the soldiers had come to the tent.

The King had expressed a wish to see the traitor priest and the boy who had dared pose as the Earl of Warwick and they were brought to the palace of Shene on the river’s edge where the King was staying at that time. They stood before Henry Tudor—the shivering priest who had been too ambitious and the bewildered boy who even now was not quite sure what this was all about.

Henry looked at them coldly.

“So you, sir priest, thought to replace me with this boy?” said the King.

Richard Simon fell on his knees. He could not speak; he could only babble. The boy watched him in bewilderment. He put out a hand to touch him, to try to comfort him in some way. He was less overawed than the priest by the cold-eyed man who was watching him so closely. That was because he did not know the magnitude of what had happened and his part in it. Perhaps it was because the King did not look as splendid as the Earl of Lincoln had when he had first seen him. Perhaps he had grown accustomed now to seeing important men. But the King was by no means the most impressive of these.

“What have you to say, boy?” asked the King.

Lambert looked at him and did not know what to say. They had always told him what to say. Now there was no one to do so.

“Speak up,” said the King.

The priest spoke then: “My lord King, it is no fault of the boy. He did as he was told.”

“So thought I,” said the King. “They took you from your baker’s shop, eh, boy? They set you up as their puppet. That was it. I knew it. You admit it, eh?”

The boy still looked dazed.

“He is a simpleton,” said the King. “What folly was this! Lincoln dead. I am sorry. I should have liked to ask him what foolishness could have possessed him to pass off this half-witted creature as the Earl of Warwick. Take them away…both of them.”

So they awaited their sentence. The King was smiling, which was something he rarely did.

He was not sorry that this had happened. He would show the people how he would keep order. There had been this uprising…yes…with a disgruntled earl and a boy from a baker’s shop. He had quickly suppressed that. He had shown them how he would deal with these impostors.

The ringleaders were dead or in flight and he had only the priest and the half-witted boy to deal with.

It should be a traitor’s death for them both. No. They were not important enough for that. He would show mercy to them both. The priest should be imprisoned for life because he had plotted against the King and might well take it into his knave’s head to do it again. The boy…well he was very young; moreover he was addlepated. How could one punish a boy like that? It was no fault of the poor half-witted creature. He had been plucked out of his father’s baker’s shop because of his pleasant looks, which the King admitted was all he had to recommend him.

He should go into the King’s kitchen. That would best suit him.

“Let this Lambert Simnel become one of our scullions,” said the King. “I doubt not he will soon forget his grand aspirations there.”

So Richard Simon, congratulating himself that he had escaped the barbarous traitor’s death, lived on in prison—a contrast to the archbishop’s palace of which he had dreamed; as for Lambert he was happy in the King’s kitchens. His fellow workers laughed at him but without malice, so Lambert laughed with them; and he worked hard and well. He was happier there than he had been sitting on an uncomfortable but very grand chair with a crown on his head.

In the streets they laughed at the story of Lambert Simnel—which, said the King to his mother, was the way he had hoped it would be.

Coronation

Although people laughed to think of the leader of a rebellion now working as a scullion in the King’s own kitchens, Henry himself did not dismiss the matter so lightly. He talked it over with a young man whom he had recently made one of his Privy Councillors and toward whom he had felt especially drawn. This was Edmund Dudley, a lawyer in his twenties who was showing characteristics which were not unlike the King’s own.

Henry wanted to gather round him men of his own choosing. No king should inherit statesmen for they would most certainly compare the present master with the previous one and as the departed always gained in stature such comparisons put the living at a disadvantage.

Henry’s early life had made him suspicious and cautious and acceding to the throne had not lessened these traits in his character. Edmund Dudley who had studied law at Gray’s Inn and had later become Sheriff of Sussex was a man with whom he felt immediately in harmony; also Dudley had an associate, Richard Empson, another lawyer, educated for the Bar, who had already shown himself to be an astute lawyer. These were the kind of sharp minds Henry needed around him; and he had already shown favor to these two.

So now as they walked down to the river’s edge in the grounds of his favorite Palace of Shene and they talked of the rising of Lambert Simnel, Dudley commented that it was a sobering thought to contemplate how many Lincoln had been able to rally to his banner.

“And what do you think this indicates?” asked the King.

Intercepting the look which passed between Dudley and Empson, Henry knew that they had discussed the matter together.

“Come, speak up. I shall not be offended by truth.”

“Sire,” said Dudley, “the people approve of your marriage and the uniting of York and Lancaster, but they are saying that York does not receive its dues.”

“What do they mean by this?”

“That Lancaster is in the ascendancy.”

“It must be so since I am the King.”

Dudley hesitated and Empson nodded to him.

“My lord,” he said, “you have taken the throne, you have an heir in Prince Arthur, you have been crowned King of England, yet the Queen has not been crowned.”

“Ah,” said the King. “You think a coronation would please the people?”

“Coronations are ever a source of delight to the people, Sire,” said Empson. “Free wine in the streets…celebrations throughout the country…They love their ceremonies. But we were thinking of the Yorkists who might have reason to complain.”

The King nodded, giving an approving look to his two advisers. He could trust them to come up with a tangible suggestion.

“Perhaps the time has come then for the Queen to have her coronation,” he said. “Her mother is a source of irritation. I never trusted that woman. People say it was sorcery which enabled her to ensnare the late King.”

“She has outstanding beauty,” commented Dudley. Again he looked at Empson.

“And not too old for marriage I dareswear,” he said.

Henry was alert. “Could you by any chance be thinking of the King of Scotland?”

“He has just lost his Queen.”

Henry gave one of his rare smiles. “There is nothing I would like better than to send my mother-in-law over the Border.”

“It would certainly rid us of the unpleasantness of having to keep her under restraint, which is another reason why the Yorkists might be restive,” commented Dudley.

“I shall send an ambassador to Scotland without delay,” said Henry.

“Perhaps we should also inform the Dowager Queen of the intention?”

Henry was silent. “She is an obstinate lady, I fear.”

“My lord, surely she would consider very favorably changing a prison for a crown.”

“’Tis scarcely a prison at Bermondsey. I’ll swear my lady mother-in-law reminds them every hour of the day of her rank and is treated there with the utmost respect.”

“Nevertheless the match could scarcely be made without her consent.”

Henry agreed and the two matters of importance were decided on. Elizabeth Woodville should be offered to the King of Scotland, and the Queen should have her coronation.

It was true that Elizabeth Woodville suffered no harm in Bermondsey. She had her own apartments and her own servants there and apart from the seclusion of the life she might have been in her own palace. It was tiresome, of course, to be shut away from the world; but no less frustrating than being at Court where she was continually finding the interference of the King’s mother so irksome.

When she heard that her daughter was to have a coronation she remarked that it was time she did; then she regretted that she would not be there. It was monstrous. The mother of the Queen and more or less in restraint because of that upstart Tudor!

If only Edward had lived. If only her fair sons were with her! It was at times like this that she thought of them and wondered again what had happened to them in the Tower. She longed to see her little grandson. Dear Arthur. Though what a ridiculous name! It should have been Edward of course. However she was glad it was not Henry.

She longed to see her girls. Not that Elizabeth had much time for her mother nowadays; she had been completely subjugated by those Tudors. It was right, of course, that a woman should cling to her husband, but when that husband showed himself the enemy of the mother who had cared for her through all the difficult years…it was cruel and unnatural.

Dear Cecilia had more spirit than Elizabeth. She fancied that Cecilia was very interested in Lord John Weils. She had intercepted glances between them. It had made her a little uneasy at the time for although John Wells was a worthy man, and quite a favorite of the King, he was not a suitable husband for Cecilia. He was twice her age to begin with.

Nothing would come of that. She could dismiss it from her mind. But she did remember a certain defiance in Cecilia, which had been lacking in her elder sister.

She often wondered why Henry had not found a husband for Cecilia. At one time she suspected he had planned to test out Elizabeth and if she did not produce the heir…or died…he would try for Cecilia. She suspected Henry of all sorts of devious scheming. One could be sure there would be some motive behind everything that he did.

One of her servants came to tell her that a nobleman saying he came from the King wished to see her.

Ah, she thought, he has come to tell me that I shall be released for the coronation. He will realize that the people will notice my absence. It is only right and fitting that the mother of the Queen should be present on such an occasion.

The nobleman was brought in. He bowed with all due deference.

“Pray be seated,” she said. “You come from the King?”

“I do, my lady. He wishes to have your views on a matter of some importance.”

“I am honored that the King should seek my opinion,” she replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“My lady, it concerns you deeply and it is for this reason. The King of Scotland has been recently bereaved. He is of a mind to remarry. The King thought that if you were of like mind, negotiations could begin to bring about a union.”

“Between myself and the King of Scotland? Why he is half my age!”

“It is always said that you have the looks of a lady half your age.”

She was pleased. She could not help it. She had not thought of marriage for herself. She had never wanted much from men except power. That was why she had made a success of her marriage with Edward. She had never shown any jealousy of his countless mistresses; she had never sought to restrain his activities with them; it was for that reason that he had loved and admired her and she had been able to keep her hold on him. But the King of Scotland! Well, to be a queen again…a reigning queen, that was a great consideration. And to exchange this…well, retreat one might say…for palaces and castles. It was rather a pleasant idea.

“I can see that the idea is not repulsive to you, my lady.”

“These proposed marriages often come to nothing,” she said. “My daughter was to have married into Scotland. How strange that the offer should now be made to me.”

“The King feels sure that James of Scotland will be overjoyed at the prospect.”

“We shall see,” said the Queen, and graciously inclined her head to indicate that the interview was at an end.

She wanted to be alone to consider the suggestion. She had not really committed herself. She could always abandon the project if she had a mind to. At the moment it added a certain spice to life. Queen of Scotland! She was amused to contemplate the trouble she could bring to the King of England if she were ever in that position.

Elizabeth the Queen came riding into London with her sisters Cecilia and Anne. They were all excited because Elizabeth was about to be crowned.

“A queen is not a real queen until she is crowned,” said Anne. “You will be a real queen now, Elizabeth.”

“I wonder why it has been delayed so long,” added Cecilia.

“The King has his reasons,” replied the Queen serenely.

That is the answer her mother-in-law has taught her, thought Cecilia, and it applies every time the King’s conduct is questioned. Since her marriage Elizabeth has become a shadow of the King and his mother. I should never allow that to happen to me.

No indeed she would not. She was thinking of John Wells. She knew that he was a good deal older than she was, but she did not care. In his company she felt elated yet at peace; she felt contented and had a great desire to be with him. Was that love? She believed it was. She had explained her feelings to him and he had confirmed this. Moreover he felt the same contentment with her.

She knew that he was the husband she wanted. Her mother had often said that the King would soon be marrying her off and she would not be surprised if Cecilia was soon making some alliance which the King thought would be good for him. I won’t be, thought Cecilia. Elizabeth married him. That is enough. Elizabeth doesn’t mind being married to him. She is ready to agree that everything he does is right. That is good enough; she has done the family duty toward him. I will marry where I will.

She shuddered to think that she might now be miles away from John Wells. She might be in Scotland for they had once wanted to marry her to little Prince James of Scotland. And now there was rumor that her mother was being offered to that little Prince’s father. We are bandied about like a parcel of goods with no thought for our feelings, she thought. We are unimportant…. Well, some of us are. They will find the Princess Cecilia different.

They were to stay first of all at the Hospital of St. Mary in Bishopsgate from where, the Queen told them, they would watch the King’s entry into the capital.

“It will be a triumphant march,” said Anne, “because the King has defeated the scullion boy. Shall we ever see him, do you think, Elizabeth? I should very much like to see him.”

“It seems hardly likely that you will,” replied the Queen. “And if you did you would find he looked exactly like every other little scullion.”

“I think he would look a little different,” said Cecilia. “After all he must have had something about him for them to decide to use him in the first place.”

“Let us not discuss the silly boy,” said the Queen. “I find it all most distasteful. The King has shown his contempt for him and was it not benevolent of him to let him go free?”

Cecilia was silent. She was thinking: I shall marry John. What will the King say then? Whatever it is, Elizabeth will tell me it is right. I shall not care if we are banished. I am sure John will not either.

“After the coronation,” said Elizabeth, “I shall be more often in the company of the King.”

“Rendered worthy by the act of crowning,” added Cecilia. “Yet you are the daughter of a King whereas he…”

“He is descended from the great kings Arthur and Cadwallader. Do not forget that.”

Dear Elizabeth, thought Cecilia. She is bemused. Not by love of the King I’d swear. By a love of peace. A desire that everything shall go smoothly around her. That is good enough when one has everything one wants. Perhaps I shall be like that when I am married to John.

“I have heard it whispered,” Anne was saying, “that the House of York is not treated with the same respect as that of Lancaster.”

“You should not listen to whispers,” the Queen told her.

The people of London were growing vociferous in their welcome of Elizabeth. She made a charming picture riding with her two sisters who were as good-looking as she was herself, and the cheers were prolonged. The Queen bore a striking resemblance to her dead father. Her long golden hair hung loose about her shoulders in the style which showed it to its best advantage; her oval face was a little on the plump side, which with her pink and white complexion gave her a look of glowing health; her forehead was high like her father’s; if she was not quite as beautiful as her mother had been she lacked Elizabeth Woodville’s arrogance and that gentle rather self-deprecating smile appealed to them. There was more warmth in it than her husband could ever show them. The fact was the people were pleased with Elizabeth of York. “Long live the Queen!” they cried.

They liked her sisters too—beautiful girls both, with the same high foreheads and long flowing golden hair. Their beloved King Edward had indeed passed on his handsome looks to his family. It was to be hoped that the children of this noble lady would take after her family rather than that of the Tudor.

Not that they were against their King. By no means. He appeared to be strong, and they knew a strong king was what the country needed. He had settled this unfortunate rebellion of Lambert Simnel and had amused them by making the leader of the insurrection a scullion in his kitchens. In fact the story provoked laughter whenever it was mentioned. They merely liked the rosy handsome looks of York rather than the dour ones of Lancaster. And this was a great occasion. The crowning of their Queen.

Seated at a window of St. Mary’s Hospital the Queen, with her two sisters beside her, watched the King’s entry into the city. He came as the victor of the battle of Stoke where he had annihilated the rebels, and his triumphant procession through the capital was meant to tell the people that they could hope for peace in his time. He was going to be a strong ruler; he was going to put an end to wars; and although this last little fracas was a contemptible effort to break the peace, he had quickly suppressed it. Moreover he had not wanted revenge. He would be a strong but benevolent king; they would realize that when they considered his treatment of Lambert Simnel.

“It is sad that our mother is not here,” murmured Anne. “I wonder what she is thinking in Bermondsey.”

“That she was foolish to plot against the King, I doubt not,” said Elizabeth.

Cecilia thought: She is no longer like our sister. She has become merely the King’s wife. They shall never mold me as they have her. I will do as I please. I will marry John.

“The King has taken her estates from her,” she said. “She will be so sad for they meant a lot to her. And it was only last year that the lordships and manors were granted to her.”

Anne murmured softly: “Waltham, Magna, Badewe, Mashbury…”

“Dunmow, Lighe and Farnham,” finished Cecilia. “I remember how elated she was when they were granted to her. She kept repeating them over and over again as though to learn them by heart…which we did too.”

“She was very unwise to receive that priest,” said the Queen severely. “The King reluctantly decided that she must be taught a lesson.”

“I could almost believe,” said Cecilia, “that it is the Countess of Richmond sitting there and not our sister.”

The Queen shrugged her shoulders impatiently. It was nearly time for the King to arrive and she could hear the tumult in the streets a little way off.

The King came into Bishopsgate and when he reached the Hospital of St. Mary he paused and looked up at the window at which the Queen sat with her sisters.

He gave Elizabeth one of his rare smiles, and she returned it with a look of genuine love, which delighted the crowd. He could trust Elizabeth to do what was expected of her.

The crowd roared its approval. Henry acknowledged the cheers and passed on.

He was thinking that Empson and Dudley were right. The coronation of the Queen was what the people wanted. Now they were going to have it. Moreover if he could bring off this marriage of Elizabeth Woodville with the King of Scotland he would have rid himself of that most tiresome woman.

The King conducted the Queen to Greenwich Palace leaving her there while he returned to the Tower of London. In accordance with tradition she must come without him to the capital for the ceremony of crowning and he must be at the Tower of London, waiting to welcome her when she arrived.

She must sail down the river with the most glorious pageantry which could be devised. It would be an expense, Empson had said, and he, no less than the King, deplored expense; but there were occasions when rules of economy must be waived and reasonable sums laid out if the result of spending money was to have the desired effect.

It was a misty November day when the Queen left Greenwich, but no one seemed to care very much about the weather. The people were determined to enjoy themselves and they set about doing so with gusto, for here was their handsome Queen at the center of one of the colorful pageants which they had grown accustomed to during the reign of that incomparable monarch King Edward the Fourth.

Elizabeth was seated in her barge with her sisters and some of her ladies, there were craft of all description on the river that day; moreover people had massed on the banks to witness the progress of the pageant as it sailed along the Thames. The civic companies all had their barges on the river but what gave especial pleasure to the Queen was the presence of the students of Lincoln’s Inn in the Barge of the Bachelors, for they had decided to do honor to the House of Tudor and Elizabeth realized how this would delight the King. He was always gratified by such gestures although he did not show it. But there were those rare occasions when the people seemed really glad to welcome the Tudor; and that was what the Bachelors were doing now for they had erected a red dragon in their barge and on his side was a notice that he was the Red Dragon of Cadwallader. Henry, of course, prided himself in his descent from Cadwallader so this could only be construed as a special tribute to him. The people thoroughly appreciated the dragon and roared with delight as fire spouted from his mouth and fell into the river. Moreover as the Barge of the Bachelors sailed along close to that of the Queen several students strummed their lutes and others sang songs of Wales.

“The King will see that when we approach the Tower,” said the Queen to Cecilia. “It will put him in a good humor.”

“He should already be in that,” said Anne. “He should be pleased because at last it is his Queen’s coronation.”

Poor Anne is a little put out because our mother is not here, thought Elizabeth. But she would have been if she had not angered the King by seeing that foolish priest. The Countess is right, she does interfere too much. And it makes us all unhappy because she is more or less in restraint. It will be good for everyone if this Scottish marriage comes about.

But she was a little sad thinking that she might have to say good-bye to her mother. Theirs had always been a close family and it was hard to remember always that she must not allow her mother to guide her when she had the very excellent Countess to do that.

She must not have sad thoughts on her coronation day so she must remember that if her mother was in her present position it was due to her own fault.

Now she could see the gray walls of the Tower. Soon the King would be greeting her. She would rest in the Tower for the night and from there she would go to Westminster and the ceremony of coronation.

Her sisters were with her when she was dressed for the journey from the Tower to Westminster Palace where she would spend the night and from there, on the next day, go to the Abbey.

She looked beautiful and remarkably like her mother had at her age, except that there was a humility about her that Elizabeth Woodville had never possessed even before she rose to a throne.

Already the crowds were gathering in the streets. The people of London were anxious to see more of her. They had grumbled because, although she was the Queen, they believed the King had contrived to keep her away from them. But it seemed that they had misunderstood. She had become pregnant immediately after her marriage and often ladies did not wish to show themselves in that state and this would seem particularly true of such a modest one as the Queen obviously was. It was not so long since little Arthur had been born, and now she was emerging. They would see her often with the King now, and today they would watch the procession to Westminster Palace and the next day the coronation itself.

There she was in her kirtle of white cloth of gold and her mantle of the same material edged with royal ermine; and her beautiful golden hair was caught in a golden caul and about her brow was a simple gold circlet.

She might not have the perfect features of her mother but she had a warmth which that arrogant lady had lacked. Moreover she managed at the same time to have a look of her royal father and that was enough to endear the people to her.

As she left the Tower her train was carried by her sister Cecilia who, some said, was even more beautiful than the Queen; she certainly had the same golden looks and magnificent long flowing hair. Walking beside the Queen was the King’s uncle Jasper Tudor whom Henry had made Grand Steward, so eager was he to do him honor; and there was Lord Stanley, husband of the Queen’s mother-in-law who had now been created Earl of Derby and whose brother Sir William Stanley had played such a decisive part at the battle of Bosworth by changing sides at the crucial moment. A not very noble act, but it had brought about peace and what the people of London wanted more than anything now was peace.

There might be many staunch Lancastrians but York was represented too. The King had not been so foolish as to leave them out; and even the Duchess of Suffolk was there, which was an indication of how merciful the King could be, for it was her son, John de la Pole, Earl of Lincoln who had sought to set up Lambert Simnel and who had been slain at Stoke.

For the rest of the journey the Queen was to travel by litter and this was brought forward. She sat in it smiling at the people as she passed through the streets under the canopy, which was held by the four knights of the Bath whom Henry had recently created.

It was comforting to Elizabeth to see how the people liked her. They had hung out gaily colored material from their windows; they leaned forward to strew leaves and sweet-smelling herbs in her path; and every now and then the procession was halted while bands of children stepped forward to sing her praises.

It was very gratifying; and tired but exalted, she reached Westminster Palace.

There she could spend a quiet night in preparation for the next day’s ordeal.

Cecilia was with her when they dressed her.

“You look very grand,” she said. “Not like our sister anymore.”

“I am the same beneath all these fine robes, Cecilia.”

Not quite, thought Cecilia. You are the King’s wife now.

Did Elizabeth still remember those dreary days in Sanctuary at the time when Richard had taken the crown, when they had not known from one day to the next what their fate would be? Had she forgotten how even their father had had to fight to keep his crown…and that it was always the Lancastrians against whom he fought? Now she was one of them. Of course that had to be and marriage between the two houses was better than war. But Elizabeth seemed to have changed sides. In fact she could see no point of view but that of the King. Had it something to do with the mystic ritual of the marriage bed?

I shall find out, Cecilia told herself. And she knew then that she was going to marry John…in secret of course, for to announce her intentions openly would most certainly mean that they would be frustrated.

How beautiful Elizabeth looked in her kirtle of purple velvet edged with ermine with her magnificent hair loose, flowing from the circlet of gold studded with pearls and stones of several colors, which they had placed on her head.

She looks so serene, thought Cecilia, as though coronations were commonplace with her. She has no will of her own, now; only that of her husband and her mother-in-law. They decided what she must do and Elizabeth mildly did it. Perhaps that was a happy state to be in. Elizabeth certainly looked happy. Did she ever think of anything but pleasing her husband, submitting to his embraces in order to do her duty and produce one child after another, for that was how it would be, Cecilia was sure.

They had entered Westminster Hall, there to wait that moment when they would set out for the Abbey. The way from the Hall to the Abbey was carpeted with striped cloth, which the people regarded as their own perquisite, for after the Queen had walked on it they were at liberty to cut off pieces which would then be theirs.

So eager were the people to get their pieces of the material that no sooner had the Queen walked over it with her trainbearers than they dashed forward and started to cut the cloth. The ladies who were following were terrified to find themselves surrounded by the rush of people, shouting, abusing each other and even trampling those who had fallen under foot. Fortunately some of the lords, having seen what was happening, rushed forward to rescue the ladies, which they did just in time.

Cecilia going ahead with the Queen looked back and to her horror saw what was happening. Elizabeth knew something was wrong but she went serenely on. Nothing must mar this day. The King would expect her to play her part like a queen.

Cecilia was deeply disturbed; she knew she would never forget that brief glimpse of those people who were descending on the cloth like so many wild animals.

Every vestige of the cloth had disappeared in a very short time, but those who had fallen in the affray had to be carried away as unobtrusively as possible while in the Abbey the ceremony continued. The King with his mother was watching from an enclosed box between the altar and the pulpit. He had said that he wished to witness the ceremony but in no way did he want to take attention from the Queen.

So was Elizabeth of York crowned Queen of England and so, said many, were the Houses of York and Lancaster entirely united forever.

The company then returned to Westminster Hall where the banquet was to be held. The King and his mother did not join the Queen at table but, as they had in the Abbey, watched the proceedings from an enclosed box.

That, thought Cecilia, was taking it a little far. Was it implied that the people would be so overawed by his presence that they would forget the Queen? She did not think that likely. In fact it seemed clear that although the King was accepted, the Queen’s popularity was greater than his. Perhaps that was why he wished to hide himself.

With the King one could never be sure.

She was certain that she must marry John before the King had knowledge of it, for who knew what devious methods he might employ to prevent it if he knew in advance.

She had persuaded John that if they were to marry they must do so in secret.

“I do not think that I am of such great interest to the King now that my sister has borne him a son,” she insisted.

Lord Wells was deeply enamored of the young Princess, and somewhat surprised that she should feel the same about him. He was not a young man but Cecilia was a serious-minded girl and she was determined to choose her own husband.

He was in favor with the King for his family had always been ardent supporters of the Lancastrian cause. His father had died with the Lancastrian army at Towton and at that time his estates had been confiscated by Edward. John’s elder brother Richard was killed during Warwick’s rising leaving John the heir to the estates should they be released. Edward had been notoriously lenient to his enemies and John somehow came into favor during the years of peace. He was present at the coronation of Richard the Third but had never favored that monarch and had been a firm supporter of Henry for there was a family connection with the Countess of Richmond.

Henry had not forgotten his services when he came to the throne and had given him two castles and several grants of manors; moreover the family estates had been restored to him; he had been given the title of viscount and the King clearly trusted him.

It was for this reason that he believed Henry might not frown too deeply on the marriage once it was accomplished although, as Cecilia said, if his permission were asked it would very likely not be given and then marriage would be quite out of the question.

So Cecilia and he were married secretly and gave themselves up to the joy of being together; but of course the marriage could not remain a secret and Cecilia decided that she would tell her sister and ask her to pass on the news to the King.

Elizabeth was in a very happy mood. The coronation had been a great success; she found the King less formidable than he had seemed at first. He appeared to be growing fond of her. She adored her little Arthur though she saw very little of him; she was less worried about her mother now that a match was proposed for her, and there was an atmosphere of peace and serenity all about her.

Cecilia came to see her. There was a change in her. She seemed as though she were very happy about something, and yet at the same time a little apprehensive.

“I wanted to talk to you…as a sister,” she said.

“My dear Cecilia,” replied the Queen, “am I not always your good sister?”

“You look very happy today.”

“I am. Henry was so pleased with the coronation…apart from those people who got crushed to death.”

“Imagine risking your life for a piece of cloth!”

“I suppose it meant something more than that to them. Cecilia, Henry has been so generous to me. He has given me a grant of seven lordships and manors.”

“Seven. Why it was seven he took from our mother.”

“Our mother forfeited the right….”

“I know. I know.”

Cecilia looked at her sister intently. “He has given you Waltham…has he?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Waltham, Magna, Badewe, Mashbury. Dunmow, Lighe and Farnham.”

Cecilia began to laugh. “He has given you those which he took from our mother.”

“Why should he not? They were available.”

“No reason at all. But it is all so neat. And it keeps them in the family.”

“I think it is very good of the King.”

“To take them from our mother?”

“Our mother was fortunate. She could have been accused of treason. I consider he has been most generous…to us both.”

Cecilia thought: Be careful. Don’t alienate her. You need her help.

“Elizabeth,” she said. “I have something to tell you. I want you to do something for me.”

Elizabeth smiled. She really is a sweet-natured and generous creature, thought Cecilia. I should remember that when I criticize her.

“If it is possible…” began Cecilia.

“Tell me.”

“I…want you to speak to the King on my behalf.”

Little lights of alarm were in the lovely eyes; they were no longer quite so serene.

“Oh sister, what have you done?”

“I have married.”

“Cecilia!”

“Yes, you may well look shocked. I was determined to marry where I wanted to and I have done it.”

“But…”

“I know as the Queen’s sister…sister-in-law to the King…I should have had his consent. Well, I did not, Elizabeth.”

“But why…?”

“You may well ask. For the simple reason that I feared that consent might not have been given if we asked for it.”

“Who is it?”

“Lord Wells.”

Elizabeth looked faintly relieved. “The King has a good opinion of him.”

“And should have. His family have firmly supported Lancaster for years. Elizabeth, will you please speak to the King for me? Will you plead for us? Tell him that we love each other, that no other will do for us, and that he must approve of what we have done.”

Elizabeth was uneasy. The King was not going to like this, and she was to be the one to tell him. How could Cecilia? Why did she not wait? She had always been so firm in her opinions; it had never been possible to shift her from them—for Elizabeth at least.

Elizabeth was sorry for her sister. She was fond of her family. They had been a very loving community. Deep in her heart she was worried about her mother. She fervently wished that people would live in peace with each other and not do things which were a source of irritation to others. She had to hide her anxieties about her mother…and now here was Cecilia. She did not know how the King would deal with the matter. She was afraid to anger him—although she had never seen him in anger. She remembered the violent rages of her father. They had not happened often and they were soon over, but he did have more than a touch of what was called the old Plantagenet temper. Henry had none of that. He was always calm, cold almost. She often felt that he considered carefully everything he said before he uttered it.

How he would feel about Cecilia she was not sure. She had had a notion that he was not anxious for her to marry. He had never mentioned a husband for her since their own marriage; and she had noticed that there was never any special place for Cecilia at functions.

Cecilia was now looking at her anxiously. She could see that she would have to take this matter to the King and it would be better for him to hear quietly through her than through any other source for it would not be easy to keep such a matter secret for long.

She said: “I will tell him, Cecilia.”

Cecilia had taken her hand and was looking at her earnestly.

“And you will explain that we love each other…that John wanted to ask the King but I would not have that. It was I who thought that if we were married first it would be too late to stop us.”

“I will tell him that, Cecilia. I will try to explain.”

“Thank you, sister.”

Cecilia kissed the Queen on the forehead.

She said: “It is almost as though we were little again. You and I were always good friends, Elizabeth. Do you remember…how we thought the others were such babies?” Elizabeth nodded. “And now you are Queen. It is strange but we always thought that Edward…”

Elizabeth flinched. It was foolish to bring up their young brothers at this time. Perhaps at any time. Nobody wanted to think of them now. Their disappearance must remain a mystery. To try to solve it might bring forth some evidence which certain people might find embarrassing.

Cecilia went on: “I know the King will listen to you. I am sure he must love you dearly.”

“He does,” said Elizabeth firmly. At another time Cecilia might have said that he loved the alliance they had been able to make between the two houses, but not now. This was not the time.

It seemed only in the bedchamber that the Queen could be alone with the King.

Elizabeth’s women had departed. She was in her long white nightgown, her golden hair in two long plaits giving her a childish look. Soon the King would come in and she was preparing what she would say to him.

When he came there was that somewhat forced smile on his pale face. He was always gentle and kind; it seemed to her that he was grateful for his good fortune in becoming King but was always on the alert lest someone should take the crown from him. He was fond of her. She had in certain moments of self-revelation wondered how fond, or whether his fondness was for what she stood for, not for her person.

She had asked for nothing for herself. She did not want jewels or extravagant pageants. Moreover she knew that Henry would never have given them. He had explained to her that the exchequer was in an unhealthy state. Her father had been extravagant but because of the pension he had had for some years from the King of France he had made the country prosperous. But that pension had stopped before his death. Uneasy times had followed his death; the perpetual unrest culminating in the Battle of Bosworth had impoverished the country. He was determined to crush extravagance, and she would not dream of asking for unnecessary luxuries.

But she would have liked to ask for her mother to come back to Court, though she accepted the fact that it would be impossible because her mother had really committed an act of treason.

Now there was this matter of Cecilia’s marriage.

He came to her smiling. He would lead her to the bed and they would make further attempts to get another child. It was the ritual when they were together. She believed that Henry had no greater liking for the act than she had for they were both aware of a certain relief when it was over, though it brought with it a sense of achievement which they hoped would be rewarded and a certain respite gained. Sometimes she thought of her father and all his mistresses. How different he must have been!

“Henry,” she said, “there is something I have to tell you. I hope it will not anger you.”

He was alarmed. She sensed that rather than saw it. He never showed his feelings but she was aware that she had made him uneasy.

She said quickly: “It is my sister, Cecilia. I am afraid she has acted rather foolishly.”

“How so?” he asked.

“She has married.”

He looked puzzled. But she could not tell whether he was angry or not.

She said quickly: “To Lord Wells.”

He remained silent for a few seconds. Cecilia married to Wells! He was not at all put out. He had been watchful of Cecilia. In his mind had been the thought that he might have had to put her in Elizabeth’s place. He was a man who calculated all eventualities. Life had made that necessary in the past and once a habit was formed with him, it generally continued. Moreover it was as necessary now as it had ever been. He had visualized Elizabeth’s dying in childbed as so many women did and perhaps the baby with her. Then there would have been no alternative but marriage with Elizabeth’s sister Cecilia. Cecilia was the one. The others were too young. So therefore he had kept Cecilia in the background. He had made sure that she should not be offered on the marriage market. He had looked upon her as a reserve. And now…she had married John Wells.

Wells came of a family which had always been loyal to him. He liked John Wells.

“You do not speak,” said Elizabeth, watching him fearfully.

“I am taken by surprise.”

“Of course it was very wrong of them.”

“But natural I suppose. We have been inclined to think of Cecilia as a child. She has shown us that she is not that.”

“Oh Henry…are you…?”

He said: “What’s done is done.”

He was thinking: I am safe now. I have Arthur. As long as I have an heir who is half York and half Lancaster all is well. It is a pity Arthur is not more robust. However, it is no use thinking of Cecilia now. There is Anne…Very young as yet. But Elizabeth is still here…and strong….

He had always kept a firm control on his emotions and that habit never failed him. Always he liked time to think, what is best for Henry Tudor? what is safe for Henry Tudor? while his quick shrewd mind worked out the answer for him. He believed that he had come as far as he had because of this.

He said now: “Why are you trembling, Elizabeth? You must not be afraid. You are not afraid of me, are you?”

She lowered her eyes. She could not tell a blatant lie.

“You must not be. You did right to tell me. I should not have liked to hear this from another source. But it is done. I trust John Wells. He has always been a good servant to us. Perhaps I shall tell him that he has been a little hasty. You may like to tell your sister that. Well, then let us wish them happiness and a fruitful marriage, eh…?”

“You are so good,” she said with tears in her eyes. “I shall never forget that scullion boy…and now Cecilia.”

“Lord and Lady Wells would not relish being compared with Lambert Simnel, my dear. Now…let us to bed.”

The Death of

a Queen

In her nunnery at Bermondsey Elizabeth Woodville heard of her daughter Cecilia’s marriage and that the King had accepted it with a philosophical shrug of the shoulders.

This meant, Elizabeth knew, that he felt secure now Arthur was progressing well. Oh why should she be kept from her grandchild! Why should she be kept here? What an end to a career of such brilliance! But looking back there had been many times like this when she had had to remain shut away from the world as the only way to preserve her life. She was tired of it. If the Queen could persuade the King to accept Cecilia’s marriage why could she not bring her mother back to Court?

The answer was simple. The first did not affect the King one whit; the second might. Henry Tudor will always take care of Henry Tudor, thought Elizabeth bitterly.

Every day she expected to hear news of Scotland. That James would agree she had no doubt. She had at one time been reckoned to be the most beautiful woman in England and beauty such as hers did not disappear; it became a little faded—a little subdued sounded better—but she was still a very beautiful woman and with the right clothes and environment could toss aside the years as though they were tennis balls.

To Scotland! She had heard the climate was dour and the manners of the people not the most gracious in the world, but it would be better than remaining here, shut away from the Court, living in a kind of disgrace and with the knowledge that the King would always be suspicious of her if she went back to Court, and she could be sure that mother of his would never be far away.

Scotland was the best she could hope for, and why should she not make a success of her new role? She was not young, but nor was the King of Scotland. She calculated that he would be just under forty. Mature, very glad no doubt to have for his wife a beautiful woman who had been a Queen of England.

She would try to forget her family here. Elizabeth who had become the Queen; Cecilia who had married Lord Wells and now, she heard, had retired with him to the country; Anne who was just thirteen and who would soon be having a husband found for her; Catherine who was but eight years old and Bridget who was a year younger and destined for a nunnery. All girls left to her and two little boys lost forever. No, she must stop herself trying to solve that mystery. It would bring no good. All this she must forget. She must put the past behind her. She must think of the new life in Scotland.

It would be entirely new…a new world to conquer. Her spirits were lifted considerably. She felt almost as she had that day when she, the desperately impoverished widow, mother of two boys by the dead John Grey, had gone out to Whittlebury Forest and made a name for herself in history.

Now…here was another chance. Queen of Scotland. The more she thought of the past, the more she considered her prospects for the future, the more she felt that her salvation was in Scotland.

She read of Scotland; she studied the history of Scotland; and what a tumultuous history it had! The Scots seemed to be more warlike than the English and one noble house was for ever at odds with another.

It would be primitive of course. The Scottish castles were as drafty as the English ones and there was a colder climate with which to contend. She would need fur cloaks and rugs; she visualized great fires roaring in the rooms of the castles; she could bring a more gracious way of life to that unruly race.

Each day she became more and more eager to leave. She knew that the delay in receiving an answer from James was probably due to the fact that he was now engaged in a war.

She would try to teach them that diplomacy worked so much more effectively than bloodshed. She would introduce a little culture into the Court. She would have friends visiting her from England.

One afternoon a visitor called at the nunnery. She was wrapped in a concealing cloak and she had two ladies with her. The Queen Mother was called down to greet the visitors and when one of them stepped forward and threw back her hood, she saw that it was no other than her daughter, the Queen.

She gave a cry of joy and ran forward to embrace her.

The young Queen was almost in tears.

“Dear mother,” she said. “I am so happy to see you. I trust you are well.”

The Queen Dowager said that she was well indeed, and would be quite fit to travel when the time came.

“Dear lady,” said the Queen, “I would speak with you alone.” She signed to her attendants to fall back, which they did, and Elizabeth Woodville took her daughter to her apartments. There she dismissed her servants and the two Queens sat down to talk.

The young Elizabeth seemed as though she did not know where to begin and her mother said: “Have you news of Cecilia?”

“Only that she is well and happy and enjoying life in the country.”

“She has been fortunate in escaping the wrath of the King. Not like her poor mother. It was a very rash and reckless thing she did.”

“But it harmed no one,” said the young Queen firmly. “Dear lady, there is news from Scotland and that is why I felt I must come to you with all speed.”

News from Scotland. James was waiting for her. How soon could she set forth? In a week…. Not less, she supposed.

“Well?” she prompted, for her daughter seemed to find it difficult to proceed.

“James is dead, my lady. He was killed in battle.”

“God has indeed deserted me.”

“Oh my dear mother, did you so long to go to Scotland?”

“Who does not wish to escape from prison?”

“But you have your comforts here.”

“I lack freedom, my daughter.”

“It will not always be so.”

“Have you spoken to the King?”

“He believes that it is for your own good to be here.”

“Henry believes what is for his good is always so for that of other people.”

“You must not talk thus of the King. You will want to hear of the sad end of the King of Scotland?”

“Slain in a battle, you say?”

“Yes…in a way. There was a revolt of the feudal houses.”

“There were always revolts.”

“I fear so. There were powerful men in this one…Angus, Huntly, Glamis…. They met the King’s forces and defeated him. He was in retreat with a few of his followers and went to a well for water. While they were there a woman came with her bucket and James could not resist saying to her: ‘This morning I was your King.’ He told her that he was wounded and wanted to confess his sins to a priest. He begged her to find one and send the man to him, and she promised to do this. But what she did was to inform the townsfolk that the King was at the well and wanted a priest. There were some of the enemy forces in the town and one of these disguised himself as a priest. James was waiting at the well when the bogus minister arrived. The King fell on his knees and entreated the priest to shrive him, whereupon the man drew his sword and saying, ‘I will give you short shrift’ slew the King. That is the story, my lady.”

“So I have lost my King,” said Elizabeth Woodville.

“Dear lady, do not be so sad. You never knew him.”

“He was to be my salvation.”

“Oh come, dear mother. If you truly repent of what you did I am sure the King will forgive you. You are happy here. Why you live as luxuriously as you would at Court. It may be that in time the King will find another noble husband for you. But it will not be Scotland now.”

“Adieu Scotland,” said the Queen Mother slowly. “Adieu my King whom I never knew.”

She looked about her apartments.

“I have a feeling that I shall end my days here,” she said.

The King was feeling a little melancholy. He had just received the members of the embassy he had sent to Spain; they had been cheerful, optimistic, certain that their efforts would bear fruit, but Henry had never been one to deceive himself. He knew that whatever compliments had been paid and promises hinted at, nothing had really been achieved. He knew the reason why and it was that reason which he found so disturbing.

Arthur was at the very heart of his safety. He had thought himself the luckiest man in England when he had defeated Richard at Bosworth—or at least his armies had. Henry himself was no great general. His strength lay in his ability to govern rather than wield a sword—which men of good sense should know was more important for a king. They did not seem to, though—and if the time came for him to protect his kingdom he would need to shine on battlefields as well as in council chambers. That was what he dreaded.

He was never sure from one moment to the next whether someone might leap out to kill him. Every rustle of a curtain set him wondering; every time there was a knock on his door he wondered who would enter. It would get better when he felt more secure on his throne. It must be thus with all those who are not strictly in the line of succession.

The Lambert Simnel affair had worried him far more than he would admit. Not because it had had much hope of success—not because the baker’s boy could have been anything but an impostor—but because it showed how easily these rebellions could arise and how many people—even with only the flimsiest causes—would rise to support them.

And now here was the embassy from Spain. If it had brought back results—a signed agreement…something like that, he would have had an indication that he was accepted as a King of England, likely to remain firm on his throne. But it was not so. The embassy had come back empty handed.

The fact was that Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain had a family—one son and four daughters; and the youngest of these daughters was Katherine who was a year older than Arthur. Henry believed fervently in alliance between powerful countries, and a marriage of the children of the rulers was the best safeguard for peace. It had seemed to him that if Ferdinand and Isabella would give their daughter Katharine in marriage to his son Arthur, it would show the world that the monarchs of Spain believed in the stability of the King of England. Moreover Spain and England would be powerful allies against the King of France. This might appeal to Ferdinand and Isabella; it was the fact on which he had pinned his hopes. But he knew that the sovereigns would not want to form an alliance with a king whose grip on his crown was far from steady.

So he had listened to his ambassadors newly returned from Medina del Campo with gloomy attention and nothing they could say of the lavish Spanish hospitality, the gifts they had brought back with them, could dispel his melancholy.

Isabella and Ferdinand would not commit themselves to an alliance between Arthur and Katharine because they were not convinced that Arthur’s father would be able to keep his hold on the throne.

“Let us face the facts,” he said to John Dudley. “We have wasted the money we have spent on this embassy.”

Dudley was not sure of that.

“At the moment,” he said, “they are unsure. They will have heard of the Lambert Simnel affair and it has shaken them.”

“To think this could have come about through that baker’s boy!”

“It is not exactly through him, Sire. It is the fact that Margaret of Burgundy supported him…among others…and the indication that there are people who are ready to rise against you.”

The King nodded gloomily. “As I say, we need never have wasted the money.”

“It may not have been wasted. We have sown a seed. It may well be that later, when they see you have come to stay, they will change their minds. The children are so young yet and therefore marriage could not take place for several years. So much can happen in even a short time. And, Sire, we are going to show them that in spite of Lambert Simnel and any like him, King Henry the Seventh is here to stay.”

“You are right, of course, my lord. But it is a disappointment. I should have liked Arthur to be betrothed to Spain.”

“It will come, Sire. Wait. Let us be watchful and patient. Let us be ready for these troubles when they arise. Lambert Simnel has done us no real harm. You have shown the people that you can quell a rebellion, and it was a master stroke to send the boy to the kitchens. We need patience. Let us not be unduly troubled by the evasiveness of the Spaniards. The money has not really been wasted. The idea is sown in their minds. What we have to show them is that your throne is secure. Then we shall have them suing us for the marriage.”

Henry knew Dudley was right. With luck he would succeed. The result of his careful policies would soon be evident; and if he could get another son he would feel very confident in the future.

In the late spring there was good news. His efforts with the Queen were rewarded. Elizabeth was once more pregnant.

At the end of October Elizabeth the Queen went into retirement in the Palace of Westminster to prepare for the birth of her child. It was not due for another month but in view of Arthur’s early arrival it had been thought wise for the Queen to be prepared.

Margaret Countess of Richmond had arranged the household as she had for the birth of Arthur, and this time she was not harassed by the presence of Dowager Queen Elizabeth Woodville who, to the Countess’s great satisfaction, was still confined at Bermondsey.

The Countess had made a list of all her requirements.

“There must be two cradles,” she had told Elizabeth, “the cradle of state decorated with cloth of gold and ermine and that other in which the baby will sleep.”

Elizabeth listened contentedly. She was delighted to have her mother-in-law to rely on; and as she never questioned any of the Countess’s requirements there was perfect amity between them.

“We must have a good wet nurse…that is most important—a strong healthy young woman and her food shall be considered most carefully so that she can give the baby all due nourishment. Then we need a dry nurse, sewers, panterers and rockers of course.”

“As with Arthur,” said the Queen.

“Exactly so. Oh my dear Elizabeth, if this proves to be a boy I shall be overjoyed. Now I have arranged for a physician to be in attendance with the wet nurse at all her meals. That is most important for the health of the child.”

“How good you are.”

“I long to see you with a family of children…boys and some girls…for girls have their important parts to play in affairs of state.”

“I do agree.”

“I have my eyes on a good woman. She will give birth at the same time as you do. She is a respectable woman and this is not her first child. She has remarkably good health and has reared other children most satisfactorily. Her name is Alice Davy. The day-nurse will be Alice Bywimble. She is a good woman and I have two very good rockers. I have prevailed upon the King to pay them three pounds six shillings and eightpence a year. He thought it a great deal of money for such people but I have impressed on him the need to pay these people more than they would get in an ordinary household to make them realize the importance of serving a royal child.”

“And did he agree?” asked the Queen, wondering for a moment whether she would have to take sides with the King against her mother-in-law and thinking how awkward that would be.

“Oh I brought him round to my point of view,” said the Countess complacently, implying that she could always do that—even with the King.

Elizabeth was relieved. She reached out a hand and took that of the Countess.

“My lady, I thank you. I am so grateful to have you here to take care of these matters.”

“My dear, dear daughter, you cannot be happier than I. You know what my son means to me…apart from the fact that he is the King and ruler of us all, and I will say this—that although you come from a house which has for so long been the enemy of my own, there is none I would rather see my son married to than you.”

Elizabeth was deeply moved.

It was so easy to remain in loving friendship with her mother-in-law. All she asked was agreement in everything she did and as she was a very wise woman, this worked out ideally for Elizabeth.

The days began to pass at Westminster. It was quite clear that the new baby was not going to make a premature appearance, but arrived on the night of the twenty-ninth of November of that year 1489, which was exactly the time it was due.

The child was rather disappointingly a girl. But a strong healthy girl—more lusty than Arthur had been.

The Queen requested that she should be called after the King’s mother to whom she owed so much, and the King was most graciously pleased to agree.

So in due course the Princess Margaret joined her brother Arthur in the royal nurseries.

It was pleasant to retire to Greenwich. There she would stay until the birth of the child, for Elizabeth was once again in what people who do not have to endure it call a happy condition.

The nursery now contained Arthur who was five years old and Margaret nearly two. Arthur was a gentle, serious child, already showing an interest in his books. Perhaps this was because he was a little delicate. The King watched him anxiously. He was afraid something might happen to Arthur who was more than a son to him; he was one of the chief reasons why the people wanted him to remain King.

Minors were a menace. That had been the lesson of the ages. What the people always wanted was a strong king who had a son or sons in his youth so that by the time he died there would be someone strong to take his place.

“How I do hope this one will be a boy,” prayed Elizabeth.

Margaret was already showing herself to be a somewhat forceful little creature. She wanted her own way all the time and invariably got it, for she had grown out of the childish way of screaming for it and employed more devious methods to cajole the guardians of the nursery. The only person of whom Margaret seemed to feel some awe was her grandmother the Countess of Richmond, for the child was shrewd enough to recognize that there was a lady to be obeyed, and although she avoided having to comply whenever she could, she did know when it would be expedient to do so.

Elizabeth prayed that Arthur’s health might be improved and Margaret’s temper controlled and contemplated what the new one would be like.

She enjoyed being at Greenwich—less important of course than Winchester, the birthplace of Arthur, or Westminster, that of Margaret. But this one after all was but a third child.

There was a peace here among the green fields with the river meandering through them. She was not surprised that the Romans had called it Grenovicum when they had seen it and later the Saxons had named it Grenawic—the Green Town. It had been a royal residence since the days of Edward Longshanks and it had become increasingly popular ever since. Henry had enlarged the Palace and because the river was encroaching had added a brick wall along the waterfront. The tower in the Park had been started years ago and not finished until Henry had it completed. He was now talking about building a monastery for the Grey Friars who lived in the district. It seemed strange that Henry should consider spending money on such things for he was usually so careful and hated to see it, as he always said, “wasted.” But this was different. This was adding to the wealth of the country. He said: “It is important that we preserve our buildings.”

She was glad. It was lovely to see the old Palace as it should be. The people at Greenwich were pleased too and they were delighted that she had come here for her accouchement.

It was hot that June; she found the room stifling but of course it had to be closed in. These were the orders of the Countess of Richmond who said they must always comply with Court etiquette.

“Leave everything to me,” said the Countess. “All you have to do, my dear, is produce a healthy boy.”

“Pray God I do,” she replied fervently.

In London the sweating sickness was plaguing the people and the King had been very anxious that she come quickly to the cooler, fresher air of Greenwich, so here in this Palace with the tall mullioned windows and the lovely shade of terracotta in the tiled floors, she felt comfortable and secure. All she had to do was stay in her apartments with her women around her and wait.

It was comforting to know that the Countess of Richmond was at hand.

Oh God, she continued to pray, let this one be a boy.

And on a hot June day her prayers were answered.

Her child was born; strong, lusty, informing the castle of his arrival within a few minutes of his birth by his piercing cry.

The King came to Greenwich. This was a happy day. The new baby was of the desired sex and he seemed as healthy as his sister Margaret was proving to be. Another addition to the nursery and a boy! It was something to thank God for.

His birth was, of course, not of the same importance as Arthur’s, but he was the son of the King, and although while Arthur lived he would be of secondary importance it was always wise to have some boys in reserve.

The King was therefore pleased and although the festivities in honor of the child would not compare with those which had announced the birth of the heir to the throne they should be commensurate with his rank of second son to the King.

It was decided that the boy should be baptized only a few days after his birth, which was always a wise procedure, for so many healthy-seeming children died suddenly for no apparent reason. Bishop Fox came to Greenwich expressly to perform the ceremony and the Church of the Observants there had been specially decorated. The King had ordered that the font be brought from Canterbury for the occasion and there were carpets on the floor—a very special luxury and a wonder to those who beheld them and who were accustomed to seeing rushes there.

The little boy was discreetly divested of his garments and carried to the font into which he would be dipped, and all present marveled at the size of the baby and remarked that he was perfect in every way.

Bishop Fox proclaimed to all those present that he named the boy Henry.

Henry. It was a good name—his father’s name.

Only the child was indifferent and in spite of his extreme youth he appeared to look on at the scene with calm aloofness.

After being wrapped in a white garment he was taken from the church back to the Palace, with the musicians marching before him playing their trumpets and drums, to the Queen’s presence chamber where Henry and Elizabeth—who had not attended the ceremony in the church—were waiting to receive the procession.

The child was carried to the Queen, who took him into her arms and murmured a blessing. Then the King took the child and did the same.

All those present looked on smiling.

“Long live Prince Henry,” murmured the Countess of Richmond and the cry was taken up throughout the chamber.

Life had not gone smoothly for the Queen Dowager since she had lost the King of Scotland. She had suddenly realized that her days of power were over. It was scarcely likely that the King would find another husband for her now. She could not reconcile herself to spending the rest of her life in a convent. Yet it seemed that that was the intention of the King and his overbearing mother; and if it was their wish it would be very difficult for her to evade it.

She spent most of the days in dreaming of the past. It is a sorry state of affairs when a woman who once enslaved a king has come to this, she thought.

She was not so very old. It was true that she would not see fifty again, but she was still beautiful and she had always been mindful of her outstanding beauty and had sought to preserve it. If she were fifty-five years of age she certainly did not look it. And yet of late she had begun to feel it. She experienced unaccountable little aches and pains, an inability to breathe easily, the odd little pain here and there.

Age! How tiresome it was. If only she were young as she had been when she had gone into Whittlebury Forest. But she must stop brooding on the past. But could she when the past had been so thrilling, so exciting, so adventuresome…and now…what was she? A queen still, mother of a queen…but a queen who had become the tool of a cold stern man who was quite immune to the charms and wisdom of his mother-in-law.

Of course it is that woman, she thought. Surely the mother of the Queen carries as much weight as the mother of the King…or should do when the Queen had far more right to the throne than the King had, who in fact had acquired it largely through his marriage with the daughter of Elizabeth Woodville.

It was old ground and perhaps she shouldn’t go over it perpetually. And yet how could she help it? What was there to do in her nunnery except relive the glories of the past?

One morning when she awoke she began to cough and during the day found great difficulty in breathing. Her attendants propped her up with cushions and that eased her a little but by nightfall she felt very weak.

She thought: Is this the end then? Is this how death comes?

She thought of Edward the King who had been so strong and well one day and then had had that fit of apoplexy, which she was sure had been brought on by the shock of hearing that the King of France had broken his treaty with him, and their daughter was not to be Madame La Dauphine after all. But he had recovered from that and seemed well…but soon afterward quite suddenly he had died after catching a cold when he was out fishing.

It was better if death came swiftly. Who wanted to outlive one’s power? Certainly no one who had enjoyed so much as Elizabeth Woodville. But the thought of death was sobering when one brooded on all the sins one had committed, all the things one should have done and those which had been left undone.

A woman has to live…to fight her way through, particularly if she has after much success been visited by adversity.

But she had outlived her power…and her wealth. She had very little left for herself after having supported her girls. It would have been different if her son had come to the throne…little Edward the Fifth. Little son, what happened to you there in the Tower? What dark secret is hidden from me? You were the delight of our lives when you were born in Sanctuary, your father overseas, striving to come back and claim his throne. You were delicate. I know you suffered some pain. I was glad you had your brother Richard with you in the Tower. You wanted him to be with you so much. Yet if I had not let him go to you…perhaps he would be with us now.

In her heart she admitted that she had let him go for the sake of her freedom. It was an ultimatum they had delivered to her. Suppose she had held Richard back? Would he have been King now? Never. The Tudor would have come just the same and taken the throne.

If Edward were living today what would he think? The first thing he would do would be to take up arms and drive the Tudor from the throne. He would see the red rose trampled in the dust, the white triumphant.

But the white rose lived on in Henry’s wife, the present Queen. That was the irony of it. Lancaster and York reigning side by side—but it was only token power for York. It was Lancaster through Henry Tudor who wielded the real power.

The pain in her chest was growing worse.

“I should like to see my daughters,” she said.

Cecilia was the first to come. She knelt by the bed, alarmed to see the beautiful face so pale and sunken.

“Dear mother,” she said, “you must get well.”

“I feel I never shall again, my child,” said Elizabeth. “This is the end. Do not look so sad. We all have to go sometime and I have had a good life. Where is the Queen?”

“She has taken to her lying-in chamber. Her time is very near.”

“She does her duty by the Tudor. I hear young Henry flourishes.”

“Indeed, yes. He and Margaret are fine healthy children. I wish I could say the same for Arthur.”

“I never believed in that closed-in room, but the Countess insisted.”

“Margaret and Henry were born in the same conditions,” Cecilia gently reminded her. “Dear lady, should you not rest?”

“There is a long rest ahead of me. Cecilia, I am glad you are provided for. Is Lord Wells a good husband?”

“The best of husbands.”

“Then you are fortunate. And you lack for nothing, I believe. He is very rich.”

“We are very comfortable and happy, my lady.”

“I wish the others had been a little older so that I could see them settled.”

“Elizabeth will provide for them.”

“She must when I can no longer do so. I have very little to leave, Cecilia. You find me in dire poverty. I have been growing poorer and poorer.”

“But our father left you well provided for, did he not?”

“When York lost to Lancaster…I lost much of what he left to me. Your father’s personal property is in the hands of your grandmother. Cecily of York is one of the most avaricious old women I ever heard of.”

“Think not of money now, dear mother. Rest your voice.”

The Queen Dowager smiled and nodded. “Sit by my bed, dear child,” she said. “Hold my hand. I loved you all dearly…far more than I ever showed you.”

“We were so happy when we were children, dear mother. You and our father were like a god and goddess to us. We thought you perfect.”

“Neither of us was that, dear child, but whatever else we were we were loving parents.”

Seventeen-year-old Anne arrived next with her sisters Catherine and Bridget the youngest who had come from her convent at Dartford to be at her mother’s bedside. Anne was a source of anxiety to the Queen Dowager because she was seventeen years old, ripe for marriage. Who would look after her now? Elizabeth the Queen must do that. Catherine was eleven; there was time yet for her. Bridget was the only one whose future was assured for she was preparing herself to take the veil.

Elizabeth looked at them through misty eyes. Her beloved children. Was it only eleven years ago that Edward had been alive and they had rejoiced at the birth of this daughter?

She held out her hands to them. The younger girls looked at her with alarmed dismay. They had never seen her like this before, poor children, thought Cecilia. She looks so ill. I really believe this is the end.

“Bless you, dear daughters,” said the Queen Dowager. “I think I shall be gone before Whitsuntide.”

“Where shall you go?” asked Catherine.

“To Heaven, I hope, sweet child.”

Then the little girls began to weep and Bridget knelt down by the bed and prayed as she had seen the nuns do.

“Good-bye, my dear ones. Remember this. No parents ever loved their children more than the King and I loved you. Sad events have fallen upon us but we must make the best of them…. Your sister, the Queen, will care for you.”

Catherine said: “Dear mother, I think I should send for the priest.”

On the following day Elizabeth Woodville died.

It was Whit Sunday when the Queen Dowager’s body was taken along the river to Windsor.

There was a very simple funeral. Only the priest of the college received the coffin, and some Yorkists who had come out to see the end of great Edward’s Queen murmured together that such a hearse was like those used for the common people.

Was this the way in which King Henry honored the House of York? What was all this talk of the roses entwining—the uniting of white and red—when a Yorkist queen was buried with no more ceremony than the humblest merchant?

On the following Tuesday the daughters of Elizabeth Woodville—Catherine, Anne and Bridget—came to Windsor. Cecilia was at the time unwell but her husband Lord Wells came in her stead.

The burial itself was performed with as little expense as possible. Even black clothes had not been provided for those who had been engaged to sing the dirges and they appeared in their working garments. This was unheard of for a royal personage—and a queen at that.

There was a great deal of murmuring. “The Queen should have provided proper mourning for her mother,” said many.

“The Queen has no power and the King is a miser.”

But at least she was buried where she would have wished to be—in St. George’s Chapel beside her husband King Edward the Fourth.

Henry was relieved. He had always been uneasy concerning his mother-in-law. He had never trusted her and in his suspicious mind he saw the possibilities of her being at the center of an intrigue to drive him from the throne. The animosity between Elizabeth Woodville and the Countess of Richmond had been more than feminine bickering. The Countess had seen danger in the woman, for like her son’s, her own life had prepared her to look for trouble.

But now Elizabeth Woodville was dead; the Queen was delivered of another child—a girl, Elizabeth, this time and delicate like Arthur. The King was thankful that he had the robust Henry and Margaret to show they could get healthy children. Four was a goodly number and the Queen was still young, and if a little delicate that did not seem to impair her ability to bear children.

He fancied too that on the continent they were beginning to regard him as a formidable figure in world politics. The King of France had just shown a healthy respect for him; and he was delighted because he was going to be spared the necessity of going to war.

He had been drawn into an agreement with the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian, and Isabella and Ferdinand. He was particularly eager to have the friendship of the Spanish monarchs because he saw through an alliance with them a bulwark against the perennial enemy, the French, and he was still hoping for a marriage between their daughter Katharine and his own Arthur. He hated war, seeing it as senseless and costly, but he had come to the point where he had found it impossible to back out.

Dudley and Empson had said that it would be necessary to raise the money from the people. It was a strange and sobering fact that while the people were reluctant to pay taxes in order to increase industry they were ready to do so to go to war, and there had been many a squire who had sold part of his estates in order to equip himself for war. Why? Did he think the spoils he would bring back would compensate him, or was it just the lust for conflict? War was no good to anyone, was Henry’s theory; and he could not understand why when this had been so well proved through the ages, men still wanted to indulge in it.

But because it had been impossible to evade it he had landed an army in France and laid siege to Boulogne, and although this had not proved outstandingly successful as the town was very well fortified, the French King sued for peace—offering to pay Henry’s expenses and a sum of money if he would retire from the field.

The acquisition of money had always been a pleasure to Henry and to get it without the loss of men or equipment seemed to him a heaven-sent opportunity.

There were people to murmur against it, for operations like this, while so profitable to the leaders, were scarcely so to those who had sold part of their estates to enable them to join the expedition and then returned empty-handed.

However Henry was delighted. He accepted the offer, made peace and came back to England.

It was while he was congratulating himself with those devoted and efficient statesmen Dudley and Empson, that he received news which shattered his peace.

A young man had presented himself to the peers of Ireland with the story that he was Richard Duke of York, second son of King Edward the Fourth whose disappearance with his brother had caused such speculation some years before.

His brother—who was in truth Edward the Fifth—declared this young man, had been murdered. But he, the second son, had escaped. He had called himself Peter Warbeck and had remained in obscurity until the time was opportune for him to take the throne.

He was now gathering together an army—he had the support of some influential people including the Duchess of Burgundy—and was coming to take the throne from the usurper Henry Tudor who now occupied it.

Henry’s peace of mind had completely deserted him. Here was another of them. It was lies…lies. None knew that better than he did.

Richard of York—the second of the Princes in the Tower—was dead, he knew that. But how could he explain to the country why he was so sure?

And was this another Lambert Simnel? No…indeed not. Lambert Simnel had been doomed to failure from the first.

Something told Henry that this was a far more serious matter, and he knew that his enemies would be preparing to strike at him.

He had constantly to look about him for where the blows would come.

He had not thought that it could be through one of the little Princes in the Tower.

Perkin

Peter had been ten years old when the Framptons came to Flanders. He was a bright boy, tall and handsome with abundant golden hair and very alert blue eyes. His father, John Warbeck, was a customs official and his mother Katharine was a clever woman. They had several children, otherwise they would have been able to do more for Peter; as it was he was put into several noble houses there to learn how to be a good squire.

After the Battle of Bosworth when there was a turnabout in England and the House of Plantagenet, which had reigned since Henry the Second came to the throne in the year 1154, was defeated and replaced by the Tudors, among those who felt it was necessary to leave England were Sir Edward and Lady Frampton. They were staunch supporters of the House of York—so much so that they were committed to help bring that House back to power if it was at all possible for them to do so.

When they settled at Tournay in Flanders they had been able to bring much of their wealth with them and they were made very welcome and took several people into their household.

Peter’s good looks and amazingly pleasant manners secured him a place and very soon he became a favorite of Lady Frampton.

“You remind me,” she told him, “of our great King Edward. He was exceptionally handsome. The people loved him. It was the greatest tragedy that could befall England when he died. And, Peter, you have a look of him.”

Peter was flattered and was eager to discover all he could about the handsome King to whom he bore such a strong resemblance.

Lady Frampton was always ready to talk to him. When she rode out Peter would act as her groom and she often sent for him in the house so that she could chat to him.

It was very pleasant for her to have such an attentive audience and she was only too glad to speak of the past because the present seemed so hopeless.

“If only,” she was fond of saying, “by some stroke of good fortune, we could drive the usurping Tudor from the throne.”

Peter asked a great many questions about the late King Edward to whom he bore such a resemblance.

“I suppose,” said Lady Frampton, “the King was in Flanders at some time. I’d be ready to swear, Peter, that he was interested in some Flemish maid and that you were the result.”

“My mother is a very virtuous wife.”

“I know…I know. But sometimes those whom we believe to be our parents are not. You understand what I mean, Peter? Suppose the lady you think of as your mother was asked to care for a child…a child who came rather mysteriously into the world. Suppose that child was the result of a liaison between some persons who dared not divulge their identity.”

If it was an absurd supposition, Lady Frampton refused to accept the fact. Edward had many bastards but he had never made any secret of the fact. He had no one to answer to and even his Queen had been aware of his activities in that field and knew she must turn a blind eye to them.

Still, it was interesting to talk and the boy was very pleased at the prospect of having a king for a father. He wanted to know about the sons Edward had had by the Queen and why they didn’t rise up and take the throne away from this obnoxious Tudor.

“They disappeared…. It is most mysterious for none so far as I have heard have an answer to the question. Richard the Third declared the children illegitimate. The two boys were put into the Tower of London. They have never been seen since.”

“Did King Richard murder them?”

Lady Frampton was indignant. “Richard was a good Yorkist king—brother of Edward. He would never murder his own nephews. It was the Tudor. You see while they lived they were a menace to him. The elder of the boys was Edward the Fifth; his younger brother was Duke of York. And if Edward died there was still Richard of York to come before this Tudor.”

“So he kept them imprisoned in the Tower.”

“Yes…and no one knows what became of them.”

“If they were alive would they not show themselves?”

“It may be that they will one day.”

“And I look like them, you say, my lady?”

“Very much so. They had long blond hair…just like yours. And a certain bearing…”

Peter was very proud. He was very careful of the way he looked, the way he walked; he studied noblemen and imitated them.

Lady Frampton remarked to Sir Edward that the boy grew more royal-looking every day.

When the Framptons left for Portugal Peter went with them. He had a great desire to see the world. Lady Frampton’s talk of his resemblance to the Princes had set ambition growing in him and he had a feeling that he might become the center of great events. He dreamed about himself and there were times when his dreams seemed more real than his everyday life.

He had not been long in Lisbon when he made the acquaintance of a knight called Peter Varz de Cogna—a somewhat battle-scarred gentleman who had lost an eye and who seemed to young Peter one of the most interesting people he had ever met. The Knight too noticed the royal looks of young Warbeck and he talked to him a great deal about the recent uprising headed by Lambert Simnel.

“It is clear that the Tudor is uneasy on the throne of England,” he said. “And it is not to be wondered at considering he has very little right to it.”

Peter liked to hear how Lambert Simnel the baker’s son had been taken from his father’s shop by the priest Richard Simon and had come within a short distance of taking the throne of England.

“A baker’s son!” cried Peter, aghast. “How did he manage to pass himself off for the Earl of Warwick?”

“He had such good looks…and a manner of carrying himself. They say he looked the part and when they had taught him to speak…as an earl would speak—well, it might have been an earl himself.”

“And now he is just a scullion.”

“Some would say he has been lucky.”

“Of course he might have succeeded. And if he had…?”

“He could not succeed because the real Earl of Warwick lives and is the King’s prisoner in the Tower.”

“Because,” said Peter, “he has a greater claim to the throne than the Tudor. I find it of great interest.”

“I’m not surprised. With looks such as yours you might be one of the sons of Edward yourself.”

“Would it not be strange if I were?”

“It is said that he had children all over the place. He was that kind of man.”

“I should like to go to England.”

“You would have to learn the language.”

“I do speak a little. It seems to come naturally to me and Lady Frampton has taught me a good deal.”

“You should go to Ireland first.”

“Why Ireland?”

“They have always supported the Yorkists. They would like the look of you. They would think the young Edward the Fifth or his brother of York had come back to life.”

It was not long after this that a Breton merchant came to Lisbon and stayed awhile at the house of Peter Varz. He was, he told them, on his way to Ireland where he would do business. At the mention of Ireland, Peter Warbeck’s eyes sparkled.

“It is a country I long to see,” he said.

Peter was thoughtful. Could it be possible? He did not see why not. Peter Varz would not stand in his way. He told him of his great desire to see Ireland and the Breton merchant replied that there was no difficulty about that. He was sailing for Ireland shortly and there would be a place for Peter Warbeck on his ship.

It seemed to the young man that there was some Divine purpose in all this. First he had been endowed with these marvelous looks; secondly he had met the Framptons; and now here he was on his way to Ireland.

The Breton merchant was proud of the interest his protégé aroused.

“They say he is one of the sons of Edward the Fourth,” he told people; and it was not long before Peter was invited to call on Lord Desmond.

Lord Desmond was an influential Irish peer and the Irish had always believed that they could expect better treatment from the Yorkists than from the Lancastrians. They wanted home rule and there had once been a hint from a Duke of York that he believed this might be brought about. That it would never be granted by Henry the Seventh they were certain. It might be another matter if there was a Yorkist king on the throne of England, and they would like to see this come about.

They had supported Lambert Simnel although it must have been clear that he was an impostor, but Lambert had managed to make trouble for the English and that was what the Irish liked to do beyond anything.

The Earl of Desmond was delighted by Peter Warbeck.

“Why, you have the Yorkist look. I could easily believe you are one of Edward’s sons. Tell me about yourself. From whence do you come?”

“I was in Tournay with people whom I had always believed to be my parents.”

“And they were not…?”

Peter passed a hand across his brow. Lord Desmond noticed how graceful were his gestures.

“It is a little hazy…I remember being in a prison…with my brother…There was some trouble…. I cannot remember…although sometimes flashes of it come back to me.”

Lord Desmond was excited.

“I should like you to stay here for a while. There are people whom I would like to meet you.”

Peter felt a sense of mingling excitement and apprehension. He knew that he had stepped over the dividing line between fantasy and reality.

It was Lord Desmond and the Irish peers who had changed him. He had been through a great experience, he told himself. It was natural that he should feel as he did. The past was beginning to emerge and it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference between what had actually happened and what he wanted to have happened.

That he was of noble birth everyone was ready to accept. Lord Desmond was teaching him to speak fluently in English and with an acceptable accent.

The Irish peers discussed the boy.

“He could not be the son of Clarence because he is still in the Tower,” said Desmond, “where he has been languishing since the accession of the Tudor—for no other reason, of course, than that he has a stronger claim to the throne than Henry. But he could be one of the sons of Edward the Fourth…those Princes who were kept in the Tower. No one knows what became of them.”

That seemed very likely. Could he be Edward the Fifth? Was he old enough for that? It seemed far more likely that he was the younger brother, Richard Duke of York.

Now if he were the young Duke of York he was in fact the true King of England providing his brother Edward the Fifth was dead.

It was an exciting project. It was just what the Irish peers were looking for. They wanted a Yorkist claimant to the throne; they were always ready for a fight; and there was nothing they liked better than bringing trouble to the English King.

Moreover, let them produce the true King of England, let them lead a rebellion against the Tudor, set the young King on the throne, and he would not forget what he owed to Ireland.

Lord Desmond was constantly in the company of Peter Warbeck. They conversed together of the affairs of England and Ireland and they decided that what had happened was that Peter (his real name was Richard Plantagenet) had been put into the Tower by his uncle Richard the Third. When Henry Tudor won the Battle of Bosworth Field he planned to murder the two little boys—which he must do, for he was to marry their sister; which he could not do if she were illegitimate (as Richard the Third proclaimed the family to be) and if she were not illegitimate then her brothers were not either; and if they were not then they were the true heirs to the throne. So here, according to Peter Warbeck, was what had happened.

The two little Princes had been taken out of the Tower and given to certain gentlemen who had orders to kill them. This was carried out in the case of the elder—King Edward the Fifth. His brother, Richard Duke of York, fared differently. The gentleman who had been selected to kill him found that he could not commit so foul a deed, for he was deeply moved by the boy’s guilelessness and could not bring himself to destroy such innocence. He had paid two men to take the boy away, strip him of his identity, give him a new name. “Swear that for eight years you will not divulge his story,” they were told. “On this condition only can his life be spared.”

So the boy was taken abroad; he wandered around and was finally taken into the house of the Warbecks who accepted him as their son.

It was a likely story—at least it was good enough to start with.

There came the day when Peter’s speech and manners were so perfect that Lord Desmond thought they should move into action. He proposed to send messages to the sovereigns of Europe announcing the fact that the younger son of Edward the Fourth, about whose death—with that of his brother—there had been a longstanding mystery, had come forth and was about to lay claim to the throne of England. His brother had been murdered, but by a miracle Richard Duke of York had escaped. As true King of England he asked those whom he was sure were his friends and would wish to see justice done, to aid him to get what was his and drive the usurping Tudor back to Wales and obscurity where he belonged.

There was immediate interest. Henry Tudor was known to be insecure on the throne; the King of France and the Emperor Maximilian would not be averse to a little trouble in England. It was always wise to keep kings engaged on their own doorsteps. It prevented their meddling in the affairs of others.

The King of Scotland sent a warm invitation for Peter to visit him; but before he could reply there was another invitation—this time from the King of France.

This was too important to be dismissed and Peter set out for France without delay.

It was at this time that Henry heard what was happening and knew that he had to discover all he could about this Peter Warbeck who called himself the Duke of York. That the man was a liar Henry was well aware. He could have told the world that it was quite impossible for him to be the Duke of York. But how could he be so sure? they would ask. There was the crux of the matter. Henry was sure, but he did not want the reason for his certainty to be known.

He sent spies to the Continent to find out how far this matter had gone and who was involved in it.

He remembered how his contemptuous treatment of Lambert Simnel had reduced the boy to a figure of fun. It showed the people how those who set out to take a crown from a king could end up watching the spits in that king’s kitchen.

He talked not angrily of this impostor but slightingly, giving him the nickname Perkin, which was sometimes given to those called Peter.

In Court circles and in the streets they talked of Perkin Warbeck and the name Henry had given him did surprisingly diminish his stature.

Henry was getting very concerned when he heard through his spies that the King of France had received Perkin Warbeck with honor as though he were indeed visiting royalty. He knew that his enemies on the Continent were just waiting to see him fall. It was a perpetual nightmare. During his early years he had been striving for the throne and when he eventually achieved it he discovered that his real troubles had begun. To be ever watchful of enemies, wondering constantly who was plotting against him, to be in constant dread of assassination…was this what he had dreamed of all those years in exile?

But he was committed now. He had to hold his throne for the sake of his son, King-Arthur-to-be, for the sake of the House of Tudor.

Some might have shrugged aside this ridiculous impostor, have told the world that he was liar and cheat—and the reason why it was a certainty if necessary.

Sometimes it was in the interests of peace that murder should be committed. Henry could assure himself that only in such circumstances would he be guilty of it. He wanted to be a good strong king; he wanted to bring prosperity to England; he wanted to leave a great country behind him when he died. He wanted Arthur to have an easier life than he had. Was that wrong? What happened to countries ruled by minors? There was always trouble. Looking back over history this was a lesson which stood out clearly. He had come to the throne through conquest. He did have a claim. He was descended from great British Kings Arthur and Cadwallader—his mother was descended from John of Gaunt and his grandmother had been Queen of England and daughter of the King of France. Was that not good enough?

The people would realize in time that a serious-minded king who sought to do what was best for the people was more worthy to rule than some little boy with pretty manners—even if he were the true son of Edward the Fourth, which this ridiculous young Perkin was most definitely not.

There was one ray of light. The French King was eager to complete the Treaty of Etaples and Henry would refuse to sign until Charles had promised that he would give no aid or shelter to pretenders to the English throne.

At least that was a small victory.

Charles signed the treaty and the result was that Perkin Warbeck with his adherents was asked—very politely—to leave France.

This Perkin did but he had already received an invitation to visit Margaret Duchess of Burgundy.

The Duchess of Burgundy, the sister of Edward the Fourth, was a forceful woman who had on the death of her husband become a very powerful one.

She was devoted to her family. Like all of them she had adored her eldest brother Edward and one of the great sorrows of her life had been the quarrel between Edward and their brother George Duke of Clarence, which had ended by Clarence’s being drowned in a butt of malmsey in the Tower. It was said to have been an accident because he had been a heavy drinker and it was assumed he had fallen into the butt during one of his bouts of drunkenness. Margaret did not know whether to believe the story or not, but she suspected George had become a menace and that Edward had removed him for that reason.

That saddened her. Families should cling together. She could not blame Edward of course, for she knew George would have been a danger to him but she did mourn him sadly. She turned her attention to developing the arts and to encouraging the printer Caxton in his works, later sending him to Edward to print books in England. She had obtained licences for the English to export oxen and sheep to Flanders and also wool free of custom duty. She had wanted friendship and trade between Flanders and England; and because of her relationship she had got it.

And then the Tudor had come. He had killed her brother Richard and that had been the end of the House of Plantagenet, which to her had been heartbreaking. To think that the noble House to which she had belonged had been set aside for that upstart Tudor was intolerable. She hated Henry Tudor. He was mean and grasping; he was the complete antithesis of her brother Edward. Edward had been generous-hearted, romantic, handsome, pleasant…a perfect man. And this Tudor was a miser who thought of little but hoarding money. He was slight in stature whereas Edward had been a man of bulk as he grew older, but when he had been young he had had the figure of a god. She had never seen Henry Tudor and did not want to, but she had heard many descriptions of him—pale dry skin, grayish eyes, cold as a wintry sea, and reddish-brown hair. Not a handsome man, but one who could be ruthless if crossed.

I will cross him, thought Margaret. If I had a chance I would drive him from the throne.

There was, moreover, a personal grievance for when he had seized the crown, Henry had confiscated the greater part of the dowry which Edward had bestowed on her when she married the Duke of Burgundy. It was maddening to think that what should be hers was in the hands of that man; and she made very welcome at her Court all the dissatisfied Yorkists who came from England. They all hated the Tudor monarch and were ever seeking means to overthrow him and they could be sure of finding a sympathetic listener in the Duchess of Burgundy.

Thus when Perkin Warbeck arrived she was ready for him.

She embraced him affectionately, then held him at arm’s length that she might see him better.

“My nephew,” she said. “We have often wondered what became of you. You are so like your father, I weep to look at you. I am thankful that you have come to me. It may not be long now before you have that which is your rightful due. You will find friends here who are only waiting for the opportunity to help you.”

So at the Duchess’s Court Perkin was treated as though he were indeed her nephew. He told his story of his wandering after the man selected to murder him had allowed him to go free. He talked of the Framptons who had befriended him and first made him realize that he should do something and save his country from the Tudor rule.

“That shall be done,” said the Duchess firmly. “We will raise an army. You will find that you have many to help you.”

She kept him beside her. Everywhere she went she presented him as the White Rose, Prince of England, King Richard the Fourth. She talked to him continually of her brother King Edward, of how he had lived; she told him everything she knew of that king’s family and it seemed to Perkin that the life of Richard of York was more real to him than that of Perkin Warbeck of Tournay. He began to believe he had really been in Sanctuary with his family; he could almost remember being sent to the Tower to join his brother; he could see his mother’s face distorted with grief; he could feel her tears on his face as she kissed him and gave him over to his jailers.

With Margaret he was the Duke of York. Peter Warbeck was just an identity he had assumed while he was waiting to declare himself.

Henry, watching events very closely, was getting more and more disturbed.

He must take some action. It was no use asking Margaret of Burgundy to give up this ridiculous charade. She wanted him off the throne, he had always known that; and what could suit her better than to set up her own puppet?

He could bring trouble to Flanders, and against his better judgment he decided to do so. He forbade all contact between England and Flanders and expelled all Flemings from England.

It was a mistake and enraged the people of London. Riots were narrowly averted but it taught Henry how easily the people could be persuaded to rise against him and that any one of these pretenders with no claim to the throne whatsoever could ruin himself and the country.

“It is no use shrugging aside this Perkin,” he said to his Lord Chamberlain Sir William Stanley. “He is more dangerous than Lambert Simnel. It is all very well to talk slightingly of Perkin as we did of the scullion now in the kitchens, but they make trouble, these petty adventurers.”

“Indeed it is so, my lord,” said Stanley, “but this fellow is a nobody and most people know this.”

“My good Stanley, you give the people credit for too much good sense. There are people who will support a cause however flimsy because they take a delight in discord. One is never quite sure where trouble will come from next.”

“Sire, you are firm on the throne now. It would take a mighty force to shift you.”

The King smiled at Stanley. He wished he had his confidence. Good Stanley. He owed a great deal to him and had recently made him a Knight of the Garter. He doubted whether but for Stanley he would be where he was today. Stanley was in a way a member of the family, for his brother had married the Countess of Richmond thereby becoming Henry’s stepfather. It was Stanley who at Bosworth Field had deserted Richard the Third and brought his men over to Henry’s side at a vital moment. One could say he had helped put Henry on the throne and Henry liked to have such men about him, being haunted as he was by the fear of assassination or the rising of those who would try to take the crown from him.

They were joined by Empson and Dudley, who were so good at thinking up taxes which could be legitimately imposed on the people and thus adding to treasury funds.

They were smiling. They had brought him good news of large sums of money which had recently been added to the exchequer. But the King could not be weaned from his melancholy mood.

“It is no use amassing wealth and creating a prosperous country if all our efforts are to be squandered in wars to suppress pretenders.”

“No one can really believe that Perkin Warbeck is the Duke of York,” said Empson.

“We know that, my friend,” replied Henry, “and my enemies on the Continent know it as well as we do, but it suits them to set him up, to provide him with that which he needs to come against me. I have a suspicion that he is not without friends in this country.”

“That cannot be,” cried Dudley, aghast.

“Impossible!” echoed Stanley.

“I have not your trusting natures, my friends,” said the King. “There are certain people about me whom I know to be loyal…who have proved their loyalty…but beyond that.”

He was looking with approval at the three men who nodded sympathetically.

“We must be on the alert,” said Stanley. “We shall increase our vigilance and may I say, my lord, that this project of yours for Prince Henry will be an answer to these people on the Continent.”

“I thought so,” said the King.

“We will try to make it not too costly,” said Empson.

“On an occasion such as this will be, in my opinion, one should not give an impression of parsimoniousness,” Stanley said. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I have come with suggestions for the tournaments, which must necessarily follow. And the Prince will need his special garments.”

“We will discuss these matters,” said Henry, “and when we have decided we will pass over the accounts to our good friends here….”

Empson and Dudley bowed their heads and, realizing that their presence was not needed while the arrangements were discussed, asked leave to retire and left the King alone with his Lord Chamberlain.

Later Henry recalled his lawyer financiers to discuss the cost of the ceremonies he was planning and when they had glanced through the suggested expenditure the subject of Perkin Warbeck arose again. Indeed it seemed one which the King found impossible to leave for long. It was clearly very much on his mind.

“The more I think of it the more certain I am that we have enemies in our midst,” he said. “It may well be that they are planning to help Perkin when he attempts to land.”

His ministers looked grave.

“If we could find out who they are…”

“I intend to,” said the King. “That is why I am setting spies along every road that leads to Dover. I am having all travelers searched. In this way we shall ourselves receive messages which are intended for our enemies.”

“A big task, Sire.”

“We are constantly confronted by big tasks—and this happens to be a very important one…for us all. The Londoners are already up in arms because of the cessation of trade with Flanders.”

Both Dudley and Empson were silent. They did not think that was a very good measure to take merely to upset Margaret of Burgundy. England herself had suffered from the loss of trade, which was the last thing the King wanted. It showed how deeply he feared this Perkin Warbeck.

“And have your spies on the Dover road discovered anything?”

“Not yet. But I am hopeful.”

He was right to be hopeful for within a short time his spies found what they were looking for. When he read the letters which were being brought from Flanders for Lord Fitzwalter he was horrified.

The letters were written by Sir Robert Clifford, a man whom he knew and whom he would have trusted. He had been with the army in France, spoke the language fluently, and had acted as an interpreter. Henry would have vouched for his loyalty. It was a terrible blow to discover that he did not know in what direction to look for his enemies.

Clifford had written: “I have been in contact with the Pretender. He is so like the late King Edward the Fourth that he must be his son. I have no doubt whatsoever that the man who is contemptuously called Perkin Warbeck by Henry Tudor is in truth Richard the Fourth.”

The letters went on to state that plans were going ahead for the invasion. It was necessary to have friends whom they could trust in England so that when the invading forces landed they would know where to look for supporters.

This was worse than Henry had feared. The correspondence revealed names in the most unexpected quarters. There was Lord Fitzwalter, a man whom he had made steward of his household during the first year of his reign and later joint steward of England with Jasper Tudor. He was deeply wounded by the perfidy of such a man. What had he wanted? More honors? Or did he genuinely believe that Perkin Warbeck was Richard of York? Who could say? The mysterious disappearance of the Princes would go on reverberating through the ages. If the truth could be told…No! The truth must never be told. But his concern of the moment was to bind his friends to him and to cut off his enemies for ever.

Sir Thomas Thwaites, Sir Simon Mountford…traitors all of them. Men close to him, men whom he had believed to be his friends! And this was not all, there were three members of the Church involved in the conspiracy—and important ones at that. The Dean of St. Paul’s himself and the Prior of Langley as well as the Provincial of the Black Friars.

He was cold with fear and rage.

He sent for his guards.

“Arrest these men,” he said.

So now he knew the extent of the conspiracy. He had been wise to intercept the messengers.

He thought constantly of Sir Robert Clifford. He knew the man well, remembering him from the days in France. He was not a man whom he considered would be distinguished for his bravery, and it occurred to the King that Robert Clifford might be very useful to him. The men whose names had been revealed were not of any great importance perhaps. They were not the leaders of the conspiracy and Henry’s natural suspicions led him to believe that there might be men close to him who were working against him. They were the ones he must try to catch.

He made a decision. Could he use Robert Clifford to work for him as an informer, a counter spy? It seemed possible. He immediately sent one of his spies to Flanders in the guise of a merchant with the instructions that he was to seek out Robert Clifford, sound him, offer him a pardon, offer him money, if he would work for Henry instead of for this Pretender whose claims he must know were as spurious as those of the scullion Lambert Simnel.

Henry eagerly waited for the response. It came quickly. Robert Clifford was ready to work for Henry Tudor.

Henry was pleased. Robert Clifford should be given a free pardon—he had the King’s word for that. When it should be ripe for him to return to England he should have a grant of five hundred pounds; and there should also be a free pardon for his servant Richard Waltier who would also be expected to serve the King in this matter of revealing those who worked against him.

This was a wise move. Henry now began to realize how deeply the dissatisfaction had gone in England. He was amazed at those who were ready to listen to this preposterous claim of young Perkin and moreover dally with the possibility of betraying their crowned King.

Henry Duke of York

In the nurseries at Eltham Palace the royal children played their games and grappled with their lessons unaware of the fact that their lives could drastically change within a few days if their father’s enemies were successful.

In spite of the fact that he was the youngest and only three years old, Henry was already making his presence felt. Arthur, five years his senior, was a quiet and studious boy, rarely asserting himself and leaving his sister Margaret and young Henry to fight together for supremacy. Five-year-old Margaret was showing signs of a forceful personality, which was matched by that of three-year-old Henry who would send his bronze horse on its squeaky wheels shooting across the nursery in pursuit of any who offended him. He loved that horse for on it sat a knight with a lance and a shield and Henry had always seen himself as that knight, fearless, ready to attack his enemies, and at the same time it offered a certain comfort in the dark. Margaret had complained many times to Anne Oxenbrigge, whose task was to watch over Henry, that her brother had grazed her legs with his silly old horse.

Anne would scold Henry in a mild way, which was no real scolding. Henry knew he only had to bury his face in her skirts and look woeful and she would pick him up and cuddle him. He liked cuddling Anne; she was warm and soft with enormous bosoms from which he had sucked his milk when a baby. She had been chosen because she was young and healthy, large of hip and bosom with a red and white complexion which showed good health. Henry knew of course that she was only a nurse and that his mother was a queen, but a lady so noble that she could not be concerned with children in nurseries. But children in nurseries grew up and when they did they became important as his mother and father were.

He must wait for that day. In the meantime he had to rule the nursery. It would not have been difficult but for his rival Margaret who could scream as loud as he could, kick and cajole as effectively. He did not have to worry about Arthur. Although he was big and old he never listened to their quarrels, and never took part in any; he was always meek and anxious to do his lessons.

Anne said: “Your brother Arthur is a good boy. Now why don’t you try to be more like the Prince of Wales?”

“I should be Prince of Wales,” said Henry.

“Now, now, that’s silly. Arthur is older than you. It is his right.”

“It’s my right really….”

“The pride of him!” said Anne, kissing him. “Now you try to be a good boy and don’t send that horse of yours crashing into Margaret. You hurt her badly.”

“I’m glad.”

“Now that is really wicked.”

“I am wicked. I want to be wicked. I am going to hurt Margaret with my horse. My knight doesn’t like her. He doesn’t like Arthur. He thinks I ought to be Prince of Wales.”

“Tut, tut!” said Anne; he heard her say afterward to one of the maids: “Our young Henry has a fine conceit of himself. I fancy he is jealous of his brother. I’m always telling him he ought to be more like him. I thank the Virgin that he is not.”

Henry was all ears. The perfidy of women! Wasn’t Anne always telling him that he should be good and quiet like Arthur, studying his lessons—and now she was thanking the Virgin that he was not! This was interesting.

“Delicate,” whispered Anne. “Takes after his mother.”

“Don’t suppose he’ll make old bones.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. It’s a good thing we have young Henry.”

“There’s a sturdy little fellow for you. They say he takes after his grandfather King Edward. I never saw him but I hear he was big and tall and more handsome than anyone ever before.”

“I reckon that’s about right and young Henry will be such another. It’s a pity he wasn’t born first…. What a king he would have made!”

“Well…who knows…?”

“Hush! We shouldn’t talk like this. The Queen would think we were illwishing her eldest.”

“God forbid. He’s a dear boy.”

“Easier to manage than young Henry I can tell you.”

“Ah well, he’s a boy to be proud of…though a handful.”

The “handful” went off brooding on what he had heard. A resentment had started to grow in his heart. It was rather unkind of God not to have made him the eldest—more than unkind, foolish, for it was clear that he would have made a much better king than Arthur.

He was growing fast and he was a big child. He was secretly delighted to realize that he was catching up on Arthur. Arthur was a little thin and weedy; Henry was sturdy rather than plump; he had a cherubic face with a pink and white complexion, whereas Arthur’s face was thinnish and rather pale; Henry’s reddish hair was thick and plentiful, Arthur’s was inclined to be less vital. Margaret was very like Henry. Vociferous and demanding, there was bustle surrounding her always and she was constantly in some argument with the nurses because she wanted to do something which was forbidden.

Henry felt the nursery would have been a happier place without Margaret—without Arthur too for that matter. He would have liked a nursery where he was the eldest and perhaps one or two brothers and sisters who looked up to him as though he were already a king.

He liked to leave the Palace, which he had done on one or two occasions when he had been to see his parents at Westminster. He had ridden on his palfry—led by a squire—and the people had liked him. They had cheered him wildly—him more than the others he was sure—and he had smiled at them and waved and he fancied his father had been rather pleased with him. He thought it was a shame that they had to come back to Eltham; it was a pleasant palace but away from everything that was especially exciting. Although it was only eight miles from London it was shut away. He felt when he was crossing the drawbridge over the very deep moat that he was leaving the exciting world behind. The walls were so high, the archway so lofty, he felt shut in by all those gray stones and he longed to be older that he might go to Court and hear the people cheer him.

He sat at table with his brother and sister.

Arthur was constantly told: “Now you must eat that, my lord. You’ll never grow into a big strong boy if you don’t.”

No need to tell Henry. He could always eat all the beef or mutton which was put before him; he always asked for his pewter tankard to be refilled with the ale which they were given to drink. They never had water; it could be dangerous. He liked good spiced meat far better than that salt fish they had on Fridays and in fact he disliked Fridays because of the fish, for food meant a great deal to him.

Meals were quite a ceremony. They were presided over by squires well suited to the task, for princes must be taught to conduct themselves in a seemly fashion at the table and not fall on the food like ravenous wolves. They must not show too great an interest in the food—because that was what the needy would do. They must wash their hands both before and after a meal; they must eat with a knife gracefully and use the correct fingers for holding the food. Even the washing of hands was a ceremony, for one of the carvers would bring the bowl, then kneel and pour water over Henry’s hands while another servant stood by with a towel to dry them.

The most difficult part was to show indifference to the food. That was something Henry could not feel for he was invariably ravenously hungry.

It was September about three months after Henry’s third birthday when messengers arrived at the Palace. They came to announce that in a few days the King and Queen would be visiting Eltham.

The household was in a twitter of excitement, which was mainly apprehension. They were all very much in awe of the King, for although he rarely spoke to any of them, if he noticed anything of which he disapproved there would be a complaint and the fact that it would not be made in the hearing of the one to blame made it worse because there was no chance of answering the charge.

The Queen was a beautiful, gentle lady, but it was the King who counted.

Henry was at the nursery window with Arthur and Margaret when the cavalcade rode into the great courtyard. He saw the magnificently caparisoned horses and the servants of the King in their green and white livery mingling with those of the Queen’s purple and blue. It was exciting. Henry jumped up and down in his glee.

“Be still, Henry,” admonished Margaret. “You are behaving like a stable boy.”

Henry‘s little blue eyes narrowed. He would have liked to send his bronze horse and knight rushing straight at her. But this was not the time for retaliation so he merely scowled at her, which did not bother her in the least and she laughed at him saying, “Now you look really ugly!”

As though he ever did! As though he ever could! How often had he heard the servants say he was the image of his grandfather Edward and he had been one of the most handsome men in England.

Anne Oxenbrigge was running into the nursery casting an anxious eye over them all. Arthur’s tutor was there with other attendants and servants because now was the time for the children to go down and greet their parents.

Arthur led them into the great hall.

They knew what they had to do. They must bow to the King and Queen and wait until they were spoken to.

The King was a disappointment to Henry. He did not look like a king. Henry would have liked to see his father in purple velvet and ermine with a golden crown on his head.

When I am King…he thought…and then with a guilty look at Arthur…if I am King I shall always look splendid. My father might be just a squire or a lord…out for a day’s hunting. The Queen was beautiful though—like a picture, rather remote, with her plump rather expressionless face and a certain longing in her eyes, which the children did not understand.

The King watched them to make sure they behaved in the correct manner and when the first ceremony of greeting was over they were all a little more comfortable.

Refreshment was immediately brought for the party and Arthur served the King and then the Queen with wine and cakes. The Queen kept Margaret and Henry with her…one on either side, and Henry thought how beautiful she was and was proud of her. He kept comparing her with Anne Oxenbrigge. Anne was by no means as beautiful…but somehow he would hate them to send Anne away whereas when the Queen went he would not mind so very much after the first day or so, and then he would only mind because it meant that all the excitement of a royal visit was over.

The Queen asked questions about what they did. Margaret tried to talk all the time but Henry was not having that. There was quite a little babble about the Queen, which was different from what was happening with the King and Arthur who seemed to find it difficult to keep their conversation going.

Finally that ceremony was over and the King and Queen went to their apartments while the children returned to the nurseries, there to wait the next summons, which would be for dinner; as they would take this with their royal parents their mentors hoped they would remember all they had been taught about the washing of hands and the correct method of eating.

Arthur was given precedence of course; he it was who held the basin while the King’s hands were washed; then he sat beside the King and there was more of that uneasy talk. Poor Arthur, he was wishing that the ordeal was over.

They were all glad when the tumblers who traveled with the King and performed for his entertainment were brought in. The King’s stern face relaxed into a smile as he watched them and young Henry was so excited he leaped up and tried to imitate them, which caused a great deal of amusement and even made the King laugh aloud.

Then there was the King’s fool called Patch who said a lot of things to make them all laugh and was really quite disrespectful to the King, which Henry could not understand until he learned afterward that this was a special privilege for fools whom nobody took seriously.

If I were a king, he thought, I wouldn’t allow anyone to speak disrespectfully of me, fool or no.

Ever since he had overheard that conversation he was thinking more and more of what he would do if he were king.

He was surprised when the King told him to come and sit beside him. His father studied him very carefully.

“You may have been wondering why the Queen and I have come to Eltham.”

“To see me…and Arthur and Margaret.”

“Yes, that is so. But there is a rather special reason and it concerns you, my son.”

Henry’s eyes were bright with excitement; his little mouth turned up in a smile.

“I am going to honor you, Henry. I am going to give you a title. You must be worthy of it.”

“I will, my lord,” said Henry firmly.

“I believe you will. You are going to be the Duke of York.”

“Couldn’t I be Prince of Wales?”

“What do you mean? Arthur is the Prince of Wales.”

“He doesn’t like being Prince of Wales very much. I should…”

The King’s smile was a little wintry. “You must not say such things. There is a Prince of Wales and he will remain Prince of Wales until he becomes the King. You will have to understand these matters. You will be Duke of York, which is next in rank and honor to the Prince of Wales.”

Henry was subdued. He had betrayed his dreams. That was silly.

Although he hoped that one day he would be the King, he knew that he must never tell anybody.

“What must I do, my lord?” he asked.

“You will be told and have time to learn what you have to do. It is a most important ceremony and I want you to be worthy of it.”

Henry nodded gravely.

“There, my son,” said his father, “that is the purpose of our visit…to honor you.”

That was very pleasant, but for just a fleeting moment Henry wished that his parents had come to see him…rather than just to tell him of something he had to do, even though it was such an honor.

The King dismissed him and he went back to his place beside the Queen. Margaret was watching him jealously, and he could not resist crying out: “I’m going to be Duke of York. I’m going to be honored.”

He looked up at his mother. On impulse he buried his face in her skirts. He felt cool hands taking hold of him. It was one of the carvers. His mother was smiling but she made no attempt to touch him. Margaret was looking pleased, which meant that he had behaved in a manner which was quite incorrect. The King was pretending not to see what he had done, but the King saw everything. He would hear more of this.

His pleasure was dampened. He knew then that he wanted his mother to ruffle his hair as Anne Oxenbrigge did, to pick him up and hold him against her breast, to tell him that for all his impudence he was only a baby.

He was glad when the tumbling and antics of the fool ceased and he could go to the nurseries. Anne was there waiting. He ran to her and caught her by the knees.

“Anne, Anne, I’m going to be Duke of York!”

He was picked up, held in the strong arms. He buried his face into her large soft breasts.

“Well, well,” she said, “you’ll have to mind your manners, won’t you?”

She was laughing. He said: “Are you glad, Anne? Are you pleased?”

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “No…I expect I want you to stay my baby….”

Then he put his head down on her breast again and clung to her. He was comforted.

It was a golden October day when they came to prepare him for the great event. He was dressed in velvet with a cap on his abundant reddish hair, and they put a heavy gold chain round his neck; his cheeks were even rosier than usual, for he was very excited.

His riding master had had some qualms. He was very young to ride, but it was believed he was proficient enough to manage a small quiet horse; and the people would of course be delighted with him. The King had said that this was the time to show them that there was one Duke of York and one only and he was the son of Henry Tudor here in London and not a lying impostor skulking on the Continent.

So young Henry came riding into London where the Mayor, the aldermen and dignitaries from the city companies were all waiting to greet him. The people had crowded into the streets and when they saw this beautiful little boy sitting so confidently on his horse and returning their greetings with such royal gravity they roared their applause.

At Westminster the King was waiting to receive his son and when he saw him he congratulated himself on this move. Few could have done more for him than this beautiful child at this dangerous moment when the news from the Continent was growing more and more grim and it was certain that people in England were concerned in the conspiracy. A glow of affection showed in his eyes but young Henry was too concerned with his own role to notice it.

He had been drilled constantly for the last week so that he should not fail to do what was expected of him and he was thoroughly enjoying it all. This was his day. And although Arthur might be the Prince of Wales, the most important son of the King at this time was Henry.

His first task was to join in the ceremony of washing the King’s hands. It had been decided that he should be the one who stood by with the towel. But he must kneel when offering it and he was a little unsteady. However the King smiled at him and he believed he had performed that duty with grace. Now he could sit down and eat—being very careful how he did so—and even at such a time his appetite did not fail him.

Afterward he was taken away to a small room where he was stripped of his clothes and placed in a warm herb-scented bath. This he knew was the ceremony of purification, which all knights had to undergo.

He sat in the bath and listened to the injunctions which were read out by Lord Oxford, explaining to him what knighthood demanded. He must remain faithful to the Church; he must protect widows and maidens; and above all he must love the King and serve him with all his heart.

The King put his hand in the water and making the sign of the cross on young Henry’s body, kissed the spot.

Then the boy was taken from his bath and dressed in a robe made of coarse stuff which irritated his skin. He was then allowed to go to his apartments although the rest of the knights who had joined in the ceremony would spend the night praying in the chapel.

He was glad to cast off the coarse garment and delighted when the following day they dressed him in silken clothes, which in comparison seemed deliciously soft. In the chapel the knights were waiting to conduct him to the Star Chamber where one of them, Sir William Sandes, lifted him and carried him to the King’s Hall where the King was waiting.

The King then commanded two of the most noble peers in the land to put the spurs on the little boy’s feet, so the Duke of Buckingham fixed the right one and the Marquis of Dorset the left, while the King himself put on the boy’s sword. There he was equipped like a knight—though a diminutive one, but he felt very proud.

The King kissed him and said: “Be a good knight, my son.” Then he picked him up and put him on a table and as he stood there with his newly acquired sword and spurs everyone cheered.

He was now a Knight of the Bath.

But it was the greater title which the King wished to bestow on him and the following day there was another ceremony.

This was far more impressive because the King wore his robes of state and his crown and he himself wrapped young Henry in the velvet cloak of deep crimson edged with miniver and put on his coronet and sword.

He was now the Duke of York.

After that it was rather disappointing because although there were tournaments and entertainments to celebrate his elevation, the adults seemed to have forgotten that he was the center of it all and now that he had actually gone through his performance he was once more regarded as a little boy. It was true he was allowed to sit in the royal box and watch the knights tilt against each other, but Margaret and Arthur were there too; and when the prizes were distributed to the successful knights it was not he who awarded them but Margaret.

How self-satisfied she was when the knights came up one by one and knelt to her. She could not resist glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Henry was watching. It was as though she said: “I know you went riding through the city and everyone cheered you, but watch me now. They are all kneeling to me.”

It was irritating and he scowled at her, but try as she might she could not take from him the memory of all those people smiling at him and cheering him and so obviously thinking how important he was.

He wanted that adulation to go on and he grew more and more sorry that he had not been born the eldest. He was sure the people would have preferred him to Arthur.

How could fate have been so blind?

It was just after Christmas when Sir Robert Clifford arrived in England and called on the King at the Palace of the Tower where he had taken up residence at that time.

As soon as he knew that he had arrived Henry received him.

The man bowed low.

“So,” said the King, “you have returned.”

“My lord, I can do no more in your service. I am of the opinion that the conspirators have become aware of my actions and I have news of one near to you who is a traitor and I believed that I had something to say to you which could not be trusted to paper.”

“I see,” said the King. “Go on.”

“I would remind you, Sire, of your promise to me.”

“Yes, yes, a free pardon. It is yours.”

“And five hundred pounds for my services.”

“It shall be yours. Tell me of this traitor.”

“I fear you will be inclined to disbelieve me for it concerns one very close to you…even related.”

The King tapped his fingers impatiently, but still Sir Robert hesitated, whether to give his revelation more momentum or whether he feared the King’s wrath over what he was about to reveal, Henry was not sure.

“Come, come, Clifford. Speak up.”

“My lord, Sir William Stanley is in league with Perkin Warbeck.”

“Stanley! Impossible.”

“I feared you would feel so, my lord. But it is the truth. I have evidence. Letters in his handwriting. He is ready to offer his help to the impostor when he lands in England.”

Henry was silent. He would not believe it. Not William Stanley…brother of his father-in-law! Heaven preserve him, how deep had this thing gone! He had scarcely had a night’s sound sleep since he had heard the name of Perkin Warbeck.

“Allow me, Sire,” said Clifford. “I can give you irrefutable evidence and knowing that you would find it difficult to believe in this man’s perfidy I have brought you that evidence.”

The King held out his hand.

He stared down at the paper. Stanley’s writing. Stanley’s treason! There could be no doubt of it.

He felt sick with disgust and anger. Had he not seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed it. Stanley! What would his mother say? What would his stepfather say? This was terrible. This was treachery of the worst kind.

“My lord, you believe me now?”

“I believe you, Sir Robert. You have done good work. It is a pity that you were ready to betray me in the beginning.”

“A mistake, Sire, for which I crave the pardon which you have already granted me. I realized my mistake and I wished to rectify my errors…which I am sure with your love of truth and justice you will readily agree that I have done.”

For five hundred pounds and a free pardon! How uneasy is he who is a king! Must it always be so? Must those whom he most trusts betray him?

“You have done well,” he said. “You shall be paid your five hundred pounds. Leave these papers with me…You may go to my treasurer and take an order from me for your five hundred pounds, which shall be paid to you at once. Then you may go.”

“Thank you, my lord. It has been my pleasure to serve you.”

“Go now,” said the King coldly.

He sat silent for a few seconds. Somewhere in this very palace Sir William Stanley would be preparing for the evening’s entertainment, little guessing that his perfidy was revealed. Henry was glad that he had come to the Tower. Stanley could be taken to his cell without undue fuss.

He sent for the guards.

“Arrest Sir William Stanley,” he said, “and have him conducted to a dungeon. Make sure that he is well guarded.”

The men-at-arms were astounded. They hesitated, wondering if they had heard correctly.

The King said, and his voice was very cold: “Those are my orders. Sir William Stanley is to be conducted without delay to a dungeon. He is under close arrest.”

The men bowed and went out. Henry sat for a few moments staring into space, his face creased into lines of desperate unhappiness.

The King signed to the jailer to open the door of the cell. He went in. Stanley turned sharply and let out a cry when he saw who his visitor was. He went onto his knees and tried to take the King’s hand.

“My lord…Sire…I do not understand.”

“Get up, Stanley,” said the King. “Alas, I understand all too well.”

“My lord, I pray you tell me of what I am accused.”

“Of treachery, Stanley.”

“Treachery? I…Your faithful servant…”

“My unfaithful servant, alas. Have done with pretense. I know that you have been in correspondence with the impostor Perkin Warbeck. I have seen your letters….”

Stanley’s shocked silence would have proclaimed his guilt if that had been necessary. It certainly was not. Henry had no doubt of it. It had been made quite clear to him.

“My lord…I thought…to discover more of this man…”

An old excuse! It never worked. He was going to say: I was pretending to be with the other side in your service. I wanted to find out what they were planning so that I could present my findings to you.

“It is useless, Stanley, I know all. Do you imagine that while you have your friends over there I have none? My good servants were working for me, Stanley, while my unfaithful ones were working against me. I could not believe it at first. You…Stanley…Your brother my own stepfather. My mother will be quite distressed. I should think your brother will be ashamed.”

Stanley covered his face with his hands. “As I am, my lord…as I am….”

“Perhaps I should have suspected you. You were ever a turncoat.”

Stanley spoke with some spirit. “Ah, my lord, you owe something to that. Have you forgotten Bosworth Field?”

“I do not forget, Stanley, that you started out with Richard and when the battle turned against him you changed sides.”

“And decided the day for you, my lord.”

“There could be something in that. But one should never trust a turncoat. So now you are ready to give your services to Perkin. Has he promised to pay you well? I rewarded you did I not? Did I not acknowledge my debt to you? You were my Lord Chamberlain, Knight of the Garter. Did I not give you estates in Wales? And yet, and yet…”

Stanley was silent.

The King looked at him steadily. “I just wondered why, Stanley. You must have been promised a great deal. I know your love of possessions. I have heard that you have many treasures stored away in Holt Castle. Alas, Stanley, you cannot take them with you.”

“My lord…”

“You shall be tried, Stanley. Never fear—it shall be a fair and just trial. And if you are found guilty…as it would seem you cannot fail to be…you will pay the penalty demanded of traitors. Goodnight, Stanley. I think you should begin to make your peace with God.”

The King went out. A terrible melancholy possessed him. He felt that he would never trust anyone again.

Sir William Stanley was brought before his peers in Westminster Hall, where he was accused of falsely plotting the death and destruction of King Henry the Seventh and attempting to overthrow the kingdom.

In vain did he protest his innocence. He had been maligned, he insisted; his enemies had trumped up evidence against him; but even he knew that none would believe him. He had been a fool. He had gambled too far. He had always been an adventurer. As a Yorkist during the reign of Edward the Fourth he had enjoyed many favors; he had professed friendship for Richard the Third but when he had seen an opportunity of finding favor with Henry he had blatantly deserted Richard and as it happened swung the battle in Henry’s favor. He had often congratulated himself on going over at precisely the right moment. Henry had been grateful, had rewarded him. But perhaps Stanley was adventurous by nature; perhaps the thought of this young man on the Continent had fired his imagination. It was possible that he was one of the Princes in the Tower, for the question of what had happened to those Princes had never been satisfactorily answered.

However, whatever motives had led him to this, he was here and he had come to the end. He knew now there would be no adventures, no more plots and counter plots.

He must now say it is over, and prepare himself for his fate.

“Guilty of treason” was the verdict and he was condemned to the traitor’s death.

The traitor’s death! It was the most barbarous act which could befall a man. To be dragged through the streets on a hurdle, to be hanged, cut down before death put a merciful end to suffering, cut open and one’s entrails burned until one could endure no more.

Every man dreaded it. To be a traitor men needed the utmost courage and yet…so many of them were ready to risk this terrible death for something they believed in.

Did Stanley believe in Perkin Warbeck? Not in his heart. He knew Warbeck was another Lambert Simnel but more polished, more prepared. He had the other to draw on for a lesson.

That he, William Stanley, should have come to this was hard to believe. He had brought disgrace on his brother but the Countess would protect her husband from the King’s wrath against the family. Perhaps Henry was not the man to visit the sins of one man on another just because they happened to be brothers. Henry was a just man. He was not revengeful. He would eliminate people—coldbloodedly as some thought, but that would only be because he felt it necessary to do so. Any violent deed which he condoned would not be done in hot blood or vengeance. It would be because it was expedient to do it.

It was no use asking for clemency, for Henry would reason that it would be unwise to grant it. Sir William Stanley was a traitor and the King must give a lesson to all would-be traitors.

Henry was more concerned about Stanley than he cared to admit. There must always be men who worked against a leader, he supposed, because men were envious by nature, and if a man was up, there would always be those who wanted to bring him down, for no other reason than that he was up…and perhaps they thought they had more right to be where he was. That he accepted. But not the treachery of close friends—men whom he had trusted. This was the blow.

He was shut in with his melancholy. To whom could he talk of these depressions which obsessed him? Not to his mother—she was too close and she would be particularly disturbed because the criminal was her husband’s brother. No, he could not distress her more by revealing his grief to her. To Elizabeth the Queen? No. He never talked to Elizabeth. She knew him as a kind and gentle husband but he had never shared a state secret with her and he had never talked to her of the affairs of the country. Arthur was a child. He wished his children were older. How comforting it would have been to discuss this matter with a son. Arthur was grave and serious. He had high hopes of Arthur…but as yet a boy of eight.

The King felt desperately alone.

It was not only Sir William Stanley who had been exposed as a traitor. There were many more. It was disturbing that there should be others but Stanley was the one on whom he brooded.

Not one of them must be spared. There must be public executions. The people must be made fully aware of the dreaded fate in store for traitors.

People crowded the streets. Executions were like public holidays. Crowds massed outside Newgate to watch the prisoners brought out and taken to the place of execution. Those of higher rank were taken from the Tower but the place was of little importance to the condemned. They were all to meet the same fate.

Henry spared one or two of them at the last minute, just as they were preparing themselves for the axe. This created drama, as the King intended it should. A messenger would arrive at the last moment and there would be an announcement from the scaffold that the King had decided on a reprieve for this particular criminal because he considered he had been led astray by evil counselors. The reprieved man would go back to prison where in due course he might earn his liberty.

This made the executions almost like a play. At every one of them the people waited expectantly for an announcement. It was obvious in the faces of the condemned that they too were waiting.

There would be a hush in the crowd and a watchfulness for the messenger waving the King’s pardon. Though it came rarely the expectation was always there; and when the axe finally descended there would be a deep sigh from the crowd.

Henry decided that he could not submit Sir William Stanley to the indignity of the traitor’s death and at the last moment the sentence was changed to beheading, so on a bleak February day Sir William was brought out of the Tower to Tower Green and there in the presence of a large crowd he laid his head on the block and paid the penalty for his treachery to the King.

The city was now adorned with the heads of traitors, but the King did not want to disgrace the Stanley family in this way, so he decreed that William Stanley’s head should be buried with his body at Sion on the Thames.

Young Prince Henry, Duke of York, knew that something was happening and he was frustrated because no one told him what it was.

Margaret pretended to know but he was not sure that she did. Arthur of course knew, but would not talk of it. It was maddening.

And following so soon after his elevation particularly so, for Henry had realized during that ceremony that he was, if only a child, a very important one and he wanted everyone around him to remember it.

It was all very well for Anne Oxenbrigge to call him her baby. There were times when he wanted to be just that but even she must remember that he was also the Duke of York and although he might like to cuddle up against her warm and cozy bosom, he was still a very important boy, only slightly less so than Arthur.

“Where is Sir William Stanley?” he asked Margaret.

He had seen a great deal of Sir William before that splendid ceremony when he had been the center of attraction. He wanted Sir William to bring him some more silken garments and to arrange more pageants in his honor.

“You are not to know,” retorted Margaret. “You are too young.”

“I am the Duke of York,” he told her proudly.

“You are not four years old yet.”

“I will be in June.”

“But it is not yet June and you are only three. Fancy being only three!”

Henry was furious. He hated Margaret. If I were the King, he thought looking at her venomously through narrowed eyes…What would he do to Margaret? Send her to the Tower.

Arthur was kind. He asked him. His elder brother hesitated.

“It’s of no moment,” said Arthur gently. “I hear you have a new spinning top. Does it go well?”

“I whip it hard,” said Henry with satisfaction.

“You must show me.”

“First I want to know where Sir William Stanley is.”

Arthur thought: He will have to know sometime. There was no point in keeping it secret.

He said: “He is dead. His head was cut off because he was a traitor.”

Henry’s little eyes opened wide, and the color rushed into his cheeks. He was trying to visualize Sir William Stanley without his head.

“There is a wicked man on the Continent who says he is the Duke of York.”

“I am the Duke of York.”

“Yes, this is a spurious one.”

Arthur used long words, forgetting that others couldn’t understand them, because Arthur was supposed to be very clever with his books, and Henry was not going to admit that he didn’t know what spurious was. It was clear that it was something wicked.

“What about him?” asked Henry eagerly.

“He wants to take the crown from our father.”

“Why?”

“To wear it, of course. Oh you are too young….”

“No, no Arthur. I am growing up more every day. I wish I was older. I wish I were older than you.”

“Then you’d be Prince of Wales, brother.”

“You wouldn’t like that.”

Arthur hesitated again. He was always hesitant, weighing everything up before he answered. “I shouldn’t mind,” he said slowly. “In fact perhaps I might be rather glad.”

A wild excitement possessed Henry. Arthur didn’t want to be Prince of Wales. Perhaps they could change places. He cried: “I’ll be it for you.”

That made Arthur laugh. “Thank you, little brother, but it is not possible.”

Little brother! He had betrayed his youth again. It was maddening.

“Tell me about Sir William,” he said.

“It’s merely that he was corresponding with Perkin Warbeck who pretends he is our uncle who disappeared in the Tower, and if he was alive would be King.”

“King? Then our father…”

“Oh you have a lot to learn, Henry.”

Henry was bewildered, raging against his youth and inexperience.

He was going to find out though and if it was ever possible, he was going to change places with Arthur.

Whenever they rode out from Eltham to join their parents at Westminster or Shene he saw heads on poles. They fascinated him.

“Whose heads are they?” he wanted to know.

The heads of traitors, he was told.

That was the right way to treat traitors. Their heads should be cut off and put on poles for everyone to see. The thought of someone taking his father’s crown away frightened and angered him, for if his father were no longer King, Arthur would not be Prince of Wales—then how could Henry Duke of York change places with him when the time came?

There was more talk of Perkin Warbeck that summer, for the young man had taken an action which implied that he was very determined in his attempt to get possession of the throne.

News spread throughout the country that a fleet of ships led by the Pretender had appeared off the port of Deal.

The people of that town crowded onto the beaches to watch them, fearing that war was inevitable and that they were in the front line. And where were the King’s forces and how long would it take them to reach the coast?

Some of the spirited members of the community of Sandwich, a town a little way along the coast, gathered together a fighting force. After all the executions which had taken place not so long ago they were not going to be accused of conspiring with the invaders.

Coming in close to land Perkin saw the hostile crowds assembled there and decided that he would not risk all of his troops. It would be difficult to land and he could see that while this operation was in progress he could be attacked and lose many of his men and much equipment.

He decided therefore to land a few men who could persuade the people that they came to deliver them from one who had no right to the throne while he, the true King, Richard the Fourth, was preparing to come and be their good lord.

But the people were not to be persuaded. The Mayor of Sandwich was there to meet them as they attempted to land. “We want none of you Pretenders here,” he declared. “We’re content with what we have and that’s an end to fighting. We’re not having that on our soil.”

Perkin’s troops realized that they were at a disadvantage and many of them rowed back to the ships. The others who had landed were immediately taken prisoner and their equipment captured.

When Henry heard what had happened he was delighted with his good people of Sandwich and Deal. They had taken over a hundred and sixty prisoners to send him, and the rest of the invading force at sea decided to give up the attempt, for the time at least, and make other plans for landing which might have a chance of success.

The people of Sandwich excitedly tied up their prisoners and sent them on to London in carts where they were received into the Tower and immediately sentenced to hanging. That the country might realize what happened to men who indulged in such actions against the King, they were publicly hanged in the coastal areas and from London to as far as Norfolk.

It was unfortunate that Perkin was not among them, but he had sailed on to Ireland.

Am I never to be free of this Perkin Warbeck? wondered the King. It was four years since he had first heard that name and it had haunted him ever since.

When would it end? Perhaps more important still, where would it end?

That September a sad event took place in the royal nurseries. The little Princess Elizabeth died. Young Henry had never taken much interest in her. She was a year or so younger than he was and that made her quite a baby. She was delicate and had to be specially taken care of, which to one in his robust health seemed a little contemptible.

The Queen came to Eltham—beautiful and remote. She was clearly very distressed by the state of her little daughter’s health. Henry wondered why, because she saw very little of her. It was Anne Oxenbrigge who made such a fuss, going about with red eyes and turning away every now and then to choke back her sobs.

Death! He knew it happened to traitors. He had seen their heads on poles. He used to count them when he rode through the streets from Eltham to Westminster or Shene. But that death should come to the royal nursery, that was different.

There were physicians everywhere. His father and his mother were in the nursery together. The rest of the children were sent out. They waited in an ante room; and then Arthur was called in.

“She is dying,” said Margaret. “We shall have no sister now.”

“I have one,” said Henry.

“I haven’t,” she said. “But I have two brothers. You only have one.”

“I don’t want two brothers.”

“You’re only a baby yet.”

How she liked to taunt him with that. It was because she knew it was what he hated more than anything.

“I don’t want any sisters either,” said Henry ominously.

“And I only want one brother…dear Arthur who is the nicest brother. I don’t want a silly baby brother….”

Henry flew at her. He already showed signs of possessing a quick temper, which alarmed Anne Oxenbrigge.

It was Anne who came in now.

“For shame!” she said. “Fighting when your little sister is dying. What do you think the King and Queen would say to that?”

“They won’t know,” said Margaret slyly.

“God will,” Anne reminded her.

Both children were silent, contemplating the awfulness of God’s watching them.

“So,” went on Anne, having made her point, “you should be very careful.”

They were subdued. Henry whispered a prayer: “I didn’t mean it, God. It wasn’t my fault. It was Margaret. You know what a silly girl she is.”

He had made up his mind that he was always going to do what God would like, for he had heard it said that a king needed good allies and Henry had reasoned that God was the best ally any man could have.

The Queen had come out of the nursery. She came to the children and embraced them solemnly. They knew what that meant. Then Arthur came out with the King, and the King said very quietly: “My children, you have no sister Elizabeth now. She has gone to live with God and His angels.”

Elizabeth was buried in the new chapel her father had built in Westminster Abbey.

The Scottish Court

In the great hall of Stirling Castle the Scottish King was seated at the table, his favorite mistress Marion Boyd beside him. Everyone was drowsy as was invariably the case after they had feasted well. Several of the highest nobles in the land were present, among them Lennox, Huntly, Bothwell and Ramsay…all friends now, thought James, until they decide to revolt against me. What a crowd! He could not trust them any further than this hall. The only one he could really rely on was Marion—and perhaps her father Archibald Boyd of Bonshaw…solely because of his association with Marion of course.

James was cynical. How could he be otherwise? His countrymen must be the most quarrelsome in the world—with the exception of the Irish who might be said to be even worse; and another thing they had in common was perpetual hatred of the English. No matter what truces they made, no matter how many treaties were signed, how often they exchanged the kiss of peace, the antipathy was always there. It was as natural as breathing. The people below the Border were regarded as enemies by every Scotsman living above it.

He twirled a lock of Marion’s hair. She was pregnant. That was pleasing. He liked children; and it was comforting to know how virile he was. He had several bastards for he was a man who found feminine society irresistible, and it had been so ever since he had come to the throne as a boy of fifteen seven years ago. He wondered whether the child would be a girl or boy. He wouldn’t mind. He would be proud of a boy, but he had a greater fondness for the girls.

“Perhaps we’ll call in Damian,” he remarked.

“What to tell us?” asked Marion idly.

He touched her protrusion playfully. “A little girl or a little boy?” he said.

She took his hand and kissed it. “Let’s wait and see,” she said.

“I should like to see the fellow. He says very soon he shall be able to fly.”

Marion laughed. She did not trust the wily Abbot of Tungsland, who had leaped into favor with the King when he had declared that he possessed supernatural powers. James was intrigued. He had always listened to soothsayers—and relied on them perhaps too much.

Marion would not complain. James had been faithful in a way. That was if one did not mind his dallying now and then with other women. He could not help that. It was the nature of James. But his best-loved mistress could hold her place. None of them had ever had reason to complain of his meanness for he was very generous with those who pleased him—and beautiful Marion did that.

She had of late seen his eyes stray to Janet Kennedy. There was a beautiful woman if ever there was one. However she was the mistress of Archibald Douglas, and even James would think twice about upsetting the great earl.

Round the table several of the men had fallen asleep—they had slumped forward in their chairs, some snoring. Others sat with their women caressing them, perhaps rather too intimately for polite society. Not that James cared. They were Scots and would act in the Scottish way. The English who came to the Scottish Court were shocked by what they called the coarseness of the manners there. As for the elegant French they were amazed.

Let them be. It was Scotland for the Scots, said James.

George Gordon, Earl of Huntly was present with his eldest daughter Katharine—a very beautiful girl, James thought her. Her mother had been a daughter of James the First so there was a family connection. If he had not been so deeply involved with Marion—and Katharine was not the kind of girl with whom he could carry on a light intrigue—he might have been tempted. Perhaps it was better as it was. There was a puritanical streak about Katharine—young as she obviously was—and James had never been attracted by puritans. Connoisseur that he was, he had discovered that hot-blooded women were the most satisfactory partners.

Marion followed his gaze round the table and said: “It is different at Westminster, I’ll be bound.”

“You’re right, my love. Henry is a very virtuous man. I have never heard one whisper that he is unfaithful to his Queen.”

“Perhaps people are afraid to whisper.”

“I think not. They whisper of other things. They say that his heart beats faster when he tots up a column of figures and sees what profits he has made than it ever could in the most appealing bedchamber in the world.”

“I see he has not your tastes, James.”

“You should thank Heaven for that, Madam.”

“I do…I do. But you are a little afraid of Henry Tudor, are you not?”

“Dear Marion, my ancestors have been afraid of the rulers on the other side of the Border since the beginning of time. Trouble in England therefore means rejoicing in Scotland.”

“And the other way round?” suggested Marion.

“Don’t upset me, woman. I have trouble enough as you know. I wonder how many of these who call themselves my friends, snoring and eating here at my tables, fornicating or committing adultery in the rooms of my castles…would as lief thrust a knife in my back as kneel to me in homage.”

“You must keep them in order, my King.”

“One thing is sure: they will always follow me when I make war on the English. That is the common enemy. We can all be friends hating them, but when the English are not coming against us then forsooth we must go against each other.”

“So it is in your interests to preserve your old enemy,” said Marion lightly.

“I hear that he is in a state of panic at this time.”

“Which pleases you mightily?”

“How did you guess? His throne trembles under him, you know.”

“I know. This fellow on the Continent…is he really the Duke of York, Edward’s son?”

“Where is Edward’s son? Where are Edward’s sons? Two little boys in the Tower, and they disappear. Where to? Can people disappear in that way?”

“Easily if their throats are cut or they are stifled as I have heard these boys were…stifled by downy pillows…poor little mites. Did Richard do it as some say?”

“Why should he? He said they were bastards. But Henry has married their sister. He couldn’t marry a bastard…which she must have been if they were. It sounds reasonable to me. Henry takes them from the Tower in secret…puts them out to be murdered far from the spot. Someone takes pity on the younger boy…and there we have our Perkin Warbeck.”

“Reasonable,” she admitted.

“And a great anxiety to old Henry. You can picture him—trembling on his throne. There are many in Europe who are ready to rise up and help the young man fight for his crown.”

“Richard the Fourth. Would Scotland be happier under Richard the Fourth than under Henry the Seventh?”

“Scotland asks only to have an English king to fight. What his name is is of no matter. Scotland asks to harry the English King and if it can be done by making him change his name from Henry to Richard so much the better. Scotland is happiest when Englishmen are fighting against Englishmen because it saves the Scots the trouble of fighting them. I like to see my poor old enemy Henry being frightened out of his wits by this young man from Flanders.”

“Is he frightened? He seems to be holding his crown rather well.”

“Who can say, little love? He has to be continually on the alert. That has to take his mind from his money bags. And he won’t like having to spend some of those contents on war, will he?”

“James, you are malicious.”

“I am indeed where Henry is concerned…but kind and loving to my friends, do you not agree?”

“I would agree with that.”

“I am thankful to have your approval. I fancy I don’t have Huntly’s at this moment. He is wondering whether his daughter Katharine should be in such company.”

“My lord, I trust you will keep your eyes from Katharine. She is not for you.”

“Well I know it. Huntly need have no fears for his virtuous daughter. We must find a worthy husband for her. That I assure you is the reason why he has brought her to Court. Now what say you to sending for Damian?”

“If it so please my lord, then let it be.”

“I’ll send for him tomorrow. Now my bed calls…and it would seem it does for many of our friends.”

The King stood up, and the company rose with him.

He bade them all a good and safe night; then with Marion he went to his bedchamber.

Damian appeared the next day. The Abbot of Tungsland had come far since he had attracted the attention of the King and this he had done through what he proclaimed to be knowledge of the art of magic.

He was an astrologer, but there were other astrologers. Damian had special gifts. He could tell the King what was about to happen. He could tell him what to avoid. He had had some luck in those respects and James, who wanted to believe, was inclined to pass over Damian’s mistakes and remember his successes.

Marion had once said: “You help Damian when he is groping for messages and things from the unknown. You supply him with little bits of information, which help him make the right guess.”

James had been really displeased. Easy-going as he normally was he could be angry if anyone spoke disparagingly of something so near his heart as the effectiveness of the occult. Marion was quick to learn lessons. She would have to be careful; her association with James had been dangerously long and she saw the look in his eyes when they strayed to Janet Kennedy—mistress of old Bell-the-Cat though she might be. Kings were not all that averse to taking what Earls regarded as theirs; and James in his passionate pursuit of a mistress would be more determined than he had shown himself to be pursuing an enemy in war.

So Marion said no more about Damian and feigned an interest in his work, which she did not really feel, and when Damian arrived she was with the King.

“Damian…my good friend,” cried the King, embracing the abbot. “I am right glad to see you here.”

“My lord’s wish is his command as far as I am concerned. I am always at your service, Sire.”

“Well, have you looked at the stars of late?”

“I search them continuously.”

“On my behalf I hope.”

“My lord King is never far from my mind.”

“Well, Damian, well…what sex is the child my dear Marion carries so proudly? Is he the King’s son?”

Marion cried: “James! How could he be another’s!”

“Impossible, impossible dear lady. All know your fidelity to their sorrow…some declare I am sure. I was about to say, is he the King’s son…or daughter?”

This was the sort of question which Damian liked least. One could so easily…and so quickly…be proved wrong. If one predicted some things it was easy to adjust one’s meaning if the need arose, but the sex of a child—a plain yes or no—that was tricky.

He placed his hands on the girl. She was large. The manner in which she carried the child indicated it might be a boy. The last was a girl. What the King wanted to hear was that it was a boy and his reward would probably be greater if he made the King happy. It was a chance he had to take in any case so why not take the happy chance?

“I think I can say with certainty that the child my lady carries is a boy…and your son, my lord.”

“Bless you, Damian. That’s good hearing, eh, Marion?”

“The best, my lord.”

“And will he grow up to be a good boy to his father?”

“He will,” said Marion. “I shall see to that.”

“There, Damian, you have a rival. The lady is looking into the future and finding the answer before you do.”

“The lady will indeed do all she says. I can confirm that.”

“What a pair of comforters I have! Now tell me of my old enemy below the Border. What trials can you search out for him, Damian?”

“He is beset by them. His eldest boy is sickly.”

“Is he going to die?”

“Not yet…but later…”

“Ah, there’s another though. A sprightly little fellow by all accounts…recently made Duke of York by his doting father.”

“To show, my lord, that there should be but one Duke of York.”

“Well, there is, eh? The other is the true King of England.”

Perkin Warbeck. Here was dangerous ground for Damian. He was always very well informed of affairs so that he knew exactly what was happening. That enabled him to give a considered judgment and once again he had been lucky in being right more often than wrong.

He had the gift of making his prophecies vague. That was the secret. A good sorcerer couched his words in clever obscurity so that when a certain thing happened people said, “Oh that was what Damian meant!”

It was very helpful.

He said now: “A visitor will come to your shores, my lord.”

The King was alert. Was he expecting someone? wondered Damian. It was always wise to say a visitor was coming because visitors came so often to a king. Damian knew that the French were eager to see Perkin Warbeck harry the King of England and that Margaret of Burgundy was helping him, and he knew that the Irish had helped in the past. It was very likely that some messenger would come to Scotland from one of these sources. So it was safe to mention a visitor.

“And how could I receive this visitor?”

“Receive him well. Listen to what he has to say. He will ask your help. Give it.”

That was wise. It was always good to listen and people usually came in supplication. It was never a bad thing to give help when it was asked. This was easy. It was the direct questions such as the sex of a child that made him uneasy.

The Abbot joined the courtiers at the dinner table that day. They all fired questions at him, which amused the King.

And while they were at the meal one of the servants came running into the hall; his face was red and he was almost inarticulate in his desire to impart his startling news.

“A fleet of ships has been sighted off the coast of Scotland, my lord. They are saying it is Perkin Warbeck who comes to you.”

The King rose excitedly. Warbeck! The man who was claiming the English throne. It would be very amusing—and perhaps profitable—to have the man under his roof.

He looked at Damian who was smiling with satisfaction.

“Blessings on you, Damian, here is your visitor. Why the words were scarcely out of your mouth….”

“I did not know that he would be here so soon, my lord,” said Damian modestly.

“You excel yourself, Damian; now I have only to wait for the birth of my son.” He turned to the company. “I think we should prepare to greet our guest,” he said.

James received Perkin Warbeck at Stirling Castle. Perkin had lived as a royal personage for four years and having been schooled in the part by none other than the Duchess of Burgundy, he had come to believe that he was the son of Edward the Fourth. So many times he had told the story of his being handed over to a man who was too soft-hearted to murder him and had set him free to roam the world for a few years before disclosing his identity that he believed it.

To converse with grace, to accept the homage due to his assumed rank, to behave with the manner of a courtier—this was all second nature to him.

Some of the noblemen of the Scottish Court were ready to laugh at his dandified manners because his gracious and graceful behavior made them feel uncouth.

When he had the throne of England, he told James, he would remember those who had helped in his need. He had made many friends during this period of waiting and they could rest assured he would not forget them.

James said he was welcome and offered him a residence and one thousand two hundred pounds a year. Damian had said he should make his visitor welcome and this was surely that visitor.

Letters arrived from Ireland from Lord Desmond telling James that the Irish would support Richard the Fourth and drive the usurping Tudor from the throne. Moreover James took a fancy to Perkin. The young man talked well and seemed in no great hurry to go to make war into England. He was quite content to dally at the Court; he danced well, sang well; indeed he was a gracious courtier and James could well imagine how concerned the Tudor must be below the Border. The last place he would want his enemy to be was plotting with that other ever-present adversary. Moreover it would be easier to march into England over the Border than it ever could be by sea from the Continent. That was a hazardous matter but to creep over the Border, to plant the flag on English soil—that had been done many times and would be done again.

But not yet. They would wait until the time was ripe. Let them have help from overseas. Let the Tudor fret in his bed at night…just a little longer.

In the meantime Perkin had noticed beautiful Katharine Gordon. That was interesting. A lovely girl—cousin of the King, Huntly’s daughter. Perkin looked high…that was if he were only plain Perkin. Of course, if he were indeed the true King of England it would be an excellent match for Katharine Gordon.

Marion’s child was born. It was a son and so Damian had scored again.

Marion was delighted and so was James. He said the child should be called Stewart after his father. Alexander Stewart. None could doubt with a name like that that he was a true Scotsman.

Damian was clever, Marion agreed, crowing over her little son. He had been right about the child and the visitor.

“And he said that I was to welcome him,” said James. “None can say I have failed as a host. And did you notice, Marion, that our gallant gentleman is casting eyes on Katharine Gordon?”

Marion had noticed. She was ever watchful of Katharine Gordon.

“It would not surprise me,” said James, “if he should ask for her hand.”

“You’ll grant it?”

“Huntly will have to be asked. But if he is indeed the true King of England he should have a bride with royal blood.”

“So you’ll give your consent.”

“I might…when it’s asked. I wonder what the Tudor will have to say about his rival’s marrying into Scotland.”

“For that my dear, we must wait and see,” commented Marion.

“And you, my very dear, are as usual right,” said James. He was laughing. He was glad Perkin had come to Scotland. Perhaps soon they would make warfare over the Border. It would be pleasant to see the Tudor ousted and a beautiful Scottish lassie on the throne of England.

Perkin Warbeck was in love.

She was a very beautiful girl, this Katharine Gordon, daughter of the great Earl of Huntly and cousin of the King himself.

She was gracious to him. After all he was an honored guest at the King’s Court. They called him the Duke of York…heir to the throne of England…more than that, rightful King of that country. He had come a long way from the Warbeck home in Flanders. Fleetingly he thought of John and Katharine Warbeck whom he had believed to be his parents before he learned the fantastic story. What would they have said if they could see their son—or so-called son—now, honored guest in all the courts of Europe, awaiting the moment when he should regain his throne.

He did not want to think too much of those early days in Flanders; they had been put away in some quiet recess in his mind—not to be disturbed, to be left there until they crumbled away into forgetfulness. Especially now he must not remember. What would these people say—the King, and the Earl of Huntly—if they thought a humble Flanders adventurer was asking for the hand of Katharine Gordon.

And Katharine herself? The manner in which she returned his glances, the flush which came to her cheeks at the soft pressure of his hand was enough to tell him with a girl like Katharine. She was not like so many women at James’s Court. To tell the truth its crudity after the elegance of the Court of Burgundy had shocked him. The women were bold and brazen and the men openly coarse. That did not appeal to Perkin. He was immediately attracted to Katharine because she was different from so many of the others.

He contrived to be near her when possible, to talk to her, to attempt to assess what her feelings would be if he were to ask for her hand. The Huntlys were powerful noblemen; they lived close to the King. But the King had shown him the utmost friendship ever since he had arrived in Scotland. He could but try. It would be strange if having done so much for ambition he should falter in love.

In the dining hall of Stirling Castle he contrived to seat himself beside her. From the end of the table he was aware of James watching him and he could swear there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. If he was against a match between them would he allow them to be so much in each other’s company? The Earl of Huntly was present also and he showed no objection.

Beside the King was his mistress Marion Boyd—very sure of herself now that she had a son as well as a daughter and both without doubt the King’s.

Perkin deplored such conduct. The King should marry and settle down and make his Court respectable. If he must have mistresses he should have them in private. Perkin had heard there were negotiations for marriage going on between him and Spain. This showed something of the devious natures of the Spanish Sovereigns for there were similar diplomatic missions in progress between them and Henry Tudor for the same purpose. It was clear that Isabella and Ferdinand were playing one off against the other.

If the Spanish Sovereigns would aid him, with the help of Margaret of Burgundy and perhaps the King of France, he could be certain of achieving his goal.

There were times when he wondered whether that was really what he wanted. He tried to see himself as a king and could not quite manage it, for he knew there was more to governing a kingdom than riding through the streets in purple and gold and smiling at the people while one acknowledged their cheers. He had managed the speech and the manner very well, but he was not quite sure how he would emerge from the other. In the meantime this dalliance was very pleasant particularly now he had met Katharine.

He turned to her and said: “You must forgive me for staring at you.”

“Were you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Ah, you are so accustomed to people’s gazing that you do not notice. In truth they cannot keep their eyes from you, for they all admire you as I do.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “You are kind to say so.”

“I say only what I feel. If you but knew what I feel for you…well, I hardly know what you would say.”

“If I knew, you might have an opportunity of finding out.”

She was smiling at him, encouragingly surely, but if he asked her to marry him and she refused…that would be the end. He wanted to go to James and say, “The Lady Katharine Gordon and I love each other, I beg you to give your consent to our marriage for that reason.” But what if she didn’t? He realized that he was afraid. That was why he did not want events to go further. He wanted to stay just as he was…pretender to the throne…accepted by important people talking constantly of the day he would be a king. He did not want to think beyond that. The future yawned before him like a dark pit and he was afraid to step into it lest he should fall into darkness. At the moment he was happy in the sunshine. He wanted to remain there.

He prevaricated as he did so often.

“You look so serenely beautiful; you are so young and when the sun shines on your hair it is like gold. I never thought to see such a perfect being.”

“I fear you do not see very clearly if you consider me perfect. I am far from that.”

“You have everything. Your family is a great one, you are rich, you are beautiful, above all you are good. I have been your slave…from the moment I saw you.”

“Have you?” she replied smiling. “I did not know.”

“You mock me.”

“In truth no,” she said. “How could I mock one who pays me the sort of compliments which anyone would want to hear?”

“I would speak seriously to you,” he said, “if I dared.”

“I did not expect you to be a fearful man, my lord Duke.”

“In one respect…yes…where you are concerned.”

“Afraid of me! Oh no that is not possible.”

“Katharine, you must know my feeling for you. Ever since I set eyes on you I have thought of little else.”

“You should be thinking of regaining your crown.”

“I could regain it I know…if I could but have this dearest wish of all granted me.”

“And you ask me to grant it?”

“You are the only one who can. I know I have to regain my crown. I know my future is insecure…. Perhaps I should not have asked you until I have that in my grasp….”

“You do me an injustice,” she said, “if you think that I would say no if there was no crown and say yes if there was one.”

“Then you know of what I speak.”

“My lord, you are taking such a long time to say it that I must say it for you since you are meandering back and forth from the point in such a manner that you leave me no alternative but to guess.”

“Katharine…”

“Duke Richard, ask me…if that is what you want.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I cannot believe it.”

“Of course you know full well…”

“I know now that I am the happiest man on earth.”

“You will have to get the King’s permission.”

“And that of your father.”

“The one would follow the other.”

“I feel James will be sympathetic toward lovers.”

“I feel that too.”

“Oh Katharine, I would we were alone that I might kiss your lips.”

“You will speak to the King?”

“At the first opportunity, which I shall now seek. Katharine, you will be the Queen of England.”

“I hope there will not be a lot of fighting. I would rather stay here…at James’s Court all our days. Perhaps we could escape often to the country…and be by ourselves.”

“I cannot wait to speak to him.”

“He is in a good mood now. He is pleased with Marion but I believe he is glancing far too frequently at Janet Kennedy, but speak to him soon…speak to him tonight.”

“I will.”

He did. The opportunity occurred that very night.

The company was dancing, and James who had drunk a great deal of wine seemed drowsy. Perkin went to him and asked permission to sit beside him, which was readily given.

“Sire,” he said, “I want to speak to you of a matter which is very important to me. May I do so?”

James smiled and nodded. “Though I’ll take a guess first. It concerns a lady.”

“You are so shrewd, Sire.”

“Where ladies are concerned, yes. And the Lady Katharine is a beauty. I grant you that.”

“We love each other, Sire.”

“Love indeed! A beautiful emotion. Nothing like it. What do you wish, my lord Duke? You can’t make a mistress of a girl like Katharine. Huntly has her at Court to find a husband for her.”

“That is what I want to be, my lord.”

“Ah, marriage to Huntly’s daughter. Well if you are going to be King of England that will be an honor which even Huntly can’t refuse.”

“It is your consent I am asking for.”

“You have it, my lord Duke. I will speak to her father. I will point out to him the advantages of such a match for his daughter.”

“You have earned my endless gratitude. But you had that already. I cannot tell you what your kind acceptance of me at your Court has meant to me. And now…and now…”

“There, my lord Duke. That is enough. I wish to help you. I see no reason at all why the fair Katharine should not be yours and I shall see that Huntly feels the same. What of the lady herself?”

“She loves me…even as I love her.”

“That is charming. That is delightful. I like to see people around me happy. Now, my lord Duke, you have deserted her too long. Let me see you lead her into the dance.”

When he and Marion were alone that night in the royal bedchamber James was overcome by mirth.

“This is a fine state of affairs,” he said. “This is going to set the Tudor ranting…if he ever rants. I doubt he does. He is a very self-contained man who never shows his anger. But just think what he will say when he hears that Perkin Warbeck is marrying Lady Katharine Gordon…my cousin…I can tell you this is going to madden him.”

“It pleases you,” said Marion.

“My dear, have you only just learned that what infuriates Henry Tudor is most certain to give me the utmost pleasure?”

“I hope it works out well…for the Lady Katharine,” said Marion.

So they were married and because of the rank of the bride and the expectations of Perkin they were given a royal wedding. James took a gleeful delight in behaving as though Katharine Gordon was marrying into the royal family. She was royal herself. “A fitting bride,” said James, “for the future King of England.” He was maliciously wondering what was happening below the Border.

The bride and the groom gave little thought to anything but each other, and as the weeks sped by their happiness grew for they were more in love every day. Katharine was all that he had believed her to be—gentle yet strong; modest yet proud of her family and of him; pliant and yet firm; fun loving and yet she could be serious. These were the happiest days of Perkin’s life and he wanted them to go on for ever. The thought of leaving Katharine to go and fight for his throne horrified him. In his heart he did not really want the throne. He wanted to live in peace with Katharine for the rest of his life.

She admitted that she wanted the same. It was amazing how they thought as one person.

He realized during those weeks of marriage that he had never really wanted a throne. It was people around him who had selected him because of his appearance and his natural grace to fill a role for which they sought a character to fit.

He began to see that he had been used.

But he dismissed that flash of understanding. He could not bear to examine it. He had become adept at pushing aside the truth and supplanting it by a picture of his making—or perhaps that of those around him.

All he knew now was that he wanted to go on like this. He wanted to make his home here in Scotland, to go on living under the protection of the King and the powerful family into which he had married, but into the halcyon contentment of those days there crept the fear that they must be transient. At any time the call would come. They would raise an army for him and send him to gain that to which they said he had a right.

“I don’t want the crown,” he said to Katharine. “I just want to stay here with you.”

She held him tightly against her. “If only it could be,” she said.

“Do you want to be Queen of England?”

She shook her head. “Not if it means your going away, risking your life. No…Let us hope we can stay here. Why should we not?”

He shook his head. “They will never allow it. Oh, I wish…”

What did he wish? That he had never left the home of John Warbeck? But if he had not he would never have met Katharine. Anything was worth that.

But it brought him back to where he had started. Here he was…blissfully happy, except when he remembered, then living each day in terror that suddenly the call would come.

Katharine added to his bliss when she told him that there would be a child. He wanted to weep with happiness…but it was a happiness quickly tinged with fear.

When the call came, there would be even more to leave…and perhaps lose.

Tyburn and Tower Hill

When Henry heard that James of Scotland had allowed the Lady Katharine Gordon to marry Perkin Warbeck he was deeply disturbed.

“This means that James really accepts the impostor!” he cried to Dudley and Empson whom he had summoned because he knew that he would have to consult them as to how to raise money for war.

That seemed inevitable now. James would never have allowed such a marriage if he had not made up his mind to help Perkin Warbeck fight for the crown of England.

“He must be mad!” said Empson. “Does he want war then?”

“He is bent on making trouble. It’s a Scottish custom,” said Henry bitterly. “It will mean raising money for an army, which is the last thing I wanted to do. It is infuriating to see money wasted in this way.”

“It will be necessary to tax the whole country,” murmured Dudley.

“We must be in readiness for war,” agreed the King.

“The Spanish emissaries have arrived in England, Sire,” Empson said. “They will have heard of this marriage. It will not please them.”

“The French will be delighted. Do you think they intend to give him their support?”

“Who can say with the French! They are involved in their affairs.”

“But I am their affair, Empson,” said the King. “If they can do anything to harm me, you may be sure they will. A curse on these pretenders! First Simnel…now this one. If ever I get that fellow into my hands I’ll put an end to this once and for all.”

Dudley looked at him in silence. He thought: Is that possible while the disappearance of two little Princes in the Tower remains a mystery? Will there not always be men to rise up and say, “I am Edward the Fifth;” “I am Richard Duke of York.”

Within a few days Don Pedro de Ayala arrived from the Court of Spain. He had a proposition to make. His Sovereigns wished Henry to join the Holy League for keeping the French out of Italy and if he was to be free to do this, it was rather important that he was not engaged in hostilities with Scotland.

“The Infanta Katharine is promised to my son, Arthur,” Henry pointed out. “But I hear that the Sovereigns are offering one of the Infantas to the King of Scotland as a bride. It would seem that Spain is seeking an alliance with Scotland as well as England.”

“My lord,” cried Don Pedro, “there is no intention of a marriage between Spain and Scotland. I have been instructed to lay these suggestions only before you. You yourself have a daughter. Would you consider offering the Princess Margaret as a bride to James? This would be a way of preventing hostilities between your two countries.”

Henry was silent. What he wanted more than anything was peace. And the idea of having to spend money to go to war he found completely frustrating. He did not want war. He had always seen the folly of it. England wanted a peace. That was what he prayed for, a spell when he could work for the good of the country, curb extravagance, develop trade. He wanted all Englishmen to realize that the harder they worked, the more closely they were united with one aim in view, the richer they would all be. But that aim was not war. It was peace.

Oh yes, Henry wanted peace.

He would willingly give Margaret to Scotland for it. Why not? That was what daughters were for…to make alliances between hostile countries and bring about peace between them. Yes, Margaret could be the bride of James the Fourth of Scotland.

But there was one other factor. Perkin Warbeck must be delivered to him.

Until that was done there could be no talk of a marriage between Margaret and James—no talk of peace.

There could no longer be reason for delay. James was ready and eager to advance on his enemies below the Border.

He sent for Perkin and told him gleefully that soon he would be crowned at Westminster, so Perkin could do nothing but feign an eagerness, while there was nothing he longed for so much as to be left to live in peace with his wife and his newly arrived daughter.

But this was what he had come for. This was the price he had to pay for all the grand living, all the splendor, all the adulation he had enjoyed for so many years and now he had become accustomed to it. But just at that time he would have given a great deal to be living with Katharine in a small house in Flanders—two humble people of whom no one outside their immediate circle had ever heard.

Katharine knew of his feelings. She shared them. She did not want a throne any more than he did and would have been perfectly content with that humble home in Flanders.

He could have wished that all this had never happened to him, that he had never gone into Lady Frampton’s service and attracted her by his good looks—but for the fact that through it he had met Katharine. More and more he was remembering those early days and there were times when he was on the point of making a confession to Katharine. He did not though; he could not bring himself to do it, even to her, and now the time had come when he must leave her and go marching into England.

“I shall send for you as soon as I am settled,” he told her.

“I know. I know.”

“What I don’t know is how I shall bear the separation.”

“You will be too busy to miss me,” she told him, “whereas I shall have to wait…and pray.”

“I shall need your prayers, Katharine. Pray I beg you that it shall not be long before you are beside me.”

“That is what I shall pray for.”

“I would give up everything I ever hoped to have not to leave you now.”

She nodded. She understood. Perhaps deep in her heart she knew that he had never been that little boy in the Tower of London.

James reviewed his troops and at Holyrood he made offerings to the saints and ordered that masses be sung for him and when Perkin joined him there he greeted him with pleasure.

“Now,” he said, “we shall see men flock to your banner. They have had their fill of the Tudor impostor. We will harry the Border towns and carry off spoils and see what effect this has on the Tudor. Meanwhile we will issue a proclamation in the name of Richard the Fourth, King of England and when you have thousands welcoming you…that will be the time to march south.”

Meanwhile they went to Haddington and across the Lammermuir to Ellem Kirk. They crossed the Border and raided several towns, but there was no response at all to the proclamation and it was very soon clear that the Englishmen of the Border were not interested in driving Henry Tudor from the throne and setting Richard of York up in his place.

James and Perkin laid siege to one or two towns. The expedition was taking on the nature of one of the Border forays of which there had been hundreds over the years, and James was getting bored. Moreover to march south without the support of the people of England for the new King would be folly.

He began to think that Perkin was not exactly a great leader of men and he would need a very big army if he were going to gain the crown. James had no intention of providing that, even though Perkin had promised him a good many concessions when and if he were successful.

James was wanting to be back in Edinburgh. He was making good progress with Janet Kennedy in spite of Archibald Douglas. It was true that he was tiring of Marion Boyd, although she had been a good mistress to him, but if she would understand his need to wander far afield, he would not mind keeping her on and visiting her occasionally. But it seemed to him that Janet would be the sort of woman who might absorb all his interest in which case it would have to be good-bye to Marion.

Who wanted a rough camp bed when he could be in a luxurious four poster with a glorious red-headed woman to comfort him? It was true Perkin had made great promises. It was very easy to make promises when one still had to gain a victory before he could redeem them; afterward the promises could be forgotten for they might not be so easy to carry out.

He went to Perkin’s camp. The young man was sunk in melancholy.

“You do not look happy, my friend,” said James. “Are you missing your warm marital bed?”

“’Tis so, my lord.”

“Ah, I miss my own bed. I tell you that.”

“I am troubled because the blood we are shedding is that of Englishmen…my own subjects,” said Perkin. “I cannot sleep at night for thinking of it.”

He cannot sleep at night because he wants his Katharine! thought James. He cannot sleep at night because he knows that Englishmen do not want King Richard the Fourth, and they will stay with Henry Tudor rather than fight. Well, it is a pleasant and human excuse and it will help to get me back to Edinburgh.

James nodded. “That is no mood in which to go to war, my friend.”

“I agree,” Perkin answered eagerly.

“Well, we have done our little foray. Perhaps we should think of returning to Edinburgh.”

Perkin felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He was going home to Katharine and the baby.

There was murmuring throughout the country because Dudley and Empson were endeavoring to raise money for the Scottish war. The people were being asked to pay heavy taxes because a certain Perkin Warbeck was attempting to wrest the throne from Henry Tudor.

To the people of Bodmin in Cornwall this seemed a matter for kings to decide among themselves. What did it matter to them what king was on the throne? When did they ever see him? King Henry or King Richard…what did Cornwall care?

Lawyer Thomas Flammock felt very strongly on this issue. He went into the market square and talked to the people about it. They gathered round listening intently. There was not a man present who had not been harassed by extra taxes.

“My patience me,” grumbled the blacksmith Michael Joseph, “’tis hard enough for the likes of we to put bread in our mouths and those of our childer…are us going to stand by and pay like helpless fules? Don’t ’ee think we should up and do som’at about it?”

Joseph was a powerful speaker. In his forge he talked what the King would call sedition but what to the people of Bodmin seemed sound common sense.

“Where is the fighting?” asked Thomas Flammock. “It’s on the border between Scotland and England, there’s where it is. They’ve been fighting there for hundreds of years and they’ll go on fighting for a hundred more. Why should we be asked to pay for their quarrels?”

“But what do we do about it, eh, lawyer?” shouted a voice in the crowd.

“That is what I want to suggest to you,” said Flammock. “We can march to London. We can present a petition to the King and ask him to get rid of his evil advisers. If the King wants to wage war it is not for us…the people of Cornwall…who know no difference, wars or no wars…it is not for us to pay for it.”

The crowd cheered loudly.

“And who will go to London with this petition?” asked the man who had spoken before.

“We must all go, my friend. If one or two of us go…we’d not be received most likely. We’ve got to show them that we mean what we say. We must go to London in a body…march to London…show that we mean what we say: we will not pay these taxes for a fight which does not concern us.”

“We would want someone to lead us,” said the man. He pushed his way to the spot where Flammock was standing with Joseph. “Friends,” he cried, “here’s two good Cornish men. Shall we ask them to lead us to London and the King?”

There was a shout from the crowd.

“Lawyer Flammock and Blacksmith Joseph! Our leaders…”

There was wild enthusiasm, but Flammock lifted his hand for silence.

“I will lead you,” he said. “And you, Michael?”

“Aye,” said Michael. “I’ll come along.”

“We will lead you until we can find someone more worthy to be your leader.”

“Ain’t no one more worthy than ’ee, lawyer,” shouted a voice.

“Someone of the nobility would carry more weight. But we shall not delay. We shall set out for London…. Tomorrow at dawn…we’ll assemble here and those who can, must come with us. The more men we have the more likely we are to make our point. Is that agreed?”

There was a roar of approval in the crowd. The next morning at dawn, Flammock was amazed at the numbers who had assembled in the square. They were carrying bows and arrows and billhooks. He was a little alarmed for he had meant this to be a peaceful demonstration.

By the time they reached Taunton their numbers had grown and Flammock was a little dismayed for he had been joined by ruffians whose intent he knew was to rob and pillage. This was the last thing Flammock had had in mind, and he began to wonder whether it would not have been better to have selected, say, a dozen men, all worthies of the town of Bodmin, and with them gone to London to present the petition.

The crowd was getting out of hand. This was proved when the Provost of Taunton came out to remonstrate with them, for some of the men were overrunning the town and helping themselves from the shops.

Flammock was horrified to see the Provost lying in a pool of blood. The man was dead.

He managed to get them out of the town quickly. There he spoke to them. “That was a regrettable incident,” he said. “Now we have a man’s blood on our hands. To kill is not the purpose of this expedition. I want no more scenes like that. We have not come to rob and murder but to talk to the King about harsh taxes. There must be no more killing. God help us for we have slain a man who was doing nothing but his duty.”

At Wells they were joined by James Touchet, Lord Audley. Audley was very dissatisfied with the King. He had been in France with Henry and he felt he had not been given his dues. He was therefore feeling extremely disgruntled and when he saw the large numbers of men descending on Wells he rode out to speak with their leaders.

He found Thomas Flammock a reasonable and educated man and he agreed with him that it was insupportable that the King should demand such high taxes from people who were not in a position to pay them.

In a rather rash moment he offered to accompany them.

Seeing an opportunity of shifting responsibilities, Flammock was delighted.

“My lord,” he said, “you are a nobleman of high degree. It is for you to take over the leadership of our party.”

Audley saw the point of this.

So, with Audley at their head the Cornish rebels marched to London and on a hot June day, weary but expectant, they arrived at Deptford Strand.

Henry was furious. This was what he had always feared. A dissatisfied people no doubt fired by this impostor in Scotland now saw fit to rise against him.

The nightmare had become a reality.

His forces were concentrating in the North to deal with the Scottish threat. And now here was trouble from the West.

He hastily sent messengers to his armies on the way to the North. They must send a considerable force up to the Border it was true; but he must have forces in the South to meet the rebellious Cornishmen.

Lord Daubeney, who had only just set out for the North when the call came, turned back and made his way to Deptford Strand. The Cornishmen had become somewhat disheartened by the indifference of the people through whose towns and villages they had passed and who were clearly of the opinion that to start a rebellion would bring them more trouble than paying what was asked.

In vain did Flammock attempt to explain that it was merely a petition he had set out to take to London. He was learning that it was impossible to prevent such an undertaking assuming an uglier aspect.

He was dismayed when the King’s forces had come into contact with some of the marchers and the Cornishmen had a momentary victory, taking a few prisoners. There was one of these who was obviously of high rank and when he was questioned it was discovered that he was none other than Lord Daubeney himself—the leader of the King’s army.

Audley and Flammock conferred together.

“We must release him at once,” said Audley. “Otherwise we shall be called rebels and accused of treason. This is not a rebellion. It is a deputation to protest against the high taxation.”

Daubeney was brought in and Audley explained this to him.

Overcome with shame at being captured by rebels and guessing how this would lower his prestige with the King Daubeney hid his fury and embarrassment and pretended to understand.

He was immediately released with the other prisoners.

But Daubeney was not going to allow this insult to pass. He immediately planned to attack the Cornishmen and this he did, taking them by surprise at Blackheath. They, with their arrows and billhooks, were no match for the King’s trained soldiers and the battle was over almost before it had begun and Daubeney had the satisfaction of taking the rebel leaders, Audley, Flammock and Michael Joseph, alive.

So that little flurry was over, thought Henry; he could be grateful for that. He wondered how best to act. He wanted to show the people his leniency and on the other hand he must make them realize that no one could rise against him with impunity.

The Cornishmen themselves—the humble artisans from Bodmin—should have a free pardon. They could go back to their remote town and talk of the benevolence of the King.

The leaders should not get off so freely. Men like Flammock and Joseph were dangerous. Moreover, but for them this disturbing affair would not have taken place.

The people must be shown that the Flammocks and Josephs among them were dangerous men to follow. This time, because the King was merciful they had been forgiven and had escaped the punishment they deserved—but it must not happen again.

Audley was considered the chief offender. It was men such as he who were the real danger. He forgot his position in the country when he placed himself at the head of a rabble and he must pay the penalty. He was brought before the King and condemned to death. As he was a nobleman he should be beheaded and not suffer the barbarous penalty which befell low-born traitors, but he must be shamed first. He was put into a paper coat, which showed that he had been stripped of his knighthood, being no longer worthy of it, and was led from Newgate to Tower Hill where the executioner with his axe was waiting for him.

When his head was separated from his body it was stuck on London Bridge—a warning to all who thought they might play the traitor.

Flammock and Joseph were less fortunate. They suffered the traitor’s death. They were taken to Tyburn where they were hanged, drawn and quartered; and their limbs were displayed in various parts of the city.

This was what happened to traitors, those who in moments of folly lightly undertook to plot against the King.

Henry was satisfied. He had dealt with the matter in his usual calm way; and no one could say he had been unduly harsh.

Many a king would have slaughtered hundreds of them. But not Henry. He could always calmly decide what was best for Henry Tudor, and that was not to murder for murder’s sake. He did not want to do so for revenge even. He was rarely in a hot rage about any matter and therefore always had time to calculate which would be the most advantageous way to act.

Reluctantly he had decided on the traitor’s death for the three ringleaders. He must give no one an impression of weakness. No. He was not weak. He was stern perhaps, but just—always just.

He could congratulate himself that he had dealt very properly with the Cornish rebels.

There still remained Perkin Warbeck to haunt his days and turn pleasant dreams into nightmares.

James was growing rather tired of Perkin Warbeck. The expedition into England had shown clearly that the people were not going to flock to his banner, and James was not going to beggar himself by supporting another man’s cause—and a possible King of England at that! No, indeed not. Perkin must fight his own battles and the more thought James gave to the matter the more it seemed to him that it would be better for Perkin to fight somewhere which did not involve Scotland.

Not that James gave much thought to the matter. He was inclined to let it slide out of his mind, for he was deeply involved at this time with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was delightful, gentle, loving, passionate, outstandingly beautiful, and everything he liked best in a woman, and as he liked women better than anything else on Earth and had had great experience of them, this was saying a good deal. For the first time in his life—although he had often imagined himself to be in the condition on other occasions—James was truly in love.

The lady was Margaret Drummond daughter of John, first baron Drummond, a very able man who had been raised to the peerage for his services to Scotland some ten years before. He was a Privy Counsellor and justiciary of Scotland as well as the Constable of Stirling Castle, and his offices brought him to Court. With him came his beautiful daughter—a fact which caused the King to rejoice.

Marion Boyd, Janet Kennedy—delectable wenches both of them—could not compare with Margaret Drummond.

James paid constant visits to Stirling Castle where Margaret lived in the care of Sir John and Lady Lindsay. It had not taken him long to woo Margaret. Gentle, virginal…a little overwhelmed by so much royal favor, she had quickly fallen under the spell of the King. But perhaps, James thought ruefully, it would be more correct to say that he had fallen under hers. He could think of little else, so it was small wonder that whenever the name of Perkin Warbeck was spoken to him he felt a mild irritation.

He wanted nothing to come between him and his pursuit of Margaret. His thoughts were completely occupied by the possibility of seeing her. There was no reason why they should not be openly together. The whole of the Court knew of his infatuation—including Marion and Janet—and it was easier to face the whole of his Court than those two, particularly fiery Janet.

Who wanted war? Women were so much more enjoyable. And while Perkin Warbeck remained in Scotland he represented a threat. Henry had demanded that the young man be delivered to him. That, James had refused to do of course. Perkin had promised to restore Berwick to Scotland when he came to the throne, in payment for James’s hospitality. That would be good. Berwick was one of the most important Border towns. Certainly he wanted Berwick…and all the other concessions which Perkin had promised.

But promises!…What did they come to if wars had to be fought for the hope of their fulfilment?

No, he wanted no more now that he and Margaret had discovered each other.

He broached Perkin when they met at Linlithgow.

“It seems to me, my lord Duke,” he said, “that you are achieving little here. You do not wish to fight these people in the North…your own subjects, you say…men who had never heard of Richard Duke of York…or perhaps Henry Tudor.”

“I could not bear to see the blood of my own subjects shed,” said Perkin.

“I understand that well. So this is not the place for you. You have your friends in Ireland. I’ll tell you what I am going to do, my lord Duke. I am going to give you a ship. You can sail from Scotland to Ireland taking Katharine and the baby with you. I have no doubt that the Irish will rally to your cause. You will have more chance there than here in Scotland.”

Perkin was left in no doubt that this was James’s diplomatic way of telling him to leave and he had no alternative but to accept the offer of the ship and prepare to depart.

If Katharine was sad to leave her native land she did not show it.

“We are together,” she said. “That is all that matters.”

Perkin was apprehensive. He could no longer prevaricate and he had an idea that the easy life was over. He would have to make some attempt to wrest the crown from Henry Tudor and if he achieved it then his difficulties would begin. In his heart he knew he was unfitted to rule a country. He was frightened by the enormity of this matter, which had come about in the first place through a love of adventure, and an excitement because people noticed his royal looks.

Still it had led him to Katharine, for if all this had not happened he could never have met her.

As he stood on the deck watching the coastline of Ireland grow nearer he could echo her words: “We are together.”

Lord Desmond was dismayed. Life did not stand still, he pointed out, and in spite of the rebellions Henry Tudor still had a firm grip on the crown. People were beginning to like his rule apart from one thing—the exorbitant taxation, and they blamed Empson and Dudley for that. Those two were the most unpopular men in the country and the fact that they did not regard Henry himself entirely responsible was an indication of how he was beginning to be accepted as a good king.

The fact was that Desmond did not want to have anything to do with the rebellion. He could see that Henry’s calm wisdom would inevitably make him the victor.

He said: “The Irish are an unpredictable people. They sway one way and then another. There has been a rebellion in Cornwall. Now that is where you would find your supporters.”

“Henry suppressed that rebellion.”

“Because it was just a rabble. Audley was there to give it some standing, but they were not trained soldiers. No. It would have been different if they had been. After all, they captured Daubeney in the first place. Think what they could have done if they had had some backing. No, the West Country is your hope, my lord. You should go there and raise an army.”

It was quite clear that Desmond did not want to be involved.

Scotland had rejected Perkin, and now Ireland. So there was nothing for it but to take ship to Cornwall.

There his spirits rose.

From the moment he landed at Whitesand Bay Perkin was warmly welcomed and he rode in triumph to Bodmin where memories of the recent march to London were still vivid.

“Good Flammock,” they said. “His parts exposed all over London! And him always such a modest man. That they could do such a thing to Lawyer Flammock is past belief.”

“And don’t ’ee forget Joseph. There’s none could shoe a horse like that ’un…And to think of ’ee…Oh it be past thinking of.”

They were smarting from the humiliation levied on those two worthy men.

“But the rest of ’em just came back. Don’t ’ee do it again…that’s all they did say.”

“Well, stands to reason, they couldn’t do to us all what they did to good Flammock and Joseph.”

“I’d think not. Cornwall wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Aye, and ’e do know it, King or not. He couldn’t treat us Cornish like that.”

And now here was the handsome young man.

“Reckon he could show old Tudor a thing or two….”

“He could and all…if he had Cornishmen to back him.”

Perkin’s spirits rose.

“This is different from our reception in Ireland,” he said.

The Mayor proclaimed him in the square as “Our King Richard the Fourth.”

The Cornishmen were with him. They were going to have a king of their own choosing and it was going to be this handsome young man, and his beautiful wife who should reign beside him.

“I shall win this time,” said Perkin, trying to bring enthusiasm into his smile.

“I shall be nearby,” said Katharine.

Perkin shook his head. “I want you to be safe…you and the baby.”

She shook her head but he would not listen.

Men were flocking to his banner. They all wanted to go and fight the Tudor. It was an adventure and if all went well they would have put a new king on the throne and if it did not…well, they would just come back as their friends had done when they had followed Flammock and Joseph to London.

Three thousand men had rallied to his banner. This was success. He believed that when he was on the march with such a following more men would fall in behind him.

“I must go,” he told Katharine. She was in tears. Perhaps she who loved him knew that, good husband that he was, he was no leader of men. But it was true, he did seem inspired. If it should happen that he gained the throne she must stand with him, reign as his queen. She fervently wished that it could be happily settled and that they could go away and live in obscurity and leave Henry Tudor his throne.

“They tell me that you will be safest on St. Michael’s Mount,” he told her.

“It will be so far from you.”

“I shall not rest happy unless I know you are in a place of safety.”

“Do you think I can rest happy anywhere until you are back with me?”

He kissed her fondly. “It will not be long,” he promised her.

But she did not believe him. Sadly they parted—she going westward with her child, he marching on to Exeter.

It was true that men fell in with his army. They liked the look of him. He was so handsome; he had the Plantagenet look; he had the appearance of a king—more so than Henry who never smiled and whom they said had aged twenty years since he took the throne.

It was not so easy as he marched on. Exeter stood out against him, so he had to put the town under siege. But he was no soldier. He could only be strong when he faced the weak. As soon as he heard that the Earl of Devonshire with other noblemen of Devon were on the march against him, knowing he could not stand a chance facing a professional army, he gave orders to retreat and fell back to Taunton. There worse news awaited him: Lord Daubeney had reached Glastonbury and was marching onward.

“We cannot stand against him,” he said. “We have not the experience to face a professional army. There is nothing for it but to get away.”

“What will the men say?” he was asked.

He was frightened as he knew he would be. This was not what he wanted. He wanted people to say, “Here is Richard the Fourth. Let us make him our king.” But to fight for the crown…he could not do it. He did not want to fight. All he wanted now was to go back in peace to Katharine.

He could not take his army with him. They would never get away, so he selected sixty of his men and together they left Taunton. But even sixty horsemen found the going difficult. People came out in alarm to watch them, and there was not enough food in the inns for sixty.

Perkin said: “This will never do. We shall be captured at once if we go about in such numbers.”

He selected three men from the sixty and said to them: “When night falls, we will steal away. It will be easy for four of us to make our escape. It is impossible with sixty.”

So the four of them slipped away in the darkness and in due course they arrived at Beaulieu in Hampshire where they found an empty house and there took refuge.

What Perkin wanted to do was lie low until the hue and cry had died down, then make his way back to St. Michael’s Mount, get a ship and take Katharine and the baby, where…? Perhaps they could go to Flanders. Perhaps he could find John and Katharine Warbeck, those parents whom he had denied. Then perhaps they could all live happily together again.

He wanted no crown. He just wanted to live in peace with Katharine.

He lay on the floor, his companions beside him.

Perhaps he should leave them…slip away. He could disguise himself as a pedlar…work his way back to the Mount. He and Katharine could hide themselves away until they found a ship to Flanders….

Not yet. It was unsafe as yet. He must be careful to preserve his life because Katharine needed him.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard a sound. He raised himself.

Was it the sound of distant horses’ hooves? Perhaps. Some traveler out late.

He lay down and thought of Katharine. Yes, he would find his way back to her. They must hide themselves and plan to get away.

She would agree. Her wish was the same as his—that they should be together.

Again that sound…nearer now…Perhaps…He looked at his sleeping companions. Should he rouse them? No. It was only a traveler in the night.

And then…the noise was nearer. Not one horseman but many. He stood up. His companions were awake now. They went to a window.

“We are surrounded,” said Perkin.

There was nothing to do but to surrender. Perkin and his companions were taken back to Taunton by the King’s guards, and for the first time Perkin came face-to-face with the man whose right to the throne he had challenged, the Tudor himself. So Henry had thought the matter of sufficient importance to see his captive in person.

At first Perkin thought: Why, he is an old man! He seemed so to Perkin. Old and gray. He was in truth forty years of age but looked ten years older. Slight with graying hair, light blue-gray eyes and a pale complexion. But there was a certain strength about him and it was impossible to be in his presence without being aware of it.

Perkin was overawed by the pale, ageing man. If he had shown anger he would have been less afraid of him. It was the calmness of the Tudor which unnerved him, the almost blank expression which nevertheless suggested that it was merely a mask to hide his thoughts, which he was determined to keep to himself.

“You are Perkin Warbeck,” said the King.

Perkin started to say: “I am King Richard the Fourth…. I was taken from the Tower….”

“Nonsense,” said Henry Tudor. “I know who you are. You are Perkin Warbeck, son of John Warbeck, customs man of Tournay in Flanders.”

Perkin drew himself up to his full height. He must remember what he had learned from Lady Frampton and the Duchess of Burgundy…from Lord Desmond. He wished that he could forget that house in Flanders, but somehow with this stern cold-faced man looking at him so penetratingly as though he could read his thoughts he found it difficult.

Henry said: “I have sent for your wife, Perkin. We knew she was at St. Michael’s Mount.”

“No…I beg of you…Do not harm her. She is not to blame.”

“We know that. She has been deceived as others have. Do not disturb yourself. I am not a monster. I do not harm innocent women.”

Perkin was immensely relieved. Henry was observant. He cares for her more than for his aspirations, he thought. A sentimental fellow. He will not be difficult to handle.

“Now, Perkin,” he said. “You have caused us a great deal of trouble, but I know you are just the tool of certain men…enemies of my country. I know you are a foolish young man from a humble family in Flanders and have been used by these people. I am not a cruel man. I have a reputation for being lenient…a lover of justice. I do not blame you so much as those who have used you. I shall not harm your wife. I know she is a highly born lady. I shall have her sent to my Queen where she will be accorded the honor due to her rank.”

Perkin put his hands to his face. He was weeping with relief.

“Oh I thank you, my lord, I thank you with all my heart. She has done no harm. She believed…with the rest…”

Henry smiled. It was going to be very easy to get a confession from this boy. He was glad. He hated the clumsy work of torturers, and the information they got was always suspect.

“So,” he went on gently, “you can rest assured your wife and child will be well treated. Now as for you…well, you have offended us greatly. This nonsense about your identity. You know full well who you are and it is not Richard of York. That’s so. Is it not?”

Perkin was silent.

“Oh come. Do not be foolish anymore. I tell you your wife is safe. You must be grateful for that. Are you?”

Perkin nodded dumbly.

“I understand. I have heard of your devotion. You see, I hear a great deal about you, Perkin. There was another like you who set himself up: Lambert Simnel. He has worked well in my kitchens. I have just promoted him to become one of my falconers. He is a good servant…very grateful to his King for having spared his life. Poor simple boy. He knows he deserved to lose it…as you do, Perkin, as you do. But I do not propose to put you in my kitchens. All I ask you to do is to make a full confession. If you do this, I shall spare your life. I have sent for your wife. You must confess in her presence. And if you do that I shall send you to the Tower of London where you will be my prisoner for a while, but I have no doubt that if you behave with propriety…well, I am not a vindictive man and it might well be that in due course…you could join your wife…if she still wants to be the wife of a Flemish adventurer after she thought she had a royal Duke of York.”

Perkin could not speak. He had not imagined it would be like this at all.

Henry rose. “I will give you a little while to think. And when your wife arrives you shall make your first confession…to her.”

Perkin was taken to Exeter where Henry had gone and it wasn’t long before he was summoned to the King’s presence.

As soon as he entered the chamber he saw Katharine.

He gave a cry of joy and would have rushed to her but he was restrained by guards. Eagerly he studied her. She was not harmed in any way. She looked at him in a bewildered fashion as though she was seeing him afresh. He could not bear that.

“Katharine…” his lips formed the words and she smiled at him.

“Husband…” she whispered, and he knew that she loved him still.

The King said. “Give the Lady Katharine Gordon a chair, and place it here beside me.”

This was done and Katharine sat down.

“Now, my lady,” said Henry, “your husband wants to tell you who in truth he is. He will explain everything. I thought it right that you should know and hear it from his own lips. Proceed, Perkin.”

He tried to speak but he could only look at her. He wanted her to run to him; he wanted to put his arms about her; but she only sat there looking at him with those beautiful appealing eyes begging him to speak.

He had to tell the truth and it all came back so vividly now.

“My father is John Warbeck. We lived in Tournay. He was a controller of customs.”

She stared at him disbelievingly. He should never have lied to her. He should have explained everything before they married. But at that time he had for long periods believed it was true that he was Richard Duke of York. That story of being with his brother in the Tower, of being handed over to the man who could not murder him had seemed far more real than his father’s house in Tournay.

But he must go on. He must preserve his life. He must try to make Katharine understand. He could not bear to see her look at him like that.

He went on: “I was put into several houses. I served there in various capacities…in exchange I was given some education. Then the Framptons came to Flanders. They had been supporters of the House of York and they had to leave when King Henry came. They saw my resemblance to the Duke of York and they convinced me that I was one of the Princes who disappeared in the Tower. I passed from one household to another…. I went to the French Court and the Court of Bordeaux…. I was learning all the time…. You know the rest. I passed myself off as Richard Duke of York, second son of Edward the Fourth…and therefore since Edward the Fifth was dead, heir to the throne.”

The King was watching Katharine closely during this confession. He said: “You see, my lady, how you have been deceived like so many others.”

Still she was silent, looking at Perkin with disbelief in her eyes.

“My lady, you shall go to the Queen. I have asked her to care for you and treat you as a sister. You will understand I cannot free your husband. I shall not treat him harshly for I see full well that he has been the tool of others. Now he will go to London and you shall go to the Queen. I will leave you for ten minutes to take your farewells of each other and to say what you wish to.”

With those words Henry rose and walked slowly out of the chamber.

Perkin rushed to Katharine. He knelt at her feet and buried his face in her skirts. For a few seconds she did nothing; then he felt her fingers in his hair and he lifted his face to hers.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is it something they have made you say under threat?”

He shook his head. “It is true…alas. Lady Katharine Gordon has married the son of a customs official.”

“I married you,” she said.

He had risen and taken her into his arms and they clung together for a moment.

“Oh…my love…what will they do to you?” she asked.

Joy flooded over him. In that moment he did not care. All that mattered was that she cared.

“They say the King is lenient….”

She thought of the stories she had heard of Flammock and Michael Joseph. What had they done? Not nearly so much as her husband. He had raised a revolt, headed an army, called himself the true king.

“He will send me to the Tower,” he said. “But he has hinted that in time I might be free.” He took her face in his hands. He said: “Katharine, I don’t think I wanted to go on with it…after I found you. But if I had never started it I should never have met you. Marriage between us would have been an impossibility…but once I had you…and the baby…I just wanted to go back…back into obscurity…to Tournay…in a little house…”

She said: “I know.”

“And what will you do?”

“It has been decided for me. I must go to the Queen.”

“Katharine…in time…”

She said: “Let us pray it will be soon.”

“Oh God bless you. You are even more wonderful than I ever thought you could be.”

“I did not love a crown,” she said. “I loved you.”

“And you still do?”

“I do not change,” she told him. “I think perhaps I knew…. I could never see you as King of England and myself as Queen…. I shall pray that the King frees you….”

“And then, Katharine?”

“We shall go away…right away…where no one knows us.”

“You will want that?”

“There will be the two of us…the three of us…Perhaps more children. We will make a home for ourselves…and over that will hang no shadows…no fears of going to war…no crowns, which have to be won.”

“Oh Katharine…it’s strange but I feel happier than I have for a long time.”

The guards had come. It was time for Perkin to go to London and for the Lady Katharine to be taken to the Queen.

Henry was not quite as lenient as he had first implied he would be. He did not feel vindictive toward Perkin, but he wanted everyone to know the extent of his folly.

Therefore Perkin must ride through the streets of London that the citizens might come out of their houses to look at the man who had tried to be their king. Some of them threw mud at him. He was crestfallen and humiliated.

“King Richard,” they called after him derisively.

After that he was lodged in the Tower.

Several weeks passed and one day a man in the green and white livery of the King’s household came to him and told him he was free to leave his prison providing that he went immediately to the King’s Court where he would remain for a while under surveillance.

His spirits rose. He was on the way to freedom. He was sure that after a while he would be able to go to Katharine.

He came to Court. The King watched him with amusement and so did others. “The man who would be king!” they said. Well, they had to admit that he had a certain grace, his manners and speech were impeccable. He had clearly had some very good tutors.

Desperately he tried to get news of Katharine. She was with the Queen whose health was not of the best, which meant that she spent a great deal of time away from the King’s Court. She had given birth to a daughter the previous year. Little Mary was a strong and healthy baby; but the following year Edmund had been born and by all accounts he was sickly. The Queen’s health was a matter of concern to the King and he allowed her to live in a certain obscurity provided she showed herself from time to time to let the people know that their royal marriage was a felicitous one. They had two daughters and a son Henry who were all pictures of health and enough to delight the hearts of any parents. If Arthur and Edmund were not as healthy as they might be, that was sad, but as their nurses said, they would grow out of it. There had been the death of little Elizabeth but Henry felt secure in his family. Therefore he was pleased with his Queen and as long as she continued to add to their brood she could live as she wished.

This made it impossible for Perkin to see Katharine unless he left the King’s Court or she came to it from the Queen’s. But although the Queen treated her as a sister, she was still her attendant and it was obvious that Henry did not want the husband and wife to meet. It may have been that he feared they might plot, or people seeing the handsome pair together might think they would well grace a throne.

However they did not meet and there came a time when Perkin could endure this state of affairs no longer.

He was going to see Katharine, no matter what the consequences.

It was folly of course. He was too closely watched, and he had not gone very far when he realized that he was being followed.

He rode with all speed to the monastery at Syon and there sought refuge but the King’s men were immediately on his trail.

He must give himself up, he was told. It was the only way he could hope to save his life after this. He had been treated well by the King and he had broken his solemn word never to leave the castle or palace where he was in the King’s custody, and he had done so.

“There is no help for it,” said the King. “The man is not to be trusted. Take him to the Tower. I have no wish to harm him. He is a foolish fellow…a little brighter than Lambert Simnel but still a fool. Let him stay in the Tower until I decide what we shall do with him.”

The King did decide. Perkin had tried to escape. For what purpose? To attempt to rally men to a cause that was so absurd it was lost before it started?

No. The people must realize what Perkin stood for, and the best way to treat him was to humiliate him. Let the people laugh at Perkin. The more they jeered the less dangerous he became.

“Let him be placed in the stocks by Westminster Hall,” said the King. “There he shall repeat his confession of fraud. I want the people to know that off by heart. Then let him do the same in Chepeside. We will have his confession printed and circulated throughout the country. When this is done I think we shall have clipped his wings.”

So Perkin suffered the humiliation of the people’s ridicule.

After that he was taken back to the Tower.

He felt desperate. He was sure Henry would never give him the opportunity to escape again.

Henry was not seriously concerned with Perkin Warbeck for it had been so easy to prove him to be the impostor he so obviously was; but that did not mean this matter gave him no uneasiness. Even Lambert Simnel had done that, and the reason was, of course, that these men were products of a shaky throne. Henry was a strong king; he was a born administrator and men would learn in time that this was what a country needed. He could make England great, if he could but be allowed to reign in peace. These impostors might well go on springing up and the reason was of course that so many English resented his kingship simply because they did not believe in his claim to the throne.

He himself knew that the sons of Edward the Fourth were dead. If only he could make this known to the people it would help a lot—but not of course if they must also know the manner of their dying. It was better to let Richard the Third bear the blame for that. Alas, there was so much evidence against the theory of Richard’s removing them, that the matter must be wrapped in mystery. The fact remained that they were dead. But there was one still living who had a greater claim than Henry—and that was Edward, Earl of Warwick whom he had kept in the Tower ever since he had come to the throne.

It had not been so difficult in the beginning but that was fourteen years ago when the young Earl had been but ten years old. To take the boy into his care as he called it seemed a reasonable thing to do and if that care was a prison in the Tower no one dared to protest. The boy had no close relations; he was too young to attract ambitious men. He was easy prey.

But now the Earl was twenty-four years of age and there must be many who remembered that he was in fact heir to the throne. His father, the brother of Edward the Fourth, had been judged a traitor and met his death ignobly in a butt of malmsey, but that did not mean his son was not next in line of succession.

Henry had long been uneasy about that young man. And when he received dispatches from Spain his thoughts turned even more urgently toward him.

Henry desperately wanted alliance with Spain. Since the Sovereigns had married, since they had turned the Moors out of Spain, and joined Castile and Aragon they had become very powerful indeed.

If Henry could bring about that alliance between Arthur and their daughter Katharine he would be very happy. He would feel much safer on the throne; he would have friends to stand with him against France and all those who might come against him. He must get the marriage solemnized as soon as possible.

But as he read these dispatches, cordial as they were, he was shrewd enough to read between the lines.

The Sovereigns were uncertain about the alliance. They did not want to see their daughter married to a deposed king. They were very uneasy. Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck might be impostors but they would never have arisen if the throne had been secure; and while there was this uncertainty others might rise against the King of England and perhaps be more successful.

There was only one person who had a true claim, and that was the captive Earl of Warwick. If he could be disposed of, thought Henry, there would be no real claimant to come before me.

The matter tormented him, disturbing his dreams, presenting itself at all hours of the day; making him furtive, watchful of those about him. Every time a man entered his presence Henry found himself wondering whether that man carried a concealed dagger.

He could have had the Earl murdered. He could have drowned him in a butt of malmsey, had him suffocated in his sleep. It was not as though he had to catch the Earl. He was there in the Tower, the King’s prisoner. It shouldn’t be difficult.

But Henry was eager to have the approval of his subjects. He did not hope for their love; he knew well enough that he was not the type to inspire that. But he wanted them to see him as a just—if stern—king, as a man who was determined to make England great. They knew this in their hearts even though they were continually grumbling about the high taxes which had been imposed during his reign. They blamed Dudley and Empson more for this than they did Henry, which was unreasonable for they were only carrying out the King’s commands. The royal exchequer was growing. England was becoming rich. He had brought this about in fourteen years, pulling the country away from bankruptcy, making her prosperous.

But he did not want to be known as a murderer of those who stood in his way. At times a certain guilt came over him but he could remind himself that he had done what he had, not only for his own good, although he had to admit this was part of it, but for the good of England. The kingship of minors invariably meant disaster. It was better to remove minors than by letting them live risk the lives of thousands. That was how he had reasoned and he had always been able to convince himself that he had good sense on his side.

What was done was done. His immediate problem was the Earl of Warwick.

While the Earl lived—a perpetual threat with a greater right to the crown than Henry himself—there could be trouble, and Isabella and Ferdinand would not wish their daughter to make an alliance with a Prince who might never reach the throne.

He had to be rid of Warwick…and soon. But how?

Then suddenly an idea struck him.

Perkin Warbeck was in the Tower. Perkin Warbeck was longing to be with his wife, and it was certain that if he was not reunited with her soon, he would make an attempt to reach her and plot to escape.

Suppose Warbeck and the Earl of Warwick occupied cells close to each other—two prisoners of the King, one with a spurious claim to the throne, the other with a real one? They should have something in common.

It was a chance.

Henry sent for the Constable of the Tower.

He said: “I wish Perkin Warbeck to be moved. Place him close to the Earl of Warwick, and let both young men know that they are near to each other. It might provide some comfort for them. Who are your most trustworthy guards? I should like to see them…not yet, not yet. In due course…”

Henry was smiling. He would not hurry the matter. The whole point was that everything should appear to have happened naturally.

Perkin was getting desperate. He began to feel that he would never get out of this place. He had had no news from Katharine. He did not know that the King had given instructions that no letters from his wife were to be delivered to him. Henry wanted him to get desperate and Henry was succeeding.

His guards were friendly. They lingered often in his cell and talked to him; they had made his life more tolerable than it might have been; his food was good and well served and he believed this was due to the guards.

But sometimes he was in acute despair.

“If only I could get out,” he would say. “I’d go away. I’d leave England. I should never want to see this place again.”

The two guards were sympathetic.

“Well, there is the poor Earl just there.” The guards pointed vaguely at the wall. “He’s been here for nigh on fourteen years. Think of that!”

“For what reason?”

One of the guards lifted his shoulders and coming a step closer whispered: “For no reason but that he is the son of his father.”

“Oh…of the Duke of Clarence, you mean?”

“Died in this same place…Drowned in a butt of malmsey…helped himself…or others helped him to too much wine.”

Perkin shivered. “And his son has been here ever since the King came to the throne?”

The guards were becoming very confidential. “Well, he’s got a right, hasn’t he?”

“A right?”

One of them made a circle around his head and winked. “Wouldn’t do for him to be around having more right to it…some say. Well, it stands to reason…. He has to be kept away…under lock and key, don’t he?”

Perkin was thoughtful. Only a short distance from him was a young man who had a real claim to the throne. He had made no attempt to rise against the Tudor…and yet here he was…condemned to be a prisoner all his life maybe.

All his life! Perkin grew cold at that thought. Was that what was intended for him?

“You and the Earl,” said the guard…“you’d have a lot in common wouldn’t you? If you liked to write a note to him…I’d see he got it.”

“What should I write to him about?”

The guard shrugged his shoulders. “That’s for you. I thought two young men…here…so near and can’t see each other. I reckon the Earl would like to get a note from you…and you’d like to get one from him.”

Perkin shook his head.

The guard went out. His fellow guard was waiting for him.

“He don’t take to the idea,” he said. “He’ll need a bit of working on.”

But Perkin did take to the idea. He thought about the lonely Earl and he felt that if he could pour out his thoughts on paper it would relieve his feelings considerably. He would like to tell someone who could understand, how he had been drawn into posing as the son of a king and how he might so easily have become a king if his luck had gone the other way. It was not that he wanted to be a king; all he asked now was to rejoin his wife and child. That was all he asked but the King would not grant it and kept them apart. If Katharine could come and live with him in the Tower he was sure she would.

He asked the guard for paper and a pen to write. He should have been suspicious of the alacrity with which it was produced.

The Earl was equally glad to enliven his days in correspondence with his fellow prisoner. He told Perkin that he had heard something of him. News came now and then to the prisoners in the Tower—snippets of it…and then long silences so that one never really got the real story. Perkin told him what had happened to him and the Earl was eager to know more. Poor young man, he had been so long in the Tower that he knew very little of the outside world.

Perkin wrote of the freedom he longed to obtain, of Katharine waiting for him. All his thoughts were of freeing himself and getting away…. Escape from this fearful place, he wrote. Freedom. That is what I crave for.

The Earl craved for it too. “Am I to spend all my life a prisoner?” he wrote.

The guards who read the letters and gave them to the constable who showed them to the King before they were passed on to the intended recipient, said: “We are getting somewhere.”

They were right. In time the two young men began to write about means of escape. How could they achieve it? “The guards are friendly,” wrote Perkin. “I have an idea that they would help us. There must be many prisoners in the Tower—many of them guiltless. It might be possible to get them to help us…It would be freedom for them as well as for us.”

The Earl was inclined to leave the planning to Perkin who had had adventures in various places, who had actually gone into battle. What could a young man who had been a prisoner since he was ten, know of these matters?

Planning made the days pass pleasantly. Perkin had a grand plan for seizing the Tower, they would get the guards to help. Warwick must not forget he was the true heir to the throne. He had the right to command. Perkin was only a humble citizen, but he would admit he had experience.

They grew excited. They drew plans. It was all in the mind. Both of them knew what they wrote about would be impossible to put into action.

But it was far more serious than they realized and they were to pay dearly for their diversion.

One day the guards came into Perkin’s cell. He looked up eagerly thinking they might have brought him a communication from the Earl.

The guards looked different; they were no longer smiling conspiratorially, no longer asking for the latest communication to the Earl of Warwick.

“Perkin Warbeck,” said the senior of the guards. “You are to be tried at Westminster on the sixteenth day of November.”

“Tried! But I have already been judged.”

“This is another matter. You will be tried with the Earl of Warwick for treason.”

Perkin did not understand.

“Plotting against the King’s person. Plotting to take possession of the Tower.”

“You mean…”

“You won’t get away with this one, I can tell you. It’s all there…in the letters.”

“My letters to the Earl…”

“And his to you…You’re in trouble, you and the noble Earl.”

Perkin understood then. This had been their plan. The friendly guards were the sinister spies of the Tudor King and he was in trouble…moreover he had involved the Earl of Warwick with him.

Henry was gratified. His ruse had worked. Perkin was of no importance to him, but the Earl of Warwick had fallen into his hands.

The two men had written to each other of escaping from prison. It would not be easy to condemn Warwick to death for that. People would say, for what reason was he in prison? Wasn’t it the most natural thing in the world that he should plan to escape?

That would not do.

He consulted with Lord Oxford who was the High Constable of England. The Constable knew what his wishes were and why. It was imperative that the match with Spain be made without much more delay. If the matter was allowed to drift the Spanish Sovereigns might well betroth their daughter to someone else.

“It would seem,” said the King, “that the Earl of Warwick was not planning merely to escape. His idea was to gather an army about him. That is quite clear.”

It was not. But the Constable knew that the King was commanding him to make it clear.

Henry was right. Oxford saw that. While the Earl lived there would be no peace in the kingdom. At any moment someone would arise and use him as a figurehead. There must be peace. What was the life of a young prince compared with the terrible revenge of war? It was the good of the country against an innocent young man.

“It must be made clear,” said Oxford.

Henry nodded.

The Earl was bewildered to find himself in the midst of so much excitement. Up to now he had spent his days in the quietness of his prison. He knew little of the world. Vaguely he remembered life at Middleham with the Duchess of Gloucester who had afterward become Queen Anne. She had been kind to him—she had been his mother’s sister and she used to talk to him about her childhood when she and Isabel his mother were together at Middleham with Richard whom she married and George whom Isabel had married. “They were brothers,” she had said, “we were sisters…daughters of Warwick the Kingmaker who married the sons of the Duke of York.” It had all been very interesting. Then she had died and King Richard had been killed at Bosworth and that was when life changed completely and he became a prisoner in the Tower. For what reason he had never been quite sure. Now he was beginning to understand. It was because his father was the brother of King Edward and King Richard and because King Edward’s two sons had disappeared in the Tower and Richard’s son had died and there was only himself left.

And because of this he had plotted against the King. Had he? He had not known that. He had merely wanted to be free.

The Earl of Oxford visited him. “Yes,” he said, “you wanted to be free so that you could take the crown.”

The young man looked puzzled. “I wanted to be free,” he said.

“You have been here a long time.”

“I came when I was ten years old. I am now twenty-four. More than half my life I have been King Henry’s prisoner.”

“Oh…not a prisoner,” said the Earl of Oxford. “You were put here for your protection.”

“Did I need it for so long?”

“The King thought so. And because your father was the Duke of Clarence you thought you had more right to the throne than he had.”

“I had more right to the throne.”

The poor innocent boy. He did not realize that he was signing his own death warrant. It was so easy to trick him…this innocent. How could he be otherwise, having spent so many years shut away from the world?

“I have come here to help you,” said the Constable of England. “It would be better for you if you confessed that you know you have more right to the throne than the King and you wanted to depose him.”

“I have more right to the throne…” began the boy.

“Ah, that is what I said. Confess your guilt and the King will doubtless forgive you as he did Perkin Warbeck.”

“Oh, he is free then?”

“He is not free now. I was referring to what happened when he was captured and brought to the King. The King was lenient to him and at first forgave him…but he tried to get away and only then did the King put him into the Tower. Confess to your guilt and the King may well be lenient with you.”

The young Earl was persuaded and the Constable went in triumph to the King.

“He should be tried and condemned at once. Warbeck too.”

“They will both be found guilty,” commanded the King. “Warbeck is unimportant. He has been proved to be a fraud. But I have had enough of the ungrateful fellow and he could have a following and one can’t be found guilty and pay the penalty without the other.”

So Perkin and the Earl of Warwick were tried, found guilty of treason, and both condemned to death.

The King did not wish to take revenge on either of these traitors. They were young and foolish, he said; but they had made trouble and for the good of the country this time he intended to act. He had been lenient before; but he had been answered by ingratitude.

Perkin Warbeck should be taken to Tyburn and hanged; the Earl of Warwick should be beheaded on Tower Hill.

In their cells in the Tower the two men awaited the death sentence.

Perkin was resigned. He would never see Katharine again. He wondered what her life would be like without him. It was true that they had been separated for some time while he was imprisoned. But there had always been hope.

This was the end then—all those grandiose schemes were to end up at Tyburn.

There was no hope now. Waiting for them to come and take him he wondered if there was some point where he could have altered the course which had led him to this day. He did not know and it did not matter now.

The people had crowded into the streets to see his last moments. It was a holiday for the spectators. He heard their shouts as he was drawn along. He did not care that they jeered at him, that they had come to witness his last humiliation.

As they put the rope about his neck he was murmuring Katharine’s name; and he hoped that she would recover from the desolation he knew this day would bring her. He was praying that she might find some happiness after he had gone.

This was the end then. He, Perkin Warbeck had come to the end of the road.

At Tower Hill there was another spectacle. The young Earl walked out of the Tower and felt the cool air on his face; the mist was on the river; it was a bleak November day. But it was a great experience to walk out from those gray walls. He wondered what his life would have been like if he had been at liberty for those fourteen years he had spent in prison.

But the time had come for him to lay his head on the block. He did so…feeling almost indifferent. Why should he regret leaving a life of which he knew so little?

One swift stroke and it was over.

They brought the news to the King: Warwick is dead.

Henry nodded. Now he was sure the negotiations with Spain would be delayed no longer. He had removed the only claimant he had to fear.

The Spanish Princess

The Court was at Richmond. Prince Henry with his sisters Margaret and Mary had ridden in the day before from Eltham; everyone was excitedly talking about the imminent arrival of the Infanta from Spain.

Prince Henry was now ten years old, and more resentful than ever because he had not been born the eldest. It was small consolation that when he and Arthur rode together he was the one people cheered and he knew their eyes were on him. When he remarked with a certain modesty—he thought—that he could not understand why the people stared so: was there anything wrong with him? his sister Margaret who had a very sharp tongue, retorted: “Yes, a great deal.”

Mary would snuggle close to him and say that it was because he was so much prettier than Arthur, which was what he wanted to hear—though he would have preferred handsome to pretty. He must tell Mary that boys were not pretty.

Mary was very ready to learn. She admired him and thought he was the most wonderful person at Court. Margaret, who did not share their sister’s views, said that Henry had too great a conceit of himself.

He and Margaret were not good friends; Henry never liked people who were critical of him—except perhaps his tutor John Skelton who was constantly laughing at something in a way which was not exactly complimentary. Henry did not know why he bore John Skelton no resentment—perhaps it was because he amused him and wrote such witty poems. But no one else must criticize him—except of course his father whom he could not prevent doing so and whose cold looks were a continual criticism. Henry had known from his early days that his father was one of the few people who preferred Arthur. It was because Arthur was the eldest, the Prince of Wales, the King-to-be. The odd thing was that Arthur didn’t seem to be greatly impressed with his superiority.

It was late summer when they rode into Richmond Palace. Henry never passed under the gateway without remembering that day just before Christmas three years before when Shene Palace had been burned down. It had been nine o’clock at night. He had been in the nursery apartments he shared with Margaret and Mary when he had been roused from his pallet by his sister Margaret shouting to him. Leaping out of bed, he had smelt the strong acrid smell of smoke and immediately the children had been surrounded by excited men and women and were marshaled together and taken to their parents. The fire had started in the royal apartments; the rushes were aflame in a very short time and before anything could be done to save the palace it was burning fiercely. Beds, hangings and tapestries were destroyed on that night. The King had been desolate, thinking of all the valuable things which had been lost, but everyone was safe, which was a consolation; and his father had immediately ordered that a new palace should be built on the ruins of the old. Thus old Shene had become Richmond Palace, always a favorite of them all because of its nearness to London—that most exciting city—and the view from the front, of the River Thames. Henry liked its long line of buildings with their towers both circular and octagonal topped by turrets, though Skelton said that the chimneys looked like pears turned upside down. It was his father’s favorite residence, perhaps for the reason that he had rechristened it Richmond after one of the titles he had had before he became King. So they were there very often.

Henry was beginning to believe that his father was not always so calm and self-assured as he tried to pretend he was. Henry sensed quickly that though the people accepted his father as their king they did not like him very much. Their cheers were not spontaneous as they were for him. He always hoped when they were riding in procession that his father would notice how they smiled and waved and called for Prince Henry. He knew how to make them like him. He waved and smiled and sometimes blew kisses—which delighted them. His father had said to him afterward: “The people like you yes but it will be well for you to remember that you are not the Prince of Wales.”

“I know, my lord, that I am not. It is my brother who is he.”

“Remember it,” was all his father said.

The King was a man of few words, and those words did not always express what he was thinking. Henry liked to watch his father; his little eyes would narrow in speculation. Henry knew about Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. He had exchanged words with Simnel about his falcon for Simnel was a good falconer and very pleased when Henry asked him questions. It was impossible to believe that he had once thought he would be king. Perkin Warbeck was different. He had paid the price of his ambitions. His head had been killed, which was the best way of treating traitors. Skelton talked about Perkin Warbeck. There was no subject about which Skelton could not be lured to talk. Skelton thought Warbeck was probably a natural son of Edward the Fourth because he was so like him.

“Your noble grandfather was in Flanders some months before the birth of Warbeck. And I can tell you this, my young lord, where Edward was there might well spring up little bastards…. He was a great man. Great in all ways…as you will be, my young bantam lord. Oh yes, I see another such as great Edward strutting there.”

It was disrespectful talk. His father would not agree with it, but Henry liked it. It was pleasant to think he was going to be like his maternal grandfather. Skelton remembered the late King when he was a man of forty and said his years had sat lightly on him. “Even the men cheered Edward,” Skelton went on. “It seems they liked him to admire their wives…and as his admiration was of a practical nature if you know what I mean…” He nudged young Henry who laughed with delight. “Then you do know what I mean!”

Skelton was a wonderful tutor, for he was a clever poet, a man of education who had studied the classics and French literature; he had translated Cicero’s Letters. That he was ribald and bawdy was accepted because of his achievements and Henry would not have changed him for anyone else. He attended to all aspects of Henry’s education and gave him not only an appreciation of the arts but of women. Sometimes he talked to the boy as though he were a man. Henry liked it. He could never bear anyone to refer to his youth.

At that time Henry was destined for the Church.

He disliked the idea but Skelton laughed at him. “A very good time can be had in the Church, my lord. Particularly for one of your rank. I swear you’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury before you are very old. Think of the power you’ll have.”

“I do not wish to go into the Church.” Henry’s eyes were narrowed. But at the same time he looked up at the sky to placate an angry god who might be listening, for what he feared more than most things was heavenly vengeance. “At least…” he added. “At least…if I can serve my country in any other way. I do not think I am suited to the Church.”

“Nor are you, my lord, but wise men fit the post to themselves not themselves to the post. And think of our illustrious Pope Alexander the Sixth…otherwise known to the world as Rodrigo Borgia. He manages to live a very full and varied life…Church or not. Don’t tell me my lord that you as an Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be as clever as the Pope of Rome.”

That was how Skelton talked—laughing, irreverent, full of anecdotes. A very exciting person to be with.

Skelton was glad he was not Arthur’s tutor. “There would be no fun with our Prince of Wales,” he said. “He is a very serious young gentleman. Not like you, my lord of York…ah, my lord of York, my Prince Henry, my willing pupil…there is a man…a man who was born to be king.”

Skelton should never leave him if he could help it.

Henry thought a great deal about his father and he came to the conclusion that he did not really enjoy being a king, which was strange because to Henry that seemed the ultimate achievement—that was happiness and contentment.

The King acted very strangely now and then. Henry remembered something, which had happened not very long ago, which gave him a certain insight into his father’s nature.

It had happened at the arena. The King kept a large menagerie and he was very fond of sports in which the animals took part. Young Henry believed that his father was always trying to make the people like him. He showed them how lenient he was to his enemies; they were always present at tournaments and shows in the arena. But he always looked so stern and he rarely smiled. If only he would smile, speak to some of them in a friendly way, he would have been liked so much more than he was because he forgave Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck too…for a very long time. If I were the King…Henry thought. It was a recurring observation.

But on this day in the arena the King’s lion was brought out. He was a fierce and splendid animal and when the dogs were set on him he was always the victor. His name was Rex, which meant he was the King.

On that day four mastiffs were set against him. Never had the dogs beaten Rex, but they did that day. Young Henry loved the dogs and they put up a magnificent fight against old Rex. They were battered and wounded…but the dogs won in the end and it was Rex who lay dying in the center of the arena.

Young Henry’s impulse had been to shout with excitement but he had caught the stern looks of his father, and his mother, who sat beside the King, was watching Henry and her look begged him to restrain his high spirits. Then he realized that the King saw something significant in this episode. The King had been set on and killed. Poor Rex was king of the animals no more.

It was a symbol. These mere dogs had set on the king of the beasts and killed him. Rex was the King. Henry saw it clearly when John Skelton pointed it out to him.

The King had left the arena in silence. People had thought it was because he had loved his lion. But it was more than that. Before sunset those four victorious mastiffs were brought out from the kennels and hanged on gibbets in the arena. Their bodies dangled there for two days so that all might see them.

It was a symbol and a warning to all would-be traitors. The mastiffs had killed the king of the beasts. Therefore they were traitors.

Henry was a little bewildered. He talked over it with Skelton.

“But it wasn’t the fault of the dogs. They were put in the arena to fight Rex,” he pointed out.

Skelton said: “One does not have to be at fault to be hanged as a traitor.”

“Then how can they help it?”

“They cannot. Young Warwick couldn’t help it, could he? He was born to what he was…so he was a potential traitor if another should take over the throne.”

“Warwick wanted to take my father’s place,” said Henry.

Skelton bowed low. “Ah, the noble Tudors. Bless me, I had forgot. They have a right to the throne. The rank of Lancaster! Of course. Of course. York must stand aside for the Tudors.”

Henry laughed as he often did at Skelton. But he would not repeat quite a lot of what Skelton said because he knew that if he did he would his lose his tutor and who knew—his tutor might lose his head. But he did know, through Skelton’s innuendos, that his father was very much afraid that someone would rise up and take the throne from him.

There was another occasion when the King had one of his best falcons killed. This amazed young Henry. He loved his own falcons and he could not understand why the very best one of all should be destroyed.

The falcon had matched itself with an eagle, he was told. And it had bettered the eagle. All knew that the eagle was the king of the birds as the lion was the king of the beasts.

The King had said: “It is not meet for any subject to offer such wrong to his lord and superior.”

Henry was bewildered. He came to Skelton for explanation.

“It’s a parable, my lord. Your noble father is fond of parables. That is because he sees himself as our god. He wishes it to be remembered that he will brook no traitors. Any who threaten his throne will go the way of the mastiffs and the falcon. Poor innocent creatures who must be so sadly used in order that the King’s human subjects be provided with a lesson.”

“I would never destroy my best falcon,” said Henry.

“Let us hope, dear lord, that if you should attain the throne you would never find it necessary to teach us all such a lesson.”

“I should just wait until I had real traitors and then cut off their heads.”

“Ah, if my Prince ever came to the throne then the heads would begin to roll, would they?”

“Traitors’ heads would.”

“And traitors would be any who opposed my lord’s will. Ah, but such talk is treason…to our lord the King and to the Prince of Wales. I must take care or I shall find myself hanging beside the mastiffs.”

“I would prevent that, good Skelton,” said Henry.

Skelton laughed and coming close to Henry whispered in his ear: “Ah, but my lord Prince, you are not the King…yet.”

“You say yet…good Skelton as though…as though…”

Skelton laughed. “Life is full of chances,” he said. “You are at the moment second in line….”

“Skelton, have you been seeing the soothsayers and wise men?”

Skelton shook his head. “The wisdom comes from inside this head, my lord. And it tells me that…there is a chance…Of course when our Prince of Wales has sons…then, my lord of York, your chances fade with the birth of each one.”

“Arthur is not very strong. Do you think he will be able to do that which is necessary to get children.”

Skelton looked slyly at his pupil. “There is only one, my lord, who can answer that question.”

“Who? Where is he? Find him…”

“I do not have to. He is here with us now.”

“Whisper his name.”

Skelton put his lips to the ear of the Prince and said: “Father Time.”

Henry was irritated and slunk away in a temper, cross even with Skelton.

Now he looked from the windows—a dull and misty October day. He liked the spring—the lovely season when the world refreshed from the winter started to burgeon again. The spring, the hot summer…journeys into the country to be cheered by the people, to let them see what a fine son their King had got for them. “Alas,” he imagined them saying. “He should have been the firstborn.”

He ran an impatient finger along the ledge of the window seat. It was decorated with roses. Tudor roses they called them. It was roses everywhere. Red roses the most prominent of course because the red rose of Lancaster was slightly superior to the white rose of York. They were entwined now; and he liked to remember the white rose. His glorious grandfather had proudly worn it. He was the one who impressed Henry—not the obscure Tudors. In the gardens some of the roses lingered on as though loath to go. In the summer they made a colorful display. He liked to run across the grass past the statues to the end of the garden where that building, which was called The Houses of Pleasure, was situated.

There it was possible to play games at which he was beginning to excel. He had real mastery at tennis and he loved the game. Arthur would never play with him. But he played with others and he almost invariably won. Sometimes he wondered whether they allowed him to because he could be rather angry if they didn’t. He never said so but he tried not to play with the winner again. Skelton noticed—Skelton noticed everything.

“It is all very well to hate to be beaten. Natural, right and proper but to show you hate it…now that is quite another matter.”

There were times when he wished Skelton were not so perceptive. Sometimes they played chess together.

“Now, my lord Duke,” Skelton had once said, “how is your mood this day? May I beat you? Or would your temper not stand it?”

“Skelton you rogue,” he said, “the better man will win.”

“Oh that is how you wish it, is it? Very well. I just wished to know whether I was to consider my lord Duke’s skill or his temper.”

He saw too much, knew too much. There were times when he felt he would have rid himself of the man if he could. But he knew he never would. Skelton was too clever, too entertaining.

He would like to play a game of tennis and he was in no mood to be beaten, so he selected one of his squires who had not the skill to beat him even if he did not know it was impolitic to do so.

“Come,” he said. “I would to the tennis court. We can get a game before it is dark.”

So they went and while they were playing a barge drew up at the river bank. Henry dropped his racquet and ran to see what this meant.

“What news?” he cried. “What news?”

“I must see the King,” said the messenger.

“I am the Duke of York,” said Henry.

“My lord.” The man bowed. “I must see the King with all speed.”

Henry was sullen. His squire was watching. He had thought the messenger would be so impressed by meeting the son of the King that he would immediately tell his business. But it was not so.

One of the King’s attendants had seen the messenger approaching and came hurrying out.

“I have news for the King,” said the messenger.

“Come this way.”

Henry followed. The King, aware of the arrival of the messenger, was already in the hall. The man approached him and fell on to his knees.

“Your Grace. The Infanta of Spain is in England. She has arrived at Plymouth.”

“Good news! Good news!” said the King. “We must thank God for her safe arrival.”

He noticed his son standing there but gave him no greeting.

Then he said: “I will go to tell the Queen this good news.” And to the messenger: “Go to the kitchens where you will be refreshed.”

Henry looked after his father as he left the hall.

He felt angry and frustrated. Arthur would be summoned. This was his bride.

Oh why did I have to be the second son? he thought, with more bitterness than usual. He wanted a bride. He wanted a marriage. It was true he was only ten—but he was so advanced for his age.

It was maddening, frustrating. He would have suited the occasion so much better than pallid Arthur.

He was excited when a short while after he was summoned to his father’s apartment.

When he arrived his mother was already there.

He went forward and bowed as he had been taught to do. He noticed his mother’s eyes on him with a certain pride and satisfaction which pleased him.

“Henry,” said the King, “there are going to be some splendid celebrations. This marriage with Spain is very dear to my heart and to that of your mother.”

The Queen nodded in agreement. She would always agree with her husband.

“Your brother Arthur is a very fortunate young man,” said the King.

Henry smiled almost imperceptibly. Arthur was in Wales and Henry wondered how he would receive the news of his good fortune. He was now fifteen, pale and more like his father than his mother; he was gentle, hated great ceremonies in which he had to play a part, and he would be very apprehensive about those which would inevitably be the result of his “good fortune.”

“The Infanta is on our shores. There can be no hitch now. The marriage will most certainly take place and when it does we shall have a powerful ally. This is a happy time for us all.”

“Henry will have his part to play,” said the Queen, smiling at him.

The color rose to Henry’s cheeks touching the normal healthy pink to rosy red—the color of a Lancaster rose. His eyes sparkled. He was going to enjoy these celebrations if he could forget that they were for Arthur’s wedding, for Arthur’s bride, and that Arthur would be at the center of them.

“And,” went on the Queen, still smiling, “I am sure he will play it well.”

“What must I do?” asked Henry eagerly.

“I have decided that you shall bring the Infanta into London. You shall be her escort companion when she enters the capital.”

“Oh thank you, my lord.”

“You are pleased?” said the King.

“Oh yes, indeed I am. I would I could do more.”

“That will be enough,” said his father. He was trying not to compare the boy with Arthur. Henry was tall for his age and he had bulk too. His skin was glowing with health; he was vigorous and excelled at games, archery, horsemanship; and Skelton said he was good with his books too. He should have been the firstborn, of course. But they had Arthur. The King was fond of his eldest son in a way which he had not believed he could be fond of anyone. Arthur was so vulnerable. In Arthur he saw something of himself. Long ago Henry had dreamed of kingship. In his Welsh stronghold his uncle Jasper had primed him, and the thought had been constantly with him in exile: “One day you will be King.” It had seemed the ultimate goal, the end of the road. Now it was here he was tortured by anxieties, not knowing from one day to the next when some Pretender would arise to claim the crown on which he seemed to have such a light hold. Arthur was uneasy too. Prince of Wales…accepted successor…and the longer Henry remained on the throne the more firm his seat would be. But he could see that Arthur was afraid of the future, even as he was. Arthur did not want this grand marriage; he did not want the crown.

Had it been young Henry, how different it would have been.

“Very well my son,” said the King, “you must prepare yourself for this duty. You will have to ride through the streets of London with the Infanta. I know you can manage your horse as well as our best knights. But it will be more than that. You will have to treat her with the utmost courtesy. Remember she is a Princess of Spain and she will be one day Queen of England. Now you will show her the utmost respect. I do not know yet how you conduct yourself with the ladies.”

“I am very gallant with them, my lord.”

The Queen’s lips curved in a smile but the King regarded his son sternly.

“You have a good opinion of yourself, Henry.”

“One must have, my lord, for if one has not a good opinion of oneself who else would have one?”

That was pure Skelton. It amused the Queen but the King showed no sign of mirth.

“A little more than gallantry will be required,” said the King. “I will have you taught what you should do. The Infanta has to come from Plymouth. That is a long way off so you will have plenty of time to learn how to conduct yourself. Now you may go. We have matters to discuss which do not require your presence.”

He left a little dispirited in spite of the prospect ahead.

He went to the nurseries. His sisters Margaret and Mary were there. Margaret was drawing and Mary, watching her, was saying it was beautiful and Margaret was very clever.

Mary was so young and naively admired her brother and sister so much because they could do things which she could not.

Margaret said: “Have you seen the messenger?”

“I have been with our father,” replied Henry grandly.

“Oh Henry…have you really!” cried Mary. “What did you talk about?”

“This coming marriage,” said Henry importantly. “The Infanta is at Plymouth. She will have to be met and brought to London. I suppose I shall have to lead her into the city.”

“A little boy of ten!” cried Margaret.

“I tell you I am going to do it. I have just told our father that I will.”

“She is grown up. She is sixteen…even older than Arthur. You will look such a baby beside her.”

There were times when he would have liked to strike Margaret. There would be terrible trouble if he did. It would be quite against the rules of chivalry. They might even prevent him from taking part in the wedding celebrations, so he kept his temper, which was not easy.

“I shall look what I am—a Prince of England,” he said.

“Well I think you will look very silly,” said Margaret.

“I think you will look nice,” murmured Mary who always took his side when she was there.

“I shall look just as a Prince should look and the Infanta will wish that I was the one she is to marry.”

That made Margaret laugh still louder. “You marry…. That won’t be for years. I am to be married soon.”

“Into Scotland. It is a land of barbarians.”

“I shall be the Queen of Scotland.”

“I hate the Scots,” declared Henry.

“You will have to learn to love them when they are part of our family…through this marriage.”

“At least,” said Henry his eyes narrowed to slits, “I shall be grateful to the King of Scotland for taking you away.”

“And I shall be grateful to him for relieving me of your company.”

“Please don’t quarrel.” Mary had slipped her hand into that of Henry. “It’s so exciting…with Arthur’s wedding and then Margaret’s…don’t spoil it, Henry, please….”

He stooped and kissed the beautiful little face turned up to his. Mary flushed with pleasure and Henry’s good humor was restored.

“Come with me, Mary,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about what I shall do when the Infanta comes to London. I am to lead her in. You may be able to see me. Let’s leave Margaret…and we’ll sit together…and talk.”

Mary nodded. Margaret watched them with a curl of her lips.

“Boast away,” she shouted. “All the boasting in the world won’t make you the Prince of Wales. You’ll never be the King…though that’s what you want. You’re wicked. You wish Arthur was dead…yes, you do…yes you do….”

Henry turned and looked at her; for once his rage was cold rather than hot.

“How dare you say such a wicked thing!” he cried.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Margaret, suddenly contrite. It was unlucky to talk of death outright in such a way. Many times she had heard the vague comments of the attendants, the innuendos about Arthur’s not making old bones…but that was different.

She should not have mentioned Arthur’s dying. What if Henry told their parents!

Henry said: “Come on Mary. We will leave this wicked girl alone.”

Margaret, subdued, muttered something and turned away and Henry and Mary went to the window seat and sat down.

He started to tell her what a glorious pageant it would be. He described others he had seen but this one would be different because he would be at the center of it.

Suddenly Mary said in a whisper: “If Arthur died would you marry the Infanta, Henry?”

“Hush,” he said. “You must not speak of death.”

Then he went on to describe what he thought the wedding would be like and when he did so he was not seeing Arthur as the bridegroom, but himself, miraculously grown a little older, as old as Arthur…old enough to be a bridegroom.

The picture made him very excited. It was nonsense, of course, just a dream, a fantasy; but it was very enjoyable.

And oddly enough he could not dismiss it from his mind.

When the Spanish Infanta stepped ashore at Plymouth with her duenna beside her, she was warmly received by the dignitaries of Plymouth. They had been warned of her arrival and had been awaiting it for several days and when the ship appeared on the horizon the call had gone up: “The Spanish Princess is here.”

The King had given orders that she was to be royally entertained. He would be sending Lord Brook the steward of the royal palace to look after her; he himself could not be expected to make the three-week journey to Plymouth, but he was determined that she should be entertained in accordance with her rank and that her parents should have nothing to complain of in the treatment she received in her new country.

Catalina herself was bewildered. It had been a frightening journey although she had set off from Granada in May and had not embarked at Corunna until August; but even then the ship in which she had set out had been forced back to the coast of Castile because of gales and storms. She had been so ill when she landed that she had not been able to set out again until September. Then her father had ordered that the finest ship he owned—one of three hundred tons—should be put at her disposal. This was a great deal more comfortable than the previous vessel and on the second of October when Plymouth was sighted, Catalina felt that she had been traveling for months.

“Catalina,” her mother had said, “you will have to learn the language of your new country and you will no longer be called Catalina. In English it is Katharine. But what is a name? You will still be my good Catalina whatever they call you.”

Was it so important to change a name? Only because it was a symbol. Everything would be different now. She had to learn. She had to be a credit to her parents. She had been told that often enough.

How desolate she had been when she stood on deck watching the green land come nearer! Only her strict upbringing had prevented her from turning to Doña Elvira Manuel and begging to be taken home to her mother.

What foolishness that had been! She had left Spain forever. Whatever anyone had said to comfort her she knew that and the fear that she might never see again her beloved mother was what hurt her most.

She had known for a long time—since she was ten years old and she was now sixteen—that it had had to happen. A similar fate had overtaken her sisters Maria and Juana. They had left Spain—lost to their home forever. Her eldest sister Isabella and her adored brother Juan had been even more irrevocably dealt with for Death had taken them.

How often had she asked herself during that long and exhausting journey why life had to be so cruel. If only time could stand still, and they remain children, all happy together, for they had been such a happy family and it was their mother who had made them so. She had loved them all dearly and if they had—every one of them—been in awe of her, they had loved her with a devotion which had made them desperately unhappy to leave her.

People were crowding round her. They were speaking and she could not understand what they were saying, but she knew these smiling cheering crowds were telling her that they liked her and that she was welcome on their shores.

She was taken into a small mansion and there conducted to an apartment where she might wash and rest before food was served. What she wanted more than anything was to be alone, but she knew that she could not hope to be without her duenna.

“I am thankful we have come through the journey safely,” said Doña Elvira. “I thought it was the end for us…but the saints preserved us and before anything else we should give thanks to them.”

Queen Isabella had chosen Doña Elvira to conduct her daughter to England because she had faith in her trustworthiness and religious principles. Elvira watched with hawklike eyes and Catalina knew that if she did anything which was not correct according to strict Spanish etiquette, her mother would hear of it.

“You look too sad,” said Doña Elvira. “You must not look so. It is not good manners. You must show these people that you are happy to be here.”

“But I am not, Doña Elvira. I am most unhappy. I hope the Prince doesn’t like me…and sends me home.”

Doña Elvira clicked her tongue in exasperation. “And what grief would that cause your gracious mother? And your father would be angry and only send you back again and then we should have to face those terrible seas once more.”

“It is just that I keep thinking of the past…when I was little…when we were in the nursery together…Juan, Maria and Juana…”

“Childhood does not last forever.”

“They have all gone, Doña Elvira…. My dear dear brother…”

“He is with the saints….”

“And Isabella…She didn’t want to go back to Portugal. She had married once for state reasons. That should have been enough. It was strange how she was so unhappy about going to Portugal but she loved her husband in time. I think she was fond of both her husbands, though she loved Alfonso most. But Emmanuel was very kind to her and she was grateful for that.”

“That is how it should be. That is how it will be with you, my lady Catalina. But I must call you Katharine now…. It is not so easy to say. But we must all learn to change.”

“If that were the only thing one had to learn it would be easy. Katharine seems different. Catalina was the girl who was so happy. When we were young I was so proud, Doña Elvira…proud to be the daughter of the Sovereigns who had driven out the Moors and united Castile and Aragon…”

“So you should have been…and still should be. Never forget who you are, Catalina…Katharine.”

“But we soon learned that Spain was more important than any of us. The greatness of Spain. The glory of Spain. That was what mattered. That was why Isabella had to go back to Portugal and marry Emmanuel….”

“Who had loved her ever since she set foot on Portuguese soil to marry Alfonso, and was a good husband to her.”

“But she didn’t want to go back. I remember her sadness so vividly. I was only ten at the time…but I remember. They sent her back and she died…and now Maria has had to go to marry Emmanuel…because friendship with Portugal is important to Spain.”

“Perhaps you should rest. You are talking too much.”

“It relieves me to talk. I must talk to you. These people here don’t speak our language. I wonder what Arthur will be like.”

“He is to be your husband. You will love him because it will be your duty to do so.”

“I wonder if Juana loves her husband.”

“There has been enough of this talk. Now you are going to lie down for twenty minutes. I shall awaken you at the end of that time and you must prepare yourself to meet the important people whom the King will send.”

“Will the King come himself?”

“Of course the King will come. He will want to show how grateful he is to be able to welcome the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain.”

“I hope they will like me.”

“What nonsense is this! How could they fail to like the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella? Now rest. You are wasting the time in idle talk.”

She allowed her veil to be taken off and lay back on the cool cushions. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the future by looking back over the past.

Did Juana love her husband? She couldn’t stop thinking of her. The truth about Juana had come to her suddenly. It was after one of those distressing scenes in the nursery when Juana had suddenly begun to dance wildly around and climbed onto the table and danced and when their governess tried to stop her she had clung to the arras hanging on the walls, swinging there. Their mother had been called and she had ordered that Juana be seized but none could take her because she kicked at them as they tried, and all the time she was laughing wildly.

Then Queen Isabella had said, “Juana, listen to me.”

And that had made Juana stop laughing.

“Come,” the Queen had gone on quietly. “Come down to me, my darling.”

Then Juana had come down and flung herself into her mother’s arms and her wild laughter was substituted by sobbing, which was as wild.

The Queen had said quietly, “I will take the Infanta to her apartments. Bring one of her potions.” She had led Juana away, but as she left, the Queen had seen the wide frightened eyes of Catalina. She touched her on the head caressingly and passed on.

It had been later when the Queen had sent for her. They were alone together. Those had been the occasions which meant so much to Catalina. Then Queen Isabella was not so much the great Sovereign—greater even than Ferdinand, many said—she was the fond mother.

“Come to me, Catalina,” she had said, holding out her hand and the child had run to her, clinging to her. The Queen had lifted her youngest daughter onto her lap and said: “You were frightened, my child, by what you saw today. Juana is not to blame. She is not wicked. She does not do these things to grieve us. She does them because they are a compulsion…do you understand? Sometimes there is a little seed in families which is passed on…through the generations. Be kind always to Juana. Do not provoke her. Juana is not the same as we are. My mother suffered from the same affliction. So you see what has happened to Juana has come to her through me. You understand why I wish us to be very, very kind to Juana.”

She had nodded, happy to be nestling close to that great queen who was also her dear mother.

She had never forgotten that. She had never provoked Juana, and had always tried to follow her mother’s wishes and keep Juana quiet.

But even if Juana had been different from the others she still had to play her part. Insane or not she must marry for the glory of Spain; and a grand match indeed had been found for her—no less than the heir of the Hapsburgs, Philip son of Maximilian—and so she would unite the houses of Hapsburg and Spain.

It had been a match which made King Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle, and the alliance had been even stronger when Margaret, Maximilian’s daughter, married Juan.

Dear, dear Juan, who had been so beautiful and so good. No wonder they said of him that he was too good for long life. The angels wanted him for themselves, that was what Catalina had heard someone say. And there had been that terrible time at Salamanca when the town was en fête to welcome Juan and Margaret his bride and the news that Juan was dead had come to them. There seemed no reason…except, as they said, that the angels wanted him in Heaven.

Catalina remembered her mother’s grief. She suspected that loving all her children as the Queen did, Juan was her favorite, her beloved son, her only son. That was a melancholy time of mourning. Margaret his new wife was heartbroken because, being Juan, he had already charmed her.

Doña Elvira was at the side of her couch.

“Is it time then?” she said.

“I gave you a little longer, so we must hurry now.”

It was no use thinking of the past. She had to face the future. Catalina was left behind in Spain. Katharine was here…in England.

It seemed that they were not to meet the King and Prince Arthur at this stage, but were to begin the journey to London without delay. Doña Elvira was a little put out. She thought that the bridegroom at least should have been waiting at Plymouth to greet his bride.

“I am not sorry,” said Katharine. “It will give me time to know a little of this land…and to see the people….”

She was feeling better as the effects of the sea journey were wearing off, and was making an effort to stop grieving for her family and feel an interest in the new sights which presented themselves.

How green was the grass! What a number of trees there were! “It is a beautiful green country,” she said to Elvira. She liked the villages through which they passed—the gabled houses which clustered round the church, the village greens. “Always green,” she said. “It is the color of England.”

It was only when they came to Exeter that she saw crowds again. They had come to look at her, the Spanish Princess, the Queen-to-be. “She is so young,” they said. “Only a child. Well, Arthur is the same. It is better for him to have someone of his own age.”

But they were disappointed because she was veiled and they could not see her face clearly.

“Is there something wrong that we are not allowed to see her?” Her hair was beautiful—long and luxuriant, hanging down her back, and there was a glint of red in it.

At Exeter Lord Willoughby de Broke was waiting to greet her.

He was charming. The King would soon be on his way, he told her. In the meantime he had the King’s express command to make sure that everything which could be done to make her comfortable was done.

She thanked him and said she had been made very welcome.

“You will discover how delighted we are to have you with us,” he told her. “I am the High Steward of the King’s Household and he has sent me from Westminster to make sure that nothing is left undone. The Spanish ambassadors are here in Exeter and they will be calling upon you soon, I doubt not. They will want to make sure that you are well cared for and if there is anything that does not please you, you must tell me and I promise you it shall be rectified.”

Katharine assured Lord Willoughby de Broke that she was well cared for. He was able to speak a little of her language and she was grateful for that. She realized that she would have been wiser to have spent the time when she was waiting to come to England in learning the English language. It was going to be very difficult for her to understand and make herself understood. She wondered why her parents had not insisted that she learn English and could only assume that her father might have been unsure that the match would take place and she be whisked off to some other country for the interest of Spain.

Almost immediately she was told that Don Pedro de Ayala had called to see her.

She was delighted to meet one of her own countrymen and asked that he be sent to her immediately.

Don Ayala was elegant and gallant and he reminded her so much of home when he spoke to her in Castilian. She felt comforted to have him at her side.

“The King is eager for you to arrive in the capital as soon as possible,” he said. “There the marriage will take place without delay. The King will meet you near London that you may be escorted there with all the deference due to an Infanta of Spain.”

“I had thought the King might have come to Plymouth,” she said.

“It is three weeks’ journey from London, Infanta.”

“It does not seem that he is eager to meet me.”

“He is eager, I promise you. This is a fortunate day for you, my lady, for England and for Spain. This marriage is one of the finest things that has happened since the expulsion of the Moors from our country.”

“Surely not as important as that. I should have thought my brother’s and sisters’ marriages were more important than mine.”

“Nay. We need the friendship of this island. Your father-in-law is a shrewd man. He is making England a country to be reckoned with. You may find it necessary to speak with me from time to time. You may think that there are certain matters which would interest your mother and your father.”

“Am I to be a spy in my new husband’s household?”

“Never that. Just a good friend to England and perhaps an even better one to Spain.”

“I cannot say,” she answered coolly. “There is so much I have to learn.”

Dr. de Puebla was announced while de Ayala was with her.

De Ayala’s face crinkled in distaste.

“Must you see this man, Highness?” he asked.

“He is my father’s ambassador,” she answered.

“I must warn you of him. He is a man of the people, lacking in education and manners. He is a Jew. He seems to forget his Spanish upbringing and lives like an Englishman.”

“I have been told that I must become an Englishwoman,” she replied. “Perhaps Dr. de Puebla is wise in his habits. My parents think highly of him.”

“He is on good terms with King Henry. Such good terms that he has been offered a bishopric.”

“Which he refused? Would that not have brought him in a good income?”

“It would indeed and his fingers itched to grasp it. But your father forbade it. He did not want him working entirely for the King of England.”

“Which makes me believe he is a man of sound sense. I shall receive him, Don Pedro. It would be churlish not to.”

“Then it must be, but I warn you, be careful of the man. He is of low origins and this comes out.”

De Puebla was brought in. He bowed obsequiously to Katharine and she noticed the looks he cast on de Ayala. The antagonism between these two was apparent. She would have to steer a path between them because they would be her chief advisers at the Court of England—de Puebla no less than de Ayala.

De Puebla assured her of his delight at seeing her, of the King’s pleasure at the marriage and of the joy this brought all lovers of Spain.

“And of England,” said de Ayala pointedly.

“My lady Princess,” said de Puebla, “the friendship between the two countries is the ardent wish of the Sovereigns…and of the King of England…no less. I’ll swear that the joy of the bride’s family equals that of the bridegroom.”

“I am very pleased that you are both here to be of service to me. I know I shall need your help.”

“It shall be my greatest desire to give it,” said de Ayala.

“And do not forget good Dr. de Puebla is standing by awaiting your command.”

When they left Exeter she rode between Lord Willoughby de Broke and de Ayala; and de Puebla was furious because he had to fall in behind.

She knew that she was going to have to endure their enmity when de Ayala continued to complain about the low-born Jewish lackey and de Puebla whispered to her to have a care of de Ayala…a self-seeker, a man bound by manners and customs rather than good sense, a coxcomb more interested in the cut of a jacket than matters of state.

“I will take care,” she promised both of them.

It was de Puebla who touched on those matters which de Ayala would have thought not for her ears.

De Puebla dispensed with Spanish innuendos. An inexperienced girl of sixteen who was going to be thrust into the heart of politics needed plain speaking. She must, thought de Puebla, have some inkling of what it was all about. De Ayala thought that she was just a symbol. All she had to do in his opinion was look beautiful, charm the King and the Prince, let the former see that she had no intention of meddling and to be fruitful and within a few years have half a dozen lusty boys playing in the royal nurseries.

He said: “Arthur will be manageable.”

“Manageable?” she asked.

De Puebla nodded. “He will love you, I am sure. He has been told that he must, and Arthur always does as he is told. He is delicate. Pray God he lives. But he is gentle and you will have no trouble from him. The Queen is mild and does not interfere so the King is very fond of her. Arthur has two sisters and a brother but they need not concern you very much. The older sister Margaret has to go to Scotland to marry the King there. Mary the other is very young yet. Henry the brother is ten years old—rather a lusty young fellow. You can be thankful that he is not the elder. Arthur—if he were a little stronger—would be the ideal match. You’ll have to watch his health a little. He’s delicate and if he died it would not be so good for Spain. But your main concern is to please the King.”

“How shall I do this?”

“Oh, be docile, bear children. Take a pattern from the Queen. The King trusts nobody. He is suspicious of all. This is due to the fact that there are other claimants to the throne. Recently two impostors arose on the scene. Their claims were clearly false and he overcame them. But there was one other…fortunately he is no longer in a position to menace the King. But the fact that they could appear and there be people to follow them has frightened the King. He is continually on the alert and would be very resentful if he thought anyone was trying to work against him.”

“Spain would never do that.”

De Puebla smiled. “Our two countries are friends,” he said. He moved closer to her and whispered: “But sometimes it is necessary to be watchful of friends.”

She could see what de Ayala meant. There was something offensive about de Puebla. But he was clever—she sensed that, and her father had told her that she must listen to him and do what he asked just as she must with the ambassador de Ayala.

It was a slow journey; she was very glad sometimes to ride in the horse litter which Lord Willoughby de Broke had provided. When she was tired of the litter there was her palfrey ready for her. She certainly could not have complained of a lack of attention.

She was learning something about the people of England. They were independent and did not stand on the same ceremony that she was accustomed to. The people came out to see her as she passed and they were clearly surprised that she should be veiled. They were frankly curious about her. Why, they asked, if she has nothing to hide in her face does she hide it?

They had no natural dignity, she decided; but she rather liked that. They shouted to each other, jostled each other and called to her in a manner she believed was not as respectful as it should have been.

The amounts of food that were consumed seemed enormous; it was interesting to be housed in the mansions of the squires and knights of the places they passed through. Here there would be fires in great fireplaces and minstrels to sing for her delight.

So she learned about her new country and her conversations with both de Ayala and de Puebla gave her some indication of what she must expect.

She was most interested to hear of Arthur.

“A gentle boy,” was de Ayala’s comment.

“Like a piece of clay he’ll be in your hands,” said de Puebla. “Mild as milk and sweet as honey. He’s a good boy. He’s caused no trouble to his father and he’ll cause none to his wife.”

“Is he not very strong?” she asked.

“He is not as robust as his younger brother,” said de Ayala.

“He’ll grow out of it,” said de Puebla. “Give him a wife. That’s what he needs.”

“Perhaps he seems more delicate than he is because he is constantly compared with young Henry,” commented de Ayala.

“There you speak truth,” said de Puebla in such a voice that meant “For once.” “I reckon they would have been happier if their roles had been reversed. Henry for King, Arthur for Church.”

“I beg you to refrain from such observations before the Infanta,” said de Ayala.

“The Infanta will forgive me,” said de Puebla…“particularly when she sees the truth of my remarks. My dear lady, your father has instructed me to give you an account of the English Court and that is what I must do.”

“Thank you,” said Katharine, “you are helping me a great deal.”

De Ayala lapsed into silence. He was always annoyed when she talked with de Puebla.

When they were within fifteen leagues of London messengers came to say that the King was on his way and was to meet the bride as soon as he arrived.

Doña Elvira said grimly: “The King may come but he shall not meet the Infanta until after the wedding. You know it is not the custom for the bridegroom and his family to see the bride before the ceremony of marriage has taken place.”

De Ayala said: “This is the King of England. It is not the same.”

“It is the same,” said Doña Elvira. “I should consider myself unworthy of my task if I allowed it.”

Prince Arthur was riding south from Wales. His father had commanded him to come with all possible speed for he wished them to be together to greet the Infanta.

Arthur was very uneasy. He was to be married. What would that mean? What was his bride like? He was terrified of marriage. There were obligations which he might not be able to fulfil. He was tired—he had always been tired for as long as he remembered. Too much was expected of him; and when he could escape the eyes of his father and his father’s ministers he was always relieved.

But all the time he had been in Wales this fate had been hanging over him. Marriage…It was hard enough being the Prince of Wales but to be expected to be a husband as well seemed almost too much for him to endure. He was spitting a little blood now. He did not want his father or mother to know; it drove his mother to despair and his father to look so anxious that he felt he was being reproached for his weakness.

I should never have been Prince of Wales, he often thought. How much better it would have been if Henry had been born before me. Henry could do everything that was expected of a Prince of Wales and what was so important liked doing it. Nothing pleased Henry more than to be at the center of affairs, to have everyone looking at him; he enjoyed answering their questions; he could dance, ride, hawk, hunt…do anything better than Arthur. Even at his books he excelled. There was only one thing he lacked. He was not the firstborn. And he resented that. Arthur had often seen the flashes of anger in his brother’s eyes, that sudden pout of the rather small mouth when Arthur was given precedence, as being Prince of Wales he always was; even at three years old he had been made a Knight of the Bath and two years later Knight of the Garter.

He was better at his studies than he was at outdoor sports. It was the one field in which he could beat Henry, in spite of the fact that Henry was no dullard and his tutors spoke highly of his ability to learn. But Henry of course had interests which Arthur could never have; Arthur loved his studies, he liked nothing better than to be allowed to sit with his tutor and read and discuss what he read and studied. His father had put the blind Poet Laureate Bernard André to teach him and they had become great friends. Another tutor and friend was Dr. Linacre who was a doctor besides being a classical scholar. Arthur wondered whether his father had appointed Dr. Linacre to keep a watch on his health as well as his studies. If this was so the doctor performed this duty very discreetly. He was some forty years old at this time and he seemed to Arthur full of widsom, having traveled widely in Italy and he had even attained a degree in Padua. He was considered to be one of the most learned men in the realm.

He had dedicated a translation from the Greek into Latin of Proclus on the Sphere to Arthur who felt very privileged to claim such a man as his friend. Oddly enough although he felt inadequate in the company of Court gallants he was quite at home with men like Dr. Linacre and Bernard André. He wished he could go on sharing his life with such people, but he had his duties—as his father was fond of reminding him—and now those duties entailed marriage with the Spanish Princess. She had arrived in England and his sojourn in Wales had come to an end.

“I am riding from Shene to meet her,” was the command his father had sent. “It would be well if you were to join me just before that meeting takes place.”

So he had begun the journey to London without delay, and at East Hampstead he joined his father’s cavalcade.

The King was delighted with the way everything had happened. At last the Infanta was in England and there could be no turning back now. Friendship with Spain was assured; and the dowry would be useful. Henry’s eyes glistened as he thought of that. His great anxiety was Arthur’s health. He had been disturbed to hear that the Infanta’s brother had died shortly after his marriage. Had he overexerted himself? It was a way with these young people and if they were not very strong it could be disastrous. It was difficult to imagine Arthur’s taking violent action in such a sphere but one could never be sure. This bride and bridegroom could be delayed for a little while…a few months…a year perhaps. His son the young Prince Edmund had died recently; that meant he had only two boys. True Henry was virile enough, but one could never be sure when people would sicken so he and the Queen must get more children. More boys.

When he rode into East Hampstead he was pleased to find that Arthur was there.

He watched his son approach and kneel. The greeting was formal. Henry found it difficult to be otherwise. But his smile was as warm as could be expected. Arthur looked at him almost apologetically. Did the boy know how wan he looked, that there were dark shadows under his eyes and how much the pallor of his skin alarmed the King?

“I see you in good health, my son,” he said.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Arthur a little too eagerly.

“That is well. We have some duties ahead of us. The Sovereigns will expect a fine wedding for their daughter. Are you eager to meet your bride?”

Arthur said again with that emphasis which was a little too firm: “I am indeed, my lord.”

“That is well, and I’ll swear she is as eager to meet you. We shall set out tomorrow morning at dawn…and we shall soon intercept her, I doubt not.”

Perhaps the boy would look better after a rest, thought the King. Of course he was tired out after the journey. Perhaps it would be better if the marriage were not consummated…just yet. Let them wait a year or so…Arthur would be stronger then.

“The Infanta is at Dogmersfield,” said the King. “Tomorrow we shall set out to meet her. I am sure you are overcome with eagerness.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Arthur spoke quietly. He hated to lie to his father but duty demanded that he should. How could he tell his father that he hated the prospect and his dearest wish was that he could have a quiet life free from his obligations.

“Then we shall rest well tonight,” said the King, “and set off with the dawn.”

Arthur gratefully retired. The King was very uneasy. Every time he saw Arthur he thought he looked a little more frail.

When next morning they set out it had started to rain. The King’s anxious eyes were on Arthur. The boy would get a wetting and the doctors had said that was not good for him; it started up his cough.

There was more trouble to come. Before they reached the Bishop’s Palace at Dogmersfield where Katharine was spending the night, they were met by de Ayala and a group of his entourage.

De Ayla rode up to the King and the two men confronted each other in the rain.

“My lord King,” said de Ayala. “Is it true that you are coming to visit the Infanta?”

“Indeed it is,” replied Henry. “My son is anxious to greet his bride. You look surprised. Do you not understand that we are all eagerness to welcome the Infanta to our shores?”

“I know it so, my lord. But the Spanish law is that none shall see the Infanta unveiled until the marriage has been celebrated.”

“My lord, you cannot be telling me that I am not allowed to look on my son’s bride.”

“That is what I do say, my lord, and you must forgive me but it is the law in Spain.”

“It is not in England,” said the King grimly.

“My lord, our Infanta is the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain and she is accustomed to Spanish laws and customs.”

“She will perforce learn to accept our English ones, for when she marries she will be one of us.”

“The ceremony has not yet taken place.”

The King was aghast. He had part of the dowry. That was the first thought that struck him. What was it about the Infanta that they were afraid of his seeing? Was she deformed in some way? Was she incapable of bearing children? He must not see her! What absurd custom was this? They were behaving like infidels. Of course, their country had been the home of the Moors for centuries. Perhaps some of their customs had been preserved in Spain. But this was England and he was the King and none of his subjects should defy him.

“You will understand, Don Pedro de Ayala,” he said, “that I am unaccustomed to being forbidden to act as I will in my own country. You say this is the wish of the Sovereigns of Spain. It is certainly not my wish. I will talk with my ministers. Fortunately they are with me and if they agree that with their help I make the rules in this country and they decide that I shall see the Infanta, then so be it, I shall.”

De Ayala bowed. “It would be against the will of my Sovereigns.”

“Then we shall see,” said the King.

He turned and addressed his followers and told them what de Ayala had said. “I am therefore calling a council here in that field yonder and there we will determine what is to be done.”

It was an extraordinary scene with the rain now turned to fine drizzle and in the field, with Arthur beside him, Henry asked his ministers to advise him on how to act in these extraordinary circumstances.

With one accord all declared that the King was ruler in his own country and the ridiculous—one might say barbaric—law of Spain must be set aside if it were the King’s will. It would be unwise to let the Sovereigns think that they could control events in England.

So they left the field and went to de Ayala who was waiting on the road.

The King told him what had happened. De Ayala bowed his head and said he would ride ahead to Dogmersfield and inform the Infanta and her household of the King’s decision.

De Ayala was laughing secretly. His nature was such that he enjoyed situations such as this one. He applauded the King’s decision secretly and he would have despised Henry if he had given way, but now he was eager to see what effect this would have on the Infanta’s entourage and particularly on Doña Elvira who was, he had secretly thought for some time, getting a little above herself.

When he returned, the Infanta’s entourage was thrown into turmoil.

“Never,” cried Elvira. “This is a violation of custom. Queen Isabella would never forgive me….”

“It is perhaps a matter for the Infanta herself to decide,” suggested de Ayala.

“The Infanta! She is only a child.”

“She is soon to be a bride and she is at the center of this storm. I see no alternative but to lay the matter before her. And it must be done with all speed as the King is even now riding this way and when he comes he will demand to see the Infanta.”

Katharine listened gravely and gave her decision.

“This is England. Their customs are not ours. The King has declared he will see me unveiled. Well, so must it be. I will receive him and the Prince as they wish.”

Elvira scolded. “What will your gracious mother say when she hears?”

“She will understand,” said Katharine.

De Ayala watched her with admiration. She had spirit, this Princess, and as far as her looks were concerned she might not be an obvious beauty but certainly she had nothing to hide.

“I should be veiled,” cried Elvira. “I should cover my face in shame.”

Katharine shrugged her shoulders and turned away. Elvira must understand that although she had an important position in the household she did not rule it.

Katharine was waiting for the King when he arrived and begged that he be brought to her without delay.

Henry entered. He came to her and stood before her. Then as she bowed he took her hands in his and kissed them.

She looked up at him and saw a man of spare figure, pale skinned, with damp reddish hair falling to his shoulders. The ermine on the sleeves of his gown was wet and bedraggled. He could not speak Spanish and it was difficult for them to talk together but he did manage to convey to her that he was delighted to see her and that he apologized for overriding the laws of her country.

All the time he was studying her intently. She looked strong and healthy. He was relieved to see that it was only a custom and that there had been no ulterior motive in keeping her face covered.

He wanted her to know that he was delighted to see her for he applauded her good sense in adjusting so quickly to English customs.

He turned to one of his attendants and said: “Send in the Prince the moment he arrives.”

He talked to Katharine gently, quietly and although she understood little of what he said, she found him reassuring. She was glad that she had not refused to unveil; she could understand that in this country it would seem a very foolish custom. She was sure her mother would agree with her. She had been brought up to be reasonable.

There was a fanfare from without announcing the arrival of the Prince of Wales and there he was, standing before her…a frail boy, smaller than herself, very damp from his ride through the rain, looking at her with apprehension in his pale blue eyes.

She smiled at him and he returned the smile.

Then remembering what was required of him he took her hand and kissed it.

He is only a boy, she thought, younger than I. There is nothing to fear from him.

The King was smiling on them benignly. There was no doubt that they had taken a fancy to each other.

Good! thought the King, but Arthur is too frail as yet for the consummation.

He hurried through the ceremony, and murmured something to Arthur’s squire that the Prince should take off his damp clothes as soon as possible, be rubbed down and put into dry ones.

The Bride and

the Widow

They were seated at the banquet side by side, immediately good friends, their great attraction being that each of them knew there was nothing to fear from the other.

As she was residing in the Bishop’s house it was she who invited the King and the Prince to her apartments to sup and the Bishop being prepared for this was determined to win the King’s favor by making sure that his household provided such a meal as he would get in one of his royal palaces. Henry himself was no glutton, and in fact resented the amount of money which was wasted on food; but he was fully aware of the impression which must be made, not so much on the Princess as on her attendants who would return to Spain and report on the manner in which the Princess had been received and that would include a description of what there had been to eat at the Bishop’s table.

Henry doubted if such sucking pig, chickens, beef, mutton, fish and pies could be surpassed at the Spanish Court and the Infanta certainly seemed surprised by the abundance of it and the large amounts consumed by the guests.

The Prince looked less vulnerable now that he was free of his damp clothes and wore a fine velvet gown trimmed with ermine and a beautifully embroidered shirt. His hair gleamed and his blue eyes shone with pleasure; he was clearly delighted by Katharine’s gentleness.

He could not speak Spanish, but they discovered that they both understood Latin.

She would teach him Spanish, she said, and he felt excited as he always did at the prospect of studying some new subject.

He would teach her English, he promised and she told him that she had already learned a few words.

He asked her about her family and she described to him not what had happened recently but her early days when she had been the baby of a large family. She talked of her mother and he said: “You love her dearly.” She answered that her mother was not only one of the greatest queens of Europe but she had always had time for her children. He knew that Isabella was the ruler of Spain—for although Ferdinand ruled with her it was Isabella who was the leader of the two, for Castile was so much more important than Aragon—but according to Katharine she had also found time to be the best mother in the world.

“Perhaps she will visit you here. Or perhaps we shall go to Spain.”

“Could we?”

“We shall be the King and the Queen. They do not have to ask if they may.”

For the first time in his life he wanted to be king. He was amazed. Katharine had done that for him.

As the evening wore on and the feasting was over it was time for dancing. The minstrels were there and Don Pedro de Ayala whispered to Katharine that she should show the King some of their Spanish dances.

Katharine loved to dance and summoning some of her ladies she commanded them to dance with her. The King watched her. She was strong and healthy enough. He had nothing of which to complain and he was glad he had shown the Spaniards that he would have none of their Moorish customs in England.

He was anxious though, for as the Infanta had danced, this meant that the Prince would have to do the same. Not together. That would not be discreet until they were married. It was a good thing. The little Spaniard was too agile for Arthur.

He beckoned to Lady Guildford, one of the ladies of the royal nurseries, a motherly woman who had always shown concern for the children.

“Take the Prince in the dance,” he said. He looked at her steadily. “Do not keep him at it too long. Something short and not too lively…”

She understood.

So she and Arthur showed the Spanish Princess an English dance. The Prince was grateful and would have done well if he were not so short of breath.

He was greatly relieved to sit down and tried not to show how fatigued he was.

But Katharine noticed. It made her feel very tender toward him.

Prince Henry was delighted. Although he resented the fact that this was not his wedding, he was to play a big part in it. His father had chosen him to lead the Spanish Infanta first into the city and later to the altar.

He was smiling happily as his attendants gathered round him as he was dressed. He looked complacently down at his well-shaped legs in their close-fitting hose. His shirt and pourpoint were of the finest but what pleased him most was the coat—lined with ermine—and the gold chain which was placed about his neck. He would be recognized at once as a Prince.

So royally clad he mounted his horse, which was as grand as he was. Even his gold stirrups were decorated with jewels. He looked magnificent—older than his ten years for he was tall and broad and as he still possessed a very youthful-looking face he was certain to attract the admiration of the crowd. His usually pink cheeks were a shade deeper, and as the sun shone on the thick reddish curls which framed his face he was indeed a handsome sight.

His father himself had told him of what was expected of him. He had warned him that he must please the people. He had meant of course that he must not push himself too much to the fore, the people would not be so much interested in him as in the bride and bridegroom. He must remember to conduct himself with decorum as a prince and knight must always do.

Henry implied that he was well aware of this and added that his father would have no need to be ashamed of him.

And now here he was seated on his horse, waiting for the approach of the Spanish Princess. He had crossed London Bridge and was in St. George’s Field close to Lambeth Palace from which Katharine would emerge.

He was impatient to see her. He had heard that she was handsome and not ill-formed as had been feared because at first she was reluctant to show her face. Lucky Arthur to marry the daughter of Spain! Her mother was very rich and powerful and Katharine had brought many treasures with her from Spain.

Henry’s eyes sparkled at the thought of riches. Not that he would want to hoard them as it was rumored his father did. If he had the money he would spend it on grand occasions, jousting, feasting, fine clothes and riding among the people, giving them amusements, tournaments, baiting of animals and royal pageantry, so pleasing the people.

Alas, that fate had seen fit to make him a second son.

Now he could hear the music coming from Lambeth Palace—music which had a foreign flavor—Spanish, of course. The trumpets thrilled him; he was fond of music, which gave great satisfaction to those who tutored him in that subject. So he listened with pleasure, leaning forward a little in his saddle, eager to catch a first glimpse of her.

And there she was—in the midst of the knights and squires and Spanish gentlemen—a girl on a brilliantly caparisoned mule, which glittered and shone.

Her hair flowed about her shoulders—thick and auburn colored; he could not see her face clearly for she wore a hat which reminded him of the ones Cardinals wore.

His heart beat fast as she approached and he spurred his horse forward. They were face-to-face. He swept off his hat and bowed and said the words he had prepared.

She replied rather stumblingly and her smile told him at once that she liked him.

He was enchanted. He thought he had never seen anyone as beautiful as the Spanish Princess.

He placed himself on her right and prepared to escort her into the city.

How proud he was to be her escort, how conscious of the sidelong glances she gave him! He guessed she was admiring him as he was admiring her.

“You will see how the city is determined to welcome you,” he said.

She lifted her shoulders and shook her head. She did not understand. He was angry with his tutors for not teaching him Spanish. Could she understand Latin? She could.

“It will be so helpful to us,” he said, and smiled.

He was able to tell her that he thought her beautiful and that her hat amused him. “It is like those worn by cardinals,” he said.

She smiled with him.

She was not very old really. She seemed almost his own age.

“I will be your friend,” he said. “You have nothing to fear.”

She murmured: “Thank you.”

He felt elated. This he thought is the happiest moment of my life: and then he remembered that she was to be Arthur’s bride and that Arthur would have not only herself but the crown. His happiness was immediately clouded; he forced his mouth to smile; the irrepressible Skelton had said that when he was angry his mouth betrayed him. “That mouth will send people to the block when…I mean if you are ever king.”

So he smiled and he wondered why Skelton often talked as though he would be the King one day. If Arthur died…but then Arthur was going to be married and married people had sons…If Arthur had a son that would be the end of his hopes. And this beautiful girl would help him to get one. She was really an enemy. But he could not think of her as such.

So he smiled at the people and he was sure they had almost as much interest in him as they had in the Spanish Princess. There were wonderful pageants in the streets. Virgins and saints greeted them but what Henry liked best was the castle, which had been set up near the Falcon Inn; it was so lifelike; it was a most exhilarating experience riding down Cornhill. The conduits in Chepeside were running with free wine to which the people helped themselves most liberally. Everywhere there were tributes to Arthur and his bride.

So Henry took her to the Bishop’s Palace, close to the Cathedral, where she was to rest a few days before the marriage ceremony.

Then again it was Henry’s turn to take her from the Bishop’s Palace to St. Paul’s.

He was delighted by her and could not take his eyes from her.

There was something so strange and exotic about her that made her different from any woman he had ever known. He thought of her spending her childhood in strange Moorish palaces; he thought of all the rich articles she had brought with her to England. He knew that they made his father’s eyes gleam with pleasure and rub his hands together in an anticipation of touching them. The daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain! How truly exciting. He had heard that the wagons which had come with her were full of priceless treasure—carpets of exquisite design; beds, intricately carved; cloths of the finest texture to say nothing of jewels and plate. And all this for Arthur!

Now he could not take his eyes from her. She wore a coif of white silk with a scarf spattered with gold and stones of many colors. It covered half her face as well as a good deal of her person. She told him that it was called a mantilla. Her gown was pleated and spread out in hoops from her tiny waist. It was the first time Henry had seen the fashion which he was to see many times later as it was noticed by many of the ladies who determined to imitate it.

He enjoyed leading her to the Cathedral and all the time he was suppressing his envy of Arthur.

And there was Arthur waiting in the Cathedral dressed in white satin, looking handsome and slightly less fragile than usual.

Henry noticed that his parents were not present and tried not to look up at the latticed box from where he knew they would be watching.

And so Arthur was married to the Princess of Spain and Arthur was now taking his bride to the door of the Cathedral so that the people in the streets could see them.

The cheers were deafening. There was no doubt that the people were pleased with Prince Arthur and his Spanish Princess.

Now Henry was to the fore again for it was his task to lead the bride from the Cathedral to the Bishop’s Palace where the banquet was waiting for them. His Aunt Cecilia, who had been widowed on the death of her husband Lord Wells some three years before, was one of the train bearers.

The feast had begun. There must be such a display as would impress the Spaniards and the King was determined that, much as he deplored spending the money, there should be nothing of which to complain.

And after the feasting there was the ceremony of the bedding, which had been causing not only the married pair but the King and Queen so much anxiety.

First the bed must be examined for lurking weapons—knives and daggers—concealed among the feathers. The moment which Arthur and Katharine had both been dreading had arrived.

There was the usual ribaldry and Arthur was glad that Katharine could not speak the language. The bed had been scented and sprinkled with holy water and the word which was used most frequently was fruitful. Katharine had always known that the first duty of a Princess was to get children but she was afraid and knew very little of the process necessary to their production.

Katharine was undressed by her ladies and, still veiled and in her bedgown, she was conducted to the bedchamber. Arthur had been led in—having similarly been disrobed by his attendants—and the two young people stood facing each other apprehensively.

The bed curtains were drawn back. The bed was blessed and the moment had come.

The King then approached them and said in a low voice which few but the bride and groom could hear: “You are young yet. There is plenty of time before you. You are not ready for marriage. There should be no consummation…until you are a little older.”

He was looking anxiously at his son. He need not have worried. Arthur was looking immensely relieved.

Katharine was smiling too.

So they were led to the bed where they lay side by side. Arthur reached for Katharine’s hand and held it fast; and they talked quietly together in Latin…until they fell asleep.

The pageantry continued. Before Westminster Hall a tiltyard was set up. There was a loge for the King’s party hung with cloth of gold; and round the entire area stages had been built for the people to sit and watch the tournament. It was received with the utmost delight. The people declared they had never seen such entertainment and they wished they had a marriage every week. It was wonderful to see the knights tilting with each other. They pointed out the famous people as they saw them. All knew the King and Queen and the royal children of course but figures like the Marquis of Dorset and the Earl of Essex and Lord William Courtney were names to them until they saw them take on life in the arena.

At dusk the party returned to Westminster Hall for feasting and dancing and Katharine would distribute the prizes won at the tournament.

The ladies took their places on the King’s left hand—Katharine with Queen Elizabeth, and the King’s mother the Countess of Richmond, the Princesses Margaret and Mary and other members of the family such as Lady Wells. On the King’s right hand was Arthur, Henry and other nobles arranged according to their rank.

The pageants were beautiful and all was done in honor of the marriage; and there was much dancing and singing.

Arthur must dance, of course, and the King had suggested that his Aunt Cecilia perform with him. Always, thought Henry, he must dance with elderly people. My father is afraid that the young would dance too fast for him. Arthur however looked graceful in his white satin and Aunt Cecilia was certainly determined not to force him into too much exertion, cleverly giving the impression that it was for her benefit rather than his.

Young Henry was waiting his chance. When it came he would show them. There would be no need for anyone to slow him down. He had always excelled at dancing and he was going to show the assembled company how much better he could perform than his brother.

His eyes fell on his sister Margaret. He and Margaret had never been good friends, but he did admire her dancing. She was as good as he was…or almost. The two of them together could astonish the company.

He could not wait. He went to her and took her hand. She was longing to dance too. She wanted some of the applause which had gone to others for doing something she knew she could do far better.

For a second she scowled at her brother. Then she smiled. She had to admit that he could dance well too and together they would be a perfect pair.

So they danced and the musicians watching them played the music more wildly and glancing at the King, Henry saw that his father was amused…more than amused…rather proud of these two bright healthy children of his.

“Faster, faster!” cried Henry and because his robe was encumbering him he took it off, threw it high in the air so that with greater freedom he could dance more vigorously. The company applauded as they watched the youthful pair cavorting in the center of the hall.

At last the music stopped. The dance was over. The applause was enthusiastic and even the King was smiling.

Henry looked at Katharine. She had clapped her hands together, smiling.

Henry bowed to his parents and then to her.

I am sure, Henry was thinking, Katharine would have liked me better than Arthur.

Dudley and Empson had brought the King a valuation of the Infanta’s dowry.

“Some one hundred thousand crowns, my lord,” said Dudley with satisfaction.

“A goodly sum,” mused the King, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His fingers moved as though to grasp those articles that he might add their value to his exchequer.

“The goods could be said to belong to you, Sire,” said Empson. “They are after all the Princess’s dowry.”

“But what were the rules laid down by the Sovereigns?”

“That the goods should remain in the possession of the Infanta until the second half of the dowry was paid.”

“That will be in a year’s time.”

“True my lord, but we could make good use of those goods now. However, perhaps some advice could be sought.”

“De Ayala?” said the King and shook his head. “De Puebla possibly.”

“We should get more satisfaction from him. I fancy he has a wish to please us for he does not stand so high in the Sovereigns’ favor as does de Ayala for instance.”

“No, they like not his origins but to my mind he is an abler man than de Ayala. I will sound de Puebla.”

“It is the best solution, my lord.”

Henry lost no time in seeking out de Puebla. He did not summon him for he did not wish him to think that the matter of the dowry was a weighty one. However during the course of the conversation between them he said suddenly: “I should like to have possession of the dowry.”

De Puebla folding his hands together, looked down at them gravely.

“The ruling was that it should remain the property of the Princess of Wales for one year after the celebration of the nuptials.”

“I know. I know…but in view of the fact that it is her dowry…which comes to me…to the Prince, why should we wait this year?”

De Puebla looked sly. “My lord King,” he said, “you know full well that I have always sought to be your friend, and that has not always been easy.”

The King nodded.

“This matter of the dowry now…Am I correct in thinking you would prefer one hundred thousand crowns to the jewels and the furniture?”

“You are right.”

“It is no use trying to get the Sovereigns to pass the goods to you. They will never do that. But what if the Princess were to wear the jewels…use the furniture…”

“Why should she? She has plenty of those.”

“If she had her own Court she would need these things and the jewels are part of her state regalia.”

“What do you suggest, my friend?”

De Puebla was thoughtful. He guessed that the marriage had not been consummated. The Sovereigns would be angry if they knew this. They were as anxious as Henry was to get an heir from the union. De Puebla knew that much as Henry wanted an heir he was terrified that sexual exertion would rob Arthur of what little strength he had. De Puebla was mischievous by nature. He liked to be the innocent party who stirred up the waters in the pond and made them troubled and then run away and disclaim all knowledge of what he had done. That was how he had always worked. De Ayala despised him; well, he despised de Ayala, that cultured gallant diplomat. His methods were no way to make history.

The royal pair had not consummated the marriage because Henry did not want it consummated yet and the only reason was that he was afraid for his son’s health. Let the boy take his chance, thought de Puebla, and if making love was too much for him then there would be further interesting situations to amuse de Puebla. Get the pair away from the anxious parental eye…and then they would see.

“Since you do me the honor of asking my opinion,” said de Puebla, “I will give it. This is between ourselves, Highness. Send the Prince and Princess away to a Court of their own…Wales, say. The people love the Prince there. They will love the Princess too. Let them hold Court, let the Princess wear the jewels…use the articles of the dowry…then when the time comes to hand them over you will say you cannot accept second-hand goods. The furniture will have suffered, the arras…the tapestries will be a little worse for wear. You can then demand one hundred thousand crowns, the first half of the dowry.”

“H’m,” said the King. “You are a devious thinker, my lord.”

“In the service of Your Highness.”

“And of your Sovereigns?”

De Puebla moved an imperceptible step nearer to the King. “My lord, I have had good friendship from you,” he said. “Better than…”

He did not finish and the King did not ask him to.

“I will think about this matter,” said the King.

A few days later it was announced that the Prince and Princess of Wales would reside for a while in Ludlow.

They were approaching the castle—Katharine with those who were left to her of the Spanish retinue she had brought with her, headed by Doña Elvira, and Arthur with a group of advisers who had been chosen by the King.

The castle was built high on a headland, its foundations grafted into the gray rock, and guarded by a deep and wide fosse. There was a vast early Norman square tower and impressive battlements, which gave it a comforting air of impregnability. It was set in beautiful country overlooking the town of Ludlow; on all sides was the green countryside—woods, hills and fields rolling on to the horizon.

Katharine thought it very beautiful; she loved the greenness of everything, which she had noticed on her arrival in England. She thought she would be very happy here, for she was happy with Arthur. They were good companions; they studied together; she was learning to speak English and was teaching him Spanish. She was always careful never to tire him and he was grateful because she did so unostentatiously.

The Welsh accepted them and liked them. The chieftains called at the castle. One of them brought his son hoping that he would learn to be a squire in the Prince’s household. Arthur accepted him and Griffith ap Rhys became a friend of both Arthur and Katharine, greatly to the delight of the boy’s father and the people of Wales.

Such happy days they were! Katharine had almost ceased to think of Spain and the longing to be with her mother was less than she had thought it possible to be.

Arthur’s health seemed to improve a little. He could ride for longer hours and he and Katharine tried out a few dances together. He was so grateful because if he became breathless she always made some excuse to stop.

They were ideal companions and Arthur was deeply contented with his marriage. He was able to explain to her how he dreaded having to take part in ceremonies and she understood.

“If I am ever king I shall dispense with a great deal of it,” he told her. “It is not necessary, you know. It does not make a good king because he has to dance and make good speeches….”

Katharine agreed with him.

“When we are the King and Queen we will live at Ludlow…oh, I know, not for all the time. But we could come here often could we not?”

“We will,” said Arthur.

He could talk to Katharine as he had never been able to talk to anyone before. To her he confided that he had always thought he should have been born second, Henry first. “Henry would have made such a good king and I should have been well enough in the Church.”

“You would not have married me,” she reminded him.

“Ah,” said Arthur. “You are right. Then I would not have anything other than it is.”

News came from the Court. There was to be a grand celebration for Arthur’s sister Margaret was to be betrothed to the King of Scots. The news threw a certain gloom over the household at Ludlow. The thought of having to leave his newly found peace for the ceremonies of Court depressed Arthur.

Katharine comforted him but his depression frightened her a little. Surely their future life when Arthur was king would be a continuation of such occasions.

She would have to talk to him of this; she would have to stand beside him, help him to overcome his shyness. She was confident that together they would face whatever lay before them.

And then the good news. The King thought it was not necessary for the Prince of Wales to come to Court. His brother Henry would play his part in the ceremonies and Arthur should stay at Ludlow.

Arthur was overcome with joy and Katharine was delighted to see him so relieved; but afterward she thought of the matter and she knew that the reason his father had not wished him to be present was because he feared the journey to Richmond would be too strenuous for him and might have a damaging effect on his health.

She was very anxious when he looked so tired, but she assured herself that he was better since they had lived quietly at Ludlow. All was going to be well. She would look after him, make sure he did not exert himself and in time, she assured herself, his health would improve.

She must count her blessings. She was lucky. She only had to look back a little way to remember how she had been dreading her marriage; and here she was with the gentlest of husbands, who was kind and clever, interesting and tender. What good fortune was hers! She would write home and tell her mother how happy she was.

Another ceremony! How young Henry loved them—particularly, as on this occasion, when his brother was not present. That gave him added importance. He walked beside the King and was accorded the homage which would have been Arthur’s if he had been present, so that he could imagine that he was the Prince of Wales—king-to-be.

And he was secretly delighted by the reason for this occasion. Margaret was to be married—by proxy it was true—to the King of Scotland. Soon his sister would depart and he would be relieved of her irritating presence. Margaret was too much like himself, too forceful, too aware of her dignity, always trying to push herself forward. Moreover she was perceptive. She saw through him too easily and often put into words something which was only a thought in his mind. It was disconcerting. She was clever and older than he was. Perhaps she wished that she had been a boy and then…if anything happened to Arthur…she would have been the Sovereign.

Arthur was constantly in his mind—the health of Arthur, the possibilities of his death. Such thoughts were best hidden and the notion that Margaret guessed at them disturbed him a great deal. Therefore it was comforting to reflect that Margaret was destined for Scotland. It was a pity of course that their father had decreed that she was too young to leave England immediately.

Well, she would have to go in time and Skelton had told Henry that when she did get there she would find a situation which would engage all her talents to unravel.

What did he mean by that? Winks and nudges and those intriguing innuendos which were so characteristic of Skelton.

“James the King is a wild laddie, my lord. He abounds in love.”

“Well, is that not a good thing?”

“Love for women, my lord, reckless love for women. Mind you, none could compare with your own illustrious grandsire, so I’ve heard, but I’d be ready to swear James of Scotland runs him pretty close.”

“But when he is married to Margaret…”

“Ah, when he is married to Margaret! Marriage…that is the time when men repent of their sins; they have sown their wild oats and now settle down to sow a few tame ones, eh. I would I were there to see how Dame Margaret handles the Boyds, the Kennedys, the Drummonds…Ah, and how they handle her!”

Henry laughed. “She will know what to do, I promise you.”

“’Twill be a sight worth seeing I am sure.”

“And now I am to go to this matter at Richmond…in my brother’s place.”

“It becomes you well, my lord…your brother’s place…”

And there was Skelton, his expression changing from one of lewdness to speculation.

And so to Richmond and the ceremony. His father looked at him with a certain criticism as though reproaching him for his too healthy looks and his exuberant manner. The King might not like them but the people did, and Henry shrewdly suspected that the people’s approval was more important to him than even his father’s. It was not real criticism, Henry understood. It was only the wistful thought of how pleased he would be if Arthur had one half of Henry’s good health.

The Queen was looking pale though she had made attempts to disguise this. Skelton—who had a way of learning such things—said that the apothecary was constantly sending remedies to her and she often sent monks and priests to make pilgrimages to the well-known shrines of the country to pray for her.

Margaret was radiant. She had few qualms about going to Scotland. It was typical of Margaret that she could not imagine herself failing to succeed at anything. If she had heard rumors of her future husband’s irregular life she gave no sign of it. She would be sure that as soon as he clapped eyes on her and realized his good fortune nothing else would be of great importance to him.

They heard Mass in the chapel and then went from the chapel to the Queen’s great chamber where the marriage by proxy would be performed.

Henry listened to the voices.

“I, Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, procurator of the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince James, by the grace of God King of Scotland, my sovereign lord, having sufficient authority power and commandment to contract matrimony, per verba de presenti in the name of my said sovereign Lord with thee Margaret…”

On and on…He would be glad when this was over and the feasting began. There would be jousts…dancing and he would excel at them all.

And now her turn: “I, Margaret, first begotten daughter of the right excellent high and mighty Prince and Princess, Henry by the grace of God King of England and Elizabeth, Queen of the same…”

By the grace of God, thought Henry. Skelton said, By the grace of good fortune, Lady Luck who came to Bosworth Field.

“Good fortune was the grace of God surely,” Henry had argued.

“It is a matter which could be debated,” was the answer.

He was wicked, Skelton was. If the King knew what treason he uttered…

But I like him, thought Henry. No matter what he says…and he laughs at me sometimes…still for some strange reason I would have him near me.

At last…it was over. Now the feasting. The Queen was leading her daughter by the hand toward the dinner table. Two queens together. Henry felt a flush of anger. Margaret was a queen. Above a duke in rank, he supposed. It was insufferable.

But at the jousting and the pageants he excelled. He was sure everyone was watching him.

“A triumph, a triumph,” said Skelton later. “The bride conducted herself with grace and charm. And now we have a queen in the nursery we must take heed of our manners.”

“Queen! It is but a proxy marriage.”

“Queen never-the-less. You will see that henceforth she will be named always as the Queen of Scotland.”

“I hope she is soon sent to Scotland. Perhaps she won’t give herself such airs there.”

“Margaret will always be Margaret…and Henry Henry,” said Skelton.

“They treated me as the Prince of Wales.”

“As they would, my lord…if the Prince himself were absent.”

“Skelton…I wonder…”

“I have had news from Ludlow. The Prince is happy with his bride. He is breathless still and I believe spits blood, which he tries to hide…but it is hard to hide the secrets of the bedchamber from zealous servants’ eyes.”

“Skelton…you know something…”

“All I know I would tell my lord.” He put his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “The love between the royal pair increases. They are very tender…and much in each other’s company.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you put two loving people together…if they be man and wife…well, what would you…nature being what it is?”

“They must not have a child,” said Henry.

“Who says so? Great Harry. And he should be obeyed. But there are times when God turns a deaf ear even to princes. What we must pray for, my dear lord…is good fortune…and the grace of God.”

Spring was beautiful in England. It seemed particularly so after the dark days of winter; now the air had a balminess in it and the whole of nature seemed to be aware that spring was coming. Arthur showed Katharine wild daffodils when they rode out together and the mingling white of the daisies and gold of the dandelions seemed enchanting to her.

She was watchful of him, always declaring when she saw him begin to weary that she had been too long in the saddle and was tired. He was always solicitous, but he knew that she was thinking of him and he loved her for it.

They touched hands; they kissed; sometimes he would put an arm about her and hold her to him; but their endearments never went beyond that. They were watchful, Arthur remembering his father’s injunction; Katharine, aware of something she did not fully understand but fearing that it would be dangerous for Arthur, kept her emotions in check.

Perhaps it occurred to both of them that it could not last; perhaps that was why they were determined to enjoy those days to the full.

Change hit them suddenly.

One of the attendants came in to say that there was a case of sweating sickness in the town of Ludlow.

There was immediate consternation in the castle. Everyone was awaiting a summons from the King. They were sure that when the news reached him, Arthur would be removed at once.

But no message came. And then it was too late.

It was inevitable that the weakest member of the household should be the victim.

There was despair in the castle. Katharine prayed for the life of her young husband. Surely God could not be so cruel as to take him away now that they were becoming so happy together? The King would send down the finest physicians in the land. Arthur’s life must be saved.

But few survived the dreaded sweating sickness. Arthur most certainly could not.

They brought the news to her. She stared at them unbelievingly. Dead! Arthur. She could not believe it. She would not believe it.

“’Tis true, my lady,” they said. “God knows what the King will do when he hears this doleful news.”

She felt bereft, desolate. A wife and no wife…a virgin widow.

If only the marriage had been consummated. If only she could have had Arthur’s child. Then she would have had something to live for.

Now…she was alone.

The King was at Greenwich when he heard that Arthur’s Chamberlain had arrived from Ludlow and was urgently requesting to be brought to him.

Henry was seized with trembling for a terrible foreboding had come to him.

“Bring him to me with all speed,” he said, “and as soon as he comes.”

Arthur’s Chamberlain was heavy-hearted as he rode to Greenwich where the Court was in residence. He dreaded telling the King the tragic news and he decided that he would impart it first to the Council and ask their advice as to the best way of breaking it.

The Council was dismayed and after some consultation decided that it would be best for the King’s Confessor to tell him and this was arranged.

When Henry heard the discreet knock on the door he knew that it was his Confessor who stood without and, suspecting nothing, he bade him enter.

The man’s woebegone expression sent quivers of alarm running through the King’s mind and he immediately thought of Arthur.

“You have ill news,” he said.

The Confessor replied: “I have, my lord, and you are going to need all the strength that God can give you.”

“It is my son,” said the King quietly.

“It is, my lord.”

“He is sick?”

The Confessor did not answer.

“Dead!” cried the King. “Dead…!” He turned away. He could never bear any man to see his emotion. Why had he loved this boy who had been such a disappointment to him? All his hopes had been in Arthur although he had been frail from birth. It was a mistake to become involved with others. He had always known this and tried to avoid it. Why was Arthur the one person who had made him diverge from the path of wisdom so that he must suffer constant anxiety—as he had since the boy had been born!

Now this was the final blow.

He turned to the Confessor. “Send the Queen to me. I must be the one to break this news to her.”

“My lord, would you wish to kneel first in prayer.”

“I would wish first to see the Queen. I would not want her to hear this news from any but myself.”

The Confessor bowed and retired and returned shortly after with the Queen.

She was alarmed. She knew from Henry’s expression that something terrible had happened. He had lost something dear to him. His crown…his…son!

“What is it?” she said. “Is it…?”

He nodded. “Arthur,” he said quietly. “He died of the sweating sickness.”

She covered her face with her hands. Henry was so overcome with emotion that he could not speak. She lowered her hands and looked at him and saw the anguish in his face and she knew how deeply he whose feelings were usually so well hidden was suffering and suddenly the need to comfort him was more important to her than anything else.

“Our beloved son,” she said quietly. “His health was always an anxiety. We were always expecting this. Henry…we have another son. Thank God for him. We have two fine daughters.”

“That is true,” said Henry. “But Arthur…”

“Arthur was our firstborn…so gentle always. Such a good boy. But he was never strong in health. In Henry we have one who will step into his shoes. We should be thankful for that.”

“I am,” he said. “We have one son left to us….”

“Your mother had but one son, and look you, he is King of England, the comfort of his realm, the comfort of his Queen and his children.”

“Elizabeth, you are a good wife to me…a good mother to our children.”

“Subdue your grief, my lord. Remember God wills that we go on…even after such a bitter blow. We are young yet. Who knows we may have more princes. But we have Henry and he is a fine strong boy.”

The King was silent. “You comfort me,” he said.

And she left him for she could no longer contain her grief and when she reached her own chamber she threw herself onto her bed and gave way to it.

She had loved Arthur as much as Henry had—more tenderly, as a mother does. This was her firstborn. Her beloved child…loved, she must admit, beyond the others. Her grief was such that it overwhelmed her and when her women found her they were alarmed for her and sent for her physician.

He went to the King and told him that he must comfort the Queen.

So then it was Henry’s turn and he went to her and talked to her quietly of Arthur—Arthur as a child, Arthur growing up, how delighted they had been with his cleverness, how perpetually anxious for his health.

“Somehow,” he said, “I knew that it would happen…and now it has. Dear Elizabeth, we must be brave. We must go on. You were telling me this and now I am telling you. We have our son Henry. We will get more sons, and perhaps in time we shall cease to mourn so bitterly.”

There were three weeks when the Prince of Wales lay in state and then began the funeral procession from Ludlow Castle to the Cathedral at Worcester.

There was one among the mourners who wept with the others, but he could not suppress the fierce joy in his heart.

This was what he had always longed for. To be the firstborn. But that was of no consequence now. Miraculously he was there in the place he had longed for.

No longer Duke of York, but Prince of Wales.

“Henry the King,” he murmured to himself. “Henry the Eighth.”

He could not help studying his father, whose face was pale, whose hair was gray and whose eyes were without luster. Arthur’s death had aged him a great deal. Well, the Prince of Wales was only eleven and even he recognized that was rather young to be a king.

“I can wait awhile,” he told himself, “knowing that one day it will come.”

The Princes in

the Tower

The King was weighed down with anxieties. He had lost his eldest son; the Queen was ill; but most alarming of all was the fact that his grip on the crown after seventeen years of good rule was still not firm enough to give him peace of mind.

At the heart of his insecurity was the fear that someone would arise and snatch the throne from him—someone mature, strong, able to charm the people and who was in possession of that which for all his cleverness Henry would never attain: the claim to rule by the law of hereditary accession.

There would always be whispers against him—behind his back, of course. At least none dared utter them aloud, but he was aware of them. “Bastard sprig!” “Was your grandmother really married to Owen Tudor?” “Your mother, it is true, descended from John of Gaunt—but from his bastard family of Beauforts.” And whatever case was brought forward to prove legitimization there would always be those to shake their heads and murmur against him.

So here he was after seventeen years during which he had proved he knew how to govern since he had brought his country from near bankruptcy to financial prosperity—and yet he must live constantly with this fear that someone would one day rise against him.

In public he could snap his fingers at pretenders. He could laugh at poor simple Lambert Simnel tending his falcons and Perkin Warbeck had met his just deserts. Henry hoped by his leniency to these two—and he had been lenient even to Perkin Warbeck—that he had shown the people how little importance he attached to these impostors.

But in fact he had attached the utmost importance to them—not in themselves, of course, but what they stood for.

The young Earl of Warwick was dead. It had been a wise move to get rid of him, and to execute him openly for treason. There must be no more disappearances in the Tower. There was more to be feared from mysterious disappearances, he had learned, than from open execution. No one talked of young Warwick now. The people had accepted that he had been a menace to the peace of the country. They had not been very interested in him. Poor boy, he had been a sorry figure, a prisoner for most of his life. It would have been better for him if he had never been born.

Assessing the mood of the people Henry believed that they were not eager for rebellions; they wanted peace. They were in fact more contented with his rule than they realized. They grumbled. People always grumbled. If things went well they wanted them to go better. Give them comfort and they wanted luxuries. They did not like the taxes imposed by Empson and Dudley. Did they not see the need for a solvent exchequer? Did they not understand that a bankrupt nation could not hold off its enemies? Did they realize that their growing prosperity came from the wise calculation of the King and his able ministers? They must know that trade prospered; they cared about that. Was that why they had realized it would have been bad for the country to put a foolish youth on the throne just because his father had been the brother of Edward the Fourth?

Yet both Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck had had their supporters. Lambert had been doomed to failure from the start. The idea of trying to impersonate a young man who was actually living and could be brought forth from his prison in the Tower and shown to the people was absurd. It was different with Perkin. His had been a much stronger case. For he had declared he was Richard Duke of York—the Prince who had disappeared in the Tower.

This was a lesson to all would-be pretenders. If you are going to impersonate someone let it not be one whose whereabouts are known. Choose one who has disappeared mysteriously and in this case one who, had he lived, could well be the true heir to the crown.

This struck at the heart of his acute anxieties.

Who knew when someone else would arise? At any time there could be someone with features similar to those of Edward the Fourth who would declare he was the son of that King, who would say: “I am one of the Princes who was in the Tower and who was never accounted for.”

It was not difficult for unscrupulous people to find young men who looked like Edward the Fourth for that monarch had scattered his seed far and wide. He must have left bastards in various parts of this country and others. Wherever he went he had his women, many of whom would think it an honor to bear the King’s child.

So there it was…the heavy shadow…the ghost of two little boys, who would now be young men…to come and haunt him and disturb his peace.

If only he could say: These boys died in the Tower. I know they died. He could not do that. He dared not answer the all-important question: How do you know?

There must be a way. He would find it.

Then the opportunity came and as soon as he realized what it could bring, he determined to seize it. It would need care; but then he was a careful man. A certain ingenuity? Oh, he would manage that.

He was careful and ingenious by nature. And there was so much at stake.

It was when the name Sir James Tyrrell was mentioned in connection with the Earl of Suffolk that the idea came to him. He was excited. It might just be possible to put an end to these fears which had haunted him ever since he had come to the throne. And if this could be done, if it were possible to work this out, he must do so. He was determined that his plan should succeed.

It had not been difficult for Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk to convince himself that he had a greater claim to the throne than Henry Tudor. He was the second son of John de la Pole, second Duke of Suffolk, and Elizabeth the sister of Edward the Fourth; and from his mother came his claim. Edmund had been twenty-one years old when his father had died and he should have succeeded to the title then because his elder brother, John, had been killed at the battle of Stoke where he had been fighting with Lambert Simnel’s army. However, John had been attainted and his goods and title confiscated by the King. Edmund had become the King’s ward at that time but later Henry had given the title back to Edmund and an agreement as to the family estates had been arrived at, which proved Henry’s grasping nature and his determination to squeeze out every penny he could whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Consequently only a portion of the de la Pole estates were returned and in exchange for these the King demanded a payment of five thousand pounds. Edmund was appalled but the King had stated, with an air of gracious leniency, that the sum could be paid annually over a number of years.

Although Suffolk returned to Court and was present at certain ceremonies, the King’s treatment of him continued to rankle. Henry believed that the young man had had a sharp lesson and would think twice before following in his brother’s footsteps, which he must see had led to his early death and the loss of prestige and property. His claim to the throne—flimsy though it was—caused the King to watch him with some concern, but it seemed that Suffolk had realized that his best hope of living comfortably was to be a loyal subject; he was with the army which had marched to Blackheath and dispersed the rebellious Cornishmen. Henry was pleased; perhaps he had nothing to fear from the young man; but of course he would remain watchful.

Then an unfortuante incident occurred. Suffolk had been involved in a quarrel and in the heat of passion had drawn his sword and run his adversary through the heart.

This was murder and Henry was not going to allow crimes of that nature to go unpunished.

Suffolk was enraged. It had been a fair fight, he insisted. Moreover he was royal; he did not expect to be treated as an ordinary person.

“The King has robbed me of much of my estate,” he said, “and in doing so forgets I am of the royal House of York. Would he indict me in the King’s Bench like some ordinary felon?”

“Murder is a felony,” was the King’s answer to that, “and those who commit it cannot be excused because of their royal blood.”

“Henry does not like those of us of the House of York who might be said to have more claim to the throne than an upstart Welshman,” was Suffolk’s impetuous retort.

His friends warned him of talking too freely but Suffolk was recalling the loss of the large portion of his estates and he was feeling reckless.

It was inevitable that some of his words should reach the King’s ear. A dangerous man, thought Henry. One who should be guarded against not so much because of his temper but because of his connection with the House of York.

Here was the old bogy rising once more. Lambert Simnel…and away in the distance the shadowy figures of two small boys in the Tower.

He brooded over Suffolk; he asked certain questions about his movements.

Suffolk had his friends, and they advised him to get away for a while until the affair of the killing blew over and as Suffolk had no intention of standing trial, in early August when the weather was calm he crossed the Channel without fuss, determined the King should not be aware of his departure until he was well away.

On arriving in France his first call was at the Castle of Guisnes near Calais. He knew he would receive a warm welcome there for the custodian of the castle was his old friend Sir James Tyrrell.

He was right. Tyrrell was in the courtyard as soon as he heard of his friend’s arrival. With him was his son, Thomas, of whom he was clearly proud and understandably so. Thomas was a handsome young man and it was obvious that there was a happy relationship between him and his father.

Tyrrell called to his horsekeeper, John Dighton, to give his personal attention to their guest’s stabling and Dighton, red-faced, big and broad and clearly capable, immediately set about doing his master’s bidding.

Sir James then took the Earl into the castle and sent his son to give orders that nothing should be spared in providing the utmost comfort for their guest.

Then he settled down to hear an account of the Earl’s abrupt departure. When he had explained, Suffolk reviled the King and brought up the old grievance of the King’s taking from him the major part of his inheritance, and then giving him back a portion for which he had to pay.

“Oh the King is most gracious,” said Suffolk sarcastically. “He has given me a period of time to pay him for my own estates. Did you ever hear of such conduct, James? And that the old miser should dare to behave so to a member of the House of York, angers me beyond description.”

“His treatment of you is because you are of the House of York,” said Tyrrell. “It was a sad day for us when the Tudor came and killed good King Richard.”

“I know you served him well. Rest assured that this King of ours sleeps uneasily in his bed. He is constantly on the lookout for someone to thrust a dagger into his heart or stretch out rightful hands to take the crown. You, my friend, were always loyal to our House of York.”

“King Richard’s reign was too short, alas. He was our rightful King.”

“I often wonder how much truth there was in that story of Edward’s precontract to Eleanor Butler,” went on Suffolk.

“There is one mystery which will never be solved.”

“And there is another. Those two little boys…Kings both of them if the story be true that the elder died before the younger. King Edward the Fifth and King Richard the Fourth. They were pleasant boys. I saw them now and then when I was young. ’Tis a strange story. I wonder the King does not sift the matter, for if one of those little boys still lives he is indeed the true King. Henry cannot pronounce them bastards for if they are, so is his Queen—and how could the King of England marry a bastard!”

“’Tis a long-ago mystery,” said Tyrrell, staring straight ahead. “Too far back in time to be settled now.”

“But one which must haunt the King…unless he knows the answer.”

“It may be that he does know the answer.”

“You think he may?”

Tyrrell was silent then he said, almost as though speaking to himself, “Oh it is long ago. But you, my lord, what plans have you?”

“To rest here for a while and see how the land lies.”

“My son and I will make you welcome here for as long as you wish to stay.”

“I must not stay long. By doing so I should compromise you with the King.”

“He knows I have no plans to rise against him.”

“Then you should not be too friendly with those who have a reason for doing so.”

Tyrrell looked at Suffolk with something like wonderment.

“You, my lord…how?”

“Why should I not discover? It may well be that I have friends on the Continent. As for you, James, you might do well not to connect yourself too openly with me…until such time as it will be safe to do so.”

Tyrrell’s face hardened: “I do not fear the King,” he said.

“No, you are well away. He has been a good friend to you…in a manner of speaking. After all you were a strong supporter of King Richard.”

“Oh yes…I must say that I was forgiven my allegiance to the House of York. He made me Sheriff of Glamorgan and Morgannock and gave me the Constableship of Cardiff Castle for life with a salary of one hundred pounds a year.”

“Generous treatment for a miser. There was something behind it all. There must have been.”

“Yes,” said Tyrrell, “there must have been.”

“The Tudor always has his reasons and he is not accustomed to giving something for nothing. He must have had a great opinion of you, James. He must have thought very highly of your services. And now you have Guisnes. Almost as though he wanted you out of the country. It shows he trusts you.”

“Yes, I think he trusts me.”

“Then you should keep it that way…until such a moment as you decide it is no longer necessary. One must be wily when dealing with the Tudor.”

“You are right there. Have a care, my lord.”

“You may trust me to do that.”

Shortly afterward Suffolk left Guisnes. Tyrrell was relieved to see him go.

He had good reason to know how ruthless Henry Tudor could be.

It was then that Henry’s spies on the Continent brought him news that Suffolk had stayed awhile in the company of Sir James Tyrrell at Guisnes Castle. This increased Henry’s uneasiness, and he decided that Suffolk must be brought back to England and if it was not possible to persuade him to come back then it would be necessary to use force.

“I will offer him a pardon to return,” said Henry to Dudley. “I will imply that this unfortunate killing will be forgotten.”

“You think it wise, my lord?”

Henry was thoughtful. There were matters of which even Dudley knew nothing. He spoke firmly: “Yes, I think it wise. I want Suffolk in England where we can keep our eyes on him.”

When Suffolk received the King’s messengers who arrived with the pardon, he decided that his best course was to return. So far he had committed no sin against the Crown and he knew that that was what Henry really feared.

So he returned and was received by the King.

Henry studied him warily, wondering about his activities on the Continent. Enemies of the House of Tudor abounded there, but he was not unduly disturbed about Suffolk’s attempts to raise an army against him. He believed that would meet with little success. He did wonder though what Suffolk and Sir James Tyrrell had talked about when they were together.

“Well,” said Henry affably, “that matter of affray in which a man was killed…we will choose to forget it.”

“I am glad of that. There was nothing else I could have done. I was insulted.”

“These moments arise and in the heat of them…well, it is understandable.”

Suffolk thought: Cold-blooded fish. Who could imagine his ever being caught up in the heat of any passion? His eyes were a cold pale blue—how different from Edward who would have blazed out, shouted and then in a short time they would have been laughing and drinking one another’s health. A man knew where he was with Edward. With the Tudor he could never be sure.

“So you visited Tyrrell at Guisnes,” said the King quietly.

“It was the first port of call, my lord.”

“And how was the custodian of that castle?”

“In good health, I think. His son is with him—a fine upstanding young man.”

“Yes, yes. It is good to have sons. Is he content with his life there?”

“It would appear so.”

“You must have had a great deal to talk of. I know what it is when a man meets someone from home. Did he talk of England…of his past life here?”

“Not much. We were not together very long.”

Henry was trying to probe the thoughts of the other. Had Tyrrell said anything? Of course he hadn’t. He wouldn’t be such a fool.

He changed the subject. He did not want Suffolk to suspect he was overinterested in James Tyrrell.

He brought the meeting to a close. It was significant now that the rift between Henry and Suffolk was over, but with each a little wary of the other.

That had happened just before the young Duke of Warwick was brought to the block and beheaded. Shortly before Perkin Warbeck paid the penalty for his recklessness.

After Warwick’s execution Suffolk became uneasy. Warwick had died because of his claim to the throne. His, Suffolk’s, was not so strong but it existed; and he had already shown his antipathy to Henry Tudor.

He thought it might be wise to slip out of the country again with his friends. In secret he had discussed his dissatisfaction with the Tudor rule and it had been suggested to him that the Emperor Maximilian would delight in the discomfiture of the English King and it seemed feasible that he might be ready to help in his downfall.

Suffolk thought: Why should not I be the one to bring about this happy result? I am of the House of York. Ours is the true reigning house.

Moreover Henry Tudor might be a good administrator but he was no soldier. He might know how to fill the exchequer by taking those goods and lands which belonged to others but he would not find it easy to raise an army of inspired men, to be that leader whom people admired and followed without question.

It was not long before the Earl of Suffolk was at the Court of Maximilian where to his great delight he was received as an honored guest and listened to most sympathetically.

This was not quite the same as providing an army, which was what Suffolk had hoped for, and although Maximilian would like to see Henry discomfited, when it came to providing the necessary arms and men that was another matter.

Maximilian sighed and prevaricated. It would be most difficult for him to do anything at the moment. Then he had an idea. He would invite the Count of Hardeck to meet the Earl.

“There is a man who loves causes…if they appeal to him,” said Maximilian. “He will be sympathetic to you, I am sure, and if that sympathy goes deep enough…well, Hardeck is a man with the means.”

Hardeck was young and enthusiastic. He listened to Suffolk’s account of how Henry had robbed him of his estates, and how England was groaning under the taxes imposed by Dudley and Empson; he was appalled by the subjugation of the noble House of York and that the Queen was not given her true rights and must always be subjected to the will of Lancaster.

The young Count would lend Suffolk twenty thousand gulden and this could be paid back with interest when Suffolk had achieved his goal.

“You should return to England,” Maximilian advised the Earl. “Find out how many men will be ready to stand with you. Find out whether if you raise an army the Tudor could stand against you.”

Suffolk decided he would do so. Hardeck would be repaid, he promised him, and his payment would be double that which he had lent; and as surety Hardeck’s son should go with Suffolk to England.

This was success such as Suffolk had scarcely dared hope for. Hardeck had come in at the right moment when Maximilian was slipping away.

So, with his friends, he came to England.

Had he been wiser he would have known that Henry would not be ignorant of what was going on. The King did in fact know every twist and turn of the negotiations with Maximilian and was amused at Suffolk’s temerity and naivety in imagining that the Emperor would involve himself in such a hopeless cause. On the other hand Suffolk had found support and that must not be lightly shrugged aside.

It was not really Suffolk with whom he was concerned. Suffolk was a fool and could easily be dealt with. As soon as he stepped on English soil he was arrested on a charge of plotting treason and in a short time he was lodged in the Tower. With him were arrested his brother Lord William de la Pole and Lord William Courtenay, another Yorkist who had married one of the daughters of Edward the Fourth.

That attempted revolt was stifled almost before it had begun and the King had cause for gratification.

But the idea which had come to him when he had heard Suffolk had called at Guisnes Castle was still with him. It had obsessed him and he saw a way of bringing about that satisfaction which he had long sought.

He sent for Sir Richard Guildford, his master of ordnance, and with him came Richard Hatton a man whom he had reason to trust.

“I want you to bring Sir James Tyrrell and his son and his master of horse John Dighton to England,” he said. “It will be necessary to practice a little deception because I want them to come willingly.”

“Your orders shall be carried out, my lord,” promised Guildford.

“As soon as they are safely in the country, they are all three to be immediately lodged in the Tower. It may be necessary to tell Tyrrell that I wish to speak with him on a matter which is too secret to be imparted to anyone. I think that will bring him without delay. Let it appear that I am indeed his friend and wish to reward him, and make sure that he brings with him his horsekeeper and his son, who is at present in residence in the castle.”

The men departed and Henry, trying to curb his impatience, eagerly awaited their arrival.

Tyrrell was wary. Suffolk had been arrested. He was glad he had not been involved in that. Suffolk was hot-headed, impulsive, not the man who should attempt to pit his wits against shrewd Henry Tudor. His planned insurrection had been doomed to failure before it had begun. How wise he had been to keep clear of that! It was a pity that Suffolk had visited him—but his stay had been brief and he could prove that nothing treasonable had happened between them.

When he wakened one morning to find the castle surrounded, he was horrified. It could mean only one thing. He was about to be arrested and the only reason could be implication with Suffolk. When he saw the Calais garrison were stationed outside the castle, his first thought was that he would hold out. He had the necessary stores, men and arms to withstand a long siege and he would do so until he knew why his castle was being besieged.

He did not have to wait long. A messenger came to tell him that Sir Thomas Lovell, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was aboard the ship, which lay at anchor, and he wished to have a private word with Sir James Tyrrell. He came from the King and he was in fact commanding Sir James to come to meet him.

It was no use asking the messenger for what purpose, but he had brought with him a safe conduct.

Tyrrell guessed that the King had discovered what Suffolk was doing and that he was going to be accused of complicity. He sent for his son.

“Thomas,” he said, “this messenger comes from Sir Thomas Lovell, who wishes to have speech with me.”

“You should not go, Father. You should not leave the castle.”

“I shall, my son. I have safe conduct and while I am gone I leave you in charge of the castle. Hold the siege and take no orders that do not come from me. Do you understand?”

Thomas said he did.

So Sir James left with the messenger and went aboard to meet Sir Thomas Lovell.

As soon as he was ushered into his presence he knew he had been foolish to come, for Lovell lost no time in accusing Tyrrell, in the name of the King, of high treason.

“This is monstrous,” said Tyrrell. “I am entirely guiltless.”

“It will be necessary for you to return to England with me.”

“I was promised safe conduct. I am not afraid of answering my accuser but I shall go back to the castle to put my affairs in order there. Then I will return to England to answer these false charges.”

“You will at once send a message to your son. The castle is to be surrendered without delay.”

“I shall send no such message.”

“I think you will, Sir James. If you do not you will be promptly thrown into the sea.”

“On whose orders?”

“From one who must not be disobeyed.”

“You mean…the King?”

“I did not say that. I have orders to take you back to England…. I was not told whether you were to be alive or dead…only to bring you at any cost.”

“Let me go back to the castle. Let me make ready to leave.”

Lovell shook his head. “The castle is to surrender. You will send a message to your son.”

He signed to two strong men who came forward at once and seized Tyrrell.

“Are you prepared to sign that order? The sea is rough today. Accoutred as you are you would have little chance of surviving.”

They really mean it, thought Tyrrell. What is behind all this? Why did not the King send me a simple command to return? I should have done so. I have nothing to fear from him. Or…have I? No, he could not. He would not dare. What I could tell…

He was seized with a fit of shivering. He seemed to see Henry Tudor’s cold eyes staring at him.

He said: “I will sign the order for the surrender of the castle. Only my signature will satisfy my son.”

Lovell smiled and bowed his head.

He summoned a messenger. “Take this order at once to the castle. Thomas Tyrrell and John Dighton are to join us here on the ship without delay.”

“My son knows nothing of…of anything you may be accusing me of.”

“We have our orders,” smiled Lovell. “And we intend to obey them to the letter.”

In a very short time Thomas Tyrrell and John Dighton joined Sir James on the ship.

Before he reached England Tyrrell knew that he had been a fool to leave the castle. If he had not done so he would be there now…defending it against the Calais garrison. He had been tricked. He should never have obeyed the summons to see Lovell. And now what? He knew he was going to be accused with Suffolk. He had committed no treason. It was true that Suffolk had visited him but they had not even talked of treason. If he had a fair trial he could prove this. Suffolk would exonerate him for Suffolk was a man of honor even though he was impulsive and hotheaded.

We shall be all right, thought Tyrrell. We must for we have done nothing.

His great concern was for his son Thomas. Thomas was completely innocent. It was wicked to have dragged him into this. Whatever happened, Thomas must not be made to suffer.

It was spring but there was a chill in the air. He was closely guarded and with him Thomas and John Dighton. They were taken to London and when he saw the great gray edifice ahead of him and realized that it was to be his destination he was filled with cold horror.

He was the King’s prisoner. What could they prove against him? Nothing. He deluded himself. The King’s men could always prove what they wanted to and something told him that there was more in this accusation than he had at first thought.

He was right. The trial had been quick. They had judged him, and with Thomas and Dighton he had been found guilty. The case was that Suffolk had sought aid to come against the King, he had received certain monies, he had planned rebellion, and Sir James Tyrrell had been his accomplice.

Where was Suffolk? He heard that he had been arrested and accused at Paul’s Cross as a traitor with William de la Pole and William Courtenay. They were in confinement somewhere. He did not know where.

But he, Tyrrell, had been condemned to death. It was strange that Suffolk and his accomplices had not been sentenced, yet James Tyrrell who had played no part in the rebellion and whose only sin was that he had received an old friend who called on him, should be condemned to death.

The next day he was to be taken out to Tower Green and there he would suffer the fate of traitors. He should be grateful that it was to be the axe and not that worse fate which was reserved for some.

It was dusk when the door of his cell was opened. No word was said but a figure heavily cloaked came into his cell and stood watching him.

The door of the cell was shut behind him and the two of them were alone.

A shiver ran down Tyrrell’s spine. He thought it was the angel of death already come for him.

Then a voice said: “James Tyrrell, you are to die tomorrow.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“No matter. You are to die and your son with you.”

“I am innocent of what I am accused. I may have committed crimes in my life but I had no part in Suffolk’s plan. As for my son he is completely innocent of anything that could be brought against him. He is wrongfully accused….”

“He will meet his death tomorrow…unless you save him.”

“Save him. How?”

“It is not impossible.”

“Have you come to help him?”

“I will make a bargain with you. You can save your son’s life.”

“How? How?”

“It is easy. You cannot save your own life. That would be too difficult to achieve but you can save your son’s.”

“Only a pardon from the King could do that.”

“I could get that pardon.”

“Who are you?”

“Shall we say that I come from one who can pardon your son.”

Tyrrell was silent. His heart was beating wildly. It could not be…But perhaps it was.

“What…what should I have to do?”

“To confess to something…something that happened a few years ago.”

Tyrrell was silent. He felt his hair beginning to rise on his scalp; it seemed to him that the walls of his cell were closing in on him. Whenever he passed this place he had felt uneasy and it was ever since…

But that was long ago. That was another man’s crime. Could he be blamed for seeing that it was carried out? He had had to do so. So much depended on it…his future…his family…his beloved son…

“What is wanted is a confession from you, James Tyrrell.”

“What…must I confess?”

“You know, do you not? Cast your mind back…Remember Dighton…Miles Forrest…remember that night…two little boys…innocent young boys whose existence could have started a civil war. They had to go. You realized that. You helped them to it, Tyrrell. What you have to do is tell the story. Make a confession. It is what you would wish to do, is it not? You are shortly to leave this world. Can you go to your Maker with that sin on your conscience?”

“Who are you?” said Tyrrell again. There was no answer and he went on: “I do not hold myself guilty…completely…not as guilty as he who instigated the crime. I arranged for it to be carried out. But the heaviest guilt does not rest with me. It is that one to whose advantage it was to have those two boys removed.”

“You did what you did for gain, Tyrrell.”

“My gain was not to be compared with that of another.”

“Was it not? It was your whole life. You did not want to live as an outcast, Tyrrell. You wanted your share of the good things that are given to faithful servants. You are guilty, Tyrrell, as guilty as any man…as guilty as Forrest or Dighton…You would have to confess your guilt.”

“The King would not wish that.”

“The King does wish it.”

Tyrrell caught his breath. Could it indeed be the one he thought it was who stood before him wrapped in concealment?

“The life of your son, Tyrrell. His estates will be restored to him. He will go on living…His only sorrow will be that his father lost his head because he had played the traitor. Will you do this for your son?”

“How can I be sure?”

“You cannot be entirely sure. But you can be sure of one thing. If you do not your son will surely die with you.”

For a few moments there was silence in the cell. Tyrrell was thinking, I will do it. What harm can it do me? It is well that people should know.

He said: “I will do it. For my son’s life I will do it.”

“That is good. Tell me the story as it happened. Make your confession now. Shall I prompt your memory? It was in the summer of the year 1483….”

“No…no…much later.”

“Let us say it was in the summer of 1483. Richard of Gloucester knew that he must kill his nephews to make the crown secure for himself.”

“The crown was secure. He had proclaimed them bastards.”

“We are going to make our confession, Tyrrell, if we are going to save your son. In that summer Richard of Gloucester sent a certain John Greene to the Tower with a note for the Constable, Sir Robert Brackenbury, with the order that he should put the Princes to death. Sir Robert was an honest man who refused to do it. Richard was furiously angry. ‘Whom can a man trust?’ he cried and one of his pages answered: ‘I know, Sire, one whom you can trust.’ And he gave him your name.”

“This is false.”

“Remember your son’s life is in danger. You were a very ambitious young man at that time. You were jealous of the favor Catesby and Ratcliffe enjoyed from the King. You were eager to curry favor with Richard who ordered Brackenbury to give you the keys of the Tower for one night. So you, a nameless page before that time, sprang into favor because you were ready to do the King’s bidding after Brackenbury refused.”

“I am a sinner,” said Tyrrell. “I would be counted a murderer, but this is not true. I was no nameless page. I was a trusted servant of the King. I had received my knighthood at Tewkesbury in 1471. I was the King’s Master of Henchman and Horse. I will confess…but I must confess the truth.”

“You will make the confession you are told to make.”

“But this is foolish. It does not carry conviction. Do you say King Richard sent a note to Brackenbury ordering him to murder the Princes and that he refused? If that were true how could Richard have allowed him to live after such a thing? Brackenbury was an honest man. No one ever denied that. Yet he remained Richard’s friend. He died beside him at Bosworth Field.”

“We are not concerned with Brackenbury’s death. Only with your confession.”

“You would have me say that which is false.”

“Did you arrange for the murder of the Princes in the Tower?”

“I did.”

“And did your henchmen Miles Forrest and John Dighton perform the deed?”

“They did.”

“And were the Princes smothered in their beds?”

Tyrrell put his hands over his face. “Their deaths were quick,” he said. “Poor innocent children, they knew nothing of what was happening. The felt no pain. They had to die. Their deaths may have saved the lives of thousands.”

“True.” There was a certain warmth now in the cold voice of the stranger. “It was necessary. A hideous deed but out of evil good can come. It had to be, Tyrrell, it had to be. Now you arranged for their deaths, did you not?”

“I did.”

“Tell the story as it happened. We disagree on but a few details. Never mind. They can be put right. It happened earlier than you say.”

“I know when it happened. I am perfectly clear about that.”

“You are being recalcitrant and there is very little time left for us. It is a matter of whether you want to save your son’s life.”

“I see that the guilt is to be shifted to King Richard.”

“The guilt was King Richard’s. He had taken the crown…usurped it from his nephews.”

“He believed them to be bastards.”

“Oh come. They were a threat nevertheless and he decided to remove them. It was as we have said. Brackenbury refused and you took over the Tower for a night. Forrest and Dighton obeyed your orders. The children were stifled and buried under a stairway in the Tower.”

“It does not agree with the facts. I am the only one of King Richard’s faithful servants who has been able to live successfully during the present reign. People will say: Why was this so? It could only be that although I served Richard well I also performed a great service for King Henry.”

“The confession of a man just before death will convince them that you speak the truth.”

“How can I be sure that my son’s life will be saved?”

“The King is not a bloodthirsty man. He does not like to shed men’s blood and only does so when it is for the good of the country.”

“And mine is for the good of the country?”

“Traitors cannot be allowed to live.”

“I took no part in Suffolk’s rebellion.”

“You are judged guilty.”

“Not for this…for another crime of which I was only an instrument used to carry it out.”

“The death of the two young boys in the Tower doubtless saved a civil war which could have cost the country thousands of lives…and its prosperity. That has been avoided. And no one must be allowed again to rise in their name.”

“Ah,” said Tyrrell. “I begin to understand. When it is proved that they are dead none will rise in their name, and I can prove that they are dead by telling the truth.”

“What you consider to be the truth would not save your son.”

“It would prevent men from impersonating the Princes.”

“You know what is required. It is for you to choose.”

“I will make the confession.”

“As is desired?”

“As is desired,” said Tyrrell.

The next day Sir James Tyrrell was taken out to Tower Green and his head laid on the block. He died with the comfort of knowing that he had saved his son’s life.

The following day Thomas Tyrrell was found guilty of treason but his sentence was delayed and finally he was freed and his estates were not confiscated.

John Dighton, who had been named as one of the men who had taken an active part in that mysterious murder, was not hanged but kept in the Tower. After a while he was freed although he too was alleged to have confessed to his share in the murder of the Princes.

Nothing had been written down about the confession, but a few weeks after the death of Tyrrell the King let it be known that Sir James Tyrrell had made a confession that the Princes had been murdered in the Tower on the orders of Richard the Third and that Tyrrell and his manservants had played a part in it.

The news was gradually allowed to seep out, almost as though no great effort was made to bring it to the notice of the people.

John Dighton, who had made a lucky escape from death, was one of those chosen to circulate the story, which he did.

Lord William de la Pole and Lord William Courtenay remained the King’s prisoners; but Suffolk, the leader of the hoped-for insurrection, was merely exiled to Aix.

The King liked it to be known that he was not vindictive. It was not the will of a just king to shed blood in anger. He wanted all men to know—and this was an obvious truth—that he only did so when expediency demanded that he should. If a person was a menace to the Crown—and the Crown of course meant Henry—then it was often wiser to remove that man. He did not want revenge. He wanted peace and prosperity during his reign. It was what he strove for. He wanted a secure throne for his House and that was the best thing possible for England.

In time people began to accept the story of the death of the Princes in the Tower. They had been murdered by Richard the Third who was emerging as something of a monster. It was amazing how little interest people felt for what did not actually concern themselves. No one picked up any discrepancies in the story. No one asked for instance why that good honest man Brackenbury, who was alleged openly to have refused to help his master commit murder, should have continued to be the friend of the King whom he had admired and beside whom he died fighting at Bosworth. No one asked why Tyrrell should have been the one to lose his head when he had played no part—at the least a very small one—in Suffolk’s treason and why Suffolk should get off with exile.

Nobody cared very much. Nobody wanted risings and rebellions. The Princes were dead. Murdered by their wicked uncle. It had all happened long ago and most people who were concerned in it were dead.

Birth and Death

The Queen was feeling ill. She was pregnant and although she would not admit this to anyone she was dreading her confinement. Only those in her intimate circle must know how weak she was, and she was particularly anxious that the King should not be told.

“He has enough anxieties apart from worrying about me,” she confided to her sister, Lady Katharine Courtenay, who had troubles of her own for her husband had been in the Tower in captivity since his complicity in the Suffolk case.

“There seems to be nothing but anxieties,” agreed Katharine. “It has always been so with us. Sometimes I think it must be a great comfort to be poor and of no consequence at all.”

“I daresay the poor have their trials,” said Elizabeth. “I think I have been fortunate. I have a good husband and a fine family. They bring their sorrows though. I don’t think I shall ever get over the death of Arthur.”

“Poor boy. He was always ailing.”

“My firstborn, Katharine, and I will say to you what I would say to no one else…my favorite.”

“Perhaps it is a lesson to us. We should not have favorites among our children.”

“It may well be. I shall be losing Margaret soon to Scotland. Then it will be Mary.”

“You will have Henry and the children he will have. Be thankful for that, Elizabeth.”

“I am. Life did not turn out so badly for us, did it? When you think of all the twists and turns of fate it is amazing that we have come out of it all so satisfactorily. On our father’s death…”

Katharine laid a hand over her sister’s. “Let us not brood on it. It is so long ago. Here we are now. You are the Queen, you have a kind husband and children of whom you can be proud. It would be hard to find three more handsome and lively children than your Henry, Margaret and Mary.”

“I agree. I agree. I trust the new one will be a son. It is what the King wants. I know we have Henry and he is strong and healthy, but ever since the death of Arthur the King has had this fear.”

“Henry is too fearful. I suppose it is inevitable that he should worry about the succession when…but no matter. I wonder what will happen to the Spanish Princess now. Poor child. It has been a tragedy for her. I believe she was very fond of Arthur.”

“Who would not be fond of Arthur? He was such a gentle person. Oh it is cruel…cruel…to take him from us.”

“Hush sister. You must not upset yourself. Remember the child.”

Remember the child. Elizabeth had been remembering the child all through her married life it seemed. No sooner was one pregnancy over than there must be another. It was necessary to fill the nurseries and when children died it was a great tragedy. She had lost little Edmund and Elizabeth…but that Arthur should be taken from her was the greatest tragedy of her life. Arthur who had grown to maturity, who had been a husband though in name only.

She was thinking of that other Katharine, the little Princess from Spain, and she was filled with pity.

While the sisters were talking the King arrived at Richmond. There was the usual flurry of excitement which his presence engendered and when he made his way to the Queen’s apartments Elizabeth wondered what had brought him to her at this time of day. It must be something of importance, she was sure.

He came to her apartments and Lady Courtenay bowed as he entered and looked askance at the Queen who glanced at the King. He nodded and Lady Katharine slipped away.

“It is rare that I see you at such an hour,” said the Queen. “I trust all is well.”

“I am a little concerned. It is about the Spanish Princess. I think you could be of help in a…somewhat delicate matter.”

The Queen waited.

“I believe you have sent an invitation to her to visit you here?”

“I thought it the best. Poor child, she must be feeling desolate.”

“Poor child indeed. And I know you will do everything possible to cheer her up.”

“I shall try. I have had a litter made for her by my tailor and I thought that Croydon Palace would be a good residence for her. She will be most unhappy if she stays on at Ludlow.”

“So you will soon see her.”

“In a day or so I believe. As soon as she has made the journey.”

The King was thoughtful. “It has thrown so much into confusion…. The position of the Princess here…”

“Yes, I suppose Ferdinand and Isabella will expect her to go back to Spain now.”

“That is what I want to avoid. If they take her back they will want her dowry, too.”

“I see.”

“I have no mind to part with so much.”

The Queen was about to interject when she thought better of it. It was unwise to argue about money and possessions with Henry; he had a great reverence for them and regarded them with the utmost seriousness.

“I have been turning over in my mind…and discussing the matter with my ministers. There is a way to keep the dowry in the country.”

She looked at him questioningly. Was he going to suggest keeping it now that it was in his hands? Surely he could not be so unscrupulous.

But of course that was not it. Henry would always have a clever reason why things should be as he wanted them to be.

“We must keep Katharine in the country. There is one way of doing this and that is to marry her to Henry.”

“Henry? But that is surely not possible?”

“Why not?” asked the King with a coldness in his voice, which she had rarely heard. That was because she questioned his actions so infrequently.

“Well,” she stammered. “He is five years younger.”

“Five years younger? What has that to do with the matter? I have never yet known a matter of five years prevent a marriage which will bring great good to all parties.”

“She was married to Henry’s brother. It would not be considered legal.”

“A dispensation would settle that.”

“And you think the Pope would give it?”

“The Pope will do what seems best for him. You may depend upon that.”

“But is it not against the laws of the Church for a woman to marry her husband’s brother?”

“If the marriage was not consummated I see no reason that this should be so.”

“But the marriage was very likely consummated. They were two young people…together…fond of each other.”

“I think it most unlikely that it was consummated. I gave orders that it should not be and Arthur would never disobey me.”

The Queen realized that the King was faintly irritated because she showed signs of disagreeing with him. She was amazed that she had done so, though mildly; perhaps it was because the idea was repugnant to her and she felt sorry for the young Princess who was being bandied from the dead brother to the living one.

“What is the delicate matter you wish me to do?”

“Find out from Katharine’s own lips whether or not the marriage was consummated.”

“And if it were not?”

“Then, as I see it, there is no obstacle to the marriage of Katharine and Henry. You will ask her this question and if the answer is no, then we may go ahead with negotiations.”

“And if it has been?”

“Then we will keep the matter to ourselves. I shall consider what can best be done.”

“I see you are determined that she shall have Henry.”

“I see no other way of keeping her dowry in the country,” said the King with a wry smile.

Katharine was indeed in an unhappy state. She was feeling quite bewildered. It seemed strange that a short while before she had been the wife of the heir to the throne, queen-to-be and now she was a widow…a stranger in a strange country and she did not know what would become of her.

Her great hope was that she would go home. They would make another match for her, of course, but at least for a while she would be with her mother. She did not want another match. She had realized how lucky she had been to come to Arthur who was so kind and whom she had grown to love during the short time they had been together.

The Queen had been kind to her, too. She had written to her and said she must not stay at Ludlow. There would be too many memories there and it would be better for her to take up her residence in an entirely new place.

“I am having the Palace of Croydon prepared for you,” wrote the Queen, “and my tailor John Cope is making a litter which will convey you to Croydon. It will be a most suitable vehicle of conveyance for it will be made of black velvet and black cloth and trimmed with black valances.”

It sounded funereal but of course she was in deep and bitter mourning.

The Queen was right; she did feel a little better in Croydon but as her grief for the loss of Arthur lifted a little, her apprehension regarding her own future increased.

At first few people came to Croydon. This was the period of her mourning; but one day she received a letter from the Queen at Richmond asking that she come to see her.

“I myself am somewhat indisposed,” wrote the Queen. “It is for this reason that I ask you to come to me.”

In her litter of black velvet Katharine set out from Croydon and when she arrived at Richmond was warmly embraced by the Queen.

“My dear dear child!” cried the Queen. “You look so sad. Let us mingle our tears. I believe he was as dear to you as he was to me.”

Katharine bowed her head and the Queen held the young girl in her arms.

“He loved you dearly,” went on the Queen. “I was so happy to see you together because it was clear to me that you would be just the wife he needed. He was so gentle…so modest…and that is rare in those of his rank.”

Katharine said: “He was all that I looked for in a husband.”

“And your union so brief. Oh, it is a cruel world we live in. But we have to go on whatever our sorrow. You have a happy future before you, my child.”

“I long to see my mother,” said Katharine. “My lady, can you tell me when I may expect to go to her?”

The Queen was silent. Then she took Katharine’s hands. “You love her dearly, I know.”

Katharine nodded silently.

“There will be another marriage for you.”

“Oh no…not, not yet…perhaps never.”

“You are the daughter of a great King and Queen, and there will be those to seek your hand. There will certainly be another marriage for you. You have had one marriage and are so young to be a widow. Forgive my asking this question, my dear, but was that a true marriage?”

Katharine stared at her mother-in-law uncomprehendingly.

“Well,” the Queen stumbled on, “when two people marry, the Church tells us that one of the main reasons for doing so is for the procreation of children. Is there any hope that you…might be bearing Arthur’s child?”

“Oh no…no…,” cried Katharine. “That would be impossible.”

“Impossible because you and Arthur…did not consummate the marriage?”

“It would be quite impossible,” said Katharine.

“I see. You were both so young…and he was not well…and the King had feared for his health and that was why he was against the consummation of the marriage. You understand that, Katharine?”

“I understand.”

“And so it is impossible for there to be a child of the marriage because it was not consummated.”

Katharine nodded.

“Thank you, my dear. I hope you do not want to leave us.”

“You have been so kind to me…in particular you, my lady.”

“My dear daughter, I want to go on being kind to you for as long as we both shall live.”

“I shall go back to Spain. I am sure my parents will send for me…soon.”

The Queen hesitated. She was taking a good deal on herself but she felt rebellious, which was rare with her. She was sorry for this young girl who had been sent to England away from her friends and now was being bartered so blatantly, passed from one brother to another for the sake of the thousands of crowns which made up her dowry.

She said: “The King and I have grown very fond of you since you have been among us.”

Katharine did not believe for one moment that the King had grown fond of her. It was hard to imagine his being fond of anyone.

“We should be very sorry to see you go,” went on the Queen. “And there is one other among us. No doubt you have noticed the warm regard of our son Henry.”

Alarm showed itself in Katharine’s eyes. She half guessed what was coming. Oh no. She could not bear it. She wanted to go home to her mother. She had been reconciled to Arthur because he was kind and gentle and life had been so much happier with him than she had dared hope it would be. But to be passed over to his brother…that young boy…She had been a little older than Arthur even. Oh, how desperately she wanted to go home.

“The King would give his consent to a match between you and our son Henry.”

“Henry is but a boy.”

“Boys grow up. He is old for his age. He could marry at sixteen…fifteen perhaps.”

“I do not think my parents would agree,” said Katharine.

“There could, of course, be no match without their agreement,” the Queen answered. She laid a hand on Katharine’s arm. “Say nothing of this. I told you because I thought you should know what is in the King’s mind.”

The two looked at each other for a few moments and then Elizabeth opened her arms and Katharine went to her. They stood for a few moments in a close embrace.

It was only a few days later when the King sent for her. He greeted her with a show of affection, which was rare with him, and it was obvious that he was very pleased about something.

“My dear daughter,” he said. “I have good news for you. I have heard from your parents.”

Her face lighted up. They were going to send for her. They would never agree to her marrying young Henry. It was wrong according to the laws of the Church and none could uphold the Church more strongly than her mother. Henry was her brother-in-law. That was the important fact, not that he was five years younger than she was. That meant nothing to them.

The King’s next words dashed her hopes. “They agree to a marriage between you and Prince Henry.”

“But…that is…impossible. I was his brother’s wife.”

“No, my dear child, the marriage was not consummated. That makes all the difference. All we need is a dispensation from the Pope. And we can rest assured that if I wish it and if your parents wish it there will be no obstacles to that.”

“I…I…I do not wish…”

“I know your feelings. You have so shortly become a widow. You loved Arthur. My dear child, you know nothing of marriage. That will come…in due course. You will be betrothed to Henry and when he is of an age to marry the ceremony shall take place. You will be the Queen of England one day.”

“Does Henry know of this?”

“He does and he is overjoyed.”

“He is too young….”

“Nay, he understands well. He was, to confess it, a little jealous of his brother’s good fortune.”

The King’s face was twisted into a smile as he tried to look jovial. Katharine thought it was as though his features resented being distorted into such unusual lines.

“It will be a long time…yet,” said Katharine faintly.

“Ah, time passes quickly. It gives me great pleasure to convey to you this excellent news.”

He rubbed his hands together and his eyes glinted.

He is seeing one hundred thousand crowns which have already been paid to him and is congratulating himself that he will not have to part with them, thought Katharine. And he is seeing the hundred thousand coming to me when I marry Henry.

The King put his lips to her cheek and she was dismissed.

In her apartment she called for writing materials.

She wanted to write to her mother but she could not do this. Everything she wrote would be seen by both her parents and she knew her father would be angry if she pleaded with her mother and excluded him.

Nevertheless, she must relieve her feelings in some way.

“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England….”

Her mother would understand that that was a cry for help.

Then she thought of the rules of obedience which had always been adhered to; one must never think of oneself but of the good of the country. If her parents wished it she would have to take Henry. Perhaps they could be happy together; he had always shown an interest in her. She would have to be resigned to her fate if it were her parents’ wish that she should accept what they planned for her.

She added: “I know that my tastes and conveniences cannot be considered, and you will in all things act as is best.”

When she had written and dispatched the letter she lay down on her bed and staring dry-eyed before her murmured: “Please dearest mother, send for me. Dear God, let me go home.”

It was late January when the Queen in the company of her ladies was rowed from Richmond to the Tower where she had decided her child should be born.

Her sister Katharine was very anxious about her for Elizabeth had had such a difficult pregnancy and was scarcely strong enough for the ordeal before her.

People stood about on the river bank to watch the Queen’s barge and to give a cheer for the poor lady who looked as though she would give birth at any moment.

The chamber in the Tower had been prepared and to this the Queen went immediately. Her women gathered about her helping her to bed and making sure of her comforts. Lady Courtenay sat by her bed, ever watchful of her sister and wondering about her husband who was incarcerated in this very Tower. She had been anxious ever since the execution of Sir James Tyrrell who had had very little to do with the planned rising. She wondered why Suffolk and her husband had got off so lightly. It was no use asking Elizabeth. The Queen knew so little of the King’s affairs, which Katharine Courtenay believed were very devious indeed.

February had come, bleak and bitterly cold when the Queen’s pains started and on Candlemas Day, the second of that month, the child was born.

Katharine Courtenay felt sad when she saw that the child was a girl. Dear Elizabeth, she had so longed for a boy. Perhaps if there had been a boy, Katharine thought, there could have been a rest from this incessant childbearing, which was undoubtedly having dire effects on the Queen’s health.

The child was sound but a little frail. As she held the baby in her arms she heard the Queen’s voice calling her.

She went to the bed. “A dear little girl, Elizabeth,” she said.

Elizabeth closed her eyes for one despairing moment. Then she opened them and she was smiling.

“She is…healthy?”

“Yes,” said Katharine, and put the child in her arms.

After a while she took the baby from its mother who fell into a sleep of exhaustion. This time next year, thought Katharine, we shall doubtless be in a similar situation. Will it go on and on until they get a boy? And how will Elizabeth endure it? She won’t admit it but she is less strong after each confinement.

The midwife was looking anxious.

“Why are you worried?” asked Katharine.

“The Queen is not strong enough,” said the midwife. “This should be the last.”

“I will talk to her.”

“Someone should talk to the King.”

Why not? thought Katharine. He had a son and now three daughters. That must be enough.

When the Queen was rested Katharine sat at her bedside and they talked together.

“She is a beautiful child, I hear,” said the Queen. “They would not deceive me, would they?”

“Why should they? You have three other beautiful children, sister.”

“Arthur was weak and they kept that from me for several days.”

“You brood too much on Arthur. You have Henry. You could not have a son who was more full of strength and vitality.”

“It is true. You have been a great comfort to me, Katharine, and I know you have troubles of your own. I am going to call this little one Katharine…after you.”

“Then I am honored, dear sister.”

As Katharine bent over the bed and kissed the Queen, she was a little startled by the clammy coldness of her skin.

Within a week the Queen was dead. Her passing was not only a matter of great sorrow but of amazement. She had appeared to recover from the ordeal of childbirth and it was not until six days later that the fatal symptoms appeared.

When Katharine Courtenay had found her in a terrifyingly weak state she had sent a messenger at once to the King and when Henry arrived he was horrified. He had sent with all speed for his physician, who believing that the Queen was on the way to recovery, had left the Tower for his home in Gravesend.

The news of the deterioration of the Queen’s health spread rapidly as Dr. Hallyswurth came hurrying through the night with the help of guides and torches to speed his coming, and people were already in the streets whispering of the mortal sickness which had come to the Queen.

She died on the eleventh of February, nine days after the birth of the child. It was her own birthday and she was thirty-eight years old.

In all the churches in the city the bells were tolling.

Crowds watched while spices, sweet wine-gums and balms with ells of Holland cloth were taken into the Tower and they knew that these things were for the dismal purpose of embalming the Queen.

From her apartments she was taken to the chapel in the Tower and there she lay in state for twelve days after which her body was put in a velvet carriage and taken to Westminster. An effigy in robes of state and crown was put in a chair on the coffin and it was said that this bore a startling resemblance to the Queen at her most beautiful. It was a day of great mourning.

The King was genuinely stricken with grief. Although he knew that Elizabeth had been in ill health for some time he had not expected her to die. She had recovered from the birth of the child and everyone had believed she would soon leave her bed. It was a bitter blow; but being Henry he was immediately facing the grim fact that now he had no wife and only one son to follow him. Margaret was already the Queen of Scotland. He needed children. And Elizabeth who was to have provided them was dead.

The Prince of Wales was equally bewildered. He had loved his mother. She had been very beautiful and he was susceptible to beauty. That she should have died so suddenly was disturbing. He felt bereft. He had not loved her as he had Anne Oxenbrigge, but now he was growing up he was becoming very much aware of his royal dignity and he would not admit that a nursemaid had been so very important to him. His mother had seemed remote but good and beautiful and she had been the daughter of a king. As a Tudor he attached great importance to that. And now she was dead.

He was twelve years old now and he was going to be betrothed. He looked at the Spanish Princess. She was wary and did not meet his eyes.

Poor Katharine, she must admire him very much. Well, she was pretty, and he had envied Arthur. It was strange how everything that he had envied was now coming to him.

Katharine looked very sad. She was realizing that if her parents decided she must stay here she had just lost one who would have been a good friend to her.

Henry was looking at her, smiling faintly.

She returned the smile. She would have to please him, she supposed. If she did not, what would happen to her?

She looked about her. Here was genuine sorrow. Even the King looked older and more gray. As for the Lady Courtenay, she was quite distraught as she with the Queen’s sisters laid their palls on the coffin.

What will become of us all? wondered Katharine. She will not be here to see.

A few days later the child Katharine, who had cost the Queen her life, was stricken with a grievous illness and within a short time she was dead.

The Search for a Queen

The king was restive. He had lost his queen but he could not afford to waste time in grief. He was not yet so old that he was beyond getting children. He was forty-six—a mature age it was true—but he was by no means impotent. His life with the Queen had shown that. He could convince himself that he was a comparatively young man and therefore he must at once make plans to remarry.

The Spanish Sovereigns were being awkward about the dowry. Ferdinand was a wily man to deal with and Henry did not trust him. Isabella was a great queen but she was concerned for her daughter and Henry believed that Katharine might have written to her expressing repugnance for the match with young Henry. He knew, of course, that that would carry little weight with Ferdinand, but with Isabella it might be another matter.

But suppose he had a more dazzling proposition to put before the Sovereigns? He sent for de Puebla, a clever man who delighted in intrigue and was not averse to a little sharp practice. He was the sort of fellow who could always be safely sounded out and who for considerations could be counted on to give consideration to every scheme—however shocking it might appear to some.

Henry said: “The Sovereigns are no doubt a little concerned about their daughter’s future.”

“Why, my lord, they know that she is to have Prince Henry. That seems to them a sensible and happy conclusion to the Infanta’s matrimonial affairs.”

“Henry is only a boy, not yet twelve years old. I fancy that the Sovereigns are concerned about waiting for him to come of age before the final ceremony can take place. I have another idea. How would they feel about seeing their daughter Queen of England immediately?”

“My lord!”

“Why not? I am free to marry.”

“And you would take your son’s widow!” Even the worldly de Puebla was taken aback.

“It seems reasonable. Katharine is here. There would not be the expense of bringing her over. She is a widow. I am a widower.”

“I do not know how it would be regarded,” said de Puebla. “But it can be put to the Sovereigns.”

“We could marry almost immediately. I have always held the Princess Katharine in high regard.”

Why, thought de Puebla, she could be in childbed before the year is out…she might manage even that. No time wasted between the birth of the little Princess and the birth of the next child even though there had to be a change of queens. Even by de Puebla’s standards there was something very cynical about this king.

“Well?” said the King.

“I will put the notion to the Sovereigns without delay.”

“Do that,” said the King. “We do not wish for unnecessary delay.”

De Puebla could not resist the chance to break the news to Katharine. Moreover he felt that by so doing he might ingratiate himself with her. He wanted to assure her that he was working for her, so he called on her.

“My lady Princess,” he said, “I have news which I thought I should impart to you without delay. I have this day written to your noble parents.”

“Written of me?” she asked, growing pale.

“Yes, at the request of King Henry.”

“Of what does he wish them to know?”

“He is sending them a proposition. He is asking for your hand….”

“For Prince Henry, I know. That has been decided.”

“No…for himself.”

Katharine stared at him. She could not have heard correctly.

“The King…”

“’Tis so. The King would make you his queen…without delay.”

“I can’t believe this. The Queen has not been dead two months.”

“The King is in a hurry.” He came closer to her. “He is obsessed by the need to get heirs. Elizabeth gave him several but too many died. He wants you who are young and strong to take the place of the Queen in his bed.”

De Puebla was smiling in a way which nauseated her. Horrible pictures sprang into her mind…images of something she did not understand and which made her uneasy, more than that—terrified her.

“No,” she said. “No. I shall never agree.”

“I have been ordered by the King to write to your parents.”

“Oh no, no,” she cried. “Not that…anything but that…”

“I believe Queen Isabella has decided you shall have Prince Henry. My Princess, when I hear from her I shall come straight to you. I thought it best to warn you…that you may be prepared.”

She stood staring straight before her and de Puebla, bowing low, asked leave to retire.

Poor girl! If the Sovereigns decided it would be expedient for her to take old Henry she would have to. And he fancied Ferdinand would rather like the idea of seeing his daughter Queen of England now…even though he would have to pay the second half of the dowry.

When she was alone Katharine went to her apartments and shut herself in. Doña Elvira tried to discover what ailed her but she would tell no one. She wanted to be alone with her horror.

Fervently she prayed, calling on God to save her, calling on her mother to come to her aid.

The days began to pass slowly.

Whenever she was in the company of the King, which she thanked God was rarely, she saw his eyes on her. They were not lascivious, speculative rather, as though he were assessing how fit she was to bear children. She compared him with Arthur and weeping afresh for her young husband, she longed above everything else for home, to be able to tell her mother of her fears, to see those dear kind eyes filled with understanding. If she could but see her mother, explain to her, she was sure that no matter how advantageous this marriage would be to Spain, Isabella would never allow it to take place.

What if she wrote to her mother? But de Puebla had told her in confidence. Her father might see the letter. Henry might learn that she begged not to be married to him. She could visualize all sorts of dire results; and she decided that nothing could be done but hope and pray.

Henry himself was restive. He was not well and the arrogance of his young son irritated him now and then. He should of course be grateful for having such a son who was so suited to being a king; but sometimes the boy behaved as though he were already one and he wondered whether young Henry was looking forward with a little too much zeal to the day when he would ascend the throne. Sometimes those rather small but intensely alert blue eyes would be caught studying his father as though, thought the King, he were summing up my ability to cling to life, and assessing how many more years were left to him.

The prospect of a crown was too glittering for a young boy of Henry’s temperament to reconcile himself to waiting patiently until it could be justly put upon his head.

The King gave a great deal of thought to his son and the Prince of Wales was not the least of his anxieties. The boy had to be kept on a firm rein and the King fervently prayed that more years might be granted him so that he did not leave the country in the hands of this exuberant boy until he had attained some maturity.

The King had dismissed John Skelton from the Prince’s household for he had come to believe that the poet tutor had a bad influence on the Prince. In a way the King admired Skelton. He was a poet of some ability and above all he was a fearless man. He had shown that in his verses about the Court, which he had portrayed quite derisively. But Henry believed he was too worldly to be the daily companion of a young impressionable boy, and fancied he had probably already initiated the Prince into the enjoyment of pleasure between the sexes and that, unlike in his own case, these pleasures would be very much to young Henry’s taste.

Well, Skelton had gone; Henry did not want to be unjust to any man. He had no desire to be harsh and rarely acted so except when common sense demanded it. So although Skelton had lost his post as tutor to the Prince of Wales he was given the living of Diss in Norfolk and in addition to this Henry gave him forty shillings a year in recognition of his service in the royal household. Therefore Skelton had done rather well for himself for the pension added to his stipend put him in a position to be envied by other less fortunate priests.

Skelton had settled down to write more scandalous poems and young Henry had a new tutor, William Hone. The Prince had greeted the change with a certain resentment. If he had been a little older and more sure of himself there would have been open rebellion, the King believed; and it was one of the factors which added to his uneasiness.

Hone was a meek man. Perhaps the difference from Skelton was too marked, and young Henry became quickly reconciled because he found William Hone very easy to handle.

The fact was young Henry was finding people generally easy to handle—largely, the King suspected, because those around him had their eyes on the future. They would be thinking: How much longer is the old lion going to last? Then it will be the young cub’s turn. Therefore wise far-seeing young men that they were, they made sure to keep in the prospective King’s good graces.

It was an uneasy situation and one entirely distasteful to the King but he was too much of a realist not to see that it could not be otherwise.

He would have to content himself with keeping an eye on his son and when he thought a man was too dangerous—as in the case of Skelton—discreetly getting rid of him.

He often considered the young men who were the Prince’s particular friends. There was Charles Brandon…something of a rake and five years Henry’s senior, which was a matter for some concern. Brandon was making Henry grow up too quickly. He was turning the young Prince into a sophisticate…and he not twelve years old yet! There was a world of difference between twelve and seventeen but Brandon had been brought to Court because of the gratitude Henry owed his father. The King liked to reward those who had been with him at Bosworth Field where Brandon’s father had been his standard bearer and had died standing steadfastly with Henry. So Charles Brandon was there…at Court…young Henry’s companion and confidant. But he must be watched…in spite of his father’s loyal service on that decisive field of battle.

Then there was young Edward Neville—tall as Henry with the same fair skin and reddish hair, a fine boy, but of course belonging to one of those families who had made a great deal of trouble in the land. One who was descended from Warwick the Kingmaker would have to be watched.

Henry Courtenay was another boy. He was younger than Henry and was at Court because his mother was there, sister to the late Queen; but his father was now in the Tower on account of complicity with Suffolk, which had resulted in the execution of Sir James Tyrrell. The late Queen had said that it was her duty to look after her Courtenay nephews and nieces. And Henry could not very well turn them away in view of their relationship to the Queen. Moreover, children should not be blamed for the sins of their fathers.

Yes, the King would have liked to make a change in those surrounding his son; but he had other matters on his mind now and he had at least sent Skelton away.

Perhaps he was too sensitive about his son’s ambitions. After all the boy had to be brought up to kingship. There was some small comfort in the fact that he knew he would inherit the throne. That was so much more to be desired than coming to it suddenly. No, young Henry was preparing himself for the role and the King should be pleased that he took to it with such alacrity.

Pray God he himself could live for a few more years until Henry was of a sober age. The King had no doubt that with maturity would come some suppression of that egoism, which was so much a part of his son’s nature. All young men could be unwise. He will settle to it, thought the King. He just needs a firm hand now.

The sound of voices below broke into his reverie and going to the window he saw a group of young people at play. He was alert immediately because he caught sight of young Henry among them. His son was on horseback for the game—as most games played by the boys—was a military as well as an equestrian exercise. Henry stood out among them—although he was younger than most. The King could not repress his parental pride. He will soon be taller than I am, he thought, half resentfully, half fondly. And the boy glowed with health as his father had never done.

He would look the part, and he would play it to the full, but would he have the stability, the cunning…the King reproached himself. Young Henry was but a boy yet. The correct training, the molding, the watchfulness would shape him into the sort of king his father wanted him to be and whom the country needed.

The game was that which was a favorite of the young: quintain. On a pivot stood a figure in the form of a knight in armor. It was life-sized and fixed to one hand was a sandbag. The player must ride at full gallop to the figure, attack it and retreat before the arm shot up when the sandbag could hit the rider. Like all such games there was a strong element of danger in it, for the rider who was not quick enough in getting away could receive such a blow from the sandbag as would unseat him, and there had been accidents—one or two fatal.

Although the King was nervous about his son’s taking part in dangerous games he knew that he must do so; and this favorite one of quintain would not have interested the boys at all but for the danger they had to avoid.

He watched them for a while. He noted that young Henry had more turns than the others, that the applause which greeted his successes was more vociferous than that awarded to the others.

Inevitable, thought the King. But I must be watchful of him. If I had another son…

His expression lightened. Katharine was here…on the spot, and if there were objections he would impress on his ministers the need for another male heir. It is never wise to have but one. Henry seemed healthy but let them remember the Black Prince and the disaster his death had brought with the accession of the boy Richard.

Katharine had not been tested for fertility yet, and he had to be thankful that she had not, for if the union with Arthur had been consummated that might have made marriage with him too distasteful to be accepted. But as it was he saw no reason why she should not be his wife. She had married his son it was true, but it had been no physical marriage.

He had hopes of Ferdinand. Of Isabella he was not so sure.

Even as he watched his son at play he heard the sounds of approaching hoofbeats and glancing away from the game in the opposite direction he saw that the visitor was de Puebla and he guessed that the Spaniard brought news from his Sovereigns.

A faint pulse beat in his temple. He found that he was quite excited. There should be as little delay as possible. There would be a lavish wedding to satisfy the people’s love of ceremony…and then…the consummation and the results.

One of his squires was at the door to tell him that Dr. de Puebla was below and seeking an audience.

“I will see him now,” said the King.

De Puebla came in and bowed. He looked grave and knowing the man well the King’s spirits sank. There were going to be obstacles. That much was apparent.

“You have heard from the King and Queen?” asked the King.

“My lord, I have heard from Queen Isabella.”

The King was even more dismayed. It was from that quarter that he expected opposition. Ferdinand was much more likely to agree if the match was advantageous enough. Isabella was too emotional and feminine, too much the doting mother, which was strange in a woman of her ambitions and abilities. And Isabella was Castile, and Ferdinand Aragon and Castile was the more important. Ferdinand in a way owed his greatness to Isabella and loving wife and mother though she was, Isabella never forgot it.

“She refuses sanction for your marriage with the Infanta,” said de Puebla.

“Refuses? But she must see the advantages.”

“She says it is against the laws of nature. The Pope would not agree.”

“The Pope will agree if we explain to him his need to do so,” said Henry tersely.

“But Isabella will doubtless explain his need not to grant a dispensation,” said de Puebla slyly.

Henry disliked the man although it was to his advantage to cultivate him. He was a good go-between, serving Henry almost as much as the Sovereigns. It was for this reason that he had done so well in England and that his rival had been recalled.

“My lord,” went on de Puebla, “the Queen is very firm. She says no to such a marriage. She is surprised that it should be suggested.”

“And Ferdinand?”

“You know, my lord, that he could not act without Isabella.”

Henry nodded.

“Perhaps we should not give up hope. But I deplore the wasting of time.”

De Puebla smiled again with that sly look. “None could accuse you, my lord, of doing that. I must tell you truly that the tone of Queen Isabella’s letter is very strong. I know my mistress well. She is not pleased that the possibility of marriage should even have been suggested. She says that Katharine is to marry the Prince of Wales and she desires that the binding ceremony of betrothal takes place without delay. If this is not done she demands the return of the half of the dowry, which was sent on Katharine’s marriage to Prince Arthur.”

Henry was silent. He was astute enough to know that in asking for the hand of Katharine so soon after his wife’s death he had made a grave error.

De Puebla went on: “The Queen however understands your need for a wife and she would draw your attention to the recently widowed Queen of Naples.”

“The Queen of Naples?”

“Young, comely…and a queen,” said de Puebla.

Henry was silent and de Puebla went on: “If you should need my services, Sire, I should be happy to give them.”

“Thank you,” murmured the King. He felt old and tired. But he was not one to waste time in regrets.

Already his mind had turned from Katharine of Aragon to the Queen of Naples.

When de Puebla presented himself to Katharine a few days after his audience with the King he came to her smiling enigmatically. He felt the good news would be more appreciated if she suffered a few moments of anxiety first.

“You have news from my mother?” cried Katharine.

“My lady, I have indeed such news.”

He paused, allowing a smile to creep slowly across his face. She was waiting breathlessly and he realized he could delay no longer.

“The Queen, your noble mother, refused to allow a match between you and the King.”

Overcome by relief, Katharine covered her face with her hands. She should have known. How she thanked God for her beloved mother! While she was there, steadfast and caring, there could be little to fear.

“She is, however, eager for a binding contract between you and the Prince of Wales and is insisting that this be settled within the next few months.”

Katharine could not speak. The Prince of Wales seemed a good prospect compared with his father; but mainly she supposed because marriage with him must necessarily be postponed until he was of a marriageable age. He was not quite twelve so there would be at least two years’ freedom. Oh, this was good news indeed.

“I am aware that you are pleased with your mother’s refusal.”

“I am so recently widowed. I have no wish to marry again…yet.”

“You will have to wait awhile for the Prince to grow up.” De Puebla was smiling. He had a little commission from the King and he was wondering how best he could put it to Katharine. He went on: “Your mother has suggested that the young Queen of Naples would be a suitable match for the King. She is recently widowed and some twenty-seven years of age.”

“She would be more suitable in age than I, most certainly.”

“Your mother would expect you to write a note of condolence to the Queen of Naples. She has just lost her husband and you, so recently widowed yourself, would understand her melancholy.”

“I will of course do so.”

“That is good. And it shall be delivered into the hands of the Queen of Naples herself.”

“Was that my mother’s only request?”

“Yes. But I have letters from her for you.”

Katharine reached out to seize them eagerly and after handing them to her de Puebla bowed himself out.

Eagerly she read the letters. They assured her of her mother’s love and care. Isabella never ceased to think of her although so many miles divided them. She would soon be the betrothed of the Prince of Wales and one day Queen of England. She must always remember that she was Spanish by origin even though by marriage she became English. She must never forget that her mother thought of her constantly, cared for her and was working all the time for her good.

Katharine kissed the letter; reread them many times, wrote her letter to the Queen of Naples and settled down to enjoy her feelings of immense relief.

The King received the messengers immediately on their return from Naples. They had had instructions that letters written by the Princess Katharine were to be delivered into the hands of no one but the Queen.

Now they returned with an account of what they had seen.

“Tell me of the Queen,” said Henry, coming straight to the point. “She is twenty-seven years of age, I know. Does she look so? Is she comely?”

“She looks young for her age, Sire, and she is comely. But it was not easy to see for every time we were in her presence she wore a great mantle, which revealed only her face. But she appeared to be handsome…as far as we could see.”

“Is she tall or short?”

“My lord, we could not see her feet and the height of her shoes. From what we did see it would appear she is of middle height.”

“Tell me how was her skin? Not blotched or marked?”

“No, my lord. Fair and clear…as far as we could see.”

“What color hair?”

“Judging by what we could see—and the color of her brows—it would be brown. Her eyes are brown…with a touch of gray.”

“Her teeth?”

“Fair and clear and well set. Her lips round and thickish. As for her nose…”

They hesitated and the King said quickly: “Yes, yes, her nose?”

“It is a little rising in the middle and a little coming and bowing at the end. She is well nosed.”

“Ah,” said the King. “But what of her breasts?”

“They are somewhat great and full, my lord. They are well trussed up after the fashion of the country, which makes them seem fuller than they are in truth and her neck appears shorter.”

“Has she hair on her lips?”

“No, my lord.”

“Tell me, did you get near enough to discover whether her breath was sweet?”

“We believe so, my lord.”

“Did you speak with her after she had fasted?”

“We could not come to her at such a time, my lord, nor could we have been sure that she had fasted. We can only say that her skin was fair and clear and we detected no unpleasant odors in her presence.”

“Ah,” said the King. “She seems worthy.”

He dismissed the ambassadors and thought about the new wife he would have.

She must be possessed of all the good qualities he had been so eager to confirm. He had to get children and he could so easily find the process repulsive if his new wife failed to comply with the necessary requirements. Queen Elizabeth had been one of the most beacutiful women in the country and he had felt no overwhelming desire; but he had always done his duty although he had to confess that he experienced a certain relief when his Queen was pregnant and the need for marital practices was removed.

And now…this new wife. The Queen of Naples. Naples was worth a good deal. He would go ahead with proposals for the marriage. He was sure that the people of Naples would be delighted to ally itself with England, which under its wise king was fast becoming a power on the European scene.

But there were other ambassadors whose account was even more important to Henry than his wife’s appearance. They had done their work well and were eager to tell him of their findings.

The news they brought was disquieting. Ferdinand had acted quickly on the death of the King of Naples and the Queen was now of very little importance. Her property had been confiscated and she was left with very little. She depended on Ferdinand of Aragon for the small income she received.

Henry sweated with horror when he heard this report. Had Isabella made the suggestion ironically—a little mischievously? He knew he had a reputation for being grasping and setting great store on possessions. He had just made up his mind that the Queen of Naples would do very well as the next Queen of England and had in fact been on the point of drafting out a request for her hand.

This changed everything.

Clear of skin and sweet of breath the Queen of Naples might be, but if she was penniless and her title was an empty one, she was no fit bride for Henry Tudor.

It was disappointing. Two brides lost in a very short time.

But he was not one to despair. The hunt for the new Queen of England would go on.

There was now no longer any excuse for delay. The betrothal ceremony was to take place and that was binding. Katharine must accept it; it was what she must take if she were to escape from marriage to the King.

There were several reasons why she must accept her fate besides that it was the wish of her parents. She was living in Durham House and she often wondered how she was going to find the money to pay her servants. Poverty made her feel that she was an exile. She had never experienced the lack of money before she came to England. Indeed she had never thought of money. It was different now. Her parents sent her nothing. Why should they? They had paid one hundred thousand crowns as the first part of her dowry and would pay the other half after her marriage. They were not going to send more, which would be used by Henry. It was his duty now to make sure that his son’s widow had adequate funds.

But Henry was not one to part easily with money and there was nothing coming from him. The gowns which she had brought with her from Spain were beginning to lose their freshness and some were even becoming threadbare, but the King considered that no concern of his. He had made a good proposition to her parents and it had been rejected. At the moment she was merely the widow of the Prince of Wales with a dowry only half of which had been paid and over that her parents were haggling.

Katharine was beginning to see that only by becoming the prospective wife of the heir to the throne could she expect to live in comfort.

Therefore she must forget that she had no great desire for this alliance, but the main reason was that her partner in it was only a boy.

On the other hand Henry was looking forward to the ceremony. He was always delighted by such and when he was the center of them his pleasure was greatly increased.

Margaret was subdued at this time. She had been boastful and arrogant and had never lost an opportunity of scoring over him, but now the prospect of going into Scotland was alarming her. She had grown quiet, less demanding; and Henry felt a little sorry for her. How glad he was that as king-to-be he would stay in his own country, at his own Court, surrounded by those who made much of him. That they did so because they feared to do otherwise he knew in his heart, but he liked that too. One of the best things in life was power. He had known that when he was a baby, holding sway over Anne Oxenbrigge because she loved him. But power which came through fear was equally exciting and desirable.

Yes, Henry was very pleased. How delighted Katharine must be. Poor girl! She had thought she was well set up in life when she married Arthur. But Henry secretly believed she had compared the two brothers and if she had, she must have known how much more attractive Henry was.

But she had seemed to like Arthur. Ah, but that was because she had not known then that there might be a chance of getting Henry.

Again he wished he were older. “The years seem as though they’ll never pass,” he commented to Charles Brandon who as a mature seventeen-year-old replied that they went fast enough for him.

Perhaps they did. He had reached the golden age. When I am seventeen where shall I be? wondered Henry.

Margaret came to see him. Her departure for Scotland was imminent and she wanted this brash brother of hers, of whom she was exceedingly jealous mainly because he was to stay in England, to lose a little of his assurance.

He looked splendid, of course he did. He had good looks and in spite of his youth a certain stature. He was taller than all of his companions who were of his age, and he was, of course, too sure of himself. It would give her satisfaction to prick that conceit if it were possible, it would be a little balm to her sorrow. Besides, she told herself virtuously, it would be good for Henry.

“So…our boy is going to be a bridegroom,” she said. “Ah, but that won’t be for a while will it? Our boy has to grow up first.”

“At least I’ll stay here in England. I haven’t to go to some bleak dour old country.”

As usual they sought and found the other’s most vulnerable spot.

“I believe my husband eagerly awaits me,” said Margaret.

“No doubt he will be there to greet you if he can spare the time from his mistresses.”

“I shall know how to deal with them.”

“Make sure they do not know how to deal with you.”

“I will come to my brother for advice. He is so knowledgeable, being eleven years of age he knows everything.”

“I am twelve.”

“Not for a few days.”

“I am mistaken for older.”

“Who makes that mistake? Everybody knows when our noble heir to the throne was born. They all mourn the loss of Arthur. He was the one who was the real Prince of Wales.”

“People seem to think I am more suitable for a king,” said Henry almost modestly.

“Because you’re here…that’s why. They loved poor Arthur. We all did. Particularly Katharine.”

“Katharine will have a new husband now.”

“Poor Katharine. She cannot like the change to a little boy.”

“How do you know?”

“I listen. She has asked her mother to take her away from here…to take her home…so that she doesn’t have to marry you.”

“She wants to marry me.”

“Oh no, she does not. I know she has written to her mother asking to be taken home.”

His eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be true. He was feeling gallant. He would have smiled at her, pressed her hand reassuringly. He liked to play the noble knight. That was what he had been taught to believe in. Chivalry. It was so necessary to knighthood. He had been thinking that he was rescuing Katharine from poverty at Durham House, making her important because of her alliance with him…and all the time she was writing to her mother begging to be taken home!

He would have liked to appear in her eyes as the chivalric knight who was going to rescue her from poverty and uncertainty, who was going to protect her from her fate. It should all have been very much in the knightly tradition and she had spoilt it all by writing to her mother and begging her to take her away.

She was seventeen years old. It was a mature age of course but that had not deterred him. He had cast his eyes on many a woman of her age who had been ready to fondle him. Charles Brandon had talked to him of his adventures with women and Charles had already a reputation of being a rake.

So it was not her age. And to think that he…Henry the Prince of Wales, king-to-be, did not appear in an attractive light to this woman who was so sorely in need of his protection.

His grandmother had explained to him how important the ceremony was. She often talked to him in place of his father who was too busy to do so. His father believed that the Countess of Richmond, being a woman and an extremely clever one, would understand children better than he did.

She was fifty-eight years old, for she had been barely fourteen when her son Henry Tudor had been born so that there was not a great difference in their ages. She seemed very old to Young Henry; she was small and thin and very austere looking; and rarely wore anything but the black and white of a nun. She was very religious, attended Mass five times a day, and spent a great time on her knees praying although she confessed that this resulted in excruciating back pains.

Skelton had said ironically: “That will increase her reward in Heaven.” And Henry had laughed as he always had laughed with Skelton. But he was in awe of his grandmother all the same.

Yet she adored him. He sensed that and he loved her for it. Not that she actually put her adoration into words. That would not have been her way. But her assiduous care for him and the manner in which she looked at him—when she thought he was not aware of it—betrayed her. He was strong, healthy and vigorous and she liked it. Of course Arthur had been something of a paragon with his quiet and studious ways but he had made them anxious in a way he, Henry, never had.

His grandmother’s piety impressed the people although Henry perceived that they did not greatly like her. It was the same with his father. Serious-minded men knew that Henry the Seventh had done a great deal for the country’s prosperity, but they did not like him all the same.

Henry was constantly hearing about his maternal grandfather, Edward the Fourth. There was a king they liked. He had heard the whispered comments of those who had grandparents old enough to remember. “When he came riding through the town the citizens hid their daughters.”

There was a king. Large, handsome and romantic.

Henry thought that when he was a king he would like to resemble his maternal grandfather rather than his father.

Meanwhile he was only twelve years old and he had to attend his betrothal to his brother’s widow.

His grandmother explained to him. “This betrothal will be per verba de presenti, which means that it is binding. In fact some of the marriage service will be included in the ceremony.”

“So,” said Henry, “I shall be married to Katharine of Aragon.”

“No, not exactly married. But you will have gone through this form of betrothal.”

“Does it mean that we shall most certainly be married later?”

His grandmother hesitated. She knew what was in the King’s mind and that he was determined to leave a loophole of escape so that he might keep the Spanish Sovereigns on tenterhooks—and at the same time keep that part of the dowry which they had already paid.

Henry noticed her hesitation and was nonplussed. “Why do we go through with such a ceremony if it is not really a marriage?” he demanded.

“The Spaniards want it.”

“Ah, they think I am a desirable husband do they?”

His grandmother gave one of her wintry smiles, which sat oddly on her austere features.

“They know, my boy,” she said firmly, “that you are one of the most desirable partis in the whole of Europe.”

“Who are the others equally so?” cried Henry, who could not bear competition without the immediate desire to eliminate it.

“Oh, we cannot go into that,” said his grandmother. “There are a few princes with hopes of inheritance. But you will be the King of England.”

Her face darkened for she thought immediately that he could only be so on the death of his father and her love for her son was almost fanatical and far exceeded even that she felt for her grandchildren.

Henry watched her thoughtfully. He was longing for the day when the crown would be placed on his head; but he realized that it should not be just yet. If it were now there would be too many surrounding him telling him what to do. He wanted that day to come when he would be an unshackled king—when everyone—even his grandmother—must bow to his word. Alas, that day had not yet come; and here he was again chafing against the slothful passage of time.

He was in a sullen mood when he arrived at the Bishop’s House in Fleet Street where the formal betrothal was to take place. It did not diminish even when he saw Katharine looking beautiful in an elegant dress, which was not quite in the style to which he was accustomed and all the more attractive for that. He couldn’t help thinking that the hooped petticoat over which the dress fell in alluring folds was interesting, just as the cardinal’s hat she had worn on their first meeting had been.

She intrigued him in a way because she was different from the other ladies of the Court; he had liked the way she had spoken English and he had fancied that she had liked him very much when she had first come. He knew that she was anxious about her future and that quite a number of her attendants were too, for he had made a point of discovering all about her that her servants could tell him and the latter always liked to have an answer for him. He knew for instance that it was a long time since she had had a new dress and even this one she was wearing for such an important ceremony was one she had brought with her from Spain.

His father was present with his grandmother. They both looked stern and serious. He would have liked to say: “I will not betroth myself to this Princess who prefers her own Court of Spain to mine.”

To mine! His father would be angry at that. He had reminded him once or twice that he was not king yet.

He took Katharine’s right hand and said the lines he had had to learn off by heart to make sure that he did not leave out anything and that he said them in the right manner.

He rejoiced, he said, to contract matrimony with Katharine and to have her for his wife, forsaking all others during the term of their lives.

Katharine had turned to him and she was saying the same thing in rather halting English, which in a way was endearing.

Then she smiled at him, a little fearfully, almost appealingly and all his rancor vanished.

She was beautiful; he liked her maturity; more fervently than ever he wished he were seventeen. Alas, he was a few days from twelve and he must needs wait, but his feelings of chivalry had overcome his resentment. He was foolish to listen to Margaret. She was just annoyed because she had to go away to Scotland.

Katharine was his affianced wife; she looked to him for protection, and chivalrous knight that he was she should not look in vain.

Henry’s moods changed quickly and it was in one of pride and joy that hand in hand with Katharine he emerged from the Bishop’s House into the sunshine of Fleet Street on that June day.

The Prince Discovers His Conscience

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a happy moment for Scotland and its King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that what you heard of me?”

“It was.”

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

“Oh you do not. They spoke truth.”

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

“Oh it has all ended so happily.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doña Elvira shrugged her shoulders.

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

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

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

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

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

“What is wrong?” she cried.

“News from Spain,” he said.

“My mother…”

He nodded and was silent.

“News? What news? Tell me quickly.”

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

“Is it my mother…my father…?”

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

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

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

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

“Dead!”

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

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

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

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

Katharine covered her face with her hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord, what is to be done?”

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

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

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

The ministers nodded.

“And the commitment to the Lady Katharine?”

“Of that more later.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my lord,” answered the Prince.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But if it has already taken place.”

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

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

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

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

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

“My lord…”

“Silence. Don’t show your childishness.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like it not…”

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

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

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

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

“Are we ready?” said the King.

It was agreed that they were.

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

“Read,” commanded the King.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I did it, thought Henry.

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

It came in due course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she truly mad?”

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

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

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

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

Henry shivered.

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

“Is he, do you think?”

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

“She is a warm-hearted lady.”

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

“She loves him passionately, you say?”

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

Henry glowed with pleasure at the prospect.

“But steer clear of women like Juana.”

“What is this story you have heard?”

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

“And the woman went?”

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

“And then?”

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

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

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

“And this is Katharine’s sister….”

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

“What when she marries?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He became happy again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what of him?”

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

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

“They are indeed a most beautiful trio.”

“Trio?”

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

“He is younger than I.”

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

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

He began to feel mildly irritated with these perfect beings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His conscience was so happy that it was lying dormant.

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

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

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

Shipwreck

That winter of the year 1506 was a bleak one. Katharine had suffered miserably from the cold. Her position had certainly not improved and since the death of her mother she had become an encumbrance in Spain as well as in England.

She very much feared the King; she felt that his attitude toward her was entirely cynical. He, who had professed affection for her and such delight when she had come to marry Arthur, was now grudging her the small allowance he had made her and letting her see that he very much regretted that she had ever come to England.

Life was so cruel. She was in this position through a sudden twist of fate. If Arthur had lived she might now be the happy mother of children, the future Queen. If her mother had lived none would have dared treat her in this way. She often wondered if her father had ever really cared for her at all. It seemed to her that his children had been merely the means of helping him to increase his power. She knew that was inevitable to a certain extent but when one of them was placed in a position such as she was, surely some family feeling might have been revived to help that unfortunate one.

She had pawned so many of her jewels that she was afraid they would not last much longer. The Prince of Wales would be fifteen in June. That had once been the time considered possible for his wedding.

Would it take place? If it did she would be lifted out of her misery. It must take place.

For the last year her life had gone from bad to worse. The King was displeased with her father and the alliance between them, which had begun with the marriage of Katharine and Arthur was severely strained. There were the perpetual differences about Katharine’s dowry, and both of them refusing to help her, each using the other as an excuse. So it seems that I, thought Katharine, am of no importance to either of them.

They were both acquisitive; they were both ruthless in their determination to achieve power and hold it. What did they care for a poor defenseless girl? It had been so different when Queen Isabella was alive.

In the previous year Ferdinand had remarried. Katharine had been shocked when she heard for she could not bear to think of another in her mother’s place, particularly as he had married a young girl and rumor said he doted on her. Katharine believed he had always been a little jealous of Isabella. She had been his superior in every way, mentally as well as in her possessions, but they had appeared to be fond of each other. Isabella certainly had been of him, but always she had realized his weaknesses and always he had resented her power.

Now he had a young girl, Germaine de Foix, and this fact brought anxious furrows to the brow of the King of England for Germaine de Foix was a niece of Louis the Twelfth of France, which must mean bonds of friendship between Spain and Henry’s old enemy, France.

Henry had not said definitely that there would be no marriage with the Prince of Wales. He did not want to do that. In fact to have abandoned her altogether would have meant a return of her dowry and he was not prepared to let that go out of the country. But she knew that he was sending out feelers for a possible bride for the Prince of Wales. She knew that Marguerite of Angoulême had been suggested for young Henry and her mother Louise of Savoy for the elder.

She fancied that rejection from Angoulême had been the reason for these propositions coming to nothing, and she had heard that Louise had seen a picture of the King and found it repulsive, as no doubt she did his parsimonious habits. The real reason perhaps was that she was so wrapped up in her son François, the young Duke whom she called her Caesar, that she could not bear to be parted from him; and the same applied to Marguerite.

In any case the King was still seeking a bride and there had been no further suggestions for the Prince of Wales.

Just before Christmas she begged an audience with the King and after a while this was granted.

She was amazed by his frail looks. He was thin and there was a yellowish tinge to his skin, but his eyes were sharp and shrewd-looking as ever.

“My lord,” she said, “I cannot go on as I am. I have had no new clothes for two years; my servants are not paid. I must be able to live with dignity.”

“Have you applied to your father?” he asked.

“My father says I should apply to you.”

He lifted his shoulders. “You are his daughter.”

“I am yours too. I was Arthur’s wife.”

“That was scarcely a marriage, dear lady. Your father does not behave in a seemly fashion I hear.”

She began to feel hysterical. She must have help from somewhere. She could not go on in this way. Her apartments were cold and there was no means of heating them.

She told him this; her voice was raised and she was near to tears.

The King looked shocked.

“Pray calm yourself, my lady,” he said. “I think that you forget what is due from us both.”

She had clenched her fists together, “I am desperate…desperate. Either help me or send me to my father.”

The King said: “For the moment you should go back to your apartments. You are overwrought. I will do something to relieve your situation.”

What he had done was to invite her to come to Court for Christmas. This had disconcerted her. How could she mingle with the fine ladies of the Court in her threadbare gowns? Yet how could she spend the money which such a visit would necessarily require?

But because it was the King’s command that she should go to Court she must do so, and when she was installed in a small apartment there one of the King’s ambassadors came to her. He came, he said, on the command of the King to discuss her difficulties. She should rejoice for the King had given the matter his consideration.

She was tremendously relieved…but only for a few moments. When she heard the King’s solution, she was overcome with dismay.

“My lady, the King realizes that the upkeep of Durham House is beyond your means. Therefore he offers you a home here at Court. He is dismissing the members of your household whom you will no longer need. He says it is small wonder that you cannot pay your servants. The answer is that you have far too many. He is dismissing all but five of your ladies, and he is leaving you your Master of Hall, your treasurer and your physician. Then you will have your apartments here at Court. Thus you will be in a position to live in accordance with your means.”

She was dumbfounded. He had helped her by taking away most of those who were her friends.

She was so distraught that she sent at once for her Confessor. She wanted to pray with him, to ask him to help her to bear this fresh burden, which had been put upon her by a cynical king.

He could not be found and when she sent for her physician he told her that her Spanish Confessor was one of those who had been dismissed.

So here she was at Court—even more wretched than she had been at Durham House. Her expenses might have decreased but her misery had intensified.

There was only one ray of hope at that time. On occasions she saw the Prince of Wales. He was always aware of her, she knew. Sometimes their eyes would meet and in his would be a smile, which was almost conspiratorial.

What did that mean? she wondered.

She looked for him on every occasion. She felt happier when he was there.

There was only one way she could escape from his intolerable situation. That would be through marriage with the Prince of Wales.

The King was by no means a happy man. He was still unmarried and he had one son only. True, Henry was growing into splendid manhood. He was already taller than his father, he was outstandingly handsome and with his light auburn hair and fair skin he was admired wherever he went. He took great care always to be dressed to the best advantage. He liked to show off his well-shaped legs and the sumptuous velvets and brocades of his garments were the talk of the Court.

All very well, thought the King, but I hope the boy is not going to be extravagant.

Certainly that could be curbed while the King lived but as Henry said to Dudley and Empson, it would be intolerable if the Prince believed that when he came to the throne he could plunge into that storehouse of carefully built-up treasure and squander it.

Everyone made excuses for him. He was young yet. He had great charm and good looks; he was admired by the people. When he grew older he would realize his responsibilities.

But would he?

The King watched his son closely, curbed his exuberance, keeping him at his side. He was determined that the Prince should not yet be allowed to set up a household at Ludlow but remain at the King’s Court.

The rift with Ferdinand was growing. Henry was in fact seeking friendship with Philip, Juana’s husband, who since the death of Queen Isabella had become virtually ruler of Castile. (Juana was the Queen, but women did not count, certainly not one who was half mad and at the same time besottedly in love with her husband so that he could do anything he would with her.) When Philip’s father Maximilian died Philip would be the most powerful man in Europe. He was therefore a man to be cultivated and the deeper the rift between Henry and Ferdinand the more Henry would need Philip’s friendship to stand against the French. Moreover Ferdinand’s marriage with the niece of the King of France had made this more important than ever.

Henry’s fury with Ferdinand was increased when English merchants trading in Castile were refused the privileges they had enjoyed for some time under Isabella’s rule and were unable to do business. Consequently they returned with their cargo of cloth and did not bring back the wine and oil the country needed. Ferdinand swore that this was no fault of his. It had been his government who had refused the English merchants permission to do business. He had done his best to persuade them to allow the trade to proceed as before but they had refused. The English merchants had come to Richmond to complain to the King and they were in a very angry mood. Henry hated to see business deals frustrated; he had great difficulty in placating the merchants and although he was not to blame, people had looked to him to make the country prosperous and if he failed to do so he would be the one to answer for the failure.

Indeed he needed to court the friendship of Philip who would be only too ready to go against his father-in-law for Ferdinand was very resentful that Isabella should have declared her mad daughter Juana Queen of Castile, for that meant handing over that country to Juana’s husband Philip.

But there was one other matter which made Henry feel he needed Philip’s friendship.

At the time of the rebellion of Edmund de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk, which had given the King the opportunity to dispose of Sir James Tyrell and thus put an end to that specter, which had haunted him for a long time, the Earl had been exiled.

Perhaps it was a mistake to send people into exile. One never knew what they were plotting there. On the other hand Henry always avoided bloodshed except when he considered it absolutely necessary.

Four years had passed since Suffolk was brought to trial and during that time he had been in Aix. It was dangerous of course. But Henry had expected that and he watched the antics of his enemy very closely. At the time of Suffolk’s trial he had thought his claim to the throne was too remote to be of great importance. After all it came through his mother’s being sister to Edward the Fourth. Henry now realized that he should have been more careful and he would give a great deal to have Suffolk safely in the Tower.

He had signed a treaty with the Emperor Maximilian, father of Philip, in which Maximilian had promised he would not help English rebels, even though these rebels should claim the title of duke.

Suffolk had clearly been meant in this for he regarded himself as a duke even though his titles had been confiscated.

In spite of this Suffolk stayed at Aix for two years and when he did finally go after having been promised safe conduct, he was arrested in Gelderland and imprisoned in the Castle of Hattem. Shortly after his incarceration there, this castle had been captured by Philip; thus Suffolk had passed into the hands of the man whose friendship Henry now so ardently sought and one of the main reasons for this was Philip’s possession of Suffolk.

There were so many things in Henry’s mind. His spirits would have been considerably lifted if he could have found a bride. He missed Elizabeth more than he had thought possible. She had been so docile, never complaining, accepting his superior wisdom in all things. Having enjoyed the company of such a wife it was not surprising that he missed it and desperately longed to replace her.

The country was prospering as never before and his ministers thought it rather foolish of him to be so constantly worrying about a claimant to the throne springing up. It was due to those alarming insurrections of Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck…and of course the continued fears concerning the Princes in the Tower. They had colored his outlook to such an extent that there were times when they dominated all else.

But his ministers were right. He had nothing to fear. Nevertheless he would do what he could to cultivate Philip’s friendship, and he would seek a bride and remarry, which would remind himself that he was young yet. He would watch over the development of young Henry and mold him as the king he would one day be. And as for his son’s marriage, well, if an opportunity turned up he was free to take it. He kept telling himself that he was in no way bound to the marriage with Katharine of Aragon.

But the woman was an incessant nuisance. She was constantly grumbling and even now that she had free quarters at Court she went round like a messenger of doom trying to win the sympathy of those about her.

She had no money to buy clothes; she could not pay her servants; the few women who were left to her could not marry because she could not provide them with dowries; her undergarments had been mended so many times that there was nothing left of them but patches.

She was in a sorry state and worst of all she did not know whether she was the prospective Princess of Wales or not.

“We are not committed,” said the King. “Let her understand that.”

He had little thought to waste on her; he was wondering how he could best cultivate the friendship of Philip.

Then fate played into his hands.

That January the greatest storm the English ever remembered struck the island; the gale raged all through the day and night; even in London roofs blew from houses and it was unsafe to be in the streets. Among other buildings St. Paul’s Cathedral was damaged, but all this was nothing compared with the fury of the gale along the coasts.

It so happened that Philip with his wife Juana was at this time on the high seas. They were on their way to claim the crown of Castile and were making the journey by sea because the King of France would not permit them to cross his land.

So Philip had set sail from the Netherlands with his army and was in the English Channel when the full force of the storm struck his fleet. It was scattered; ships were sunk and some were washed ashore along the English coast.

With Philip was his wife Juana whom he would have preferred to be without. Philip was twenty-eight years old; he had already earned the title of Philip the Handsome and it fitted him. His long golden hair and fine features gave him the appearance of a Greek god and his large blue eyes and skin were fresh and healthy. If he was not tall, he was not short—perhaps slightly above medium height. Perhaps if he were older those perfect features might have been spoiled by marks of debauchery, but at this time, in spite of the life he led, they remained unsullied.

He had married Juana for Castile and he always said they might have lived together in reasonable harmony if she had not become so enamored of him that she could not bear him out of her sight and when they were together she could not prevent herself showing in every possible way her passionate devotion to him. As she was more than a little unbalanced, this passion for her husband—particularly in view of the life he liked to lead—assumed violent demonstrations. The incident of the cropped-haired mistress was but one. Her desire for Philip was insatiable and the stronger it grew so did his revulsion for her.

It was a very unhappy state of affairs, but on this occasion he had to endure her company for they were on their way to Castile where she would have to claim the crown of Castile.

He had often wondered whether he could put her away. That she was mad, many would be ready to admit if they dared. But surely, as admitting it was so would please him very much, they need have little fear from that. He always had to remember though that the crown came through her. She would be ready to give him all power in Castile but in exchange she would want him with her night and day.

It is too big a price to ask, he thought, even for Castile.

The marriage had been fruitful so Philip had done his duty by the woman. Their son Charles would be one of the most powerful men in Europe one day but his father would take that role before him. On the death of the Emperor, now that he had Castile as well, much of Europe would fall into Philip’s hands.

He had thought that once Juana had children he would be able to escape from her wearying passion. It was not so. She was proud of them, of course, loved them in fact, but she made it clear that all her passionate desire was still concentrated on her husband.

Of course he was attractive—one of the most desirable men in the world, and he had evidence of that for he could not remember one woman who had denied him once he made his wishes known. But Juana’s passion for him, to which her madness seemed to add a dangerous fuel, did not abate. He had begun to fear it never would.

Ever since they had left the land he had had to endure her company. Wherever he went she was after him and it was not easy to hide oneself on board a ship. He had consoled himself: soon we shall be in Castile. Soon the crown will be handed to her. He could already feel it on his head.

And now…this storm. Was it the end? He had been a fool to bring his army to sea. But what else could he do? He did not want to appear without it…and Ferdinand had no right to make treaties with the King of France, allying himself with France through that marriage with the French King’s niece. Artful old devil, thought Philip. He would probably be delighted if they perished at sea. Then he would get his hands on the baby Charles and bring him up as he thought he should be.

God forbid!

Once Juana had the crown perhaps he could put her away. Heaven knew, her conduct should not make that difficult.

But now all his plans were to come to nothing. Here he was at sea, and with every passing moment the storm was rising.

He was shouting orders to his men. They were afraid, he knew that. Only those who knew the sea could understand how terrible it could be. Philip was brought face-to-face with that knowledge and he could only fear that he had come to the end.

Someone had brought him an inflated jacket. It might be necessary to leave the ship, my lord, he was told.

“Leave the ship? I never will. Where are my other ships?”

“They are no longer with us, my lord. Some may have been lost…others blown to land somewhere. We are in the English Channel. Thank Heaven the English coast cannot be far away.”

Juana came rushing up to him. She was dressed in a furred robe and about her was strapped a purse.

She laughed at him and held out her arms. “We shall die together, my beloved,” she cried. “I ask nothing more.”

She would embrace him, but he threw her aside.

“This is no moment,” he said. “We have to be prepared. We may have to abandon ship.”

“Ah, for the sea’s embrace,” cried Juana. “I trow it will be a little more welcoming than yours, my cruel lord.”

“Try to be sensible,” said Philip angrily. “At such a time…have you no sense?”

“None at all,” she cried. “None where you are concerned, most beautiful and cruel of men.”

He had turned away. “What now?” he said to the men who, in spite of the situation, could not help gazing at Juana in astonishment. “Could we land?” asked Philip.

“We could try. If the ship will hold out long enough….”

“England,” said Philip. “Well, better than a watery grave mayhap.”

Juana had flung herself at him once more and was clinging to him.

“Let us die together, sweet husband,” she cried dramatically, and again he flung her from him.

“Death!” he cried in a fury. “At least it would be escape from you.”

Then he had left her and staggered onto the deck.

Juana who had fallen, partly due to Philip’s rough treatment and partly due to the violent movement of the ship, half-raised herself and sat rocking to and fro.

“Oh my love…my love!” she cried. “Will you ever love me? I will stay with you forever. You will never be rid of me never…never.”

Her women were running round her. They were frightened out of their wits—not by her strangeness, they were accustomed to that—but at the prospect of death at sea.

The thunder roared and the lightning was terrifying.

“Philip,” screamed Juana. “Where are you, my love, my husband. Come to me. Let us die in each other’s arms.”

One of her women knelt beside her.

“You are frightened, woman,” said Juana. “You tremble. We are going to die are we not? I wonder what it is like to drown. Death comes quickly some say and in this sea surely so. I am not afraid of dying. There is only one thing in this world that I am afraid of…losing him…losing my beloved….”

She looked at them…these women who were clustering round her. They were in greater need of comfort than she was. She spoke truthfully when she said she was not afraid. If she could be with Philip that was all she asked.

The ship was lurching violently and as Juana tried to get to her feet, she heard a voice crying out: “Land! Land. The lord be praised, it’s land.”

Philip shouted: “Can we make it?”

“We have to, my lord. This ship can’t carry us farther…It’s land or death in the sea.”

“Go for the land then,” said Philip.

He was thinking that he would have to throw himself on the hospitality of Henry. Was that wise? Most unwise, he thought. He would be more or less Henry’s prisoner. Here he was with only a few seamen at the mercy of one who might befriend him if it were expedient to do so.

But it was that or death by drowning, so there was only one course to take.

Juana was on her feet. She staggered on deck and stood beside Philip. She looked incongruous in her fine gown with her purse of gold strapped about her waist and her long hair flying in the wind. She was beautiful; there was no denying that and in her wildness she was like some sea goddess rather than a normal woman. Philip looked at her in momentary admiration. She had shown less fear than any of them at the prospect of drowning.

“Philip,” she cried. “We are together…We have come through this.”

She clasped his arm and he did not throw her off. Perhaps it was too solemn a moment and he was too relieved that land was in sight and that death was not imminent.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we may be safe.”

As they came nearer to the land they saw that people were waiting there. In the early morning light this was a frightening sight, for some of those people carried bows and arrows and others had farming instruments which they could be intending to use as weapons. They looked menacing.

The ship had ground to a halt and some of the men were wading ashore.

Philip heard one shout, “This is the Archduke of Austria and King of Castile, with his Duchess and Queen. We beg for refuge.”

There was a chorus of “Come ashore.”

We must, thought Philip wryly. There is nothing else we can do.

It was not long before, with Juana beside him, he was standing on dry land.

One man had put himself in front of the crowd and it was clear that he was a person of some authority.

“I am Sir John Trenchard,” he said. “Squire of these lands. I welcome you ashore.”

“Thank you,” said Philip. “Tell me where we are?”

“You have landed at Melcombe Regis…you just missed Weymouth. All along the coast your ships have been watched. There’ll not be many which have escaped the storm I fear, my lord Archduke. I thank God that you are safe. My house and household will be at your service and I doubt not you would wish to come with me right away.”

“There is nothing I should desire more,” said Philip.

“Then let us go. We are close by. You can have food and shelter at least.”

The manor house was warm and cozy after the rigors of the night and Philip could not feel anything but relief and an overpowering joy that his life had been saved. The savory smells of roasting meat filled the hall and he gave himself up to the pleasure of taking advantage of the comforts his host had to offer.

Lady Trenchard was giving urgent orders in the kitchens and throughout the household, while her husband dispatched a messenger to Windsor that the King might know without delay what an important visitor Sir John had in his house.

The King received the news with an excitement so intense that for once he felt unable to hide it. Philip in England! Shipwrecked! At his mercy in a way. Fortune could not have been more favorable.

The weather was bad; the heavy rain was causing floods all over the country and although the violent wind had abated a little it was still wreaking damage throughout the land.

Henry blessed the storm. Nothing could have worked more favorably for him. Philip must be accorded a royal welcome, he said. He should be met and brought to the Court where Henry would devise such hospitality which would astonish all those who were aware of his reluctance to spend money. He was sure Dudley and Empson would agree with him that this was one of those occasions when it was necessary to spend.

He sent for young Henry.

The Prince had a faintly resentful look in his eyes. The King knew what that meant. He would soon be fifteen years of age and he resented being kept so closely under his father’s surveillance.

Often the King had impressed on his son how much depended on him, what great responsibilities would be his, and it was then that he grew faintly uneasy because he saw that faraway look in the boy’s eyes, which meant that he was seeing the time when he would be king and imagining what he would do when his father was no longer there to restrain him.

“Be thankful, my lord, for the Prince’s good health and looks and his popularity with the people,” said his ministers.

“I am,” replied the King, “but sometimes I think it would be better if he were a little more like his brother Arthur was.”

“The Prince will be strong, my lord. Have no fear of that.”

And he sighed and supposed they were right. He knew that some of those who wished him well believed that he looked for trouble; he was never at ease and was always expecting disaster. Well, that was so; but then it was due to the way in which he had come to the crown.

Now he looked at his son.

“You have heard the news doubtless. The Archduke Philip has been shipwrecked on our shores. He is at Melcombe Regis with his wife.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “I have heard it. Philip and Katharine’s sister.”

The King frowned. He would have to pay a little more respect to Katharine now that her sister and brother-in-law were here, he supposed. But he was faintly irritated that his son should mention her.

“You are always saying that you are not allowed to take a big enough part in important matters. Well, my son, here is your chance. Philip must be welcomed to our shores. Quite clearly I cannot go to meet him. I do not want to treat him as though he is a conqueror, do I? But I wish to show him honor. I intend to make this visit memorable…for myself as well as for him. So I shall send you, my son, to welcome him. You will go at the head of a party and greet him in my name.”

Henry’s eyes sparkled. How he loves taking a prominent part! thought the King. How different from Arthur!

“You will treat Philip with every respect. You will welcome him warmly. You will tell him of our pleasure in his coming. Now go and prepare to leave. I will see you before you set out and will prime you in what you will have to say to our visitor.”

Henry said: “Yes, my lord.”

He was all impatience to be gone, thinking: What shall I wear? What shall I say? Philip of Austria…son of Maximilian…one of the most important men in Europe, one whose friendship his father was eager to cultivate. He would excel. He would show everyone how he would handle delicate matters….

“You may go now,” said the King. “I will see you before you leave.”

Henry was off, calling to Charles Brandon, Mountjoy…all his friends.

An important mission entrusted to him at last!

In her apartments Katharine heard the news. Her sufferings had not diminished since she came to Court. In fact she thought that they had become more humiliating; for here she must live close to the rich and observe that the humblest squire was more comfortably situated than she was. It was amazing how quickly servants realized the contempt of their masters and lost no time in reflecting it. True she and her attendants were served food from the King’s kitchens but it was always cold when it reached them and was obviously those scraps which were considered unfit for the royal table.

She was eating scarcely anything. Pride forbade her. Moreover she found that her appetite had diminished; she was in such a state of perpetual anxiety. Her father did not reply to her entreaties and she knew it was no use appealing to King Henry.

All her hopes were centered on the Prince of Wales for he always had a kindly smile for her when they saw each other. It was a little patronizing perhaps, and in it there was an assumption of superiority but there was something protective in his smile and Katharine was in sore need of protection.

Therefore when the news reached her that her sister and brother-in-law were in the country wild hope seized her. It was years since she had seen Juana but to see her again would be wonderful. She could talk to her. She would make her understand what her position here was like. Juana was important now: Queen of Castile. Juana could help her.

This could be deliverance.

It was in a state of hopeful expectation that she awaited the arrival of her sister and brother-in-law.

A place of meeting had been arranged. It was to be at Winchester. Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester had already been warned that when Philip arrived he was to be treated to the very best and most lavish hospitality. Philip was to be made to feel that there was no suggestion whatsoever of his being a prisoner. He was an honored guest.

Philip had arrived at Winchester feeling rather pleased with the turn of events. He had heard by now that not all his ships had been lost. Many of them had been able to get into port and although damaged could be refitted and made seaworthy. In the meantime he was in England, about to meet the wily King; he was very much looking forward to that encounter.

Moreover he was feeling particularly pleased because he had left Juana behind him at Wolverton Manor in Dorset whither they had traveled from Melcombe Regis and where they were—since it was the wish of the King—entertained with as much splendor as it was possible to muster.

Juana had protested. She wished to accompany him. She did not want to let him out of her sight. But he had been adamant. The shipwreck had affected her more than she realized. She was distraught. She was overwrought. She was in a weak state. He feared for her health.

She had watched him through narrowed eyes and he had been forced to threaten her. If she did not agree to stay and rest he would have her put away. She suffered from periodic madness and the whole world knew it. He would have no difficulty in making people believe that her violence had become so dangerous to others that she must be put under restraint.

That threat could calm her better than anything, for although she was the Queen of Castile, Philip was more powerful and every member of her household would agree with him that she suffered from bouts of madness.

He soothed her; he was gentle with her; he spent the night with her—which could soften her more than anything; and in the morning he was able to leave alone for Winchester having warned her attendants that she was to have a long rest before setting out to make the journey to Windsor.

Savoring his freedom from the cloying devotion of his wife he was in excellent form, ready to enjoy the adventure; and when he heard that the Prince of Wales was on his way to meet him in the king’s name he was greatly amused. The boy was not quite fifteen, full of life, straining at the leash. Philip looked forward to an entertaining encounter.

Young Henry meanwhile was rehearsing what he would say to Philip. Philip was handsome and therefore vain, he presumed. Philip was important to his father; therefore he must treat him with the utmost respect. At the same time he must let the Archduke know that he was of no small importance himself: Prince of Wales, king-to-be, someone to be reckoned with for the future.

They met at the Bishop’s Palace and stood face-to-face smiling at each other. The speeches Henry had rehearsed were forgotten. He said: “Why, my lord Archduke, you are indeed as handsome as they say.”

Philip was amused. “My lord Prince,” he said, “I see you have heard tales of me similar to those I have heard of you. And I will say with you…they do not lie. You are all that I heard of you though I’ll confess I did believe it was largely flattery.”

There could not have been a better beginning. Philip knew exactly how to please the boy and he set out with all his considerable charm to do so.

As for young Henry he was delighted; he felt he was making a supreme success of his first diplomatic mission.

Before they sat down to the lavish banquet the Bishop’s servants had prepared they were the best of friends. Philip had explained that he had left Juana behind to recuperate after the fearful ordeal at sea. Henry wanted to hear about the shipwreck and listened entranced to Philip’s account.

It was dramatic. Henry could see the young man—who was already a hero to him—giving orders on the deck.

“We believed our last moment had come. I prayed then to God. I went on my knees and asked for my life to be spared. I believe—but you may think I am wrong—that I have work to do here on Earth and the time has not yet come for me to leave it.”

Henry protested that he did not think the Archduke was wrong at all and God must have realized that.

“I swore to the Virgin Mary that I would make two pilgrimages if she would intercede for me. I promised her I would go to her churches of Montserrat and Guadalupe and there do homage to her if she would but plead with God to save my life.”

“And she did,” said Henry, his eyes glistening with religious fervor. Knights were the more to be admired if they combined piety with bravery.

“From that moment the wind dropped. The rain abated so that we could see the outline of the English coast,” went on Philip.

It was not quite true but Philip could not resist dramatizing the story for such an entranced listener.

“Heaven intervened,” said Henry piously.

“That is so, my Prince. We came ashore although I must confess that the inhabitants looked a little fierce at first.”

“They should be punished for it,” said Henry, his little mouth hardening.

“Nay, nay. They were protecting the shores of their country. How were they to know that I was a friend? I could have been an invader. Do not blame your good people, my lord Prince. Rather thank them. They would guard your island well. And the best gift a ruler can have from his people is loyalty.”

“I think the people will be loyal to me.”

Philip laid his hand on the boy’s arm. “You have the makings of a great ruler. That is clearer to me than is this goblet of wine.”

How Henry glowed! How he admired the Archduke! He was so good-looking, so charming, and Henry was glad to know although he himself was not yet fifteen and could be expected to put on a few more inches, he was already as tall as Philip.

He asked about Juana. Philip explained that she was suffering from exhaustion and that he had insisted that she remain behind for a while and take the journey to Windsor more slowly.

Henry said: “I look forward to meeting the lady Katharine’s sister.”

“Ah…indeed yes.”

Henry shut his lips firmly together. He had been warned by his father not to speak of Katharine. These were her close relations and the subject of her treatment in England could be a dangerous one.

Henry wondered fleetingly what the King intended to do about Katharine; but he was too involved with this fascinating companion to let her intrude into the conversation. Besides she was a forbidden subject. But the very fact of that made him feel he wanted to talk of her.

“Your wife has brought you great possessions,” said Henry; and it occurred to him that if Katharine had been the elder she could have brought Castile to him. He was sure then there would not have been all this uncertainty about his marriage.

At length they retired for the night for they were to leave early next morning. By that time the excellent camaraderie between them was noted by all around them.

It was as though the Archduke of Austria and the Prince of Wales had been friends all their lives and none would have guessed that they had met for the first time only the day before.

It was a pleasant journey. They were both young and healthy enough not to be disturbed by the wintry weather and as they approached Windsor they perceived King Henry with a magnificently attired entourage riding toward them.

King Henry, regal in purple velvet, made a striking contrast to the black-clad Archduke and his rather somber attendants. The King swept off his cap and was glad that he had taken the precaution of wearing a hood with the cap on top so that it could be removed leaving his ears covered, for the icy wind was penetrating and he was plagued by many rheumatic aches and pains these days.

“It is too cold to linger here,” he said to Philip, “but I would say to you that I rejoice to see you. You are as welcome as my son here. He, I and my whole kingdom are at your service.”

Philip replied that he was deeply moved by such a touching welcome and taking his place between the King and the Prince of Wales he rode with them toward the castle.

From a window Katharine was watching. She had hoped to be there in the great hall to greet her sister and her husband but it had not been suggested that she should, so fearing a rebuff she had remained in her apartments.

But I shall see Juana, she told herself. Something must come of that.

She looked from the window. She saw the three men. But where was Juana? She was terribly afraid. Why was it that people always whispered about her sister? She knew Juana was wild. She had always been so. Only their mother had known how to deal with her. But there were times when Juana had been a loving sister, kind and even gentle, always ready to listen to other people’s problems.

But where was Juana now?

There was a scratching at her door and a young girl came in. This was the Princess Mary—the King’s youngest daughter who was some ten years old. Mary had become very beautiful—perhaps the most beautiful of all the King’s children. That beauty had come down through the House of York and with it a vitality, which had shown itself in Henry, Margaret and Mary.

Mary was tenderhearted, more affectionate than her sister Margaret had been and she had shown friendship for Katharine for whom she was vaguely sorry—mainly because she never had any new clothes and she was in some sort of disgrace it seemed to Mary—disgrace which was not of her own making.

Now Mary was very excited. “They’re here,” she cried. “There is to be a grand banquet. I am to go. I have my father’s permission. I shall play the lute and the clavichord and everyone will say how clever I am. Perhaps I shall dance. Perhaps Henry will dance with me.”

Mary was silent. She had been tactless again. She shouldn’t have mentioned Henry because Katharine wanted to marry him and she was not sure that he wanted to marry her and there was a lot of fuss about some dowry, which upset Katharine a great deal.

“I was hoping to see my sister,” said Katharine. “She is not with the party?”

“Oh, Queen Juana…” Mary was just about to say Mad Juana and remembered in time that she was Katharine’s sister. “She is staying behind…She has to rest….”

Mary’s voice trailed off. Then she was at the window.

“They look very dull,” she said, “except my father…and Henry of course…”

Katharine was thinking: What if I am invited to the banquet? Is my ruby brooch big enough to hide the darn in my velvet gown?

But she was not thinking very seriously about what she would wear. The one thought which kept hammering in her mind was: Where is Juana?

The King led his guest into the castle. As they walked he congratculated the Archduke on his escape and assured him of his own delight in the outcome.

“I have long desired to talk with you, my lord Archduke, and now fate in this rather churlish way has gratified my desire.”

Philip replied as graciously. He could only rejoice in his shipwreck since it had brought about this happy meeting.

The state apartments of the castle were magnificent and Philip admired them. Then Philip was conducted to the most splendid apartment of them all, hung with cloth of gold and crimson velvet, and as it was lavishly decorated with Tudor roses Philip realized that the King was giving up the royal bedchamber to him.

It had been the custom of kings during the ages when they wished to show especial honor that they gave up this most intimate of their apartments. In medieval times often the guest had been expected to share the King’s bed. Later this custom had been altered a little and now it was customary to relieve the guest from sharing and offer only the bedchamber.

But it was indeed the ultimate honor and Philip was delighted.

The King had realized that it would not be possible to exclude Katharine from the celebrations; but the fact that her sister Juana had been left behind to follow later was an indication that he need not worry too much about the treatment the Princess had received in England.

With his usual shrewdness he had summed up Philip. Ambitious, wily to an extent, luxury loving, something of a libertine, a young man whom it should not be difficult for such as himself to handle, and he intended to get the most advantage from the visit.

Young Henry had already succumbed to the visitor’s charm. There had been no need to warn him to flatter the young man; he was doing that unconsciously. The King thought uneasily: there is a similarity between them. Will Henry be like Philip when he comes to the throne?

But that was a long way ahead, the King hoped, although his rheumatism was dreadfully painful particularly in such inclement weather as this. But he had time ahead of him; if he could get a wife he would feel renewed.

Katharine received the message. She was to appear at the banquet.

Her hopes were raised by Henry’s changed attitude toward her when she was presented to her brother-in-law; Philip embraced her and those hopes soared. She wondered when she would have an opportunity to talk to him.

She was grateful that she still had some jewels out of pawn and she had managed to keep one black velvet dress in moderately good condition. When she was dressed in it and put on her jewels she believed she successfully hid her poverty.

Henry proudly presented his daughter Mary to the Archduke, and even his expression softened a little at the sight of the delightful creature. He could not help being proud of his children. The urge was strong in him to get more. Perhaps he could talk to Philip about a bride. Philip’s sister Margaret’s name had been mentioned before. Perhaps he could get the matter settled quickly for it would be an ideal match.

He was affable to Katharine, calling her his daughter, which all about him noticed and they wondered whether this was an indication that there was still a possibility of her marriage with the Prince of Wales or whether it was merely done for Philip’s benefit.

So the banquet began and conversation flowed with the utmost affability between Philip and his attendants and the King and the Prince of Wales and all those nobles who were fully aware of the King’s desire for friendship with the visitor.

The Princess Mary enchanted the company with her lute and clavichord as she had said she would; and she danced to the admiration of all. The King suggested that Katharine dance one of her Spanish dances and that one of her ladies should accompany her in the dance.

It was like those pleasant days of long ago for Katharine when she was treated according to her rank.

Mary had come to her after the dance and taking her hand led her to the dais at the end of the hall on which the royal party were seated. The King made no objection but included her in the smile he bestowed on his daughter.

Young Henry smiled at her, almost possessively and perhaps with real love. She was happier than she had been for a long time.

She sat beside Philip and her heart beat fast with hope. He was smiling at her in a rather vague way as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

“I was dismayed not to see my sister,” she said.

His voice was cold. “She was indisposed after such an ordeal. I was concerned for her health and insisted that she rest before making the journey.”

It sounded as though he cared very much for Juana, and Katharine warmed toward him.

“I shall look forward to seeing her. I doubt not she will join us soon.”

“It will be so, doubtless,” he said.

She thought: if I could speak to him in secret. If I could ask him to convey a message to my father…one which the King might not know of. Perhaps he could bring me some relief. If my father knew how short of money I am kept…

She would try. But how to speak to him alone? In the dance, perhaps?

“My lord Archduke,” she said quietly, “I should be greatly honored if you and I could dance together.”

He turned to her; his eyes were cold. “My lady, I am but a plain sailor. You would not have me dance with you!”

There was a brief silence. Katharine felt the blood rush into her face. It was an insult—and deliberately given.

The silence on the dais was brief. The Prince of Wales looked dismayed. He felt protective toward Katharine; on the other hand he was completely fascinated by his new friend. Katharine should not have asked him to dance; she should have waited for Philip to ask her. Henry preferred to forget the incident.

The King had been very much aware of it. It told him a good deal. Philip had escaped from Juana; he had treated Katharine as though he regarded her as of little importance.

That was revealing. Then he need not be too careful of her either and he was glad of that. He had been a little uneasy about what the sisters might discuss if they were together. He believed now that there would be no protest from Philip if he sent Katharine away. But perhaps he should allow her the briefest encounter with her sister.

On the following day the Princess Mary came to Katharine’s apartments. She was pouting slightly and Katharine wondered what had offended her, for she was inclined to be spoiled at the Court—like her brother and elder sister Margaret, she was fond of her own way. Now something had upset her and clearly she had come to tell Katharine about it.

Soon it came out. “I am to leave for Richmond at the end of the week.”

“Oh…but you love Richmond.”

“I love Richmond, but not when there is all this entertainment going on at Windsor. The Archduke will be here and there will be balls and banquets and all sorts of exciting things going on and I shall not be here to enjoy them.” She looked quickly at Katharine. “And,” she added, “nor will you.”

Katharine looked at her in amazement.

“Because,” went on Mary, “you are to come with me. We are to leave together…for Richmond.”

“But who has said this?”

“It is my father’s wish that we should go.”

“But…my sister will be coming…”

“I know. But we are to go. Perhaps your sister will come to Richmond to see you.”

“She will come here…and I shall not be here to see her. Oh, it is so unfair. Why is everything done to hurt me?”

Mary came to Katharine and put her arm round her.

“I don’t want to go to Richmond either,” she said.

Katharine looked at the beautiful little pouting face. No, Mary did not want to miss the balls and banquets. But I shall not see my sister, thought Katharine.

Then a horrible suspicion came to her that it had been planned because the King did not wish her to see her sister. He would know how bitterly she would complain. Had she not on many occasions brought her sorry condition to his ears? Not that he had listened.

Oh, life was cruel. It could not be that now she was going to be denied a meeting with Juana.

A few days passed in the most lavish revelry and still Juana did not come. Philip’s servants had certainly respected his wishes that Juana’s journey to join him should be a very slow one. She did not arrive until the day before Katharine and Mary were to leave for Richmond.

Fortune is a little on my side at last, thought Katharine. At least I shall see her.

With great joy she greeted her sister.

They looked at each other for some time in astonishment. They had both changed a good deal since they had last met. Katharine noticed the wildness in Juana’s eyes. She had seen it before but now it was more marked. Her sister had aged considerably. Of course she would change; she had been a young girl when she had left home to marry Philip.

Juana saw a new Katharine too. Was this Catalina, the rather quiet little sister who had always been so terrified of the future which would take her away from her mother’s side? Poor sad little widow! She really did look as though she were in mourning.

“We must be together…we must talk,” said Katharine. “There is so much I have to say to you. You will be going to Castile.”

“Yes,” said Juana. “We are going to claim the crown which is now mine.”

“You are Queen of Castile, Juana, as our mother was. It is hard to imagine anyone in her place.”

“Our father has replaced her in his bed,” said Juana with a laugh. “They say his new wife is young and beautiful and he is rather a doting husband.”

Katharine shivered.

“I wish him joy of her,” cried Juana. “I have the crown. He cannot take that.”

“Juana, when you see our father I want you to speak to him for me.”

“What think you of Philip?” said Juana. “Did you ever see a man so handsome?”

“He is certainly very good-looking. You see, Juana, I have no state here. They say I am to marry the Prince of Wales. We have gone through a ceremony…but shall I? What does our father say of this matter?”

“He has said nothing as far as I know.”

“But…I am his daughter.”

“I think he is not pleased that I have the crown. He always wanted it, you know. He married our mother for it. But I have it now…and I have Philip. Philip loves me…because I have the crown of Castile.” She caught Katharine’s arm and held it tightly. “If I did not have the crown of Castile he would cast me off tomorrow.”

“Oh no….”

“Yes, yes,” cried Juana. The wildness in her eyes was very evident. “Oh he is so beautiful, Katharine. He is the most beautiful creature on Earth. You have no idea. What have you known of men such as he is? Your Arthur…what sort of man was he?”

“He was good and kind,” said Katharine quickly; she was becoming alarmed by this wildness in Juana. She always had been. When they were in the royal nurseries in their childhood their mother would come when the attacks started. She was always able to soothe Juana.

“I am not to be lightly set aside,” said Juana. Then she began to tell Katharine how she had cut off Philip’s mistress’s golden hair. She began laughing immoderately. “I shaved her head. You should have seen her when we had finished with her. We bound her hand and foot. Her shrieks were such as would have led anyone to believe we were cutting off her head instead of her hair. She looked so odd…when we’d finished. We shaved it all off. Oh, it was so funny….”

“Juana, Juana, do not laugh so loudly. Juana, be calm. I want to talk to you. I want you to speak to our father…I want him to know how I live here. I cannot go on like this…He must do something. Help me, Juana. Help me.”

A dreamy expression had come into Juana’s eyes. “He will not escape me,” she said. “He cannot, can he? Not while I have the crown of Castile. He threatened me. Oh little Catalina, you have no idea…he would put me away…if he could. He will try to…but I won’t let him. I am the Queen of Castile. I…I…I…”

Katharine closed her eyes; she did not want to look at her sister. She knew that it was hopeless to look for help from her. Perhaps it was as well that the next day she would be leaving for Richmond.

The King was relieved to see Katharine depart. He did not think there was much danger to be expected from her but he was a cacutious man and he did not take risks. Philip was clearly not inclined to listen to her complaints and as for her sister she was not in a state to. Still it was as well not to have her at Court. She was an embarrassment in any case; and her clothes were decidedly shabby. He did not want unpleasant questions raised.

There were other things to discuss. He did not see why Philip should not make some definite matrimonial arrangements for him before he left. Philip had a rich sister Margaret. Her name had been mentioned before but there had been the usual prevarications. Then there was another matter. Even more important. He would not really feel at ease until Edmund de la Pole was safe in the Tower. It was alarming to have him wandering about on the Continent. One could never be sure who would rally to his cause if he attempted to get back and claim the throne.

A heaven-sent opportunity had brought Philip to these shores. He would not have been Henry Tudor if he had not made the most of that good fortune.

First of all he must make Philip his friend. Young, good-looking, susceptible to flattery, it should not be difficult. Young Henry was very useful. The two of them went hawking and hunting the wild boar together; they seemed to understand each other very well. The Prince of Wales had grown up in the last few months. Fifteen this year. A little young for marriage perhaps, but it might be that he and Philip could discuss the boy’s marriage. After all Philip was not on the best of terms with Ferdinand even though he was his father-in-law; and he certainly showed no sympathy for Katharine. There were numerous possibilities and the King decided to try them all.

First he was going to bestow on the Archduke the greatest honor he possibly could. He was going to create him a Knight of the Garter.

Philip was enchanted, and ready to discuss all that Henry wished and proved himself to be very ready to concede the King’s requests.

He would be delighted, he said, for Henry to have his sister Margaret Archduchess of Savoy and he believed she would be overjoyed to come to England.

“I am sure that Maximilian would never allow his daughter to come without a dowry.”

“My father would insist on giving her a dowry worthy of her rank.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed. He could not resist tentatively suggesting a figure.

“Somewhere in the region of thirty thousand crowns,” he murmured.

Philip did not flinch. It seemed to him a likely figure, he said.

Oh yes, surely such a guest was worthy of the Garter.

In St. George’s Chapel the ceremony took place and young Henry had the honor of fastening the insignia about Philip’s leg; and the friendship was sealed more firmly when the marriage contract between Henry and the Archduchess Margaret was signed.

It had indeed been a memorable visit.

But there was one question which Philip evaded; and that was the return of the Earl of Suffolk.

It was a matter he would have to discuss with the Emperor, he said.

“Oh my lord,” laughed Henry, “it is you who would have the last word, eh?”

Philip hated to admit that this was not so.

“It is for you to say,” went on Henry. “We know that your word is law. Suffolk is a traitor. I would have him here under lock and key.”

Philip appeared to consider and a vague look came into his eyes. At length, he said lightly, “I have no doubt, my lord, that you could persuade Suffolk to return.”

“I’ll swear he would wish to come back. To be exiled from one’s country…unable to return…” Henry paused significantly. “Well, you are here now…held by the bonds of friendship and you can well imagine how you would feel if for some reason you could not return to your country.”

Philip was alert immediately. He had long realized that Henry was a sly old fox. Was there a hint behind that bland expression? What did all this friendship mean? Philip had never had any great illusions about it. He had been delighted by his reception because he had known that it meant Henry regarded him as a great power in Europe. But he could change. Philip saw himself held here for ransom. How much would his father be prepared to pay to rescue him? A great deal no doubt, and Henry had a reputation for loving money more than he loved most things.

Philip appeared to consider. He said slowly: “Well, I have no doubt that something could be done about that. Suffolk was my father’s guest. He found it hard to refuse him refuge…but I have no doubt whatsoever…”

“It would be pleasant to have this little matter settled once and for all. I always did abhor a traitor.”

Which, thought Philip, is exactly what King Richard would have called you.

But that was long ago. Henry had the power to hold him here and Philip was counting on leaving England very soon. His ships were made ready. The pleasant interlude was coming to an end and now the Tudor was beginning to show himself other than the kindly host.

What did Suffolk matter? Let him take his chance. Philip could feel cold with fear at the prospect of being a prisoner here.

He had given way to the marriage, although he could imagine his sister would probably refuse her aging suitor. What did that matter; he had said he would arrange the settlement. He could do no more than that. And now Suffolk.

“I’ll swear,” he said, “that if you would promise to spare his life he would not try to escape when we told him he was no longer welcome.”

Henry smiled. He did not wish publicly to execute Suffolk. He wanted the man here in England under lock and key. To have him a prisoner in the Tower would do very well to begin with.

“I’ll strike a bargain,” said Henry. “I will promise to spare his life. But I want him here.”

“I am sure that could be arranged,” said Philip.

“My good friend, I knew I could rely on you.”

Philip said the friendship must grow stronger between them and he was happy to say that he and the Prince of Wales had been on the best of terms from the very beginning of their acquaintance. It would grieve him greatly to leave these friendly shores but Henry would understand a man in his position could not neglect his duty however strong the temptation to do so.

With the coming of the better weather Philip made his preparations to depart; Henry had given him a written promise that Suffolk’s life should be spared, and Philip sent emissaries on ahead to deal with the matter.

At the end of March Suffolk returned to England and Henry had him paraded through the streets of London on his way to the Tower. He wanted to impress on the people that it was folly to attempt to revolt against a strong king.

When Suffolk was safe in the Tower he sent for the Prince of Wales and talked to him alone.

“Another enemy safe under lock and key,” he said, “or as safe as lock and key can be.”

“Only when a man has lost his head can he cease to be a menace,” said young Henry, his lips tightly pursed. He was always deeply concerned about anyone who had attempted to take the crown.

“I have given my promise that he shall live,” said the King. “Philip insisted.”

“I suppose he had promised safe conduct to Suffolk.”

Henry was simple in a way, thought the King. He was unaware as yet of the deviousness of men. He had set Philip up as a hero and that meant that he could not suspect him of acting dishonorably in any way. It was a pleasant trait in some respects and he would learn and grow out of it. At the moment it was endearing and perhaps should be allowed to persist…for a while. Let the boy learn his own bitter lessons.

“I gave him my promise,” said the King. “My promise…but you have made no promises.”

The Prince was a little puzzled. The King hated to refer to his own death but there were times when it was necessary and when it must be impressed on young Henry that one day he would take over the reins of government.

“It is never wise to leave those living who imagine they have a claim to the throne—especially when they are related to a royal house as Suffolk is.”

“You mean…”

“I have given my promise. You have not given yours…. If it should be a matter for you to decide…Henry, my son, try to rid yourself of any who can make a nuisance of themselves and so obstruct the path to good government.”

Henry nodded slowly. What his father was saying was: when I am dead and you are King get rid of Suffolk…and anyone who through royal blood thinks he or she has a claim to the thone.

The End of a Reign

Life had returned to normal for Katharine. The hopes which had arisen with the visit of Philip and Juana to England had come to nothing. The only consolation was that prevailing conditions could not last much longer. The Prince of Wales was now fifteen—an age when he could be expected to marry. If he married someone else what would she do? What could she do? She imagined that all that would be left to her would be to go into a convent and give herself up to prayer and meditation.

Devout as she was, she did not want that. She wanted children, a happy married life, and she knew that her only hope was the Prince of Wales.

Whenever she saw him he was aware of her; he smiled at her possessively but she fancied there was that in his eyes which demanded gratitude. She was grateful, for she knew that by being kind to her he went against his father’s wishes; but common sense told her that even the Prince of Wales must know that he would marry her only if some other irresistible project did not turn up. She had heard it whispered that Eleanor of Castile was being suggested for him.

The only consolation was that she would know soon.

Then came the terrible news from Spain. Philip and Juana had arrived in Castile where the Cortes had accepted Juana as the Queen; Philip was given the rank only of consort, which would not please him. In vain had he protested that Juana was mad; the people of Castile accepted her as the daughter of the great Queen Isabella, their true Queen. Philip had to realize, Archduke of Austria that he was, that he was only the consort of the Queen of Castile.

There was another menacing figure in the background too. That was Ferdinand. Henry had often smiled to himself as he contemplated his old enemy. How did Ferdinand feel—he who, through Isabella, had been King of Castile, and now found himself only King of Aragon?

Philip undoubtedly had his enemies, and tragedy struck him at Burgos. No one was quite sure how it happened, but it was believed that it started at a ball game—at which Philip excelled. Being hot from the game, he called for refreshment and drank very deeply from the cup which was brought to him. Soon afterward he began to feel ill, and when people asked each other who had brought that cup to him, no one could remember. Philip was very ill and remained so for some days. Juana herself had nursed him. Katharine heard that she had changed during that time of sickness. Intense as her anxiety was, yet she grew calm and nursed Philip night and day allowing none but herself to supervise the preparation of his food. In spite of her care, one morning she discovered black spots on his body and during that day he died.

They said he had died of a fever but everyone suspected poison. The matter was not investigated very thoroughly because it was remembered that Ferdinand’s envoy had been in Burgos at that time; and with Philip dead, Charles a child, and Juana mad, Ferdinand would become Regent of Castile.

King Henry was astounded by the news. The Prince of Wales shed tears. Philip had been so young, so handsome, so vital, that it was impossible to think of him dead…and almost certainly by poisoning. Young Henry wanted to go to Burgos to sift the matter, to find the murderer and inflict terrible tortures on him. “He was my friend,” he said. “We loved each other.”

Charles Brandon was a little cynical, but he did not voice his thoughts. People were beginning to be careful what they said to the Prince.

The King was thinking: that schemer Ferdinand will be in control now. And he wondered what would happen about those plans he had discussed with Philip during his enforced stay in England. What of the bonds of friendship; what of the marriage with Archduchess Margaret?

He was soon to hear that Margaret did not wish to marry the ageing King of England, and he was sure that the proposed marriage between Eleanor of Castile and young Henry would be pushed aside now that Ferdinand would be in control.

What had come out of all the lavish entertainments given to Philip? Henry groaned at the thought of the cost. And what had been gained? He had spent so much time, energy and above all money cultivating the friendship of a man who had died before the year was out.

It seemed that all the good that had come out of that visit was the return of Edmund de la Pole, who was now the King’s prisoner in the Tower.

The King was feeling very weary. His rheumatism was worse; his skin was turning yellow; and he felt ill for a great part of the time.

If I could find a wife, he thought, I should be rejuvenated. It was amazing that with all he had to offer—a crown no less—it should be so difficult to find anyone who wanted it.

Why? Was this an indication of what people were thinking about his hold on that glittering and most desired object?

His friends and ministers implied that he was not his usual wise self in allowing this obsession with holding the crown to play such a big part in his life. They had implied that he had it firmly in his grasp. He had brought much good to England. He had taxed the rich until they groaned and complained bitterly; but he had a strong economy; he had a prosperous country; and if he demanded taxes from all those who could afford to pay them—as well as from those who could not—he had never lived extravagantly. None could say that the money squeezed from his long-suffering subjects was spent on his own amusements. He was never extravagant unless deep consideration told him that it was wise to be so. Money was only spent if it could bring back gains which exceeded the expense.

And then suddenly he had the idea. Juana! She was a widow now. She was very attractive—quite a beauty in fact. She was Queen of Castile. Why should she not come back to England as his bride?

He sent for Dr. de Puebla and sounded him.

De Puebla had aged considerably and the damp climate of England had not been good for his health. Yet he stayed on knowing that his position as the go-between and friend of the King of England, though he served a Spanish master, was more interesting and remunerative than anything he could have attained in Castile.

De Puebla was a little taken aback at the King’s suggestion.

“My lord…she is but recently widowed. She is not quite balanced as you saw for yourself. Moreover she remains so enamored of her late husband that she has had him embalmed and carries his coffin about with her wherever she goes. She has just given birth to a daughter…. It seems hardly the time….”

Hardly the time! Time was a sore point with the King. He could feel it slipping away from him. He must get a wife quickly.

“She has shown that she is fertile,” said the King. “She is beacutiful. She pleases me very much.”

“My lord, you know of her mental instability.”

“Mental instability does not prevent the bearing of children. I want sons, and I want a wife quickly to bear them for me.”

“I will acquaint King Ferdinand with your wishes,” said de Puebla.

“And you will tell him what an excellent prospect this is for his daughter. She will be Queen of England.”

“A title he hoped for another of his daughters,” said de Puebla. He had long deplored his inability to bring about that marriage. He knew that Ferdinand relied on him to do so; but all he had been able to report was the continual bickering about the dowry.

“That is another matter,” went on the King. “If Ferdinand will not pay the remainder of that long-overdue dowry I shall have to consider the match between his daughter Katharine and my son at an end.”

Ah, thought de Puebla. He desperately wants marriage with Juana. Can this be used as a bait to bring about the marriage between Katharine and the Prince of Wales?

Katharine was cheered a little during those months. The King had written to her saying that he loved her and could not endure to think of her worried about money; he enclosed two hundred pounds, which he trusted would be of some help to her.

Katharine smiled wanly. She knew what was going on. Scraps of gossip came to her. The King was hoping to marry Juana and was in correspondence with her father because of this. The longstanding trouble about the nonpayment of the dowry would be revived and it was clear that hoping for Juana, the King was realizing that he must still hold out the possibility of a marriage between Katharine and the Prince of Wales.

It was all very cynical but she supposed she must be grateful for help, for whatever reason it was given.

Ferdinand, long disappointed and suspicious of de Puebla, replaced him by Don Gutierro Gomez de Fuensalida who was very different from his predecessor—elegant, courtly, in fact what was expected of a Spanish ambassador, and one who had already served Ferdinand at the Courts of Maximilian and Philip, so he was known to be skilled in diplomacy.

Negotiations dragged on. Ferdinand sent word that Juana who was after all Queen of Castile refused to be parted from her late husband’s coffin and wherever she went it was taken with her. She could scarcely be expected to consider another marriage while she was in that state.

But the King continued to plan. It was as though he were clinging to Juana as his last hope. He was quite ill during the beginning of the year and the Prince of Wales began to behave as though he already wore the crown. He was no longer a boy and people were saying it could not be long now before he was the King.

If the older Henry was hoping desperately for a bride the young one was longing to put the crown on his own head.

Maximilian agreed that his grandson Charles should have the King’s youngest daughter, Mary. There were grand celebrations because of this and Katharine was seen in the tiltyard seated beside the King and he was heard to refer to her as his daughter.

It was spring of the year 1508 when the English emissary whom Henry had sent to Castile to find the real truth behind the diplomacy returned with the news that Ferdinand had secretly announced that he had no intention of allowing Juana to marry anyone. She was mad; and he was going to rule Castile in her name.

Henry was incensed.

He was feeling more and more wretched. He had emerged from the winter more or less crippled with rheumatism; he was in constant pain and none of his physicians could alleviate it. His temper, which for so long he had kept admirably under control, broke out.

The Prince of Wales came to him one day and found him glowering over one of the dispatches which had just arrived from his man in Castile.

He began to shout suddenly. “Ferdinand is playing with me. He has no intention of sending Juana here. He has cheated me…lied to me. Katharine has not helped. She has been telling her father of my ill treatment. They have no intention of giving me my bride….”

The Prince of Wales looked at the poor man his father had become. He was no longer afraid of him. The crown was fast slipping out of the old man’s grasp. That which he had feared ever since he had seized it was about to come to pass, only it was not some claimant to the throne who would snatch it from him. It was Death.

I am all but King, thought young Henry. It cannot be long now.

He said: “It seemed clear from the start that Ferdinand would not agree to the match…nor would Juana.”

“What do you mean?” cried the King. “We have been negotiating….”

“But never seriously on their side. Ferdinand had no intention…”

“What do you know of these matters? You are but a boy.”

“A boy no longer, my lord.” Henry looked pityingly at the shrunken man with the swollen joints who moved so painfully in his chair and he felt his own glorious youth urging him to escape his shackles. “I am aware of what goes on. And of what importance is this Spanish marriage? Juana is mad and you, my lord, are too old for marriage.”

“Too…old for marriage…,” spluttered the King.

“Indeed it is so. It is…”

The Prince stopped short, suddenly halted by the look of intense fury in his father’s pale eyes.

“How dare you!” cried the King. “You…you…young coxcomb…how dare you!”

“I…I…only spoke what I thought to be the truth.”

“Go from me,” said the King. “You have too high an opinion of yourself. You are a brash boy…nothing more. Take care. I am not yet in my grave remember, and the crown is not yet on your head. Go, I say. You offend me.”

The Prince retired with all speed. He was alarmed. He had felt the power of the King in that cold gaze and he was afraid that he was planning to take some action against him.

After his son had gone the King sat for a long time in silence, staring ahead of him.

The King’s health improved a little. The Prince was docile, making sure to obey his father in every respect. Nothing was said of that scene between them; but the two of them watched each other warily.

The King was too much of a realist not to admire his son. Henry had the makings of a king and he should be grateful for that. He would consolidate the House of Tudor. If he could curb his vanity, his extravagance, learn the true value of money he would do well enough.

As for the Prince he admired his father; he knew that he had been a great king and had labored under great odds. He disapproved of almost everything his father had done while at the same time he knew that his miserliness had enriched the country.

When my time comes, he thought, I will enjoy life. I will make the people happy. I will give them ceremonies and entertainments…jousts…tourneys and the conduits flowing with free wine. I will not be hampered by those old misers, Dudley and Empson. I shall know how to please the people.

The following June he would be eighteen years old; a man, and what a man—over six feet in height, towering above others, so handsome that women’s eyes sparkled as they looked at him—good at sport and at learning, a poet, a musician. He had everything.

He fancied that the whole country was waiting for that glorious moment when he should be proclaimed the King.

There were revelries at Court that Christmas and the King presided over them, seeming a little better. It was only in the clear light of morning that the yellowness of his skin was apparent. During the winter he suffered cruelly from his rheumatism and he was still looking for a bride.

The hard winter was at last over and it was April. But spring had come too late for the King in that year of 1509.

The Prince of Wales was summoned to the King’s bedchamber in Richmond Palace and everyone knew that the end was near.

Kneeling by the bed was the King’s mother—small and wizened, praying for the soul of her son.

She might have wondered how she would live without him who had been the whole meaning of life to her but it was not necessary, for she felt her own death was very close. It would be a gracious act of fate to take her with her son.

The Prince had come in. Oh, he was beautiful, she thought. Thank God for young Henry. This is not death when Henry is left to wear the crown, to populate the House of Tudor with illustrious sons.

The King was fighting for his breath, and thinking of his sins. There were many of them, he feared, but perhaps he had some virtues. He had killed…but only he could say, when it was for the betterment of England and if it was also for his own good, well then he would say that.

He would ask the Virgin to intercede for him and to plead that what he had done he had done for his country.

His mother was looking at him. She was assuring him that he had done well, that he had no need to fear death.

And there was young Henry…sad because death was sad. And yet there was a shine about him. He could feel the crown on his golden head now and that was satisfaction to him…as it had been to his father.

It was young Henry they should be praying for, not the old man. He was past praying for now.

“My lord.” It was the Archbishop putting his face close to the dying man’s. “The marriage of the Prince…Do you have any command?”

There was a brief silence. For a moment the King seemed to be more alive. His eyes sought those of his son. His lips moved. “The Prince will decide…,” he said.

That was how it would be. When he was no longer there, when Henry was the King he would do exactly what he pleased. He must not hamper the boy by making commands which he would disobey and then have to think up some elaborate reason to explain that he had not acted disobediently. Let him make his choice…freely…as he would in any case.

Moreover he had been cruel to Katharine. His conscience, which had been so quiet until now, was beginning to raise its head reproachfully.

He closed his eyes. They were watching him intently.

Then young Henry stood up. He knew that he was no longer Prince of Wales. He was the King.

King Henry the Eighth

They were all coming to pay homage to the new King.

He detained Katharine for he said he would speak with her. She thought how handsome he was with his newly acquired dignity and his endearing delight in it.

He took her hands and kissed them.

“I had always intended that you should be my Queen,” he said.

Waves of gladness swept over her. It was truly so. He was smiling, well pleased, loving himself as well as her. She thought how charming he was…how young. All the miseries of the last years were falling away from her. This young man with those few words and looks of tenderness in his eyes had brushed them aside.

She would never forget. She would be grateful forever.

There were tears in his eyes. He saw them and they pleased him. He was the perfect chivalrous knight rescuing the lady in distress. It was a role he loved so well and had often played it in his imagination.

“That pleases you?” he asked.

She turned her head away to hide her emotion; and he liked that too.

He put his arms about her and kissed her.

“I shall never forget this moment,” she said. “I shall love you until the day I die.”

She heard a chaffinch sing in the gardens. Then the bells were pealing. In the streets the people were waiting to see him and his chosen bride.

“The King is dead,” they would say. “Gone is the old miser and in his place this handsome young man, this golden boy, every inch of him a king.”

Already they were proclaiming him.

“God bless the King. God save King Henry the Eighth.”

Bibliography

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Gairdner, James, Henry VII

Gairdner, James, History and Life and Reign of Richard III

Gairdner, James, Life and Papers of Richard III

Green, John Richard, History of England

Green, Mary Anne Everett, Lives of the Princess of England

Guizot, M. Translated by Robert Black, History of France

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A Reader’s

Group Guide

The marriage of Henry Tudor and Elizabeth of York united the Lancasters and the Yorks, and began the Tudor Dynasty. Henry’s claim to the throne was tenuous but with Elizabeth of York, the daughter of King Edward IV, as his wife, he created a greater claim to the throne not only for himself, but also for his children. Although his reign was ripe with pretenders to the throne, Henry’s sharp mind, rather than physical combat, enabled him to maintain his position and secure the way for his second son, Henry VIII. Plaidy’s well-researched novel displays a changed England, finally at peace.

The following questions were created to help your reading group discuss Jean Plaidy’s To Hold the Crown.

1. The novel begins with a quote from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part 2: “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.” How does this quote relate to those who wear crowns in this novel? Think specifically of Henry Tudor, James IV of Scotland as well as Isabella and Ferdinand.

2. Henry Tudor is described throughout the book as being very “calm.” How does this personality trait affect his decisions in matters of state? In his marriage?

3. Elizabeth Woodville and Margaret Beaufort have a superficial relationship for the sake of their children, the King and Queen. As mothers-in-law they are required to respect each other, yet there is much tension between the two. Describe some of their points of contention. Were you reminded of modern relationships between any of your relatives?

4. At the beginning of the novel, Plaidy describes Elizabeth: “That was her life—buffeted from one situation to another. Never was she consulted as to her wishes. They would do with her as best suited them” (The Birth of a Prince). Discuss the complexities of being a royal woman with no free will. How does Elizabeth deal with her situation? How would you feel if so much of your life was decided for you?

5. When Elizabeth’s first baby is born, her mother thinks: “Oh no, Arthur was not going to find life easy with a name like that and it was a great error of judgment to have saddled him with it” (The Birth of a Prince). Why was he named Arthur? How does her prediction come true?

6. Cecilia and Elizabeth are the two eldest York sisters, yet they are very different. Cecilia sees her sister Elizabeth as “merely the King’s wife” (The Baker’s Boy). How was being his wife, and not his partner, beneficial to Elizabeth? How does Cecilia avoid Elizabeth’s fate? Had you been at Court, would you be an Elizabeth or a Cecilia? Why?

7. Elizabeth Woodville mourns her two sons Edward V and Richard IV and is haunted by the fact that she will never know what happened to them. From what you knew before reading this book, what did you think had happened to them? Were you surprised by Plaidy’s interpretation? Why or why not?

8. Who was Perkin Warbeck? Who supported him? Why was he so menacing to Henry, when Henry knew he was a pretender?

9. Henry Tudor discovers that Sir William Stanley, despite changing sides from Richard III to help Henry win the battle of Bosworth Field, has been treacherous in dealing with Perkin Warbeck. Discuss how even with great power, Henry is unable to control every move in his Court. What did you think of the way he handled Stanley’s betrayal?

10. How was Henry VIII described in his younger years? How do you imagine he acted as a child? Discuss Henry VIII’s relationships with his siblings. Early on we see his envy of Arthur and his disdain for Margaret. What motivates these feelings? Think of some of his early actions and ambitions—did any of his wishes come true?

11. What was Henry Tudor’s motivation behind the forced friendship of the Earl of Warwick and Perkin Warbeck? Why was it necessary to accuse Warwick? What did you think about Henry’s plot? What would you have done, had you been in his position?

12. Katharine of Aragon is originally married to Arthur. Why is she, in the eyes of the church, allowed to marry Henry after Arthur’s passing?

13. Elizabeth of York “died on the eleventh of February, nine days after the birth of the child. It was her own birthday and she was thirty-eight years old.”(Birth and Death). What does her age tell you about the quality of healthcare at the time? After having six children, were you surprised to know she was pregnant again? What does this tell you about the importance of children in a royal family?

14. Juana has a very passionate relationship with Philip, unlike the conventional woman of the time. She is described as being mad, but do you suppose she is? Or is she perhaps a strong-willed woman living in an age that is unprepared for her open jealousy and uninhibited emotions? Could she have been more stable than people thought? What do you think?

15. Throughout the novel, Henry VIII is compared by various people to his grandfather, Edward IV. From what you learn of Edward and from what you know of Henry, both in this novel and later in his life, what do you think of the comparison? Is it accurate? Why or why not?

CONTENTS

PART ONE

Katharine, The Virgin Widow

The Arena

The Marriage of Arthur, Prince of Wales

The Tragedy at Ludlow Castle

Intrigue at Durham House

The Passing of Elizabeth of York

Bad News from Spain

Maria de Rojas

The Protest of the Prince of Wales

The Treachery of Elvira

Juana in England

Philip and Ferdinand Meet

The Mysterious Death of Philip

Katharine, The Ambassadress

The Strangeness of Juana

Fuensalida at the King’s Court

In the House of Grimaldi

Jana at Tordesillas

King Henry VIII

Queen Katharine

PART TWO

The Shadow of the Pomegranate

“Sir Loyal Heart”

The King’s Indiscretion

The Secret Life of Thomas Wolsey

Spanish Intrigue

Murder in Pamplona

The French Disaster

The Perfidy of Ferdinand

Henry at War

The Flowers of the Forest

Bessie Blount

The French Marriage

The Open Rift

A Venetian Embassy and a Cardinal’s Hat

The Death of Ferdinand

The Princess Mary

“’Prentices and Clubs”

The King Triumphant

PART THREE

The King’s Secret Matter

The Cardinal’s Revenge

The Queen’s Enemy

The Jilting of Mary

The Princess at Ludlow Castle

The King’s Conscience

The Queen and the Cardinal in Danger

The King Penitent

The Marriage Brief

“Come into the Court”

The Fall of Wolsey

The Last Farewell

Poison at the Bishop’s Table

Katharine in Exile

In the Castle of Kimbolton

The Arena

THE SUN PICKED OUT SHARP FLINTS IN THE GRAY WALLS OF the towers so that they glinted like diamonds. The heat was great, and the courtiers sweated beneath their stomachers over which their doublets were elegantly laced; they did not move even to throw back their long loose-sleeved gowns. Each man and woman among them was intent on what was going on in the arena before them, where a lion—one of the finest and fiercest in the King’s menagerie—was engaged in a bloody fight with four English mastiffs. The dogs were sturdy and game; but this lion had never been beaten. He roared his contempt of the four dogs, and the spectators cheered him.

“Now, Rex, get to work,” shouted a boy who was seated among the royal party. His cheeks were ruddy, his hair gleamed reddish gold in the sunlight; and his voice was shrill with excitement.

The girl who sat beside him, and who was a few years older, laid a restraining hand on his arm; and several people let their attention stray from the animals to the children. Many found themselves catching the boy’s excitement, for there was something infectious about the vitality and gaiety of young Prince Henry.

As for Henry, he was aware of nothing but the fight in the arena. He wanted the mastiffs to win, yet he did not believe they could. Rex was the finest lion in the world, which was why he had been called Rex.

The King from his seat of honor was watchful. He sat erect, not so magnificently attired as many of his subjects, for he was a man who resented wasting money on outward show. Money, in his opinion, should be used to create more money. It had been his policy ever since Bosworth Field. And the result? A depleted treasury was now a full one, carefully watched over by the King’s miserly eye, continually augmented by his clever schemes; although he would be the first to admit that he owed a great deal to those two able ministers of his—Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley—who now sat near the royal party, their lawyers’ eyes alert.

The King’s gaze rested briefly on his Queen—a beautiful woman of whom he was secretly proud. But he was not a man to show his feelings and would never allow Elizabeth of York to know how much he esteemed her. When a man’s claim to the throne was doubtful, when there was the hint of bastardy among his forbears, he must be careful. Henry VII was a careful man.

Elizabeth had been a good wife and he had never regretted the marriage, even when he considered his early love for Maud Herbert and his more mature passion for Katherine Lee. He was not a man who would allow his emotions to interfere with his ambitions.

Once Richard III had been defeated, once Henry knew that the great ambition was about to be realized, he had ceased to think of Katherine Lee; he had known there was only one suitable bride for him, and that was Elizabeth of York, that the Houses of York and Lancaster might thus be united and bring peace to England. Henry VII would never wage war if he could help it, for to him it represented the loss of gold.

He looked at his family and allowed his feeling of pleasure temporarily to turn up the corners of his stern mouth. Two sons and two daughters.

“Fair enough, fair enough,” he murmured to himself.

Elizabeth had been six times pregnant and they had lost only two so far, which, considering the fate of most children, was good fortune indeed.

It was true that Arthur, the eldest and Prince of Wales, who was not quite fifteen, was a sickly boy. He was handsome enough with his pretty pink and white complexion, but that was not in his case the sign of health. Arthur coughed too much; there were occasions when he spat blood; yet he lived.

Perhaps there would have been cause for anxiety if Arthur had not possessed such a brother as Henry. There was a Prince to delight the eyes of any parent. Glances were even now straying to this ten-year-old boy. It was the same when they went among the people. It was young Henry whom the people called for. It was for him they had their smiles. Fortunately, Arthur had the sweetest temper and knew no envy. But perhaps he was too tired to feel envy; perhaps he was grateful to this robust, vital brother who could appear so fresh at the end of a day’s riding, who always knew how to respond to the people’s applause.

Between the two boys sat Margaret, a dignified Princess, looking older than twelve, keeping a watchful eye on her exuberant brother Henry who, strangely, did not seem to resent this. It was pleasant to see such affection between a brother and sister. And on the other side of Henry sat Mary, an enchanting creature of five years, a little wilful, because she was so pretty perhaps and doubtless over-pampered because of it.

Four children, mused the King, and Arthur the only one whose health gives cause for anxiety. Edward’s daughter has done her duty well.

The Queen turned to him and was smiling. She read his thoughts. She knew that he was studying the children and had been thinking: There’s time for more.

Elizabeth of York stilled the sudden resentment which rose within her. The only real desire her husband would feel would be for the aggrandizement of the throne. She was dear to him, she knew, not because of any beauty or talents she might possess, but because she was the daughter of Edward IV, and when she married him the union had brought peace to England; she had also given him children, four of whom were living.

There was tension among the spectators, and the King’s attention was now on the arena, where the battle was not going according to expectations. Rex was lying on his back while one of the mastiffs had him by the throat; the others were leaping on him, tearing his flesh, their jaws bloody.

Prince Henry had risen to his feet.

“They have beaten Rex,” he cried. “Oh, bravo…bravo!”

The cry was taken up among the spectators, as the body of Rex lay lifeless and the dogs continued to worry it.

The Queen leaned slightly towards the King.

“I would not have believed that the dogs could defeat the lion.”

The King did not answer, but beckoned to one of the keepers of his menagerie.

“Take the dogs away,” he said; “remove the carcass of the lion and then return to me.”

As the man bowed low and went off to obey the King’s command, an excited chatter broke out among the children.

Henry was shouting: “Did you see? Arthur, did you see…?”

Arthur was pale. He murmured: “I like not these sports.”

Henry laughed at him. “I like sport better than anything in the world, and never have I seen such a battle.”

Mary asked: “What has happened to the lion?” But no one took any notice of her.

Margaret gripped Henry’s arm. “Be silent,” she whispered. “Do you not see that our father is displeased?”

Henry turned to stare at the King. “But why…” he began. “I should have thought it was good sport. I…”

The King’s stern eyes rested on his son. “Henry,” he said, “one day you will learn that what you think is of far more interest to yourself than to others.”

Henry looked puzzled, but it was impossible to check his exuberance.

The King signed to one of the keepers. “Let the bears and the ban-dogs be brought on,” he said.

THE COMPANY STARED AGHAST.

Before them in the arena scaffolds had been set up and on these hung the bodies of the four English mastiffs, the dogs which, but half an hour before, had conducted themselves so valiantly against the King’s fiercest lion.

The King silently watched the assembly. His chief counsellors, Dudley and Empson, watched also.

The farce was ended, but everyone should have learned the lesson it was intended to convey.

The dogs had been sentenced to death for treason. They had dared to destroy Rex the lion. They were traitors.

The King had ordered the sentence to be read before the ropes were put about the animals’ necks. Then he had said in his low sombre voice: “So perish all traitors!”

His subjects stared at the writhing dogs, but it was of the King they were thinking.

Indeed he must be a man beset by fears since he could not resist pointing out to them the fate of those who attempted to overcome the power of kings.

Henry rose suddenly and, as he left his seat, his family and immediate circle prepared to follow him.

The games were over for that day.

THE CHILDREN HAD ESCAPED to the privy garden. It was pleasant out of doors because a breeze was beginning to blow off the river.

They were unusually silent, for the hanging of the four mastiffs had subdued them. Here in this pleasant garden, in which the scent of roses was very strong, they often gathered when their parents were in residence at the Palace of the Tower of London. They delighted now in its familiarity because the scene they had witnessed had been unexpected, and it was comforting to be in a place they knew so well. This they looked upon as their own little garden; here they felt shut away from the ceremony which was such a large part of their lives. The great walls of the Cradle Tower and the Well Tower formed a bastion against too curious eyes. Here they could forget they were Princes and Princesses and be children.

Henry broke the silence. “But why!” he demanded. “Those four brave mastiffs…traitors! How could they be traitors?”

Mary began to cry. She loved dogs and she had been delighted when the four had beaten the cruel lion. Had she not been told so often that Princesses do not cry in public she would have burst into tears when she saw the ropes being put about their necks.

“Hush, Mary,” said Margaret, stern Margaret, who kept them in order as though she were the eldest. Someone, Margaret often pointed out, had to keep the family in order, and Arthur was useless in that respect.

Mary obediently stopped crying, but it was clear that she could not forget the mastiffs.

Arthur turned to Henry. He looked almost as old as his father in that moment. “It is all so easy to understand,” he said.

“But I do not understand,” cried Henry hotly.

“That is because you are but a boy for all your arrogance,” Margaret retorted.

“Do not call me a boy. I am as tall as Arthur.”

“So you may be, but that does not make you grown up,” Margaret told him.

Arthur said almost wearily: “Our father had the dogs hanged because they had used their strength against Rex. Rex was the king of my father’s beasts, and Rex means King. Our father was showing all those people what happens to those who pit their strength against kings.”

“But the dogs were sent into the arena to fight,” persisted Henry. “It makes no sense.”

“The ways of kings do not always appear to make sense,” answered Arthur.

“But I would have good sense prevail always.”

“I…I…I!” murmured Margaret. “You use that word more than any other, I do declare.”

“Should not a King show his subjects that he is a man of good sense then?” Henry persisted.

“No,” answered Arthur, “only that he is a King to be feared.”

“I do not want the dogs to be dead,” cried Mary, and began to sob loudly.

Margaret knelt down and, taking a kerchief from her pocket, wiped Mary’s tears away. “Have you not been told that it is unseemly for a Princess to cry like a peasant?”

“But they killed the dogs. They put ropes round their necks. They killed…”

“I see,” said Henry in his resonant voice, “that all traitors should be hanged, but…”

“Let us talk of something else,” commanded Margaret. “I must stop this child making such a noise. Now, Mary, what will your new sister say when she comes here and finds you such a crybaby?”

Mary stopped crying; it was obvious that she had forgotten the death of the dogs and was thinking of her new sister.

“Just think,” went on Margaret, “she is coming all the way across the sea to be our sister. So instead of four of us there’ll be five.”

Arthur turned away from the group, pretending to examine one of the roses. He was embarrassed by this talk of his imminent marriage. He was a great deal more uneasy about it than he cared to admit.

“Will she be big like you?” asked Mary, peering into Margaret’s face.

“Bigger. She is older.”

“As old as our father?”

“Do not be foolish. But she is older than Arthur.”

“Then she must be very old.”

“Arthur is not really very old,” put in Henry. “I am nearly as old as Arthur.”

“Nonsense,” said Margaret, “you’re five years younger.”

“In five years then I shall have a marriage.”

Margaret said sharply: “You are destined for the Church, Henry. That means that you’ll have no marriage.”

“I shall if I want one,” retorted Henry; his small eyes narrowed suddenly in his plump, dimpled face.

“Don’t talk so foolishly.”

“Arthur may not either,” went on Henry, who did not like the idea of his brother’s having something which he could not. “It seems to me that his Spaniard is a long time coming.”

Arthur turned to face them all. He said: “Her ships have met with disaster. It is a long and hazardous journey she has to make.”

“Still,” said Henry, “we heard a long time ago that she had set out…and still she does not come.”

“There are storms in the Bay of Biscay,” Margaret put in.

“Perhaps,” cried Henry spitefully, “she’ll be drowned. Then you won’t have a marriage either.”

Arthur nodded in his mild way; but he did not look in the least perturbed by this possibility.

Poor Arthur, thought the wise Margaret, he is not looking forward with any great pleasure to being a husband.

It occurred to her that the subject of the Spanish marriage was not really a very much happier topic than that of the mastiffs.

“I’m going to have a game of tennis,” said Henry suddenly. That meant that he was leaving the family party—because Arthur was not good enough to play with him. Henry would go and find the sprightliest of young boys, and doubtless he would win, not only because he hated to lose and his opponents knew this, but because he really did excel at all games. Arthur would shut himself into his own apartments to read or brood. Margaret would hand Mary over to her nurses, and she herself would do a little embroidery with some chosen companions, chatting lightly but thinking of Arthur’s marriage with the Infanta of Spain and wondering what further marriages were being arranged. It was almost certain that her own would be the next. She would not be as fortunate as Arthur, who at least would stay at home. She believed she would have to go into the wild country beyond the border.

THE QUEEN TOOK AN early opportunity of retiring to her own apartments. The spectacle had disgusted and alarmed her. She was shocked that her husband should have so betrayed himself. She had not dared to glance at him, sitting there stonily staring ahead at those struggling bodies, but she knew exactly how he would be looking. His lips would be tightly compressed; his eyes narrow and calculating. She understood more of his nature than he would have believed possible. She had seen much, during her lifetime, of the terrible fascination a crown had for some men and women; she had seen them face disaster and death to win and then retain it.

Yet Henry, her husband, did not understand this. He did not understand her at all; he made no attempt to. He was a man shut in with his emotions, and shared them with none. For two things only did he betray an overwhelming passion: for the crown and for gold; and these she knew he loved with an intensity he would never feel for anything or anyone else.

She herself was no longer young, having last February passed her thirty-fifth birthday; and during those thirty-five years what she had lacked most was security.

Her handsome father had doted on her; he had planned a grand marriage for her, and when she was nine years old she had been affianced to Charles, who was the eldest son of Louis XI, and she remembered how at that time everyone had called her Madame la Dauphine. She remembered the French lessons she had taken at that time. It was imperative, her father had said, that she speak fluently the language of the country which would one day be her home. She had also learned to write and speak Spanish.

Thinking of those early days, she said to herself: “The latter will be useful when the Infanta arrives…if the Infanta ever does arrive.”

Royal marriages! How could one be sure they would ever take place until one witnessed the actual ceremony itself! Her marriage to the Dauphin had certainly not; she remembered the occasion when the news had arrived at the Palace of Westminster that Louis was seeking the hand of Margaret of Austria for his son.

Elizabeth could recall her father’s rage; the hot red blood rushing to his face and the whites of his eyes. He had died soon after—some said of the rage this news had aroused in him.

She had been afraid of such emotion ever since. For that was the beginning of trouble. Her father dead, her uncle taking the crown, herself with her mother and some other members of the family taking refuge in sanctuary, where her little brothers were taken from them to be lodged in the Tower—this Tower in which she now sat. Somewhere in this place were buried the bodies of those two young princes who had disappeared mysteriously from their lodgings. She could remember them so well, her little brothers whom she had loved so dearly. What had happened to them? They had stood in the way to the throne. In the way of her uncle Richard? In the way of her husband, Henry?

She dared not think of their fate.

It had all happened so long ago. Her uncle Richard, who had once thought of marrying her, had met his death at Bosworth Field; the Tudor dynasty had begun.

It was this matter of hanging the mastiffs which had made her brood on the past. It was this betrayal of her husband’s fear, of his determination to show all those who might rise against him what they could expect at his hands.

It was thus that Henry found her. He had come to her, she knew, to discover her feelings regarding the affair in the arena, though he would not ask. He never asked her advice or opinion. He was determined that she should remain his consort only. This desire to preserve his own supremacy was always present. Elizabeth knew it for a weakness which he attempted to hide by a show of arrogance.

“You are resting?” he asked.

He had come to her unheralded. She, who remembered the pageantry of royalty with which her father had surrounded himself, even now was a little surprised by this.

She gave him her hand which he kissed without much grace.

“The heat in the arena was overpowering,” she said. “At one time I was afraid Arthur would be overcome by it.”

The King frowned. “The boy’s health leaves much to be desired,” he said.

The Queen agreed. She murmured: “But young Henry grows more and more like my father every day.”

The King was not displeased; he liked to be reminded that his son’s maternal grandfather was Edward IV. But he did not wish Elizabeth to realize the extent of his pride, so he said: “Let us hope he does not inherit your father’s vices.”

“He had many virtues,” Elizabeth said quietly.

“His virtues gave him the strength to fight for the throne; they brought men rallying to his side; but it was his vices which killed him. Let us hope young Henry will not be so fond of good food and wine, and most of all, women.”

“Henry will take care of himself. It is Arthur on whose account I am so concerned.”

“Soon the Infanta will be here, the marriage celebrated.” Henry rubbed his hands together and his grave face was illumined suddenly by a smile.

Elizabeth knew that he was contemplating the Infanta’s dowry and congratulating himself that there could not have been a more advantageous match than this one with Spain.

Henry turned to his Queen. “I must be watchful of Ferdinand. I am not sure that he is to be trusted. He will try to arrange that all the advantages are on his side.”

“You too are shrewd,” his wife reminded him.

Henry nodded. “It has been very necessary for me to foster shrewdness. I shall be very pleased when the dowry is in my possession and the marriage ceremony has been performed.”

“It would seem that what is delaying our Infanta is not her father’s diplomacy but the weather.”

“Ah, the weather. The winds of the Bay of Biscay are unaccountable, even in summer.”

“What is the latest news of her journey?”

The King hesitated. He did not share such information with any, even his ministers. But there could be no harm in telling her of the Infanta’s progress.

“I have heard that her squadron is still at Laredo to which port she was forced to return on account of the storms. It seems to me that Ferdinand and Isabella are deliberately keeping her there to delay her arrival in England.”

“No doubt the Queen finds it hard for a mother to part with her daughter.” The King grunted impatiently. “This is a girl who is to become Princess of Wales. I should have thought they would have been as distressed by the delay as we are.”

There was a great deal he did not understand, thought Elizabeth; and never would. This husband of hers was without emotions except those of ambition.

“Yet,” murmured the Queen, “I have heard that Queen Isabella is loath to lose her daughter.”

“And she is said to be a great Queen!”

Henry was thoughtful; he was recalling the rumors he had heard concerning the relationship of the Spanish King and Queen with whom his own family would soon be linked in marriage. It was said that Isabella never forgot that she was the Queen of Castile and the senior in the royal partnership. Henry, glancing swiftly at his Queen, was once more grateful to the fate which had given him such a woman.

In an unguarded moment he said: “I think some of our subjects were a little shocked by the hanging of the traitors.”

“The four dogs? I think many were.”

“And you?”

He so rarely allowed a personal note to creep into their relationship that she was momentarily startled.

“I…I was surprised.”

“It is not a pleasant death,” said the King. “It is well to remind ambitious men of this now and then.”

He was smiling but his smile was cold. He had been on the verge of telling her that he intended to send an English sailor to Laredo—a Devon pilot who could lead the fleet of the Spanish Infanta to England without delay; but he changed his mind.

Elizabeth was critical of his conduct and he would endure no criticisms from any man or woman living.

He said: “Matters of state demand my attention. Tonight I shall visit you.”

She bowed her head in acquiescence, but she was afraid. Must there be another pregnancy, another child who, it was more than likely, would never grow to maturity?

It seemed such a short time ago that little Edmund had died. It was heartbreaking when they lived a little while and one grew to love them. A pretty child, Edmund, but to suffer such discomfort, such pain, and then to give birth to a sickly child over whom one watched with anxiety until one suffered yet another loss!

I am too old, too weak for more childbearing, she thought. But she said nothing. What use would it have been to complain to him—to say: I have given you six children, four of whom are living. Do they not suffice?

His answer would be cool and to the point. A Queen must go on bearing children as long as possible. It is her duty.

Did he, she wondered, ever give a thought to Katherine Lee, her own maid of honor? If he did, not even Katherine would know it. She doubted whether Henry was ever unfaithful to herself even in thought.

She had married a strange man, a cold man; but at least she had a faithful husband. Henry would indulge in a sexual relationship for only one purpose: the procreation of children; and to procreate children with any other partner than his wife would in his opinion be an unnecessary act.

There were times when the Queen of England wanted to cast aside her dignity and laugh aloud; but that would be hysterical laughter and the Queen was no more given to hysterical outbursts than her husband was.

So she bowed her head and told herself that she must inform her women that this would be one of the nights which the King would spend in her bed.

The Marriage of Arthur, Prince of Wales

THE INFANTA STOOD ON DECK AND WATCHED THE SPANISH coastline fade from view.

When would she see it again? she wondered.

Doña Elvira Manuel, the stern and even formidable duenna whom Queen Isabella had put in charge of the Infanta and her maids of honor, was also gazing at the land she was leaving; but Elvira did not share the Infanta’s sorrow. When she left Spain her authority began, and Elvira was a woman who dearly loved power.

She laid her hand on the Infanta’s arm and said: “You should not grieve. You are going to a new land whose Queen you will surely be one day.”

The Infanta did not answer. How could she expect Elvira Manuel to understand. She was praying silently, praying for courage, that she would not disgrace her family, that she would be able to remember all that her mother had taught her.

It had been a mistake to think of her mother. The thought had conjured up an image of that stern yet loving face which had changed in recent years. The Infanta remembered Queen Isabella, always full of quiet dignity but at the same time possessed of a purposeful energy. Sorrow had changed her—that sorrow which had come to her through her great love for her children.

In Spain I was dearly loved, thought the Infanta. What will happen to me in England? Who will love me there? I am not even beautiful as my maids of honor are. I shall look plainer than ever, compared with them. It was not kind of my father-in-law to stipulate that my maids of honor should all be handsome.

“All will be different,” she whispered.

Elvira Manuel said quickly: “Your Highness spoke?”

“I merely said that nothing will be the same, in this new land, as it has been in Spain. Even my name will be different. From now on I am no longer Catalina; I am Katharine. And they say there is little summer in England.”

“It cannot be colder there than it is in some parts of Spain.”

“But we shall miss the sun.”

“When you have children of your own you will not care whether or not the sun shines.”

The Infanta turned away and looked at the heaving waters. Yes, she thought, a son. Children would make her happy; she knew that. And she would have children. Her very device was the pomegranate, which to the Arabs signified fruitfulness. It reminded her of the pomegranate trees which grew so profusely, with the myrtle, in the gardens of the Alhambra. Whenever she saw her device, and she knew it would throughout her life be constantly with her, she would always remember the patios of Granada and the glistening waters in the fountains. She would think of her childhood, her parents and her brother and sisters. Would she always think of them with this deep yearning? Perhaps when she had children of her own she would overcome this desire to be back in her own childhood.

But it was long before she could expect children; and in the meantime she could only yearn for home.

“Oh, Mother,” she whispered, “I would give everything I have to be with you now.”

In the royal apartments in the Alhambra Queen Isabella would be thinking of her now. She could be certain of that. The Queen would pray for her daughter’s safety at sea until she reached England; then she would pray that her Catalina’s marriage with her English Prince might be fruitful, that Catalina might achieve a happiness which had been denied her sisters, Isabella and Juana, her brother Juan.

The Infanta shivered and Elvira said sharply: “A breeze is rising, Highness. You should retire to your cabin.”

“I am warm enough,” was the answer. She was unaware of the wind. She was thinking of early days in the nursery when they were all together. She felt almost unbearably sad to recall those days when she had sat at her mother’s knee while her sisters, Isabella and Maria, had worked at their tapestry and Juan read aloud to them. Her sister Juana had neither sat at her needlework nor read, nor nestled quietly at their mother’s feet—restless Juana who gave them all cause for such anxiety!

Her sister Isabella and her brother Juan were tragically dead; Maria had gone into Portugal recently to marry Isabella’s widower, Emanuel, King of Portugal. She would be happy there, for Emanuel was a kindly gentle man and would cherish Maria for the sake of her sister whom he had dearly loved. And Juana? Who could say what was happening to Juana? Her life would never run smoothly. There had been rumors that all was not well with her marriage to the handsome Archduke Philip and that in the Brussels court there was many a stormy scene of jealousy which ended in outbursts of strange conduct on Juana’s part.

All her life the Infanta had realized what a deep shadow her sister Juana cast over her mother’s happiness.

But that was the family she was leaving. What of the new one to which she was going?

“Arthur, Margaret, Henry, Mary.” She whispered their names. They would be her companions now; and to them she would be Katharine…no longer Catalina.

She was going into a new country. The King and Queen of England would be her father and mother now. “We shall regard the Infanta as our own daughter, and her happiness shall be our main concern….” Thus wrote the King of England to her mother, who had shown her those words.

“You see,” the Queen had said, “you will have a new family, so perhaps you will soon forget us all at home.”

At that she had been unable to preserve the dignity which was considered necessary to an Infanta of Spain, and had flung herself into her mother’s arms and sobbed: “I shall never forget you. I shall never cease to long for my return.”

Her mother had wept with her. Only we, her children, know how gentle she is, thought the Infanta. Only we know that she is the best mother in the world and that necessarily our hearts must break to leave her.

It was different, saying goodbye to her father.

He embraced her affectionately, kissed her fondly, but his eyes gleamed, not with tears at the parting but with satisfaction at the marriage. If he had had his way she would have been dispatched to England long before. He needed the friendship of England; he was eager for this marriage. He was fond of her, but the great loves of his life were power and money, and his feeling for his children was always second to the advantages they could bring him.

He had not attempted to hide his delight at the parting. There was little that was subtle about Ferdinand.

“Why, daughter,” he had said, “you’ll be Princess of Wales, and I’ll warrant it won’t be long before you’re Queen of England. You’ll not forget your home, my child?”

His meaning was different from that of her mother. The Queen meant: You will remember the love we bear each other, the happiness we have had together, all that I have taught you which will help you to bear your trials with fortitude. Ferdinand meant: Do not forget that you are a Spaniard. When you are at the Court of England be continually on the alert for the advantages of Spain.

“Write often,” Ferdinand had said, putting his lips close to her ear. “You know the channels through which any secret information should be sent to me.”

She closed her eyes now and looked at the gray waters.

It was true, a storm was rising. The hazards of the sea were all about her. What if she should never reach England?

She gripped the rail and thought of Isabella and Juan, both of whom had finished with earthly trials. How long would it be before her mother joined them?

Such thoughts were wicked. She, not yet sixteen, to long for death!

Only in that moment had she realized the depth of her fear.

This is cowardice, she told herself sharply. How do I know what awaits me in England?

SICK FROM THE ROCKING of the ship, cold and drenched with sea water, Katharine stood on deck watching the land which grew more and more distinct as she stood there.

England! The land in which she was destined to be Queen.

Elvira was at her side. “Highness, you should prepare yourself to meet the King.”

“Do you think he will be at Plymouth to greet me?”

“Surely he will, and the Prince with him. Come! We must make you ready to receive them.”

They went to her cabin where her maids of honor clustered round her. All so much prettier than I, she thought; and she imagined Arthur, looking at them and being disappointed because she was the Infanta and his bride.

“We are far from London,” said Elvira. “I have heard that the journey to the capital will last three weeks.”

Katharine thought: Three weeks! What did it matter what discomfort she had to endure if it meant postponing the ceremony for three weeks!

When she was ready to go on deck the ship already lay at anchor. A beautiful sight met her eyes; the sun had come out and was discovering brilliants on the blue water. Stretched before her was the lovely coast of Devon, the grass of which was greener than any she had ever seen; and the gorse was golden.

Before her was Plymouth Hoe, and she saw that many people had gathered there and that they carried banners on which were the words—she knew little English but they were translated for her: “Welcome to the Princess of Wales!” “God bless the Infanta of Spain!”

There was the sound of cheering as she came on deck with her ladies, and she found that her spirits were lifted. Then she heard the bells ringing out and she saw a small boat approaching the ship; in it was a company of splendidly dressed men.

The English pilot who had brought them safely to England came to Katharine’s side and bowing to the veiled figure said: “Your Highness, you are safe from the sea. This is Plymouth Sound and the people of Devon are eager to show you how glad they are to have you with them. Here come the Mayor and his aldermen to give you formal welcome.”

She turned to an interpreter who stood beside her and told him to ask whether the King and Prince of Wales were in Plymouth.

“I doubt they could make the journey to Plymouth, Your Highness,” was the answer. “We are three weeks’ journey from London. But they will have sent orders that all are to welcome you right royally until they can do so themselves.”

She had a feeling that this was an apology for the absence of his King and Prince. It need not have been made to her. She was relieved that she could have a little respite before she met them.

She received the Mayor and his aldermen as graciously as even her mother could have wished.

“Tell them I am happy to be with them,” she said. “I am grateful that I have escaped the perils of the sea. I see a church steeple there. I would first like to go to church and give thanks for my safe arrival.”

“It shall be as Her Highness commands,” was the Mayor’s answer.

Then Katharine came ashore and the people of Plymouth crowded about her.

“Why,” they said, “she is naught but a child.” For although her face was veiled there was no doubt that she was young, and there was many a mother in the crowd who wiped her eyes to think of a young girl’s leaving her home and going to a strange land.

How brave she was! She gave no sign of her disquiet. “She’s a Princess,” they said, “every inch a Princess. God bless her.”

Thus Katharine of Aragon rode through the streets of Plymouth to give thanks for her safe arrival in England and to pray that she might give no offence to the people of her new country, but please them in every way.

Her spirits rose a little as she went through those streets in which the tang of the sea was evident. She smiled at the fresh faces which pressed forward to glimpse her. Their free and easy manners were strange to her; but they were showing her that they were pleased to see her, and that gave infinite comfort to a lonely girl.

THE JOURNEY TOWARDS LONDON had begun; it was inevitably a slow one, for the people of England had been commanded by their King to show a hearty welcome to the Princess from Spain. They needed no such injunctions; they were ever ready to accept an excuse for gaiety.

In the villages and towns through which the cavalcade passed the people halted its progress. The Princess must see their folk dances, must admire the floral decorations and the bonfires which were all in her honor.

They were attracted by this quiet Princess. She was such a child, such a shy, dignified young girl.

It was a pleasant journey indeed from Plymouth to Exeter, and Katharine was astonished by the warmth and brilliance of the sun. She had been told to expect mists and fog, but this was as pleasant as the Spanish sunshine; and never before had she seen such cool green grass.

At Exeter the nature of the journey changed. In that noble city she found more ceremony awaiting her than she had received in Plymouth, and she realized that thus it would be as she drew nearer to the capital.

Waiting to receive her was Lord Willoughby de Broke, who told her that he was High Steward of the King’s household and that it was the express command of His Majesty that all should be done for her comfort.

She assured him that nothing more could be done for her than had been done already; but he bowed and smiled gravely as though he believed she could have no notion of the extent of English hospitality.

Now about her lodgings were ranged the men at arms and yeomen, all in the royal green and white liveries—and a pleasant sight they were.

She made the acquaintance of her father’s ambassador to England and Scotland, Don Pedro de Ayala, an amusing and very witty man, whose stay in England seemed to have robbed him of his Spanish dignity. There was also Dr. de Puebla, a man whom she had been most anxious to meet because Ferdinand had warned her that if she had any secret matter to impart to him she might do it through Puebla.

Both these men, she realized, were to some extent her father’s spies, as most ambassadors were for their own countries. And how different were these two: Don Pedro de Ayala was an aristocrat who had received the title of Bishop of the Canaries. Handsome, elegant, he knew how to charm Katharine with his courtly manners. Puebla was of humble origin, a lawyer who had reached his present position through his own ingenuity. He was highly educated and despised all those who were not; and Ayala he put into this category, for the Bishop had spent his youth in riotous living and, since he came of a noble family, had not thought it necessary to achieve scholarship.

Puebla’s manner was a little sullen, for he told himself that if all had gone as he had wished he should have greeted the Infanta without the help of Ayala. As for Ayala, he was fully aware of Puebla’s feelings towards him and did everything he could to aggravate them.

As they left Exeter, Don Pedro de Ayala rode beside Katharine, and Lord Willoughby de Broke was on her other side, while Puebla was jostled into the background and fumed with rage because of this.

Ayala talked to Katharine in rapid Castilian which he knew Willoughby de Broke could not understand.

“I trust Your Highness has not been put out by this outrageous fellow, Puebla.”

“Indeed no,” replied Katharine. “I found him most attentive.”

“Beware of him. The fellow’s an adventurer and a Jew at that.”

“He is in the service of the Sovereigns of Spain,” she answered.

“Yes, Highness, but your noble father is fully aware that the fellow serves the King of England more faithfully than he does the King and Queen of Spain.”

“Then why is he not recalled and another given his position?”

“Because, Highness, he understands the King of England and the King of England understands him. He has been long in England. In London he follows the profession of lawyer; he lives like an Englishman. Ah, I could tell you some tales of him. He is parsimonious—so much so that he brings disgrace to our country. He has his lodgings in a house of ill-fame and I have heard that when he does not dine at the King’s table he dines at this disreputable house at the cost of two pence a day. This, Highness, is a very small sum for a man in his position to spend, and I have heard it said that the landlord of this house is glad to accommodate him in exchange for certain favors.”

“What favors?” demanded Katharine.

“The man is a lawyer and practices as such; he is on good terms with the King of England. He protects his landlord against the law, Highness.”

“It seems strange that my father should employ the man if he is all you say he is.”

“His Highness believes him to have his uses. It is but a few years ago that the English King offered him a bishopric, which would have brought him good revenues.”

“And he did not accept?”

“He longed to accept, Highness, but could not do so without the consent of your royal parents. This was withheld.”

“Then it would seem that they value his services.”

“Oh, he has wriggled his way into the King’s confidence. But beware of the man, Highness. He is a Jew, and he bears his grudges like the rest.”

Katharine was silent, contemplating the unpleasantness of having to meet two ambassadors who clearly disliked each other; and she was not surprised when Puebla seized his opportunity to warn her against Ayala.

“A coxcomb, Highness. Do not put your trust in such a one. A Bishop! He knows nothing of law and has never mastered Latin. His manner of living is a disgrace to Spain and his cloth. Bishop indeed! He should be in Scotland now. It was for this purpose that he was sent to this country.”

“It would not please my parents if they knew of this discord between their two ambassadors.”

“Highness, they know of it. I should be neglectful of my duty if I did not inform them. And inform them I have.”

Katharine looked with faint dislike at Puebla. Not only did he lack the charming manners of Ayala but she found him pompous, and she thought that his petty meanness, which was noticed by many of those who travelled with them, was humiliating for Spain.

“I used the fellow in Scotland,” went on Puebla. “He was useful there in cementing English and Scottish relations which, Highness, was the desire of your noble father. War between England and Scotland would have been an embarrassment to him at this time, and James IV was harboring the pretender, Perkin Warbeck, and seemed likely to support him.”

“Warbeck has now paid the price of presumption,” said Katharine. “Your Highness most wisely has become informed of English politics, I see.”

“Her Highness, my mother, insisted that I should know something of the country to which I was going.”

Puebla shook his head. “There are bound to be such impostors when two young Princes disappear. So we had our Perkin Warbeck claiming to be Richard, Duke of York.”

“How very sad for the Queen of England,” said Katharine. “Does she still mourn for her two brothers who disappeared so mysteriously in the Tower of London?”

“The Queen is not one to show her feelings. She has children of her own, a good husband and a crown. The last certainly could not be hers had her brothers lived.”

“Still she must mourn,” said Katharine; and she thought of her own brother, Juan, who had died, young and beautiful, a few months after his wedding. She believed she would never forget Juan and the shock and tragedy of his death.

“Well, quite rightly Warbeck has been hanged at Tyburn,” went on Puebla, “and that little matter has been settled. That would be satisfactory if it did not mean that Ayala has left the Scottish Court for that of England. London suits him better than Edinburgh. He is a soft liver. He did not like the northern climate nor the rough Scottish castles. So…we have him with us.”

Ayala rode up beside them.

His smile was mischievous. “Dr. de Puebla,” he said, “I do declare your doublet is torn. Is that the way to appear in the presence of our Infanta! Oh, he’s a close-fisted fellow, Highness. If you would know why, look at the shape of his nose.”

Katharine was horrified at the gibe and did not look at Ayala.

“Highness,” cried Puebla, “I would ask you to consider this: Don Pedro de Ayala may have the nose of a Castilian but the bags under his eyes are a revelation of the life he leads. One is born with one’s nose; that is not a result of dissipation, evil living.…”

Ayala brought his horse closer to Katharine’s. “Let us heed him not, Highness,” he murmured. “He is a low fellow; I have heard that he follows the trade of usurer in London. But what can one expect of a Jew?”

Katharine touched her horse’s flanks and rode forward to join Lord Willoughby de Broke.

She was alarmed. These two men, who could not control their hatred of each other, were the two whom her parents had selected to be her guides and counsellors during her first months in this strange land.

YET AS THE JOURNEY progressed she was attracted by the gaiety of Ayala.

She had discovered that he was amusing and witty, that he was ready to answer all her questions about the customs of the country and, what was more interesting, to give her little snippets of gossip about the family to which she would soon belong.

For much of the journey Katharine travelled in a horse litter, although occasionally she rode on a mule or a palfrey. October in the West country was by no means cold, but there was a dampness in the air and often Katharine would see the sun only as a red ball through the mist. Occasionally there were rain showers, but they were generally brief and then the sun would break through the clouds and Katharine would enjoy its gentle warmth. In the villages through which they passed the people came out to see them, and they were entertained in the houses of the local squires.

Here there was food in plenty; Katharine discovered that her new countrymen set great store by eating; in the great fireplaces enormous fires blazed; even the servants in the houses crowded round to see her—plump, rosy-cheeked young men and women, who shouted to each other and seemed to laugh a good deal. These people were as different from the Spaniards as a people could be. They appeared to have little dignity and little respect for the dignity of others. They were a vigorous people; and, having taken Katharine to their hearts, they did not hesitate to let her know this.

But for the ordeal she knew to be awaiting her at the end of the journey, she would have enjoyed her progress through this land of mists and pale sunshine and rosy-cheeked, exuberant people.

Ayala often rode beside her litter and she would ask him questions which he would be only too ready to answer. She had turned from the pompous Puebla in his musty clothes to the gay cleric, and Ayala was determined to exploit the situation to the full.

He made her feel that there was a conspiracy between them, which to some extent there was. For she knew that, when he rattled on in the Castilian tongue, none of those who were near could understand what was said.

His talk was gay and scandalous, but Katharine felt it was what she needed, and she looked forward to these conversations.

“You must be wary of the King,” he told her. “Have no fear of Arthur. Arthur is as mild as milk. You will be able to mold that one to your way…have no fear of that. Now, had it been Henry, that might have been another matter. But, praise be to the saints, Henry is the second son and it is Arthur for Your Highness.”

“Tell me about Arthur.”

Ayala lifted his shoulders. “Imagine a young boy, a little nervous, pink and white and golden-haired. He is half a head shorter than you are. He will be your slave.”

“Is it true that he does not enjoy good health?”

“It is. But he will grow out of that. And he seems the weaker because he is compared with robust young Henry.”

Katharine was relieved; she was delighted with the idea of a gentle young husband. She had already begun to think of him as her brother Juan, who had been as fair as an angel and gentle in his manner.

“You said I must beware of the King.”

“The King is quiet and ruthless. If he does not like you he will have no compunction in sending you back to Spain.”

“That would not greatly distress me.”

“It would distress your royal parents. And think of the disgrace to Your Highness and the House of Spain.”

“Is the King very formidable?”

“He will be gracious to you but he will never cease to watch. Do not be deceived by his mild manners. He fears all the time that some claimant to the throne will appear, and that there will be supporters to say such a claimant has a greater right. It is not always comfortable to wear the crown.”

Katharine nodded; she thought of the strife which had marred the earlier years of her parents’ life together, when Isabella had been engaged in the bitter War of the Succession.

“There is a mystery surrounding the death of the Queen’s two young brothers, the elder of whom was King Edward V and the younger the Duke of York. Many say they were murdered in the Tower of London by their wicked uncle, the crook-backed Richard, but their bodies were never discovered and there are many rumors concerning those deaths of which it would be unwise even to think, Highness.”

Katharine shivered. “Poor children,” she murmured.

“They are now past all earthly pain, and there is a wise King sitting on the throne of England. He married the Princes’ sister, and so joined the two warring factions. It might be wise not to dwell on the past, Highness. There have been two pretenders to the throne: Perkin Warbeck and Lambert Simnel. Simnel, who pretended he was Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick and nephew of Richard III, is now serving as a scullion in the King’s household. He was obviously an impostor; therefore the King sent him to the kitchens—a sign of the King’s contempt—but Warbeck was hanged at Tyburn. This King is fond of showing examples to his people, because he lives in perpetual terror that someone will try to overthrow him.”

“I hope I shall find favor in his sight.”

“Your dowry has already found favor with him, Highness. As for yourself, you will please him too.”

“And the Queen?”

“Have no fear of the Queen. She will receive you kindly. She has no influence with the King, who is eager to show her that he owes no part of the throne to her. He is a man who takes counsel of none, but if he could be said to be under the influence of any, that one is his mother. You must please Margaret Beaufort Countess of Richmond if you will please the King—and all you need do is to provide the royal house with heirs, and all will go merrily.”

“I pray that God will make me fruitful. That, it seems, is the prayer of all Princes.”

“If there is aught else Your Highness wishes to know at any time, I pray you ask of me and ignore the Jew.”

Katharine bowed her head. And so the journey progressed.

THE KING SET OUT from Richmond Palace. He had become impatient. He was all eagerness to see the Spanish Infanta who had taken so long in reaching his country.

Arthur had been on pilgrimage to Wales—as Prince of Wales he was warmly greeted there and the King wished his son to show himself now and then in the Principality. Arthur had received word from his father that he was to come with all speed to East Hampstead, where he would greet his bride.

Henry disliked journeys, for he was not a man of action and they seemed to him an unnecessary expense.

“But on the occasion of my son’s wedding,” he grumbled to Empson, “I daresay we are expected to lay out a little.”

“That is so, Sire,” was the answer.

“Let us hope that we shall have the revenues to meet this occasion,” sighed the King; and Empson decided that he would raise certain fines to meet the extra expense.

Henry smiled wryly, but he was in fact delighted because his son was acquiring one of the richest Princesses in Europe. It was a good thing that this little island should be allied to the greatest power in the world, and what better tie could there be than through marriage?

Heirs were what were needed and, once this girl provided them, all well and good. But he was a little anxious about her. Her brother, the heir of Spain, had died shortly after his marriage. Exhausted by being a husband, it was said in some quarters. He hoped Katharine was of stronger health. And if she were…what of his own Arthur? Arthur’s cough and spitting of blood denoted weakness. They would have to take great care of Arthur, and he was not yet fifteen. Was it too young to tax his strength with a bride?

He had not consulted his physicians; he consulted no one; he and he alone would decide whether the marriage should be consummated immediately, or whether the royal couple should wait for a few months, or perhaps a year.

Young people, he mused, might indulge unwisely in the act of love. They might have no restraint. Not that he believed this would be the case with Arthur. Had it been Henry, it would have been another matter; but then there would have been no cause for anxiety on that account where Henry was concerned. But what of the Infanta? Was she a lusty young woman? Or was she sickly like her elder sister who had recently died in childbirth?

The more the King pondered this matter, the more eager he was to meet the Infanta.

THERE WAS consternation in the Infanta’s party.

A message had been brought to Ayala stating that the King was on his way to meet his son’s bride, who had stayed that night at the residence of the Bishop of Bath in Dogmersfield and was some fifteen leagues from London Bridge.

Ayala did not pass on the news to Puebla. Indeed he was determined to keep it from the man—not only because he disliked him and never lost an opportunity of insulting him, but because he really did believe that Puebla was more ready to serve Henry VII of England than Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain.

Instead he sought out Elvira Manuel.

“The King is on his way to meet us,” he told her abruptly. “He wishes to see the Infanta.”

“That is quite impossible,” retorted Elvira. “You know the instructions of their Highnesses.”

“I do. The Infanta is not to be seen by her bridegroom or anyone at the English Court until she is a wife. She is to remain veiled until after the ceremony.”

“I am determined,” said Elvira, “to obey the commands of the King and Queen of Spain, no matter what are the wishes of the King of England.”

“I wonder what Henry will say to that.” Ayala smiled somewhat mischievously, for he found the situation piquant and amusing.

“There is one thing that must be done,” said Elvira. “To prevent discord, you should go ahead and explain to the King.”

“I will leave at once,” Ayala told her. “In the meantime you should warn the Infanta.”

Ayala set out on the road to East Hampstead; and Elvira, her lips pursed with determination, prepared herself to do battle.

She went to Katharine and told her that the King would make an attempt to see her, and that on no account must he succeed.

Katharine was disturbed. She was afraid that the King of England might consider her extremely discourteous if she refused to receive him.

WHEN ARTHUR JOINED his father at East Hampstead, Henry noticed that his son looked wan and worried.

No, the King decided, the marriage shall not be consummated for a year. In any case I doubt whether Arthur would be capable of consummating it.

“Put your shoulders back, boy,” he said. “You stoop too much.”

Arthur obediently straightened his shoulders. There was no resentment. How differently young Henry would have behaved! But of course there would have been no necessity to criticize Henry’s deportment.

We should get more sons, thought the King anxiously.

“Well, my son,” he said, “very soon now you will be face to face with your bride.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You must not let her think that you are a child, you know. She is almost a year older than you are.”

“I know it, Father.”

“Very well. Prepare yourself to meet her.”

Arthur asked leave to retire and was glad when he reached his own apartment. He felt sick with anxiety. What should he say to his bride? What must he do with her? His brother Henry had talked slyly of these matters. Henry knew a great deal about them already. Henry ought to have been the elder son.

He would have made a good king, thought Arthur. I should have done better in the Church.

He let himself brood on the peace of monastic life. What relief! To be alone, to read, to meditate, not to have to take a prominent part in ceremonies, not to have to suffer continual reproach because a few hours in the saddle tired him, because he could never learn to joust and play the games at which Henry excelled.

“If only,” he murmured to himself, “I were not the first-born. If only I could miraculously change places with my brother Henry, how happy I could be!”

THE NEXT MORNING the King, with the Prince beside him, set out on the journey to Dogmersfield.

Almost immediately it began to rain, and the King looked uneasily at his son while Arthur squirmed in the saddle. His cough would almost certainly come back if he suffered a wetting, and although the rain was fine it was penetrating.

Arthur always felt that it was his fault that he had not been born strong. He tried to smile and look as though there was nothing he enjoyed so much as a ride in the rain.

When they were within a few miles of the Bishop’s Palace the King saw a rider galloping towards his party, and in a very short time he recognized the Spanish Ambassador Ayala.

Ayala drew up before Henry and sweeping off his hat bowed gracefully.

“News has been brought to me that Your Grace is on the way to see the Infanta.”

“That news is now confirmed,” answered the King. “So impatient was our young bridegroom that, having heard that the Infanta was at Dogmersfield, he could wait no longer. He himself has come hot-foot from Wales. He yearns to see his bride.”

Arthur tried to force his wet face into an expression which would confirm his father’s words as the Spanish Ambassador threw a sly smile in his direction which clearly conveyed his knowledge of the boy’s nervousness.

“Alas,” said Ayala, “Your Grace will be unable to see the bride.”

“I…unable to see the bride!” said the King in a cold, quiet voice.

“The King and Queen of Spain insist that their daughter should observe the customs of a high-born Spanish lady. She will be veiled until after the ceremony, and not even her bridegroom may see her face until then.”

The King was silent. A terrible suspicion had come into his mind; he was the most suspicious of men. Why should he not look on the face of the Infanta? What had the Spanish Sovereigns to hide? Was this some deformed creature they were sending him? “Not until after the ceremony.” The words sounded ominous.

“This seems a strange condition,” said Henry slowly.

“Sire, it is a Spanish custom.”

“I like it not.”

He turned his head slightly and said over his shoulder: “We will form a council, my lords. Here is an urgent matter to discuss. Ambassador, you will excuse us. It will take us but a short time to come to a decision, I imagine.”

Ayala bowed his head and drew his horse to the side of the road while the King waved a hand towards a nearby field.

“Come with us, Arthur,” he said. “You must join our council.”

Henry placed himself and his son in the center of the field and his followers ranged themselves about him. Then he addressed them:

“I like this not. I am denied admittance to my son’s bride although she is in my territory. I would not wish to go against the law in this matter. Therefore, the council must decide what should be done. The Infanta has been married to the Prince by proxy. What we must decide is whether she is now my subject; and, if she is my subject, what law could prevent my seeing her if I wished. I pray you, gentlemen, consider this matter, but make it quick for the rain shows no sign of abating and we shall be wet to the skin by the time we reach Dogmersfield.”

There was whispering among those gathered in the field. Henry watched them covertly. He had as usual conveyed his wishes and he expected his councillors to obey them. If any one of them raised objections to what he wished, that man would doubtless find himself guilty of some offence later on; he would not be sent to prison; he would merely have to pay a handsome fine.

All knew this. Many of them had paid their fines for small offences. The King thought no worse of them, once they had paid. It was their money which placated him.

In a few seconds the council had made its decision.

“In the King’s realm the King is absolute master. He need not consider any foreign law or customs. All the King’s subjects should obey his wishes, and the Infanta, having married the Prince of Wales, albeit by proxy, is the King’s subject.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction which held a faint tinge of regret. He could not, with justice, extract a fine from one of them.

“Your answer is the only one I expected from you,” he said. “It is not to be thought of that the King should be denied access to any of his subjects.”

He led the way out of the field to where Ayala was waiting for him.

“The decision is made,” he said. Then he turned to Arthur. “You may ride on to Dogmersfield at the head of the cavalcade. I go on ahead.”

He spurred his horse and galloped off; and Ayala, laughing inwardly, closely followed him.

The Sovereigns of Spain would learn that this Henry of England was not a man to take orders, thought the ambassador. He wondered what Doña Elvira was going to say when she was confronted by the King of England.

KATHARINE WAS SITTING with her maids of honor when they heard the commotion in the hall below. It had been too miserable a day for them to leave the Bishop’s Palace and it had been decided that they should remain there until the rain stopped.

Elvira burst on them, and never had Katharine seen her so agitated.

“The King is below,” she said. Katharine stood up in alarm.

“He insists on seeing you. He declares he will see you. I cannot imagine what their Highnesses will say when this reaches their ears.”

“But does not the King of England know of my parents’ wishes?”

“It would seem there is only one whose wishes are considered in this place and that is the King of England.”

“What is happening below?”

“The Count of Cabra is telling the King that you are not to be seen until after the wedding, and the King is saying that he will not wait.”

“There is only one thing to be done,” said Katharine quietly. “This is England and when we are in the King’s country we must obey the King. Let there be no more protests. We must forget our own customs and learn theirs. Go and tell them that I am ready to receive the King.”

Elvira stared at her in astonishment; in that moment Katharine looked very like her mother, and it was as impossible for even Elvira to disobey her as it would have been to disobey Isabella of Castile.

SHE STOOD FACING the light, her veil thrown back.

She saw her father-in-law, a man a little above medium height, so thin that his somewhat sombre garments hung loosely on him; his sparse fair hair, which fell almost to his shoulders, was lank and wet; his long gown which covered his doublet was trimmed with ermine about the neck and wide sleeves. There was mud on his clothes and even on his face. He had clearly travelled far on horseback in this inclement weather and had not thought it necessary to remove the stains of travel before confronting her.

Katharine smiled and the alert, crafty eyes studied her intently, looking for some defect, some deformity which would make her parents desirous of hiding her from him; he could see none.

Henry could not speak Spanish and he had no Latin. Katharine had learned a little French from her brother Juan’s wife, Margaret of Austria, but Margaret’s stay in Spain had been short and, when she had gone, there had been no one with whom Katharine could converse in that language. Henry spoke in English: “Welcome to England, my lady Infanta. My son and I have eagerly awaited your coming these many months. If we have rudely thrust aside the customs of your country we ask pardon. You must understand that it was our great desire to welcome you that made us do so.”

Katharine attempted to reply in French but slipped into Spanish. She curtseyed before the King while his little eyes took in the details of her figure. She was healthy, this Spanish Infanta, more so than his frail Arthur. She was a good deal taller than Arthur; her eyes were clear; so was her skin. Her body was sturdy, and if not voluptuous it was strong. She was no beauty, but she was healthy and she was young; it was merely custom which had made her parents wish to hide her from him. Her only real claim to beauty was that abundant hair—thick, healthy hair with a touch of red in its color.

Henry was well satisfied.

She was talking to him now in her own tongue, and, although he could not understand her, he knew that she was replying to his welcome with grace and charm.

He took her hand and led her to the window.

Then he signed to Ayala who had at that moment entered the apartment.

“Tell the Infanta,” said Henry, “that I am a happy man this day.”

Ayala translated, and Katharine replied that the King’s kindness made her very happy too.

“Tell her,” said the King, “that in a few minutes her bridegroom will be riding to the palace at the head of a cavalcade. They cannot be much more than half an hour after me.”

Ayala told Katharine this; and she smiled.

She was standing between the King and Ayala, they in their wet garments, when she first saw her bridegroom.

He looked very small, riding at the head of that cavalcade, and her first feeling for him was: He is so young—he is younger than I am. He looks frightened. He is more frightened than I am.

And in that moment she felt less resentful of her fate.

She determined that she and Arthur were going to be happy together.

IT WAS LATER that evening. Katharine looked almost pretty in candlelight; her cheeks were faintly flushed; her gray eyes alight with excitement. Her maids of honor, all chosen for their beauty, were very lovely indeed. Only Doña Elvira Manuel sat aloof, displeased. She could not forget that the wishes of her Sovereigns had been ignored.

The Infanta had invited the King and the Prince to supper in her apartments in the Bishop’s Palace; and in the gallery the minstrels were playing. The supper had been a prolonged meal; Katharine was continually being astonished at the amount that was eaten in England. At tonight’s feast there had been sucking pigs and capons, peacocks, chickens, mutton and beef, savory pies, deer, fish and wild fowl, all washed down with malmsey, romney and muscadell.

The English smacked their lips and showed their appreciation of the food; even the King’s eyes glistened with pleasure and only those who knew him well guessed that he was calculating how much the feast had cost, and that if the Bishop could afford such lavish entertainment he might be expected to contribute with equal bounty to the ever hungry exchequer.

The Prince sat beside Katharine. He was an elegant boy, for he was fastidious in his ways and his lawn shirt was spotlessly clean as was the fine silk at collar and wristbands; his long gown was trimmed with fur as was his father’s, and his fair hair hung about his face, shining like gold from its recent rainwash.

His skin was milk-white but there was a delicate rose-flush in his cheeks and his blue eyes seemed to have sunk too far into their sockets; but his smile was very sweet and a little shy, and Katharine warmed to him. He was not in the least like his father, nor like her own father. Her mother had once told her of her first meeting with her father and how she had thought him the handsomest man in the world. Katharine would never think that of Arthur; but then before she had seen him Isabella of Castile had determined to marry Ferdinand of Aragon, and she had gone to great pains to avoid all the marriages which others had attempted to thrust upon her.

All marriages could not be like that of Isabella and Ferdinand, and even that marriage had had its dangerous moments. Katharine remembered the conflict for power between those two. She knew that she had brothers and sisters who were her father’s children but not her mother’s.

As she looked at gentle Arthur she was sure that their marriage would be quite different from that of her parents.

Arthur spoke to her in Latin because he had no Spanish and she had no English.

That would soon be remedied, he told her. She should teach him her language; he would teach her his. He thanked her for the letters she had written him and she thanked him for his.

They had been formal little notes, those letters in Latin, written at the instigation of their parents, giving no hint of the reluctance both felt towards their marriage; and now that they had seen each other they felt comforted.

“I long to meet your brother and sisters,” she told him.

“You shall do so ere long.”

“You must be happy to have them with you. All mine have gone away now. Every one of them.”

“I am sorry for the sadness you have suffered.”

She bowed her head.

He went on: “You will grow fond of them. Margaret is full of good sense. She will help you to understand our ways. Mary is little more than a baby—a little pampered, I fear, but charming withal. As for Henry, when you see him you will wish that he had been born my father’s elder son.”

“But why should I wish that?”

“Because you will see how far he excels me in all things and, had he been my father’s elder son, he would have been your husband.”

“He is but a boy, I believe.”

“He is ten years old, but already as tall as I. He is full of vitality and the people’s cheers are all for him. I believe that everyone wishes that he had been my father’s elder son. Whereas now he will doubtless be Archbishop of Canterbury and I shall wear the crown.”

“Would you have preferred to be Archbishop of Canterbury?”

Arthur smiled at her. He felt it would have sounded churlish to have admitted this, for that would mean that he could not marry her. He said rather shyly: “I did wish so; now I believe I have changed my mind.”

Katharine smiled. It was all so much easier than she had believed possible.

Elvira had approached her and was whispering: “The King would like to see some of our Spanish dances. He would like to see you dance. You must do so only with one of your maids of honor.”

“I should enjoy that,” cried Katharine.

She rose and selected two maids of honor. They would show the English, she said, one of the stateliest of the Spanish dances; and she signed to the minstrels to play.

The three graceful girls, dancing solemnly in the candlelit apartment, were a charming sight.

Arthur watched, his pale eyes lighting with pleasure. How graceful was his Infanta! How wonderful to be able to dance and not become breathless as he did!

The King’s eyes were speculative. The girl was healthy, he was thinking. She would bear many children. There was nothing to fear. Moreover Arthur was attracted by her, and had seemed to grow a little more mature in the last hour. Was he ready? What a problem! To put them to bed together might terrify this oversensitive boy, might disclose that he was impotent. On the other hand, if he proved not to be impotent, might he not tax his strength by too much indulgence?

What to do? Wait? There could be no harm in waiting. Six months perhaps. A year. They would still be little more than children.

If Henry had only been the elder son!

Ayala was at the King’s elbow, sly, subtle, guessing his thoughts.

“The Infanta says that she does not wish Your Grace to think that only solemn dances are danced in Spain; she and her ladies will show you something in a different mood.”

“Let it be done,” answered the King.

And there was the Infanta, graceful still, dignified, charming, yet as gay as a gipsy girl, her full skirts twirling in the dance, her white hands as expressive as her feet. Katharine of Aragon could dance well.

The King clapped his hands and the Prince echoed his father’s applause.

“We are grateful to the ladies of Spain for giving us such enjoyment,” said Henry. “I fancy our English dances are not without merit; and since the Infanta has danced for the Prince, the Prince should dance for the Infanta. The Prince of Wales will now partner the Lady Guildford in one of our English dances.”

Arthur felt a sudden panic. How could he match Katharine in the dance? She would despise him. She would see how small he was, how weak; he was terrified that he would be out of breath and, if he began to cough, as he often did at such times, his father would be displeased.

Lady Guildford was smiling at him; he knew her well, for she was his sisters’ governess and they often practiced dancing together. The touch of her cool fingers comforted him, and as he danced his eyes met the grave ones of the watching Infanta, and he thought: She is kind. She will understand. There is nothing to fear.

The dance over he came to sit beside her once more. He was a little breathless, but he felt very happy.

THIS WAS HER wedding day. She was waiting in the Bishop’s Palace of St. Paul’s to be escorted to the Cathedral for the ceremony. She would be led to the altar by the Duke of York, whom she had already met and who disturbed her faintly. There was something so bold and arrogant about her young brother-in-law, and an expression which she could not understand appeared on his face when he looked at her. It was an almost peevish, sullen expression; she felt as though she were some delicious sweetmeat which he desired and which had been snatched from him to be presented to someone else.

That seemed ridiculous. She was no sweetmeat. And why should a boy of ten be peevish because his elder brother was about to be married?

She had imagined this; but all the same she felt an unaccountable excitement at the prospect of seeing the Duke of York again.

She had ridden into London from Lambeth to Southwark by way of London Bridge, and her young brother-in-law had come to escort her.

He was certainly handsome, this young boy. He swept into the apartment as though he were the King himself, magnificently attired in a doublet of satin, the sleeves of which were slashed and ruched somewhat extravagantly; there were rubies at his throat. His face was broad and dimpled; his mouth thin, his eyes blue and fierce, but so small that when he smiled they seemed to disappear into the smooth pink flesh. His complexion was clear, bright and glowing with health; his hair was shining, vital and reddish gold in color. There could be no mistaking him for anyone but a Prince. She found it hard to believe that he was merely ten years old, for he seemed older than Arthur, and she wondered fleetingly how she would have felt if this boy had been her bridegroom instead of his brother.

They would not have married her to a boy of ten. But why not? There had been more incongruous royal marriages.

He had taken off his feathered hat to bow to her.

“Madam, your servant,” he had said; but his looks belied the humility of his words.

He had explained in Latin that he had come to escort her into London. “It is my father’s command,” he said. “But had it not been I should have come.”

She did not believe that, and she suspected him of being a braggart; but she was conscious of the fascination he had for her and she realized that she was not the only one who was conscious of his power.

He had stared at her thick hair which she was to wear loose for the journey into London, and had put out a plump finger to touch it.

“It is very soft,” he had said, and his little eyes gleamed.

She had been aware that she seemed strange to him, with her hair flowing thus under the hat which was tied on her head with a gold lace; beneath the hat she wore a headdress of scarlet.

“Your hat,” he had told her, “reminds me of that which Cardinals wear.”

And he had laughed, seeming but a boy of ten in that moment.

He had ridden on one side of her as they came through the streets while on the other side was the Legate of Rome. The people had lined the streets to see the procession and she had noticed that, although many curious glances came her way, eyes continually strayed to the young Prince riding beside her. He had been aware of this and she had noticed that he lost no opportunity of acknowledging his popularity and, she suspected, doing all he could to add to it.

The citizens of London had organized a pageant to show their welcome for the Spanish Princess whom they regarded as their future Queen, and in the center of this pageant had been Saint Katharine surrounded by a company of virgins all singing the praises of the Princess of Wales.

She had smiled graciously at the people and they had cheered calling: “Long live the Princess of Wales! God bless the Infanta of Spain! Long live the Prince of Wales! Long live the Duke of York!”

And the young Duke of York had lifted his bonnet high so that the light caught his golden hair, and Katharine admitted that he was indeed a handsome Prince.

When they had reached the Bishop’s Palace, which was adjacent to the Cathedral, it had been the young Duke of York who took her hand and led her in.

That had happened some days before, and now this was her wedding day; and once again that young boy would walk beside her and lead her to the altar where his brother would be waiting for her.

She stood still in her elaborate wedding finery; indeed she found it not easy to move. Her gown stood out over the hoops beneath it, and on her head she wore the mantilla of gold, pearls and precious stones. The veil cascaded over her head and shielded her face. She was dressed as a Spanish Princess and the style was new to England.

Henry came to her and looked at her in blank admiration.

Then he spoke: “Why, you are beautiful!”

“And you are kind,” she answered.

“I am truthful,” he said. “That is not kindness, sister.”

“I am glad that I please you.”

His eyes narrowed suddenly in a manner which she already knew was a habit with him. “It is not I whom you wish to please,” he said sullenly. “Is that not so? It is my brother.”

“I wish to please every member of my new family.”

“You please Arthur,” he said, “and you please Henry. It is of no importance that you please the girls.”

“Oh, but it is…it is of the greatest importance.”

“You will please Margaret if you embroider.” He snapped his fingers. “Your eyes are too beautiful to strain with needlework. As for Mary, she is pleased by everyone who makes much of her. But you please me because you are beautiful. Is that not a better reason?”

“To embroider means to have learned how to do so. There is great credit in that. But if I should be beautiful—which I do not think I am—that would be no credit to me.”

“You will find that people in England admire your beauty more than your embroidery,” he told her. He frowned. He wished that he could think of something clever to say, the sort of remark which his tutor, John Skelton, would have made had he been present. Henry admired Skelton as much as anyone he knew. Skelton had taught his pupil a great deal—and not only from lesson books. Henry liked Skelton’s bold, swaggering speech, his quick wit, and had absorbed all that he had taught him about the way a gentleman should live and a good deal else besides; Skelton was not averse to repeating Court gossip and tales of the scandalous habits of some of the courtiers. Often certain information passed between them which was to be secret; Skelton had said: “You have to be a man, my Prince, as well as an Archbishop, and if by ill fate you should be forced to enter the Church then you will do well to sow your wild oats early.” Henry knew a great deal about the kind of wild oats which could be sown and was longing to sow some. He pitied poor Arthur under the tutelage of Dr. Linacre, a solemn, wise old man who thought—and endeavored to make Arthur agree with him—that the main object in life should be the mastery of Greek and Latin.

He wanted to tell Katharine now that although he was young he would doubtless make a better husband for her even at this stage than Arthur. But the precocious child did not know how to express such thoughts.

So he took her by the hand, this wondrously apparelled bride of his brother’s, and led her from the Palace to the Cathedral; and the people cheered and said: “What a handsome bridegroom our Prince Henry will make when his time comes!”

Henry heard and was pleased; yet he was angry at the same time. Life had given him all but one important thing, he believed. Good health, handsome looks, vitality, the power to excel—and then had made him the second son.

In the Cathedral a stage had been erected; it was circular in shape and large enough to contain eight people, including Katharine in her voluminous wedding dress. It was covered with scarlet cloth and about it a rail had been set up.

To this dais Henry led Katharine; and there waiting for her was Arthur, dazzling in white satin adorned with jewels.

Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York, watched the ceremony from a box at the side of the dais.

The King thought how small Arthur looked beside his bride and wondered whether the unhealthy whiteness of his skin was made more obvious by the hectic flush on his cheeks. He was still undecided. To consummate or not consummate? To make an effort to get a grandson quickly and perhaps endanger his heir’s health, or to let the pair wait a year or so? He had half the bride’s dowry already; he could scarcely wait to get his hands on the other half. He would have to watch Ferdinand. Ferdinand was continually planning wars; he wanted to see the Italian states under Spanish control; he would make all sorts of excuses about that second half of the dowry.

But I’ll keep him to it, thought Henry. If there were a child, that would make him realize the need to pay the second half quickly. He would be doubly pleased with the marriage if his daughter conceived and bore quickly.

And yet…

Elizabeth was conscious of her husband’s thoughts. They are too young, she considered. Arthur at least is too young. Over-excitement weakens him. If only Henry would talk to me about this matter! But what is the use of wishing that, when he never consults anyone. There will be one person to decide whether the young Infanta is to lose her virginity this night—and that will be the King of England. And as yet he is undecided.

The Archbishop of Canterbury with nineteen bishops and abbots was preparing to take part in the ceremony. Now he was demanding of the young couple that they repeat their vows; their voices were only just audible in the hushed Cathedral. The Infanta’s was firm enough; Arthur’s sounded feeble.

I trust, his mother thought uneasily, that he is not going to faint. It would be construed as an evil omen.

Her eyes rested long on her white-clad firstborn and she remembered that September day in Winchester Castle when she had first heard the feeble cries of her son.

She had been brought to bed in her chamber which had been hung with a rich arras; but she had insisted that one window should not be covered because she could not endure the thought of having all light and air shut out. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had been with her, and she had been grateful for her presence. Before this she had been considerably in awe of this formidable lady, for she knew that she was the only woman who had any real influence with the King.

The birth had been painful and she had been glad that she had only women to attend to her. Margaret had agreed with her that the delivery of babies was women’s work; so she had said farewell to all the gentlemen of the Court when her pains had begun and retired to her chamber, with her mother-in-law in charge of the female attendants.

How ill she had been! Arthur had arrived a month before he was expected, and afterwards she had suffered cruelly from the ague; but she had recovered and had tried not to dread the next confinement, which she knew was inevitable. A Queen must fight, even to the death, if necessary, to give her King and country heirs. It was her mission in life.

And there he was now—that fair, fragile baby, her firstborn—having lived precariously enough through a delicate childhood, preparing now to repeat the pattern with this young girl from Spain.

There was a tear in her eye and her lips were moving. She realized she was praying: “Preserve my son. Give him strength to serve his country. Give him happiness, long life and fruitful marriage.”

Elizabeth of York feared that she was praying for a miracle.

AFTER MASS HAD BEEN celebrated, the young bride and groom stood at the door of the Cathedral, and there the crowds were able to see them kneel while Arthur declared that he endowed his bride with a third of his property.

The people cheered.

“Long live the Prince and Princess of Wales!”

The couple rose, and there beside the bride was young Prince Henry as though determined not to be shut out from the center of attraction. He took the bride’s hand and walked with her and his brother to the banqueting hall in the Bishop’s Palace where a feast of great magnificence had been set out for them.

There Katharine was served on gold plate which was studded with precious gems; but as she ate she was thinking with trepidation of the night which lay before her, and she knew that her bridegroom shared her fears. She felt that she wanted to hold back the night; she was so frightened that she longed for her mother, longed to hear that calm, serene voice telling her that there was nothing to fear.

The feasting went on for several hours. How the English enjoyed their food! How many dishes there were! What quantities of wine!

The King was watching them. Was he aware of their fear? Katharine was beginning to believe that there was little the King did not understand.

The Queen was smiling too. How kind she was—or would have been if she had been allowed to be. The Queen would always be what her husband wished, thought Katharine; and there might be times when he wished her to be cruel.

Katharine had heard of the ceremony of putting the bride to bed. In England it was riotous and ribald…even among royalty. It could never have been so for her mother, she was sure. But these people were not dignified Spaniards; they were the lusty English.

She turned to Arthur who was trying to smile at her reassuringly, but she was sure his teeth were chattering.

THE MOMENT HAD COME and they were in the bedchamber. There was the bed, and the curtains were drawn back, while it was being blessed; Katharine knew enough English now to recognize the word fruitful.

She dared not look at Arthur, but she guessed how he was feeling.

The room was illuminated by many candles and their light shone on the scarlet arras, on the silk bed curtains and the many faces of those who had crowded into the bedchamber.

The King came to them and, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, he drew them towards him.

He said: “You are very young. Your lives lie before you. You are not yet ready for marriage, but this ceremony shall be a symbol, and when you are of an age to consummate the marriage then shall it be consummated.”

Katharine saw the relief in Arthur’s face and she herself felt as though she wanted to weep for joy. She was no longer afraid; nor was Arthur.

They were led to the bed and the curtains were drawn while their attendants stripped them of their clothes; and when there was nothing to cover their white naked bodies and they knelt side by side, still they were not afraid.

They prayed that they might do their duty; they prayed as all married people were expected to pray on the night of their nuptials. But this was no ordinary wedding night because it was the King’s express command that they were too young to consummate the marriage.

A cup of warm, sweet wine was brought to them and they drank as commanded. Then an attendant came and wrapped their robes about them. The ceremony was over.

The people who had crowded into the bedchamber departed; the servants of Katharine and Arthur—Spanish and English—remained in the antechamber; the door of the nuptial chamber was locked, and the bride and bridegroom were together.

Arthur said to her: “There is nothing to fear.”

“I heard the King’s command,” she answered.

Then he kissed her brow, and said: “In time I shall be your husband in truth.”

“In time,” she answered.

Then she lay down in the marriage bed still wearing the robe which her attendant had wrapped about her. The bed was big. Arthur lay down beside her in his robe.

“I am so tired,” said Katharine. “There was so much noise.”

Arthur said: “I am often tired, Katharine.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Katharine.”

They were so exhausted by the ceremonies and their attendant fears that soon they slept; and in the morning the virgin bride and groom were ready to continue with their wedding celebrations.

The Tragedy at Ludlow Castle

ALL LONDON WAS EAGER TO CELEBRATE THE MARRIAGE OF the Prince of Wales and the Infanta; the King was wise enough to know that his people must have some gaiety in their lives, and that if he allowed them to celebrate the marriage of his son, they might for a time forget the heavy taxes with which they were burdened.

“Let them make merry,” he said to Empson. “A fountain of wine here and there will be enough to satisfy them. Let there be plenty of pageantry. The nobles will provide that.”

Henry was even ready to contribute a little himself, for he was very anxious that his subjects should express their loyalty to the new Tudor dynasty. There was nothing the people loved so much as a royal wedding; and as this was the wedding of the boy who was destined to become their King, it was the King’s wish that the celebrations should continue.

Katharine felt a little bewildered by them. Arthur was tired of them, but young Henry revelled in them. Margaret uneasily wondered when her marriage would be celebrated, and as for little Mary, she was delighted whenever she was allowed to witness the pageantry.

The greatest pageant of all was staged at Westminster, to which the royal family travelled by barge. After the night following the wedding day, Katharine had been sent to Baynard’s Castle where she had been placed under the strict surveillance of Doña Elvira. The King had made it clear to the duenna that the marriage was not yet to be consummated; and as Elvira considered her Infanta as yet too young for the consummation she was determined that the King’s wishes should be respected.

So, by barge, came the Infanta with her duenna and lovely maids of honor.

Katharine sometimes wished that her maids of honor were not so beautiful. It was true that she was always dazzlingly attired, and her gowns were more magnificent than those of the girls, but beauty such as that possessed by some of these girls did not need fine clothes to show it off.

The people lined the river banks to cheer her on her way to Westminster and as she smiled and acknowledged their cheers she temporarily forgot her longing for home.

Alighting from her barge she saw that before Westminster Hall a tiltyard had been prepared. On the south side of this a stage had been erected; this was luxuriously hung with cloth of gold; and about the open space other stages, far less magnificent had been set up for the spectators.

This, Katharine discovered, was the joust, the Englishman’s idea of the perfect entertainment. Here the nobility of England would gather to tilt against each other.

On this, the occasion of the most important wedding in England, the great houses were determined to outshine each other, and this they endeavored to do with such extravagance that, as the champions entered the arena, there were continual gasps of wonder and wild applause.

Katharine was led on to the stage amid the cheers of the people; and there she seated herself on cushions of cloth of gold. With her were the King, the Queen and all the royal family. But she herself occupied the place of honor.

She thought how pleased her parents would be if they could see her now.

Beside her sat Arthur, looking pale and tired; but perhaps that was because Henry was also there, radiant and full of health. He had seated himself on a stool at the bride’s feet and sat clasping his hands about his knees in a manner which was both childish and dignified.

Margaret, of whom Katharine felt a little in awe, was seated with her mother, but Katharine noticed how she kept her eyes on young Henry. Little Mary could not resist bouncing up and down in her seat now and then with excitement. No one restrained her, for her childish ways found such favor with the people.

The King was pleased. At such moments he felt at ease. Here he sat in royal panoply, his family all about him—two Princes and two Princesses to remind any nobles, who might have disloyal thoughts concerning his right to the throne, that he was building the foundations of his house with firmness.

“Look,” said Henry. “There’s my uncle Dorset coming in.”

Katharine looked and saw the Queen’s half-brother entering the arena beneath a pavilion of cloth of gold which was held over him by four riders as he came. He looked magnificent in his shining armor.

“And,” cried Henry, “there’s my uncle Courtenay. Why, what is that he is riding on? I do declare it is a dragon!”

He gazed up at Katharine, eager to see what effect such wondrous sights were having upon her. Her serenity irritated him mildly. “I’ll warrant you do not see such sights in Spain,” he challenged.

“In Spain,” said Arthur, “there is the great ceremony of La Corrida.”

“I’ll warrant,” boasted Henry, “that there are no ceremonies in Spain to compare with those in England.”

“It is well,” Arthur replied, “that Katharine does not understand you or she would not admire your manners.”

Henry said: “I wish she would learn English more quickly. There is much I would say to her.”

Katharine smiled at the boy, whose attention was now turned back to the arena, where Lord William Courtenay, who had married Queen Elizabeth’s sister, came lumbering in astride his dragon.

Katharine was being introduced to English pageantry; she thought it a little vulgar, a little simple, but she could not help but marvel at the care which had gone into the making of these symbols; and the delight which they inspired was infectious.

Now came the Earl of Essex whose pavilion was in the form of a mountain of green on which were rocks, trees, flowers and herbs; and on top of the mountain sat a beautiful young girl with her long hair loose about her.

The spectators applauded wildly, but many of the nobles present whispered that Essex was a fool thus to display his wealth before the King’s avaricious eyes. His “mountain” was clearly very costly indeed and the days when nobles flaunted their wealth so blatantly were no longer with them.

So Katharine sat back in her place of honor and watched the jousting. She listened to the cheers of the people as their favorites rode into the arena; and she found her attention fixed not so much on those whose skill with the lance gave such pleasure to the company, but on the two brothers—her husband and Henry.

Henry’s eyes were narrow with concentration; his cheeks were flushed. It was clear that he longed to be down there in the arena and emerge as the champion. As for Arthur, he seemed to shrink into his golden seat, closing his eyes now and then when disaster threatened one of the combatants. He knew that death could easily result from these jousts and he had never been able to accept such accidents with equanimity.

That day there were no serious casualties and he was glad that it was November so that the dusk fell early and it was necessary to leave the tiltyard for the hall of the Palace, where the banquet and further entertainments were awaiting them.

At the center of the table on an elevated dais the King took his place, and on his left were seated Katharine, the Queen and the King’s revered mother, the Countess of Richmond. On the King’s right hand sat Arthur. Margaret and Mary were next to their grandmother on the Queen’s side, and on the King’s side next to Arthur, in order of precedence, were the nobility of England.

The monumental pies with their golden pastry, the great joints, the dishes of flesh and fowl, were brought in with ceremony; the minstrels played and the feasting and drinking began.

But there must be pageantry, and in the space made ready before the banqueting table the dancing and spectacle began.

Katharine looked on at the ship, the castle and the mountain, which in their turn were wheeled into the hall to the cries of admiration of the guests. The ship, which came first, was manned by men dressed as sailors who called to each other in nautical terms as their brilliantly painted vehicle trundled round and round the hall. On the deck were two figures which were intended to represent Hope and Desire, and suddenly there appeared beside them a beautiful girl dressed in Spanish costume.

Henry called to Katharine from his place at table: “You see, this is all in your honor. You are the hope and desire of England.”

It was very flattering and Katharine, guessing what her young brother-in-law implied, graciously acknowledged the compliment with smiles which she hoped expressed her great pleasure and appreciation.

The mountain came next, and here again were allegorical figures all intended to pay homage to the new bride.

The most splendid of all the pageants was the castle which was drawn into the hall by lions of gold and silver; there was much whispering and laughter at the sight of these animals, for it was well known that inside each of the lion’s skins were two men; one being the front part, the other the hindquarters. The spectators had seen these animals perform before, as they were a feature of most pageants; but they slyly watched Katharine to see her astonishment, for it was believed that she must be wondering what strange animals these were.

Seated on top of the castle was another beautiful girl in Spanish costume, and she, like the other, was being courted by Hope and Desire.

And when the ship, the mountain and the castle were all in the hall, the minstrels began to play; then beautiful girls and handsome men stepped from them, and as there was an equal number of both sexes they were most conveniently partnered for a dance, which they performed in the space before the banqueting table.

When this dance was over the performers bowed low and, to great applause, slipped out of the hall.

Now the company must join in, but first the royal bride and groom must dance followed by other members of the royal family.

Katharine and Arthur did not dance together. Many present thought this meant that the marriage was not yet to be consummated. So Katharine chose her maid of honor Maria de Rojas, and together they danced a bass dance, which was stately and more suitable, she thought, to the occasion than one of those dances known as la volta and which involved a good deal of high stepping and capering.

Katharine was at her best in the dance, for she moved with grace and she was an attractive figure in spite of the superior beauty of Maria de Rojas.

Two gentlemen at the table watched Maria as she danced. One was the grandson of the Earl of Derby, who thought her the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; but there was another watching Maria. This was Iñigo Manrique, the son of Doña Elvira Manuel, who had accompanied the party to England in the role of one of Katharine’s pages.

Maria was conscious of these looks as she danced, and deliberately she gave her smile to the young Englishman.

But although Maria’s beauty attracted attention there were many who closely watched the young Infanta. The King and Queen were delighted with her; she was healthy and whether or not she was beautiful was of no great moment. She was fresh and young enough not to be repellent to a young man. They were both thinking that when the time came she would be fertile.

Arthur watched her and found pleasure in watching her; now that he knew he need not fear the consummation of their marriage he was very eager to win the friendship of his wife.

Henry could not take his eyes from Katharine. The more he saw of her the more his resentment rose. The precocious youth enjoyed occasions such as this, but he was never completely happy unless he was the center of attraction. If only he had been the bridegroom! he was thinking. If only he were the future King of England!

The dance was over, the applause rang out while Katharine and Maria returned to their places. Arthur then led out his aunt, the Princess Cecily, and the dance they chose was a grave and stately one. Henry, watching them through sullen eyes, was thinking that so must Arthur dance, because the high dances made him breathless. But that was not the English way of dancing. When the English danced they threw themselves wholeheartedly into the affair. They should caper and leap and show that they enjoyed it. He would show them when his turn came. He was impatient to do so. When it came he and his sister Margaret stepped into the center of the hall; there was immediate applause, and all sullenness left Henry’s face as he bowed to the spectators and began to dance. He called to the minstrels to play more quickly; he wanted a gayer air. Then he took Margaret’s hand and the color came into their faces as they danced and capered about the hall, leaping into the air, twirling on their toes; and when Margaret showed signs of slackening Henry would goad her to greater efforts.

The company was laughing and applauding, and Henry, the sweat running down his face, threw off his surcoat and leaping and cavorting in his small garments continued to divert the company.

Even the King and Queen were laughing with pleasure, and when the music eventually stopped and the energetic young Prince with his sister returned to the table, congratulations were showered on them from every corner of the hall.

Henry acknowledged the cheers on behalf of himself and Margaret, but his small eyes rested on Katharine. He knew that his father was wishing his first-born were more like his other son.

Henry realized then that he was hoping Katharine was making a similar comparison of himself and Arthur.

DOÑA ELVIRA MANUEL, that most domineering of duennas, was delighted with the state of affairs in England, for while Katharine had her separate household she remained in charge of it, and she knew well that once Katharine became in truth the wife of Arthur she would cease to maintain the power which was now hers.

As duenna to a virgin bride she was supreme, for Katharine herself, on the instructions of Queen Isabella, must bow to her wishes.

Doña Elvira had never been chary of expressing her opinions, and it was inevitable that other ambitious people in the Spanish entourage should find her intolerable and seek to undermine her power.

There was one who held great influence with Katharine. This was Father Alessandro Geraldini who had been her tutor for many years and who now was her chief chaplain and confessor.

Since he had been in England Geraldini had become increasingly aware of the important role which was his and what a different matter it was to be adviser and confidant of the Princess of Wales after being merely tutor to the Infanta of Spain. Not only was Katharine the most important lady in England next to the Queen, but she was also more important to her parents’ political schemes than she had ever been before. And he, Geraldini, was her confessor. Was he going to allow a sharp-tongued woman to dominate him!

He sought for means of destroying her power. He asked permission to speak to Don Pedro de Ayala confidentially.

The ambassador shut the door of the anteroom in which the interview took place and begged Geraldini to state his business.

Geraldini came straight to the point. “Doña Elvira Manuel has become insufferable. One would think she was the Princess of Wales.”

“In what way has she offended you, my friend?”

“She behaves as though she has charge of the Infanta’s very soul. And that happens to be my duty.”

Ayala nodded. He was secretly amused; he liked to contemplate strife between the domineering duenna and the ambitious priest.

“The sooner our Infanta is free of such supervision the better, I say,” continued Geraldini. “And the sooner this marriage becomes a real marriage the better pleased will be our Sovereigns.”

“I see that you are in their Highnesses’ confidence,” said Ayala with a smile.

“I think I know my duty,” answered Geraldini sharply. “Could not their Highnesses be persuaded that it is dangerous to Spanish policy if the marriage remains unconsummated?”

“Tell me how you see such danger in our Infanta’s virginity.”

The priest grew pink. “It is…not as it should be.”

“I will pass on your comments to the Sovereigns,” Ayala told him. Geraldini was not satisfied. He went to Puebla. Like most of the Infanta’s household he had come to despise Puebla, who was often disparagingly referred to as the marrano. Christianized Jews were people of whom the Inquisition had taught Spaniards to be wary.

As for the English, they had found Puebla parsimonious and, although this was a trait they had to accept in their King, they did not like it in others. Therefore Geraldini was less careful of offending Puebla than of offending Ayala.

“The marriage should be consummated,” he said at once. “It is our duty as servants of their Catholic Highnesses to see that this unsatisfactory state of affairs is ended.”

Puebla eyed the priest speculatively. He knew of Geraldini’s influence with Katharine.

“It is the wish of the Infanta?” he asked.

Geraldini made an impatient movement. “The Infanta is innocent. She expresses no opinion. How could she, knowing little of such matters? Yet she holds herself willing to obey the command of her parents.”

Puebla was thoughtful, wondering how best he could ingratiate himself with the English King. He believed that England was to be his home for a long time, and that pleasing the King of England was as important a matter—if not more so—as pleasing the Spanish Sovereigns. Yet the consummation of the Infanta’s marriage seemed to him of small importance compared with the matter of her dowry.

Even as he listened to Geraldini he was wondering what he could do to please the King of England in this matter without displeasing the Spanish Sovereigns. The dowry had been agreed on as two hundred thousand crowns, one hundred thousand of which had been paid on the wedding day. Fifty thousand more were due in six months’ time and another fifty thousand within the year. The plate and jewels, which Katharine had brought with her from Spain and which were to form part of the payment, were valued at thirty-five thousand crowns. This was important to Henry because the plate and jewels were actually in England. For the remainder of the dowry he had only the word of Isabella and Ferdinand to rely on. Why should not Henry take the plate and jewels now? They were in England, so protests from Spain would be fruitless. Henry had already shown when he had seen the Infanta before her wedding that in England he was determined to have his way.

So Puebla was of the opinion that the consummation of the marriage was of far less importance than the Infanta’s dowry.

“It is always the King of England who will decide,” he said.

“Then I think we should let it be known that the Sovereigns of Spain expect consummation without delay.”

Puebla lifted his shoulders and Geraldini could see that, like Ayala, he was indifferent.

But the fact that Geraldini had approached both ambassadors in the matter was brought to the notice of Doña Elvira, and she immediately realized that the officiousness of the priest was directed against her own authority.

Doña Elvira was never a woman to consider whether or not she offended others.

She asked Geraldini to come to her apartments and, when he arrived, she went straight into the attack.

“It appears, Father Geraldini, that you choose to forget that I am in charge of the Infanta’s household!”

“I did not forget.”

“Did you not? Then it seems strange that you should go about explaining that it is the wish of their Catholic Highnesses that the marriage should be consummated.”

“Strange, Doña Elvira? It is common sense.”

“You are in the Sovereigns’ confidence?”

“I…I am the Infanta’s confessor, and as such…”

Doña Elvira’s eyes narrowed. And as such, she thought, you enjoy too much of her confidence. I shall remedy that.

She interrupted coldly: “Queen Isabella put me in charge of her daughter’s household, and until she removes me from that position, there I shall remain. It is for the good of all that as yet the marriage shall remain unconsummated. Our Infanta is as yet too young and her husband even younger. I will thank you, Father, not to meddle in affairs which are no concern of yours.”

Geraldini bowed to hide the hatred in his eyes, but Doña Elvira made no attempt to hide that in hers.

There was war between them, and Doña Elvira would not be satisfied until she had arranged for the insolent priest’s recall to Spain.

HENRY CAME RUNNING into his brother’s apartments, his eyes blazing with excitement.

Arthur was stretched out on a couch looking very pale.

“Are you sick, Arthur?” asked Henry, but he did not wait for an answer. “I have just seen a strange thing, brother. Our father has done to death his best falcon, and for no other reason than that it was not afraid to match itself with an eagle.”

“Is that so?” said Arthur wearily.

“Indeed it is so. Our father ordered the falconers to pluck off its head, and this was done.”

“I understand why,” said Arthur, “because I remember how he hanged the mastiffs.”

“Yes,” said Henry. “I remembered too. Our father said: ‘It is not meet for any subject to attack his superior.’”

“Ah,” mused Arthur, “our father is fond of these little parables, is he not?”

“But his best falcon! And all because the bird was game enough to show no fear of the mighty eagle. I should have treasured that falcon. I should have been proud of him. I should have used him continually. I should not have plucked off his head for bravery.”

“You are not King.”

“No—that is not for me.” Arthur noticed the sullen lines about the little mouth.

“It is unfortunate. You would have made a much better King than I, Henry.”

Henry did not deny this. “But you are the elder. It is the Church for me. And you already have a wife.”

Arthur flushed. He was a little ashamed of being a husband and yet no husband. It was embarrassing to know that there was a great deal of talk about whether or not the marriage should be consummated. It made him feel foolish.

Henry was thinking of that now. His face was as usual expressive, and Arthur could always guess at his thoughts.

Henry strutted about the apartment, imagining himself as the husband. There would be no question of the consummation then.

“You find her comely?” he asked slyly.

“She is very comely,” answered Arthur.

“And she brings you much enjoyment?”

Arthur flushed. “Indeed yes.”

Henry rocked on his heels and looked knowledgeable. “I have heard that the Spaniards are a passionate people, for all their solemn dignity.”

“Oh, it is true…it is true…” said Arthur.

Henry smiled. “It is said that you and she are not husband and wife in truth. I’ll warrant those who say that do not know the real truth.”

Arthur began to cough to hide his embarrassment; but he did not deny Henry’s suggestion.

Henry began to laugh; then suddenly he remembered the falcon. “If I were King,” he said, “I do not think I should have to hang my bravest dogs and destroy my most gallant falcon to warn my subjects that they must obey me.”

Henry was looking into the future, and once more Arthur guessed his thoughts. Do I look so ill then? he wondered. And he knew that he did, and that the chances were that he would not live, nor beget children, to keep Henry from the throne.

IT WAS TIME that Arthur returned to the Principality of Wales and the question had arisen as to whether Katharine should accompany him.

The King was undecided. Each day it seemed to him that Arthur looked weaker.

Puebla had been to him and, in an endeavor to assure Henry that he, Puebla, in reality served the King of England even though he was supposed to be the servant of the Spanish Sovereigns, he suggested that Henry should immediately take possession of Katharine’s plate and jewels.

“They will, of course, be Your Grace’s at the end of the year, but why should you not take them now?”

Henry considered the value of the plate and jewels—some thirty-five thousand crowns, according to the valuation made by the London goldsmiths—and when he contemplated such wealth his fingers itched to take possession of it. A year was a long time to wait. Anything could happen in a year, particularly as Arthur was not strong. But once the plate and jewels were in his possession there they should remain.

He sent therefore to Katharine’s treasurer, Don Juan de Cuero, and asked that the plate and jewels be handed to him.

This Don Juan de Cuero refused to do.

“Nay,” he told Henry’s messenger, “I am in charge of the Infanta’s revenues, and it was the express command of the Sovereigns of Spain that the plate and jewellery should remain the property of their daughter until the time was ripe for the payment of the second half of the dowry.”

Henry was irritated when he received this reply, but he had no intention of upsetting the Spanish Sovereigns at this stage and was ready to abandon the idea of laying his hands on the plate and jewels until the appointed time.

Puebla came to him with a suggestion. Puebla had made up his mind that it would be to Spain’s advantage if the marriage were consummated, and he was determined to do everything in his power to bring this about.

He had Henry’s confidence. More than once he had shown the King of England that he worked with an eye to England’s advantages, and now he had a suggestion to make.

“If the Infanta could be induced to wear her jewellery and use her plate it could then be called second-hand and you could decline to accept it as part payment of the dowry. Ferdinand and Isabella would then be bound to pay you thirty-five thousand crowns instead of the plate and jewels—which would remain in England so that you could always take them if you wished.”

This seemed a good idea to Henry’s crafty mind. But he pointed out: “Her treasurer keeps a firm hand on the plate and jewels which he knows are to come as part payment of the dowry. He would never consent to her using them.”

Puebla appeared to be thoughtful. He knew Isabella and Ferdinand well and he was convinced that the fact that the plate and jewels had been used by their daughter would have no effect whatsoever on the bargain they had made. They needed money too desperately to consider lightly parting with it. But Puebla’s desire was not to work against Spain for the sake of Henry but only to give Henry the impression that he was doing so.

Then Puebla said: “If the Infanta accompanied the Prince to Wales, they could set up a small court there, and the Infanta’s plate could be used by them both. She would want to wear her jewels in her own little court.”

The King nodded. “The Princess of Wales shall accompany her husband to Ludlow,” he said.

THE JOURNEY westwards was pleasant enough. Arthur seemed happy to escape from his father’s notice. He rode at the head of the cavalcade and Katharine was close to him, riding on a pillion behind her master of horse; and when this mode of travel tired her she took to her litter which was borne between two horses.

The people came out in the villages to welcome her and Arthur, and she was delighted that Arthur always considered the pleasure of the people and would stop and speak to them, always gentle, always with a smile, no matter how tired he was—and he was so often tired.

She was glad that his father had sent a council of men with him, headed by Sir Richard Pole, which meant that Arthur had no decisions to make which would have caused him anxiety; he travelled as the representative of the King, and could always call in his councillors if action was necessary, and should it not be carried out in accordance with the King’s pleasure, it would be Sir Richard and the council who would be blamed, not Arthur.

With Katharine rode her own household headed by Doña Elvira, whose son, Don Iñigo Manrique, was among Katharine’s pages. Don Iñigo strove to ride beside Maria de Rojas, who did her best to keep close to Katharine. Alessandro Geraldini was also a member of the party, and the strife between him and Doña Elvira increased as the days passed.

Many of Katharine’s entourage who had accompanied her from Spain had now been sent back to their own country; and as Katharine rode towards Wales she felt a sudden desolation because she had said goodbye to the Archbishop of Santiago and many others. She envied them their return to Spain and she let herself wonder what was happening in the Madrid Alcazar or the great Alhambra. How happy she would have been if she could have burst into her mother’s apartments and thrown herself into those loving arms!

I shall never cease to long for her, she thought sadly as she lay back in her litter.

They rested for a night in the royal Manor at Bewdley in Worcestershire, and it was here that Arthur showed her the chapel in which their marriage had been performed by proxy.

“Puebla stood as your proxy,” said Arthur, wrinkling his nose with disgust.

Katharine laughed. “At least you prefer me to him!” she slowly answered in English, which he was teaching her and at which she was making good progress.

“I like him not,” answered Arthur. “And you I like so much.”

As they went back to the Manor and their separate apartments there, Katharine thought that she was fortunate indeed to have a husband as kind and gentle as Arthur.

“You are smiling,” said Arthur, “and you look happier than I have seen you look before.”

“I was thinking,” she answered, “that if my mother were here with us I should be completely happy.”

“When I am in truth King,” Arthur told her, “we will visit your mother and she shall visit us. You love her so dearly, do you not? Your voice is different when you mention her.”

“She is the kindest mother anyone ever had. She is the greatest of Queens and yet…and yet…”

“I understand,” said Arthur, touching her arm gently.

“Others did not understand her always,” went on Katharine. “They thought her cold and stern. But to us, her children, she was always gentle. Yet none of us, not even my sister Juana, would have dared disobey her. Sometimes I wish she had not been perfect; then it would have been easier to have said goodbye to her.”

They were silent, but during that stay at Bewdley she realized that she could easily love Arthur. As for Arthur, he was happy with his bride.

He was thinking: In a year or so I shall be her husband in very truth. Then we shall have children, and she will be such a mother to them as Queen Isabella was to her.

Arthur could look forward to the future with a serenity and pleasure he had rarely known before.

And so they came to Ludlow.

THE CASTLE ROSE from the point of a headland, and its bold gray towers appeared to be impregnable.

“There are no better views in all England than those to be seen from the castle,” Arthur told Katharine. “From the north side there is Corve Dale, and from the east you can see Titterstone Clee Hill. And stretched out beyond is the valley of the Teme with the Stretton Hills forming a background. I have a great affection for Ludlow. It is on the very borders of the Welsh country which I have always felt was my country.”

Katharine nodded. “The people here love you,” she said.

“Am I not the Prince of Wales? And do not forget that you are the Princess. They will love you too.”

“I fervently hope so,” answered Katharine.

Katharine never forgot her first nights in Ludlow Castle. There in the large hall fires had been lighted; cressets shone their light from the walls, and as she sat beside Arthur while the chieftains of Wales came to the castle to pay homage to their Prince, she felt that she was farther from the halls of the Alhambra than she had ever been.

Never had she seen such fierce men as those who came in from the Welsh mountains. She could not understand their melodious speech; some looked like mountain brigands, others appeared in odd finery, but all spoke like poets and entertained her with such sweet singing that she was astonished.

The first of the chieftains of Wales, Rhys ap Thomas, came to pay his homage and to swear to Arthur that he accepted him as his Prince and would fight for him whenever and wherever it should be necessary.

Arthur was a little in awe of the fierce chieftain who he knew hoped for much, now that there was a Tudor king on the throne. Perhaps he was a little disappointed. Perhaps the Tudor was more English than Welsh. But at least he sent his son to forge friendships with the people of Wales, and in the mountains they continued to hope that one day the Tudors would remember Wales.

With Rhys ap Thomas came his son, Griffith ap Rhys, a beautiful young boy who, said his father, sought service in the household of the Prince and Princess of Wales; and when the boy was brought forward to kneel and kiss the hands of Arthur and Katharine, he assured Arthur in the Welsh tongue of his loyalty and will to serve.

“Now speak the other tongues you know, boy,” said his father proudly; and Griffith ap Rhys began to speak in a language which Katharine recognized as French.

This delighted Katharine, because here was someone with whom she might be able to converse. She answered Griffith in French, and to her pleasure he was able to understand; and although their accents and intonations were so different they could chat together.

“I wish to make Griffith my gentleman usher,” she told Arthur, and there was nothing she could have said which would have given the boy’s father more delight.

There was no doubt in the minds of any that Wales was pleased with its Princess.

A FEW WEEKS PASSED, weeks which afterwards seemed to Katharine like a dream. She was happier than she had been since she left Spain. She, Arthur and Griffith ap Rhys rode together; she found great pleasure in talking in French to Griffith, and Arthur liked to listen to them. They were like two brothers and a sister—constantly discovering interests in common. In the long evenings by the blazing fires and the lights of the torches there would be singing and dancing in the great hall; and those who watched said: “Before long this marriage will be consummated. The Prince and the Princess are falling in love.”

They would sit side by side, and Griffith would be seated on a stool at their feet, strumming on his harp and singing songs, the favorite of which was one about a great King Arthur who had once reigned in Britain.

One day, it was said, there would be another great King Arthur to rule over England and Wales; he would be this Arthur who now sat in the hall of Ludlow Castle. He was young yet; he was a little pale and seemed weak; but he was leaving boyhood behind him, he was becoming a man, and he had the fair young Princess from Spain beside him.

MARCH HAD SET IN and the snow gave place to rain. For days the mist hung about the drafty rooms of the castle; the damp seeped into the bones of all and even the great fires which blazed on the hearths could not drive the mist from Ludlow Castle.

Katharine longed for the cold, frosty weather; then she and Arthur could have gone riding together. She dared not suggest that they go out in the driving rain, for Arthur had begun to cough more persistently since they had come to Ludlow.

One day Griffith ap Rhys burst somewhat unceremoniously into their presence.

They were sitting by the fire in one of the smaller apartments of the castle and a few of their suite were with them.

Doña Elvira looked sternly at the young Welshman and was preparing to reproach him for forgetting the respect he owed to the Prince and Princess of Wales, when Griffith burst out: “I have ill news. The sweating sickness has come to Ludlow.”

A horrified silence fell on the company. The sweating sickness was considered to be one of the greatest calamities which could befall a community. It spread rapidly from one to another and invariably ended in death, although if the patient could survive the first twenty-four hours of the disease, it was said that he usually recovered.

Questions were fired at Griffith, who said that several of the townsfolk were stricken and that he had himself seen people in the streets sinking to the ground because the fever had overcome them before they could reach their homes.

When this was explained to Elvira she began giving rapid orders. The castle was to be closed to all visitors; they were to consider themselves in a state of siege. At all costs the sweating sickness must not be allowed to enter Ludlow Castle while the Infanta of Spain was there.

The news had cast a gloom on the company, but Katharine was eager to know more about the dreaded disease, and Griffith sat beside her and told her and Arthur how it began with a fever and that many died before the sweating stage began. Then they sweated profusely and, if they could cling to life long enough, they stood a chance of recovery; for in sweating they cast off the evil humors of the body and thus recovered.

Arthur was disturbed; he told Katharine: “The disease broke out soon after my father won the throne. I think some looked upon it as an evil omen. It is strange that it should have broken out here in Ludlow now we are come. It would seem that there is a blight on our House.”

“No,” replied Katharine fiercely, “this sickness could happen anywhere.”

“It started in the army which landed at Milford Haven with my father.”

Katharine endeavored to disperse his gloom, but it was not easy; and that night the singing ceased in Ludlow Castle.

KATHARINE AWOKE in the night. She was conscious of a curious burning sensation in her limbs; she tried to call out but her mouth was parched.

She lay still, thinking: So it has come to Ludlow Castle and I am its victim. Yet if I am to die, then I shall be with my sister Isabella and my brother Juan, and I think I should be happy.

There was another thought which came to her and which she would not voice. It was that her mother might not be long for this world, and if she too were going to pass from the Earth to be with Isabella and Juan, then Katharine would long to join them.

She felt lightheaded; she had forgotten she was in grim Ludlow Castle; she thought she was back behind the rose-tinted walls of the Alhambra; she thought that she lingered in one of the patios, trailing her hot fingers in the cool fountains; but the fountains were not cool; they were hot as fire and she believed she had put her fingers in the fires in which the heretics were burned, mistaking them for fountains.

She was tossing from side to side in her bed when Maria de Rojas came to bid her good morning.

Maria took one look at her mistress and was terrified. She ran screaming to Doña Elvira.

SO KATHARINE lay a victim of the dreaded sickness. All through the day and night which followed Elvira was in the sickroom. Angrily she ordered possets and herbal drinks to be prepared in case they might be of some use to her Infanta. She cursed those who had dared bring infection into the castle. She had no thought of anything but the health of her mistress.

Katharine had passed into the sweating period. Elvira hovered anxiously about her bed. If she sweated profusely the evil humors would be thrown off; and she was sweating.

“The Sovereigns will never forgive me,” cried Elvira, “for letting their daughter face such infection. She must recover. It is unthinkable that she should die…her dowry not even paid, her virginity intact.”

The energy of Doña Elvira affected all who came in contact with the sickroom.

News was brought for Katharine, but Elvira would not admit the messenger.

So the Prince was sick? Well, was not the Prince always ailing? The Infanta, who was never ill, was now laid low with their miserable sweating sickness!

It was twenty-four hours since Katharine had been taken ill. She lay limp and exhausted on her bed; but she still lived.

Doña Elvira busied herself with making a brew of aromatic herbs, laurel and juniper berries which the physicians had recommended; and when Katharine had drunk it she opened her eyes and said: “Doña Elvira, bring my mother to me.”

“You are in your bed in Ludlow Castle, Highness. You have been very ill but I have nursed you back to health.”

Katharine nodded her head slightly. “I remember now,” she said; and there were tears in her eyes which would never have appeared but for her bodily weakness. She wanted her mother now, even more than ever. She knew that, if only she could feel that cool hand on her brow, see those serene eyes looking into hers, commanding her to bear whatever ill fortune God had seen fit to send to her, she could have wept for joy; as it was she could not prevent herself from weeping in sorrow.

“The worst is over,” said Elvira. “You will get well now. I have nursed you with my own hands, and shall do so until you are completely recovered.”

“Thank you, Doña Elvira.”

Elvira took Katharine’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Always I am at your service, my dearest Infanta,” she said. “Do you not understand that?”

“I understand,” said Katharine; and she closed her eyes. But try as she might she could not prevent the tears seeping through.

If I could see her but once…she thought. She turned her head that Doña Elvira might not see the tears.

“Does my mother know of my illness?” she asked.

“She will hear of it and of your recovery in the same message.”

“I am glad of that. Now she will not be grieved. If I had died that would have been her greatest sorrow. She loves me dearly.”

Now the tears were flowing more freely, and it was no use trying to restrain them. These were the tears which had been demanding to be shed for so long, and which in her strength she had withheld. Now she was too weak to fight them and she wept shamelessly.

“For she loves me so,” she whispered, “and we are parted. There will never be another to love me as my mother loved me. All my life there will never be love for me such as she gave me.”

“What nonsense is this?” said Elvira. “You must keep well covered. It may be that you have not sweated enough. There may be more humors to be released. Come, what would your mother say if she saw those foolish tears?”

“She would understand,” cried Katharine. “Did she not always understand?”

Elvira covered her up sharply. The Infanta’s tears shocked her.

She is very weak, she thought. But the worst is over. I have nursed her through this. She is right when she says the Queen dotes on her. I shall have Isabella’s undying gratitude for nursing her daughter through this illness.

THERE WAS A MUFFLED silence throughout the castle. People were speaking in whispers. Griffith ap Rhys sat with his harp at his knees, but the harp was silent.

There was death in the Castle of Ludlow. Disease had struck where it could not be defeated.

In the chamber of the Prince of Wales the candles were lighted by the bed and the watchers kept their vigil. Sir Richard Pole’s courier was on his way to Greenwich, to break the news to the King and Queen.

In the whole of Ludlow Castle Katharine, lying on her sick bed, was the only one who did not know that this day she had become a widow.

Intrigue at Durham House

AS SOON AS QUEEN ELIZABETH RECEIVED THE MESSAGE that she was to go with all haste to the King’s chamber, as soon as she looked into the face of the messenger, she knew that some dire tragedy had befallen her House. And when she learned that the couriers had come from Ludlow she guessed that what she had been dreading so long had at last taken place.

She steeled herself for the ordeal.

Henry was standing in the center of the chamber; his usually pale face was gray and his eyes looked stricken. He did not speak for a moment, and the Queen’s glance went from her husband to the Friar Observant who was the King’s confessor.

“My son?” whispered the Queen.

The Friar bowed his head.

“He is…ill?”

“He has departed to God, Your Grace.”

The Queen did not speak. For so many years she had waited for this news, dreading it. The fear of it had come to her in the days when she had held Arthur in her arms, a weak baby who did not cry but lay placid in his cradle, not because he was contented, but because he was too weak for aught else. It had come at last.

The King said: “Pray leave the Queen and myself. We will share this painful sorrow alone.”

The Friar left them and even when the door shut on them they did not move towards each other; and for some seconds there was silence between them.

It was the King who broke it. “This is a bitter blow.”

She nodded. “He was never strong. I always feared it. Now it has befallen us.”

She lifted her eyes to her husband’s face and she was suddenly aware of a deep pity for him. She looked at the lean face, the lines etched by the sides of his mouth; the eyes which were too alert. She read the thoughts behind that lean and clever face. The heir to the throne was dead, and there was only one male child left to him. There was also a nobility which he would never trust and which was constantly on the alert to shout that the Tudors had no legitimate claim to the throne. All her life Elizabeth had lived close to the struggle to win and keep a crown. It was painful to her now that her husband should not think of Arthur as their dear son, but as the heir.

He would never know what it was to love, to feel acute sorrow such as she was feeling now. Should she feel envious of him because he did not suffer as she did through the loss of their son? No, even in this bitter moment she felt sorry for him because he would never know the joy of loving.

“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”

“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.

“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”

“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”

“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”

“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”

“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.

Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.

“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”

The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”

She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.

But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.

Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.

He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine’s dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”

The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father’s schemes.

Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.

Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?

BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.

He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur…dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.

Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.

But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.

King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.

No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.

“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.

When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.

IN A LITTER, covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!

The weather had changed, but Katharine was unaware of all the beauty of an English spring. She could think only of the husband whom she had lost, the husband who had been no husband.

And then there came a sudden blinding flash of hope as she remembered the fate of her sister Isabella, which was so like her own. Isabella had gone into Portugal to marry the heir to the throne, and shortly after their marriage he had died in a hunting accident. The result was that Isabella had returned to Spain.

Now, thought Katharine, they will send me home. I shall see my mother again.

So how could she be completely unhappy at that prospect? She believed that this time next year her stay in England would be like a distant dream. She would wander through the flagged corridors of the Alhambra; she would look through her windows on to the Courtyard of Lions; she would stray into the Court of Myrtles, and her mother would be beside her. The pomegranate would no longer merely be a device; it would be all about her—growing in the gardens, pictured on the shields and the walls of her parents’ palace. Happiest of all, her mother would be beside her. “You did your duty,” she would say. “You went uncomplaining to England. Now, my Catalina, you shall stay with me for ever.”

Katharine of Aragon would again become Catalina, Infanta, beloved daughter of the Queen.

So, as she went on her way to Richmond, she thought tenderly of Arthur who had been so kind to her in life, and who in death would, she believed, bring her relief from bondage.

QUEEN ELIZABETH was waiting to receive the widow.

Poor child! she thought. She will be desolate. How will she feel, alone in a strange land? Does she realize how her position has changed? She, who was Princess of Wales, is now merely a Spanish Princess, who has been married in name only. If there had been an heir on the way the circumstances would have changed considerably. But now…what is her position? How sad that girls should be used thus by ambitious men.

The King came to her apartment. He gave her that cool appraising look which she knew meant that he was looking for some sign of pregnancy.

She said: “The Infanta should arrive at Richmond tomorrow, I believe.”

A wary look replaced the speculative one in the King’s eyes.

“I will keep her with me for a while,” went on the Queen. “This is a terrible shock for her.”

“It would not be wise for her to remain at Richmond,” said the King quickly.

The Queen did not answer, but waited for his commands.

“She should be installed with her household outside the Court,” went on the King.

“I thought that, so soon after her bereavement…”

The King looked surprised. It was rarely that the Queen sought to question his orders.

“This is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs,” he said. “Our son dead within a few months of his marriage, and that marriage never consummated—or at least so we believe.”

“You have reason to suspect that it was consummated?” asked the Queen sharply.

The King shrugged his shoulders. “I ordered that it should not be, but they went to Wales together—two young people, not displeased with each other. It would not have been impossible for them to be together…alone.”

“If this happened,” said the Queen excitedly, “if Katharine should be with child…”

“Then she would be carrying the heir to the throne. Our son Henry would not be pleased, I’ll swear.”

“Henry! He is so like my father sometimes that I do not know whether to rejoice or tremble.”

“I thank God we have our son Henry, but I am not an old man myself, and I should have some years left to me…enough that Henry may be of age before his turn comes to take the throne. But, as you say, what if Katharine should be carrying a child? It is possible, although I doubt Arthur would have gone against my expressed wish. If only he had lived a few months longer. You may be sure there will be difficulty with those Spaniards.”

“They will be more inclined to meet your demands if we treat their daughter well.”

“I shall treat her as her dignity warrants. She shall stay with you at Richmond for a day or so; until she has had time to overcome her grief. Then she shall take up residence in the house opposite Twickenham Church. She shall live there with her own suite. Remember, she has no claim on us now and it would be as well that she shall not be at Court until we have negotiated with her parents as to what is to become of her.”

The Queen bowed her head. It was no use pleading with her husband. She would not be able to comfort the young girl, to treat her as she would a sorrowing daughter. The King would have the Sovereigns of Spain know that the death of the Prince of Wales had put their daughter in a precarious position.

KATHARINE WAS SORRY that she could not stay with the Court at Richmond, but she believed this to be only a waiting period, for she was certain that, as soon as her parents heard the news, they would give orders that she return to Spain. But it would take a little time for the message to reach Spain and for the Sovereigns’ orders to be sent to England.

It would have been pleasant to have had the company of Henry and Margaret. Margaret herself was in need of comfort, for she was soon to depart to Scotland as a bride.

But this could not be and, after a brief stay at Richmond, Katharine and her household were removed to a turreted house with the church opposite, and Doña Elvira took charge of all household arrangements.

It was soon decided that the palace of the Bishop of Durham, which was situated on the Strand, would be a more suitable dwelling for the Infanta; and so to Durham House she went.

Elvira was delighted with this seclusion because it meant that, removed from the Court as they were, she was in charge of the entire household. Her husband, Don Pedro Manrique, and her son, Don Iñigo, held high posts in Katharine’s household and Elvira was ambitious for them. She had determined that Maria de Rojas should be betrothed to Iñigo; she believed that Maria’s dowry would be a large one.

Elvira often thought of her brother, Don Juan Manuel, whose service to the Sovereigns should not go unrewarded. Isabella, she knew, thought highly of him and he should have had more honors than he had so far received. Elvira guessed that it was Ferdinand who barred his way to success, for Ferdinand was constantly seeking favors for his illegitimate children and, although the Queen insisted on having her way, Ferdinand was full of cunning and often scored in spite of his wife.

If there were no King Ferdinand, Elvira often thought, Juan would receive his dues.

She wished sometimes that she were in Spain; she felt sure that she would have been able to expedite Juan’s rise to favor in the same efficient way in which she was able to look after Iñigo’s in London.

But for the moment she was contented. The Infanta had reverted to her care, and as she was now a widow in a difficult situation, she relied on Elvira. Isabella would soon be sending instructions, and those instructions would come to Elvira.

So life in Durham House took on the pattern of that of a Spanish Alcazar. The English tongue was rarely heard; the English nobles who had held places in the entourage of the Prince and Princess of Wales disappeared, and their places were taken by Spaniards. Don Pedro Manrique was once more the first Chamberlain; Don Juan de Cuero was treasurer; Alessandro Geraldini remained the Infanta’s confessor; and Don Iñigo was at the head of her pages. Elvira ruled the household; but that did not mean that the animosity, which she had engendered in the heart and mind of Geraldini, was abated. Rather it had intensified.

Puebla remembered insults which the duenna did not cease to heap upon him.

Ayala watched mischievously, fearing that soon he might be recalled to Spain and so miss the fun which, he felt sure, must be lurking in such a delicate situation.

AS THE PARTY RODE towards Richmond, people stopped to stare at it.

“Spaniards!” they whispered. They knew, for they had seen Spaniards in plenty since the Infanta had come to England.

Something was afoot. Perhaps the gentleman who rode at the head of that party of foreigners had come to take the widowed Infanta back to Spain.

The party was riding towards the Palace where the King was in residence.

Hernan Duque de Estrada was thoughtful; he did not notice the attention he and his party attracted. He had a difficult task before him, which he did not relish; and it was going to be made doubly difficult because of his imperfect knowledge of the English language.

Beside him rode Dr. de Puebla—a man whom he could not like. How was it possible for an Asturian nobleman to have a fondness for a marrano! The fellow might be clever—it was clear that the Sovereigns thought so—but his appearance and his manners were enough to make a Spanish nobleman shudder.

Ayala was of a different kind. A nobleman to his fingertips, but lightminded. Hernan Duque was not very happy with his two colleagues.

“There lies the Palace of Richmond,” said Ayala, and Hernan Duque saw the line of buildings, the projecting towers, the far from symmetrical turrets. He, who had come hot-foot from the Alhambra, was not impressed by the architecture of the country, and he forgot momentarily that the beautiful building with which he was comparing this Palace was a masterpiece of Arabic, not Spanish, architecture.

“The King is often at Richmond,” Ayala explained. “He has a feeling for the place. It may well be that he likes to be near the river, for Greenwich is another favorite residence.”

Puebla put in: “And so we are to obey you without question.”

“The express orders of the Sovereigns,” Hernan Duque replied.

“It seems strange,” grumbled Puebla. “We, who have been here so long, understand the situation so much better than anyone in Spain possibly could.”

“I have their Highnesses’ instructions. It would go ill with you if you did not do all in your power to help me carry them out.”

Puebla tossed his head. “I do not envy you your task. You will find the Tudor is not an easy man with whom to drive a bargain.”

“It is so unfortunate that the death of the Prince occurred at this time.”

“What is your first move?” Ayala asked.

Hernan Duque looked over his shoulder.

“Let us ride on ahead,” said Ayala. “It is better to be absolutely sure. Although it is doubtless safe enough to talk. The English cannot learn the languages of others. Their secret belief is that all who do not speak English are barbarians and that foreigners deserve the name in any case.”

“An insular people,” murmured Duque. “I pity our Infanta.”

“Why should you? Do you not carry orders from their Highnesses that she is to return to Spain?”

“I brought three documents with me. You have seen the first…that which commanded you to obey me in all matters concerning this affair. The second and third are for the eyes of the King. But he will not see the third until he has digested the second. Nor shall he know at this stage that it exists.”

“And the second?” asked Puebla.

“It demands the return of the hundred thousand crowns, the first half of the dowry, which has already been paid.”

“Do you wish to break the heart of the King of England?” demanded Ayala.

“He will not relish this, I know.”

“Relish it!” screamed Ayala. “The King loves those hundred thousand crowns more than he loved his son. You cannot deal him another blow—one so close on the other.”

“I shall do more. I shall demand those revenues which the Prince of Wales promised to his wife on the day of their marriage.”

“The King will never consent to that.”

“I shall then ask for the return of the Infanta to Spain.”

“With the spoils,” put in Ayala, laughing. “Not so bad—the dowry, one third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, and our Infanta, virginity intact. A pleasant little adventure for the Infanta, and a remunerative one for the Sovereigns. Ah, do you think the King of England will agree?”

“He will not like this, I know,” said Duque. “He will refuse, for I doubt not that he will never be induced to part with the money. Yet what alternative has he except to incur the displeasure of the Sovereigns of Spain? That is why the third document is of such great importance.”

“And this third document?” Puebla asked eagerly.

Duque looked once more over his shoulder. “The King has a second son,” he said quietly.

“Ah!” whispered Ayala.

“Dangerous!” Puebla put in. “He is her brother by marriage. Are we not told in Leviticus that a man is forbidden to marry his brother’s widow?”

“The Pope would give the dispensation. He gave it to Emanuel of Portugal when he married the Infanta Maria on the death of her sister Isabella.”

“That was the dead wife’s sister.”

“The situation is similar. There will be no difficulty if the Pope will give the necessary dispensation. And as it is said that the marriage was never consummated, that should simplify matters.”

“I should like to make sure on that point,” said Puebla. “It is important.” Ayala looked scornfully at the Jew. “Your lawyer’s mind boggles at unimportant details. Rest assured that if the Sovereigns want the dispensation they will get it. Spain is great enough to make sure of that.”

“At first I shall say nothing of this suggested marriage. I wish to alarm the King by demanding the return of the dowry and the transfer of the goods which the Infanta has inherited by her marriage. That will put him into a mood to agree to this second marriage—and it is the wish of the Sovereigns that it should take place.”

“I thought,” said Ayala, “that the Queen would have wished to have her daughter back.”

“She wishes it most fervently, but duty comes before her own personal desires as always. There is another matter. Her health has declined rapidly during the last months. You, who have not seen her for so long, would scarcely know her. I do not think Isabella of Castile is long for this world. She knows it, and she wishes to see her youngest daughter happily settled, with a crown in view, before she departs this life.”

“She need have no fear. Henry will agree to this marriage,” smiled Ayala. “It is the way out for him. He would never allow anyone to take one hundred thousand crowns from him.”

They had reached the gates of the Palace.

With Puebla on one side and Ayala on the other, Hernan Duque rode in; and shortly afterwards Puebla and Ayala presented him to the King, who was very ready to conduct him to a small chamber where they might discuss this matter of the Infanta’s future in private.

IN THE SECLUSION of Durham House, Katharine had no idea that her parents’ envoy had arrived in England with such important documents affecting her future.

She felt at peace, for she was certain that very soon now she would be preparing to make the journey back to Spain. In her apartments, the windows of which overlooked the Thames, she could almost believe she was back in Spain. Here she sat with three of her maids of honor, all of whom were dear to her, and they stitched at their embroidery as they would in their own country.

She could almost believe that at any moment there would be a summons for her to go to her mother’s apartment in this very palace, and that if she looked from the window she would not see the lively London river with its barges, its ferries, its watermen all shouting to each other in the English tongue, but the distant Sierras of Guadarrama or the crystal-clear waters of the Darro.

In the meantime she could live in Durham House as though she were in a Spanish Alcazar and wait for the summons to return home.

Maria de Rojas had grown even prettier in recent weeks. Maria was in love with an Englishman. Francesca de Carceres was only pretending to sew, because she hated to sit quietly and was not fond of the needle; she found life at Durham House irksome, longed for gaiety, and it was only the thought that soon they would be returning to Spain that made it possible for her to endure it. Maria de Salinas worked quietly. She too was happy because she believed they would soon be leaving for Spain.

Francesca, who could never contain her thoughts for long, suddenly burst out: “Maria de Rojas wishes to talk to Your Highness.”

Maria de Rojas flushed slightly, and Maria de Salinas said in her quiet way: “You should not hesitate. Her Highness will help you, I am sure.”

“What is this?” asked Katharine. “Come along, Maria, tell me.”

“She is in love,” cried Francesca.

“With Don Iñigo?” Katharine asked.

Maria de Rojas flushed hotly. “Indeed no.”

“Ah, then it is with the Englishman,” said Katharine. “He returns your affection?”

“He does indeed, Highness.”

“And you wish to marry him?”

“I do, Highness; and his grandfather is willing that we should marry.”

“The consent of the King of England would be necessary,” said Katharine, “and of my parents.”

“Maria is thinking,” Maria de Salinas said, “that if Your Highness wrote to the King and Queen of Spain, telling them that the Earl of Derby is a great English nobleman and his grandson worthy of our Maria, they would readily give their consent.”

“And her dowry also,” put in Katharine. “You may depend upon it, Maria, that I shall write immediately to my parents and ask them to do what is necessary in the matter.”

“Your Highness is good to me,” murmured Maria gratefully. “But it will then be necessary to have the consent of the King of England as well.”

“That will easily be obtained,” answered Francesca, “if the Countess of Richmond is approached first. Her opinion carries more weight with the King of England than anyone else’s.”

“You must ask your lover to arrange the English side of the project,” said Katharine. “As for myself, I will write to my parents without delay.”

Maria de Rojas sank to her knees and taking Katharine’s hand kissed it dramatically.

Francesca laughed and Maria de Salinas smiled.

“What a wonderful thing it is to be in love,” cried Francesca. “How I wish it would happen to me! But there is one thing I should welcome more.”

“And that?” asked Katharine, although she already knew the answer.

“To return home, Highness. To leave this country and go home to Spain.”

“Ah yes,” sighed Katharine. “Which of us does not feel the same—except Maria, who has a very good reason for wishing to stay here. Prepare my writing table. I will write at once to my parents and ask for their consent.”

Maria de Rojas obeyed with alacrity, and the three maids of honor stood about Katharine’s table as she wrote.

“There!” said Katharine. “It is ready. As soon as the messenger leaves for Spain he shall take this with him among other important documents.”

“None is as important as this, Highness,” cried Maria de Rojas, taking the letter and kissing it.

“So when we leave for Spain we shall leave you behind,” said Katharine. “We shall miss you, Maria.”

“Your Highness will be so happy to return home—and so will the others—that you will all forget Maria de Rojas.”

“And what will she care?” demanded Francesca. “She will be happy with her English lord whom she loves well enough to say goodbye to Spain and adopt this country as her own for ever more.”

“That,” answered Katharine soberly, “is love.”

DR. DE PUEBLA called at Durham House. The Infanta had no wish to see him. She found him quite distasteful, and although she was always pleased to see Ayala the little marrano irritated her, and because she knew that he was ridiculed throughout the English Court she felt ashamed of him.

Puebla was well aware of this, but he was not unduly put out; he was accustomed to being scorned and he had an idea that he would remain at his post longer than Don Pedro de Ayala, for the simple reasons that he was more useful to the Sovereigns and that the King of England believed he was as good a friend as any foreign ambassador could be.

His lawyer’s outlook demanded that he know the truth concerning the Infanta’s marriage. Whether or not the marriage had been consummated seemed of enormous importance to him because, if it had not been, it would be a far simpler matter to get the dispensation from the Pope. He was determined to find out.

And who would be more likely to know the truth than Katharine’s confessor? So when Puebla arrived at Durham House it was not to see Katharine that he came, nor yet Doña Elvira, but Katharine’s confessor—Father Alessandro Geraldini.

Geraldini was delighted to be sought out by Puebla. He pretended, with everyone else, to despise the man, but he knew the power of Puebla and he felt, when the ambassador came to see him, that he was becoming of great importance. Had not Torquemada begun as confessor to a Queen? And look what power he had held! Ximenes de Cisneros was another example of a humble Friar who became a great man. Ximenes was reckoned to be the most powerful man in Spain at this time—next to the Sovereigns, of course.

So Geraldini was proud to receive Puebla.

The cunning Puebla was well aware of the feelings of the Friar, and decided to exploit them.

“I would ask your opinion on a very delicate matter,” Puebla began.

“I shall be delighted to give it.”

“It is this matter of the Infanta’s marriage. It seems a very strange thing that two young people should be married and not consummate.”

Geraldini nodded. “As the King forbade consummation it is almost certain that the Infanta would have mentioned in her confessions to her priest if she and her husband had defied the King’s wish.”

Geraldini looked wise.

“A confessor is the one confidant to whom it is possible to tell that which one keeps secret from the world. Is that not so?”

“It is indeed so.”

“Therefore if anyone knows what happened on the Infanta’s wedding night, that person is most likely to be yourself.” The little priest could not hide the pride which showed in his eyes. “In the name of the Sovereigns, I ask you to tell me what happened.”

Geraldini hesitated. He knew that if he told the truth and said he did not know, he would cease to be of any importance to Puebla; that was something he could not endure. He wanted to see himself as the Infanta’s confidant, as a man destined to play a part in Spanish politics.

“You see,” went on Puebla, noticing the hesitancy, “if the marriage was consummated and this fact was kept hidden the bull of dispensation from the Pope might not be valid. It is necessary to lay all the facts before his Holiness. We must have the truth, and you are the man who can give it. You know the answer. Your peculiar position enables you to have it. I pray you give it to me now.”

As it was more than Geraldini could bear to admit ignorance, why should he not make a guess? The young couple had spent the wedding night together according to custom. Surely they must have consummated their marriage. It was but natural that they should.

Geraldini paused only one second longer, then he leaped.

“The marriage has been consummated,” he said. “It is likely that it will prove fruitful.”

Puebla left Durham House with all speed. He first dispatched a letter to the Sovereigns and then sought out members of the King’s Council.

This was what he had hoped. He liked clean-cut facts. If the Infanta carried the heir of England in her womb then there could be no more doubt of her position in Henry’s realm.

The belief that the marriage had not been consummated was highly dangerous. It was a matter about which there would continue to be conjecture.

Puebla was therefore very happy to let it be known that Arthur and Katharine had cohabited and that there might be a hope that their relationship would be a fruitful one.

DOÑA ELVIRA WAS HOLDING in her hand a letter which she had taken from a drawer of her table, where a short while before she had hastily placed it.

The courier had left and was now well on his way to the coast with the letters he was carrying from England to Spain.

“And this,” said Elvira to herself, “will not be one of them.”

She was going to burn it in the flame of a candle as soon as she had shown it to Iñigo, and made him aware that he would have to move faster. He was evidently slow in his courtship if he had allowed Maria de Rojas to prefer this Englishman to himself.

How had the Englishman been in a position to pay court to Maria de Rojas, she would like to know! Clearly there were traitors in the household. She, Doña Elvira Manuel, and she alone, should rule; and if her rule had been absolute, Maria de Rojas would never have exchanged anything but glances with her Englishman.

She suspected three people of seeking to wean Katharine from her. The first was that pernicious little priest, who recently had given himself airs; the second was Don Pedro Ayala whose cynicism and riotous living had earned her disapproval; and of course, like everyone else of noble blood, she disliked Puebla.

She would send for Iñigo. She would show him the letter in Katharine’s handwriting, asking for a dowry for Maria de Rojas; and she would have him know that a son of hers must not allow others to get ahead of him.

She called to one of the pages, but even as she did so the door was flung open and her husband Don Pedro Manrique came into the room. He was clearly distraught, and temporarily Doña Elvira forgot Maria de Rojas and her love affair.

“Well,” she demanded, “what ails you?”

“It is clear that you have not heard this rumor.”

“Rumor! What is this?”

“It concerns the Infanta.”

“Tell me at once,” demanded Doña Elvira, for she expected immediate obedience from her husband as she did from the rest of the household.

“Puebla has told members of the Council that the marriage was consummated and that there is every hope that the Infanta may be with child.”

“What!” cried Elvira, her face growing purple with rage. “This is a lie. The Infanta is as virgin as she was the day she was born.”

“So I had believed. But Puebla has told members of the Council that this is not the case. Moreover he has written to the Sovereigns to tell them what, he says, is the true state of affairs.”

“I must see Puebla at once. But first…let the courier be stopped. It is a lie he is carrying to the Sovereigns.”

“I will dispatch a rider to follow him immediately, but I fear we are too late. Nevertheless I will see what can be done.”

“Hurry then!” Doña Elvira commanded. “And have Puebla brought to me immediately. I must stop the spread of this lie.”

Her husband retreated in haste, leaving Doña Elvira to pace up and down the apartment.

She was certain that Katharine was still a virgin. She would have known if it had been otherwise. There had been only the wedding night when they had been together, and they were both too young, too inexperienced…Beside, the King had made his wishes known.

If what that miserable Puebla was saying was true, if Katharine carried a child within her, then she would no longer be exiled to Durham House; she would be at Court, and that would be the end of the rule of Doña Elvira.

“She is a virgin,” she cried aloud. “Of course she is. I would swear to it. And if necessary there could be an examination.”

DR. DE PUEBLA STOOD before Doña Elvira and her husband. He was a little disturbed by the fury of the woman. She was formidable, and moreover he knew that Queen Isabella regarded her highly.

“I want to know,” she shouted, “why you have dared to tell this lie to members of the Council here, and write it to the Sovereigns.”

“What lie is this?”

“You have declared that the marriage was consummated. Where were you on the wedding night, Dr. de Puebla? Peering through the bed curtains?”

“I have it on good authority that the marriage was consummated, Doña Elvira.”

“On whose authority?”

“On that of the Infanta’s confessor.”

“Geraldini!” Elvira spat out the word. “That upstart!”

“He assured me that the marriage had been consummated and that there was hope of issue.”

“How had he come into possession of such knowledge?”

“Presumably the Infanta had confessed this to him.”

“He lies. One moment.” Elvira turned to her husband. “Send for Geraldini,” she commanded.

In a few minutes the priest joined them. He was a little pale; like everyone in the household he dreaded the fury of Doña Elvira.

“So,” cried Elvira, “you have informed Dr. de Puebla that the marriage between our Infanta and the Prince of Wales was consummated, and that England may shortly expect an heir.”

Geraldini was silent, his eyes downcast.

“Answer me!” shouted Elvira.

“I…I did verily believe…”

“You verily believed indeed! You verily guessed. You fool! Do you dare then dabble in matters which are so far above you! You should be in your monastery, babbling your prayers in your lonely cell. Such as you have no place in Court circles. Confess that the Infanta never told you that the marriage was consummated!”

“She…she did not tell me, Doña Elvira.”

“Yet you dared tell Dr. de Puebla that you knew this to be so!”

“I thought…”

“I know! You verily believed. You knew nothing. Get out of my sight before I order you to be whipped. Begone…quickly. Idiot! Knave!”

Geraldini was relieved to escape.

As soon as he had gone Elvira turned to Puebla. “You see what this meddling has done. If you wish to know anything concerning the Infanta, you must come to me. There is only one thing to be done. You agree now that this man Geraldini has led you completely astray?”

“I do,” said Puebla.

“Then you should write to the Sovereigns immediately, telling them that there is no truth in the news contained in your previous document. If you are quick, you may prevent that first letter from reaching their Highnesses. Let us pray that the tides are not favorable for a few hours. Go at once and set right this matter.”

Although Puebla resented her high-handed manner, he could not but agree that he must do as she said; and he was indeed eager to write to the Sovereigns, rectifying his mistake.

He bowed himself out and set about the task immediately.

When she was alone with her husband Doña Elvira sat at her table and began to write. She addressed her letter to Her Highness Queen Isabella, and she told of the mischief Father Alessandro Geraldini had wrought against the Infanta. She added that she believed Don Pedro de Ayala’s presence in England to be no longer necessary to the welfare of Spain. She hesitated, considering Puebla. He had been docile enough and ready to admit his mistake. She decided that she might be served worse by any other ambassador the Sovereigns saw fit to send. Too many complaints could give the impression that she was hard to please. If because of this matter she could rid the household of Geraldini she would be satisfied.

As she sealed the letter, she remembered that other letter which had angered her before she heard of Geraldini’s gossip.

She took it up and thrust it into her husband’s hands.

“Read that,” she said.

He read it. “But you had decided…” he began.

She cut him short. “I wish Iñigo to see this. Have him brought here immediately, but first have this letter dispatched to the Sovereigns. I should like it to reach them if possible before they receive Puebla’s.”

Don Pedro Manrique obeyed her as, during their married life, he had grown accustomed to; and in a short time he returned to her with their son.

“Ah, Iñigo,” she said, “did I not tell you that I had decided a match with Maria de Rojas would be advantageous to you?”

“You did, Mother.”

“Well then, perhaps you would be interested to read this letter which the Infanta has written to her parents. It is a plea that they should give their consent to the marriage of Maria de Rojas with an Englishman and provide her with a dowry.”

“But, Mother, you…”

“Read it,” she snapped.

Young Iñigo frowned as he read. He felt himself flushing. It was not that he was so eager for marriage with Maria, but that he feared his mother’s wrath, and it seemed as though she were ready to blame him—though he could not quite understand why.

“You have finished it?” She took it from him. “We must not allow others to step ahead of us and snatch our prizes from under our noses, must we?”

“No, Mother. But she wishes to marry the Englishman, and the Infanta supports her.”

“It would appear so.” Elvira was thoughtful. “We shall do nothing yet.”

“But in the meantime the Sovereigns may provide the dowry and the consent.”

“Why should they,” said Elvira, “if they do not know it has been asked for?”

“But it is asked for in the Infanta’s letter,” her husband pointed out.

Elvira laughed and held the letter in the flame of the candle.

The Passing of Elizabeth of York

THE LONG DAYS OF SPRING AND SUMMER PASSED uneventfully for Katharine. Always she was awaiting the summons to return home.

This did not come, although others had been summoned back to Spain. One was Father Alessandro Geraldini; another was Don Pedro de Ayala.

Doña Elvira had explained their departure to Katharine. Don Pedro de Ayala, she said, was unworthy to represent Spain in England. He led too carnal a life for an ambassador, and a bishop at that. As for Geraldini, he had whispered slander against the Infanta herself, and for such she had demanded his recall.

“Her Highness your mother declares that he is indeed unworthy to remain a member of your household. I thank the saints that I was shown his perfidy in time.”

“What did he say of me?” Katharine wanted to know.

“That you were with child.”

Katharine flushed scarlet at the suggestion, and Elvira felt very confident that, if it should ever come to the point when there must be an examination, her pronouncement would be vindicated.

“I had hoped my mother would send for me,” said Katharine mournfully.

Elvira shook her head. “My dear Highness, it is almost certain that there will be another marriage for you in England. Had you forgotten that the King has another son?”

“Henry!” she whispered; and she thought of the bold boy who had led her to the altar where Arthur had been waiting for her.

“And why not?”

“He is but a boy.”

“A little younger than yourself. When he is a little older that will be of small account.”

Henry! Katharine was startled and a little afraid. She wanted to escape from Elvira, to think about this project.

That night she could not sleep. Henry haunted her thoughts and she was not sure whether she was pleased or afraid.

She waited for more news of this, but none came.

It was so difficult to know what was happening at home. There were only fragments of news she heard now and then. The war for Naples, in which her parents were engaged against the King of France, was not going well for them. That, she believed, was why the King of England was hesitating over her betrothal to his son. If the Sovereigns were in difficulties he could make a harsher bargain with them. He did not forget that only half her dowry had been paid.

So the months went by without much news. She found that she had very little money—not even enough to pay her servants. She was worried about Maria’s dowry, for there was no news from Spain about this.

The King of England said that she had no right to a third of the property of her late husband, because the second half of her dowry had not been paid. She needed new dresses, but there was no money to buy any. There was her plate and jewels, which represented thirty-five thousand crowns; could she pawn these? She dared not do so because she knew that they had been sent from home as part of her dowry; but if she had no money, what could she do?

There were times when she felt deserted, for she was not allowed to go to Court.

“She is a widow,” said the King of England. “It is well that she should live in seclusion for a while.”

Henry had his eyes on the Continent. It might be that, as the French seemed likely to score a victory over the Spaniards, a marriage for his son with France or with the House of Maximilian might be more advantageous than one with Spain.

Meanwhile, living in England was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand—a Princess, but penniless, a wife but no wife, virtually a hostage for her parents’ good behavior.

It was no concern of his that she suffered poverty, said the King. He could not be expected to pay an allowance to the woman whose dowry had not been paid.

Puebla came to see her, shaking his head sadly. He also had received no money from Spain. It was fortunate that he had other means of making a living in England.

“They are using every maravedi for the wars, Highness,” he said. “We must perforce be patient.”

Katharine sometimes cried herself to sleep when her maids of honor had left her.

“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “what is happening at home? Why do you not send for me? Why do you not bring me out of this…prison?”

IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS. A whole year, thought Katharine, since she had come to England, and during that time she had married and become a widow; yet it seemed that she had been a prisoner in Durham House for a very long time.

She was not to join the Court at Richmond for the Christmas celebrations: She was a widow, in mourning. Moreover the King of England wished the Spanish Sovereigns to know that he was not showering honors on their daughter, since half her dowry was still owing to him and he was not very eager to make a further alliance with their House.

Maria de Rojas was fretful. “No news from home?” she was continually demanding. “How strange that the Queen does not answer your request about my marriage.” Maria was anxious, for shut up in Durham House she had no opportunity of seeing her lover. She wondered what was happening to him and whether he was still eager for the marriage.

Francesca declared that she would go mad if they had to remain in England much longer; even gentle Maria de Salinas was restive.

But the days passed, all so like each other that Katharine almost lost count of time except that she knew that with each passing week she owed the members of her household more and more, and that Christmas was coming and they would have no money for celebrations, for gifts or even to provide a little Christmas cheer for their table.

It was in November that Queen Elizabeth came to Durham House to call on Katharine.

Katharine was shocked when she saw Elizabeth, because she had changed a great deal since they had last met. The Queen was far advanced in pregnancy and she did not look healthy.

The Queen wished to be alone with Katharine, and as they sat together near the fire, Elizabeth said: “It distresses me to see you thus. I have come to tell you how sorry I am, and have brought food for your table. I know how you have been placed.”

“How kind you are!” said Katharine.

The Queen laid her hand over the Infanta’s. “Do not forget you are my daughter.”

“I fear the King does not think of me as such. I am sorry the dowry has not been paid. I am sure my parents would have paid it, if they were not engaged in war at this time.”

“I know, my dear. Wars…there seem always to be wars. We are fortunate in England. Here we have a King who likes not war, and I am glad of that. I have seen too much war in my life. But let us talk of more pleasant things. I could wish you were joining the Court for Christmas.”

“We shall do well enough here.”

“I envy you the quiet of Durham House,” said the Queen.

“Tell me when your child is expected.”

“In February.” The Queen shivered. “The coldest month.”

Katharine looked into the face of the older woman and saw there a resigned look; she wondered what it meant.

“I trust you will have a Prince,” Katharine murmured.

“Pray that I may have a healthy child. I have lost two at an early age. It is so sad when they live a little and then die. So much suffering…that one may endure more suffering.”

“You have three healthy children left to you. I have never seen such sparkling health as Henry’s.”

“Henry, Margaret and Mary…they all enjoy good health, do they not? My life has taught me not to hope for too much. But I did not come to talk of myself, but of you.”

“Of me!”

“Yes, of you. I guessed how you would be feeling. Here you live almost a prisoner, one might say, in a strange country, while plans are made for your future. I understand, for I have not had an easy life. There has been so much strife. I can remember being taken into the Sanctuary of Westminster by my mother. My little brothers were with us then. You have heard that they were lost to us…murdered, I dare swear. You see, I have come to tell you that I feel sympathy for you because I myself have suffered.”

“I shall never forget how kind you are.”

“Remember this: suffering does not last for ever. One day you will come out of this prison. You will be happy again. Do not despair. That is what I have come to say to you.”

“And you came through the cold to tell me that?”

“It may be my last opportunity.”

“I hope that I may come and see you when the child is born.”

The Queen smiled faintly and looked a little sad.

“Do not look like that,” Katharine cried out in sudden panic. She was thinking of her sister Isabella, who had come back to Spain to have her child, the little Miguel who had died before he was two years old. Isabella had had some premonition of death.

She expected some reproof from the Queen for her outburst, but Elizabeth of York, who knew what had happened to the young Isabella, understood full well the trend of her thoughts.

She stood up and kissed Katharine’s brow. That kiss was like a last farewell.

IT WAS CANDLEMAS-DAY and the cold February winds buffeted the walls of the Palace of the Tower of London, although the Queen was unaware of them.

She lay on her bed, racked by pain, telling herself: It will soon be over. And after this, should I live through it, there cannot be many more. If this could be a son…if only this could be a son!

Then briefly she wondered how many Queens had lain in these royal apartments and prayed: Let this be a son.

It must be a son, she told herself, for this will be the last.

She was trying to shake off this premonition which had been with her since she knew she was to have another child. If her confinement could have taken place anywhere but in this Tower of London she would have felt happier. She hated the place. Sometimes when she was alone at night she fancied she could hear the voices of her brothers calling her. She wondered then if they called her from some nearby grave.

This was a sign of her weakness. Edward and Richard were dead. Of that she was certain. The manner of their dying could be of little importance to them now. Would they come back to this troublous Earth even if they could? For what purpose? To denounce their uncle as a murderer? To engage in battle against their sister’s husband for the crown?

“Edward! Richard!” she whispered. “Is it true that somewhere within the gray walls of these towers your little bodies lie buried?”

A child was coming into the world. Its mother should not think of the other children—even though they were her own brothers—who had been driven out of it before their time.

Think of pleasant things, she commanded herself: Of rowing down the river with her ladies, with good Lewis Walter, her bargeman, and his merry watermen; think of the Christmas festivities at Richmond. The minstrels and the reciters had been more engaging than usual. She smiled, thinking of her chief minstrel who was always called Marquis Lorydon. What genius! What power to please! And the others—Janyn Marcourse and Richard Denouse—had almost as much talent as Lorydon. Her fool, Patch, had been in great form last Christmas; she had laughed lightheartedly at his antics with Goose, young Henry’s fool.

How pleased Henry had been because Goose had shone so brilliantly. It had pleased the boy because his fool was as amusing as those of the King and Queen.

Henry must always be to the fore, she mused. “Ah well, it is a quality one looks for in a King.”

There had been a pleasant dance too by a Spanish girl from Durham House. Elizabeth had rewarded her with four shillings and fourpence for her performance. The girl had been indeed grateful. Poor child, there were few luxuries at Durham House.

The Queen’s face creased into anxiety. Where will it all end? she asked herself. She thought of her son Henry, his eyes glistening with pride because his fool, Goose, could rival the fools of his parents. She thought of the lonely Infanta at Durham House.

The fate of Princes is often a sad one, she was thinking; and then there was no time for further reflection.

The child was about to be born, and there was nothing left for the Queen but her immediate agony.

THE ORDEAL WAS OVER, and the child lay in the cradle—a sickly child, but still a child that lived.

The King came to his wife’s bedside, and tried not to show his disappointment that she had borne a girl.

“Now we have one son and three bonny girls,” he said. “And we are young yet.”

The Queen caught her breath in fear. Not again, she thought. I could not endure all that again.

“Yes, we are young,” went on the King. “You are but thirty-seven, and I am not yet forty-six. We still have time left to us.”

The Queen did not answer that. She merely said: “Henry, let us call her Katharine.”

The King frowned, and she added: “After my sister.”

“So shall it be,” answered the King. It was well enough to name the child after Elizabeth’s sister Katharine, Lady Courtenay, who was after all the daughter of a King. He would not have wished the child to be named Katharine after the Infanta. Ferdinand and Isabella would have thought he was showing more favor to their daughter, and that would not have been advisable.

The bargaining had to go on with regard to their daughter; and he wanted them to know that it was they who must sue for favors now. He was still mourning for that half of the dowry which had not been paid.

He noticed that the Queen looked exhausted and, taking her hand, he kissed it. “Rest now,” he commanded. “You must take great care of yourself, you know.”

Indeed I must, she thought meekly. I have suffered months of discomfort and I have produced but a girl. I have to give him sons…or die in the attempt.

IT WAS A WEEK after the birth of the child when the Queen became very ill. When her women went into her chamber and found her in a fever they sent a messenger at once to the King’s apartments.

Henry in shocked surprise came hurrying to his wife’s bedside, for she had seemed to recover from the birth and he had already begun to assure himself that by this time next year she might be brought to bed of a fine boy.

When he looked at her he was horrified, and he sent at once for Dr. Hallyswurth, his best physician, who most unfortunately was at this time absent from the Court in his residence beyond Gravesend.

All through the day the King waited for the arrival of Dr. Hallyswurth, believing that, although other physicians might tell him that the Queen was suffering from a fever highly dangerous after childbirth, Dr. Hallyswurth would have the remedy which would save her life.

As soon as the doctor was found and the King’s message delivered he set out for the Court, but dusk had fallen when he came, lighted by torches into the precincts of the Tower.

He was taken at once to the Queen’s bedchamber, but, even as he took her hand and looked into her face, Elizabeth had begun to fight for her breath and the doctor could only sadly shake his head. A few minutes later Elizabeth sank back on her pillows. The daughter of Edward IV was dead.

Henry stared at her in sorrow. She had been a good wife to him. Where could he have found a better? She was but thirty-seven years of age. This dolorous day, February 11th of the year 1503, was the anniversary of her birth.

“Your Grace,” murmured Dr. Hallyswurth, “there was nothing that could have been done to save her. Her death is due to the virulent fever which often follows childbirth. She was not strong enough to fight it.”

The King nodded. Then he said: “Leave me now. I would be alone with my grief.”

THE BELLS OF ST. PAUL’S began to toll; and soon others joined in the dismal honor to the dead, so that all over London the bells proclaimed the death of the Queen.

In the Tower chapel she lay in state. Her body had been wrapped in sixty ells of holland cloth and treated with gums, balms, spices, wax and sweet wine. She had been enclosed by lead and put into a wooden coffin over which had been laid a black velvet pall with a white damask cross on it.

She had been carried into the lying-in-state chamber by four noblemen. Her sister Katharine, the Earl of Surrey and the Lady Elizabeth Stafford led the procession which followed the coffin; and when mass had been said, the coffin remained in the lighted chamber while certain ladies and men-at-arms kept vigil over it.

All through the long night they waited. They thought of her life and her death. How could they help it if they remembered those little boys, her brothers, who had been held in captivity in this very Tower and had been seen no more?

Where did their bodies lie now? Could it be that near this very spot, where their sister lay in state, those two little boys were hidden under some stone, under some stair?

A WEEK AFTER the death of Queen Elizabeth, the little girl, whose existence had cost the Queen her life, also died.

Here was another blow for the King, but he was not a man to mourn for long. His thoughts were busy on that day when his wife was carried to her tomb.

It was the twelfth day after her death and, after mass had been said, the coffin was placed on a carriage which was covered with black velvet. On the coffin a chair had been set up containing an image of the Queen, exact in size and detail; this figure had been dressed in robes of state and there was a crown on its flowing hair. About the chair knelt her ladies, their heads bowed in grief. Here they remained while the carriage was drawn by six horses from the Tower to Westminster.

The people had lined the streets to see the cortège pass and there were many to speak of the good deeds and graciousness of the dead Queen.

The banners which were carried in the procession were of the Virgin Mary, of the Assumption, of the Salutation and the Nativity, to indicate that the Queen had died in childbirth. The Lord Mayor and the chief citizens, all wearing the deepest mourning, took their places in the procession; and in Fenchurch Street and Cheapside young girls waited to greet the funeral carriage. There were thirty-seven of them—one for each year of the Queen’s life; they were dressed in white to indicate their virginity and they all carried lighted tapers.

When the cortège reached Westminster the coffin was taken into the Abbey, ready for the burial which would take place the next morning.

The King asked to be left alone in his apartments. He was genuinely distressed, because he did not believe that he could ever find a consort to compare with the one he had lost. She had had everything to give him—royal lineage, a right to the crown of England, beauty, docility and to some extent fertility.

Yet, there was little time in the life of kings for mourning. He was no longer a young romantic. That was for youth, and should never be for men who were destined for kingship.

He could not prevent his thoughts from going back to the past. He remembered now how, when Edward IV’s troops had stormed Pembroke Castle, he had been discovered there, a little boy five years old, with no one to care for him but his old tutor, Philip ap Hoell. He could recall his fear at that moment when he heard the rough tread of soldiers mounting the stairs and knew that his uncle, Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke, had already fled leaving him, his little nephew, to the mercy of his enemies.

Sir William Herbert had been in charge of those operations, and it was well that he had brought his lady with him; for when she saw the friendless little boy she had scolded the men for daring to treat him as a prisoner, and had taken him in her arms and purred over him as though he were a kitten. That had been the strangest experience he had ever known until that time. Philip ap Hoell would have died for him, but their relationship had never been a tender one.

He recalled his life in the Herbert household. Sir William had become the Earl of Pembroke, for the title was taken from Uncle Jasper Tudor and bestowed on Sir William for services rendered to his King.

It had been strange to live in a large family; there were three sons and six daughters in the Herbert home, and one of these was Maud. There had been fighting during his childhood—the continual strife between York and Lancaster; and, when Lancastrian victory brought back the earldom and castle of Pembroke to Jasper Tudor, Henry was taken from the Herberts to live with his uncle once more.

He remembered the day when he had heard that Maud had been married to the Earl of Northumberland. That was a sad day; yet he did not despair; he had never been one to despair; he considered his relationship with Maud, and he was able to tell himself that, although he had loved her dearly, he loved all the Herberts; and if marriage with Maud was denied him he could still be a member of that beloved family by marrying Maud’s sister, Katharine.

And then fortune had changed. A more glorious marriage had been hinted at. Why should not the Tudor (hope of the Lancastrian House) marry the daughter of the King, for thus the red and white roses could flower side by side in amity?

He had then begun to know himself. He was no romantic boy—had never been a romantic boy. Had he wished to marry Maud that he might become a member of a family which had always seemed to him the ideal one, because from loneliness he had been taken into it by Lady Herbert and found youthful happiness there? Perhaps, since it had seemed that Katharine would do instead of Maud.

But the match with Elizabeth of York had been too glorious to ignore and he was ready to give up all thoughts of becoming a member of his ideal family, for the sake of a crown.

Life had never been smooth. There had been so many alarms, so many moments when it had seemed that his goal would never be reached. And while he had waited for Elizabeth he had found Katherine Lee, the daughter of one of his attendants—sweet gentle Katherine, who had loved him so truly that she had been ready to give him up when, by doing so, he could be free to marry the daughter of a King.

He was a cold man. He had been faithful to Elizabeth even though Katherine Lee had been one of her maids of honor. He saw her often, yet he had never given a sign that she was any more to him than any other woman of the Palace.

Now Elizabeth was dead, and she left him three children. Only three! He must beget more children. It was imperative.

Forty-six! That is not old. A man can still beget children at forty-six.

But there was little time to lose. He must find a wife quickly. He thought of all the weary negotiations. Time…precious time would be lost.

Then an idea struck him. There was a Princess here in England—she was young, personable and healthy enough to bear children.

What time would be saved! Time often meant money, so it was almost as necessary to save the former as the latter.

Why not? She would be agreeable. So would her parents. This halfhearted betrothal to a Prince of eleven—what was that, compared with marriage with a crowned King?

His mind was made up; his next bride would be Katharine of Aragon. The marriage should be arranged as quickly as possible; and then—more sons for England.

The next day Queen Elizabeth was laid in her grave; but the King’s thoughts were not with the wife whom he had lost but with the Infanta in Durham House who should take the place of the dead woman.

Bad News from Spain

KATHARINE WAS HORRIFIED.

She sat with her maid of honor, staring at the embroidery in her hands, trying in vain to appear calm.

They tried to comfort her.

“He will not live very long,” said the incorrigible Francesca. “He is old.”

“He could live for twenty years more,” put in Maria de Rojas.

“Not he! Have you not noticed how pale he is…and has become more so? He is in pain when he walks.”

“That,” Maria de Salinas said, “is rheumatism, a disease which many suffer from in England.”

“He is such a cold man,” said Francesca.

“Hush,” Maria de Salinas reproved her, “do you not see that you distress the Infanta? Doubtless he would make a kind husband. At least he was a faithful one to the late Queen.”

Francesca shivered. “Ugh! I would rather such a man were unfaithful than show me too much attention.”

“I cannot believe that my mother will agree to this match,” Katharine exclaimed anxiously, “and unless she does, it will never take place.”

Maria de Salinas looked sadly at her mistress. There was no doubt that Queen Isabella loved her daughter and would be happy if she returned to Spain, but she would certainly give her blessing to the marriage if she considered it advantageous to Spain. Poor Infanta! A virgin widow preserved for an ageing man, whose rheumatism often made him irritable; a cold, dour man, who wanted her only because he wanted to keep a firm hand on her dowry and believed that she could give him sons.

THERE WAS NO NEWS from Spain. Each day, tense and eager, Katharine waited.

She knew that the affairs of her parents must be in dire disorder for them so to neglect their daughter. If only they would send for her. If she could sail back to Spain the treacherous seas would have no menace for her. She would be completely happy.

Never, she believed, had anyone longed for home as she did now.

Maria de Rojas was restive. Why did she never hear from the Sovereigns about their consent to her marriage? Why was there no reply regarding her dowry? Katharine had written again because she feared her first letter might not have reached her mother; but still there was no reply to the questions.

Francesca gave loud voice to her grievances; Maria was filled with melancholy. Only Maria de Salinas and Inez de Veñegas alternately soothed and scolded them. They were unhappy, but what of the Infanta? How much harder was her lot. Imagine, it might well be that she would have to submit to the will of the old King of England.

AT LAST CAME the news from Spain. Katharine saw the messengers arrive with the dispatches and had them brought to her immediately.

Her mother wrote as affectionately as ever, and the very sight of that beloved handwriting made the longing for home more intense.

Isabella did not wish her daughter to marry the King of England. She was eager for a match between Katharine and the young Prince of Wales. She was writing to the King of England suggesting that he look elsewhere for a bride.

Katharine felt limp with relief, as though she had been reprieved from a terrible fate.

Unless some satisfactory arrangement could be made for Katharine’s future in England, Isabella wrote, she would demand that her daughter be returned to Spain.

This made Katharine almost dizzy with happiness and, when her maids of honor came to her, they found her sitting at her table smiling dazedly at the letter before her.

“I am not to marry him,” she announced.

Then they all forgot the dignity due to an Infanta and fell upon her, hugging and kissing her.

At last Maria de Rojas said: “Does she give her consent to my marriage?”

“Alas,” Katharine told her, “there is no mention of it.”

HENRY SAT for a long time listening to Puebla’s account of his instructions from Spain. So the Sovereigns did not want him for a son-in-law. He read between the lines. They would be delighted if their daughter became the Queen of England, but he was old and she was young; they believed that he could not live for a great number of years and, when he died, she would be merely the Dowager Queen, who would play no part in state affairs. Moreover even as Queen, she would have no power, for Henry was not the man to allow a young wife to share in his counsels.

Isabella was emphatic in her refusal of this match.

“Her Highness,” Puebla told the King, “suggests that it might be well if the Infanta returned to Spain.”

This was high-handed indeed. Henry had no wish to send the Infanta back to Spain. With their daughter living in semiretirement in England he had some hold over the Sovereigns. He wanted the rest of her dowry, and he was determined to get it.

“These are matters not to be resolved in an hour,” replied Henry evasively.

“Her Highness suggests that, since you are looking for a wife, the Queen of Naples, now widowed, might very well suit you.”

“The Queen of Naples!” Henry’s eyes were momentarily narrowed. It was not a suggestion to be ignored. Such a marriage should give him a stake in Europe; so if the widow were young and handsome and likely to bear children, she would be a good match; and Henry, ever conscious of his age, was eager to marry soon.

He therefore decided to send an embassy to Naples immediately.

It was rather soon after his wife’s death and he did not wish to appear overeager.

Puebla was whispering: “The Infanta might write a letter to the Queen of Naples, to be delivered into her hands and hers alone. This would give some messenger on whom you could rely the opportunity of looking closely at the Queen.”

Henry looked with friendship on the Spaniard who had ever seemed a good friend to him.

It was an excellent idea.

“Tell her to write this letter at once,” he said. “You will find me a messenger on whom I can rely. I wish to know whether she be plump or lean, whether her teeth be white or black and her breath sweet or sour.”

“If Your Grace will leave this matter with me I will see that you have a description of the lady which shall not prove false. And, Your Grace, you will remember that it is the hope of the Sovereigns that there should be a betrothal between their daughter and the Prince of Wales.”

“The Prince of Wales is one of the most eligible bachelors in the world.”

“And therefore, Your Grace, well matched to the Infanta of Spain.”

Henry looked grave. “The wars in Europe would seem to be going more favorably for the French than the Spaniards. It might be well if the Infanta did return to Spain.”

Puebla shook his head. “If she returned, the Sovereigns would expect you to return with her the hundred thousand crowns which constituted half of her dowry.”

“I see no reason why I should do that.”

“If you did not, Your Grace, you would have a very powerful enemy in the Sovereigns. Where are your friends in Europe? Do you trust the French? And who in Europe trusts Maximilian?”

Henry was silent for a few moments. But he saw the wisdom of Puebla’s advice.

He said: “I will consider this matter.”

Puebla was jubilant. He knew that he had won his point. He would soon be writing to the Sovereigns to tell them that he had arranged for the betrothal of their daughter with the Prince of Wales.

PRINCE HENRY CAME IN, hot from the tennis court. With him were his attendants, boys of his own age and older men, all admiring, all ready to tell him that they had never seen tennis played as he played it.

He could never have enough of their praises and, although he knew they were flattery, he did not care. Such flattery was sweet, for it meant they understood his power.

Each day when he awoke—and he awoke with the dawn—he would remember that he was now his father’s only son and that one day there would be a crown on his head.

It was right and fitting that he should wear that crown. Was he not a good head taller than most of his friends? It was his secret boast that, if anyone had not known that he was the King’s heir, they would have selected him from any group as a natural leader.

It could not be long before he was King. His father was not a young man. And how he had aged since the death of the Queen! He was in continual pain from his rheumatism and was sometimes bent double with it. He was growing more and more irritable and Henry knew that many were longing for the day when there would be a new King on the throne—young, merry, extravagant, all that the old King was not.

Henry had no sympathy for his father, because he who had never felt a pain in his life could not understand pain. The physical disabilities of others interested him only because they called attention to his own superb physique and health.

Life was good. It always had been. But during Arthur’s lifetime there had been that gnawing resentment because he was not the firstborn.

He made his way now from the tennis court to the apartments of his sister Margaret. He found her there and her eyes were red from weeping. Poor Margaret! She was not the domineering elder sister today. He did feel a little sorry. He would miss her sorely.

“So tomorrow you leave us,” he said. “It will be strange not to have you here.”

Margaret’s answer was to put her arms about him and hug him tightly.

“Scotland!” she whimpered. “It is so cold there, I hear. The castles are so drafty.”

“They are drafty here,” Henry reminded her.

“There they are doubly so. And how shall I like my husband, and how will he like me?”

“You will rule him, I doubt not.”

“I hear he leads a most irregular life and has many mistresses.”

Henry laughed. “He is a King, if it is only King of Scotland. He should have mistresses if he wishes.”

“He shall not have them when he has a wife,” cried Margaret fiercely.

“You will make sure of that, I’ll swear. So there will only be one sister left to me now. And Mary is little more than a baby.”

“Always look after her, Henry. She is wayward and will need your care.”

“She will be my subject and I shall look after all my subjects.”

“You are not yet King, Henry.”

“No,” he murmured reflectively, “not yet.”

“I wish that the Infanta might be with us. It is sad to think of her in Durham House, cut off from us all. I should have liked to have had a sister of my own age to talk to. There would have been so much for us to discuss together.”

“She could tell you little of the married state,” said Henry. “Unless rumor lies, our brother never knew his wife. What a strange marriage that was!”

“Poor Katharine! I suffer for her. She felt as I feel now. To leave one’s home…to go to a strange country…”

“I doubt your James will be as mild as our brother Arthur.”

“No, it may be that he will be more like my brother Henry.”

Henry looked at his sister through narrowed eyes.

“They say,” went on Margaret, “that Katharine is to be your bride.”

“I have heard it.”

He was smiling. Margaret thought: He must have everything. Others marry, so he must marry. Already he seems to be contemplating his enjoyment of his bride.

“Well, what are you thinking?” Henry asked.

“If you are like this at twelve, what will you be at eighteen?”

Henry laughed aloud. “Much taller. I shall be the tallest English King. I shall stand over six feet. I shall outride all my subjects. I shall be recognized wherever I go as the King of England.”

“You do it as much as ever,” she said.

“What is that?”

“Begin every sentence with I.”

“And why should I not? Am I not to be the King?”

He was half laughing, but half in earnest. Margaret felt a new rush of sadness. She wished that she need not go to Scotland, that she could stay here in London and see this brother of hers mount the throne.

PUEBLA BROUGHT the news to Katharine. The little man was delighted. It seemed to him that what he had continued to work for during many difficult months was at last achieved. In his opinion there was only one way out of the Infanta’s predicament: marriage with the heir of England.

“Your Highness, I have at last prevailed upon the King to agree to your betrothal to the Prince of Wales.”

There had been many occasions when Katharine had considered this possibility, but now she was face to face with it and she realized how deeply it disturbed her.

She had at once to abandon all hope of returning home to Spain. She remembered too that she had been the wife of young Henry’s brother, and she felt therefore that the relationship between herself and Henry was too close. Moreover she was eighteen years old, Henry was twelve. Was not the disparity in their ages a little too great?

Yet were these the real reasons? Was she a little afraid of that arrogant, flamboyant Prince?

“When is this to take place?” she asked.

“The formal betrothal will be celebrated in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury in the near future.”

Katharine said quickly: “But I have been his brother’s wife. The affinity between us is too close.”

“The Pope will not withhold the Bull of Dispensation.”

There was no way out, Katharine realized, as she dismissed Puebla and went to her own apartment. She wanted to think of this alone, and not share it even with her maids of honor as yet.

She had escaped the father to fall to the son. She was certain that the King filled her with repugnance, but her feelings for young Henry were more difficult to analyze. The boy fascinated her as he seemed to fascinate everyone. But he was too bold, too arrogant.

He is only a boy, she told herself; and I am already a woman.

There came to her then an intense desire to escape, and impulsively she went to her table and sat down to write. This time she would write to her father, for she was sure of her mother’s support, and if she could move his heart, if she could bring him to ask her mother that she might return, Isabella would give way immediately.

How difficult it was to express these vague fears. She had never been able to express her emotions. Perhaps it was because she had always been taught to suppress them.

The words on the paper looked cold, without any great feeling.

“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England…”

She sat for some time staring at the words. Of what importance were her inclinations? She could almost hear her mother’s voice, gentle yet firm: “Have you forgotten, my dearest, that it is the duty of the daughters of Spain to subdue their own desires for the good of their country?”

What was the use? There was nothing to be done. She must steel herself, become resigned. She must serenely accept the fate which was thrust upon her.

She continued the letter:

“But I beg you do not consider my tastes or convenience, but in all things act as you think best.”

Then firmly she sealed the letter and, when her maids of honor came to her, she was still sitting with it in her hands.

She turned to them and spoke as though she were awakening from a dream. “I shall never again see my home, never again see my mother.”

THE HOT JUNE SUN beat down on the walls of the Bishop’s house in Fleet Street.

Inside that house Katharine of Aragon stood beside Henry, Prince of Wales, and was formally betrothed to him.

Katharine was thinking: It is irrevocable. When this boy is fifteen years old, I shall be past twenty. Can such a marriage be a happy one?

Henry studied his fiancée and was aware that she was not overjoyed at the prospect of their marriage. He was astounded, and this astonishment quickly turned to anger. How dared she not be overjoyed at the prospect! Here he was, the most handsome, the most popular and talented of Princes. Surely any woman should be overjoyed to contemplate marriage with him.

He thought of some of the girls he had seen about the Court. They were a constant provocation; they were very eager to please him and delighted when he noticed them. John Skelton was amused at such adventures, implying that they were worthy of a virile Prince. And this woman, who was not outstandingly beautiful, who had been his brother’s wife, dared to appear doubtful.

Henry looked at her coldly; when he took her hand he gave it no warm pressure; his small eyes were like pieces of flint; they had lost something of their deep blueness and were the color of the sea when a storm is brewing.

He was annoyed that he must go through with the betrothal. He wanted to snatch his hand away and say: “You do not care to marry me, Madam. Well, rest assured that affects me little. There are many Princesses in the world who would count you fortunate, but since you are blind to the advantage which is yours, let us have no betrothal.”

But there was his father, stern, pale, with the lines of pain etched on his face, and while he lived Prince Henry was only Prince of Wales, not King of England. It was doubly humiliating to realize that he dared not flout his father’s orders.

As for the King, he watched the betrothal with satisfaction. He was to keep the hundred thousand crowns which he had already received as the first payment of Katharine’s dowry and another hundred thousand crown would be paid on her marriage. Meanwhile she would receive nothing of that third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, which was her right on her marriage to Arthur; although when she married Henry she would receive a sum equal to that.

This was very satisfactory, mused the King. Katharine would remain in England; he would keep the first half of the dowry; she would not receive the revenues due to her; and the betrothal was merely a promise that she should marry the heir to England; so that if the King should change his mind about that before the Prince reached his fifteenth birthday—well, it would not be the first time that a Prince and Princess had undergone a betrothal ceremony which was not followed by a wedding.

Yes, very satisfactory. Thus he could keep what he had, maintain a truce with the Sovereigns of Spain, and shelve the marriage for a few years.

Now he was only waiting to hear from Naples. His own marriage was of more urgency than that of his son.

Out into the June sunshine of Fleet Street came a satisfied King, a sullen Prince and an apprehensive Princess.

NOW THAT KATHARINE was formally betrothed to the Prince of Wales, she could not be allowed to live in seclusion at Durham House, and life became more interesting for her.

The maids of honor were delighted by the turn of events because it meant that now they could go occasionally to Court. There was activity in their apartments as they hastily reviewed their wardrobes and bewailed the fact that their gowns were shabby and not of the latest fashion.

Katharine was upset. Badly she needed money. Her parents had written that they could send her nothing, because they needed everything they could lay their hands on to prosecute the war, and military events were not going well for Spain. Katharine must rely on the bounty of her father-in-law.

It had been uncomfortable having to rely on the bounty of a miser. And it was the fact that she was unable to pay her servants that had upset Katharine most.

But now that she was betrothed to his son, the King could no longer allow her to live in penury, and grudgingly he made her an allowance. This was relief, but as it was necessary to maintain a large household, and debts had been steadily mounting, the allowance was quickly swallowed up, and although the situation was relieved considerably, comparative poverty still prevailed at Durham House.

Doña Elvira was the only one who resented the change. She was jealous of her power and was becoming anxious to settle the matter of Maria de Rojas and Iñigo.

It was all very well to prevent letters, concerning Maria’s hoped-for marriage to the grandson of the Earl of Derby, from reaching the Sovereigns, but this was not arranging a match between Maria and Iñigo.

She had given Iñigo full power over the pages and he was continually seeking the company of the maids of honor—Maria de Rojas in particular. He was not popular however and Hernan Duque complained of his insolent manner.

This infuriated Elvira, who promptly wrote off to Isabella declaring that, if she were to be responsible for the Infanta’s household, she could not have interference from their Highnesses’ ambassadors and envoys.

Isabella, who put complete trust in Elvira as her daughter’s guardian, wrote reprovingly to Hernan Duque; and this so delighted Elvira that she became more domineering than ever.

Katharine was growing weary of Elvira’s rule. She was no longer a child and she felt that it was time that she herself took charge of her own household. She began by commanding Juan de Cuero to hand over some of her plate and jewels, which she pawned in order to pay her servants’ wages.

When Elvira heard of this she protested, but Katharine was determined to have her way in this matter.

“These are my jewels and plate,” she said. “I shall do with them as I will.”

“But they are part of the dowry which you will bring to your husband.”

“I will use them instead of the revenues I was to have received from my late husband,” answered Katharine. “The jewels and plate will not be needed until I am married to the Prince of Wales. Then I shall receive an amount similar to that which I have had to renounce. I shall redeem the jewels with that.”

Doña Elvira could not believe that her hold on Katharine was slackening, nor that it was possible for her to be defeated in any way.

So she continued, as determined as ever to govern the household, not realizing that Katharine was growing up.

KATHARINE FOUND Maria de Rojas in a state of despondency.

“What ails you, Maria?”

Maria blurted out that she had met her lover at the Court and that he was less ardent.

“What could one expect?” demanded Maria. “All this time we have waited, and your mother ignores your requests on my behalf.”

“It seems so very strange to me,” said Katharine. “It is unlike her to ignore such a matter, for she would clearly see it as her duty to look to the welfare of my attendants.”

Katharine pondering the matter remembered that Iñigo was hoping for Maria, and that Doña Elvira approved of his choice. That was certain, for he would never have dared show it if that had not been so.

Katharine said slowly: “I will write to my mother again, and this time I will send the letter by a secret messenger—not through the usual channels. It has occurred to me, Maria, that something—or someone—may have prevented my mother from receiving those letters.”

Maria lifted her head and stared at her mistress.

Understanding dawned in Maria’s eyes.

THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN; the secret messenger was found. A few days after he had left—far too soon to hope for a reply to that letter—Katharine, seated at her window, saw a courier arrive and knew that he brought dispatches from Spain.

It was six months since her betrothal to Henry in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house in Fleet Street, and now that she had become accustomed to the idea that she must marry young Henry she had come to terms with life. The slight relief which the new turn of affairs had brought to her living standards was welcome, and life was far more tolerable.

She found that she could speak English fairly fluently now, and as she grew accustomed to her country of adoption she was even growing fond of it.

News from Spain always made her heart leap with hope and fear; and this message was obviously an important one. There was an urgency about the courier as he leaped from his saddle and, not even glancing at the groom who took his horse, hurried into the house.

She did not wait for him to be brought to her, but went down to meet him. She was determined now that letters should come direct to her, and that they should not first pass through the hands of Doña Elvira.

She came into the hall and saw the courier standing there. Doña Elvira was already there. The courier looked stricken, and when she saw that Doña Elvira had begun to weep, a terrible anxiety came to Katharine.

“What has happened?” she demanded.

The courier opened his mouth as though he were trying to speak but could not find the words. Doña Elvira was holding a kerchief to her eyes.

“Tell me…quickly!” cried Katharine.

It was Doña Elvira who spoke. She lowered her kerchief and Katharine saw that her face was blotched with tears, and that this was no assumed grief.

“Your Highness,” she began. “Oh…my dearest Highness…this is the most terrible calamity which could befall us. How can I tell you…knowing what she meant to you? How can I be the one?”

Katharine heard her own voice speaking; she whispered: “Not…my mother!”

There was no answer, so she knew it was so. This was indeed the greatest calamity.

“She is sick? She is ill? She has been sick for so long. If she had not been sick…life would have been different here. She would never have allowed…”

She was talking…talking to hold off the news she feared to hear.

Doña Elvira had recovered herself. She said: “Highness, come to your apartment. I will look after you there.”

“My mother…” said Katharine. “She is…”

“God rest her soul!” murmured Elvira. “She was a saint. There will be rejoicing in Heaven.”

“It is so then?” said Katharine piteously. She was like a child pleading: Tell me it is not so. Tell me that she is ill…that she will recover. What can I do if she is not there? She has always been there…even though we were parted. How can I live with the knowledge that she is gone…that she is dead?

“She has passed peacefully to her rest,” said Doña Elvira. “Her care for you was evident right at the end. The last thing she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She knew before she died that an affinity with Arthur could not stand in the way of your marriage with Henry. She satisfied herself that your future was assured and then…she made her will and lay down to die.”

Katharine turned away, but Elvira was beside her.

“Leave me,” said Katharine. “I wish to be alone.”

Elvira did not insist and Katharine went to her room. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains so that she felt shut in with her grief.

“She has gone,” she said to herself. “I have lost the dearest friend I ever had. No one will ever take her place. Oh God, how can I endure to stay in a world where she is not?”

Then she seemed to hear that voice reproving her—stern yet kind, so serene, so understanding always. “When your time comes, my daughter, you will be taken to your rest. Until that time you must bear the tribulations which God sees fit to lay upon you. Bear them nobly, Catalina, my dear one, because that is what I would have you do.”

“I will do all that you wish me to,” said Katharine.

Then she closed her eyes and began to pray, pray for courage to bear whatever life had to offer her, courage to live in a world which no longer contained Isabella of Castile.

Maria de Rojas

THE KING OF ENGLAND WAS FURIOUS.

His envoy had returned from Naples with reports that the Queen of Naples was plump and comely; she had remarkably beautiful eyes and her breath was sweet.

Henry cared nothing for this, since he had discovered that the Queen of Naples had no claim whatsoever on the crown of Naples and was nothing more than a pensioner of Ferdinand.

He had been deceived. The Sovereigns had tried to trick him into marriage. Much valuable time had been lost and he was no nearer to getting himself sons than he had been at the time of his wife’s death.

One could not trust Ferdinand. There was not a more crafty statesman in the whole of Europe.

Moreover what was Ferdinand’s position since the death of Isabella? All knew that the senior in the partnership had been the Queen of Castile. What was Aragon compared with Castile? And although the marriage of the Sovereigns had united Spain the Castilians were not prepared to accept Ferdinand as their King now that Isabella was dead.

Isabella’s daughter Juana had been declared heiress of Castile, which meant that her husband Philip was the King. He was in a similar position to that which Ferdinand had occupied with Isabella. And Ferdinand? He was merely relegated to be King of Aragon…a very different rank from King of Spain.

Ferdinand was sly; he was unreliable. He would feel little anxiety concerning his daughter in England. All that had come from Isabella.

There was another matter which had upset the King of England. He had made a treaty with the Spanish Sovereigns to the effect that English sailors should have the freedom of Spanish ports and that they should be able to do business there on the same terms as Spaniards. He had just received news from certain merchants and sailors that this agreement had not been respected, and that they who had gone to Seville in good faith had found the old restrictions of trading brought against them, so that, unprepared as they were, they had suffered great losses.

“So this,” Henry had said, “is the way Ferdinand of Aragon keeps his promises.”

He sent for Puebla, and demanded an explanation.

Puebla had none. He was bewildered. He would write with all speed to Ferdinand, he had said, and there should be just restitution for the Englishmen.

This he had done, but Ferdinand was in no position to refund what had been lost. His authority in Castile was wavering and he was deeply concerned about the accession of his daughter Juana, for he feared the duplicity of her husband.

“And here am I,” raged the King, “giving an allowance to Ferdinand’s daughter. It shall be immediately stopped.”

His eyes were speculative. Was the daughter of the King of Aragon such a prize? Was she worthy to mate with one of the most desirable partis in Europe?

Maximilian might be unreliable, but then so was Ferdinand; and as events were turning out it seemed that very soon the Hapsburgs would be the most influential family in Europe. Young Charles, the son of Juana and Philip, would be heir not only to Isabella and Ferdinand but to his paternal grandfather’s dominions. Surely the greatest catch in Europe was little Charles.

His aunt Margaret, Maximilian’s daughter, had married the heir of Ferdinand and Isabella—Juan, who had died a few months after the marriage, and had again become a widow on the decease of the Duke of Savoy.

Henry began to consider an alliance with the Hapsburgs. Margaret for himself; she was both comely and rich. Young Charles for his daughter Mary; and Eleanor, daughter of Juana and Philip, for Henry Prince of Wales. His betrothal to Katharine of Aragon? What of that? Isabella of Castile was dead, and what did he care for Ferdinand, now merely King of Aragon, who was almost certain to find trouble with his son-in-law Philip and his daughter Juana when they came to claim the crown of Castile!

Henry had made up his mind. He sent for a certain Dr. Savage, a man in whose ability he believed.

He said to him: “I want you to prepare to leave for the Court of Brussels. Don Pedro de Ayala is the Spanish ambassador at that Court and I believe him to be well disposed towards me, for we became friends during his term in England. I wish you to make it known to the Archduke Philip that I seek his friendship. As for his Archduchess, now Queen Juana of Castile, you need only to win her husband’s friendship to make sure of hers. Ayala will help you, I am sure.”

Henry then began to lay before Dr. Savage his plans for an alliance between his family and the Hapsburgs.

“Proceed,” he said, “with all speed, for although my son and daughter can wait for their partners, there is not a great deal of time left to me. Do your work well and I doubt not that before long the Duchess Margaret will be on her way to England.”

Dr. Savage declared his desire to serve his King in all ways.

He would prepare to leave for Brussels at once.

HOW DIFFERENT had life at Durham House become!

Katharine’s presence was no longer required at Court; there was no money coming in; poverty and boredom had returned.

The maids of honor grumbled together and despaired of ever returning to Spain. They used their jewelled brooches to pin their torn gowns together; their food consisted of stale fish and what little could be bought at the lowest prices in the street markets. It was small consolation that such food was served on plates of gold and silver.

Katharine rarely saw the Prince to whom she was supposed to be affianced; she heard gossip that he was going to marry her little niece, Eleanor. Life was even worse than it had been in previous times of neglect, because then she could always write to her mother.

In desperation she wrote to Ferdinand. “I pray you remember that I am your daughter. For the love of our Lord help me in my need. I have no money to buy chemises of which I am in great need. I have had to sell some of my jewels to buy myself a gown. I have had but two dresses since I left Spain, for I have been wearing those which I brought with me. But I have very few left and I do not know what will become of me and my servants unless someone helps me.”

Ferdinand ignored such pleas. He had too many troubles of his own to think about his daughter’s chemises.

So the weeks passed.

Dr. Savage made little progress in Brussels; this was largely because of circumstances which were unknown to Henry. Since Isabella’s death there had arisen certain factions which were determined to oust Ferdinand from Castile; and at the Court of Brussels there were two rival factions from Spain, one working for Ferdinand, one for Philip, his son-in-law. The head of Philip’s faction was Juan Manuel, brother of Doña Elvira, who had worked for the Sovereigns when Isabella was alive because of his admiration for the Queen. He had never admired Ferdinand; and now that the Queen was dead he was determined to force him out of Castile by supporting his son-in-law, Philip. Ferdinand’s supporters were his ambassador to Brussels, Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida, and Don Pedro de Ayala. Ayala, to whom Dr. Savage presented himself, was certainly not going to bring Philip and the doctor together, because an alliance between Philip and England would be to Ferdinand’s detriment.

Thus, although Ayala received Dr. Savage with a show of friendship, he was secretly working all the time to avoid bringing the doctor to Philip’s notice. Negotiations hung fire, and this was very irritating to the English King, who knew little of the intricacies of politics at the Brussels Court.

The delays did not endear his daughter-in-law to him, and as his rheumatism was growing gradually more painful he became more irascible than ever and quite indifferent to the hardship which Katharine was suffering.

Katharine began to pawn more and more of her jewels, and she knew that when the time came for them to be valued and handed over to the King, as part of her dowry, they would be very much depleted. But what could she do? Her household had to eat even if they had received no payment for many months.

The entire household was becoming fretful, and one day Katharine came upon Maria de Rojas sobbing in distress, so deep that it was some time before Katharine could understand what had happened.

At length the sad little story was wrung from Maria.

“I have had news that he has married someone else.”

“My poor Maria!” Katharine sought to comfort the forlorn maid of honor. “But since he could not remain faithful, surely he would have made a bad husband.”

“It was all the waiting,” cried Maria. “His family insisted. They believed we should never have the consent of the Sovereigns and that there would be no dowry. Why, only half of your own was paid, and consider the poverty in which your father allows you to live!”

Katharine sighed.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I wonder what will become of us all.”

Maria continued to weep.

IT WAS A FEW days later when Doña Elvira called Maria de Rojas to her.

Maria, who had been listless since she had heard the news of her lover’s marriage, was not apprehensive as she would ordinarily have been by a summons from Doña Elvira. She simply did not care. Whatever Doña Elvira did to her, she said to Maria de Salinas, whatever punishment she sought to inflict, she would not care. Nothing could hurt her now.

With Doña Elvira was her son, Iñigo, who looked sheepishly at Maria as she entered.

Maria ignored him.

“Ah, Maria,” said Doña Elvira smiling, “I have some good news for you.”

Maria lifted her leaden eyes to Elvira’s face, but she did not ask what the good news was.

“You poor girl!” went on Elvira. “If the Prince of Wales had not died, good matches would have been found for all of you. You must have suffered great anxiety as to your future.”

Maria was still silent.

“You however are going to be very fortunate. My son here wishes to marry you. His father and I are agreeable to this match. I see no reason to delay.”

Maria spoke then, recklessly, for the first time in her life not caring what Doña Elvira could do to her: “I do not wish to marry your son, Doña Elvira,” she said.

“What!” screeched the duenna. “Do you realize what you are saying?”

“I am perfectly aware of what I am saying. I mean it. I wished to marry but was prevented from doing so. Now I do not wish to marry.”

“You wished to marry!” cried Elvira. “You persuaded the Infanta to plead with the Sovereigns for their consent and a dowry. And what happened, eh? Did you get that consent? I have seen no dowry.”

Elvira was smiling so malevolently that Maria suddenly understood. Did not Elvira see all the letters which were dispatched to the Sovereigns? Katharine must have realized this, because that last letter she wrote—and she must have written it at the very time when Isabella lay dying—was to have been delivered by a secret messenger, which meant, of course, that it should not pass through Elvira’s hands.

Maria knew then that this woman had wrecked her hopes of happiness; she hated her, and made no attempt to control her emotion.

“So it was you,” she cried. “You have done this. They would have given what I asked. I should have married by now, but you…you…”

“I fear,” said Doña Elvira quietly, “that this cannot be Maria de Rojas, maid of honor to the Infanta. It must be some gipsy hoyden who looks like her.”

Iñigo was looking at Maria with big pleading eyes; his look was tender and he was imploring her: Maria be calm. Have you forgotten that this is my mother, whom everyone has to obey?

Maria gave him a scornful look and cried out in anguish: “How could you do this, you wicked woman? I hate you. I tell you I hate you and will never marry your stupid son.”

Doña Elvira, genuinely shocked, gripped Maria by the shoulders and forced her on to her knees. She took her long dark hair and, pulling it, jerked the girl’s head backwards.

“You insolent little fool,” she hissed. “I will show you what happens to those who defy me.” She turned to Iñigo. “Do not stand there staring. Go and get help. Call my servant. Tell them to come here at once.”

She shook Maria, whose sobs were now choking her and, when her servants came, Doña Elvira cried: “Take this girl into the anteroom. Lock the door on her. I will decide what is to be done with her.”

They carried the sobbing Maria away, and Elvira, her mouth firm, her eyes glittering, said to her son: “Have no fear. The girl shall be your wife. I know how to make her obedient.”

Iñigo was shaken. It had hurt him to see Maria so ill treated. He was certain that she would be his wife, because his mother had said she would, and whatever Doña Elvira decreed came to pass.

KATHARINE WAS deeply disturbed by what had happened to Maria de Rojas. Doña Elvira had kept her locked away from the other maids of honor, and they all knew that Doña Elvira was determined that Maria should be forced to accept Iñigo as her betrothed.

Katharine considered this matter and asked herself why she allowed her household to be dominated by Doña Elvira. Was she herself not its head?

She remembered her parting from her mother. She could almost hear that firm voice warning her: “Obey Doña Elvira in all things, my dearest. She is a strong woman and a wise one. Sometime she may seem harsh, but all that she does will be for your good. Always remember that I trust her and I chose her to be your duenna.”

Because of that Katharine had always sought to obey Doña Elvira, and whenever she had felt tempted to do otherwise she remembered her mother’s words. But what duplicity Elvira had used in not allowing Katharine’s requests on Maria’s behalf to reach Isabella!

Katharine asked Elvira to come to her apartment and, as soon as the duenna entered, saw that her mouth was set and determined and that she was going to do fierce battle in this matter of Maria’s marriage.

“You have removed my maid of honor from my service,” Katharine began.

“Because, Highness, she has behaved in a most undignified manner, a manner of which your dear mother would heartily disapprove.”

That was true. If Maria had sobbed and wept and declared her hatred of Elvira, as Katharine had heard she had, Isabella would certainly have disapproved.

“Doña Elvira, I wrote some letters to my mother and I believe she never received them.”

“Storms at sea,” murmured Elvira. “It invariably happens that some letters do not reach their destination. If I wish to send important news I send two couriers, and not together. Did you take this precaution?”

Katharine looked boldly into the face of her duenna. “I believe these letters never left this house.”

“That is an accusation, Highness.”

“I meant it to be.”

“Your mother put me in charge of your household, Highness. I never forget that. If I believe that I should sometimes act boldly on any matter, I do so.”

“Even to destroying letters which were meant for my mother?”

“Even to that, Highness.”

“So you were determined that Maria should marry Iñigo, and not the man of her choice.”

“Indeed that is so, Highness. She wished to marry an Englishman. There are many matters which are hidden from Your Highness. It is only seemly that it should be so. Your mother instructed me that I must be careful of those who would spy against you. I must not too readily trust the English. What an excellent opportunity for spying an Englishman would have if he were married to one of your own maids of honor!”

“But this was not a case of spying. They loved…”

“So dearly did he love her that he married someone else…not so long after plighting his troth to her.”

“They were kept apart.”

“And this great love could not endure against a little absence? Nay, Highness, trust your duenna, as your mother did. Always remember that it was our dearest Queen who put me in this position of trust. She will be looking down from her place in Heaven now—for who can doubt that such a saint is now in Heaven?—and she is imploring me—can you not sense her? I can—she is imploring me to stand firm, and you to understand that all I do is for your good.”

Any mention of her mother unnerved Katharine. Merely to say or hear her name brought back so clearly an image of that dear presence that she could feel nothing but her bitter loss.

Doña Elvira saw the tears in Katharine’s eyes; she seized her opportunity: “Come, Highness, let me take you back to your apartments. You should lie down. You have not recovered from the terrible shock of her death. Who of us have? Do not distress yourself about the love affairs of a lighthearted maid of honor. Trust me…as she always wished you to.”

Katharine allowed herself to be led to her apartments, and there she lay on her bed continuing to think of her mother.

But when her grief abated a little she thought with increasing distrust of Doña Elvira, and although there was nothing she could do now to bring Maria’s love back to her she determined from that moment that in future she was going to take a firmer hand in the management of her own household.

IÑIGO SCRATCHED at the door. Maria heard him but she took no notice.

“Maria,” he whispered.

“Go away,” she answered.

“I will when I have spoken to you.”

“I do not wish to see you.”

“But you can hear me as I speak to you through the keyhole.”

She did not answer.

“I know you can,” he went on.

“I have come to say that I am sorry.”

Still she was silent.

“My mother is determined that we shall marry. She always has been. It is no use fighting against my mother, Maria. Maria, do you hate me so much?”

“Go away,” she repeated.

“I shall always be kind to you. I will make you love me. Then you will forget what my mother has done.”

“I shall never forget what she has done.”

“Do you wish to remain locked up here?”

“I do not care what becomes of me.”

“You do, Maria. When you marry me I will take you back to Spain. Just answer one question: Do you want to go back to Spain, Maria?”

“To Spain!” the words escaped her. She thought of her home, of being young again. If she were ever going to forget her faithless lover she might do so at home.

“Ah,” he said, “you cannot deceive me. It is what you long for. If you marry me, Maria, I will take you home as soon as it can be arranged.”

She was silent.

“Can you hear me, Maria? I want to please you. I will do anything you ask.”

“Go away. That is what I ask. That is the way to please me.”

He went away, but he returned a little later. He came again and again; and after a few days she began to look for his coming.

He was always gentle, always eager to please her.

She found that she was able to laugh as she said: “You are not overmuch like your mother, Don Iñigo Manrique.”

He laughed with her; and from that moment their relationship changed.

It was a few days later when she rejoined the maids of honor.

She was subdued and sullen.

“I have agreed to become betrothed to Don Iñigo Manrique,” she told them.

The Protest of the Prince of Wales

THE PRINCE OF WALES WAS APPROACHING HIS FOURTEENTH birthday, and he was determined that it should be celebrated with all the pomp due to his rank.

He would have masques and pageants such as had never been seen during his father’s reign. Fourteen was an age when one left childhood behind and became a man.

He was already taller than most men and had the strength of two. People often said that he was going to be a golden giant. He liked to hear that.

He refused to do lessons and commanded John Skelton to plan a masque.

“The kind I like best,” declared the Prince, “are those in which masked men appear at the joust and beg leave to be able to take part. One of them, taller than the rest and clearly noble, in spite of his disguise, challenges the champion.”

“And beats him,” whispered Skelton.

“Yes, and beats him; and then there is a cry of ‘This is a god, for no man on Earth could beat the champion.’ Then the ladies come forward and there is a dance.…”

“And the masked hero will allow only the most beautiful lady to remove his mask,” added Skelton.

“That is so, and when the mask is removed…”

“The god is revealed to be His Grace the Prince of Wales!” cried Skelton. “Fanfares.”

“Why, but that is exactly what I had planned,” cried Henry in surprise.

“Does it not show that our minds are in unison, Your Grace?”

“It would seem so.”

“But then we have had these pageants before, and methinks the unmasked hero has already made his debut. But, there is no reason I can see why he should not appear again…and again and again.”

Henry was never quite sure whether or not Skelton was laughing at him, but because he admired the man and believed he had much to learn from him, he preferred to think he was not, and invariably laughed with him.

“Fourteen,” he mused. “In another year I shall be betrothed.”

“A year will pass like a day, in the full life of Your Royal Highness.”

“It is indeed so, my good John. And have you heard that I am now to marry Marguerite d’Angoulême? They say she is very beautiful.”

“All high-born ladies are said to be beautiful,” answered John.

“It is not true, though their jewels and clothes often make them seem so.”

“I did not speak of what they are but what they are said to be.”

The Prince was thoughtful. Then he said: “They say that Marguerite adores her brother Francis. They say he is handsome and excels at all sports; that there is none like him in the whole of France and, if ever he comes to the throne, he will make a great King.”

“So there are two such paragons—one in England, one in France.”

The Prince drew himself up to his full height. “I believe him not to be as tall as I, and he is dark.”

“A minor paragon,” murmured Skelton.

“And,” went on the Prince, “there is no doubt that I shall one day be King. But Francis will only ascend the throne if old Louis dies childless. He must be beside himself with terror.”

“Why, my Prince, it is not easy for old men to beget children.”

“But for his future to hang on such a thread! His mother and sister call him Caesar. I hope Marguerite is soon brought to England.”

“Your Grace will have much to teach her, and not least of the lessons she will learn will be that there is a Prince more handsome, more excellent, more godlike than her brother.”

The Prince did not answer. His eyes were narrowed in the characteristic way; his small mouth was set. What a King he will make! thought Skelton. His ministers will have to learn to pander to his wishes, or it will go hard with them. Our golden god will be a despot, and heads will doubtless fly like tennis balls.

Henry was thinking of Marguerite. Surely she must come soon. He was going to insist on marrying this girl. Many had been offered to him, and then the offers had been withdrawn. He wanted Marguerite. She was beautiful, he had heard, and it was all very well for Skelton to say that all high-born ladies were beautiful; he did not believe it. Look at Katharine of Aragon in her faded gown, and her face pale and stricken with mourning. He rejoiced that it was Marguerite who had been chosen for him and not Katharine.

While he sat with Skelton a messenger from the King arrived and told the Prince that his father wished to see him without delay.

Skelton watched the Prince as he immediately obeyed the summons. There is one person alone who can deflate our great Prince, mused Skelton—his Royal Father. When he is no longer there, what an inflated King we shall have.

As soon as Henry came into his father’s presence the King waved his hand to those attendants who were with him, indicating that he wished to be alone with his son.

He looked at Henry sternly. The boy’s glowing health could not but give him the utmost satisfaction, yet he was afraid that young Henry had extravagant tastes. He must have a serious talk with him in the very near future; he must make him realize how carefully his father had built up a firm exchequer. It would be terrible if the wealth of the country and the Tudors were frittered away in useless pageants.

But he had not summoned the boy to talk of extravagance. That could wait. There was a matter which he considered more urgent.

“My son,” said the King, “one day you will be married, and that day is not far distant.”

“I hear, Sire, that a new bride is being suggested now. I like what I hear of Marguerite.”

“Yes, Marguerite,” said his father. “Do you remember that when you were thirteen you were betrothed to another in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury?”

“I remember it well—a hot day. The people cheered me as I came into Fleet Street!”

“Yes.” Henry’s tone was curt. “We know full well that the people cheer you wherever you go. Katharine of Aragon is not the match today that she was at that time. Circumstances change. Now that her mother is dead, her father’s position is not what it was. I do not trust her father. I feel sure that were a marriage to take place there would still be difficulty about getting the remainder of the dowry. In other words, I do not favor the marriage with Katharine.”

“No, Sire. I…”

The King lifted his hand. “We will not discuss your wishes because they are at this time of no moment.”

The blood flamed into young Henry’s face. A protest rose to his lips; then he remembered that this was his father; this was the King. One did not argue with Kings. He tried to suppress his anger. His mouth was tight and his eyes a blazing blue.

“According to what was arranged in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house a year ago, when you are fifteen you would marry Katharine. That is in a year’s time. I now desire you to make a formal protest. You are to meet Archbishop Warham here in the Palace. He is waiting now. You will solemnly protest that you have no wish for this marriage with Katharine of Aragon.”

“But…” began Henry.

“You will do as you are told, my son. The Archbishop is waiting to see you now.”

All the egoism in the Prince’s nature was rising in protest—not against marriage with Katharine but against his father’s management of what he considered to be his personal affair. Young Henry knew that royal marriages were usually arranged, but he was no ordinary Prince. He was old enough to have a say in his own affairs.

If he, of his own free will, decided against marrying Katharine, all well and good. But to be told to make such a protest offended his amour propre, which was extremely sensitive.

His father said testily: “This is what you will say: ‘The betrothal was contracted in my minority. I myself was not consulted in the matter. I shall not ratify it when the time comes, and it is therefore null and void.’”

“I should like time to consider this matter,” said Henry boldly.

“That is enough,” his father retorted; “you do as you are told. Come…say those words after me.”

For a few seconds Henry’s blazing eyes looked into his father’s. But he knew he must obey. He was only a boy not yet fourteen, and this man, whose face was lined with suffering, was the King. He murmured the words he had been told to repeat.

“Again,” said his father.

It was humiliating. Why should I? he asked of himself. Then a cunning thought came into his mind. It would not always be as it was now. One day he would be King, and the man who was now commanding him would be nothing but a moldering corpse. What did words matter? When young Prince Henry was King Henry, then he would have his way and, if he wished to marry Katharine of Aragon, there would be none to deny him his wish.

He repeated the words sullenly.

“Come,” said the King. “I dare swear Warham has arrived already.”

So, in the ground floor apartment in Richmond Palace, young Henry repeated the words which were his formal protest against a marriage with Katharine of Aragon.

Words, thought Henry as he went back to his own apartments. He would never allow a few words to stand between himself and what he wanted.

After that he thought of Katharine of Aragon more frequently. He remembered her as she had been when he had led her to the Palace after her wedding ceremony.

His father had made up his mind that he should never have Katharine, yet his father himself had wanted to marry her. Katharine was now out of reach. She represented a challenge. She had suddenly become quite attractive—more so than Marguerite, who was so enamored of her own brother that she thought him the handsomest boy in the world.

The Treachery of Elvira

DOÑA ELVIRA WAS IN VERY SECRET CONFERENCE WITH HER husband, Don Pedro Manrique. She spoke quickly and quietly, for she was very eager that what she was saying should reach no other ears but those of her husband.

“Juan is certain of it,” she was saying. “If this meeting can be arranged, it will teach Ferdinand the lesson he needs.”

Don Pedro was alarmed. It was true that his wife was a woman who always had her way; but the domestic politics of the Infanta’s household were a very different matter from those of Europe. She had become more confident than ever, since she had successfully arranged the betrothal of Iñigo and Maria de Rojas. But Don Pedro wished she would leave intrigue to her brother.

Elvira’s great aim was to bring power to the Manrique and Manuel families. Therefore she was going to stand firmly behind her brother, Don Juan Manuel, who at the Court of Brussels represented the Castilian faction, the aim of which was to oust Ferdinand from power and support Philip.

“He is asking your help in this matter?” asked Don Pedro.

Elvira nodded proudly. “Why not? I hold an important position here in England. There is a great deal I could do.”

“What do you propose? Are you going to consult Puebla?”

“That little fool! Indeed I am not. This is a matter which I shall trust to no one.”

“But how do you propose to bring about a meeting between Henry and Philip? And what would Ferdinand’s reaction be if this were done?”

“I do not think we should concern ourselves with Ferdinand’s reactions. Ferdinand is growing old. He is like a lion whose teeth have been drawn. He understands now that he owed much to Isabella. He is going to realize that it was more than he suspects, even now. Ferdinand’s days as a power in Europe are numbered. Once I have arranged this meeting…”

“Elvira, have a care.”

“Oh you are a fool, Pedro. You are too timid. If it had been left to you, Iñigo would still be looking for a bride.”

“All I ask is that you should go warily.”

“Can you not trust me to do that?”

“You are clever, Elvira; you are shrewd. But this is dangerous politics. Tell me what you propose to do.”

She looked at him with a scornful smile, made as though to speak and then paused. “No,” she said, “I think I will tell you afterwards. You are too timid, my dear Pedro. But have no fear. I know exactly how to handle this matter.”

KATHARINE’S MAIDS of honor were helping her to dress when Elvira came to them.

“Is that the best gown you can find for Her Highness?” she demanded, staring at the stiff brocade skirt which had been mended in several places.

“It is the least shabby of Her Highness’s gowns,” said Inez de Veñegas.

Elvira clicked her tongue and murmured as though to herself: “A pretty pass…a pretty pass…”

She watched while the maids dressed Katharine’s hair, then she waved her hands in a gesture they knew well, shooing them away as though they were chicken.

When they had gone Elvira said: “It distresses me, Highness. I often wonder what your mother would have said if she could see what has befallen you in England.”

“She knew how I was placed, even before she died, yet there was nothing she could do. Had it been possible she would have done it.”

“An Infanta of Spain to be so shabby! I feel it should not be allowed to continue.”

“It has gone on so long that one grows accustomed to it.”

“There is a new Queen of Spain now. I wonder what she would say if she could see her sister.”

“Ah…Juana!” murmured Katharine, and thought of that wild sister who laughed and cried too easily. “It is strange to think of her as Queen in our mother’s place.”

“How would you like to see her again?”

Katharine did not speak. To see Juana! It would be the next best thing to seeing her mother.

“I do not see,” whispered Elvira, watching her closely, “why it should not be arranged.”

Katharine turned to her swiftly. “But how?”

“Suppose you wrote to her, telling her of your desire to see her. Do not forget, she is the Queen now. Suppose you told her of your homesickness, your longing to see a member of your family; I feel sure she would be as eager to see you as you are to see her.”

“You mean that I should leave England…?”

“Why not? They could come to the coast to meet you. The King might accompany you; it would be an opportunity for him to meet the new Queen and her husband.”

“Doña Elvira, do you really think…?”

How young she is, thought Elvira. How innocent. How easily she is deluded!

Elvira turned away as though to hide an emotion of which she was ashamed because it showed a weakness.

“I think it is worth trying. Why should you not write a note to your sister, suggesting such a meeting. What harm could that do?”

“I can see no harm in it. I should so rejoice to hear from Juana.”

“Then write the note and we will send it by special courier to Brussels. He shall wait there and bring back your sister’s answer to you.”

Katharine rose and went to her table. Her fingers were trembling with excitement as she took up her pen.

KATHARINE LOOKED at the note. It brought back memories of Juana.

How wonderful for them to be together, to exchange experiences, to give themselves up to the joy of “Do you remember?” It would be almost like living those days of childhood again.

We should be together, thought Katharine; there are so few of us left now.

Juana had written that she would be delighted to see her sister, that there was nothing she wanted more. Why should not the two parties meet half way?

If King Henry and Katharine would cross to Calais and travel to Saint-Omer, which was but eight leagues away, there Juana and her husband, Philip, would be waiting to meet them.

Katharine showed the letter to Doña Elvira, who was overjoyed. Juan had been clever to get the unbalanced Juana to write the letter exactly as he wished, so the strategy had succeeded even beyond her hope.

There was now of course the difficulty of persuading the King to enter into the plan, but Elvira did not think that would be difficult, since Henry desperately needed a bride and was desirous of linking up with the Hapsburgs. He was feeling his age, it was true, and a sea journey would not be very comfortable, but he was ever a man to put diplomacy before comfort. Elvira had little doubt that he would accept the invitation.

She was jubilant. She would have achieved for her brother that which he had been working hard to bring about: A meeting between Henry and Philip which could only work out to the detriment of Ferdinand and the Aragonese faction.

“You should write to the King at once,” said Elvira, “showing him this invitation from your sister. If you will do it now, I myself will give the order for your chamberlain to prepare to take it to Richmond with all speed.”

“I will write at once. Tell Alonso de Esquivel to make ready. He rides faster than any, and I can scarcely wait for the King’s answer. I will take it down to him myself when I have written it, with special instructions that it is to be put into no hands other than those of the King.”

Elvira nodded, well pleased, and went off at once to tell the chamberlain to make ready.

Katharine carefully wrote her letter to the King, sealed it and was making her way down to the courtyard when she came face to face with Dr. de Puebla.

She felt so happy that she could not resist confiding in the ambassador, and said almost childishly: “I have had an invitation from my sister. She has invited me…and the King…to see her. I am asking the King to agree to this.”

Puebla put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. He knew at once what this meant. Katharine would not go alone. There would be a royal party and the King would most certainly be at the head of it. The enemies of Ferdinand had been working long and secretly to bring about such a meeting. This was direct treachery towards Katharine’s father.

He took the letter from her and she, unthinking, let it go.

Katharine said sharply, “Give me back that letter.”

The little ambassador continued to clutch it tightly.

“Highness,” he began, “this could be a matter of policy…”

Katharine’s habitual calm deserted her. She thought of the months of loneliness, boredom, poverty and humiliation. She did not trust Puebla, whom she had never liked, and Elvira had lost no opportunity of poisoning her mind against him. She snatched the letter from the ambassador and went past him.

His ambassadorial duties had accustomed Puebla to quick thinking. He guessed that Elvira was behind these arrangements, for he was well aware that her brother, Juan Manuel, was working in Brussels for the Castilian party against the Aragonese.

It was useless to follow Katharine. Glancing hastily through a window he saw the chamberlain, ready for his journey, standing by while his horse was being saddled. There were a few moments left to him in which to act. He sped along to Elvira’s apartment and on his way there met her returning from the courtyard.

“This is treachery,” he cried, “treachery against our Sovereign master.”

Elvira was too much taken off her guard to feign surprise. “If the Infanta wishes to see her sister, why should she be prevented?”

“This meeting has been arranged at the instigation of your brother, who is a traitor to Ferdinand. We are Ferdinand’s servants. Your brother is a traitor, and you know that full well. If that letter of invitation is sent to the King I shall have no alternative but to acquaint Ferdinand with your treachery. It is one thing for your brother to work against the King of Aragon in Brussels, but quite another for you to do so here in the household of Ferdinand’s daughter. He could recall you to Spain, and he will do so. I do not think your fate would be a very happy one if that should happen.”

“I do not understand…” began Elvira, but for once she was trembling. The success of her venture depended entirely on its seeming innocence. The meeting for which she had planned must appear to have been brought about through Katharine and Juana. She understood her danger if Ferdinand were informed that she had played a part in it.

“There is little time to lose,” said Puebla. “In less than five minutes Esquivel will be on his way to Richmond.”

Doña Elvira made a quick decision. “I will go down at once and tell him that he must not take the letter to the King.”

Puebla, who was sweating with the excitement and dismay of those moments, now relaxed.

She understood the danger to herself and her family. She had not only her own but her family’s future to think of. She would not want it known that Juan Manuel had played his part in this; and although Ferdinand had been weakened by the death of Isabella, he was still a power in Spain, and it might be that he would act as Regent for Juana and Philip, who must necessarily spend a certain time in their other dominions.

Elvira knew very well that she was playing a dangerous game.

She went down to the courtyard, while Puebla watched from a window. Katharine had given the chamberlain her letter with instructions to ride to Richmond with all speed, and had returned to the house.

That made Elvira’s task more easy. Puebla watched her take the letter from the chamberlain; he saw the look of surprise on the man’s face as the horse was led back to the stables.

The ambassador sighed with relief. A chance meeting with the Infanta had diverted a catastrophe. He felt exhausted. He would return immediately to his lodgings in the Strand and there rest awhile.

I am too old for such alarms, he told himself.

As he came out of Durham House his servant, who had been waiting for him, came hurriedly to his side, surprised to see his master so weary.

Puebla was about to start on his way when he stopped abruptly. “Wait here,” he said. “If you should see Don Alonso de Esquivel ride off in some haste towards Richmond lose no time in coming straight to me.”

He then made his way to his lodging. He did not trust Elvira. He had always known that the woman sent adverse reports of him to Isabella, and was doubtless doing so to Ferdinand. He had an inkling that she might attempt to thwart him even now that he was aware of her duplicity.

He was right.

He had not been in his lodgings very long when his servant came panting into his presence, to tell him that the chamberlain had, very soon after the departure of Dr. de Puebla from Durham House, set off in the direction of Richmond, riding at great speed.

Puebla was horrified. He should have foreseen this.

The mischief was done. The King was being offered what was tantamount to an invitation to meet Philip and Juana; if he accepted, months of diplomacy were ruined.

He could not prevent Katharine’s letter from reaching the King, but he could at least warn Katharine of the part she had been inveigled into playing. Then perhaps he could warn the King of the unreliable character of the Archduke Philip.

He had no time to form elaborate plans. He must act with speed. Of one thing he could be certain: The Infanta was completely loyal to her own family; if she knew that she had been used in a plot against her father, she would be horrified.

He lost no time in returning to Durham House, and there burst unceremoniously into the presence of the Infanta.

Katharine was with some of her maids of honor and, when he stammered out the plea that he speak to her alone, she was so shocked by his distress that she immediately agreed that he should do so.

As soon as they were alone he said: “Highness, you are the victim of a plot against your father.” He then explained how for months the Castilian faction in Brussels had been working to bring about a meeting between Henry of England and her brother-in-law, Philip.

“You must understand, Highness, that your brother-in-law is no friend of your father. He seeks to take from him all the power he has in Castile and relegate him solely to the affairs of Aragon. You know how distressed your mother would be if she could know what is happening now. In her will she asks that in the absence or incapacity of your sister Juana, your father should be sole regent of Castile until the majority of her grandson Charles. Philip is determined to increase the discord and distrust between your father and the King of England. He will seek to make a pact with him against your father. Doña Elvira’s brother, Don Juan Manuel, is the leader in this plot. It is for this reason that she has urged you to help bring about this meeting.”

Katharine was staring at the ambassador in horror. She was remembering how Doña Elvira had commiserated with her, how she had urged her to write to Juana. So she and Juana were being used by their father’s enemies! Katharine thought of her mother, who had always stood firmly beside her father. How shocked and horrified she would be at the idea of her daughters’ working with their father’s enemies.

She was trembling as she said: “I believe what you say. I see that I have been their dupe. What can I do now?”

Puebla shook his head sadly, for he had realized that there was nothing now to be done. The King would receive the letter from his daughter-in-law, enclosing that from Juana. It was entirely in his hands whether or not that invitation would be accepted.

“At least, Highness,” he said, “you know your duenna for the scheming woman she is. With your leave I will retire now. I shall go with all speed to Richmond, and there I shall try to use my influence with the King to avoid this meeting.”

HENRY WAS STUDYING the letter from Katharine and that from Juana.

To cross to Saint-Omer, to meet the heir of Isabella and her husband! Perhaps to make the arrangements for those alliances which he coveted? Philip would have the backing of his father, Maximilian, and if they could come to some agreement it might mean that he would have his bride in England soon. Maximilian’s daughter, a beautiful young woman, though twice widowed…. They could get children. He was very eager to have a bride for himself and those alliances for his family. Charles, the heir of the Hapsburgs and of Isabella and Ferdinand, would be the richest monarch in Europe when he came of age. Little Mary was the bride for him. And Eleanor, the daughter of Philip and Juana, would do very well for young Henry. All this could be arranged if he met Philip and Juana.

They would want something in exchange—promises of help, doubtless, against Ferdinand, because there would certainly be trouble in Castile between Ferdinand and Philip. It was easy to make promises.

A meeting was desirable, but it would be expensive; a King could not travel abroad in modesty; that gave an impression of poverty and would not be wise. He did not like travel; he was getting too old, and his limbs were often so stiff when he arose in the mornings that he could scarcely put his feet to the ground. Yet those alliances were what his family needed.

Puebla was announced, and the ambassador, when he entered and stood before the King, was clearly distraught.

“You look disturbed,” said Henry.

Puebla, feeling the situation to be too dangerous for subterfuge, explained in detail how Doña Elvira had used Katharine to suggest this meeting.

“Well, are the means so important?”

“Your Grace, the Spanish situation is fluid…very fluid. There is so much treachery involved in this that it is difficult to know who is one’s friend, who one’s foe. There are the two rival factions in Brussels. How can you know who it is who have arranged this meeting? Is it your friends? Is it your enemies? A King is vulnerable when he leaves his own shores. Philip is as wayward as thistledown. He will sway this way and that. He does not keep his promises if the whim takes him to break them. You would be ill advised to take this suggestion of a meeting seriously.”

The King was thoughtful. There was spying and counterspying in all countries, he knew, but the Spanish situation at this time was certainly dangerous.

He knew Philip for a pleasure-loving young man whose political ambitions waxed and waned. Ferdinand he looked upon as a rogue, but at least he and Ferdinand were of a kind.

“I will consider this matter,” he said, and Puebla’s spirits rose.

He did not believe that Henry would make that journey. Clearly he was dreading it. Crossing the Channel could be hazardous, and if he suffered even a slight wetting he could be sure that his rheumatism would be the worse for it.

Henry was thinking that this meeting, plotted by women, was perhaps not the wisest course at this time. What if Philip had no wish to see him? What if it should turn out to be a reunion of Katharine and her sister merely? He shuddered to think of the expense that would be involved, the money wasted.

“I will ponder on this,” he said.

AT THE WINDOW of her apartments at Durham House, Katharine sat for a long time looking out. Puebla had gone to Richmond and would now be with the King.

Katharine was deeply shocked. She could not free her mind of the memory of her mother’s face. Isabella had been at her happiest when she had her family about her. Katharine could remember those occasions when the family sat with her, the girls at their needlework, Juan reading to them; then perhaps Ferdinand would join them, and her mother’s face would take on that look of serene contentment she loved to recall.

Now they were scattered. Her brother Juan and sister Isabella were dead, Maria was the Queen of Portugal, Juana the wife of Philip and she herself in England; and here in England she had become involved in a plot against her father.

Her horror gave place to anger. She forgot that her father had never loved her in the same tender way in which her mother had; she forgot how pleased he had been to send her to England. She thought of him only as the father who had joined their family group and added to her mother’s happiness. Ferdinand was her father. Her mother would always have her remember that. There had been times when Isabella deferred to Ferdinand; that was when she was reminding them all that he was their father. At such times she forgot that she was the Queen of Castile and he merely the King of Aragon. Where the family was concerned he, Ferdinand, was the head.

And Doña Elvira had tricked her into working against her own father! Katharine stood up. She could not see her reflection or she would have noticed that a change had come over her. She held her head higher, and her shabby gown could not hide the fact that she was a Princess in her own household. She had ceased to be the neglected widow; she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile.

She called to one of her maids and said: “Tell Doña Elvira that I wish to see her without delay.”

Her tone was peremptory and the girl looked at her in astonishment; but Katharine was unaware of the glance. She was thinking of what she was going to say to Doña Elvira.

Elvira came in, gave the rather curt little bow which was her custom, and then, as she looked into the Infanta’s face, she saw the change there.

“I sent for you,” said Katharine, “to tell you that I understand full well why you persuaded me to write to my sister.”

“Why, Highness, I knew you wished to see your sister, and it seemed shameful that you should live here as you do…”

“Pray be silent,” said Katharine coldly. “I know that your brother, Don Juan Manuel, plots against my father in Brussels and has persuaded you to help him here in Durham House.”

“Highness…”

“Pray do not interrupt me. You forget to whom you speak.”

Elvira gasped in amazement. Never before had Katharine spoken to her in that manner. She knew that Puebla had betrayed her to Katharine, but she had been confident that she could continue to rule Durham House.

“I do not wish,” said Katharine, “to have here with me in England servants whom I do not trust.”

“What are you saying…?” Elvira began in the old hectoring manner.

“That I am dismissing you.”

“You…dismissing me! Highness, your mother appointed me.”

It was a mistake. Elvira realized it as soon as she had mentioned Isabella. Katharine’s face was a shade paler, but her eyes flashed in a new anger.

“Had my mother known that you would plot against my father, you would have spent these last years behind prison walls. It is where you should be. But I will be lenient. You will prepare to leave Durham House and England at once.”

“This is quite impossible.”

“It shall be possible. I will not send you back to my father with an explanation of your conduct. I will spare you that. But since you are so eager to help your brother in Brussels you may go there.”

Elvira tried to summon all the old truculence, but it had deserted her.

“You may go now,” continued Katharine. “Make your preparations with all speed, for I will not suffer you for a day longer than I need under this roof.”

Elvira knew that protest was useless. If she attempted to assert her authority, Katharine would expose the part she had been playing in her brother’s schemes.

It was hard for a proud woman to accept such defeat.

She bowed and, without another word, left the presence of the Infanta.

Katharine was shaken, but she felt exultant.

For so long she had been, not so much the prisoner of Durham House, as the prisoner of Doña Elvira. Now she was free.

Juana in England

KATHARINE HAD BEGUN TO WONDER WHOM SHE COULD trust, for when her anger against Doña Elvira had subsided she realized how shocked she had been by the duenna’s duplicity.

Maria de Rojas was steeped in melancholy. Yet another marriage which had been planned for her was not to take place because Iñigo had departed with his mother.

It was true that the household was free of the tyranny of Doña Elvira, but poverty remained.

Katharine summoned Puebla to her, and he came limping into her presence. He was growing old and shocks such as that which he had sustained seemed to add years to his age in a few weeks.

In her newly found independence Katharine spoke boldly.

“This situation cannot go on. I must have some means of supporting my household. I am the daughter-in-law of the King of England and I think that you, as my father’s ambassador, should bestir yourself and do something about it.”

Puebla spread his hands helplessly.

“You should go to the King,” went on Katharine, “and speak boldly to him. Tell him that it is a disgrace to his name that he allows me to live in this way.”

“I will do my best, Highness,” answered Puebla.

He shuffled out of the apartment, not relishing his task and yet agreeing with Katharine that she could not continue in such penury for much longer.

He sought audience with the King.

Henry was still brooding on the suggested meeting with Philip and Juana. Perhaps in the spring or the summer…he had been thinking, for the prospect of the damp seeping into his bones alarmed him. It would be disastrous if he became completely crippled. It seemed so ridiculous that he could not get himself a bride. Yet it was not easy for Kings to find suitable partners. So many qualifications were necessary in a Queen.

He frowned at Puebla as he came in, but he listened quietly while the ambassador laid before him Katharine’s complaint.

Henry nodded gravely. “It is true,” he said, “that Durham House must be an expensive household to manage. I am sorry for the Infanta. I will help her.”

Puebla’s face lighted up with pleasure.

“She shall give up Durham House,” went on Henry, “and come to Court. I am sure, when she no longer has such a large establishment to support, she will live more comfortably.”

Puebla thanked the King, but he was dubious as he went back to Durham House, being unsure how Katharine would receive this news. He knew that with an adequate allowance and without Doña Elvira life at Durham House might be quite pleasant; and it was this allowance for which Katharine had hoped; but if she went to Court she would be under supervision as strict as that of Doña Elvira.

He was right. Katharine was far from pleased.

She looked at the shabby little man and was filled with disgust. This man…an ambassador from that country which she had always been taught was the greatest in the world! How could she hope to be treated with respect, how could she possibly retain her dignity when her father’s representative in England was this little marrano!

She spoke coldly to him. “I see that my position has changed very little for the better. Sometimes I wonder whether you work more for the King of England than for the King of Spain.”

Puebla was deeply wounded. How could she understand the intricacies of state policies? How could she realize the dangerous and difficult game he must continually play?

It seemed to be his fate in life to be misunderstood, to be scorned by those to whom he gave his services.

Katharine was thinking as he left her: Was Doña Elvira really spying for her brother, or did Puebla, with diabolical cunning, contrive the whole situation in order to have Elvira removed? Was the King of England behind the scheme? Did he wish to close Durham House, to bring her to Court where many might gloat over her poverty and the indignity of her position? Whom could one trust?

THERE WAS NEWS from Spain which shocked Katharine.

Her father was proposing to marry again.

Katharine was so disturbed that she shut herself in her apartments and told her maids of honor that she must be left alone. Kings remarried speedily when they lost their Queens; she knew that. It was a continual need of Kings to get heirs. But this seemed different. There would be someone to take the place of Isabella of Castile, and in Katharine’s eyes this was sacrilege.

Moreover her father proposed to marry a young girl of eighteen.

She was very beautiful, rumor said; and that hurt Katharine even more. She thought of her father, showering caresses on a beautiful young girl, and she pictured her mother, looking down from Heaven in sorrow.

Nonsense! she admonished herself. It is a political marriage.

It was true that Ferdinand was anxious to make an alliance with the French King, Louis XII. The situation had changed. The French had been driven from Naples, for a too easy success had made them careless; and Ferdinand had Gonsalvo Cordova, the Great Captain, to fight for him.

In the circumstances, Louis was delighted to see the trouble between Ferdinand and his son-in-law Philip. Philip or his son Charles was going to be the most powerful man in Europe. There would be Maximilian’s dominions to come to him, including Austria, Flanders and Burgundy; but that was not all; for from Juana would come the united crowns of Spain, and in addition all the overseas dependencies.

To Louis alliance with Ferdinand seemed advisable, even though Louis’ daughter had been promised to young Charles.

Louis laid down his conditions. He would relinquish his claim to Naples, which he would give to the young bride as her dowry. Germaine de Foix was the daughter of Jean de Foix, Viscount of Narbonne; this viscount’s mother had been Leonora, Queen of Navarre, half sister to Ferdinand, and she had poisoned her sister Blanche to win the Crown of Navarre. The Viscount had married one of the sisters of Louis XII, so Germaine was therefore not only related to Louis but to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand also agreed to pay Louis a million gold ducats during the course of the following ten years to compensate Louis for what he had lost in the Naples campaign.

This was the news which came to Katharine and which seemed to her such an insult to her mother. It was not merely that her father had taken a young wife in her mother’s place, but, as she realized, this marriage could result in destroying that policy for which Isabella had worked during the whole of her reign: the unity of Spain. It had been Isabella’s delight that when she married Ferdinand she united Castile and Aragon; and when together they drove the Moors from the kingdom of Granada they had made a united Spain. But if this new marriage were fruitful, if Germaine bore Ferdinand a son, that son would be the heir of Aragon, while Juana and her heirs—and she already had sons—would be rulers of Castile. Thus by his selfish action—perhaps to have a beautiful young wife, but more likely to grasp the somewhat empty title of King of Naples—Ferdinand was showing his indifference to the lifelong wishes of Isabella.

This treaty between Ferdinand and Louis had already been signed in Blois.

Katharine, no longer a child, no longer ignorant of state politics and the overwhelming greed and pride of ambitious men and women, wept afresh for her mother.

IT WAS BLEAK JANUARY and there were storms all along the coast; the wind swept up the Thames and not even the great fires which blazed in Windsor Castle could keep out the cold. Katharine sat huddled about the fire with some of her maids of honor. They were very gloomy and rarely ceased talking of their desire to return to Spain.

Francesca de Carceres, who was impulsive and never could control her tongue, blamed the various members of Katharine’s household in turn. First she blamed Puebla, then Juan de Cuero. They were all in league with the King of England, she declared, and their desire was to keep them all in this island until they grew crippled with rheumatism.

Maria de Rojas was sunk in gloom. As she had mourned for her Englishman, now she mourned for Iñigo Manrique.

Katharine was dipping into her store of plate and jewels, and often wondered what would happen when the time came for the remainder of them to be valued.

There was no news from Spain. Ferdinand rarely had time to write to his daughter. He was too busy, she supposed bitterly, thinking of his new marriage which would shortly take place.

As they sat thus they heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and shouts from without, and Francesca ran to the window.

“There is some excitement below,” she said. “It is evidently important news.”

“News from home?” asked Katharine quickly.

“No,” answered Francesca, as the others came to the window to stand beside her. “That is no Spanish courier.”

Katharine who had risen sat down listlessly.

“There is never news from Spain…never news that one wishes to hear.”

The other girls turned from the window, and Maria de Salinas said: “It must change soon. It cannot go on like this. Perhaps when there is a new King…”

“He will marry Her Highness,” cried Francesca.

Katharine shook her head. “No, he is promised to Marguerite of Angoulême.”

“Oh, he has been promised to so many,” Francesca said.

“That happens to most of us,” put in Maria de Rojas bitterly.

Katharine was silent; she was thinking of the Prince of Wales, whom she saw occasionally. It was a strange position; she did not know whether she was still affianced to him or not. It was true there had been a formal betrothal in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house, but ever since then there had been rumors of other brides who had been chosen for him.

He was growing up quickly, for he seemed much older than his years. When they were together she would often find his eyes fixed on her broodingly. It was a little disquieting; it made her wonder what the future would hold for her when the old King died and Henry VIII was King of England.

Someone was at the door, begging to be allowed to see the Infanta, and Inez de Veñegas came bursting unceremoniously into the apartment. She was clearly excited.

“Highness,” she stammered. “There is great excitement below. Ships broken by the storm have sought refuge here in England.”

Francesca said impatiently: “That’s to be expected in such weather.”

“But these are the ships of Her Highness the Queen of Castile.”

Katharine had risen; she grew pale and then flushed scarlet.

“Juana…my sister…in England!”

“Highness, she is here…seeking refuge from the storm. Her fleet of ships has met with disaster on their way from Flanders to Spain. And she and her husband and their suite…”

Katharine clasped her hands across her breast; her heart was leaping with excitement.

Juana here…in England!

This was the happiest news she had heard for years.

JUANA, QUEEN OF CASTILE, was happy at last. She was on a ship bound for Castile, and her husband was with her; and while they sailed together it was impossible for him to escape her.

She was wildly gay; she would stand on deck, her face held to the wind while it loosened her hair and set it flying about her head. Her attendants looked at her anxiously, then covertly; as for her husband, sometimes he jeered at her, sometimes he was ironically affectionate—so much depended on his mood.

Philip was a man of moods. He changed his plans from day to day, as he changed his mistresses. If he had held a place less prominent in world politics this would have been of less importance; as it was he was becoming noted for his inconsequential ways, and this was dangerous in a son of Maximilian. There was no ruler in Europe who did not view him with disquiet. Yet, he was one of the most powerful men in Europe on account of his position; he knew it. It delighted him. He loved power, whether it was in politics or in his affairs with women.

He came on deck to stand beside his wife.

How mad she looks! he thought, and he was exultant. He would exact complete obedience or he would have her put away. It would be no lie to say: “I must keep her in safe custody. Alas, my wife is a madwoman.”

Yet there were times when it was necessary to say: “Oh no, she is not mad. A little impulsive, a little hysterical, but that is not madness.”

This was one of the latter occasions, because he was going to claim her Crown of Castile. The people of Spain would never accept the son of Maximilian as their ruler; they would only accept the husband of their Queen Isabella’s daughter, Juana, who was now herself Queen of Castile.

Juana turned to look at him, and that soft, yearning look which sometimes amused, sometimes sickened him, came into her eyes.

How beautiful he is! she thought. The wind had brought a richer color to his cheeks, which were always rosy; his long golden hair fell to his shoulders; his features were like those of a Greek god; his blue eyes sparkled with health and the joy of living. He was not tall, nor was he short; he was slim and he moved with grace. The title of Philip the Handsome, by which he was known, had not been given out of idle flattery.

“The wind is rising,” she said, but her expression said something else, as it always did when he was near her. It implored him to stay with her every hour of the day and night, it betrayed the fact that she was only happy when he was with her.

Philip turned to her suddenly and gripped her wrist. She felt the pain of this, but he was often cruel to her and she welcomed his cruelty. She was happier when he laid his hands on her—no matter how brutally—than when he reserved his affection or anger for others.

“I anticipate trouble with that sly old fox, your father.”

She winced. She was, after all, Isabella’s daughter, and Isabella had taught her children the importance of filial duty. Even in wild Juana, besotted as she was by her desire for this cruelly wayward husband, the influence of the great Isabella still persisted.

“I doubt not that he will be pleased to see us,” she began.

“Pleased? I’ll tell you what, my dear wife: He’s hoping we shall perish at sea. He’s hoping that he can take our son Charles under his guidance and rule Castile and Aragon as the boy’s Regent. That’s what Ferdinand hopes. And we are in his way.”

“It cannot be so. He is my father. He loves me.”

Philip laughed. “That’s your foolish woman’s reasoning. Your father never loved anything but crowns and ducats.”

“Philip, when we are in Castile, don’t put me away. Let me stay with you.”

He put that handsome head on one side and smiled at her sardonically. “That depends on you, my dear. We cannot show a madwoman to the people of Castile.”

“Philip, I am not mad.… I am not mad…not when you’re kind to me. If you would only be affectionate to me. If there were no other women…”

“Ah,” Philip mocked. “You ask too much.” Then he began to laugh and laid an arm about her shoulder. Immediately she clung to him, her feverish fingers tearing at his doublet: He looked at her with distaste and, turning from her to stare at the heaving water, he said: “This time, you will obey me. There shall be nothing like that Conchillos affair again, eh?”

Juana began to tremble.

“You have forgotten that little matter?” went on Philip. “You have forgotten that, when your father sought to become Regent of Castile, you were persuaded by that traitor, Conchillos, to sign a letter approving of your father’s acts?”

“I did it because you were never with me. You did not care what became of me. You spent all your time with that big Flemish woman…”

“So you turned traitor out of jealousy, eh? You said to yourself, I will serve my father, and if that means I am the enemy of my husband, what do I care?”

“But I did care, Philip. If you had asked me I would never have signed it. I would have done everything you asked of me.”

“Yet you knew that by signing that letter you went against my wishes. You set yourself on the side of your father against me. You thought you would take a little revenge because I preferred another woman to you. Look at yourself sometimes, my Queen. Think of yourself, and then ask yourself why I should prefer to spend my nights with someone else.”

“You are cruel, Philip. You are too cruel.…”

He gripped her arm, and again she bore the pain. She thought fleetingly: it will be bruised tomorrow. And she would kiss those bruises because they were the marks made by his fingers. Let him be cruel, but never let him leave her.

“I ask you to remember what happened,” said Philip quietly. “Conchillos was put into a dungeon. What became of him there I do not know. But it was just reward, was it not, my cherished one, for a man who would come between a husband and his wife. As for my little Queen, my perfidious Juana, you know what happened to her. I had her put away. I said: My poor wife is suffering from delusions. She has inherited her madness from her mad grandmother, the old lady of Arevalo. It grieves me that I must shut her away from the world for a while. Remember. You are free again. You may be a sane woman for a while. You may go to Castile and claim your crown. But take care that you do not find yourself once more shut away from the world.”

“You use me most brutally, Philip.”

“Remember it,” he murmured, “and be warned by it.”

He turned then and left her, and she looked after him longingly. With what grace he walked! He was like a god come to Earth from some pagan heaven. She wished she could control her desire for him; but she could not; it swamped all her emotions, all her sense. She was ready to jettison pride, dignity, decency—everything that her mother had taught her was the heritage of a Princess of Spain—all these she would cast aside for a brief ecstatic hour of Philip’s undivided attention.

THERE WAS DISASTER ABOARD. A few hours before, when they had sailed into the English Channel, there had been a strange calm on the sea and in the sky which had lasted almost an hour; then suddenly the wind rose, the sky darkened and the storm broke.

Juana left her cabin; the wind pulled at her gown and tore her hair from the headdress. She laughed; she was not afraid. There was no one on board who feared death less than she did.

“We shall die together,” she shouted. “He cannot leave me now. I shall be by his side; I shall wrap my arms about him and we shall go to meet Death together…together at last.”

Two of her women came to her; they believed that a fit of madness was about to take possession of her. It seemed understandable. Everyone on board ship was terrified and fearful that they would never reach Castile.

“Highness,” they said, “you should be at your prayers.”

She turned to them, her eyes wide and wild. “I have prayed so much,” she said quietly, “and my prayers have rarely been answered. I prayed for love. It was denied me. So why should I pray for life?”

The women exchanged glances. There is no doubt, said those looks, the madness is near.

One of them whispered: “Your mother would wish you to pray if she were here.”

Juana was silent and they knew that she was thinking of Queen Isabella.

“I must do what she would wish,” she murmured as though to herself. Then she shouted: “Come, help me dress. Find my richest gown and put it on me. Then bring me a purse of gold pieces.”

“Your richest dress, Highness,” stammered one of the women.

“That is what I said. My richest dress and gold which shall be strapped to my body. When I am washed up on some distant shore I would not have them say: ‘Here is a woman done to death by the sea’ but ‘Here is a Queen!’ That is what my mother would wish. I will write a note to say that the money is for my burial…a Queen’s burial. Come, why do you stand there? There may be little time left. We can scarcely hear ourselves speak now. We can scarcely keep upright. My dress…the purse…”

She was laughing wildly as they went to obey her.

IN HER CEREMONIAL GOWN, her purse strapped firmly to her waist, Juana stumbled to her husband’s cabin. She scarcely recognized Philip the Handsome in the pale-faced man who shouted orders in a high voice cracked with fear, while his attendants helped him into an inflated leather jacket. Where was the swaggering heir of Maximilian now? The fair hair was in disorder, there were smudges of fatigue under the blue eyes, and the beautiful mouth was petulant and afraid.

“Come,” screamed Philip. “Is this thing safe? Fasten it. Do you think we have hours to waste. At any minute…”

Even as he spoke there was a sudden cry of “Fire!” and an ominous flickering light rapidly lightened the darkness.

Juana, standing serene now in her rich garments, said in a voice much calmer than usual: “The ship is on fire.”

“On fire!” shouted Philip. “Put out the fire. Put out the fire. What will become of us!”

Don Juan Manuel, who was accompanying the royal party to Spain, said quietly: “All that can be done is being done, Highness.”

“Where are the rest of the ships? Are they standing by?”

“Highness, we have lost the rest of the ships. The storm has scattered them.”

“Then what is to be done? We are doomed.”

No one answered, and then Philip turned and looked into the face of his wife who stood beside him. They seemed in that moment to take measure of each other. She in her rich gown with the purse tied to her waist was calmly awaiting death. Philip, in his inflated leather garment which his attendants swore would keep him afloat in a rough sea, was afraid.

She laughed in his face. “We are together now, Philip,” she cried. “You cannot leave me now.”

Then she flung herself at his feet and embraced his knees. “I will cling to you,” she went on. “I will cling so closely that Death will not be able to separate us.”

Philip did not answer; he remained still, looking down at her; and it seemed to some who watched them that he found comfort in her arms which were about him.

She became tender and astonishingly calm, as though she realized that his fear made it necessary for her to be the strong one now.

“Why, Philip,” she said, “whoever heard of a King’s being drowned? There was never a King who was drowned.”

Philip closed his eyes as though he could not bear to contemplate the signs of impending disaster. His hand touched the leather garment on which the words “The King, Don Philip” had been painted in huge letters. He who had been so vital had never thought of death. He was not yet thirty years of age, and life had given him so much. It was only Juana whose mind often led her into strange paths, only Juana, who had suffered deeply, who could look death in the face with a smile which was not without welcome.

He heard her voice shouting amid the tumult: “I am hungry. Is it not time we ate? Bring me a box with something to eat.”

One of the men went off to do her bidding while she remained smiling, her arms about her trembling husband’s knees.

THE FIRE WAS NOW under control, thanks to the almost superhuman efforts of the crew. The ship was listing badly, and with the coming of day it was seen that land was close at hand.

Philip cried out in relief, shouting that they must make for dry land with all speed.

Don Juan Manuel was at his side. “This is England,” he said. “If we land, we put ourselves in the hands of the Tudor.”

“What else could we do?” demanded Philip. “Is the Tudor more to be feared than a grave in the ocean bed?”

Don Juan admitted that until their ship was repaired they would have little hope of reaching Spain.

Philip spread his hands. The sight of land had restored his good spirits, because in his youthful arrogance he believed himself capable of handling the Tudor King; and it was only death that terrified him.

“We’ll make for the shore with all speed,” he said.

So at last into the shallow harbor of Melcombe Regis came the battered ship carrying Juana and Philip. The people all along the coast as far as Falmouth had seen that a fleet of ships was in distress, and they were unsure as to whether these ships belonged to friends or enemies.

They gathered on the beaches, brandishing bows and arrows and their farming implements; and when Philip and Juana came into Melcombe Regis harbor they found a crowd of uncertain English men and women waiting for them.

The ship’s company had gathered on the deck, and for some moments the people ashore believed that the strangers had come to attack them, for their pleas for help were unintelligible.

Then a young man, obviously of the gentry, pushed himself to the front of the crowd on the quay and shouted to the people on deck in French: “Who are you? And why do you come here?”

The answer came: “We are carrying The Archduke and Duchess of Austria, King and Queen of Castile, who were on their way to Spain and have been wrecked on your shores.”

That was enough. A stout, red-faced man came to stand beside the young man who had spoken in French.

“Tell them,” he said, “that they must accept my hospitality. Let them come ashore and rest awhile in my house while I inform the King’s Grace of their arrival.”

Thus Philip and Juana landed in England, and while they were given a sample of lavish English hospitality in the manor house of Sir John Trenchard in Melcombe Regis, close by Weymouth, couriers rode to Court to inform the King of the arrival of the royal pair.

HOW PLEASANT IT WAS to be on dry land, and how generous was the hospitality bestowed upon the party by Sir John Trenchard and his household.

Juana and Philip were introduced to the comforts of an English manor house. Fires roared in enormous open fireplaces; great joints of meat turned on the kitchen spits and from the kitchens came the smell of baking.

Philip was happy to relax, and so delighted to be on terra firma that, for a few days, he was kind to Juana, who was accordingly filled with bliss.

News came that other ships of their fleet had found refuge along the coast as far west as Falmouth. Some were not damaged beyond repair and could in a short time put to sea again.

This was comforting news, for when the storm had abated the weather was mild and the seas so calm that Don Juan Manuel was eager to continue with the journey.

Sir John Trenchard was bluffly indignant when this was suggested.

Nay, he declared. He’d not allow it. He would not be denied the honor of offering a little more entertainment to his distinguished guests. Why, his King would never forgive him if he let them go. It would seem churlish.

Don Juan Manuel understood.

“He is waiting for instructions from Henry,” he told Philip. “I doubt that the King of England will allow you to go until there has been a meeting.”

“I see no reason why there should not be a meeting,” retorted Philip. “Although if I wished to go, nothing would deter me.”

“The King of England might. Who knows, there might be an army approaching now to detain you.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Because you are in his country, and here he is all-powerful. It would be easier if you stayed here awhile as a guest rather than as a prisoner.”

“I should like to see my sister Catalina,” said Juana. “How strange that a little while ago she wanted to arrange a meeting. Now the storm may have done that for us.”

Philip studied his wife. She was in one of her sane periods at this time. The ordeal at sea had calmed her while it had distressed others. None would guess now that the seed of madness lurked in her.

“Then,” said Philip, “we must perforce enjoy English hospitality a little longer. And I have no fears of a meeting with the King of England. Indeed there is much I would like to discuss with him.”

Juan Manuel lowered his eyes. There were times when he was afraid of and for his reckless master.

Philip was aware of Juan Manuel’s apprehension, and it amused him. He was going to make all his servants understand that he and he alone would make decisions as to policy. Seeing Juana quite normal now, Queen of Castile, Philip made up his mind that when he met Henry he would do so in his own right. He would meet him as the Archduke Philip, heir to Maximilian, not as the consort of the Queen of Castile, although of course it was Castile he wished to discuss with Henry. He was going to attempt to win Henry’s support against Ferdinand; and as Juana, in her sudden return to sanity, might remember that Ferdinand was her father, it would be well for him to go on ahead of Juana to meet the King of England.

NEWS FROM HENRY CAME quickly to Melcombe Regis. He would not allow his guests to leave England until they had talked together. He was delighted to have such august visitors, and he was sending an escort to bring them to Windsor, where he and the Prince of Wales would be waiting to receive them.

Philip was delighted when he saw the magnificence of the cavalcade which had been sent to take him to Windsor, but Don Juan Manuel and his more sober advisers were apprehensive, They knew that it was useless to caution their headstrong master. To do so might make him more reckless than ever.

Juana came to her husband as he stood by a window looking out on the brilliantly caparisoned horses which were waiting below.

“And they say,” cried Philip, “that Henry is a mean man.”

“He has certainly treated my sister with great meanness,” replied Juana.

Philip looked pleased. The King of England was mean to the daughter of Ferdinand but eager to shower honors on the son of Maximilian.

Then he remembered that part of this show was for another of Ferdinand’s daughters, and that this was his wife, the Queen of Castile.

“I look forward to the journey,” went on Juana. “It will be pleasant to see this country which is now Catalina’s. And what joy to see her at the end of the journey! My poor Catalina, her letters were often sad.”

“Juana,” said Philip, “I am most solicitous for your comfort.”

A smile of happiness touched her lips and she gazed at him ardently. “Oh Philip,” she murmured, “you need have no fear for me. I only have to be with you to be happy.”

He gently unlaced her clinging fingers which were on his arm.

“I must travel with all speed to Windsor,” he said. “You shall follow at a slower pace.”

“You mean…you will go without me!” Her voice was shrill.

“I would not submit you to the hazards of rapid travel. You shall come slowly and with dignity.”

“Why, why?” she screamed. “I have faced the dangers of the sea with you. What hazards would there be on the road? You shall not be rid of me. I know full well why you seek to escape me. There is that woman…”

“Be silent,” he said sharply. “You weary me with your eternal jealousies.”

“Then remove the cause of my jealousy.”

“I should die of boredom, which I believe would be more tiresome than death by drowning.”

“You are so cruel,” she complained pathetically.

“You will do as I say,” he told her.

“Why should I? Am I not the Queen? But for me, Castile would never be for you.”

“So you boast once more of the titles you have brought me. Have I not paid dearly for them? Do I not have to endure you also?”

“Philip, I shall come with you.”

“You will do as I say. Do you want me to have you put away again?”

“You cannot do it.”

“Can I not? I did it before. Why should I not do it again? All know that you are mad. You make no secret of the fact. You shall say a wifely farewell to me and I will go on ahead of you. You will be calm and follow me. You will travel the same road, but some days after me. Is that such hardship?”

“It is always hardship not to be with you.”

He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched hard.

He said: “If you do as I say, I will promise to be a loving husband to you this night.”

“Philip…” She could not quench the longing in her voice.

“Only if,” he went on, “you promise to say a nice, pleasant, calm farewell to me on the morrow.”

“It is bribery,” she said. “It is not the first time. You give me as a concession that which is mine by right, and always you demand a price for it.”

He laughed at her. He was so sure of his power over her. He would spend his last night at Melcombe Regis with her, and in the morning he would leave her behind while he rode on to Windsor to meet the King of England.

WINDSOR LOOKED PLEASANT to Katharine that winter’s day. She was pleased now that she had left Durham House and was at Court. It would be wonderful to see Juana again, to whisper confidences, to recall the old days and perhaps to explain the difficulties of her position here in England.

With her maids of honor ranged about her she was at the window, waiting for the first signs of the cavalcade.

“I wonder if I shall recognize her,” murmured Katharine. “She will have changed since I saw her, doubtless.”

“It is long since she went to Flanders,” Maria de Salinas reminded her.

Katharine thought of that day, nearly ten years ago, when Juana had set out for Flanders. She remembered the sadness of her mother who had accompanied Juana to Laredo, and how Isabella had returned to find that her own mother—so like Juana in her wildness—was dying in the Castle of Arevalo.

It was all so long ago. What resemblance would Juana, Queen of Castile, bear to that high-spirited, wayward girl who had gone into Flanders to marry Philip the Handsome?

She looked at her maids of honor, but their expressions were blank and she knew that they were thinking of the wild stories they had heard of her sister—how she had bound one of her husband’s mistresses and cut off her long golden hair, how she had thought herself to be a prisoner at Medina del Campo and had escaped from her apartments and refused to return, spending the bitterly cold night out of doors in her night attire. Uneasy rumors of Juana’s conduct continued to come from Flanders.

When I see her, thought Katharine, she will talk to me of her life; I shall be able to comfort her as she will comfort me.

So there she waited, and when the fanfares of trumpets heralded the arrival of the cavalcade, and the King and the Prince of Wales went down to the courtyard to receive the guests, Katharine saw the fair and handsome Philip, but she looked in vain for her sister.

She stood at her window watching the greetings between the royal parties. Surely Juana must be there. She was in England with Philip. Why was she not with him now?

Soon she herself would be expected to descend and greet the guests of the King; but she must wait until summoned; she must remember that there were many at the Court of greater importance than she was.

She gazed at her brother-in-law. He was indeed a handsome man. How haughty he looked, determined to stand as the equal of the King of England; and as he greeted him, by very comparison Henry VII of England seemed more aged and infirm than usual.

But there was the Prince of Wales—already taller than Philip himself—the golden Prince, even more arrogant than Philip, even more certain of his right to the center of the stage.

Katharine could never look upon the Prince of Wales unmoved, and even at such a time as this she temporarily forgot Juana, because she must wonder whether or not that disturbing boy would eventually be her husband.

She heard her maids of honor whispering together.

“But how strange this is! What can have happened to the Queen of Castile?”

THOSE WERE UNEASY DAYS at Windsor for Philip’s followers—not so for Philip; he was determined to enjoy the lavish hospitality. It was a pleasure to show his skill at hunting and hawking in the forests of Windsor; he liked to ride through the straggling street which was the town of Windsor, and to see the women at their windows, or pausing in the street, as he passed, all with those looks and smiles which he was accustomed to receive from women everywhere. He liked to sit in the great dining hall on the King’s right hand and sample the various English dishes, to listen to the minstrels, to watch the baiting of bears, horses and mastiffs.

He did not know that the King of England only entertained on such a lavish scale when he hoped to profit from doing so.

Glorious days these were, and Philip was in no hurry to leave for Spain. He had met his sister-in-law, poor little Katharine, who seemed to be somewhat ill-used by this wily old Tudor. The girl was dull, he thought; too melancholy, lacking in the gaiety which he liked to find in women. She was shabby compared with the other Court ladies; he had little interest in her.

On the rare occasions when they met she persistently questioned him about Juana. Why was Juana not with him? Why did they not travel together?

“Ah,” he had replied, “I came with all speed on the King’s express desire. I did not wish to subject Juana to such a tiring journey.”

“Would she not have preferred to travel with you?”

“I have to be firm with her. I have to consider her health.”

Katharine did not trust him, and more than ever she longed to see her sister.

Meanwhile the King was making headway with Philip.

There was, sheltering in Burgundy under the protection of Maximilian, a cousin of that Earl of Warwick whom Henry had executed because of his claim to the throne; this cousin was Edmund de la Pole who called himself Duke of Suffolk; and, while such a man lived, Henry could not feel entirely secure. His great aim was to eliminate all those who laid claim to the throne and, with Edmund de la Pole skulking on the Continent, he could never be sure when the man might land in England and seek to take the Crown from him. He remembered his own days of exile and how he had lain in wait for the opportune moment to rise and snatch the throne for himself.

He was subtle in his dealing with Philip, and Philip had not learned subtlety. It was gratifying to the King of England that he had such an arrogant young man to deal with, for this made the way so much easier than if it had been necessary to bargain with Philip’s wiser ministers.

He knew what Philip wanted from him: help against Ferdinand. Well, reasoned the King of England, that sly old fox Ferdinand was ever an enemy of mine.

Henry was finding Philip’s visit stimulating, and he was enjoying it as much as his rheumatism would allow him to enjoy anything.

Henry was eager that there should be a commercial treaty with Flanders and this he obtained—making sure that it should be very advantageous to England.

It was not so easy to bring about the expulsion of Edmund de la Pole, but slyly and subtly Henry reminded Philip that he was held a prisoner in England—by the weather. But Philip knew that there was a veiled threat in the words; and even he did not see how they could leave England if Henry did not wish them to do so.

So de la Pole was thrown to the King, and Henry blessed that storm which had cast this incautious young man upon his shores.

“This is indeed a happy day,” he cried. “See, we have come to two agreements already. We have a commercial treaty between our two countries, and you have agreed to give me the traitor, de la Pole. It was a happy day when you came to visit us.”

Happy for England, thought Juan Manuel; and he was already wondering how soon the fleet of ships, which were now assembling at Weymouth, could be ready to put to sea. He hoped it would be before the rash Philip had made more concessions to his wily host.

“Let us make even happier arrangements,” went on the King of England. “It is the maxim of your House that it is better to wed than to war. If you will give me your sister Margaret I shall be a happy man.”

“There is none to whom I would rather give her,” answered Philip.

“And the Emperor?”

“My father and I are of one mind in this matter.”

“A speedy marriage would please me greatly.”

“A speedy marriage there shall be,” answered Philip. He did not mention that his sister had loudly protested against a match with the old King of England and that, since she had been twice married and twice widowed and was now Duchess of Savoy, she could not be forced against her will into a marriage which was unattractive to her.

But Philip would say nothing of this. How could he, to a man who might be his host but was also to some extent his jailer?

To discuss the marriage of the King’s daughter Mary to Charles was a pleasant enough occupation. That marriage, if it ever took place, would occur far in the future when Philip would be miles away from England. The Prince of Wales’ marriage to Philip’s daughter Eleanor would not, if it ever came about, be so far distant. It was very pleasant to discuss it, although Henry was on dangerous ground, thought Philip, when he talked of marrying to Juana’s daughter a son who had already been promised to her sister.

Well, Juana had no say in these matters.

KATHARINE IN HER apartments in the Castle was being prepared by her ladies for the entertainment in the great hall.

They were sighing, all of them, because they had no new gowns, and even the one Katharine must wear had been mended.

“How shall we look?” wailed Francesca. “The Archduke will be ashamed of us.”

“Perhaps he will be sorry for us,” put in Maria de Salinas.

“I do not think he would ever be sorry for anyone,” Maria de Rojas countered.

Katharine listened to their chatter. Poor Juana, she thought. How strange that you are not here with us!

She watched them putting the jewels in her hair.

“This brooch will cover the thin part of the bodice,” said Maria de Salinas.

It was incongruous to have a great ruby covering a threadbare bodice. But then, thought Katharine, my whole life has been incongruous since I came to England.

“I wonder if the Prince of Wales will dance,” said Francesca, “and with whom.”

Katharine felt their eyes upon her and she tried not to show her embarrassment; the strangest part of all was not to know whether she was seriously affianced to the Prince of Wales. He would soon be fifteen and it was on his fifteenth birthday that they were to have been married.

If that day comes and goes, and I am still a widow, Katharine pondered, I shall know that Henry is not intended for me.

The Princess Mary came into the apartment, carrying her lute, at which she had become very skilful.

“I hope,” she said, “that I shall be able to play to the company tonight.”

How eagerly they sought the attention of the crowd, these Tudors, mused Katharine.

Mary was a beautiful girl, now about ten years old, wilful, wayward but so fascinating that even the King’s face softened when he looked at her; and, when he was irritable with her, all knew that his rheumatism must be particularly painful.

“They will surely ask you to do so,” Katharine assured her.

“I hope I may play while Henry dances. I should like that.”

“Doubtless you will if you ask that you may.”

“I shall ask,” said Mary. “Did you know that we are to return to Richmond on the eleventh?”

“Indeed no. I had not heard.”

“You are to return with me. It is my father’s order.”

Katharine felt numb with disappointment. Each day she had waited for the arrival of Juana. It was now the eighth of the month, and if she left on the eleventh she had only three more days in which to wait for her sister—and even if she came now they would have only a short time together.

She said nothing. It was no use protesting. At least she had learned the folly of that.

Oh, let her come soon, she prayed. Then she began to wonder why Juana was not with them and what mystery this was surrounding her sister who was Queen of Castile and yet was lacking in authority. Why, Juana had taken the place of their mother, and none would have dared dictate to Isabella what she must do—not even Ferdinand.

In the great hall that day there was feasting, and Katharine danced the Spanish dances with some of her women. The women enjoyed it; and Francesca in particular was very gay. After this, thought Katharine, they will long more than ever to return to Spain.

Mary played the lute while her father watched her fondly, and Prince Henry danced vigorously to loud applause. When he returned to his seat his eyes were on Katharine. Was she applauding as loudly as the rest?

He seemed satisfied; and Katharine noticed throughout the evening that his eyes were often fixed upon her, brooding, speculating.

She wondered what he was thinking; but she soon forgot to wonder. Her thoughts continually strayed to Juana and she was asking herself: What is this mystery in my sister’s life? Is she deliberately being kept from me?

ON THE TENTH of February, one day before that on which, at the King’s command, Katharine was due to leave with the Princess Mary, Juana arrived at Windsor.

She was carried into the castle in her litter, and Katharine was among those who waited to receive her.

Katharine looked in dismay at the woman her sister had become. Could that be young Juana, the gay—too gay—girl who had left Spain to marry this man who now obsessed her? Her hair was lustreless, her great eyes were melancholy; it seemed that all that vitality which had been so much a part of her had disappeared.

She was received with ceremony. First the King took her hand and kissed it; then the Prince of Wales bowed low in greeting.

“We have missed you at our revels,” said Henry.

Juana could not understand, but she smiled graciously.

Then Katharine was face to face with her sister. She knelt before her not forgetting, even at such a moment, that she was in the presence of the Queen of Castile.

Then the sisters looked into each other’s faces and both were astonished at what they saw. Juana’s little sister had become a tragic woman, no less than she had herself.

“Juana…oh, how happy I am to see you at last!” whispered Katharine.

“My sister! Why, you are no longer a child.”

“I am a widow now, Juana.”

“My poor, sweet sister!”

That was all. There were others to be greeted; there were the formalities to be considered; but even while these were in progress Katharine noticed how hungrily her sister’s eyes followed the debonair figure of her husband, and she thought: What torture it must be to love a man as Juana loves him!

How brief was the time they could spend together. Had it been arranged, Katharine wondered, that her sister should arrive the day before she was to leave for Richmond, so that they might have a glimpse of each other and nothing more?

Yet at last when they were alone together Katharine was conscious of the rapid passing of time. She wanted to hold it back. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask that she, in fear of not having time to say half, was temporarily unable to think of any of them.

Juana was not helpful; she sat silent as though she were far away from the Castle at Windsor.

“Juana,” cried Katharine desperately, “you are unhappy. Why, my sister? Your husband is in good health and you love him dearly. You are Queen of Castile. Are you unhappy, Juana, because you can only be Queen of Castile since our mother is no more?”

“He loves me,” said Juana in a low melancholy voice, “because I am Queen of Castile.” Then she laughed, and Katharine was filled with uneasiness by the sound of that laughter. “If I were not Queen of Castile he would throw me out into the streets to beg my bread tomorrow.”

“Oh, Juana, surely he is not such a monster.”

She smiled. “Oh yes, he is a monster…the handsomest, finest monster that the world ever knew.”

“You love him dearly, Juana.”

“He is my life. Without him I should be dead. There is nothing in the world for me…except him.”

“Juana, our mother would not have you say such things, or think such thoughts. You are the Queen even as she was. She would expect you to love Castile, to work for Castile, as she did. She loved us dearly; she loved our father; but Castile came first.”

“So it would be with Philip. He will love Castile.”

“He is not master in Castile. Even our father was not that. You know how our mother always ruled, never forgetting for one moment that she was the Queen.”

“It is the women,” sighed Juana. “How I hate women. And in particular golden-haired women…big-breasted, big-hipped. That is the Flanders women, Catalina. How I loathe them! I could tear them all apart. I would throw them to the soldiers…the lowest of the soldiers…and say: They are the true enemies of the Queen of Castile.”

“Our father was not always faithful to our mother. It grieved her, I know. But she did not let it interfere with the affection she bore him.”

“Our mother! What did she know of love?”

“She knew much of love. Do you not remember her care for us? I verily believe that, when we left her, she suffered even more than we did.”

“Love!” cried Juana. “What do you know of love? I mean love like this which I have for him. There is nothing like it, I tell you.” Juana had stood up; she began beating her hands against her stiffly embroidered bodice. “You cannot understand, Catalina. You have never known it. You have never known Philip.”

“But why are you so unhappy?”

“Do you not know? I thought the whole world knew. Because of those others. They are always there. How many women have shared his bed since he came to England? Do you know? Of course you do not. Even he will have forgotten.”

“Juana, you distress yourself.”

“I am in continual distress…except when he is with me. He says he does his duty. I am often pregnant. I am happiest when I am not, because he always remembers that I should become so.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Juana, please do not talk so.”

“How else should I talk? He went on in advance of me. Can you guess why? Because there were women with whom he wished to amuse himself. I tell you, I hate women…I hate…hate…hate women.”

Juana had begun to rock herself to and fro, and Katharine was afraid her shouts would be heard in those apartments of the Castle near her own.

She tried to soothe her sister; she put her arms about her, and Juana immediately clung to her, rocking Katharine with her.

“Why, Juana,” whispered Katharine, “you are distraught. Would you like to lie on your bed? I would sit beside it and talk to you.”

Juana was silent for a while, and then she cried out: “Yes. Let it be so.”

Katharine took her sister’s arm and together they went to Juana’s bedchamber. Some of her attendants were waiting there, and Katharine knew from their expression that they were prepared for anything to happen.

“The Queen wishes to rest,” said Katharine. “You may go. I will look after her.”

The women retired, leaving the sisters together, and Katharine realized that Juana’s mood had changed once more. Now she had sunk into melancholy silence.

“Come,” said Katharine, “lie down. Your journey must have been very tiring.”

Still Juana did not answer but allowed herself to be led to the bed and covered with the embroidered coverlet.

Katharine sat by the bed and reached out for the white ringed hand. She held it, but there was no response to her tenderness from the hand which lay listlessly in hers.

“There is so much we have to say to each other,” said Katharine. “You shall tell me your troubles and I shall tell you mine. Oh, Juana, now that I have seen you I know how wretched I have been in England. Imagine my position here. I am unwanted. When our mother was alive I longed to return to Spain. Now that she is gone I do not know what I want. I do not understand the King of England. His plans change abruptly, and a marriage is planned one day and forgotten the next. You must see how poor I have become. Look at this dress.…”

She stood up and spread her skirt, but Juana was not even looking at her.

She went on: “I suppose my only hope is marriage with the Prince of Wales. If that should take place, at least I should be accorded the dignity due to my rank. But will it ever take place? He is much younger than I and they say he is to marry Marguerite of Angoulême, but the King has arranged something other with your husband.”

At the mention of Philip a faint smile touched Juana’s lips.

“They say he is the handsomest man in the world, and they do not lie.”

“He is indeed handsome, but it would have been better if he had been kind,” said Katharine quickly. “While you are here, Juana, cannot you do something to alleviate my poverty? If you would speak to King Henry…”

The door opened and Philip himself came into the room. He was laughing and his fair face was slightly flushed.

“Where is my wife?” he cried. “Where is my Queen?”

Katharine was surprised at the change which came over Juana. She had leaped from the bed, all melancholy gone.

“Here I am, Philip. Here I am.”

Without ceremony she flung herself into his arms. It nauseated Katharine to see her sister clinging to this man, who stood, his arms limp at his sides, while he looked over Juana’s head at Katharine.

“I see,” said Philip, “that you have an august visitor.”

“It is Catalina…only my little sister.”

“But I disturb you. And it is so long since you have met. I must leave you together.”

“Philip, oh Philip…do not go. It is so long since we have been alone together. Philip, stay now…”

Katharine stood up. She could bear no more.

“Pray give me leave to retire,” she said to her sister.

But Juana was not looking at her; she was breathless with desire and completely unaware of her sister’s presence.

Philip smiled at her sardonically; and she saw that he was not displeased. Was he showing her how abject the Queen of Castile could become in her need for the comfort only he could give? Was he telling her that the present King of Castile would be very different from the previous one? Ferdinand had been a strong man, but his wife had been stronger. Juana would never be another Isabella of Castile.

Katharine went swiftly to her own apartments. What will become of her? she asked herself. What will become of us all?

So this was the meeting for which she had longed. There would be no time for more meetings, because she was to leave Windsor for Richmond tomorrow. There were no concessions for Katharine from the King of England, any more than there were for Juana, Queen of Castile, from her cruel careless husband, Philip the Handsome.

She did not even listen to what I was telling her, thought Katharine. She completely forgot my existence, the moment he entered the room.

THERE WAS LITTLE TO DO, with the Court at Richmond, but sit and embroider with her maids of honor and listen to their laments for Spain. The Princess Mary was with her often. She would sit at Katharine’s feet playing her lute, listening to her comments and being instructed by them, for Katharine herself excelled with the lute. Sometimes they sang together the old songs of Spain, but more often the songs of England. “For,” complained Mary, “your songs are sad songs.”

“They sound sad,” Katharine told her, “because I sing them in a strange land.”

Mary scarcely listened; she was too absorbed by her own affairs; but Katharine enjoyed the company of this light-hearted, beautiful child who was the favorite of everyone at Court.

She had seen nothing of the King or the Prince since she had left Windsor; she knew that the fleet of ships which had been in difficulties in the Channel were now being refitted and made ready for the journey to Spain. With the coming of spring they would sail away again.

I shall never see Juana again, thought Katharine. And if I did, what could we have to say to each other?

In April, Philip and Juana embarked at Weymouth and on a calm sea they set out for Spain.

Katharine remembered all the hopes that had come to her when Doña Elvira had first suggested such a meeting. How different the reality had been!

She knew, as she had never known before, that she was alone, and her future lay not with her own people but the English rulers.

Philip and Ferdinand Meet

NEWS WAS BROUGHT TO FERDINAND THAT HIS SON-IN-LAW had landed at Corunna.

This was disquieting news. Ferdinand knew he had good reason to mistrust Philip and that his son-in-law’s intention was to drive him out of Castile, become King himself and reduce Ferdinand to nothing but a petty monarch of Aragon.

This Ferdinand would fight against with all his might.

He was not an old man, he reminded himself. He felt younger than he had for many years. This was doubtless due to the fact that he had acquired a new wife, his beautiful Germaine.

Many eyebrows had been raised when Germaine had arrived at Dueñas, close by Valladolid, for there, thirty-seven years before, he had come in disguise from Aragon for his marriage to Isabella.

There were many people in Castile who looked upon Isabella as a saint, and they were deeply shocked that Ferdinand should consider replacing her; and to do so by a young and beautiful girl seemed double sacrilege; moreover as any fruit of the union might result in the breaking up of Spain into two kingdoms, this was not a popular marriage.

Ferdinand was realizing how much of his popularity he had owed to Isabella. Yet he had lost none of his ambition; and he was ready enough to end his six weeks’ honeymoon with the entrancing Germaine in order to go forward and meet Philip, to match his son-in-law’s rashness with his own experience and cunning.

There was one man in Spain whom he heartily disliked but who, he knew, was the country’s most brilliant statesman. This man was Ximenes, whom, against Ferdinand’s advice, Isabella had created Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain. Ferdinand summoned Ximenes to his presence and Ximenes came.

There was a faint contempt in the ascetic face, which Ferdinand guessed meant that the Archbishop was despising the bridegroom. This was a marriage which would seem unholy to Ximenes, and when he received him Ferdinand was conscious of a rising indignation. But he calmed himself. Ferdinand had learned to subdue his hot temper for the sake of policy.

“You have heard the news, Archbishop?” he asked when the Archbishop had greeted him in his somewhat superior manner, which Ferdinand thought implied that he, Ximenes, was the ruler.

“I have indeed, Highness.”

“Well?”

“It will be necessary to walk carefully. There should be a meeting between you and the Archduke, and it should be a peaceful one.”

“Will he agree to this?”

“He will if he is wise.”

“He is young, Archbishop. Wisdom and youth rarely go together.”

“Wisdom and age mate almost as rarely,” replied the Archbishop.

That allusion to the marriage made the hot blood rush to Ferdinand’s cheeks. He had often advised Isabella to send the insolent fellow back to his hermit’s cell. But he was too useful. He was too clever. And he was ready to devote that usefulness and cleverness to Spain.

“What in your opinion should be done in the matter?” asked Ferdinand shortly.

The Archbishop was silent for a while; then he said: “As husband of the Reina Proprietaria, Philip has a stronger claim to the Regency than Your Highness. Yet since you are a ruler of great experience and this is a young man who has had a greater experience of light living than of serious government, it might be that the grandees of Spain would prefer to see you as Regent rather than your son-in-law.”

“And you would support my claim?”

“I would consider Your Highness the more likely to do good for Spain, and for that reason I would give you my support.”

Ferdinand was relieved. Much depended on the Archbishop. It was fortunate that Philip’s reputation for licentious behavior had travelled ahead of him; it would not serve him well with Ximenes.

“Philip is now in Galicia,” said Ferdinand. “It will take a little time for us to meet; and in the meantime, I understand that many of the grandees are flocking to him, to welcome him to Spain.”

Ximenes nodded. “I fear the recent marriage has not endeared Your Highness to many of the late Queen’s subjects.”

“She would not have wished me to remain unmarried.”

“One of her most proud achievements was the union of Castile and Aragon under one crown.”

Ferdinand’s brows were drawn together in a frown and he needed a great deal of restraint not to send this insolent fellow about his own business. But this was his business. Ximenes was Primate of Spain and he was not a man to diverge from what he considered his duty, no matter whom he upset by doing it. Such a man would go cheerfully to the stake for his opinions.

One should rejoice in him, thought Ferdinand grudgingly. He seeks no honors for himself. He thinks only of Spain; and because he believes I shall make a better Regent than Philip he will support me.

“There must be a speedy meeting between Your Highness and your sonin-law.”

“Should I go cap in hand, across a country which I have ruled, to implore audience of this young man who has no right to be here except for the fact that he is married to my daughter?”

Ximenes was silent for a few seconds; then he said: “I myself could go to him as your emissary. I could arrange this meeting.”

Ferdinand studied the gaunt figure of the Archbishop in those magnificent robes of office which he wore carelessly and under protest. It was only an order from the Pope which had made him put on such vestments, and Ferdinand knew that beneath them he would be wearing the hair shirt, and the rough Franciscan robe. Such a man would surely overawe any—even such as Philip the Handsome.

Ferdinand knew he could trust this affair in such hands. He was greatly relieved and it occurred to him in that moment that Isabella had been right when she had insisted on giving this man the high office of Archbishop of Toledo, even though Ferdinand had wanted it for his illegitimate son.

It seemed that, now she was dead, Ferdinand was continually discovering how right Isabella had so often been.

IN THE VILLAGE of Sanabria, on the borders of Leon and Galicia, Ferdinand met Philip. Philip came at the head of a large force of well-armed troops, but Ferdinand brought with him only some two hundred of his courtiers riding mules. On the right hand of Philip rode Juan Manuel, but on the right hand of Ferdinand rode Ximenes.

The meeting was to take place in a church and, when Philip entered, only Juan Manuel accompanied him; and Ximenes was the sole companion of Ferdinand.

Ximenes studied the young man and found that he did not despise him as he had thought he would. Philip was not merely a philanderer and seeker after pleasure. There was ambition there also. The mind of this extraordinarily handsome young man was light, and he had never learned to concentrate on one subject for long. He had been born heir to Maximilian; and consequently all his life he had been petted and pampered. But there was material there, mused Ximenes, which could be molded by such as himself; once this young man had realized the brief satisfaction which the indulgence of his sensuality could bring him, a ruler of significance might emerge.

As for Ferdinand, he and Ximenes had never been friends. It was the Queen whom Ximenes had served from the time Isabella had brought him from his hermit’s hut until her death, when he had occupied the highest position in Spain; and although Ximenes had not—so he assured himself—ever sought such honors, since they were thrust upon him he had done all in his power to deserve them. The welfare of Spain was of the utmost importance to him. He would serve Spain with his life; and now he was ranged on the side of Ferdinand, and his great desire was to prevent civil strife between these two.

He did not like Juan Manuel—a troublemaker and a self-seeker, decided Ximenes. His presence would hamper the proceedings greatly, for it was clear to Ximenes that Philip relied on the man.

Ximenes turned to Juan Manuel and said: “Their Highnesses wish to speak in private. You and I should leave them for a while. Come.”

He took Juan Manuel’s arm and with him went from the church.

Juan Manuel was so overcome by the personality of this strange man that he obeyed without question; and when they were outside the church, Ximenes said: “Ah, but there should be someone to guard the door. It would not be well if their Highnesses were interrupted. As a man of the Church I will undertake this task. Return to your army and I will send for you immediately your presence is required.”

Juan Manuel hesitated, but when he looked into those deep-set eyes he felt that he was in the presence of a holy man and dared not disobey. So he left Ximenes, who returned to the church, which he entered, thus joining Philip and Ferdinand.

Ferdinand was asking Philip why his daughter had not accompanied her husband to this meeting place, for she was in truth the ruler of Castile; and Philip was explaining that his wife, alas, was not always in her right mind. There were occasions when she was lucid enough, but there were others when it was necessary to put her under restraint.

Ferdinand accepted this. It suited him, no less than Philip, that Juana should be at times sane and at others insane. Her unbalanced state was a matter which men such as her husband and father would use according to their needs.

It soon became clear that the advantages were all in Philip’s hands and he was not going to relinquish them. Juana was Queen of Castile; her son Charles was heir to the crowns both of Castile and Aragon. Therefore as husband of Juana and the father of the heir he had a greater right to govern Castile as Regent.

There was nothing Ferdinand could do about that and Ximenes was aware of this. Ferdinand must sign those documents required of him; he must surrender the entire sovereignty of Castile to Philip and Juana, and all that was left to him were the grand masterships of the military orders and those revenues which Isabella had left to him in her will.

Thus Ferdinand, in the village of Sanabria, lost all that he had so longed to hold. He was merely King of Aragon; and there was a Regent of Castile. It seemed as though the provinces were once more divided and Isabella’s dream of a united Spain might be in danger of destruction.

Ximenes agreed that this was the only course. In any case to have refused to accept it would have meant civil war in Spain, and that was unthinkable. The Archbishop therefore decided that it was his duty to attach himself to Philip. He did not trust the young man and he felt a great desire to guide him. Moreover, as Archbishop of Toledo his place was with the ruler of Castile. But he knew how Isabella would have been saddened by this scene in the church; and Ximenes was determined that he would watch the interests of Isabella’s husband.

As they came out of the church Ferdinand’s expression was enigmatic. Yet he did not look like an ambitious man who has signed away a kingdom.

The Mysterious Death of Philip

PHILIP WAS TRIUMPHANT. NOW HE WOULD RIDE INTO Valladolid and all should proclaim him as the ruler of Castile. As for Juana, he had determined to shut her away. He had long been wearied by her passion and possessiveness; Ferdinand had surrendered Castile. So why should he hesitate to go forward and take it; and since Juana was an encumbrance, why not rid himself of her by shutting her away as her grandmother had been shut away before her?

Philip usually acted on impulse, and he immediately called together the most influential noblemen of Castile, and when they were assembled he told them how concerned he was regarding his wife’s mental state.

“I have pondered this matter deeply, as you may well imagine,” he went on, “and it is my considered judgment that the Queen’s interests could best be served if she were allowed to live in retirement. My greatest desire is to do what is best for her, and on this account I ask you all to sign a declaration agreeing to her retirement into seclusion.”

There was silence among the nobles. They could not forget that the Queen was the daughter of the great Isabella and that this young man’s only claim to the crown was through his marriage with Juana and the fact that he was the father of Charles, the boy who would immediately become their King should Juana die.

Was it not possible, they asked themselves, that cunning men might trick them? Could they be sure that Juana was mad?

The Admiral of Castile, who was Ferdinand’s cousin, spoke for that faction which was in doubt.

“It would seem that, although the Queen’s mind is said to be at times deranged, there are many who declare her to be sane; and we must all remember that she is the true Queen of Castile and heir of Isabella. Before agreeing to such measures I should wish to have an interview with the Queen.”

Philip was nonplussed. He had no wish for Juana to come face to face with these men. How could he be sure of what she would say to them? He might threaten Juana or bribe her with offers of his company as he had on other occasions; but Juana was growing suspicious. If she were mad she was not without cunning. She guessed that he was considering putting her away, and that was something against which she would fight with all her strength.

But he dared not refuse to allow the Admiral to see the Queen.

JUANA LIFTED LEADEN EYES to the Admiral’s face. He was regarding her with kindness; he was trying to tell her that he was her cousin; that it grieved him to see Castile ruled by one who was not related to them except by his marriage to her.

“You have recently seen my father?” asked Juana at length.

“Yes, Highness. I said farewell to him but yesterday. That was at Tudela. He is now on his way to Aragon.”

“It seems so strange. I did not see him. It is so many years since I have seen him; yet I, his daughter, did not see him.”

“That is strange, Highness, and sad.”

Her eyes were melancholy.

“So much that is strange would seem to happen to me now,” she said sadly. “I should have been so happy to see my father, even though he has a new wife now and I cannot understand how he could have replaced my mother. But I should dearly have liked to see him again. God guard him always.”

“Highness, we of Castile wish to see you govern side by side with your husband.”

She nodded.

“That is the wish of us all. Our great Queen Isabella appointed you her heir. It was her wish that you should govern Castile with your husband beside you. But, as her daughter, you are our Queen.”

At the mention of her mother Juana’s expression lightened a little.

“It was her wish,” she said. “Here in Castile I recall the past so much more readily than I did in Flanders. It was her wish, was it not? And it is true that I am Queen of Castile.”

“It is true, Highness,” answered the Admiral.

When he left her he went to his friends and gave them his opinion.

“She seemed as lucid as one could wish. We must guard against ambitious men.”

THE KNOWLEDGE CAME to Juana one morning when she awoke after a restless night which she had spent alone.

He wants to be rid of me, she thought. He is planning to put me away.

Where had he spent the night? With one of his women doubtless. He had never considered her feelings, and he wanted her out of his sight. It was not because she was in the way of his having other women, but because he wanted her crown. He did not wish to be merely her consort. He wanted to rule alone.

She would not part with her crown. It was the one possession which made her desirable to him.

The dull melancholy had left her eyes. They sparkled with purpose. She would show him now that she was ready to fight, that she was not as stupid as he thought.

He came to her apartments, all smiles.

They were to make a solemn entry into Valladolid, and he dared not go without her. The people were suspicious of him; they wanted to see their Queen. They would not accept his word for her madness, but wanted to judge for themselves.

Ah, Philip, she thought, you may be master of Castile’s Queen but you are not yet master of Castile.

He took her hand and kissed it; how gracious he could be, how charming! She yearned to throw herself into his arms, but she was able to restrain herself because she kept thinking of the castle of Arevalo where her grandmother had lived out her clouded days.

Not for me! she wanted to shout. I am Queen of Castile and I will not allow you to put me away.

“Are you ready for the ceremony?” he asked.

“Ready,” she countered, “and determined to accompany you.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Are you, Philip? I thought you were hoping that you would go alone.”

“But why should you have such an idea?”

She smiled, saying nothing, and the quietness of her smile alarmed him. Could it be that he was losing his hold over her?

“I thought that in your condition…”

“But three months’ pregnant. That is nothing, Philip.”

He could scarcely bear to look at her, he was so dismayed. Now that he wished her to show her madness she was being perfectly restrained. She did not cling to him as he had become accustomed to her doing. She seemed almost aloof. It was that Admiral of Castile who had put notions into her head. He would have to go a little warily where she was concerned.

He put his arms about her and held her against him. “I am concerned for your health,” he said, and when he felt her body quiver a triumphant smile curved his lips. The old power was still there. She was fighting a desperate battle to resist it, but he was determined it should be a losing battle.

“Your concern is appreciated,” she said, “the more so because it is rare.”

“Oh come, Juana, you know how fond I am of you.”

“I did not know. Perhaps because your ways of showing it are so strange.”

“You have allowed yourself to be jealous…unnecessarily.”

“That was foolish of me,” she said. “Now that I am in Castile I remember so much my mother taught me. I hear that there are two banners. I should like to see them.”

“They shall be brought to you,” said Philip, hiding his chagrin. This new calmness, this undoubted sanity, was more disturbing than her madness, and he was going to strain every effort to have her put away because, if she persisted like this, he would find himself in a similar position to that endured by Ferdinand in his relationship with Isabella. That was something Philip would never endure.

But for the time he must act cautiously.

The banners were brought and Juana studied them. “But it would seem,” she said, “that there are two rulers of Castile. There is only one; that is the Queen.”

“Have you forgotten that I am your husband?” demanded Philip hotly.

“In the past you have forgotten that more readily than I have. My husband you are indeed; that is why you ride beside me as my consort. But there is only one ruler of Castile.”

What could he say? He was surrounded by strong men who would be ready to fly to her support against him. Philip had not believed this situation possible; but when they came to Valladolid, Juana rode as the Queen of Castile, and her companion was not the King but merely her consort.

Mounted on her white jennet, dressed in the sable robes of royalty, Juana delighted the people of Valladolid. They remembered that this was the daughter of their own Isabella; and their cheers were for their Queen.

PHILIP WAS DISSATISFIED. The Cortes had declared its allegiance to Queen Juana and had stated its willingness to accept Philip only as her consort.

Philip fumed with rage.

“The Queen is mad!” he cried. “She is not in the least like her mother. Sometimes I wonder who is the madder—the Queen or the people who insist on making her their ruler.”

The Admiral of Castile stood firm.

“I and many others with me will not allow this iniquitous deed to be done,” he said. “We shall never stand aside and see our Queen sent into seclusion that others may rule in her stead.”

Philip saw that it was no use expecting help from the Castilian nobles; he turned to his own supporters, the chief of whom was Juan Manuel, who saw that with Philip as ruler many rich pickings would fall into his hands. He was continually at Philip’s side and he assured him that in good time they would achieve their end, and Juana would be forced into retirement leaving the field clear for Philip.

Philip was lavishly generous to those whom he considered to be his friends, and recklessly he distributed revenues to them which should have gone to the maintenance of the state. Juan Manuel, on whom he relied as on no other, was becoming richer every week; but Juan was rapacious; he had been led to Philip’s side because he believed that Ferdinand had denied him the honors due to him, and he could not grasp enough.

He greatly desired the Alcazar of Segovia which was in the charge of the Marquis and Marchioness of Moya—the latter was that Beatriz de Bobadilla who had been Isabella’s greatest friend—and Philip, deciding that the Alcazar should be given to Juan Manuel as a reward for his fidelity, sent orders to the Marquis and Marchioness to leave the Alcazar immediately.

The command was delivered into the hands of the intrepid Beatriz de Bobadilla, who retorted that the Alcazar should be handed over to one person only, and that was Isabella’s daughter, Queen Juana.

Philip was furious when he heard this and sent troops ahead to take the Alcazar, while he himself prepared to follow them, Juana with him.

Juana’s resistance was beginning to break down. The effort of remaining calm had been too much for her. If she could have overcome her passionate need of Philip she could have continued in her calm restraint; but he was always there, always taunting her, understanding how she needed him and enjoying baiting her in this way. He was luring her to display her hysteria before the nobles of Castile who had declared her to be sane. She knew this, but she could not always fight against it. And when he mocked her, she wanted to throw herself into his arms, as she had done on so many previous occasions, and implore him to be a good and faithful husband to her.

“Philip,” she said, “why are you so eager to take the Alcazar of Segovia?”

“Because that insolent woman has denied it to us.”

“She is a formidable woman. I remember her in my childhood. She would even advise my mother.”

“She will see that we will brook none of her insolence.”

“Yet she was a good friend. Should you not leave her in peace out of respect to my mother?”

“I leave no one in peace to insult me.”

His mouth tightened and the newly realized fear came back to her.

“Why do you want the Alcazar of Segovia?”

He did not answer. “I know,” she cried. “It is because you want to make me a prisoner there. Segovia will be for me what Arevalo was to my grandmother. You are going to shut me away…away from the world. You are going to make them believe I am mad.”

Still he did not answer.

She went on wildly: “I will go no further. I will not be put away. I am not mad. I am the Queen. You wish to take my crown from me, but you shall not.”

Philip laid a hand on her jennet’s bridle, but she hit him. She heard his low, devilish laugh.

Now she was really alarmed; now she was certain that her premonition was true. He was going to imprison her in Segovia and announce to the world that she was no longer capable of living among ordinary people.

She slid down from her jennet and lay on the ground.

“I will not go a step farther towards Segovia,” she announced.

The cavalcade had halted and Philip was delighted. Now there was going to be one of those scenes which surely must convince all who saw it of her madness.

“Mount your jennet,” he said quietly. “They will be waiting for you at Segovia.”

There seemed to be a grave threat behind his words which terrified her, and she lay writhing on the ground.

Philip leaped from his horse and bent over her with a show of tenderness.

“Juana,” he said audibly, “I pray you remount. Do you want everyone to say that you are mad?”

She looked into his eyes and she was afraid of him; and yet she knew that her great fear was not that she would be shut away from the world but that she would be shut away from him.

She rose obediently and mounted her jennet; then she turned away from the party and cried: “I shall not enter Segovia, because I know that you plan to lock me away in the Alcazar there.”

Then she galloped ahead of them across country and back again, refusing to ride towards Segovia or back the way they had come.

Dusk had fallen and night came; and Juana continued to ride back and forth over the country round Segovia, determined not to enter the town.

Philip thought: If ever anyone doubted her madness, can they do so any longer?

Nothing could have pleased him more.

Such conduct in the Queen of Castile could scarcely be called sanity.

PHILIP’S TROOPS had driven Beatriz de Bobadilla from Segovia, and the Alcazar was now in the possession of Juan Manuel.

There was a certain discontent throughout Castile that this foreigner should come among them and take their castles with their revenues and distribute them among his friends. Soon, it was said, all the strongholds of Castile would be in the hands of Philip’s followers, and the old Castilian nobility would have no power in the land.

Philip had decided against going into Segovia, as Juana showed such fear of the place, and had gone instead to Burgos where he, Juana and their party lodged at the palace of the Constable of Castile, who belonged to the Enriquez family and was related to Ferdinand.

In view of Juana’s strange conduct on the way to Segovia Philip felt justified in putting guards outside her apartments, so that she was to some extent under supervision.

The Constable’s wife, who was the hostess to the party, expressed her concern that the Queen should be treated so, and as a result Philip ordered her to leave the palace.

This seemed the utmost arrogance, and the whisperings against the Queen’s consort intensified; but Philip cared little for this and laughed with Juan Manuel at the Castilians. He had the troops and they would enforce his wishes. He did not doubt that before long he would have Juana put right away finally and he himself would be accepted as ruler in very truth.

“In the meantime,” he said, “we should celebrate our victories, my dear Juan. The Alcazar of Segovia has fallen into our hands; and now we might say that the same has happened to this palace of Burgos. Once we have rid ourselves of that interfering woman the place is ours. Do you not think that that is worthy of a little celebration?”

“Very worthy, Highness,” agreed Juan.

“Then see to it. Arrange a banquet, a ball; and I will show these Spaniards how the Flemings can beat them at all sport.”

“It shall be done.”

While they talked together a page arrived to tell Philip that an envoy from Ferdinand had arrived at Burgos.

“Let him be brought to me,” said Philip; and when the page had gone he smiled at Juan Manuel.

“What dispatches are these my worthy father-in-law sees fit to send me, I wonder?”

“Oh, there is nothing to fear from him. The old lion has had his teeth drawn. He will find it a different matter being merely King of Aragon instead of Spain.”

“My mother-in-law kept the fellow in his place. She must have been a strong-minded woman.”

Juan Manuel looked serious for a moment. When he remembered the great Queen Isabella he could not help wondering what she would say if she could see him now, a traitor to her husband.

He shrugged aside the thought; Ferdinand’s conduct would not have pleased her either, he reflected. It seemed to him that if the great Queen could come alive again she would be so saddened by her husband’s conduct that she would have little thought to spare for Juan Manuel.

Philip was his master now, and it was Philip whose interests were his own.

“It will be interesting to see what dispatches this fellow has brought,” went on Philip. “You may remain, and we will study them together.”

A few minutes later the page returned with Ferdinand’s envoy.

“Don Luis Ferrer,” he announced.

And Ferdinand’s envoy was bowing before the man who was certain that before long he would be sole ruler of Castile.

THE CELEBRATIONS were magnificent. Juan Manuel had arranged them to appeal to his master. He wished to show his gratitude for all the benefits which had come his way since he had entered Philip’s service; he wished him to know that he would continue to lay all his skill at his master’s feet.

Juana was allowed to partake in the celebrations.

Juan had said: “It would be unwise at this stage to shut her away completely. Wait until more fortresses have come into our hands.”

“Rest assured,” said Philip, “there will be others as important as Segovia and Burgos.”

“Let her show the people that she is truly mad. Then they cannot complain.”

Philip agreed with this. But he had made up his mind that he was going to put her away in as complete a seclusion as that in which her grandmother had passed the last years of her life.

Juana joined in the feasting. There were days when she was very gay, and others when she was overcome by her melancholy. There were times when she calmly received the homage of all; there were others when she shut herself away in her apartments.

She called her father’s envoy, Luis Ferrer, to her and demanded to hear news of her father, of whether he spoke often of her or any of her sisters; of how he lived with his new wife.

Luis Ferrer was eager to talk to her of Ferdinand, and Manuel was afraid that he was trying to bring about a meeting between father and daughter which, he was sure, could only result in harm to Philip.

“We should watch this Luis Ferrer,” he said to Philip. “It is my belief that the fellow is here for no good purpose.”

The peak of the celebrations was planned to take place on a warm September day. There was to be a banquet more lavish than any of those of the last few days, and afterwards there would be ball games, because Philip excelled at these and he was very eager to show the Castilians what he called his superior Flemish skill.

Juana was present at the banquet. She had rarely seen her husband so gay, and she thought how beautiful he was and how in comparison all others—men and women—seemed ugly and lacking in grace.

Beside her at the table was Luis Ferrer, and she was glad of this because she knew that it disturbed Philip to see them together, and that meant that, while she was with Ferrer, at least Philip was thinking of her.

As soon as the banquet was over the ball games began and here Philip certainly did excel, for he beat all his opponents. Yet how could one be sure, Juana wondered, whether his opponents felt it would be wise to let him win? Nevertheless he played with great skill and she was momentarily happy to see him flushed and taking a boyish pride in his achievements.

He was very hot when the game was won, and he called for a drink. No one was quite sure afterwards who gave him that drink; one thing was certain: he drank deep.

During the dancing and pageantry which followed, several people noticed that he seemed a little tired. But then it had been a strenuous ball game.

When she retired that night Juana lay in her bed hoping he would come to her, although she knew he would not; in four months’ time she could expect the birth of a child, so he would not come—unless of course he wished to placate her, which he seemed nowadays inclined to do at certain times.

There in the quiet of her apartment Juana began to think of the sadness of her life and to ask herself if there was not a curse on the House of Spain. She had heard such a legend at the time of her sister’s death. Her brother, Juan, was dead and his heir had been still-born; her sister, Isabella, had died in childbed and her child had followed her to the grave. That left Juana, Maria and Catalina. Maria might be happy in Portugal, but Catalina certainly was not so in England. As for herself surely none was as unhappy as she was.

She thought sadly of Catalina’s woes. Her sister had talked of them.

“But I did not listen,” whispered Juana. “I could only think of my own miseries which I know are far greater than hers. For what greater tragedy could befall a woman than to have a husband whom she adores with a passionate intensity which borders on madness, but who cares so little for her that he is planning to declare her mad and put her from him?”

There were strange noises in the palace tonight. She could hear the sound of footsteps and whispering voices.

“Shall I wake the Queen?”

“She should know.”

“She would want to be with him.”

Juana rose from her bed and wrapped a robe about her.

“Who is there?” she called. “Who is whispering there?”

One of her women came in, looking startled.

“The doctors have sent word, Highness…” she began.

“Doctors!” cried Juana. “Word of what?”

“That His Highness is in a fever and a delirium. They are bleeding him now. Would Your Highness care to go to his bedside?”

Juana did not wait to answer; she sped through the apartments to those of Philip.

He was lying on his bed, his fair hair made darker with sweat, and his beautiful blue eyes looked blankly at her. He was murmuring, but none understood what he said.

She knelt by the bed and cried: “Philip, my dearest, what has happened?”

Philip’s lips moved, but his glassy eyes stared beyond her.

“He does not know me,” she said. She turned to the physicians. “What does this mean? What has happened?”

“It is a chill, Highness. Doubtless His Highness became too hot during the ball game and drank too much cold water. That can produce a fever.”

“A fever! So it is a fever. What are you doing for him?”

“We have bled him, Highness. But the fever persists.”

“Then bleed him again. Do not stand there doing nothing. Save him. He must not die.”

The physicians smiled knowledgeably. “Your Highness is unduly disturbed. This is but a slight fever. His Highness will soon be playing another ball game to delight his subjects.”

“He is young,” said Juana, “and he is healthy. He will recover.”

She was calm now, because she felt exultant. It was his turn now to be at her mercy. She would let no one else nurse him. She would do everything herself. Now that he was ill she was indeed Queen of Castile and mistress of this palace. Now she would be the one to give the orders and, no matter whom she commanded, they must obey.

ALL THROUGH the rest of the night she was with him, and in the morning he seemed a little better.

He opened his eyes and recognized her sitting there.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You had a little fever.” She laid a cool hand on his brow. “I have been sitting by your bed since they told me. I am going to nurse you back to health.”

He did not protest; he lay looking at her, and she thought how defenseless he seemed, with the arrogance gone from him, and his usually ruddy cheeks pale. She felt very tender towards him, and she said to herself: “How I love him! Beyond all things. Beyond my children, beyond my pride.”

He was aware of her feelings, and even now, weak as he was, he relished his power over her.

“I shall nurse you until you are quite recovered. I shall allow no other woman in the room.”

His lips twitched faintly in a smile, and she thought he was remembering the early days of their relationship when he had found her more desirable than he did now.

He tried to raise himself but he was very weak and, as he moved, he grimaced with pain.

“It is in my side,” he said in answer to her question and, as he sank back, she saw the beads of sweat which had broken out on his smooth brow and across the bridge of his handsome nose.

“I will call the physicians,” she said. “I will send for Dr. Parra. I believe him to be the best in the country.”

“I feel safe…with you,” said Philip, and there was a wry twist to his lips.

“Ah, Philip,” she said gently, “you have many enemies, but you need not fear while I am here.”

That seemed to comfort him and she told herself exultantly: He rejoices that I am here. My presence comforts him. He knows I will protect him. For a time he loves me.

She smiled almost roguishly. “You do not think me mad now, Philip?”

She took his hand which was lying on the coverlet, and he returned the pressure feebly because he felt so weak.

She thought: When you are strong and well you will mock me again. You will try to convince them that I am mad. You will try to put me in prison because you want my crown all for yourself. But now…you need me and you love me, just a little.

She was smiling. Yes, he had taken all her pride. He loved her once for her crown; and now he loved her for the safety he could feel in her presence.

But I love him with all my being, she reminded herself, so that I care not for what reason he loves me, if only he but will.

She rose and sent at once for Dr. Parra.

No one else should come near him. She would nurse him herself. She would forbid all other women to come into this sickroom. She would give the orders now. Was she not the Queen of Castile?

IT WAS FOUR DAYS before Dr. Parra reached Burgos, and by that time Philip’s fever had increased. He was now quite unaware of where he lay or who tended him. There were days when he did not speak at all but lay in a coma, and others when he muttered incoherently.

Juana remained in the sickroom, clinging to her determination that no one but herself should wait on him. He took no food but occasionally sipped a little drink, and Juana would allow no one to offer this but herself.

None could have been more calm than she was at that time. Gone was all the hysteria; she moved about the sickroom, the most efficient of nurses, and all the time she was praying that Philip would recover.

But after seven days of fever his condition grew rapidly worse, and Dr. Parra ordered that cupping glasses be applied to his shoulders and purgatives administered. These instructions were carried out, but the patient did not rally.

He had now fallen into a lethargy from which it was impossible to waken him; only now and then would he groan and put a hand to his side, which indicated that he suffered pain.

On the morning of the 25th September of that year, 1506, black spots appeared on his body. The doctors were baffled, but there were strong suspicions now throughout the palace that Philip had drunk something more than water on that day when, overheated by the sport, he had asked for a drink.

There were whispers now of: “Who brought the drink?” None could be sure. Perhaps Philip remembered, but he was too weak to say.

Philip had many enemies, and the greatest of these was Ferdinand, who had been forced to surrender his rights in Castile. Ferdinand was far away, but men like Ferdinand did not do such deeds themselves; they found others to do the work for them.

It was remembered that, shortly before Philip had been taken ill, Ferdinand’s envoy, Luis Ferrer, had come to Burgos. But it was well not to talk too much of this, for, if Philip died and Juana were proved mad, then Ferdinand would undoubtedly become the Regent of Castile.

So it was only in secret that people asked themselves who had poisoned Philip the Handsome. In public it was said that he was suffering sorely from a fever.

HE WAS DEAD. Juana could not believe it. The doctors had said so, but it must not be.

He was so young, only twenty-eight years of age, and he had been so full of vigor. It was not possible.

They were surrounding her, telling her of their sorrow, but she did not hear them; she saw only him, not as he was now, drained of all life, but young, handsome, mocking, full of the joy of being alive.

He is not dead, she said to herself. I will never believe that. I will never leave him. He shall stay with me always.

Then she thought: I can keep him to myself now. I can send them all away. I am the ruler of Castile, and there is none to stand beside me and try to snatch my crown from me.

They were weeping; they were telling her they suffered with her. How foolish they were! As if they could suffer as she suffered!

She looked regal now. There was no sign of wildness in her face. She was calmer than any of them.

“He shall be carried to the hall, and there he shall lie in state,” she said. “Wrap him in his ermine robes and put a jewelled cap on his head. He will be beautiful in death as he has been in life.”

They obeyed her. They wrapped him in his ermine robe, which was lined with rich brocade; they placed the jewelled cap on his head and they laid a diamond cross on his breast. He was put on a catafalque covered with cloth of gold and carried down to the hall. There a throne had been set up and he was seated upon this so that he looked as though he were still alive. Then the candles were lighted and the friars sang their dirges in the hall of death.

Juana lay at his feet, embracing his legs; and there she remained through the night.

And when the body was embalmed and placed in its lead coffin she refused to leave it.

“I shall never leave him again,” she cried. “In life he left me so often; in death he never shall.”

Then it seemed that the madness was with her once more.

THEY CARRIED HER to her apartment from which all light was shut out. She was exhausted, for she would neither sleep nor eat. It was only because she was weak that they were able to remove her from the coffin. For several days she sat in her darkened room, refusing all food; she did not take off her clothes; she spoke to no one.

“Assuredly,” said all those of her household, “her sanity has left her.”

While she remained thus shut away, the coffin was taken from the hall of the Palace of Burgos to the Cartuja de Miraflores and, when she heard that this had been done, she hurriedly left her darkened room.

Now she was the Queen again, preparing to follow the coffin with all speed, giving orders that mourning should be made and that this was to resemble the garb of a nun, because she would be remote for ever from the world which did not contain her Philip.

When she arrived at the church she found that the coffin had already been placed in a vault, and she ordered that it should immediately be brought out.

She would have no disobedience. She reminded all that she was the Queen of Castile and expected obedience. So the coffin was brought from the vault.

Then she cried: “Remove the cerecloths from the feet and the head. I would see him again.”

And when this was done, she kissed those dead lips again and again and held the feet against her breast.

“Highness,” whispered one of her women, “you torture yourself.”

“What is there for me but torture when he is no longer with me?” she asked. “I would rather have him thus than not at all.”

And she would not leave the corpse of her husband, but stayed there, kissing and fondling him, as she had longed to during his life.

She would only leave after she had given strict orders that the coffin should not be closed. She would come again the next day and the next, and for as long as the coffin remained in this place she would come to kiss her husband and hold his dead body in her arms.

And so she did. Arriving each day from the Palace of Burgos, there she would remain by the coffin, alternately staring at that dead figure in the utmost melancholy, and seizing it in her arms in a frantic passion.

“It is true,” said those who watched her. “She is mad…. This has proved it.”

Katharine, The Ambassadress

AFTER HER MEETING WITH JUANA, KATHARINE REALIZED that she could hope for no help from her own people. Her father was immersed in his own affairs, and indeed was far less able to help her by sending the remainder of her dowry than he had been when her mother was alive. As for Juana, she had no thought of anything but her own tragic obsession with her husband.

That month had arrived during which, Katharine believed, she would know what her fate in England was to be.

Her maids of honor chatted together about that important day, the twenty-ninth; she listened to them and did not reprove them. She knew they would talk in secret if not before her.

“He will be fifteen on the twenty-ninth.”

“It is the very month, this very year.”

“Then we shall see.”

“When they are married it will make all the difference to our state. Oh, would it not be wonderful to have a new gown again!”

Katharine broke in on their conversation. “You are foolish to hope,” she said. “The Prince was betrothed to me, but that was long ago. Do you not realize that if we were to be married we should have heard of it long ere this? There would surely be great preparations for the marriage of the Prince of Wales.”

“It may be that the marriage will be announced,” said Francesca. “Mayhap they are saving the announcement, that it may be made on his fifteenth birthday.”

Katharine shook her head. “Does the King of England treat me as his future daughter-in-law?”

“No, but after the announcement he might.”

“You are living in dreams,” said Katharine.

She looked at those faces which had been so bright and were now often clouded by frustration and disappointment.

She knew that the betrothal of herself and Henry would be forgotten, as so many similar betrothals had been, and that his fifteenth birthday would pass without any reference to the marriage which was to have taken place on that day.

Katharine caught the despair of her maids in waiting, and she sent for Dr. de Puebla.

The doctor arrived, and the sight of him made her shudder with disgust. He looked so shabby; he seemed to wear a perpetually deprecating expression, which was probably due to the fact that he was continually apologizing to Henry for Ferdinand, and to Katharine for his inability to improve her lot. He was infirm nowadays and almost crippled; he could not walk or ride the distance from his humble lodgings in the Strand to the Court, so travelled in a litter. He was in constant pain from the gout and, since he had received no money from Ferdinand for a very long time, he was obliged to live on the little which came in from his legal business. This was not much, for Englishmen were not eager to consult a Spaniard and he had to rely on Spaniards in England. He dined out when he could and, when he could not, he did so as cheaply as possible; and he was a great deal shabbier than Katharine and her maids of honor.

He was unfortunate inasmuch as he irritated Katharine; she was by nature serene and compassionate, but the little Jew, perhaps because he was her father’s ambassador in a Court where she needed great help, exasperated her almost beyond endurance and she began to feel—wrongly—that, if only she had a man more worthy to represent her father and to work for her, her position would not be so deplorable as it was and had been for most of her stay in England.

“Dr. de Puebla,” said Katharine, as he shuffled towards her and kissed her hand, “have you realized that the fifteenth birthday of the Prince of Wales has now come and gone and there has been no mention of the marriage which was once proposed between us?”

“I fear I did not expect there would be, Highness.”

“What have you done about this matter?”

Puebla spread his hands in a well-remembered gesture. “Highness, there is nothing I can do.”

“Nothing! Are you not here to look after the interests of my father, and are they not mine?”

“Highness, if I could persuade the King of England to this marriage do not doubt that I should do so.”

Katharine turned away because such bitter words rose to her lips, and the sight of the sick little man made her feel ashamed of her anger towards him.

“Is nothing ever going to happen?” she demanded. “How do you think I live?”

“Highness, it is hard for you. It is hard for me. Believe me, I am well acquainted with poverty.”

“It goes on and on and on,” she cried. “There is no way out. If I could return to Spain…”

She stopped. In that moment she had made a discovery. She did not want to return to Spain, because all that she had wished to return to was no more. She had longed for her mother, but Spain no longer contained Isabella. Did she want to be with her father? There had never been any great tenderness between them, because his affection for his children had always been overlaid with hopes of what they could bring him. Maria was in Portugal. Juana had grown strange. Did she want to go to Spain then to be with Juana and her husband, to see their tempestuous relationship, did she want to see that handsome philanderer gradually driving her sister over the edge of sanity?

Spain had nothing for her. What had England? Nothing apart from the dazzling prospect of marriage with the Prince of Wales.

Katharine realized in that moment that she must marry the Prince or remain all her life an outcast from Spain, the unwanted stranger in a foreign land.

She needed brilliant diplomacy to bring about the marriage, and all she had was this shabby, gouty Jew.

He was saying now: “Highness, I have done everything I can. Believe me, I will not spare myself…”

Katharine shook her head and murmured: “Mayhap you do your best, but I like not the way these matters go. You may retire now. Should you become further acquainted with the King’s mind, I pray you come to me, for I am anxious.”

Puebla shuffled out, and he was surprised, when he had left her presence, to find his cheeks were wet.

I am worn out, he said to himself, with all the work which has come to nothing. I suffer pain; I can no longer amuse and entertain. I have outlived my usefulness. That is why old men shed tears.

And, left alone, Katharine wrote to her father. She told him that his ambassador in England was no longer able to work for her good or the good of Spain. She implored him to give this matter his attention and appoint a new ambassador to the Court of the Tudor King, for the sake of Spain and for his daughter, who was beside herself with misery.

EAGERLY SHE AWAITED news from her father. Each day during that summer seemed more trying than the last. The maids of honor did not attempt to hide their dissatisfaction. They were continually longing to be back in Spain.

There were perpetual quarrels in the household, and Katharine almost wished that Doña Elvira was back with them to keep them all in order. Francesca was more restless than the others and she seemed to find a wicked delight in accusing each member of the household of intriguing to keep them in England. There could be no greater sin in the eyes of Francesca.

The fact is, thought Katharine, they need to be married. If Arthur had lived, they would all have worthy husbands now, and rich, full lives.

It seemed to her that each month it was necessary to rifle her store of jewels and plate. She felt guilty when she sold or pawned these pieces, but what could she do? Her expenses had to be met, and disposing of her plate and jewellery was the only means of doing this.

At last news came from Spain, and when she read of the death of Philip she could not help but rejoice.

He was my father’s enemy, she told herself; he turned him from Castile and he would have taken the crown from Juana. She is miserable now, but it is a good thing that he has gone.

She imagined her father’s secret delight, for if Juana were incapable of ruling it was certain that Ferdinand would come back to Castile and the Regency.

She realized what this would mean. Ferdinand would be of more account in Europe than previously, and the manner in which the King of England treated her depended largely on what was happening to her father.

So could she consider this sudden and mysterious death of her handsome brother-in-law good news? She believed she could.

There was a letter from her father in answer to that which she had sent asking for a new ambassador.

“Why should you not be my ambassador?” wrote Ferdinand. “You have been at the English Court for some years. You know their ways; you speak their language. In due course I will send you an ambassador, but in the meantime you may consider yourself as such. Listen to Puebla; he is a clever man, perhaps cleverer than you realize. Be guided by him. He has worked well for Spain and will, I hope, continue to do so.”

When Katharine had stopped reading there was a faint color in her cheeks. She felt more cheered than she had for a long time. Now she would have an interest in life; now she would have more power, and she would try to serve her father faithfully and at the same time bring about a happier state for herself. And how could she achieve such a state? There was one answer: Only by marriage to the Prince of Wales.

THE KING OF ENGLAND requested the pleasure of her company. She went to his apartments, her hopes high, wondering what news he had to impart to her.

He was alone and he received her with graciousness, as though, she believed, he considered her of greater importance than he had when they had last met.

When she had been formally greeted she was allowed to sit in his presence and, cupping his face in his hands, the King said: “This is a matter which I believe I can entrust to your hands more readily than I could to any other.”

“Your Highness delights me,” she answered.

Henry nodded, his lower lip protruded, his expression more pleasant than usual.

“I shall never forget the day when your sister, the Queen of Castile, arrived at Windsor. What grace was hers! What charm!”

Katharine was puzzled. She too would never forget that day, but had been struck more by Juana’s melancholy than her grace and charm.

“I have not forgotten her from that day to this,” said the King. He paused and then went on: “You now act as your father’s ambassador, so I am going to entrust this matter to you. I want you to tell your father that I am asking for the hand of the Queen of Castile.”

Katharine caught her breath in astonishment. Juana…the wife of the King of England! She, who had adored that handsome, golden-haired philanderer, to become the wife of this ageing man with the cold, hard face and the uncertain temper! It was impossible.

But was it? Royal marriages could be incongruous. And if this one were to become fact, she would have her sister in England, the Queen of England. Surely the sister of the Queen of England could not be humiliated. Surely she would be able to live in a state worthy of her relationship to the Queen.

And what joy to have her own sister in England!

Katharine’s busy thoughts were halted suddenly. But to be married to the King. She remembered her own feelings when it had been suggested that he should be her next bridegroom. She had shuddered with distaste, and yet she had felt delighted at the thought of Juana’s taking the place she despised.

But this could not be. Juana was mad. She had begun to believe that there was little doubt of this, since she had heard further rumors of her sister’s strange behavior.

The King was watching her intently. She must learn to guard her expression. She hoped that she had not allowed distaste to show itself.

He seemed not to have noticed and was smiling almost vacuously, as a country yokel might smile at the prospect of a bride. It was almost as though he had fallen in love with Juana. Oh no, no! Henry VII could never fall in love…except with a crown. That was the answer. He was falling in love with the crown of Castile.

She must be wily. She must not tell him that she thought this marriage would be quite distasteful because he was an old man and her sister was mad.

If she listened to his plans, if she worked with him, he might be prepared to reward her in some way. She was not a foolish young girl any more. She was a woman who had suffered great hardship and deep humiliation, and there was little that could make an Infanta of Spain suffer more.

She said calmly: “I will inform my father of your request.”

Henry nodded, still smiling that smile which sat so oddly on his harsh features.

“You should write to your sister and tell her of the delights of the English Court. Tell her that I have been a faithful husband to one Queen and would be so to another. You will plead my cause; and from whom could that plea come more effectively than from her sister?”

So Katharine, in her new role of ambassadress, prepared herself to open the courtship between that incongruous pair—Henry Tudor, King of England, and Juana, Queen of Castile, who was now becoming known as Juana the Mad.

The Strangeness of Juana

WHEN JUANA RECEIVED THE INVITATION TO STATE HER views as to a marriage with Henry Tudor she shrugged her shoulders and immediately dismissed the matter from her mind. She was concerned only with one thing, which was to keep Philip with her now that he was dead.

She would sit for hours alone in her darkened room, wearing the mourning garments which were like a nun’s and included a great cowl, the purpose of which was to hide as much of her face as possible.

She would mutter to herself: “Women…Let no women come near me. They are seeking now to take him from me. It was always so. Wherever he went they sought him. He could not escape from them even had he wished…but of course he did not wish. Now they shall not take him from me.”

Sometimes her attendants heard wild laughter coming from her apartments. They never heard sobs. She had not shed a tear since his death. When the melancholy moods were with her she would sit silent for hours at a time.

She ate scarcely anything and her body was pitiably thin beneath the flowing nun’s robes. But there were times when she would have musicians play to her, for only music could soothe her. She would send for her minstrels and they would play to her in the darkened room until she tired of them and sent them away.

There were no women now in her household, except one, her washerwoman.

“And even that one, I must watch,” she often murmured to herself. Then she would send some of her men-servants to see what the washerwoman was doing, and have her summoned to her presence.

“Wash the clothes here,” she would cry, “that I may see what you are about.”

And water and tubs would be brought to the royal apartments while the poor bewildered washerwoman washed the clothes under the suspicious eye of the Queen.

It was small wonder that rumors of her madness were growing.

She was heavy with her child now, and sometimes she would talk of it.

“It is not so long since he was here,” she would say, putting her hands on her body that she might feel the movement of the child. “He was happy to see his family growing. I hope I shall be able to tell him soon that we have another boy.”

There were occasions when certain grandees came to her and implored her to take an interest in state matters, reminding her that she was the Queen.

But she only shook her head. “I shall do nothing more, until I die, but pray for the soul of my husband and guard his dead body,” she said. “There is time for nothing else.”

They could only shake their heads and wait for the return of Ferdinand.

The year was passing and December came. In January her child would be born, and those who wished her well told themselves that with the coming of the child she would forget this obsession with her husband’s dead body.

It was one cold December day when she set out to hear mass at the Cartuja where Philip’s body lay. Soon, it was said, she would be unable to make even the short journey from the palace, encumbered as she was with her pregnancy. She went through the usual ceremony of kissing the lips of her husband and embracing his feet; and then suddenly she announced: “It was his wish that he should be buried in Granada. He has tarried long enough here. I shall take him to Granada. Pray prepare to leave at once.”

“Your Highness,” she was told, “this is winter. You could not cross the steppes of Castile at this time of the year.”

She drew herself up to her full height and her eyes flashed wildly. “It was his wish that he should go to Granada, and it is my desire to take him there.”

“With the coming of the spring…”

“Now,” she said. “We leave today.”

This was indeed madness. She proposed to cross the snowy wastes between Burgos and Granada in the bitterly cold weather, and she herself in her eighth month of pregnancy!

The monks did their best to dissuade her. She grew angry; she reminded them that she was their Queen.

“He shall stay no longer in this place,” she cried. “It is unworthy of him. Prepare at once, I say.”

“But the weather, Highness…”

“He will not feel the weather. He never cared for the heat. He loved the open air. The cold winds invigorated him, he said.” Then she suddenly screamed: “Why do you hesitate? Do not dare disobey me. If you do it will be the worse for you. Prepare at once. We are taking him to Granada this day.”

ACROSS THE SNOWY TABLELANDS the procession slowly made its tortuous way. The wind penetrated the garments of the bishops, the choristers, the men of the Church and the menservants. The only person who did not feel the cold was the Queen who, in her nun’s robes, was carried over the rough land in her litter.

There was not a person in the retinue who did not hope that the Queen’s child would be born before the middle of January when it was expected. They prayed for anything which could put an end to this nightmare journey.

Beside the litter, and covered with a velvet pall, was the hearse, so that it should never be out of the Queen’s sight. As they walked it was the duty of the choristers to chant their mournful dirges.

At dusk the Queen reluctantly allowed the cortège to halt at an inn or a monastery, and there each night the coffin must be opened that the Queen might throw herself upon the dead body, kissing those silent lips again and again.

Those who looked on at this ritual asked themselves how long they could expect to be at the mercy of a madwoman’s whims.

One night the coffin was carried into what was believed to be a monastery; and there, before entering the buildings, by the light of torches the coffin was opened and the gruesome ceremony began.

While it was in progress a figure appeared from the building followed by two others.

One of the bishops said: “We come, with the Queen, to rest here a night.”

“I will make ready to receive Her Highness,” was the answer. But at the sound of that high, musical voice Juana leaped to her feet, her eyes suddenly blazing.

“That is a woman!” she cried. “Come here, woman. No…no. Stay where you are. I will come to you. You shall not come near him.”

“I am the Abbess, Highness,” said the woman.

Juana screamed at her bishops: “How dare you bring me here! There are women here. That place is full of women. You know I will let no woman come near him.”

“Highness, these are nuns…”

“Nuns are women,” she retorted. “I trust no women. Close the coffin. We are going on.”

“Highness, the night is cold and dark.”

“Close the coffin!” She turned to the Abbess. “And you…go back into your convent. Do not dare to set foot outside until we have gone. No woman shall come near him, I tell you.”

The Abbess bowed and retired, thankful that the mad Queen was not to be her guest.

The coffin was closed; the procession left the convent precincts and went on, in the hope that the next place of refuge would be a monastery.

So the dreary journey continued with painful slowness.

It was a great relief when it reached the village of Torquemada, for here Juana’s warning pains began, and even she realized that she could not go on. They had come only thirty miles in some three weeks.

The coffin was set up where she might see it and make sure that no woman came near it; and on the 14th January in that year 1507 her child was born.

It was a girl and she called her Catalina after her sister, about whom now and then her conscience troubled her. She was unhappy, even as I am, she thought; and yet I did not listen to her tale of suffering.

She lay in melancholy silence, the child in her arms, while she kept continual watch over all that was left to her of her gay and heartless Philip.

IN ENGLAND HENRY was waiting impatiently for news of his proposed match with Juana.

He sent for Puebla, and the gouty old man was carried to Richmond in his litter.

“I hear nothing from Spain concerning my proposals,” he began. “It would seem that they are unwelcome.”

“Nothing, Your Grace, would be more welcome to Spain than a match between Your Highness and Queen Juana.”

“Then why do I hear nothing?”

“My master is still in Naples, and there is much to occupy him.”

“And the Queen of Castile herself?”

“Has been so recently widowed, so recently brought to bed of a child…”

Those words increased Henry’s impatience. There was a woman who had borne several children. If she were his wife he need have no doubt that he could beget many boys. She had already borne two healthy boys and she was only twenty-eight. Certainly she was capable of bearing more. She had given proof of her fruitfulness. Had not her husband left her pregnant when he died? And it was said that he had given the greater part of his attention to other women.

Puebla, accustomed now to Henry’s irritable temper, reminded him that Juana was considered to be somewhat unstable of mind.

“I saw her here in England, and I was impressed by her charm and beauty,” said the King. “I did not see any signs of insanity. And yet…if it should be that she is insane I should not consider that an obstacle to marriage, for she has proved that this mental illness does not prevent her from bearing children.”

“I will tell my master what Your Grace has said.”

Henry nodded, and a familiar grimace of pain crossed his face as he moved in his chair.

“There is one other little matter,” he went on. “His Highness Ferdinand may well return to the position he occupied immediately after the death of Queen Isabella. He will return to power as Regent of Castile and ruler of Spain—that is if his daughter is indeed unfit to take her place on the throne. He has made no effort to pay the remainder of his daughter’s dowry. Say this to him when you write: If he does not soon pay this long overdue account there will be only one course open to me. I shall be obliged to consider the match between his daughter Katharine and the Prince of Wales broken off.”

Puebla felt a lifting of his spirits. This was an indication that a match between Katharine and young Henry was still possible. Henry’s terms were: the rest of the dowry which had not been paid after Arthur’s death, and marriage with Juana.

JUANA DID NOT RECOVER quickly from the birth of her daughter Catalina. Those who had accompanied her on the thirty-mile trek from Burgos hoped that when she was well again her interests would be concentrated on the child, and she would give up this mad project of taking her husband’s corpse to Granada in this way.

While Juana lay in her apartments, the cradle of her daughter beside her, and the coffin placed in the room so that she could gaze at it at any hour of the day or night, one of her servants came to tell her that a friar, who had heard she was in Torquemada, had travelled far to see her. He had important news for her.

Juana was not interested in any news which could be brought to her; but she agreed to see the Friar, and when the man stood before her she looked at him with melancholy eyes clearly showing her indifference.

The man was travel-stained; his eyes were wild. As he bowed, his gaze went at once to the coffin and stayed there; and watching him, Juana lost her listlessness and found herself gripped by excitement.

“Highness,” cried the Friar, “I have had a vision.”

“Of whom?”

The Friar indicated the coffin. “I saw him rise from it. He came out, all shining and beautiful.”

Juana sat up in her bed that she might see the Friar’s face more clearly.

“He rose from the dead!” she whispered.

“Yes, Highness. He threw off the cerecloths and there he was, whole and well; and there was great rejoicing.”

“This came to you in a dream?”

“As a vision, Highness. I had fasted many days and spent many more on my knees in humble seclusion. Then this vision came to me. He left his coffin and walked from this place into the streets. I saw him clearly in these very streets…and I knew that it was in Torquemada that the Queen’s consort had risen from the dead.”

“Here in Torquemada!” cried Juana, clasping her hands together in ecstasy. “Then it was by divine will that we left Burgos…that we came here and were forced to rest at Torquemada. Oh, glory be to God and all His saints! Here in Torquemada my Philip will rise from the dead.”

“I came with all haste to tell Your Highness.”

“I thank you with all my heart. You shall be well rewarded.”

The Friar closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Excitement gripped the village of Torquemada. All were waiting for a miracle. Outside the house in which Juana lodged people gathered; they were coming in from the neighboring villages to wait for the miracle.

Juana had changed completely; all her melancholy was thrown aside; she was gay—not hysterically so, but with a quiet contentment. She was certain that the Friar was a holy man and that Philip was about to return to life.

She kept her vigil by the coffin, determined that she would be the first to welcome him back to life. He would hear then how she had kept him with her, and he would be so much happier to awaken from the dead by her side than he would have been to awaken in the gloom of some dismal vault that he would be grateful to her. If ever he had needed proof of her love he would have it now.

The Friar, well rewarded, left Torquemada, but the sightseers continued to come in. The summer was hot and the village had never contained so many people; and as the houses were filled, many were forced to sleep in the street and the fields.

In the heat of the afternoon one of the sightseers collapsed suddenly and lay groaning in a high fever. He died almost immediately, and that very day three more people were stricken in the same manner. Before the next day came, the crowds in and about Torquemada realized that someone had brought the plague among them, and were terrified.

News was brought to Juana that there was plague in Torquemada.

“Highness,” said one of her bishops, “we should prepare to leave this place with all speed.”

“Leave it!” she screamed. “But it is here that my Philip will come to life again.”

“Highness, every hour you delay you put yourself and the child in danger.”

“Our faith is being tried,” she answered. “If I leave Torquemada now there will be no miracle.”

Again and again efforts were made to persuade her. Juana remained stubborn.

So, while the plague raged in Torquemada, Juana stayed there with her newly born daughter and the remains of her husband, waiting for a miracle.

ALL THROUGH THE SUMMER Juana remained in Torquemada. The plague abated with the passing of the hot weather, and still Juana watched over the coffin, waiting for a miracle.

There were occasions when she believed that Philip had indeed risen from the dead, and her servants would hear her murmuring endearments or loudly upbraiding him for his infidelities. It was a strange household that rested in the village of Torquemada. There was the Queen of Castile, living humbly with no women in her household except the washerwoman, a young Princess who thrived in spite of the conditions in which she lived, and the remains in the coffin which were regularly kissed and embraced.

Then one day there was great rejoicing in Torquemada. The news spread rapidly, and all in that grim household knew that the days of waiting were over.

Ferdinand had arrived in Valencia. Now there would be some law and order throughout Castile.

“I MUST GO TO meet my father,” declared Juana. “He will expect it of me.”

She had either forgotten the Friar’s prophecy or given up all hope of its coming true, for it was almost with relief that she prepared to go.

She had no wish to see the sun, she said. She was a widow and her life would therefore in future be lived in darkness. She would travel only by night and by the light of torches, and wherever she went there would her husband go with her.

In vain did those who cared for her comfort seek to dissuade her; any opposition to her will sent her into paroxysms of rage. She would be obeyed. She would have them remember that, although she was the most unfortunate widow in the world, she was their Queen, and from them she expected obedience.

So once more the cortège set out. Beside her went the hearse so that she never lost sight of Philip’s coffin. They travelled by the light of torches and the going was rough and very slow. The choristers sang their dismal funeral dirges as they went; and Juana, riding or carried in her litter, travelled always in melancholy silence.

It was at Tortoles that Ferdinand and his daughter came face to face.

When Ferdinand saw her, he was horrified. It was years since they had met, but the lapse of time did not entirely account for the great change. It was almost impossible to believe that this sad woman, with the melancholy eyes in which madness lurked, was his gay daughter who had often shocked her mother by her wildness.

Juana also was not unmoved. She found herself in those first moments of reunion remembering the days of her childhood, when she, her brother, sisters, father and mother had all been together.

She went on her knees and gripped her father’s hands, while Ferdinand, astonished at his emotion, knelt too and, putting his arms about her, held her tenderly.

“My daughter, my daughter,” he murmured, “what has happened to bring you to this?”

“Oh, my father,” she murmured, “I have suffered as few are called upon to suffer. I have lost all that I love.”

“There are your children. They can bring great comfort.”

“They are his children too,” she said, “but when he died the sun went from life. Now there is only darkness, for it is perpetual night.”

Ferdinand rose from his knees, his emotion evaporating. If Juana was really as mad as she seemed, then the way would be easy. He could now be sure of taking the Regency.

“I will care for you now,” he said, and she did not notice the glint in his eyes; nor did she see any hidden meaning in his words.

“It is a joy to me that you have come,” she said.

Ferdinand pushed back the black hood and kissed her brow.

He thought: She is indeed mad. There can be no doubt of it. Regent of Castile until Charles is of age! There were many years of government ahead of him.

“We cannot stay here in Tortoles,” said Ferdinand. “We should travel to a place where we can live and discuss matters of state in comfort.”

She did not demur and he was delighted that she appeared ready to agree with everything he said; but he soon discovered how stubborn she could be.

“I only travel by night,” she told him.

He was astonished.

“Travel by night! But how is that possible? The journey would take four times as long.”

“That may be so, but I am in no hurry. I am shut away from the sun and the light of day. My life from now on will be lived in darkness.”

“Certainly we cannot travel by night. You must end this foolishness.”

Then he saw it, the flash of obstinacy, and he remembered that she was Isabella’s daughter. Similar conflicts came to his mind; he remembered how often his will had pulled against that of Isabella, and how Isabella had invariably won because she was the Queen of Castile and he but her consort. Now here was Isabella’s daughter reminding him that she was the Queen of Castile and he but her father.

Ferdinand determined then that all Castile must know that Juana suffered from periodic insanity, that she could not be relied upon; and the only way in which Castile could be satisfactorily ruled was by a Regent while the Queen spent her life in seclusion.

Let her travel by night. Let her carry the coffin of her husband about with her; let her fondle the corpse when she liked. All this would enable the people to understand that the Queen was in truth a madwoman.

So Ferdinand travelled by day, and Juana by night; and when Juana realized that they were taking the route to Burgos, that town full of the most poignant memories—for it was there that Philip had died—she refused to travel further.

She stopped at Arcos and took up her residence there. In vain did her servants protest that she had chosen the most unhealthy spot in Spain. She retorted that she did not care for the weather. The cold meant nothing to her; she no longer felt anything but sorrow.

Ferdinand made no protest. He could wait.

She was making it easy for him to convince the people that their Queen was mad, and then he would cease to fear anything she might do. With great vigor he set about putting his affairs in order.

He read the dispatches from Puebla. Puebla was growing old; he would send a new ambassador to England; he must try once more to bring about the marriage of his youngest daughter with the Prince of Wales.

Fuensalida at the King’s Court

IT WAS A BLEAK FEBRUARY DAY AND A CHILLY MIST ENVELOPED the countryside. The elegant foreigner clearly found the weather distasteful, and his retinue, being fully aware of his choleric temper and his habit of speaking his mind, whispered together that it was to be hoped the weather improved before they reached London.

The journey from the coast had taken them several days and they had come to rest for the night in an inn still some miles from the capital. Their coming had aroused a certain flutter of excitement within the hostelry, for it was known that the party must be on their way to the King’s Court, and there was speculation even among the scullions as to whether this meant a marriage for the Prince of Wales with his brother’s widow, and perhaps a bride for the King.

This was not the first party of Spaniards they had seen; but the nobleman who was clearly the most important member of the party was certainly a very touchy gentleman. He complained of this and that, and although he was too haughty to speak to them they were fully aware of his fastidiousness.

Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was however in far from an ill mood. The weather might be distasteful and he hated the discomforts of travel, but he was quite certain that he was going to complete a mission, over which that fool Puebla had been stumbling for so many years, and complete it to such satisfaction to his master that great honors would be showered upon him.

The futility, he said to himself, of allowing such a man as Puebla to handle these delicate matters! A Jew of no standing! Diplomacy should be conducted only by members of the nobility.

Don Gutierre was complacent. He himself belonged to a family which could trace its glorious ancestry back through the centuries; he was wealthy; he was not in the diplomatic service of his country for financial gain but for honors. He had recently come from the Court of Philip the Handsome, and previously he had represented Ferdinand at that of Maximilian. He was fully aware of the intrigues of traitors such as Juan Manuel and he had never swerved from the cause of Ferdinand. Now that Philip was dead and Juana recognized almost universally as mad, Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was coming into his own; his would be the rewards of fidelity and, when he had satisfactorily arranged the marriage between Ferdinand’s daughter and the Prince of Wales, Ferdinand would indeed be grateful to him.

While he mused thus a visitor arrived at the hostelry; he came riding in with a few servants and asked immediately of one of Gutierre’s servants if he might be taken to his master.

“I have ridden from London,” he said, “for the sole purpose of greeting Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida and that I might have the pleasure of returning with him to the capital.”

Gutierre, delighted when he heard that a gentleman of distinction had called to see him, although it was no more than courtesy demanded and it was certainly what he expected, ordered that the visitor should be brought to him immediately.

“I am Dr. Nicholas West, Bishop of Ely,” Gutierre was told. “I heard that you had arrived and have come to usher you into Court circles, on the express command of His Highness the King.”

“It gives me great pleasure to meet you,” answered Gutierre.

The innkeeper, a little flustered by such distinguished guests, provided a private room in which refreshment was served to the two gentlemen.

And when they had talked of the perils of sea journeys and the weather in England, they reached the real purpose of the meeting.

“The King has not enjoyed such good health during this winter as he has hitherto,” explained Dr. West. “Indeed, his physicians are in constant attendance.”

“What ails His Grace?”

“He has been plagued by pains in his body for some years, and his limbs have become so stiff that it is often painful for him to put foot to the ground. These pains are always more severe during the winter months. But this winter he has suffered more than usual. He has had rheums and coughs which have kept him to his bed for many weeks. His physicians do not allow him to spend long at a time with his ministers, and there are days when they implore him not to see them at all.”

“I understand,” said Gutierre. “This will mean that there may be some delay in his receiving me?”

“It may well be so.”

“Then I must perforce wait until he commands me to his presence. In the meantime I will call on the Infanta. I doubt not she will be eager to have news of her father.”

“That is something of which I must warn you. It is the etiquette of the Court that ambassadors should not visit anyone belonging to the royal household until they have been received by the King.”

“Is that so? That is going to make my position somewhat difficult…unless I have an early interview with the King.”

“You may rest assured that as soon as His Grace’s health has improved he will receive you. He is eager to have news of his friend and brother, King Ferdinand.”

“He cannot be more eager for these negotiations than my master is.”

“Had you any plans as to where you would lodge?”

“Yes. I thought of staying awhile in the house of Francesco Grimaldi, who, as you know, is the London agent of the Genoese bank.”

Dr. West nodded. He understood that this was significant. There was no doubt in his mind that Ferdinand was now preparing to pay the remainder of Katharine’s dowry and that Grimaldi would be called in to conduct the business.

“I cannot think of a more satisfactory arrangement,” he said.

The conversation continued in the pleasantest manner. Dr. West informed the new Spanish ambassador of affairs at Court. He spoke of the popularity and charm of the Prince of Wales, who was becoming more and more important to the people as his father grew more infirm.

The eyes of the Spanish ambassador glinted with pleasure.

There could be no doubt that his main purpose in coming to London was to bring about the marriage of his master’s daughter and the Prince of Wales.

FRANCESCO GRIMALDI was delighted to welcome the Spanish ambassador. Grimaldi was well past middle-age, but he lived well and he was fond of gaiety, and any form of excitement was welcome. He was an astute business man who had built up a considerable fortune, and was therefore able to entertain Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida in a manner to which even he was accustomed.

Excellent food and wines were served at Grimaldi’s table, and Gutierre was not the most discreet of men.

So the dowry which had brought so much trouble to the Infanta was at last to be paid? How many years was it since she had arrived in England a hopeful bride? It must be nearly seven. And what a sad life the poor lady had led since the death of Prince Arthur!

Gutierre found Grimaldi not only entertaining but useful, for he was able to supply that kind of Court gossip which never appeared in the state papers.

He did not see why he should change his lodgings since he was perfectly comfortable in the house of Grimaldi, which was within easy reach of the Court.

On the day of his arrival in the banker’s house a young man called to see him. He humbly announced himself as the son of Dr. de Puebla, who deeply regretted that he was unable to call on the ambassador as he was confined to his bed with an attack of gout.

Gutierre looked down his long aristocratic nose at the humble son of a humble father. He was eager to show these people that he, Knight Commander of the Order of Membrilla, scion of an ancient house, was quite determined not to listen to the babbling of upstarts, who were of humble origin and marranos at that.

“Give your father my regrets and wishes for his speedy recovery,” he said coldly.

“My father hopes you will call on him at the earliest time Your Excellency finds agreeable. He wishes me to say to you that this matter, which is the reason for your coming to England, is a very complicated one and, as the English are extremely shrewd, he would like to make you acquainted with all details as soon as possible.”

Gutierre bowed his head and murmured that he would bear the matter in mind.

He would make no appointment to call at the residence of his fellow ambassador, and the young man was forced to retire in some bewilderment.

When he had gone, Gutierre let his anger burst forth.

Does that Jew think that he can teach me Court manners? he asked himself. He would show Dr. de Puebla—and their master, Ferdinand—that the only ambassadors worthy of the name were those of noble blood.

THE NEWS WAS brought to Katharine that her father’s ambassador was in England, and she rejoiced. She was optimistic. Her father’s affairs were becoming prosperous once more and she knew that, on the rise and fall of her father’s power, her own future prospects would fluctuate.

She wept bitterly when she heard the news of Juana’s strange conduct and of how she kept the dead body of her husband with her and refused to relinquish it. She had become accustomed to hearing her sister referred to as the mad Queen; but she was still endeavoring to bring about a marriage between Juana and Henry because Henry so desired it and, she told herself, if Juana were to come to England, I could help to look after her; and surely she could not bring the body of her dead husband here. Katharine believed that once Juana could be persuaded to bury Philip, she would begin to regain her sanity.

She was not unconscious of the fact that, as a result of Juana’s madness, Ferdinand was a greater power in Spain than he would be if Juana were sound in mind and able to rule; and, since it was due to the rising power of Ferdinand that she herself was treated with more respect, she could not help reflecting sadly that they appeared to be a house divided against itself, since Juana’s misfortune could work to her, Katharine’s, good.

She was all eagerness to meet Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida, for she would be delighted to dispense with the services of Puebla.

Her maids of honor—and Francesca de Carceres in particular—were continually complaining about the little man. They were sure it was due to his mismanagement of affairs that they were still living in this unsatisfactory way, while the years passed, they grew older, and no husbands were found for them.

Francesca was particularly bitter, as she loved gaiety more than did the others. Maria de Salinas and Inez de Veñegas were resigned, and she believed these two very dear friends of hers suffered more on her account than on their own.

Katharine lost no time in telling them of the arrival of the new ambassador.

Francesca was frankly delighted. “And Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida!” she cried. “He is a very grand gentleman. He will know how to deal with your father-in-law, Highness.”

“I do not believe my father-in-law will care whether he has to deal with the nobleman or the lawyer Jew. His great concern will be the payment of the dowry.”

“I shall make our sad state known to the new ambassador,” declared Francesca. “Something must be done for us before we are too old to be married at all.”

Poor Francesca! thought Katharine. How she longed for marriage! She should be the mother of several children by now.

“I am a little anxious,” she said. “I am wondering what will happen when my plate and jewels are valued. The value will be found to be a great deal less than when I arrived. And these were to be part of the dowry.”

“But what could Your Highness do?” demanded Maria de Salinas. “You had to live.”

“There are times,” Katharine murmured, “when I believe that kings and ambassadors do not think that it is necessary for a princess and her household to eat. She is merely a figure to be used when the state needs her. She can marry. She can bear children. But eat! That is not considered at all necessary.”

Maria de Salinas was startled to hear the bitterness in Katharine’s voice. It was well, she reflected, that the new ambassador was here and that it was possible he would bring the negotiations, which had been going on for so many years, to a satisfactory end.

WHEN HENRY RECEIVED the Spanish Ambassador, the King was wrapped in a long robe and sat huddled near a blazing fire.

“My dear Ambassador,” said Henry with more warmth than he usually displayed. “You find me in ill health. I cannot move easily, so you must sit beside me and give me news of my dear brother, the King of Aragon.”

“My master sends his greetings to Your Grace,” answered Fuensalida, bowing with courtly grace.

“I pray you be seated,” said Henry; and, his alert eyes looking out from the wrinkles which pain had set about them, he summed up the character of the new ambassador. Here was one of the Spanish grandees, a man with a great opinion of himself. That was not displeasing. Henry liked weakness in the ambassadors of other countries.

When Fuensalida was seated, Henry said: “I know that you have come to see me on two matters of great importance and interest to me. They are also matters of great happiness: marriages. How much better it is for Kings to unite through such alliances than to quarrel together! What news do you bring me of Queen Juana?”

“There is no King to whom Ferdinand would rather see his daughter married than yourself.”

“Then why delay…why delay?”

“It is on account of the strangeness of the Queen of Castile.”

Henry frowned. “I have heard of this strangeness, but what does it mean? She has recently been brought to bed of a fine daughter. She has borne sons. I would ask nothing more of a wife than that.”

“It is said that the Queen of Castile is insane.”

“Insane! Bah! She is fertile. We in England would have no objection to a little insanity if a Queen were fertile, as I have already explained.”

“Then the negotiations should go forward.”

“And with speed,” cried the King. “You see me here…”

He did not finish, and Fuensalida spoke for him: “Your Grace is no longer in your first youth. A speedy marriage is a necessity for you that you might get sons before it is too late.”

Henry was astonished. No one had ever dared refer to the fact that it was possible he would not be long for this world. And here was this stranger calmly telling him so. He felt very angry, the more so because he knew the truth of the statement. Had they told Juana that he was an old man and that his eagerness for their marriage was not his regard for her but the immediate and desperate need to beget a son before the grave claimed him?

Surely this ambassador must be the most tactless man Ferdinand could possibly have sent him.

“And there is a matter of great importance to us both,” went on Fuensalida who, since he never considered the feelings of others, was never conscious of wounding them, “and that is the marriage of the Infanta and the Prince of Wales.”

Impudence! thought Henry. He dares to change the subject! Where are his manners? Or does he think that a Spanish grandee takes precedence over a King of England?

Henry did not show his anger when dealing with foreign diplomats. He said calmly: “I have a great regard for the daughter of the King of Aragon. I find her gracious, charming and beautiful. It has grieved me that she must live so long in such uncertain state.”

“Your Grace remembers that he promised that she should marry the Prince of Wales?”

“I do not forget it and I see no reason why this marriage should not take place, providing certain questions can be amicably settled between my friend the King of Aragon and myself.”

“It is precisely that such matters should be settled that I am here with Your Grace.”

“Is that so?”

Still Henry showed no sign of the fury he felt. It was not the marriage of Katharine and the Prince of Wales he was eager to discuss, but his own marriage with Juana.

“Why,” he went on, “I remember full well that these two were betrothed. I am not a man to break my word. I should tell you that the Prince of Wales has had many offers…many brilliant offers of marriage.”

“There could scarcely be a more brilliant marriage, Your Grace, than with a daughter of Spain.”

Insolent fellow! thought Henry. He would see that Ferdinand realized his folly in sending such a man to England. Henry greatly preferred little Dr. de Puebla—a man who lacked this arrogance and certainly realized that the best way to serve his master was not to antagonize those with whom that master wished to make new friendships.

“I am weary,” he said. “My doctors warned me. You will be received by my councillors, and you can lay the terms of the King of Aragon before them.” The King closed his eyes. Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida was dismissed.

THE COUNCIL were far from helpful. Fuensalida did not know that the King had already told them of his dislike for the new ambassador, and had hinted that no concessions should be made to him.

As for Fuensalida, he was afraid that certain members of this Council were not of sufficient nobility to be on equal terms with him, and he was disgusted that the King was not present that he might address himself to him.

The Bishop of Winchester, who with the Bishop of Ely and the Earl of Surrey formed part of the Council, showed no grace or finesse in dealing with this delicate matter of Katharine’s dowry. They wanted to know how the money was to be paid.

“As previously arranged,” said Fuensalida. “There will be sixty-five thousand crowns and the remainder in plate and jewellery.”

“You have presumably brought the plate and jewels with you?” one of the members of the Council enquired.

“You know full well that the Infanta brought her plate and jewels with her when she arrived in this country.”

“That,” said Surrey, “was in the year 1501; quite a long time ago.”

“You knew that this plate and these jewels were intended for her dowry?”

“How could that be,” asked Winchester, “when the Infanta has been wearing the jewels and using the plate?”

“And disposing of them if my information is correct,” added Surrey.

The Bishop of Ely added slyly: “On the marriage of a husband and wife, the wife’s property becomes that of the husband. Therefore it would seem that the Infanta’s jewels became the property of Prince Arthur and consequently the property of the King.”

“Does Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida then seek to pay the King the remainder of the Infanta’s dowry with the King’s own plate and jewels?” Ely wanted to know.

“This is monstrous!” cried Fuensalida, who had never learned to control his temper.

Winchester was delighted, for he knew that the best way of scoring over the Spaniard was to make him lose his temper.

He went on: “This is the King’s property, into which over a number of years the Infanta has been breaking, selling a piece here, and a piece there, so that much of that which should be in the King’s coffers is now in those of the Lombard Street merchants!”

“This is a matter for your shame!” shouted Fuensalida. “You have treated the Infanta as a beggar. You have dared behave so to a daughter of Spain.”

“Whose dowry was never paid in full,” put in Winchester.

“I shall not remain to hear more of such insolence!” cried Fuensalida; and he left the council chamber to the delight of the English.

In the House of Grimaldi

FRANCESCA DE CARCERES WAS DETERMINED ON ACTION. Something had to be done, and she guessed that the marriage negotiations of the Infanta and the Prince of Wales were as far as ever from reaching a satisfactory conclusion.

Until the Infanta was married, none of her maids of honor would be.

And thus, thought Francesca, the years will pass until we are all dry old spinsters whom no one would take in marriage even if we had big dowries.

Francesca was never one to wait for opportunity; she went out to seek it.

She had met Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida and recognized in him a nobleman such as Puebla could never be. Being suspicious of Puebla and believing that he worked for the King of England rather than for Ferdinand, she wished that he should be recalled to Spain; it seemed that he never would be, because Ferdinand for some strange reason trusted him. And in any case the old fellow was now so infirm that he would be of no use in Spain. It was characteristic of Ferdinand that he should not recall him. It was so much easier to keep the ailing old man in England, pay him no wages and let him work for Spain.

Francesca pinned her hopes on Fuensalida.

She decided therefore that she would see him in private. This was not an easy thing to do at Court because when he came he was not alone; and in any case what chance had a maid of honor of a private interview without calling a great deal of attention to herself to obtain it?

There was plenty of freedom now in Katharine’s entourage, so Francesca had planned that she would slip away one afternoon and call on the ambassador at his lodgings, which she knew to be in the house of the banker, Francesco Grimaldi.

She wrapped herself in a cloak, the hood of which did much to conceal her face, and set out. When she reached the banker’s house she was taken into a small room and the servant who had brought her in went away to discover whether the Spanish ambassador was in his apartment.

While Francesca waited she examined the rich hangings and the fine furniture in this small room. She had been struck by the grandeur of the house as soon as she entered it. Perhaps this appreciation was the more forceful because she thought of the poverty in which she and the Infanta’s maids of honor had lived for the last few years.

Banking must be a profitable business, she reflected; and it was brought home to her that people such as bankers must live in more affluent circumstances than many a Prince or Princess.

The door was opened and a rather plump man stood in the doorway. Francesca noticed at once that his jacket was made of rich velvet and that his stomacher was most elegantly embroidered. His hanging sleeves were somewhat exaggeratedly long and there were jewels at his throat and on his fingers. He gave an impression of elegance and wealth and his corpulence and air of general well-being indicated a man who lived most comfortably. His eyes were warm brown and very friendly.

When he bowed low over Francesca’s hand on which his lips lingered slightly longer than Court etiquette would have considered necessary, she discovered that she was not displeased.

“I am happy to see you in my house,” he said. “But alas, Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida is not here at this time. If there is anything I could do to help you, depend upon it I should be greatly honored.”

“That is very kind of you,” Francesca replied, and she told him who she was.

“This is a happy day for my house,” answered the banker, “when one of the Infanta’s ladies call. And that she should surely be the most beautiful adds to my pleasure.”

“You are very gracious. Will you be so kind as to tell Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida that I called? I should have told him I was coming.”

“Pray do not leave so soon. I cannot say when he will return, but it is possible that he may do so within the hour. If in my humble way I could entertain you during that time, I should be most happy.”

Francesca said: “Perhaps I could linger for a little while.” And she was gratified to see the look of bemused pleasure in the face of the banker.

“Allow me to offer you refreshment,” he said.

Francesca hesitated. This was most unconventional, but she was known to be the most adventurous of the Infanta’s maids of honor and she thought how she would enliven them all when she returned by telling them of her adventures at the home of the Genoese banker; so she succumbed to temptation and sat down; whereupon Grimaldi summoned a servant and gave his orders.

Half an hour later Francesca was still in the banker’s company; she was amusing him with stories of Court life, and he was amusing her equally with stories of his own world. When she expressed her admiration for his beautiful furniture he insisted on showing her some of his more elaborate pieces, which resulted in a tour of this very fine house of which he was clearly—and justly—proud.

Fuensalida had not returned when Francesca decided that she really must leave; Grimaldi wished to escort her back, but she refused to allow this.

“We should be seen,” she said. “And I should doubtless be severely reprimanded.”

“What a mischievous young lady you are!” murmured the banker rapturously.

“One must bestir oneself in some ways,” retorted Francesca. “I do admit the others are somewhat prim.”

“I shall never cease to bless the day you came to see Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida, and I feel grateful to him for not returning, thus allowing me to enjoy your company and have it all to myself.”

“Are bankers always so gallant?” asked Francesca almost archly.

“Even bankers cannot fail to be in the presence of such overwhelming beauty,” he told her.

It was all very pleasant and Francesca had enjoyed the encounter; and when he said goodbye his lips lingered even longer on her hand. We are so unused to such attentions, she told herself; and even when they do not come from the nobility they are not without their attractions.

“If you should ever desire to do me this honor again,” he said earnestly, “I should rejoice in my good fortune.”

She did not answer, but her smile was provocative.

She hurried back to the palace, telling herself how she would enjoy explaining her little adventure to the others; she imagined herself imitating the banker’s voice as he paid her the most extravagant compliments. How they would laugh! And who among them had ever had such an adventure?

Then suddenly she decided she would say nothing. What if she were forbidden to visit the banker’s house again? Not that she intended to go again: but suppose she wanted to, it would be most irritating to be forbidden to do so.

No, for the present her encounter with Francesco Grimaldi should remain her secret.

WHEN KATHARINE HEARD that Fuensalida had quarrelled with the Council she was disturbed and commanded Puebla to come to her at once.

The old man sent for his litter and, as he was carried from his lodging to the palace, he reflected that he would not make many more such journeys, for he was well aware that the end was in sight for him. It was sad that he had worked so hard and unfailingly to bring about this marriage without success, and now that Ferdinand had sent his new ambassador the position had rapidly worsened.

He did not expect to be appreciated. When had he ever been appreciated? He was a Jew by birth, and he had become a Christian. Such as he must become accustomed to injustice. He should think himself lucky that he was not in Spain, where he might so easily commit some mild indiscretion and be taken before the tribunal of the Inquisition and charged with heresy.

At least, he thought, I shall die in my bed; and the reward for my services will be merely neglect and general ingratitude.

As he dragged himself painfully into the Infanta’s apartment Katharine felt an immediate pity for him.

“Why, you are ill!” she said.

“I grow old, Highness,” he murmured.

She called for a chair that he might sit in her presence, and for this he was grateful.

She came straight to the point. “I had hoped,” she said, “that my dowry was to be paid and that I should be able to claim the fulfilment of my marriage treaty. It seems this is not to be so. When I came here it was understood that my plate and jewels were to form part of my dowry, and now Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida informs me that the King will not accept this.”

“He must accept it,” said Puebla. “It was part of the marriage treaty.”

“But Don Gutierre says that the Council refuse to admit this.”

“Then they must be made to admit it. I fear he has offended the Council with his quick temper and high-handed manners. He forgets that he is in England; and he will never bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion if he is going to offend the people whom it is necessary to placate.”

“You think that they can be made to accept the plate and jewels?”

“I am sure they will. But the jewels and plate are much depleted, I believe.”

“I have found it necessary to have some money to live, and I have pawned or sold a considerable amount of the plate and jewels.”

“Highness, if your father will make up the discrepancy I feel sure we can come to an arrangement with the King.”

“Then you must see Fuensalida and make him understand this.”

“I will. And Your Highness should have no fear. The King will wish to come to this arrangement. He is eager for a match between your nephew, Charles, and the Princess Mary. He is even more eager to enter into marriage with your sister, Her Highness Queen Juana. I believe that a little diplomacy will settle these matters amicably.”

“Then I pray you go to Fuensalida with all speed. And, Dr. de Puebla, I am concerned for your health. I am going to send my physician to see you. You must act on his advice.”

“Your Highness is gracious,” murmured Puebla.

He felt resigned. He knew that Fuensalida was the last man to handle this delicate situation with the right amount of tact and shrewdness. He knew also that when Katharine’s physician saw him, he would be told to keep to his bed. That he knew was tantamount to receiving his death warrant.

KATHARINE WAS FRUSTRATED. She was aware the King disliked the Spanish ambassador and made continual excuses not to grant the interviews he asked.

Puebla, who alone might have made some progress now that Ferdinand really seemed desirous of settling his daughter’s affairs, had now taken to his bed. Too late Fuensalida learned how useful the little man could be.

The matter dragged on. Henry, who was beginning to see that he would never get Juana, was growing angry. He did not trust Ferdinand. Henry was becoming increasingly difficult to deal with because he was now in acute pain and the calmness which had been characteristic of him was deserting him. His skin was turning yellow and he was rapidly losing weight. There were whole days when he was invisible to any but his doctors.

Katharine was so eagerly watching the progress of her own affairs that she failed to notice the change in one of her maids of honor. Francesca had seemed to grow younger; she had come into possession of some beautiful pieces of jewellery. She did not flaunt these before the eyes of the others, it was true, but on one occasion when Maria de Rojas had called attention to a handsome ruby ring which she was wearing, Francesca had shrugged her shoulders, murmured, “Have you not seen it before?” and hastily changed the subject.

Francesca was the only member of the Infanta’s household who was not depressed by the way things were going; each day she contrived to slip away, and remained absent for several hours.

Fuensalida was making himself unpleasant to various members of the Infanta’s household. He had quarrelled with Puebla many times, and only the little man’s humility and desire to bring about a successful solution of the troublesome matter of the dowry made their association possible. His chief enemy in the household was Fray Diego Fernandez, who was Katharine’s confessor and whose position gave him especial influence over her. This friar seemed to Fuensalida an arrogant young man because he did not show sufficient respect to the ambassador, and he had threatened to write to Ferdinand to the effect that Fernandez was not only incompetent but dangerous, as the Infanta placed too much trust in him.

Katharine was desperate, realizing that when she needed as much support as she could get, her affairs were continually being obstructed by strife within her own circle.

One day Fernandez came to her in a state of great indignation. He had had a narrow escape, he told her. Fuensalida had made an attempt to have him arrested and shipped out of the country.

Katharine was angry, but there was nothing she could do. Puebla was confined to his bed and clearly was dying; now she reproached herself for not appreciating that little man before. It was only now that she could compare him with Fuensalida that she realized how admirable he had been. She could not ask her father to recall Fuensalida and send her another ambassador. The situation was too involved and, by the time a new man arrived, who could say what might have happened?

So she prayed constantly that her ill luck would change and that soon her affairs might be put in order.

WHAT JOY IT WAS to escape to the house of the Genoese banker! thought Francesca. How merry that man was, and how delighted that Francesca de Carceres should deign to visit him. It was true, of course, that she was of a most noble family and he was merely a banker; but how much more extravagantly he lived, and what great comfort he enjoyed!

She could not recall how many times she had been to his house, ostensibly to visit the ambassador, and how she arranged her visits to fall at those times when she knew Fuensalida would not be present.

She had meant to implore him to do something for Katharine’s maids of honor, who should have marriages arranged for them, but she had found no opportunity of speaking of this matter to the ambassador.

There was so much of interest to see in the house, and her banker delighted in showing her. She had only to admire something, and he implored her to accept it. He was surely the most generous man in the world!

So it was fun to slip on her cloak and hasten to his lodgings.

On this occasion he was waiting for her, and he seemed more serious; as it was unusual to see him serious, she wondered what had happened.

They took wine together with some of those excellent cakes which his cooks made especially for her, and as they sat together he said suddenly: “How strange that I should be Francesco, and you Francesca. It seems yet another link between us.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “it is certainly strange.”

Then he became even more serious and said: “How long can this continue?”

“You mean my visits? Oh, until the Court moves, or until I am discovered and forbidden to come.”

“That would stop you…if you were forbidden?”

“I might be tempted to disobey.”

He leaned towards her and took one of her hands. “Francesca,” he said, “would you consider becoming mistress of this house?”

She grew a little pale, realizing the enormity of what he was suggesting. She…marry him! But her marriage was one which would have to be approved by the Infanta, by the Queen of Castile or by Ferdinand, and by the King of England. Did he not understand that she was not a little seamstress or some such creature to make a match on the spur of the moment?

“The suggestion is repulsive to you?” he said wistfully.

“No…no!” She was emphatic. She was thinking of how dull her life had been before these visits; and how it would seem even more dull if she were forced to give them up. She went on: “Marriages are arranged for people in my position. I should never be allowed to marry you.”

“You have been neglected,” he argued. “To whom do you owe loyalty? As for myself, I am no subject of the King of England. If I wish to marry, I marry. If you decided you did not want to go back to the palace one day, I would have a priest here who should marry us. I would place all my possessions and myself at your service. I love you, Francesca. You are young, you are beautiful, you are of noble birth, but you are a prisoner; and the only one of these attributes which can remain to you is your noble birth. Francesca, do not allow them to bury you alive. Marry me. Have we not been happy together? I will make you happy for the rest of your life.”

Francesca rose. She was trembling.

She must go quickly. She must be alone to think. She was terrified that she would commit some indiscretion which would decide the whole of her future life.

“You are afraid now,” he said gently. “Make no mistake. It is not of me, Francesca, that you should be afraid. You would never be afraid of me. You are bold and adventurous. Not for you the palace prison. Come to me, Francesca, and I will make you free.”

“I must go,” she said.

He did not attempt to detain her.

“You will think of what I have said?” he asked.

“I cannot stop thinking of it,” she answered. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead tenderly. She knew that she was going to feel cheated if she did not see him again. Yet how could she?

Juana at Tordesillas

JUANA IN THE TOWN OF ARCOS KNEW NOTHING OF THE negotiations which had been going on to marry her to the King of England. She had settled in this most unhealthy climate, but she was quite unaware of the cold winds which penetrated the palace. Her little Catalina had become a lively little girl who seemed readily to accept the strangeness of her mother. Juana had also insisted that her son Ferdinand should be brought to live with her, and this wish had been granted. But little Ferdinand, who was nearly six years old, did not take kindly to his mother’s household. He did not like the coffin which was always prominently displayed; nor did he care to look on his dead father and to see his mother fondling the corpse.

Juana went about the palace dressed in rags, and she did not sit at table but ate her food from a plate on the floor like a cat or a dog. She never washed herself, and there were no women-servants in the house except the old washerwoman.

Music could sometimes be heard being played in the Queen’s apartment; otherwise there was almost continuous silence.

Young Ferdinand was very happy when his grandfather came to Arcos and took him away, although his mother screamed and shouted and had to be held by attendants while he rode away with his grandfather. Ferdinand loved his grandfather, who made much of him.

“We are both Ferdinands,” said the elder Ferdinand, and that delighted the boy, who decided that he would be exactly like his grandfather when he grew up.

Juana might have gone on in this state at Arcos but for the fact that revolt broke out in Andalusia, and it immediately occurred to Ferdinand that the rebels might plan to use her as a figurehead. He decided then that he was going to remove her to the isolated castle of Tordesillas, where it would be so much easier to keep her under restraint.

He came to the Palace of Arcos one day and went straight to those apartments where Juana was sitting, staring moodily at the coffin of her husband. Her hair, which had not been dressed for many months, hung about her haggard face; her face and hands were dirty, and her clothes hung in filthy rags about her gaunt figure.

Ferdinand looked at her in horror. There was indeed no need to pretend that she was mad.

Undoubtedly she must be removed to Tordesillas. He knew that there was a plot afoot to displace him and set up young Charles as King. As Charles was now nine, this arrangement would give certain ambitious men the power they needed; but Ferdinand was determined that the Regency should remain in his hands, and he would be uneasy until Juana was his prisoner in some place where he could keep her well guarded.

“My daughter,” he said as he approached her—he could not bring himself to touch her. As well touch a beggar or gipsy; they would probably be more wholesome—“I am anxious on your account.”

She did not look at him.

“Last time I was here,” he went on, “I did not please you. But you must realize that it is necessary for the people to see little Ferdinand; and what I did was for the best.”

Still she did not answer. It was true then that, although she had raged when he had taken her son, a few days later she had completely forgotten the boy. There was no real place in that deranged mind for anyone but the dead man in the coffin.

Ferdinand went on: “This place is most unhealthy. You cannot continue to live here in this…squalor. I must insist that you leave here. The castle of Tordesillas has been made ready to receive you. It is worthy of you. The climate is good. There you will recover your health.”

She came to life suddenly. “I shall not go. I shall stay here. You cannot make me go. I am the Queen.”

He answered quietly: “This place is surrounded by my soldiers. If you do not go of your own free will, I shall be obliged to force you to go. You must prepare to leave at once.”

“So you are making me a prisoner!” she said.

“The soldiers are here to guard you. All that is done is for your good.”

“You are trying to take him away from me,” she screamed.

“Take the coffin with you. There is no reason why you should not continue to mourn in Tordesillas, as you do in Arcos.”

She was silent for a while. Then she said: “I need time to prepare myself.”

“A day,” he said. “You can wash yourself, have your hair dressed, change into suitable clothes in a day.”

“I never travel by day.”

“Then travel by night.”

She sat still, nodding.

And the next night she left Arcos. She had been washed; her wild hair had been set into some order; she wore a gown suited to her rank; and, taking little Catalina in her litter, she set out with her followers; as usual, beside the Queen’s litter, so that it was never out of her sight, went the hearse drawn by four horses.

Through the nights she travelled and, as the third day was beginning to break, the party arrived at the old bridge across the Douro. There Juana paused to look at the castle which was so like a fortress. Immediately opposite this castle was the convent of Santa Clara, and in the cloisters of this convent she allowed the coffin to be placed. Then from the windows of her apartments she could look across to the coffin, and she spent the greater part of her days at her window watching over her dead. Each night she left the castle for the convent, where she embraced the corpse of Philip the Handsome.

So dragged on the long years of mourning, and each day she grew a little more strange, a little more remote from the world; only in one thing was she constant—her love for the handsome philanderer who had played such a large part in making her what she was.

King Henry VIII

KATHARINE HAD NOW LOST ALL HOPE. HER AFFAIRS WERE IN the direst disorder. Fuensalida had quarrelled openly with Henry, and when the ambassador had gone to Court he had been told that the King had no wish to see him.

Fuensalida, haughty, arrogant and tactless, had even tried to force an entry, with the result that he had suffered the extreme indignity of being seized by guards and put outside the Palace precincts.

Never had an ambassador been submitted to such shame, which clearly indicated that Henry had no respect for Ferdinand’s suggestions. Indeed Henry was boasting that he would marry Mary and Charles without the help of Spain.

Katharine was with her maids of honor when the news was brought to her of Puebla’s death. This, she had at last come to realize, was one of the greatest blows which could befall her, for now there was no one to work for her in England but the incompetent Fuensalida.

“This is the last blow,” she said. “I fear now that there is no hope.”

“But what will become of us?” asked Maria de Salinas.

“Doubtless we shall be sent back to Spain,” put in Maria de Rojas hopefully.

Katharine said nothing. She realized that to be sent back to Spain was the last thing she wanted. She would go back, humiliated, the unwanted Infanta, the widow who was yet a virgin. Had ever any Princess of Spain been so unfortunate as she was? There was only one dignified course left to her, and that was marriage with the Prince of Wales.

That was hopeless, for the King had shown so clearly that he would not allow the marriage to take place. Whenever she saw the Prince he had kindly smiles for her, which was comforting, for his importance grew daily, one might say hourly.

Katharine noticed that Francesca was not with them.

“Where is Francesca?” she asked.

“I have not seen her, Highness,” answered Maria de Salinas.

“Now that I recall it,” pursued Katharine, “she seems to absent herself often. What does she do when she is not with us?”

No one could answer that; which was strange because Francesca had been inclined to talk a great deal—often it seemed too much—of her personal affairs.

“I shall ask her when she returns,” said Katharine; and then they fell to discussing what would happen when Ferdinand learned that his ambassador had been refused admittance to the Palace.

Nothing would happen, thought Katharine wretchedly. Looking back over the years since Arthur’s death, she saw that her position had changed but little. She could go on living in penury and uncertainty for the rest of her days.

“HIGHNESS!” It was Maria de Rojas, and her voice was trembling with excitement.

Katharine had left her maids of honor an hour before because she wished to be alone; she had felt she could no longer endure their chatter, which alternated between the desire to raise her hopes by improbable changes of fortune and sighing for their native land.

She looked at Maria quickly, eager to know what had happened to change her mood.

“This has been delivered at the Palace. It is for you.”

Katharine took the letter which Maria was holding out to her. “It is in Francesca’s handwriting,” said Maria.

“Francesca!”

Katharine’s heart began to beat fast as she opened the letter, and she hastily scanned the words without taking them in the first time. Then she read it again. It was brief and to the point.

Francesca would never return. She had married Francesco Grimaldi, the banker from Genoa.

“It is…impossible!” breathed Katharine.

Maria was at her side; forgetting all ceremony, all discipline as she looked over Katharine’s shoulder and read the words which the newly married bride had written.

“Francesca…married! And to a banker! Oh, how could she? How could she! A banker! What will her family say? Highness, what will you do?”

“It must be some joke,” murmured Katharine.

But they both knew that it was no joke; Maria’s horror changed momentarily to envy. “At least she married,” she whispered; her lips quivered and there came to her eyes the frantic look of a prisoner who has heard of another’s escape, but sees no way out for herself.

“So this is where she has been,” went on Katharine. “It is the man with whom Fuensalida had his lodgings. How could she, a Carceres, so far forget the honor due to her rank as to marry a banker!”

Maria was speaking as though to herself: “Perhaps she fell in love with him. But it is more likely to be because he is very rich and we have been so poor. Francesca did not have an offer all the time we were here…perhaps she thought she never would have one.”

Katharine remembered her dignity. “Leave me now,” she said. “If she has left us we should make no effort to bring her back. She has chosen the way she wishes to go.”

“Your Highness will allow this?”

Katharine smiled bitterly. “You do not blame her, Maria. I can remember, when I came to England, how eager you all were to come with me. It seemed such a glorious future, did it not? But how differently it turned out! Francesca has escaped…that is all. As you would escape, Maria, if the opportunity offered itself. Go now. Break this news to the others. I’ll warrant they will share your envy of Francesca.”

Maria left her mistress and Katharine reread the letter. Francesca was happy, she said. She had married the man of her choice. There was excitement in every line. Francesca had escaped.

It seemed to Katharine in that moment that she touched the depth of hopelessness. Gay Francesca had risked the displeasure of kings and a powerful noble family to escape from the dreary existence which she had been forced to share with the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were on their knees before him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

“I…I…,” she stammered.

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

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

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

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

Then she refused to consider such a thought.

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

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

Queen Katharine

KATHARINE RODE BESIDE THE KING THROUGH THE STREETS of London.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happiness had brought beauty to her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir Loyal Heart”

IN THE ROYAL BEDCHAMBER AT THE PALACE OF RICHMOND the Queen of England lay alone. “She should rest now,” the doctors said. “Leave her to sleep.”

Yet, tired as she was, Queen Katharine, who was known to the people as Katharine of Aragon although it was ten years since she had left her native land to come to England, had no desire to sleep. It was long since she had known such happiness. She had come through humiliation to enjoy the greatest esteem; she who had once been neglected was now courted and treated with great respect. There was no woman in England who was accorded more homage than the Queen. During the month just past she had celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday; she was reckoned to be handsome and, when she was dressed in her jewelled garments and her lovely hair with its tints of reddish gold fell loose about her shoulders, the looks of admiration which were bestowed upon her were those given to a beautiful woman, whether she were Queen or beggarmaid.

Her husband was devoted to her. She must share in all his pastimes; she must be present to watch his prowess at the joust; she must applaud his success at tennis; and it was to her he presented the spoils of the hunt. She was the luckiest of women because her husband was the King—five years her junior, it was true, but an open-hearted boy, generous, passionate, loving, who, having escaped from the tiresome restrictions of a miserly parent, was determined to please his people and asked only adoration and admiration from those surrounding him.

Katharine smiled thinking of this big handsome boy whom she had married, and she was glad that she was older than he was; she was even glad that she had suffered such poverty and humiliation when she had lived in England as the widow of Henry’s brother Arthur and had been used by her father-in-law, Henry VII, and her father, Ferdinand of Aragon, as a counter in their game of politics.

All that was over. Henry, headstrong, determined to make his own decisions, had chosen her as his bride; and as a result he, like some sixteenth-century Perseus, had rescued her, had cut her free from the chains of poverty and degradation and had declared his intention of marrying her—for she pleased him better than any other woman—and setting her beside him on the throne of England.

How could she ever show enough gratitude? She smiled. He was never tired of her gratitude; his small blue eyes, which seemed to grow more blue with emotion, would glisten like aquamarines when he looked back into the not very distant past and compared her state then with what it was now.

He would place a heavy arm about her shoulders and give her one of those hugs which took her breath away; she was not sure whether he was unaware of his strength or liked to pretend he was, and so make others the more aware of it.

“Ah, Kate,” he would cry; Kate was his name for her; he liked to be thought bluff and blunt, a King who could talk on equal terms with his humblest subject. Kate was a good old English name. “’Tis not so long, eh, since you were languishing in Durham House, patching your gowns. A different story now, eh, Kate!” And he would burst into that loud laughter which brought tears to those blue eyes and made them brighter than ever. Legs apart he would survey her, head on one side. “I brought you up, Kate. Never forget that. I…the King…who would let no other choose my woman for me. ‘You shall not marry Katharine,’ they said. They made me protest against the betrothal. That was when I was but a child and powerless. But those days are past. Now it is my turn to decide, and none shall say me nay!”

How he revelled in his power…like a boy with new toys! He was twenty, strong and healthy; he was well nigh perfect in the eyes of his subjects, and quite perfect in his own.

And Katharine, his wife, loved him; for who could help loving this golden boy?

“How happy you make me,” she had told him once.

“Ay,” he had answered proudly. “I have, have I not, Kate? And you shall make me happy too. You shall give me sons.”

The blue eyes looked complacently into the future. He was seeing them all—boys, big boys, with red in their hair and their cheeks; with eyes as blue as aquamarines, boys strong and healthy, all made in the image of their glorious sire.

She had determined that he should not be denied his desires. He should have sons; and within a few weeks of their marriage she had become pregnant. She had been very unhappy when her still-born daughter had been born. She, who had suffered in dry-eyed silence for so many years, wept at the sight of Henry’s disappointment. But he could not long believe in failure. The gods were smiling on him even as his Court and subjects did. All Henry desired must be his.

But she had quickly become pregnant again, and this time she had given him all that he needed to make his contentment complete.

In the cradle lay their son. What a happy omen that he should have been born on New Year’s Day!

Henry had stood by her bed, his eyes ablaze with triumph.

“Here lies Your Grace’s son and heir,” she had said. “My New Year’s gift to you.”

Then Henry had fallen on his knees beside her bed and kissed her hand. She had thought that he was but a boy himself, for all his joy, all his pleasure in her and his son, was in his face for everyone to see.

“I would ask a boon of you,” Katharine had whispered.

“Name it, Kate,” he had cried. “You have but to name it…and it is yours.”

He was ready to give her anything she asked because he wanted her to know how he felt; he wanted the whole Court, the whole world, to know of his gratitude to the Queen who had given him his son.

“It is that this Prince shall be called Henry after his most noble, his most beloved Sire.”

Henry’s eyes had been moist for a moment; then he had leaped to his feet.

“Your wish is granted!” he cried. “Why, Kate, as if I could deny you aught!”

She smiled, remembering. Almost at once he had been impatient to leave her, because he was planning the christening ceremony which he had decided must be more magnificent than any such ceremony had ever been before.

This was his first-born son, the heir to the throne, who was to be called Henry. He was the happiest of Kings; so she, in whom love for him had grown out of her great gratitude, was the happiest of Queens.

It was small wonder that she had no wish to slip into the world of sleep, when waking she could savor such happiness.

THE KING SMILED with affection at his opponent in the game of tennis which they had just finished. It had been a close game, but there had never been any doubt in the mind of the King that he would be the victor. There had been no doubt in the mind of Charles Brandon either. He was not such a fool as to think of beating the King, although, he was ready to admit, it was questionable whether he would have been able to. Henry excelled at the sport.

Now Henry slipped his arm through that of his friend with the familiarity which was so endearing. They were almost the same height, but not quite; Charles Brandon was tall but Henry was taller. Charles was handsome but he lacked the pink and golden perfection of his King; he was wily and therefore he always saw to it that, although he jousted as a champion and excelled at all sports, he just failed to reach the perfection of his master.

“It was a good game,” murmured Henry. “And I thought at one time you would beat me.”

“Nay, I am no match for Your Grace.”

“I am not sure, Charles,” answered the King, but his expression showed clearly that there could be no doubt whatsoever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She did well,” said the King fondly.

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

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

“Is that so?” murmured Brandon.

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

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

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

“I will give the matter my earnest attention.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here to me,” said Henry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary frowned. “It will be years yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The baby in his cradle cried suddenly as though he came to his mother’s aid.

The King immediately swung round and the procession, with him at its head, went towards the cradle.

Henry took the child in his arms, and he looked at it with wonder.

“Do you realize,” he said, to those who crowded about him, “that this infant could one day be your King?”

“We trust not until he is an old graybeard, Your Grace.”

It was the right answer. The King laughed. Then he began to walk up and down the Queen’s bedchamber, the child in his arms.

The Queen watched smiling.

He is but a boy himself, she thought.

AS SOON AS KATHARINE left her bed she prepared to leave Richmond for Westminster. The King had gone on before her; impatient and restless, he had already journeyed to Walsingham, there to give thanks for his son at the Shrine of the Virgin.

But he had now returned to Westminster and was there waiting to receive the Queen.

Katharine, who still felt weak, would have enjoyed some respite, perhaps a few weeks of quiet at Richmond; but she knew that was too much to hope for because Henry begrudged every day he spent hidden from the public gaze. So did the people. Wherever he went they crowded about him to bless his lovely face and express their pleasure in him.

The people would not be excluded from the festivities at Westminster. One of the reasons why they loved their new King was because he showed them with every action, every gesture, that he was determined to be a very different King from his father. One of his first acts had been the public beheading of his father’s ministers, Dudley and Empson, those men whom the people had regarded as the great extortioners of the previous reign. Nothing could have been more significant. “These men imposed great taxes on my beloved people; they have brought poverty and misery to thousands. Therefore they shall die.” That was what the young King was telling his people. “England shall now be merry as she was intended to be.” So they cheered themselves hoarse whenever they saw him.

It seemed fitting to them that their handsome young King should be covered in glittering jewels, that his satin and velvet garments should be more magnificent than anyone had ever worn before. And because he was always conscious of the presence of the people, always determined to extract every ounce of their affection, he constantly won their approval.

They were now looking forward to the festivities at Westminster almost as eagerly as Henry was himself. Therefore there could be no delay merely because the Queen would have liked a little longer to recover from giving the King and country an heir.

All along the route the people cheered her. She was Spanish and alien to their English ways, but their beloved King had chosen her for his wife and she had produced a son; that was enough to make the people shout: “Long live the Queen!”

Beside Katharine rode her beautiful and favorite lady-in-waiting, Maria de Salinas, who had been with her ever since she had left Spain. It was significant that even when they were alone together she and Maria spoke English nowadays.

“Your Grace is a little weary?” asked Maria, anxiously.

“Weary!” cried Katharine, faintly alarmed. Did she look weary? The King would be hurt if she did. She must never show him that she preferred to rest rather than to frolic. “Oh no…no, Maria. I was a little thoughtful, that was all. I was thinking how my life has changed in the last few years. Do you remember how we suffered, how we patched our gowns and often had to eat fish which smelt none too good because it was the cheapest that could be bought in the market, how we wondered whether my father would send for us to return ignobly to Spain, or whether the King of England would ever pay me an allowance?”

“After such humiliation Your Grace can now enjoy all the fine gowns that you wish for, all the good food that you care to order for your table.”

“I should be ungrateful indeed, Maria, if I allowed myself to be tired when so much is being arranged for my pleasure.”

“Yet weariness is something over which we have no control,” began Maria.

But Katharine laughed: “We must always have control over our feelings, Maria. My mother taught me that, and I shall never forget it.”

She smiled, inclining her head as the people called her name. Maria had guessed that she was weary; no one else must.

THE QUEEN WAS SEATED in the tiltyard, for the tournament would soon begin. All about her were signs of the King’s devotion. His enthusiasm was such that when he was gratified the whole world must know it. This woman whom his father had tried to withhold from him, but whom he had insisted on marrying, had proved his wisdom in marrying her, for she had quickly given him a son. He wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held her, and everywhere Katharine looked she could see those entwined initials H and K. They were on the very seat on which she sat—gold letters on purple velvet.

If my mother could see me now, she would be happy, thought Katharine. It was nearly seven years since her mother had died and ten since she had seen her, yet she still thought of her often and when something happened which was particularly pleasing, it was almost as though she shared her pleasure with her mother. Isabella of Castile had been the greatest force in her daughter’s life and when she had died it seemed to Katharine that something very beautiful and vital had gone from her life. She believed that perhaps in the love she would bear towards her own children she would find some consolation for this aching loss; but that was in the future.

The ordinary people were crowding into the arena. They seemed always to be present. Henry would be pleased; he would triumph of course at the tournament and he liked his people to see him victorious. He would seem like a god to them in his glittering armor, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height—no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favor a man would have who happened to be an inch taller than the King.

She suppressed such thoughts. They came to her now and then but she constantly refused to entertain them. Her Henry was a boy and he had the faults of a boy. He was young for his years, but she must always remember that he had been repressed during his boyhood by a father who had always feared he might be spoiled by others, and who was eager that the eighth Henry should rule in a manner similar to that of the seventh.

All about her was the glittering Court. Henry was not present so she knew that he would appear later in the guise of some wandering king, perhaps a beggar, or a robber, some role which would make the people gasp with surprise. He would either tilt in his new role and as the conqueror disclose who he really was, or show himself before the joust and then proceed to conquer. It was the old familiar pattern, and every time Katharine must behave as though this were the first time it had happened. Always her surprise that the champion was in truth the King must appear to be spontaneous and natural.

What is happening to me? she asked herself. There had been a time when she was happy enough to enter into his frolics. Was that because in the first year of their marriage she had felt as though she were living in a dream? The period of humiliation had been so close in those days; now that it was receding, was she less grateful?

A hermit was riding into the arena and there was a hush in the crowd. He wore a gray gown and tattered weeds.

No, thought Katharine, he is not quite tall enough. This is not the great masquerade.

The hermit was approaching her throne and, when he was before her, he bowed low and cried aloud: “I crave the Queen’s Grace to permit me to tilt before her.”

Katharine said as was expected: “But you are no knight.”

“Yet would I ask your royal permission to test my skill, and it shall all be for Your Grace’s honor.”

“A hermit…to tilt in my honor!”

The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.

“It is strange indeed to find a hermit in the tiltyard, and that he should wish to tilt stranger still. But our great King has such love for all his subjects that he would please them each and every one. The lowliest hermit shall tilt before us if it is his wish. But I warn you, hermit, it may cost you your life.”

“That I would willing give for my Queen and my King.”

“Then let it be,” cried Katharine.

The hermit stepped back, drew himself to his full height, threw off his gray tattered robe, and there was a Knight in shining armor—none other than Charles Brandon himself.

The Princess Mary, who was seated near the Queen, began to clap her hands, and all cheered.

Brandon now asked the Queen’s permission to present to her a knight of great valor who was desirous, like himself, of tilting in her honor.

“I pray you tell me the name of this knight,” said Katharine.

“Your Grace, his name is Sir Loyal Heart.”

“I like well his name,” said Katharine. “I pray you bring him to me.”

Brandon bowed and there was a fanfare of trumpets as Sir Loyal Heart rode into the arena.

There was no mistaking that tall figure, that gold hair, that fresh fair skin which glowed with health and youth.

“Sir Loyal Heart!” shouted the ushers. “Who comes to tilt in honor of the Queen’s Grace.”

Before the Queen’s throne Henry drew up, while the people roared their approval.

Katharine felt that her emotions might prevent her in that important moment making the right gesture. Sir Loyal Heart! How like him to choose such a name. So naïve, so boyish, so endearing.

Surely I am the most fortunate of women, she thought; Mother, if you could but see me now, it would make up for all you have suffered, for my brother Juan’s death, for my sister Isabella’s death in childbirth, for Juana’s madness. At least two of your daughters inherited what you desired for them. Maria is the happy Queen of Portugal, and I am happier still, as Queen of England, wife of this exuberant boy, who shows his devotion to me by entwining my initials with his, by riding into the arena as Sir Loyal Heart.

“How happy I am,” she said in a voice which was not without a tremor of emotion, “that Sir Loyal Heart comes hither to tilt in my honor.”

There was nothing she could have said which would have pleased Henry more.

“The happiness of Sir Loyal Heart equals that of Your Grace,” cried Henry.

He had turned—ready for the joust.

The tournament was opened.

DARKNESS CAME EARLY in February, and the Court had left the tiltyard for the whitehall of Westminster. This did not mean that the festivities were over. They would go on far into the night, for the King never tired and, until he declared the ball closed, it must go on.

He had scored great success in the tiltyard to the delight of the people. But none was more delighted than Henry. Yet now that the party had entered the Palace he had disappeared from Katharine’s side.

This could only mean one thing. Some pageant or masque was being planned in which he would play a major part. Several of his friends had crept away with him, and Katharine, talking to those who remained about her, tried to compose her features, tried to display great expectation while she hoped that she would be able to register that blank surprise when she was confronted with some denouement which she had guessed even before the play had begun.

One must remember, she reminded herself, that he has been brought up in a most parsimonious fashion. She knew that his father had ordered that his doublets must be worn as long as they held together and then turned if possible; he and the members of his household had been fed on the simplest foods and had even had to save candle ends. All this had been intended to teach him the ways of thrift. The result? He had rebelled against thrift. He was ready to dip into his father’s coffers to escape from the parsimony, which had been anathema to him, in order to satisfy his extravagance. His nature was such that he must passionately long for all that was denied him—so for him the scarlet and gold, the velvet and brocade; for him the rich banquets, the pomp and the glory. It was fortunate that the thrift of Henry VII had made it possible for Henry VIII to indulge his pleasure without resorting to the unpopular methods which his father had used to amass his wealth.

Katharine looked about the hall, which had been so lavishly decorated, and tried to calculate the cost to the exchequer. The English love of pageantry was unquestionable. What great pains had been taken to turn this hall into a forest. There were artificial hawthorns, maples and hazels, all so finely wrought that they looked real enough. There were the animals, a lion, an antelope, and an elephant all cleverly made. She did not know the price of the commodities necessary to make these things but she guessed it was high, for clearly no expense had been spared. There were beautiful ladies to roam the mock forest and they, with the wood-woos, who were wild men of the forest, had to be specially apparelled. The maids of the forest wore yellow damask, and the wood-woos russet sarcenet; she knew the high cost of these materials.

Should she remonstrate with the King? Should she point out that such pageants were well enough when there was some great event to celebrate—as there was at this time the birth of their son—but this was one among many. Since Henry had come to the throne feasting had followed feasting, and pageant, pageant.

She imagined herself saying: “Henry, I am older than you…and I had the advantage of spending my early years with my mother who was one of the wisest women in the world. Should you not curb these extravagances?”

What would be his response? She pictured the brows being drawn together over those brilliant blue eyes, the pout of a spoiled boy.

Yet was it not her duty?

One of the courtiers was at her elbow. “Your Grace?”

“You would speak with me?”

“Your Grace, I know of an arbor of gold, and in this arbor are ladies who would show you their pastime in the hope that they might please your Grace. Would you wish to see this arbor?”

“I greatly desire to see it.”

The courtier bowed, and then, drawing himself to his full height, he declaimed: “Her Grace Queen Katharine wishes to see the arbor of gold.”

A curtain which had been drawn across one end of the hall was then pulled back to disclose a pavilion in the form of an arbor. This was composed of pillars about which artificial flowers made of silk and satin climbed naturalistically. There were roses, hawthorn and eglantine, and the pillars had been decorated with ornaments of pure gold.

This arbor was carried by stout bearers and placed close to the Queen’s throne. She saw that in it were six of the most lovely girls, and that their dresses were of white and green satin which appeared to be covered with gold embroidery; but as they came closer she realized that what she had thought was embroidery were two letters entwined—the familiar H and K. She stared in admiration, for it was indeed a pretty sight, and as she did so six men dressed in purple satin which, like the gowns of the girls, was adorned with the entwined letters, sprang forth to stand three on either side of the arbor.

Each of these knights had his name on his doublet in letters of real gold; and there was one among them who stood out distinguished by his height and golden beauty; and across his doublet were written the words Sir Loyal Heart.

The ordinary people who revelled in these antics of the Court had pressed into the hall and now cheered loudly, calling “God bless his Grace! God bless the Queen!”

Henry stood before her, his face expressing his complete joy.

Katharine applauded with her ladies, and the King clapped his hands—a signal for the ladies to step from the arbor.

Each of the six ladies was taken as a partner by one of the six men.

“Make a space for us to dance!” commanded Sir Loyal Heart. And the bearers wheeled the arbor back through the forest to the end of the hall where the people who had crowded into the Palace from the streets stood agog watching all this splendor.

“Come,” cried the King to the musicians, and the music began.

Henry danced as he loved to dance. He must leap higher than any; he must cavort with greater verve. Katharine watching him thought: He seems even younger now than he did the day we married.

“Faster! Faster!” he commanded. “Who tires? What you, Knevet?” The glance he threw at Sir Thomas Knevet was scornful. “Again, again,” he commanded the musicians, and the dance continued.

So intent were all on the dancing of the gay young King that they did not notice what was happening at the other end of the hall.

One man, a shipmaster whose trade had brought him to the port of London, murmured: “But look at the trimmings on this arbor. These ornaments are real gold!”

He put up his hand to touch one, but another hand had reached it before him. A gold ornament was taken from the arbor, and several crowded round to look at it.

In a few moments many of the spectators had plucked a gold ornament from the arbor; and those at the back, who saw what was happening, determined not to be left out, pressed forward and in the space of a few minutes that arbor was denuded of all the gold ornaments which had made it such a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile the King danced on, smiling at the ladies, now and then glancing in the Queen’s direction. Was she watching? Was she marvelling?

Katharine was ready every time his eyes met hers; and she had managed to infuse that look of wonder into her expression which he constantly demanded.

At last the music stopped, and Henry stood smiling benignly at the company.

“You see,” he announced, “that the dresses of the performers are covered in gold letters. These form my own initial and that of the one who is most dear to me. I now invite the ladies to come and help themselves to these entwined letters and I trust they will treasure them and when their time comes to marry they will endeavor to live in perfect harmony and follow the example set by their Queen and…Sir Loyal Heart.”

The ladies rushed forward. There were many, Katharine noticed, to gaze coquettishly at the King, and then she was grateful to him for his loyalty and ashamed of her criticisms. He is but a boy, she told herself; a boy who wishes to be good.

There was a sudden shout from the back of the hall, where the once golden arbor had been transformed into a few sticks of wood. The populace who, as custom demanded, were permitted to see their King at his meals, at his dancing and games, rushed forward.

The ladies had been invited to strip the King of his ornaments; well, so they should; and the men would help them in the game.

There was a startled cry of surprise from the dancers as they found themselves surrounded. The King himself was in the hands of half a dozen laughing men and women, but in their eyes there was something more than laughter. They had looked on at the luxury of Westminster and had compared it with their own homes; they had seen men and women whose garments were covered in glittering jewels and gold ornaments, one of which would keep them in luxury for a very long time.

This was their King and their beloved King, but the mob stood together against its rulers and when the call came it was invariably ready. But this was merely a masque; and the people had caught the spirit of the masque. They would not have harmed their handsome King; but they wanted his jewels.

Listening to the cries of protest of his friends, being aware of the people—who smelt none too fresh—pressing close to him, Henry ceased to be a pleasure-loving boy. He was a man at once—shrewd and cunning. He knew no fear; he had always felt himself to be capable of dealing with any situation and, because it had been his pleasure to go among his people as often as possible, he was able to understand them; and of all the noblemen and women in that hall there was none more calm, more wise than the King.

There was no sign of anger in those blue eyes which could so easily grow stormy at a courtier’s careless word. They were purposely full of laughter. He had played his own game; now he must play the people’s game; but he did not forget that he was still the central player.

He smiled into the eyes of a pretty young seamstress who had snatched a gold button from his doublet.

“May it continue to make your pretty eyes shine,” he said.

She was startled, flushed scarlet, then she turned and ran.

They had stripped him of all his jewels; they had torn his cloak from his shoulders so that he was wearing nothing but his doublet and his drawers. He laughed aloud being aware that his courtiers were being more roughly handled than he was himself while they were being stripped of their valuables. Moreover he saw too that the guards had rushed into the hall, halberds raised, and were doing their duty. They had taken several of the people and were hustling them into a corner of the hall, from where they were loudly abusing the guards.

Henry glancing quickly round the company saw that the dishevelled ladies looked bewildered and that Sir Thomas Knevet who had climbed up one of the pillars was clinging there stark naked. Sir Thomas had protested so vigorously that the mob had denuded him not only of his jewels but of all his clothes.

Looking at Knevet clinging to the pillar Henry burst into sudden loud laughter; it was the signal. Clearly the King intended to treat the affair as part of the masque and everyone was expected to do the same. Those of the people who had been muttering now joined in the laughter. “God Save the King!” they cried, and they meant it. He had not disappointed them. He was a true sportsman and they had nothing to fear from such a king.

He was shouting to his courtiers: “Why do you look so glum? My people have helped themselves to largesse. Let us leave the matter at that, for I confess to a hunger which must be appeased, and I am thirsty too.”

The people were not loath to be hustled from the hall grasping the spoils they had snatched. The sound of their laughter came floating back to the hall. They were delighted. They loved their King. Now when he rode through the streets they would cheer him more loudly than ever.

Katharine, who had watched the incident with rising horror, had been much astonished by the attitude of the King. She had expected him to roar his anger, to summon the guard, to have the people punished; yet she, whose eyes had not left him, had seen no sign of anger in the bright flushed face.

He was not merely a boy, she realized now. He was a King. And his crown was more dear to him than all the jewels in the world; he was more than a feckless boy, because he knew that he kept that crown by the will of the people. He would rage against his courtiers; he would without hesitation send them to the block; but when he came face to face with the mob he would have nothing for them but smiling tolerance.

Then she did not know this man she had married as she had believed she did, and the knowledge that this was so filled her with faint misgivings.

He was at her side, mischievous in his doublet and drawers.

“Come, Kate,” he said. “I starve. Let us lead the way to the banquet that awaits us.”

He took her hand and led her into his own chamber where the feast awaited them; and seated at the place of honor at that table with Katharine on his right hand, he was very merry as he surveyed his courtiers in their tattered garments; nor would he allow any to leave the banquet except Sir Thomas Knevet who, he said, for dear decency’s sake must find himself some garments.

“My friends,” said Henry, “your losses are largesse to the commonalty. That is an end of the matter. Now to work!”

And laughing he tackled the good red meat which he loved.

THE COUNTESS OF DEVONSHIRE came unceremoniously to the Queen’s apartment. Katharine received her husband’s favorite aunt graciously but she was quick to see that the Countess was alarmed.

“It is the Prince, Your Grace,” she burst out. “He has had an uneasy night and seems to find breathing difficult.”

Katharine was filled with apprehension.

“I must go to him at once,” she said.

The Countess looked relieved. “I have called the physicians to look at him. They think his Royal Highness has caught a chill, and may be better in a few days.”

“Then I will not tell the King…as yet.”

The Countess hesitated; then she said: “It might be well that the King is told, Your Grace. He will wish to see his son.”

Katharine felt sick with fear. So the child was worse than they pretended. They were trying to spare her, to break bad news gently.

“I will tell the King,” she said quietly, “and I am sure he will wish to make all speed with me to Richmond.”

IT COULD NOT BE TRUE, Henry would not believe it. This could not happen to him. The son, of whom he had been so proud, little Henry his namesake, his heir—dead! The child had lived exactly fifty-two days.

He stood, his face puckered, his legs apart, looking at the Queen. The courtiers had left them together, believing that one could comfort the other and thus make their grief more bearable.

Katharine said nothing; she sat in the window seat looking out over the river, her body drooping, her face drawn. She looked like an old woman. Her eyes were red, her face blotched, for she had shed many bitter tears.

“We should have taken greater care of him,” she whispered.

“He had every care,” growled Henry.

“He caught a chill at the christening. He was robust until then.”

Henry did not answer. It had been a splendid christening, with the Archbishop of Canterbury officiating and the Earl of Surrey and the Countess of Devonshire standing as sponsors; he had enjoyed every minute of it. He remembered thinking, as he watched the baby being carried to the font, that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. He had thanked God for His grace.

And now…the baby was dead.

He felt the anger bubbling within him. That this should happen to him! What he wanted more than anything in the world, he told himself, was a son—strong and healthy like himself—a boy whom he could watch grow up and teach to be a King.

He felt bewildered because Fate had dared take from him his greatest prize.

“It was well that he was christened, since he is now dead,” he said sullenly.

She could not be comforted. She longed for children; she needed them even as he did.

He thought how old she looked, and he felt angry with her because he wanted to feel angry with someone. He had been so grateful to her because she had given him a son; and now he was no longer grateful.

Katharine glancing up suddenly saw his eyes upon her—small, narrowed, cruel.

She thought: Dear God. Holy Mother, does he then blame me?

And her sorrow was tinged with an apprehension so faint that it was gone before she realized fully what it meant.

Even as he gazed at her his expression softened. He said: “This is a bitter blow, Kate. But I am no graybeard and you are young yet. We’ll have more children, you see. We’ll have a son this time next year. That’s the way to chase away our sorrow, eh?”

“Oh Henry,” she cried and held out her hand.

He took it.

“You are so good to me,” she told him. “I only live to please you.”

He kissed her hand. He was too young, too sure of himself, to believe that ill luck awaited him. This was an unfortunate accident. They would have more sons; so many that the loss of this one would cease to matter.

The King’s Indiscretion

THE KING SAT IN THE WINDOW SEAT STRUMMING HIS LUTE and trying out a song of his own composition; there was a dreamy expression in his eyes and he did not see the courtyard below; he was picturing himself in the great hall, calling for his lute and surprising all present with the excellence of his song.

They would say: “But who is the composer? We must bring him to Court. There are few who can give us such music.”

He would put his head on one side. “I do not think it would be an impossible task to bring this fellow to Court. In fact I have a certain suspicion that he is with us now.”

They would look at each other in surprise. “But, Sire, if such genius were among us surely we could not be so blind as to be unaware of it. We pray Your Grace, summon him to your presence and command him to continue to delight us.”

“I doubt he would obey my command. He is a rash fellow.”

“Not obey the command of the King!”

Then he would laugh and say: “Now I will play you one of my own songs….” And he would play and sing the very same song.

They would look at each other in amazement—but not too much surprise. They must not run the risk of implying that they did not believe him capable of writing such music. They would quickly allow their bewilderment to fade and then it would be: “But how foolish of us. We should have known that none but Your Grace could give us such a song.”

In a little while the song would be sung throughout the Court. The women would sing it, wistfully, and with yearning in their eyes and voices. There were many women who looked at him with longing now. He knew he had but to beckon and they would be ready for anything he should suggest whether it was a quick tumble in a secluded garden or the honor of being the recognized mistress of a King.

His mouth was prim. He intended to be virtuous.

He sang quietly under his breath:

“The best I sue,

The worst eschew:

My mind shall be

Virtue to use;

Vice to refuse

I shall use me.”

He would sing that song, and as he did so he would look at those wantons who tried to lure him into sin.

Of course, he told himself often, I am a King, and the rules which are made for other men are not for Kings. But I love my wife and she is devoted to me. She will bear me children in time, and to them and to my people will I set an example. None shall say of me: There was a lecher. It shall be said: There goes the King who is strong, not only in battle, not only in state councils, but in virtue.

So his little mouth was prim as he sat playing his lute and practicing the song with which, later that day, he would surprise the Court.

And watching at the window he saw her. She was neither tall nor short, and she was very beautiful. She looked up and saw him, and she dropped a curtsey. There was invitation in the way she lifted her skirts and lowered her eyes. He knew her. Her name was Anne and she was Buckingham’s younger sister who had recently married her second husband. Images of Anne Stafford with her two husbands came into his mind. The primness left his mouth which had slackened a little.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her curtsey and his fingers idly strummed the lute, for he had momentarily forgotten the song.

Anne Stafford went on her way, but before she had taken more than a few steps she turned to look again at the window.

This time she smiled. Henry’s lips seemed to be frozen; he did not acknowledge the smile but after she had disappeared he went on thinking of her.

He found that one of the grooms of the bedchamber was standing beside him. He started and wondered how long the man had been there.

“So ’tis you, Compton,” he said.

“’Tis I, Your Grace,” answered Sir William Compton. “Come to see if you have work for me to do.”

Henry strummed on the lute. “What work should I have for which I should not call you?”

“I but seek excuses to speak awhile with Your Grace.”

Henry smiled. There were times when he liked to live informally among his friends; and Sir William Compton, a handsome man some ten years older than himself, amused him. He had been Henry’s page when he was Prince of Wales and they had shared many confidences. When he had become King, Henry had given Compton rapid promotion. He was now chief gentleman of the bedchamber, as well as Groom of the Stole and Constable of Sudeley and Gloucester castles.

“Well, speak on,” said Henry.

“I was watching Lady Huntingdon pass below. She’s a forward wench.”

“And why did you think that?”

“By the glance she threw at Your Grace. If ever I saw invitation it was there.”

“My dear William,” said Henry, “do you not know that I receive such invitations whenever I am in the company of women?”

“I know it, Sire. But those are invitations discreetly given.”

“And she was not…discreet?”

“If she seemed so to Your Grace I will say that she was.”

Henry laughed. “Ah, if I were not a virtuous married man….” He sighed.

“Your Grace would seem to regret that you are a virtuous married man.”

“How could I regret my virtue?” said Henry, his mouth falling into the familiar lines of primness.

“Nay, Sire. You, being such a wise King, would not; it is only the ladies who are deprived of Your Grace’s company who must regret.”

“I’ll not say,” said the King, “that I would ask for too much virtue in a man. He must do his duty, true, duty to state, duty to family; but when that is done…”

Compton nodded. “A little dalliance is good for all.”

Henry licked his lips. He was thinking of Anne Stafford; the very way she dipped a curtsey was a challenge to a man’s virility.

“I have heard it said that a little dalliance away from the marriage bed will often result in a return to that bed with renewed vigor,” murmured Henry.

“All are aware of Your Grace’s vigor,” said Compton slyly, “and that it is in no need of renewal.”

“Two of my children have died,” said the King mournfully.

Compton smiled. He could see how the King’s mind was working. He wanted to be virtuous; he wanted his dalliance, and yet to be able to say it was virtuous dalliance: I dallied with Anne Stafford because I felt that if I strayed awhile I could come back to Katharine with renewed vigor—so powerful that it must result in the begetting of a fine, strong son.

Compton, who had lived many years close to Henry, knew something of his character. Henry liked to think of himself as a deeply religious man, a man devoted to duty; but at heart he had one god and that was himself; and his love for pleasure far exceeded his desire to do his duty. Moreover, the King was not a man to deny himself the smallest pleasure; he was a sensualist; he was strong, healthy, lusty like many of his friends; but, whereas some of them thoughtlessly took their pleasures where they found them, Henry could not do this before he had first assured himself that what he did was the right thing to do. He was troubled by the voice of his conscience which must first be appeased; it was as though there were two men in that fine athletic body: the pleasure-seeking King and the other, who was completely devoted to his duty. The former would always be forced to make his excuses to the latter, but Compton had no doubt of the persuasive powers of one and the blind eye of the other.

“There are some ladies,” mused Compton, “who are willing enough to give a smile of promise but never ready to fulfil those promises.”

“That is so,” agreed Henry.

“There are some who would cling to their virtue even though it be the King himself who would assail it.”

“A little wooing might be necessary,” said Henry, implying his confidence that if he were the wooer he could not fail to be successful.

“Should the King woo?” asked Compton. “Should a King be a suppliant for a woman’s favors? It seems to me, Your Grace, that a King should beckon and the lady come running.”

Henry nodded thoughtfully.

“I could sound the lady, I could woo her in your name. She has a husband and if her virtue should prove overstrong it might be well that this was a matter entirely between Your Grace, myself and the lady.”

“We speak of suppositions,” said Henry, laying a hand on Compton’s shoulder. He picked up his lute. “I will play and sing to you. It is a new song I have here and you shall tell me your opinion of it, good Compton.”

Compton smiled and settled himself to listen. He would sound the lady. Kings were always grateful to those who arranged their pleasures. Moreover Anne Stafford was the sister of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, an arrogant man whom Compton would delight in humiliating; for such was the pride of the Staffords that they would consider it humiliation for a member of their family to become any man’s mistress—even the King’s.

So, while Henry played his lute and sang his song, Sir William Compton was thinking of how he could arrange a love affair between the sister of the Duke of Buckingham and the King.

ANNE STAFFORD WAS BORED. She was of the Court, but it was her sister Elizabeth who had found favor with the Queen; and this was because Elizabeth was of a serious nature which appealed to Katharine.

The Queen, thought Anne, was far too serious; and if she did not take care the King would look elsewhere for his pleasure.

Anne laughed to herself; she had very good reason to believe that he was already looking.

Anne had had two husbands and neither of them had satisfied her. In a family such as theirs there had been little freedom. They would never forget, any of them, their closeness to the throne, and they were more conscious of their connection with royalty than the King himself. Through her father Anne was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, a son of Edward III; and her mother was Catharine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had been Edward IV’s Queen.

Anne’s father had been an ardent supporter of the House of Lancaster, and Richard III had declared him a traitor and the “most untrue creature living.” He was beheaded in the marketplace at Salisbury, thus dying for the Tudor cause, a fact which had endeared his family to Henry VII; and Henry VIII carried on his father’s friendship for the Staffords.

And what was the result? Anne had been married twice without being consulted and given a place at Court; but there she was merely a spectator of the advancement of her elder sister.

Being a Stafford, Anne was not without ambition, so she thought how amusing it would be to show her family that the way to a King’s favor could be as effectively reached in the bedchamber as on the battlefield. How amusing to confront that arrogant brother of hers, that pious sister, with her success! Once she and Henry were lovers, neither brother nor sister would be able to prevent the liaison’s continuance, and then they would have to pay a little attention to their younger sister.

One of her maids came to tell her that Sir William Compton was without and would have speech with her.

Sir William Compton! The King’s crony! This was interesting; perhaps the King had sent for her.

“I will see Sir William,” she told the maid, “but you should remain in the room. It is not seemly that I should be alone with him.”

The maid brought in Sir William and then retired to a corner of the room, where she occupied herself by tidying the contents of a sewing box.

“Welcome, Sir William,” said Anne. “I pray you be seated. Then you can comfortably tell me your business.”

Compton sat down and surveyed the woman. Voluptuous, provocative, she certainly was. A ripe plum, he thought, ready enough to drop into greedy royal hands.

“Madam,” said Compton, “you are charming.”

She dimpled coquettishly. “Is that your own opinion, or do you repeat someone else’s?”

“It is my own—and also another’s.”

“And who is this other?”

“One whose name I could not bring myself to mention.”

She nodded.

“You have been watched, Madam, and found delectable.”

“You make me sound like a peach growing on a garden wall.”

“Your skin reminds me—and another—of that fruit, Madam. The peaches on the walls are good this year—warm, luscious, ripe for the plucking.”

“Ah yes,” she answered. “Do you come to me with a message?”

Compton put his head on one side. “That will come later. I would wish to know whether you would be prepared to receive such a message.”

“I have an open mind, Sir William. I do not turn away messengers. I peruse their messages; but I do not always agree to proposals.”

“You are wise, Madam. Proposals should always be rejected unless they are quite irresistible.”

“And perhaps even then,” she added.

“Some proposals would be irresistible to any lady; then it would be wise to accept them.”

She laughed. “You keep company with the King,” she said. “What is this new song he has written?”

“I will teach it to you.”

“That pleases me.” She called to her maid and the girl put down the box and hurried forward. “My lute,” said Anne. And the girl brought it.

“Now,” went on Anne.

Compton came close to her and they sang together.

When they stopped he said: “I shall tell the King that you sang and liked his song. It may be that His Grace would wish you to sing for him. Would that delight you?”

She lowered her eyelids. “I should need some time to practice. I would not wish to sing before His Grace until I had made sure that my performance could give the utmost satisfaction to him…and to myself.”

Compton laughed.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I am sure your performance will give the utmost pleasure.”

ANNE WAS PASSING through an anteroom on her way from an interview with her sister. She was feeling annoyed. Elizabeth had been very severe. She had heard that Sir William Compton had visited Anne on several occasions and such conduct, she would have Anne know, was unseemly in a Stafford.

“I was never alone with him,” Anne protested.

“I should hope not!” retorted Elizabeth. “Do behave with more decorum. You must keep away from him in future. The Queen would be displeased if she knew; and what of your husband? Have you forgotten that you are a married woman?”

“I have been twice married to please my family, so I am scarcely likely to forget.”

“I am glad,” replied Elizabeth primly.

Anne was thinking of this as she hurried through the rooms. The Queen would be displeased! She laughed. Indeed the Queen would be displeased if she knew the true purpose of Sir William’s visits. Perhaps soon she would be ready for that encounter with the King, and once that had taken place she was sure that Queen Katharine’s influence at Court would be a little diminished. There would be a new star, for Anne Stafford, Countess of Huntingdon, would be of greater importance even than her brother, the Duke of Buckingham.

As she came into an anteroom a woman rose from a stool and came hurriedly towards her.

“My lady Huntingdon.” The voice was low and supplicating, and vaguely familiar. The accent was foreign and easily recognizable as Spanish since there had been so many Spaniards at Court. This was a very beautiful woman. “You do not know me,” she said.

“I know your face. Were you a lady-in-waiting to the Queen?”

“I was, before she was Queen. My name is Francesca de Carceres and I am now the wife of the Genoese banker, Francesco Grimaldi.”

“I do remember,” said Anne. “You ran away from Court a few months before the Queen’s marriage.”

“Yes,” said Francesca and her lovely face hardened. She had schemed for power; she had imagined that one day she would be the chief confidante of the Queen; but the Queen had been surrounded by those whom Francesca looked upon as her enemies, and in despair Francesca had run away from Court to become the wife of the rich and elderly banker.

Her banker was ready to lavish his fortune upon her, but it was not jewels and fine garments which Francesca wanted; it was power. She realized that fully, now that she had lost her place at Court; and she cursed herself for a fool because she had run away two months before Henry had announced his intention to marry Katharine. Had she waited two months longer, as one of Katharine’s ladies-in-waiting, as a member of one of the noble families of Spain, she would have been given a husband worthy of her background; she would have remained in the intimate circle of the Queen.

Having lost these things Francesca now realized how much they meant to her, and she presented herself at Court in the hope of getting an audience with Katharine, but Katharine had so far declined to see her. Francesca had been a troublemaker; she had quarreled with Katharine’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez; she had intrigued with Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida who had been the Spanish ambassador at the time and whose arrogance and incompetence had aroused Katharine’s indignation and had resulted in his being sent back to Spain.

Moreover in Katharine’s eyes Francesca had committed the unforgivable sin of marrying a commoner, and she wished her former maid of honor to know that there was no longer a place at Court for her.

But Francesca was not one to give way lightly; and she was constantly to be seen in anterooms, hoping for a glimpse of the Queen that she might put her case to her and plead eloquently for that for which she so much longed.

Francesca now said eagerly: “I wonder if you could say a word in my favor to Her Grace the Queen.”

“You mistake me for my sister,” Anne answered. “It is she who is in the service of Her Grace.”

“And you…are in the service of…?”

Anne smiled so roguishly that Francesca was immediately alert.

“I am the younger sister,” said Anne. “My brother and sister think me of little account.”

“I’ll warrant they’re wrong.”

Anne shrugged her shoulders. “That may well be,” she agreed.

“The Queen has changed since her marriage,” went on Francesca. “She has grown hard. There was a time, when she lived most humbly in Durham House and I waited on her. Then she would not have refused an audience to an old friend.”

“She disapproved strongly of your marriage; she is very pious and surrounds herself with those of the same mind.”

Francesca nodded.

“My sister is one of them. I have just received a letter on the lightness of my ways, when all I did was to receive a gentleman—one of the King’s gentlemen—in the presence of my maid.”

“It is natural,” said Francesca slyly, “that the Queen’s friends should be disturbed when a gentleman of the King’s household visits a lady as beautiful as yourself…on the King’s orders.”

“But I did not say…,” began Anne, and then she burst into laughter. She went on incautiously: “She is indeed so much older than he is, so much more serious. Is it to be wondered at?”

“I do not marvel,” replied Francesca. “And, Lady Huntingdon, if ever you should find yourself in a position to ask favors, would you remember that I have a desire to return to Court?”

Anne’s eyes gleamed. It was a glorious thing to be asked such favors; the power of the King’s mistress would be infinite.

She bowed her head graciously.

“I would be your friend for evermore,” murmured Francesca.

Anne laughed lightly and said: “I shall not forget you.”

She walked on as though she were a Queen instead of a potential King’s mistress.

Little fool! thought Francesca. If she ever does reach the King’s bed she will not stay there long.

There was a constricted feeling in Francesca’s throat which was the result of bitterness. She was the most unfortunate of women. She had endured all the years of hardship as Katharine’s friend; and then two months before the coming of power and glory she had run away to Grimaldi—she, who longed to live her life in an atmosphere of Court intrigue, whose great delight was to find her way through the maze of political strategy.

She went back to the luxurious house where she lived with her rich husband.

He watched her with a certain sadness in his eyes. To him she was like some gorgeous bird which had fluttered into the cage he had prepared for her and was now longing to escape.

She was so young and so beautiful, but lately the lines of discontent had begun to appear on her brow.

“What luck?” he asked.

“None. When do I ever have luck? She will not receive me. She will never forgive me for marrying you. I have heard that she thinks I did it to cover up a love affair with Fuensalida. Our Queen cannot understand a noblewoman’s marrying a commoner except to avoid a great scandal. Fuensalida was of a family worthy to match my own.”

“And I am a vulgar commoner,” sighed Grimaldi.

Francesca looked at him, her head on one side. Then she smiled and going to him she took his head in her hands and laid her lips lightly on the sparse hair. She loved power and he gave her power over him. He would do anything to please her.

“I married you,” she answered.

He could not see her mouth, which had twisted into a bitter line. I married him! she thought. And in doing so I brought about my exile from the Court. It was so easy to offend. She thought of the frivolous Anne Stafford who was hoping—so desperately hoping—to begin a love affair with the King.

Then she smiled slowly. Such a woman would never keep her place for more than a night or two. Francesca could not place herself on the side of such a woman; and if it was going to be a matter of taking sides there would be another on which she could range herself.

If Katharine were grateful to her, might she not be ready to forgive that unfortunate marriage?

KATHARINE WAS on her knees praying with her confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez, and the burden of her prayer was: Let me bear a son.

Fray Diego prayed with her and he comforted her. He was a young man of strong views and there had been certain rumors, mainly circulated by his enemies, the chief of whom was the ambassador Fuensalida with whom he had clashed on more than one occasion; and another was Francesca de Carceres who had been convinced, first that he was preventing her returning to Spain and, now that she was married and exiled from Court, that he was preventing her being received again.

The pugnacious little priest was the kind to provoke enemies; but Katharine trusted him; indeed in those days, immediately before her marriage, when she had begun to despair of ever escaping from the drab monotony of Durham House, and had discovered the duplicity of her duenna, Doña Elvira, and the stupidity of her father’s ambassador, Fuensalida, she had felt Fray Diego to be her only friend.

Katharine was not likely to forget those days; her memory was long and her judgment inflexible. If she could not forgive her enemies, she found it equally difficult to forget her friends.

Fuensalida had been sent back to Spain; Francesca had proved her treachery by deserting her mistress and escaping to marriage with the banker; but Fray Diego remained.

She rose from her knees and said: “Fray Diego, there are times when I think that you and Maria de Salinas are the only part of Spain that is left to me. I can scarcely remember what my father looks like; and I have almost as little esteem for our present ambassador as I had for his predecessor.”

“Oh, I do not trust Don Luis Caroz either, Your Grace,” said the priest.

“I cannot think why my father sends such men to represent him at the English Court.”

“It is because he knows his true ambassador is the Queen herself. There is none who can do his cause more good than his own daughter; and none more wise or understanding of the English.”

Katharine smiled tenderly. “I have been blessed in that I may study them at the closest quarters…singularly blessed.”

“The King is full of affection towards Your Grace, and that is a matter for great rejoicing.”

“I would I could please him, Fray Diego. I would I could give him that which he most desires.”

“And is there any sign, Your Grace?”

“Fray Diego, I will tell you a secret, and secret it must be, for it is as yet too soon to say. I believe I may be pregnant.”

“Glory be to the saints!”

She put her fingers to her lips. “Not a word, Fray Diego. I could not endure the King’s disappointment should it not be so. You see, if I told him he would want to set the bells ringing; he would tell the entire Court…and then…if it were not so…how disappointed he would be!”

Fray Diego nodded. “We do not wish Caroz to prattle of the matter.”

“Indeed no. Sometimes I wonder what he writes to my father.”

“He writes of his own shrewdness. He believes himself to be the greatest ambassador in the world. He does not understand that Your Grace prepared the way for him. He does not know how you continually plead your father’s cause with the King.”

“I do not see it as my father’s cause, Fray Diego. I see it as friendship between our two countries. I would have perfect harmony between them, and I believe we are working towards it.”

“If Caroz does not ruin everything, it may well be. He is such an arrogant man that he does not know that Your Grace’s father sent him to England because he had sufficient wealth to pay his own way.”

“Ah, my father was always careful with the gold. He had to be. There were so many calls upon it.”

“He and the late King of England were a pair. The King, your husband, is of a different calibre.”

Katharine did not say that her husband’s extravagance sometimes gave her anxiety; she scarcely admitted it to herself. Henry VII had amassed a great fortune, and once his successor had had a surfeit of pleasure he would shoulder his responsibilities and turn his back on it. Katharine often remembered his behavior when the people had robbed him of his jewellery so unexpectedly; and she believed that when he was in danger he would always know how to act. He was a boy as yet—a boy who had escaped from a parsimonious upbringing. He would soon grow tired of the glitter and the gold.

Fray Diego went on: “Your Grace, Francesca de Carceres was at the Palace today, hoping for an audience.”

“Did she ask it?”

“She did and I told her that Your Grace had expressed no desire to see her. She abused me, telling me that it was due to me that you had refused, that I had carried evil tales about her. She is a dangerous woman.”

“I fear so. She is one who will always scheme. I do not wish to see her. Tell her I regret her marriage as much as she evidently does; but since she made it of her own free will I should admire her more if she were content with the station in life which she herself chose.”

“That I will do, Your Grace.”

“And now, Fray Diego, I will join my ladies. And remember I have not even told Doña Maria de Salinas or Lady Elizabeth Fitzwalter of my hopes.”

“I shall treat it as a secret of the confessional, Your Grace; and I shall pray that ere long the whole Court will be praying with me that this time there may be an heir who lives.”

FRANCESCA DE CARCERES was furiously angry as she left the Palace. She had always hated Fray Diego Fernandez but never quite so much as she did at this time. She had persuaded herself that it was due to his influence that Katharine would not receive her; and she decided to seek the help of the Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Caroz.

This was not difficult to arrange, because her husband transacted business for Caroz as he had done for Fuensalida, and the ambassador was a frequent visitor to the Grimaldi household.

So on his very next visit Francesca detained him and told him that she had news of an intrigue which was taking place at Court and of which she felt he should not be kept in ignorance.

She then told him that she believed that the King was either conducting, or preparing to conduct, a love affair with Lady Huntingdon.

The ambassador was horrified. It was essential to Spanish interests that Katharine should keep her influence with the King, and a mistress could mean considerable harm to those interests.

“The affair must be stopped,” he said.

“I doubt whether it has begun,” answered Francesca. “The King has been a faithful husband so far, in spite of temptations; but I think he is eager to subdue his conscience and take a mistress. I believe therefore that we should take some action…quickly. The Queen will not see me. Could you approach her, tell her that I have discovered this and am sending the news to her through you? You might hint that if she would see me I could tell her more.”

The ambassador shook his head. “It would be dangerous to approach the Queen. We cannot be sure what action she would take. She might reproach the King, which could have disastrous results. Nay, this woman has a sister who is in the service of the Queen. We will approach the sister, Lady Fitzwalter. She will almost certainly call in the help of her brother the Duke and I am sure that the proud Staffords would not wish their sister to become the mistress even of the King. They will doubtless realize that the relationship with this rather foolish woman would be of short duration.”

Francesca was silent. She did not see how this was going to help her win the Queen’s favor, which was her sole object; but she had grown wise since making her fatal mistake. Her most powerful friend was the ambassador, and if she wished to keep his friendship she must fall in with his wishes.

“You are right,” she said at length. “The important thing is to prevent the Queen from losing her influence over the King.”

Caroz smiled slowly. “I think you might ask for an audience with Lady Fitzwalter. Tell her what you know. We will then watch how the Staffords receive the news. If things do not work out as we wish, we might take other action.”

“I shall do exactly as you say,” Francesca assured him.

He answered: “You are a good friend to Spain, Doña Francesca.”

She felt more hopeful than she had for a long time. Perhaps previously she had been wrong to count so much on getting an audience with the Queen. She must work her way back through more devious paths. The Spanish ambassador might even report to Ferdinand her usefulness. It was possible that Katharine’s father would command his daughter to take such a useful servant of Spain back into her service.

EDWARD STAFFORD, third Duke of Buckingham, looked at his elder sister in dismay which was quickly turning to anger.

Buckingham’s dignity was great. Secretly he believed that he was more royal than the King himself, for the Tudor ancestry could not bear too close a scrutiny; but the Staffords had royal blood in their veins and the present Duke could never forget that he was directly descended from Edward III.

Buckingham was a member of the King’s most intimate circle, but Henry had the Tudor’s suspicion of any who had too close a connection with the throne, and would never have the same affection for the Duke as he had for men like Sir William Compton.

In spite of his ambition Buckingham could not overcome his pride. Because he himself could never forget his royal descent he could not help making others aware of it on every conceivable occasion. Often his friends had warned him to beware; but Buckingham, although being fully conscious of possible danger, could not curb his arrogance.

As yet the danger was not acute. Henry was young with a boy’s delight in sport and pageantry. He enjoyed perfect health and his bursts of ill temper, although liable to occur suddenly, were quickly over and forgotten. So far he was sure of his popularity with his people and therefore inclined to be a little careless of the ambitions of others. But there were times when those suspicions, which had been so much a part of his father’s character, made themselves apparent.

Buckingham’s reactions to the news his sister was telling him were so fierce that he forgot that the King was involved in this matter.

He burst out: “Has the woman no family pride! Does she forget she is a Stafford?”

“It would seem so,” answered Elizabeth Fitzwalter. “I am informed that it can only be a matter of days before she surrenders.”

“She is such a fool that she would not hold the King’s attention more than a night or so,” growled Buckingham. “Moreover, the King is still too enamored of the Queen for a mistress to have any chance of making her position really secure.”

Elizabeth bowed her head. She was deeply shocked that a sister of hers should be ready to indulge in such immorality, but she was after all an ambitious Stafford and did know that the families of King’s mistresses rarely suffered from their connection with royalty. But she, like her brother, realized that Anne’s triumph would be short-lived; therefore it was advisable to stop the affair before it went too far.

“I suppose the whole Court is gossiping of this matter!” said Buckingham.

“I do not think it is widely known as yet; but of course as soon as she has shared the King’s bed for one night it will be known throughout the Court. So far Compton is acting as go-between, and the final arrangements have not yet been made. Our sister is behaving like a simpering village girl—clinging to her chastity with reluctant fingers.”

“And likely to let go at any moment. Well, she shall not do so. I trust that we may rely on our informants.”

“I am sure of it. You remember Francesca de Carceres? She is a clever woman and very eager to return to Court. She is anxious to show the Queen that she is still her humble servant. Anne—the little fool—allowed this woman to wheedle her secret from her; and I believe that Carceres feels that if she can prevent our sister’s becoming the King’s mistress she will have earned the Queen’s gratitude. She makes a good spy, that woman.”

The Duke nodded. “There is one thing to be done. I will send immediately for Huntingdon. He shall take his wife away to the country with all speed.”

“I was sure you would know what should best be done, Edward.” She looked anxious. “And the King? I am a little worried concerning his feelings when he knows that she has been whisked away from him.”

“He will have to understand,” said Buckingham haughtily, “that if he wants to take a mistress he must not look for her among the Staffords, whose blood is as royal as his own.”

“Edward, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

Buckingham shrugged his shoulders. “It does not need to be said. It is known for the truth by any who care to look into the matter.”

“Still, have a care, Edward. I shall be so pleased when her husband has taken her out of danger.”

ANNE’S MAID CAME to tell her that Sir William Compton was begging an audience.

“Then bring him to me,” said Anne, “and do not forget to remain in the room.”

He came in and once again the maid set about tidying the sewing box.

“I declare you grow more beautiful every time I have the pleasure of seeing you.”

“You are gracious, sir.”

“I come to tell you that impatience is growing strong in a certain breast.”

“And what should I do about that?”

“It is only yourself who can appease it. I come to ask you if you will allow me to arrange a meeting between you and this impatient one.”

“It would depend.…”

“On what, Madam?”

“On when and where this meeting should take place?”

Compton came closer and whispered: “In one of the royal apartments. None would see you come to it. It should be a matter between you and him who bids me tell you of his impatience.”

“Then it seems this would be a command rather than a request.”

“It could seem so,” agreed Compton.

She smiled, her eyes gleaming. “Then I have no alternative but to say, Tell me when…tell me where.…”

The door opened suddenly. The Countess of Huntingdon gave a little cry of alarm, and the maid dropped her sewing box as the Duke of Buckingham strode into the room.

“Why, brother, is it indeed you?” stammered Anne.

“Whom else did you expect? Your lover! Or is this one he? By the saints, Madam, you forget who you are! This is conduct worthy of a serving wench.”

“My lord Buckingham,” began Compton sternly, “I come on the King’s business.”

“Neither the King nor anyone else has business in the private apartment of a married woman of my family.”

“The King, I had always believed, might have business with any subject, an he wished it.”

“No, sir, you are mistaken. This is my sister, and if she has forgotten the dignity due to her name, then she must be reminded of it.” He turned to Anne. “Get your cloak at once.”

“But why?”

“You will understand later, though it is not necessary for one so foolish to understand, but only to obey.”

Anne stamped her foot. “Edward, leave me alone.”

Buckingham strode forward and seized her by the arm. “You little fool! How long do you think it would last for you? Tonight? Tomorrow night? Disgrace to your name. That you are ready to bear. But, by God and all the saints, I’ll not suffer disgrace to mine. Come, you would-be harlot, your cloak.” He turned to the maid. “Get it,” he shouted, and the girl hurried to obey.

Compton stood looking at the Duke. He wondered how long such arrogance could survive at Court. But Buckingham was no youngster; he was well past his thirtieth birthday; he should be able to look after himself, and if he valued his family pride more than his life, that was his affair.

Compton shrugged. He was faintly amused. It would be interesting to see how the spoiled golden boy responded to this.

Buckingham snatched the cloak from the maid’s trembling hands and roughly threw it about his sister’s shoulders.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“To your husband who, if he takes my advice, will place you this night in a convent. A pallet in a cell for you, sister; that is what your lust shall bring you.”

Compton plucked the sleeve of the Duke’s doublet.

“Do you realize that His Grace will not be pleased with you?”

“I,” retorted Buckingham haughtily, “am far from pleased with His Grace’s attempt to seduce my sister. Nor do I care for pimps—even though they be the King’s own—to lay hands on me.”

“Buckingham,” murmured Compton, “you fool, Buckingham.”

But Buckingham was not listening; he had taken his sister by the shoulders and pushed her before him from the room.

“AND SO, YOUR GRACE,” said Compton, “the Duke burst into his sister’s apartment, bade her maid bring her cloak, and thereupon hustled her from the apartment with threats that he was taking her to her husband, and that the pair of them would see that this night she would lie in a convent.”

The King’s eyes were narrow and through the slits shone like pieces of blue glass; his fresh color was heightened.

“By God and our Holy Mother!” he cried.

“Yes, Sire,” went on Compton. “I warned the Duke. I told him of Your Grace’s pleasure.”

“And what said he?”

“He cared only for his sister’s honor.”

“I planned to honor the woman.”

“’Tis so, Sire. The Duke has another meaning for the word.”

“By God and his Holy Mother!” repeated the King.

Anything can happen now, thought Compton. The frisky cub is a young lion uncertain of his strength. He will not be uncertain long. Soon he will know its extent, and then it will go ill for any who oppose him.

Compton tried to read the thoughts behind those pieces of blue flint.

Frustrated desire! Now the lady seemed infinitely desirable. Out of reach in a convent! Could he demand her release? Could he have her brought to his apartments, laid on his bed? But what of the people, the people who adored him, who shouted their approval of their golden boy? They had seen him embrace his wife whom he had married because he said he loved her more than any woman. The people wanted their handsome King to be a virtuous husband. What would they say if they heard the story of the King and Buckingham’s sister? They would laugh; they would snigger. They might say: Well, he is a King, but he is a man as well. They would forgive him his frailty; but he wished to have no frailty in their eyes. He wished to be perfect.

His eyes widened and Compton saw that they were the eyes of a bewildered boy. The cub was not yet certain of his strength; he had not yet grown into the young lion.

Now there was anger on the flushed face…vindictive anger. He would not send for the woman and there would be no scandal. Yet he would not lightly forgive those who had frustrated him.

He turned on Compton. “How did Buckingham discover this?”

“It was through his sister—Your Grace may recollect that the Duke has two sisters—Anne, your Grace’s…friend, and Elizabeth, Lady Fitzwalter.”

“I know her,” growled Henry. “She is with the Queen.”

“A lady of high virtue, Your Grace. And much pride, like her brother.”

“A prim piece,” said Henry, and his eyes were cruel. Then he shouted: “Send for Buckingham.”

Compton left him, but Buckingham was not at Court. He, with Anne and Lord Huntingdon, were on their way to the convent which Buckingham had ordered should be made ready to receive his erring sister.

THE KING’S ANGER HAD had time to cool by the time Buckingham stood before him; but Henry was not going to allow anyone to interfere in his affairs.

He scowled at the Duke.

“You give yourself airs, sir Duke,” he said.

“If Your Grace will tell me in what matter I have displeased you I will do my best to rectify my error…if it be in my power.”

“I hear you have sent your sister into a convent.”

“I thought she needed a little correction, Your Grace.”

“You did not ask our permission to send her there.”

“I did not think Your Grace would wish to be bothered with a family matter.”

The King flushed hotly; he was holding fast to his rising temper. The situation was delicate. He was wondering how much of this had reached the Queen’s ears and hoping that he could give vent to his anger in such a manner that Katharine would never hear of it.

“I am always interested in the welfare of my subjects,” he grumbled.

“Her husband thought she was in need of what the convent could give her.”

“I could order her to be brought back to Court, you know.”

“Your Grace is, by God’s mercy, King of this realm. But Your Grace is a wise man, and knows the scandal which would be bruited about the Court and the country itself, if a woman who had been sent by her husband into a convent should be ordered out by her King.”

Henry wanted to stamp his feet in rage. Buckingham was older than he was and he knew how to trap him. How dared he stand there, insolent and arrogant! Did he forget he was talking to his King?

For a few moments Henry told himself that he would send for Anne; he would blatantly make her his mistress and the whole Court—ay, and all his subjects too—must understand that he was the King, and when he ordered a man or woman to some duty they must obey him.

But such conduct would not fit the man his subjects believed him to be. He was uncertain. Always he thought of the cheering crowds who had come to life when he appeared; he remembered the sullen looks which had been thrown his father’s way. He remembered too the stories he had heard of his father’s struggle to take the throne. If he displeased the people they might remember that the Tudor ancestry was not as clean as it might be—and that there were other men who might be considered worthy to be Kings.

No. He would remain the public idol—perfect King and husband; but at the same time he would not allow any subject of his to dictate to him what should be done.

“My lord Buckingham,” he said, “you will leave Court. And you will not present yourself to me until I give you leave to do so.”

Buckingham bowed.

“You may go,” went on the King. “There is nothing more I have to say to you. I should advise you to be gone in an hour, for if I find you lingering after that I might not be so lenient.”

Buckingham retired, and the King paced up and down like a lion in a cage.

He summoned one of his pages to him and said: “Send for Lady Fitzwalter, I would have immediate speech with her.”

The page rushed to do his bidding and soon returned with Elizabeth Fitzwalter.

She looked disturbed, Henry was pleased to notice. A prim woman, he thought, with none of her sister’s voluptuousness. The sight of her reminded him of Anne, and he was furious once more to contemplate what he had lost.

“Lady Fitzwalter,” he said, “you are, I believe, one of the Queen’s women.”

She was bewildered. Surely he knew. He had seen her so often when he was in the Queen’s company.

“Did I say you are one of Her Grace’s women? It was a mistake, Lady Fitzwalter. I should have said you were.”

“Your Grace, have I offended…?”

“We do not discuss why we banish from our Court those who do not please us, Lady Fitzwalter. We merely banish.”

“Your Grace, I beg to…”

“You waste your time. You would beg in vain. Go back to your apartment and make all haste to leave Court. It is our wish that you are gone within the hour.”

The startled Lady Fitzwalter curtseyed and retired.

Henry stared at the door for a few minutes. He thought of voluptuous Anne and realized suddenly how urgently he desired a change, a new woman who was as different from his wife as could be.

Then he began to pace up and down again…a lion, not sure of his strength, but aware of the cage which enclosed him. The bars were strong, but his strength was growing. One day, he knew, he would break out of the cage. Then there would be nothing—no person on Earth to restrain him.

ELIZABETH FITZWALTER came unceremoniously into the apartment where the Queen sat sewing with Maria de Salinas.

Katharine looked with surprise at her lady-in-waiting, and when she saw how distraught Elizabeth was she rose quickly and went to her side.

“What has happened to disturb you so?” she asked.

“Your Grace, I am dismissed from the Court.”

“You, dismissed! But this is impossible! None has the authority to dismiss you but myself. Why…,” Katharine paused and a look of horror spread across her face. There was one other who had the power, of course.

Elizabeth met Katharine’s gaze, and Katharine read the truth there.

“But why?” demanded the Queen. “On what grounds? Why should the King dismiss you?”

“I find it hard to say, Your Grace. I am to leave at once. I have been told to make ready and go within the hour. I pray you give me leave to make ready.”

“But surely the King gave you a reason. What of your brother?”

“He has already gone, Your Grace; and my sister also.”

“So the King is displeased with all your family. I will go to see him. I will ask him what this means. He will keep nothing from me.”

Maria de Salinas, who loved Katharine sincerely and with a disinterested devotion, laid her hand on the Queen’s arm.

“Well, Maria?”

Maria looked helplessly at Elizabeth as though asking for permission to speak.

“What is it?” asked Katharine. “If it is something I should know, it is your duty to tell me.”

Neither of the women spoke, and it was as though each was waiting for the other to do so.

“I will go to the King,” said Katharine. “I will ask him what this means, for I see that you both know something which you believe you should keep from me.”

Maria said: “I must tell Her Grace. I think she should know.”

Katharine interrupted sternly: “Come Maria, enough of this. Tell me at once.”

“The Countess of Huntingdon has been taken away from Court by her husband and brother because they…they feared the King’s friendship.”

Katharine had grown pale. She was almost certain now that she was with child and had been wondering whether she could tell the King. She had looked forward to his pleasure and had told herself how thankful she should be to have such a faithful husband.

She looked from Maria to Elizabeth and her gaze was bewildered. The King’s friendship for a woman could surely mean only one thing.

But they must be mistaken. They had been listening to gossip. It was not true. He had always been faithful to her. He had firm notions on the sanctity of marriage: he had often told her so.

She said quietly: “Pray go on.”

“Sir William Compton acted as His Grace’s emissary in the matter,” said Elizabeth. “Francesca Carceres discovered what was happening and warned me. I told my brother and, as a result, my sister has been sent to a convent. But the King was displeased with my brother and myself.”

“I cannot believe this to be true.”

“Your Grace, pray sit down,” whispered Maria. “This has been a shock.”

“Yes,” said the Queen, “it has been a shock, a shock that such rumors can exist. I believe it all to be lies…lies.…”

Maria looked frightened. Elizabeth whispered: “Your Grace, give me leave to retire. I have to prepare with all speed to leave Court.”

“You shall not go, Elizabeth,” said Katharine. “I will speak to the King myself. There has been some terrible mistake. What you believe has happened is…an impossibility. I will go to him now. You will see, he will give me the explanation. I will tell him that I wish you to remain. That will suffice.”

Katharine walked from the apartment, while Maria looked after her sadly; and Elizabeth, sighing, went to make ready to leave.

IT SEEMED TO HENRY that he saw his wife clearly for the first time.

How sallow her skin is! he thought comparing her with Anne Stafford. How serious she was! And she looked old. She was old of course, compared with him, for five years was no small matter.

She seemed distasteful to him in that moment, because he felt guilty, and he hated to feel so.

“Henry,” she said, “I have heard some disturbing news. Elizabeth Fitzwalter comes to me in great distress and says that you have commanded her to leave Court.”

“It is true,” he said. “She should be gone within an hour of our giving her the order to leave.”

“But she is one of my women, and I do not wish her to go. She is a good woman and has given me no offence.”

The color flamed into his face. “We will not have her at Court,” he shouted. “Mayhap it escapes your notice, but our wishes here are of some account.”

Katharine was afraid, yet she remembered that she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile, and it ill became any—even the King of England—to speak to her in such a manner.

“I should have thought I might have been consulted in this matter.”

“No, Madam,” retorted Henry. “We saw no reason to consult you.”

Katharine said impetuously: “So you had the grace to try to keep it from my notice.”

“We understand you not.”

She realized then that he was using the formal “we,” and she guessed he was attempting to remind her that he was the King and master of all in his dominions, even his Queen. She saw the danger signals in his eyes, for his face always betrayed his feelings, but she was too hurt and unhappy to heed the warning.

“It is true then,” she burst out, “that the woman was your mistress.…”

“It is not true.”

“Then she was not, because Buckingham intervened in time.”

“Madam, if the King wishes to add to his friends it is no concern of any but himself.”

“If he has sworn to love and cherish a wife, is it not his wife’s concern if he takes a mistress?”

“If she is wise and her husband is a King, she is grateful that he is ready to give her children…if she is able to bear them!”

Katharine caught her breath in horror. It is true then, she thought. He blames me for the loss of our two children.

She tried to speak but the words would not pass the lump of misery in her throat.

“We see no reason to prolong this interview,” said Henry.

Her anger blazed suddenly. “Do you not? Then I do! I am your wife, Henry. You have told me that you believe that husband and wives should be faithful to each other; and as soon as a wanton woman gives you a glance of promise you forget your vows, you forget your ideals. The people look upon you as a god—so young, so handsome, so model a king and a husband. I see now that your vows mean nothing to you. You think of little but seeking pleasure. First it is your pageants, your masques…now it is your mistresses!”

He was scarcely handsome in that moment. His eyes seemed to sink into his plump red face. He hated criticism and, because he was so deeply conscious of his guilt, he hated her.

“Madam,” he said, “you should do your duty. It is what is expected of you.”

“My duty?” she asked.

“Which is to give me sons. You have made two attempts and have not been successful. Is it for you to criticize me when you have failed…so lamentably?”

“I…failed? You would blame me, then. Do you not know that I long for sons as much as you do? Where have I failed? How could I have saved the lives of our children? If there is a way, in the name of the saints tell it to me.”

Henry would not look at her. “We lost them both,” he mumbled.

She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.

Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair—it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.

He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.

“It may be,” he said coldly, “that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realized until today how old you are!”

“But,” she stammered, “you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.”

Henry looked past her, and when he spoke—although he did so more to himself than to her—she felt a cold terror strike at her.

“And you were my brother’s wife,” was what he said.

She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.

Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. “The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.”

MARIA DE SALINAS helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.

“You see, Maria,” said Katharine, “I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.”

“He was angry,” said Maria. “Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.”

“Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.”

“You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.”

Katharine shivered. “You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.”

“But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.”

“No, the lady’s brother and husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria…because he failed.”

“He is young, Your Grace.”

“Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.”

“It will pass, dearest lady.”

“Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad…so lost…since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.”

Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. “All did not desert Your Grace.”

“No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.”

“Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.”

Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.

IT WAS LATER that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.

She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.

They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.

On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.

Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.

She was ill for several days, and during that time she was tormented with nightmares. The King figured largely in these—an enormous menacing figure with greedy, demanding hands which caressed others, but when he turned to her, held out those hands, crying: “Give me sons.”

The Secret Life of Thomas Wolsey

AS THE DAYS PASSED THEY TOOK SOME OF KATHARINE’S sorrow with them, and she began to look at her life in a more philosophical way. Through the ages Kings had taken mistresses who bore them children, but it was the children who were born in wedlock who were heirs to their father’s crown. She must be realistic; she must not hope for impossible virtue from her lusty young husband.

More than ever she thought of her mother, who had borne the same tribulations before her; she must endeavor as never before to emulate Isabella and keep the memory of her as a bright example of how a Queen should live.

As for Henry, he was ready enough to meet her halfway. Reproaches would only result in sullen looks; and the pout of the little mouth, the glare of the little eyes in that large face implied that he was the King and he would do as he wished. But any signs of a desire on her part to return to the old relationship brought immediate response; dazzling smiles would light up his face; he would be boisterously affectionate, sentimental, calling her his Kate—the only woman who was of any real importance to him.

So Katharine set aside her illusions and accepted reality; which was, she assured herself, pleasant enough. If she could have a child—ah, if she could have a child—that little creature would make up to her for all else. That child would be the center of her existence; and her husband’s philandering would be of small importance compared with the delight that child would bring her.

In the meantime she would concern herself with another important matter. Since she had become Queen of England she had been in close contact with her father. She waited for his letters with the utmost eagerness, forgetting that, when she had been living in neglected seclusion at Durham House, he had not written to her for years.

“What a joy it is to me,” Ferdinand assured her, “that you, my daughter, are the Queen of England, a country which I have always believed should be my closest ally. I am beginning to understand that a father can have no better ambassador than his own daughter.”

Ferdinand in his letters to her artfully mingled his schemes with his news of family affairs. His daughter was the beloved wife of young Henry, and if the King of England was occasionally unfaithful to his marriage bed, what did that matter as long as he continued to regard his wife with affection and respect!

“If your dear mother could know what a comfort to me you have become, what a clever ambassadress for her beloved country, how happy she would be.”

Such words could not fail to move Katharine, for the very mention of her mother always touched all that was sentimental in her nature.

After receiving her father’s letters she would put forward his ideas to Henry, but never in such a manner that it would appear she was receiving instructions from Spain.

“The King of France,” Ferdinand wrote, “is an enemy to both our countries. Singly we might find it difficult to subdue him. But together…”

Henry liked to walk with her in the gardens surrounding his palaces. When he felt particularly affectionate towards her he would take her arm and they would go on ahead of the little band of courtiers, and occasional he would bend his head and whisper to her in the manner of a lover.

On such an occasion she said to him: “Henry, there are certain provinces in France which are by right English. Now that there is a young King on the throne, do you think the people would wish to see those provinces restored to the crown?”

Henry’s eyes glistened. He had always longed for the conquest of France. He was beginning to think he had had enough of empty triumphs at the jousts and masques. He wished to show his people that he was a man of war no less than a sportsman. Nothing could have given him greater pleasure at that time than the thought of military conquest.

“I’ll tell you this, Kate,” he said. “It has always been a dream of mine to restore our dominions in France to the English crown.”

“And what better opportunity could we have than an alliance with my father who also regards the King of France as his enemy?”

“A family affair. I like that. Your father and I standing together against the French.”

“I believe my father would be ready enough to make a treaty in which you and he would agree to attack the French.”

“Is it so, Kate? Then write to him and tell him that, having such regard for his daughter, I would have him for my friend.”

“You have made me happy, Henry…so happy.”

He smiled at her complacently. “We’ll make each other happy, eh Kate?” His eyes were searching her face. There was a question in them which he did not need to put into words. It was the perpetual question: Any sign, Kate? Any sign yet that we may expect a child?

She shook her head sadly. He did not share her sadness today. The thought of war and conquest had made him forget temporarily even the great need for a son.

He patted her arm affectionately.

“Have no fear, Kate. We’ll not suffer ill luck for ever. I have a notion, Kate, that England and Spain together are…invincible! No matter what they undertake.”

She felt her spirits rising. It was a great pleasure to see that his thoughts were turned for a while from the matter of childbearing; and it was equally gratifying that he was so willing to fall in with her father’s desires. Thus she could please them both at the same time. And surely her next pregnancy must result in a healthy child!

RICHARD FOX, Bishop of Winchester and Lord Privy Seal, was deeply disturbed, and he had asked Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, and William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, to call upon him.

Fox, some sixty-four years of age, was as much a politician as a man of the church. He had stood staunchly by Henry VII and had worked in cooperation with the King since the victory at Bosworth, receiving from that monarch the offices of Principal Secretary of State and Lord Privy Seal. When he had died Henry VII had recommended his son to place himself under the guidance of Richard Fox, and this young Henry had been prepared to do, particularly when Warham had declared himself against the marriage with Katharine.

Fox, the politician, had supported the marriage because he believed that an alliance with Spain was advantageous. Warham, as a man of the Church, had felt that a more suitable wife than the widow of his brother might have been found for the King. The fact that Fox had supported the marriage had placed him higher in the King’s favor than the Archbishop of Canterbury; but Fox was now becoming disturbed to see that the country’s wealth, which he so carefully had helped Henry VII to amass, was being extravagantly squandered by the young King.

But that was not the matter he intended to discuss with his two colleagues at this time—something of even greater importance had arisen.

William Warham, who was perhaps a year or two younger than Fox, had also served the Tudors well. Henry VII had made him Lord Chancellor and he had held the Great Seal for some nine years. Although he disagreed with Fox on certain matters they both felt deeply the responsibility of guiding a young king who lacked his father’s caution and thrift.

The third member of the party was the choleric Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, who was the eldest of the three by some five years.

His record was not one of loyalty to the Tudors for he and his father had both fought at Bosworth on the side of Richard III. At this battle Surrey had been taken prisoner and his father killed. There had followed imprisonment in the Tower and forfeiture of his estates; but Henry VII had never been a man to allow desire for revenge to color his judgment; he realized the worth of Surrey who believed in upholding the crown and the nobility, no matter who wore the first and whatever the actions of the latter, and it seemed to the crafty King that such a man could be of more use to him free than a prisoner. It cost little to restore his titles—but Henry kept the greater part of his property, and sent him up to Yorkshire to subdue a rebellion against high taxation.

The King proved his wisdom when Surrey turned out to be a first-class general and as ready to work for the Tudor as he had for Richard III. For his services he was made a member of the Privy Council and Lord Treasurer.

When Henry VII had died, Surrey, on account of his age and experience, had become the chief of the new King’s advisers; and recently, to show his appreciation, young Henry had bestowed upon his faithful servant the title of Earl Marshal.

As soon as these three men were together Fox told them of his concern.

“The King contemplates war with France. I confess that the prospect does not please me.”

“The expense would be great,” agreed Warham, “and what hope would there be of recovering that which we laid out?”

They were looking at Surrey, the soldier, who was thoughtful. The prospect of war always thrilled him; but he was becoming too old to take an active part in wars and therefore could consider them, not in terms of adventure and valor, but of profit and loss.

“It would depend on our friends,” he said.

“We should stand with Spain.”

Surrey nodded. “Spain could attack from the South; we from the North. It does not sound a pleasant prospect for the French.”

“The late King,” said Fox, “was against wars. He always said that it was a sure way of losing English blood and gold.”

“Yet, there could be riches from conquest,” mused Surrey.

“Victory,” put in Warham, “is more easily dreamed of than won.”

“The King is enamored of the prospect,” Fox declared.

“Doubtless because the Queen has made it sound so attractive to him,” added Warham. “Can it be that Ferdinand has placed an ambassador nearer to the King than any of his own advisers could hope to be?”

He was looking ironically at Fox, reminding him that he had been in favor of the marriage while he, Warham, had seen many disadvantages—of which this could be one.

“The King is pleased with his Queen as a wife,” put in Fox. “Yet I believe him to be wise enough to look to his ministers for advice as to how matters of state should be conducted.”

“Yet,” Surrey said, “he would seem eager for war.”

“How can we know,” went on Warham, “what has been written in Ferdinand’s secret dispatches to his daughter? How can we know what the Queen whispers to the King in moments of intimacy?”

“It always seemed to me that the young King must tire of his sports and pageants in time,” said Fox. “Now the time has come and he wishes to turn his energies to war. This was bound to happen, and the conquest of France is a natural desire.”

“What course do you suggest we should take in this matter?” Warham asked.

“Why,” Fox told him, “I believe that if we advised His Grace to send a few archers to help his father-in-law in his battles, that would suffice for the time.”

“And you think the King will be satisfied with that?” demanded Surrey. “Young Henry is yearning to place himself at the head of his fighting men. He wishes to earn glory for his country…and himself.”

“His father had turned a bankrupt state into one of some consequence,” Warham reminded them. “He did it through peace, not through war.”

“And,” put in Surrey, remembering the confiscation of his own estates, “by taxes and extortions.”

“I was not speaking of the method,” Fox told him coldly, “but of the result.” He went on: “I have asked the King’s almoner to join us here, for there are certain matters which I feel we should lay before him; and he is such an able fellow that he may help us in our counsels.”

Surrey’s face grew purple. “What!” he cried. “That fellow, Wolsey! I will not have the low-born creature sharing in my counsels.”

Fox looked at the Earl coldly. “He has the King’s confidence, my lord,” he said. “It would be well if you gave him yours.”

“That I never shall,” declared Surrey. “Let the fellow go back to his father’s butcher’s shop.”

“Ah,” said Warham, “he has come a long way from that.”

“I’ll admit he has sharp wits,” conceded Surrey. “And a quick tongue.”

“He also has the King’s ear, which is something we should not forget,” Fox told him. “Come, my lord, do not allow your prejudices to affect your judgment of one of the ablest men in this country. We have need of men such as Thomas Wolsey.”

Surrey’s lips were tightly pressed together and the veins in his temples stood out. He wanted them to know that he was a member of the aristocracy and that he supported his own class. If there were honors to be earned they should be earned by noblemen; to his bigoted mind it was inconceivable that a man of humble origin should share the secrets of the King’s ministers.

Fox watched him ironically. “Then, my lord,” he said, “if you object to the company of Thomas Wolsey, I can only ask you to leave us, for Wolsey will be with us in a very short time.”

Surrey stood undecided. To go would mean cutting himself off from affairs; he was growing old; he believed that Fox and this upstart of his would be delighted to see him pass into obscurity. He could not allow that.

“I’ll stay,” he said. “But, by God, I’ll stand no insolence from a butcher’s cur.”

THOMAS WOLSEY had taken time from his duties to visit his family. This was one of the pleasures of his life; not only did he enjoy being a husband and father but the fact that he must do so with secrecy gave his pleasure an added fillip.

He was a priest but that had not prevented his being uncanonically married; and when he had fallen in love with his little “lark,” and she with him, it became clear that their relationship was no light matter of a few weeks’ duration and must therefore be set on as respectable a basis as was possible in the circumstances.

So he had gone through a form of marriage with Mr. Lark’s daughter; he had made a home for her which he visited from time to time, leaving his clerical garments behind, and dressed so that he could pass through the streets as an ordinary gentleman returning to his home.

It was a rather splendid little home, for he enjoyed ostentation and could not resist the pleasure of making his family aware that he was rising in the world.

As he entered the house he called: “Who is at home today? Who is ready to receive a visitor?”

A serving maid appeared and gave a little cry of wonder. She was followed by a boy and a girl who, having heard his voice, rushed out to greet him.

Thomas Wolsey laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and put an arm about the girl. The smile on his face made him look younger than his thirty-seven years. The alertness in the eyes almost disappeared; Thomas Wolsey briefly looked like a man who is contented.

“Why, my son, my little daughter, so you are pleased to see your father, eh?”

“We are always pleased to see our father,” said the boy.

“That is as it should be,” answered Thomas Wolsey. “Now Tom, my boy, where is your mother?”

There was no need to ask. She had started to come down the stairs, and as Thomas looked up she paused and for a few seconds they gazed at each other. The woman, thought Thomas, for whom I was ready to risk a great deal. Not everything, and perhaps what he had risked was not very much—for why should not a priest have a wife as long as he did not prate of it—but the fact that he was ready to risk anything, that he was ready to pause in his journey up the steep and difficult slopes of ambition to spend a little time with this woman and their children, was an indication of the extent of his feelings for her.

“Thomas, had I known…,” she began; and she came down the stairs slowly, almost reverently, as though she marvelled yet again that this great man should have time to spare for her.

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Well met, Mistress Wynter,” he said.

“Well met, Master Wynter.”

It was the name behind which they sheltered from the world. She longed to boast that she was the wife of the great Thomas Wolsey, but she knew well the folly of that. He had given so much; he could not be expected to give more. She was happy enough to be plain Mistress Wynter, with a husband whose business frequently called him away from home but who was now and then able to visit his family.

The future of her children was secure. Thomas was rising rapidly in the service of the King; he was proud of the children; he would not forget them, and their way would be easier than his had been. Honors, riches would come to them—that would be when they were of an age to receive them—and by that time Thomas would be the most important man in the realm. Mistress Wynter believed that, for Thomas had determined it should be so; and Thomas always achieved his ends.

The children stood aside while their parents embraced.

“How long will you stay, Thomas?” she asked.

“Naught but a few hours, my lark.” Even as he uttered the endearment he wondered what certain members of the King’s entourage would say if they could see and hear him now. Fox? Warham? Surrey? Lovell? Poynings? They would snigger doubtless; and the wise among them would not be displeased. They would tell themselves that he had his weaknesses like all other men, and such weaknesses were not to be deplored but encouraged, for they were as a great burden hung upon the back to impede the climb to the heights of success.

There are some who are afraid of Thomas Wolsey, thought Thomas, and the thought pleased him; for when men began to fear another, it meant that that one was high upon the ladder since others could see him mounting.

But I must take care, he thought as he stroked his wife’s hair; no one however dear must prevent my taking every opportunity; the road to disaster and failure is one of lost opportunities.

But for a few hours he was safely hidden from the Court, so for that time he would be happy.

“Why, Mistress Wynter,” he said, “you were not warned of my coming, but I smell goodly smells from your kitchen.”

The children began to tell their father what was for dinner. There was a goose, capon and chicken; there was a pastie which their good cook had made in the shape of a fortress; there was pheasant and partridge.

Thomas was pleased. His family lived as he would have them live. It made him happy to think that he could pay for their comforts; and the sight of the rosy cheeks and plump limbs of his children was an immense satisfaction to him.

Mistress Wynter in a flurry of excitement went off to the kitchen to warn the servants that the master was in the house; and there the cook harried the lower servants to do their best and prove that, although the master of the house was often absent on his important business, the house was so well managed that he need have no fears.

So Thomas sat at the table and watched the food brought in, while his wife sat facing him and on either side of the table was a child.

It was very humble compared with the King’s table, but here was contentment; and in such moments he deeply wished that he was not a priest and that he might take this charming family with him to Court and boast of the health of the boy and the good looks of the girl.

He now wished to know how young Tom was getting on with his studies, and he put on a sternly paternal expression when he discovered that the boy was not quite so fond of his studies as his tutor would wish.

“That must be remedied,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “Doubtless you think that you are young yet and that there is always time. Time is short. It is hard for you to realize it at your age, but soon you must understand that it is so, for when you do you will have learned one of the first lessons of life. It is those who dally by the wayside, my son, who never reach the end of the road.”

There was quiet at the table, as there always was when he spoke; he had a melodious voice and a way of driving home his points which demanded attention.

And as they sat eating their way through meat and pies to the marchpane and sugar-bread he told his family how he himself had once defeated time in such a way that he had convinced the King that he had a little more than ordinary men to offer in his service.

“It was when I was in the service of the old King…” He did not tell them that he had been the King’s chaplain; children often talked freely in the hearing of servants, and he must keep secret his connection with the Church. “This was not the King you have seen riding through the streets. This was the old King, his father, a King with a very serious mind and one who had learned the value of time.

“He called me to him and he said: ‘I wish you to go on a journey to Flanders as a special envoy to the Emperor Maximilian. Prepare to leave as soon as possible.’ So I took the message which I was to deliver and I set out for my lodgings. My servant said: ‘You will leave tomorrow, my lord?’ And I answered: ‘Tomorrow! Nay, I shall leave today…at this very hour.’ He was astonished. He had thought I should need time to prepare for such a journey; but I was conscious of time and I knew that the message I carried was of great importance. It might be that if it arrived a day later than I intended to deliver it, the answer to that letter would not be the same favorable one that I was determined to get. Circumstances change…and it is time which changes them.

“The message I carried was the King’s request for the hand of Maximilian’s daughter in marriage. If I could bring a favorable reply from Maximilian, the King would be happy, and that would make him pleased with me; and if that reply came quickly, the better pleased he would be.

“I crossed the water. I rode hot foot to Flanders; I saw the Emperor, delivered the King’s message and received his reply; then back to the coast and home. It had been three days since I left England. I presented myself to the King, who frowned in anger when he saw me. He said: ‘I had thought you received orders to take a message to Flanders. I expected you would have left by now. I like not dilatory service.’ Then my heart leaped in exultation and I waited a few seconds for the King’s anger to grow, for the greater it grew the more surprised he must be when he heard the truth. ‘Your Grace,’ I told him, ‘I left for Flanders within an hour of receiving your instructions to do so. I have now returned and bring you the Emperor’s reply.’ The King was astonished. Never had he been served with such speed. He grasped my hand and said: ‘You are a good servant.’”

“And that was all, Father?” demanded young Thomas. “It seems a small reward to shake your hand and tell you you were a good servant.”

“He did not forget me,” said Thomas.

No, indeed he had not. Thomas Wolsey had become Dean of Lincoln and, had Henry VII lived longer, doubtless more honors would have come his way. But the old King had died; yet that was not a matter for mourning, because the new King was as interested in his servant Wolsey as the old one had been.

From this young King Thomas Wolsey hoped for much. He understood the eighth Henry. Here was a young man, lusty, sensual, far less interested in matters of state than in pleasure. He was the sort of King who is always beloved of ambitious ministers. Henry VII had conducted all state business himself; he had indeed been head of the state. But the joust, tennis, dancing, possible fornication and adultery gave no pleasure to his rheumaticky body. How different was his young and lusty son! This King would wish to place at the helm of the ship of state a man with capable hands; there was every opportunity for ambitious ministers to rule England under such a King.

The King’s almoner saw great possibilities ahead.

He smiled at the eager faces about the table—flushed with good food and drink. This was his oasis of pleasure, of humanity; here it was possible to stray from the road of heated ambition to dally in a cool green meadow.

He saw Mistress Wynter through a veil of gratitude and desire, and she seemed fairer to him than any Court lady.

He said to the children: “You will leave your mother with me for a while. We have matters to speak of. I shall see you again before I leave.”

The children left their parents together, and Thomas took Mistress Wynter in his arms and caressed her body.

They went through to her sleeping chamber and there made love.

As she lay in his arms she thought: It is like a pattern, always the same. Will it remain so? What when he is the first minister at the King’s Court? This he would be, for in a moment of confidence he had told her so.

If it were not so, she thought, if he lost his place at Court, he might come home to us.

It was a wicked thought. He must not lose his place. It meant more to him than anything…more than this, his home, more than her and their children.

When he had dressed in that precise manner of his, he said: “I will see the children before I go.”

He noticed that she looked a little sad but he did not mention this. He knew that she was wishing they lived a normal married life, that they did not have to go to bed in the middle of the day because it was the only time they had. She was picturing him, being there every day—a merchant, a lawyer, a goldsmith…a man of some profession such as those of her neighbors. She thought of cosy conversations over the table, of discussions as to what should be planted in the garden, about the education of the children; she pictured them retiring to bed each night by the light of candles, the embrace that had become almost a habit, the slipping into sleep afterwards. It was normality she craved.

Poor little Mistress Wynter, he thought, she can only share one very small portion of my life and she wants to share the whole.

It was unfortunate for her that she loved not a man of ordinary ability, but one who had risen from a humble Ipswich butcher’s shop to his present position and was determined to go to the very heights of ambition.

He said: “Let us go to the children. I have little time left to me.”

He kissed her once more, but this time he did not see the sadness in her eyes. He saw only Wolsey, going higher and higher. He saw the Cardinal’s hat, but that of course was not the end. There was still the Papal Crown; and since even he must realize that he could never be the King of England, his ultimate ambition was that he should be head of the Church.

He went to his children, smiling happily, for his ambition did not seem an impossible one to achieve. Thomas Wolsey, who had learned so many lessons from life, believed that all that which he desired would eventually be his.

AS SOON AS he returned to Court a messenger informed him that the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester with the Earl of Surrey requested his presence.

He donned his clerical garments and washed his hands before making his way to their presence, for this was one of those occasions when time should be used to create an impression of his own power and importance.

They were waiting rather impatiently when he arrived.

“My lords,” he said, “you requested my presence.”

Surrey looked with distaste at Thomas Wolsey. He reeks of vulgarity, thought Surrey. That coarse skin, that over-red complexion—they proclaim him the vulgarian he is.

Surrey was scarcely pale himself, nor was his skin extra fine, but he was determined to find fault with Wolsey and looked for opportunities to remind him that he was not of noble blood and was only admitted to their counsels as a special privilege for which he should be perpetually grateful.

Fox welcomed him with a smile of pleasure. Fox had believed in his exceptional powers from the first and was determined to be proved right.

“We have been discussing the possibility of war with France,” Warham told him.

Wolsey nodded gravely.

“You, Mr. Almoner, should know how much we could put into the field,” Surrey pointed out, implying by his tone that it was as a lower servant of the King’s that Wolsey had been invited and that his opinion must be confined only to questions of goods and gold.

“Ah,” said Wolsey, ignoring Surrey and turning to Fox and Warham, “it would depend on what scale the war was to be carried on. If the King should put himself at the head of his men that could be costly. If we sent a small force under the command of some noble gentlemen…” Wolsey glanced at Surrey…“that would be well within our means.”

“I see you are of our opinion,” Fox put in. “At the moment any action should be kept on a small scale.”

“And,” continued Wolsey, “I dare swear we would not move until we had an assurance from the King of Spain that he also would take action.”

“Any alliance with the King of Spain,” Surrey interrupted hotly, “should surely be no concern of Mr. Almoner.”

“My lord is mistaken,” Wolsey said coolly. “That the alliance should be made and adhered to is of the utmost importance to every subject in this land, including the King’s Almoner.”

The veins seemed to knot in Surrey’s temples. “I cannot see that matters of state policy are the concern of every Tom, Dick or Harry.”

“Might it be that there is much that the noble lord fails to see?” retorted Wolsey. “But since he is now aware of his blindness he may seek a cure for it.”

Surrey lifted his fist and brought it down on the table.

“This is insolence!” he shouted. He glared at Fox and Warham. “Did I not tell you that I had no wish to consort with…tradesmen!”

Wolsey looked round the apartment in astonishment.

“Tradesmen?” he said, but the hot resentment was rising within him. “I see no tradesmen present.” He was fighting his anger because his very love of ostentation grew out of his desire to live as the nobility lived—and a little more richly—that he might leave behind him the memory of the butcher’s shop.

“No,” sneered Surrey, “how could you? There is no mirror in this room.”

“My lord,” said Wolsey almost gently, “I am not a tradesman. I graduated at Oxford and was elected Fellow of Magdalen College. Teaching was my profession before I took Holy Orders.”

“I pray you spare us an account of your achievements,” sneered Surrey, “which I admit are remarkable for one who began in a butcher’s shop.”

“How fortunate,” retorted Thomas, “that you, my lord, did not begin in such an establishment. I fear that if you had you would still be there.”

Warham lifted a hand. “I pray you, gentlemen, let us return to the point of discussion.”

“I prefer not to continue with it,” Surrey shouted. “There is scarce room for myself and Master Wolsey in this council.”

He waited for Warham and Fox to request Wolsey to retire. Wolsey stood still, pale, but smiling; and both Fox and Warham looked beyond the now purple-faced Earl. Surrey! Fox was thinking. With his inflated ideas of his own nobility he was scarcely likely to continue in favor with the King. Wolsey, with his quick and clever mind, his ability to smooth out difficulties, and make easy the King’s way to pleasure, was by far the better ally. Moreover, Fox had always looked upon the almoner as one of his protégés. Let Surrey stomp out of the apartment. They could well do without him.

As for Warham, he also recognized the almoner’s brilliance; he had no love for Surrey either. Surrey belonged to the old school; the days of his youth had been lived in that period when valor in battle brought glory; but Henry VII had taught his people that the way to make a country great was by crafty statesmanship rather than through battles, even if they should be victorious.

With an exclamation of disgust, Surrey flung out of the room.

Wolsey smiled in triumph. “The atmosphere, gentlemen, is now more conducive to thoughtful reasoning,” he said.

Fox returned his smile in a manner implying that they were well rid of Surrey.

“And your opinion?”

Wolsey was ready. He was not going to say that he was against sending an army to France, because it might well be that the King wished to send one; it was almost certain that the Queen did, because that was the desire of her father, and the Queen was naturally working for her father’s interests. If a decision was made which was contrary to the King’s wishes, let Fox and Warham make it.

“As my lord of Surrey pointed out,” he said almost demurely, “matters of state are scarcely the concern of the King’s Almoner. Should His Grace decide to go into battle I will see that all available armaments are made ready for him; but it is only reasonable to suppose that the mustering of arms to equip a small force, say under some nobleman, would be a simpler matter and one which would give us practice in this field before embarking on the great campaign.”

“I see,” said Fox, “that you are of our opinion.”

They discussed the matter in detail, and, although he seemed outwardly calm, inwardly Thomas Wolsey felt his pride to be deeply bruised. He could not forget the scorn in Surrey’s eyes when he had referred to the butcher’s shop. Would he ever escape such slights?

They could not be forgotten; therefore they could not be forgiven. Surrey’s name was on that list he kept in his mind of those who must one day pay for the indignity they had made Thomas Wolsey suffer.

Spanish Intrigue

KATHARINE REJOICED TO SEE THE CHANGE IN HER HUSBAND. She was sure that the irresponsible boy had been left behind and the King was growing to maturity.

He had forgotten their differences and talked with her of his ambitions; this made her very happy; he had even ceased to ask questions as to whether or not she had conceived again.

She had said to him: “It may be that the fact that we concern ourselves so constantly with my pregnancies is the reason that I am not with child. I have heard that constant anxiety can make one sterile.”

He may have taken this to heart, but on the other hand the prospect of war may have been entirely responsible for turning his interest into other channels.

One day he swept into her apartments, and she was aware that instead of glancing appreciatively at the prettiest of her women with that glazed look in his eyes which she had noticed with some alarm on previous occasions, he waved his hands for their dismissal.

“Ah, Kate,” he cried when they were alone, “I chafe at this delay. I would I could set out this day for France. These ministers of mine think the time is not meet for me to leave the country.”

“I have heard from my father,” she told him. “He writes that he knows that you would be welcomed in Guienne. The people there have never taken kindly to French rule, he says, and have always considered the English their true rulers. He says that once they see Your Grace they would rally to your banner.”

Henry smiled complacently. He could well believe that. He was certain that the wars with France should never have been allowed to die out while the position was so unsatisfactory for England. England had been torn by her own Wars of the Roses—which was a matter he could not regret as out of that had come the victorious conclusion which had set the Tudors on the throne; but now that there was peace within England and there was a King on the throne who was as strong and eager for conquest as Henry V had been, why should not the struggle be continued?

But Guienne! His ministers were a little anxious. It would have been so much simpler to have attacked nearer home. Calais was the natural starting point.

He would of course be near his ally if he attacked in the south; delay galled him. He could not imagine defeat, so he longed to set forth, to show the people his conquests.

“It would please me, Kate,” said Henry, “to lead my army and join up with that of your father. Together we should be invincible.”

“I am sure that you would. My father is considered one of the greatest soldiers in Europe.”

Henry frowned. “You would imply, Kate, that I should find it necessary to learn from him?”

“He is a man of great experience, Henry.”

Henry turned from her. “There are some who are born to be conquerors. They are endowed with the gift. They do not need lessons in bravery.”

She went on as though she had not heard him. “He and my mother had to fight for their kingdoms. She often said that without him she would have been lost.”

“I like to hear of a wife who appreciates her husband.”

“She appreciated him…although he was often unfaithful to her.”

“Ha!” cried Henry. “You have no such complaint.”

She turned to him smiling. “Henry, never give me cause for such complaint. I swear to love and serve you with all my might. I picture us growing old together with our children about us.”

His eyes were misted with sentiment. The thought of children could always produce this result. Then his face puckered suddenly.

“Kate, I do not understand. We have been unfortunate, have we not?”

“Many are unfortunate, Henry. So many children die in infancy.”

“But three times.…”

“There will be many times, Henry.”

“But I cannot understand. Look at me. See my strength. My good health is something all marvel at. And yet…” He was looking at her almost critically.

She said quickly: “I too enjoy good health.”

“Then why…I could almost believe that some spell has been cast upon us…that we have offended God in some way.”

“We cannot have done that. We are devout worshippers, both of us. No, Henry, it is natural to lose children. They are dying every day.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “One, two, three or four in every family. But some live.”

“Some of ours will live.”

He stroked her hair, which was her claim to beauty, and as he watched the sun bring out the red in it he felt a sudden rush of desire for her.

He laughed and taking her hand he began to dance, twirling her round, releasing her to caper high in the air. She watched him, clapping her hands, happy to see him so gay.

He grew excited by the dancing and he seized her and hugged her so tightly that she could not breathe.

“A thought comes to me, Kate,” he said. “If I go to France with my armies, you must stay behind. We shall be apart.”

“Oh Henry, that will make me very sad. I shall miss you so sorely.”

“Time will pass,” he assured her, “and while we are separated how can I get you with child?” Then he began to laugh afresh. “And we squander our time in dancing!”

Then with a swift gesture—eager even in this moment of excitement that she should marvel at his strength—he swung her into his arms and carried her across the apartment to the bedchamber.

FERDINAND, KING OF ARAGON and Regent of Castile until his grandson Charles should come of age, was eagerly awaiting dispatches from England.

His great desire at the moment was for the conquest of Navarre. He had made Naples safe and this left him free to make new conquests. It had always been one of his ambitions that Navarre should be under Spanish dominion; his great concern now was to persuade the Archbishop of Toledo and Primate of Spain, Francesco Ximenes de Cisneros, of the justice of this.

He had summoned Ximenes to his presence with the sole purpose of winning his approval of the project. Ximenes came, but from the moment he entered the King’s apartments in the Alhambra he showed his reluctance to be torn from his beloved University of Alcalá, which he himself had built and where he was now finishing that great work, his polyglot bible.

Ferdinand felt a surge of resentment as Ximenes entered the apartment. Whenever he saw the man he remembered how his first wife, Isabella, had bestowed the Archbishopric of Toledo on this recluse when he, Ferdinand, had so deeply desired it for his illegitimate son. He had to admit that Isabella’s trust in Ximenes had not been ill-founded; the man was a brilliant statesman as well as a monk; yet the resentment lingered.

Even now, thought Ferdinand, I must make excuses for my conduct to this man. I must win him to myself, because he wields as much power as I do, since while I am Regent for my grandson, he is Primate in his own right.

“Your Highness wished to see me,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand.

“I am concerned about the French, and the dilatory ways of the English.”

“Your Highness is eager to make war on the French for, I believe, the purpose of annexing Navarre.”

Ferdinand felt the warm blood rushing to his face.

“Your Eminence has forgotten that I have a claim to Navarre, through my father’s first wife.”

“Who was not Your Highness’ mother.”

“But I claim through my father.”

“Through his marriage into the royal house of Navarre,” Ximenes reminded Ferdinand, “it would seem that Jean d’Albret is the rightful King of Navarre.”

Ferdinand said impatiently: “Navarre is in a strategic position. It is necessary to Spain.”

“That is scarcely a reason for making war on a peaceful state.”

You old fool! thought Ferdinand. Go back to your university and your polyglot bible. Leave me to fight for my rights.

But he said craftily: “How can we be sure that their intentions are peaceful?”

“We have no evidence to the contrary, and it is scarcely likely that such a small kingdom would seek to make war on Spain.”

Ferdinand changed the subject.

“The English are eager to take Guienne.”

“A foolish project,” said Ximenes, “and one doomed to failure.”

Ferdinand smiled slyly. “That is a matter for them to decide.”

“Your Highness has doubtless roused these ambitions in the mind of the young King of England.”

Ferdinand lifted his shoulders. “Should it be my concern if the King of England becomes ambitious to regain territories in France?”

“It could well be,” retorted Ximenes, “since the English could harry the French, leaving you free to walk into Navarre.”

The sly old fox! thought Ferdinand. There was little he did not know of European affairs. There he sat in his gloomy cell in his grim old university, scratching away with his scholars at their polyglot bible. Then he took one look at affairs and saw the position as clearly as those did who studied it hourly.

The man had genius. Trust Isabella to discover it and use it. If I could but lure him to my side, the conquest of Navarre would be as good as achieved.

But the Primate was not with him; it was against his principles to make war on a peaceful state. Ximenes did not wish for war. He wanted peace, that he might make a great Christian country, a country which was the strongest in the world, and in which no man could live and prosper unless he was a Christian. The Inquisition was dear to his heart; he was eager that every Spaniard should be as devout as himself and he was ready to torture them to make them so—for he was a man who did not hesitate to torture himself. Ferdinand knew that, beneath the grand robes of his office—which he wore only because he had been ordered to do so by the Pope—was the hair shirt and the rough serge of the Franciscan habit.

We shall always pull one against the other, thought Ferdinand. It was inevitable that he, the ambitious, the sensuous, the avaricious, should be in continual conflict with the austere monk.

Yet, he thought, he shall not hold me back. I must lure the English to France, and this I shall do for I have the best ambassador a man could have at the Court of England. My daughter is the Queen, and the King cherishes her, and as the King is young, inexperienced and inordinately vain, it should not be difficult.

He began to talk of other matters because he saw it was useless to try to convince Ximenes of the need to take Navarre. But all the time he was thinking of the instructions he would give to Katharine and Luis Caroz in London. With the English as his ally he would do without the approval of Ximenes.

He hid his resentment and feigned such friendship for his Primate that he accompanied him to his apartments. A faint sneer touched his lips as he saw the elaborate bed—worthy of the Cardinal, Inquisitor General and Primate of Spain—because he knew that Ximenes used it only for ceremonial occasions and spent his nights on a rough pallet with a log of wood for a pillow. It was incongruous that such a man should hold such a position in a great country.

Ferdinand, however, lost no time in returning to his own apartments and writing to his ambassador in London.

The King of England must be persuaded to join Spain in the war against France without delay. The Queen of England must influence her husband. It would not be good policy of course to let her know how, in inducing England to make war, she was serving Spain rather than England; but she must be made to use all her power to persuade the King. It was clear that certain of the King’s ministers were restraining him. Those ministers should be promised bribes…anything they wished for…if they would cease to dissuade the King of England from war. But the most important influence at the Court of England was the Queen; and if Caroz could not persuade her to do what her father wished, he should consult her confessor and let the priest make Katharine see where her duty lay.

Ferdinand sealed the dispatches, called for his messengers and, when they had gone, sat impatiently tapping his foot. He felt exhausted, and this irked him for it was yet another indication that he was growing old. He thought with regret of those days of glowing health and vitality; he was a man of action and he dreaded the thought of encroaching old age.

If he could not be a soldier leading men into battle, a statesman artfully seeking to get the better of his opponents, a lusty lover of women, a begetter of children, what was left to him? He was not one who could enjoy the quiet pleasures of old age. He had always been a man of action, first and foremost.

And now there was gray in his beard, pouches beneath his eyes and a stiffness in his limbs. He had a young and beautiful wife, yet his pleasure in her was spoiled by the contrast in their ages; he could not forget his age when he was with her, but rather was more conscious of the years.

He longed for sons, because he was feeling a growing animosity towards his young grandson Charles, a boy who was being brought up in Flanders and who could inherit not only the dominions of his grandfather, the Emperor Maximilian, but those of Isabella and Ferdinand and all the Spanish dependencies…unless Ferdinand’s wife Germaine gave him a son to whom he could leave Aragon.

So much! thought Ferdinand. For one young boy who has done nothing to win it for himself!

He thought of the early struggles he and Isabella had endured in order to win Castile, and he longed afresh for his youth. With mingled feelings he remembered Isabella—a great Queen but at times an uncomfortable wife. His Germaine was more pliable; there was no question of her attempting to use her authority in defiance of his—she had none in any case. And yet…those days of struggle and triumph with Isabella had been great days.

But she was gone these many years, and her daughter Juana, Queen of Spain in name only, passed her tragic days in seclusion at the Castle of Tordesillas, roaming from room to room, her mentality so clouded that she talked to those who had died years before, or fell into silences which lasted for weeks; ate her meals from the floor like an animal, never cleaned herself, and constantly mourned the dead husband who had been noted for his infidelity and his beauty.

Tragic for her of course, but not so for Ferdinand, since it was due to Juana’s insanity that he ruled Castile. But for that he would be merely a petty ruler of Aragon realizing how much he owed to his marriage with Isabella.

But the past was done with, and the once active, lusty man was feeling his age.

Unless he got Germaine with child, young Charles could inherit everything his maternal and paternal grandparents had to leave. But his younger brother, Ferdinand, should not be forgotten. His grandfather and namesake would see to that. All the same he longed for a son of his own.

He had thought at one time that his wish was to be fulfilled. Germaine had two or three years before given birth to a son; but the little boy had died only a few hours after birth.

Ferdinand sat musing on the past and the future, and after a while he rose and went through the main apartments to a small chamber in which he kept certain important documents.

He opened a cabinet in this room and took out a small bottle which contained certain pills, which he slipped into his pocket.

Unobtrusively he would take one half an hour before retiring. He had proved the efficacy of these pills and would reward his physician if the desired result were achieved.

Germaine would be surprised at his powers.

He smiled; yet at the same time he felt a little sad that a man who had once been noted for his virility should be forced to resort to aphrodisiacs.

DON LUIS CAROZ, waiting in an antechamber of the Queen’s apartments at Westminster, chafed against this mission which he felt to be an indignity to a man of his position. Don Luis flicked at the elaborate sleeve of his doublet; it was an unnecessary gesture; there was no dust on his sleeve; but it conveyed his fastidiousness and his contempt for the streets through which he had passed.

His garments were more magnificent than those of most ambassadors at the King’s Court; indeed he vied with the King and he assured himself that it was merely because Henry favored the brightest colors that he appeared to be more dazzling. It was a matter of English vulgarity against Spanish good taste. Don Luis had a very high opinion of himself; it seemed to him that his diplomacy succeeded brilliantly; he lost sight of the fact—if it ever had occurred to him—that it was the Queen who made it easy for him, not only to gain an audience with the King whenever he wished to do so, but, receiving hints of her father’s desires, by preparing the King’s mind favorably towards them before Caroz appeared.

Vain, immensely rich—which was the reason why Ferdinand had chosen him to be his ambassador in England since he could pay his own expenses and thus save Ferdinand’s doing so—Don Luis was determined that his suite should be more grand than that of any other ambassador, and that the Court should not forget that his position was a specially favorable one on account of the Queen’s being the daughter of his master.

It was therefore galling for such a grand gentleman to be kept waiting—and by a humble priest at that. At least he should have been humble; but Caroz had reason to know that there was nothing humble about Fray Diego Fernandez.

Katharine, who was almost as pious as her mother had been, naturally placed great confidence in her confessor, and the friar who held such a position was certain to wield an influence over her.

Don Luis paced up and down the anteroom. How dare the priest keep the ambassador waiting! The vulgar fellow. It was the ambassador’s belief that the little priest was itching to get a finger into the political pie. Let him keep to his post and the ambassador would keep to his.

But Fray Diego’s task was to be the Queen’s confessor—and a woman such as Katharine would consider her actions always a matter of conscience.

Don Luis made a gesture of impatience. “The saints preserve us from saintly women,” he murmured.

At length the priest appeared. Don Luis looked at him—uncouth, he thought, in his priestly robes, a smug satisfaction on his young but clever face.

“Your Excellency wished to see me?”

“I have been waiting this last half hour to do so.”

“I trust you have not found the waiting tedious.”

“I always find waiting tedious.”

“It is because you are a man of such affairs. I pray you therefore let me know your business.”

Don Luis went swiftly to the door; he opened it, looked out, then shut it and stood leaning against it. “What I have to say is for you alone…for Spanish ears, you understand me?”

The priest bowed his head in assent.

“Our master is eager that the King of England should declare war on France without delay.”

The priest lifted his hands. “Wars, Excellency, are beyond my sphere.”

“Nothing is beyond the sphere of a good servant of Spain. That is what our master thinks. And he has work for you.”

“I pray you proceed.”

“King Ferdinand believes that the Queen could help us. She has much influence with King Henry. Indeed her influence must surely be of greater account than that of his ministers.”

“I doubt that, Excellency.”

“Then it must become so. If it is not, mayhap it is because the Queen has not worked hard enough to obey her father’s wishes.”

“Her Grace wishes to please her father and her husband. Her father is far away and did little to succor her when she needed his help. Her husband is here at hand; and I doubt he could be led too far from his own desires.”

“What do you know of these matters? He is young and ardent. If the Queen used skill, the utmost tact…she could win his promise immediately.”

“It is my opinion that this would not be so.”

“Your opinion was not asked. And how can you, a celibate, understand that intimacy which exists between a man and woman in the privacy of the bedchamber? My dear Fray Diego, there are moments, I assure you, which if chosen with skill can be used to great advantage. But you do not know of these matters—or do you?”

There was a sneer behind the words, a suggestion that the rumors of a secret life, attributed to Fray Diego, might be true. If such rumors were proved to be true they could cost him his position, Fray Diego knew; for Katharine herself would be so shocked that, much as she relied on him, she would let him go if she discovered his secret.

The priest knew that the ambassador was not his friend; but he had triumphed over enemies before. He remembered with relish his battle with Francesca de Carceres; she had hated him and had schemed for his recall to Spain. But look what had happened to her! Now married to the banker Grimaldi she was desperately trying to regain her position at Court, whereas he was higher in the Queen’s favor than he had ever been, and so important that the ambassador was forced, though much against his will, to seek an interview with him.

Fray Diego was young; he was somewhat arrogant. He really did not see why he should take orders from Caroz. It was Ferdinand’s wish that he should do so, but he no longer regarded Ferdinand as his master. His influence seemed slight from such a great distance. Ferdinand had neglected his daughter during the years of her widowhood; it was only now that he wrote to her so frequently and so affectionately. Katharine remembered this; and in Fray Diego’s opinion she was more Queen of England than Infanta of Spain.

He was determined therefore that he was not going to allow his fear of Ferdinand to rob him of the ascendancy he felt he possessed over Ferdinand’s ambassador, towards whom the Queen did not feel as affectionate as she did towards her friend and confessor.

“It is true,” he said, “that I have not your experience, Don Luis, of these matters. But what you ask is for the Queen’s conscience, and for Her Grace to decide.”

“Nonsense!” retorted Caroz. “It is a confessor’s duty to guide those who are in his spiritual care. A few careful words, spoken at the appropriate moment, and the Queen will realize her duty.”

“You mean her duty to her father, I am sure. But there is the possibility that Her Grace might also realize the duty to her husband.”

“Do you mean that you refuse to obey our master’s commands?”

“I mean,” said Fray Diego with dignity, “that I will give the matter my consideration and if, after meditation and prayer, I can convince myself that what you ask is good for the soul of Her Grace, I shall do as you say.”

“And if not…?” burst out Caroz, fuming with indignation.

“This is a matter for my conscience as well as the Queen’s. That is all I can say.”

Caroz curtly took his leave and went away fuming. The arrogance of that upstart! he was thinking. A vulgar fellow. It was a great mistake that any but the highest nobility should be entrusted with state matters—and the Queen’s confessor should have been a man of highest integrity and that noble birth which would have kept him loyal to his own kind.

Caroz soothed his anger by thinking of the account he would send to Ferdinand of this interview.

You will not long remain in England, my little priest, he prophesied.

His next call was on Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester—a man who, he knew, had great influence among the King’s ministers.

Promise them anything, Ferdinand had said, but get in exchange for your promise theirs to work for the English invasion of France.

Here was a man, thought Luis, who could surely be bribed because as an ambitious man he must be eager for the prizes of power and fame.

Caroz was proud of his ingenuity, for he had made up his mind what he was going to promise Richard Fox.

Fox received him with seeming pleasure, but beneath that calm expression of hospitality there was an alertness.

“I pray you be seated,” said Fox. “This is indeed both an honor and a pleasure.”

“You are kind, my lord Bishop, and I thank you. I have come here today because I believe it is in my power to do you some service.”

The Bishop smiled rather ambiguously. He knew that it was a bargain the ambassador would offer rather than a gift.

“Your kindness warms my heart, Excellency,” he said.

“It would not be an easy matter to achieve,” admitted Caroz, “but I would ask my master to work for this with all his considerable power—and he has great power.”

The Bishop was waiting, now almost unable to curb his eagerness.

“His Holiness plans to create more Cardinals. There are two French Cardinals and it has been suggested that he will present the hat to more Italians and Spaniards. My master is of the opinion that there should be some English holders of the office. I think he would be prepared to consider those for whom he felt some…gratitude.”

The Bishop, who had been skeptical until this moment, could scarcely hide the great excitement which possessed him. The Cardinal’s hat! The major step towards the highest goal of all churchmen—the Papal Crown.

Fox had assured himself that he was a man of integrity; he would work for the good of England—but what an honor for England if one of her bishops became a Cardinal; what great glory if one day there should be an English Pope!

Caroz, exulting inwardly, knew of the conflict which was going on behind the immobile features of the Bishop. What a stroke of genius on his part to think of hinting at a Cardinal’s hat! It was the irresistible bribe. No matter if there was no possibility of the offer’s ever being made; promises such as this were all part of statecraft. How delighted Ferdinand would be with his ambassador when he heard of his ingenuity. It was worthy of Ferdinand himself.

“I agree with His Highness, King Ferdinand, that there should be a few English Cardinals,” said Fox. “It will be interesting to see if the Pope shares that opinion.”

“There are few whom I would consider for the office,” said Caroz. “But there are some…there is one.…”

The Bishop said fervently: “That man would never cease to be grateful to those who helped him to attain such office, I can assure you.”

“I will pass on your words to my master. As you know, since the alliance of his daughter and the King he has had a great affection for your countrymen. It is something which he does not bear towards the French. Nothing would please him more than to see our two countries set out side by side to conquer our mutual enemy.”

The Bishop was silent. The terms had been stated. Withdraw your opposition to the project of war, and Ferdinand will use all his considerable influence with the Pope to win you a Cardinal’s hat.

Was it such a great price? Fox asked himself. Who could say? It might well be that those territories which had once been in English hands would be restored. Surely a matter for rejoicing. And his help might mean that an English Cardinal would be created, and English influence would be felt in Rome.

Caroz wanted to laugh aloud. It has succeeded, he thought. And why not? What bishop could turn aside from the glory of receiving his Cardinal’s hat?

He took his leave of the Bishop and went to his own apartments, there to write to his master.

He wrote that he believed he had found a means of breaking down the opposition to the beginning of military operations. He added a footnote: “It would seem to me that the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez, works more for England than for Spain, and I would recommend his recall to Spain.”

Murder in Pamplona

JEAN D’ALBRET, THAT RICH NOBLEMAN WHO OWNED MUCH of the land in the neighborhood of the Pyrenees, had become King of Navarre through his marriage to Catharine, the Queen of that state.

It was an ambitious marriage and one which had pleased him at the time he had made it, and still did in some respects. But to possess a crown through a wife was not the most happy way of doing so, and Jean d’Albret, a man who was more attracted by pleasure than ambition, by a love of literature than of conquest, was far from satisfied.

The times were dangerous and he saw himself caught between two great and militarily minded powers. His was a small state but it was in a strategic position and could be of importance to both France and Spain. Jean knew that Ferdinand had long cast acquisitive eyes on his and Catharine’s crown; and that Louis was determined to keep Navarre as a vassal state.

It was tiresome. There were so very many interesting matters to occupy a man. War seemed to Jean senseless; and he knew that, if there should be war over Navarre, the Spanish and French sovereigns would see that it took place on Navarrese soil.

Jean began to think that had he made a less ambitious marriage, say with the daughter of a nobleman as rich as himself, their possessions could have been joined together and they would have remained happily French; and moreover lived the rest of their days in comfort without this perpetual fear of invasion of their territory.

His wife Catharine came to him, and he saw by the anxious expression on her face that she was even more worried than he was. She was pleased for once to find him alone; usually the fact that he preferred to live as an ordinary nobleman with as little royal style as possible, irritated her; but today she had something of importance to say to him.

“My agents have brought news of negotiations which are going on between Ferdinand and Henry of England. It is almost certain that the English will invade France.”

Jean shrugged his shoulders. “Louis will laugh at their puny efforts.”

“You have missed the point as usual,” she told him tartly. “Ferdinand’s plan is not to invade France but to take Navarre. As soon as the English engage the French he will march on us.”

Jean was silent. He was watching the sun play on a fountain and thinking of a poem he had read a short while ago.

“You are not listening!” she accused. Her eyes flashed. “Oh, what a husband I have!”

“Catharine,” said Jean gently, “there is nothing we can do. We live in this beautiful place…at least we live here for the time being. Let us enjoy it.”

“To think that I could have married such a man! Does your kingdom, your family, your crown mean nothing to you?”

“The crown, as you have so often told me, was your wedding gift to me, my dear. It is not always comfortable to wear and if it were to be taken from me…well, then I should be plain d’Albret. It was the name I was born with.”

Catharine narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “you were Jean d’Albret from the time you were born, and it seems that so you may well die plain Jean d’Albret. Those who are not prepared to fight for their crowns would not arouse much sympathy if they lose them.”

“But you, my dear, wish to fight for yours…fight an enemy ten times your size…fight to the death…and in death, my dear, of what use would the crown of Navarre be to you?”

Catharine turned from him in exasperation. Her grandmother Leonora, who had been Ferdinand’s half-sister, had poisoned her own sister, Blanche, in order that she might take the crown of Navarre; Leonora had not lived long to enjoy that for which she had committed murder, and on her death her grandson, Catharine’s brother, had become the King of Navarre.

Catharine now thought of her golden-haired brother Francis Phoebus, who had been so called on account of his wonderful golden hair and great beauty.

They had been a proud family, for Leonora’s son, Gaston de Foix, had married Madeleine, the sister of Louis XI, and thus they were closely related to the royal house of France, and it was natural that they should look for protection to that monarch.

What an unlucky family we were! thought Catharine. My father, wounded by a lance in a tourney at Lisbon and dying long before his time. Francis Phoebus died only four years after he attained the crown, and so it had passed to Catharine, his only sister.

Ferdinand had desired a marriage between Catharine and his son Juan; that would have been one way—and by far the simplest—of bringing the Navarrese crown under Spanish influence, for then Ferdinand’s grandchildren would have been the future kings and queens of Navarre; but Catharine’s mother, the Princess of France, was determined that she would do nothing to aid the aggrandizement of Spain. So Juan had married Margaret of Austria and had died a few months after the marriage leaving Margaret pregnant with what had proved to be a stillborn child.

And Catharine had been married to Jean d’Albret—a match of her mother’s making—because Jean was a Frenchman and the Princess Madeleine had been determined to keep Navarre a vassal state of France.

So this man is my husband! thought Catharine. And he does not care. All he wishes is that we should live in peace, that he may dance and make merry with those of the Court, ride through the country and speak with the humblest of his subjects, asking tenderly after the state of the vines, like the commoner he still is.

But the granddaughter of the murderess, Leonora, was not going to allow her crown to be taken from her if she could help it.

She cried out: “We must make the position known to the King of France. We must lose no time. Cannot you see how important that is, Jean, or are you still dreaming? Send for one of your secretaries and he shall prepare a letter for the King with all speed. Do you think Louis will allow Ferdinand of Aragon to walk into Navarre and take what is ours? He will see the folly of it. He will make a treaty with us which will let Ferdinand know that, if he should attempt to attack us, he will have to face the might of France as well as that of Navarre.”

Jean rose and went to the door. Catharine watched him as he gave an order to one of the pages. His manner even towards the page lacked dignity. She felt exasperated beyond endurance because she was so afraid.

In a short time the secretary appeared.

He was a tall young man, with bold black eyes, a little overdressed; Catharine guessed that he could on occasions be somewhat bombastic. He was a little subdued as he entered the apartment, she was pleased to notice, and that was due to the fact that the Queen was present.

Jean was very much mistaken in behaving in a free and easy manner with his subjects. It might make him popular, but it certainly did not make him respected.

“The King and I wish you to draft a letter to the King of France.”

The Secretary bowed his head. It was as though he wished to hide his eyes, which were always lustful when he was in the presence of a woman; he could not help himself now, as a connoisseur of the female body, studying the Queen and estimating the amount of pleasure the King derived from the relationship. He dared not allow the Queen to guess his thoughts, though it did occur to him that the King might. But the King would understand; he was easy going and he would realize that a man of his secretary’s virility could never keep the thought of sexual relationships out of his mind.

Jean was thinking exactly this. Poor young man, he pondered, women plague him. If he were not perpetually concerned with plots and schemes to go to bed with this one and that, he would be a very good secretary.

The Queen was not thinking of the young man as a man; to her he was merely a scribe. He would draft the letter to the King of France and it should be sent off with all speed.

Navarre was in serious danger from Spain. Louis must come to their aid.

THE SECRETARY, hurrying through the streets of the poorer quarter of Pamplona, slipped through an alley and, coming to a hovel there, stopped, looked over his shoulder and tried the door. It was open.

Before entering the house, he glanced once more over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being followed. It would never do for one of the King’s confidential secretaries to be seen entering such a place.

Ah, thought the Secretary, who can say where love will strike?

He had a host of mistresses—some court ladies, some peasants. He was a man of wide experience and not one to go into the matter of birth and rank before embarking on a passionate love affair.

But this one…ah, this one…she was the best of them all.

He suspected her of being a gipsy. She had dark, bold eyes and thick crisply curling hair; she was wildly passionate and even he had felt a little overwhelmed and lacking in experience when they indulged in their lovemaking.

She would dance with her castanets, more Spanish than French; her skin was brown, her limbs firm and voluptuous; she was a cornucopia of pleasure. By a mere gesture she could rouse him to a frenzy of passion; a look, a slackening of the lips, were all that was necessary. She had said that he must come to this house, and he had come, although for anyone else he would have not done so. He would have decided the place of assignation.

He called her Gipsy. She called him Amigo. That was because he had accused her of being Spanish. A Spanish Gipsy, he called her, and she had slapped his face for that. He smiled now to think how he had leaped on her then, how they had rolled on the ground together—with the inevitable conclusion.

He was pleased enough to be Amigo to her. A confidential secretary to the King of Navarre should not disclose his real name.

He called to her as he stood in the darkness of the house. “Gipsy.…”

There was a short silence and he was aware of the darkness. A feeling of foreboding came to him then. Had he been unwise to come? He was the King’s secretary; he carried important documents in his pockets. What if he had been lured to this place to be robbed of those papers? What a fool he was to have brought them with him. He had not thought to clear his pockets. When he was on the trail of a woman he never thought of anything else but what he intended to do with that woman; and if that woman was one such as Gipsy, then the thoughts were all the more vivid, and completely allabsorbing, so that there was no room for caution or anything else.

Then as he hesitated he heard a voice say: “Amigo!” and his fears vanished.

“Where are you, Gipsy?”

“Here!” she was close beside him and he seized her hungrily.

“Wait, impatient one!” she commanded.

But there was to be no waiting. Here! Now! his desires demanded; and there and then it was, there in the darkness of this strange hovel, in one of the least salubrious byways of the town of Pamplona.

“There! Greedy one!” she cried pushing him away from her. “Could you not wait until I get a light?”

“I’ll be ready again when you get the light, Gipsy.”

“You…,” she cried impatiently, “you want too much.”

By the flickering light of a candle he saw the dark little room. So this was her home. He had seen her first near the castle, and he guessed that she came from the vineyards. There had been little time to discover much about each other, and all he knew was that she was a peasant girl who worked with the vines. All she knew was that he was employed at the Court. That made him rich in her eyes.

They had met many times in the vineyards at dusk; and even in daylight it had been easy enough to find a secluded spot. She knew that he carried papers in his pockets for they rustled when he threw off his doublet; he knew she carried a knife in the belt she wore about her waist.

“What is that for?” he had asked.

“For those who would force me against my will,” she told him.

He had laughed triumphantly. She had never attempted to use the knife on him.

He was growing restive with passion again.

“Come up the stairs,” she told him. “There we can lie in comfort.”

“Come then,” he said. “I pray you, lead the way.”

She went before him carrying the candle. He caressed her bare thighs beneath her tattered skirt as they went.

She turned and spat at him: “Your hands stray too much.”

“And how can I help that when I am near you?”

“And near others too!”

“What! You suspect me of infidelity to you?”

“I know,” she answered. “There is one who works with me in the vineyards. She is small and fair and comes from the North.”

He knew to whom she referred. The girl was a contrast to Gipsy; small, fair, almost reluctant, with a virginal air which was a perpetual challenge to him. It had challenged him only yesterday and he had succumbed.

“I knew her once,” he said.

“You knew her yesterday,” she told him.

So the girl had told! Foolish creature! Yet he was not displeased. He liked the women to boast of their connections with him.

Gipsy set down the candle. The room made him shudder. It was not what he was accustomed to. But there was always pleasure in novelty. And when Gipsy carefully unstrapped the belt containing the knife and laid it almost reverently on the floor and then began to take off all her clothes, he saw nothing but Gipsy.

“You also,” she said.

He was more than willing to obey.

Naked she faced him, a magnificent Juno, her hands on her hips.

“So you deceive me with that one!” she spat out.

“It was nothing, Gipsy…over and done with…quickly forgotten.”

“As with me?”

“You I will remember all my life. We shall never be parted now. How could any man be satisfied with another after Gipsy?”

“So you would marry me?”

He hesitated for half a second, and he could not help his mouth twitching slightly at the incongruity of the suggestion. Imagine Gipsy at Court—perhaps being presented to King Jean and Queen Catharine!

“Certainly, I would marry you,” he said glibly.

“I told you once that if you went with another woman I would make you sorry for it.”

“Gipsy…you couldn’t make me anything but happy. You’re too perfect.…”

He seized her, she eluded him; but he laughed exultantly; this was merely lover’s play. He sensed her lassitude even as she struck out at him; in a matter of moments he forced her onto the straw.

Afterwards she lay supine beside him. He felt relaxed, the conqueror. She could not resist him, even though she was so frenziedly jealous.

He need not even bother to cover up his peccadilloes. He had been wrong to imagine that he would have to go carefully with Gipsy. Gipsy was like all the others—so filled with desire for a man of his unusual capabilities that she could not resist him.

She bent over him tenderly. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Let us both sleep for ten minutes; then we will be wide awake again.”

He laughed. “You’re insatiable,” he said, “…even as I. Ah, they’re a well matched pair, my Gipsy and her Amigo.”

She bit his shoulder affectionately. And he closed his eyes.

Gipsy did not sleep, although she lay still beside him with her eyes closed. She was picturing him with that other one, and not only that one. There were many others. This faithful lover! she thought contemptuously.

She had told him that he would be sorry if he were not true to her. She had been true to him, yet he considered her so far beneath him that there was no need to keep his promises to her.

She was passionate; she had revelled in their intercourse; but he was only a man, and there were many like him in Pamplona who would be ready to come to Gipsy’s bed when she beckoned.

She listened to his breathing. He was asleep. Perhaps he slept lightly. Perhaps he would wake if she stirred.

She moved quietly away from him. He groaned and vaguely put out a hand, which she avoided, carefully watching the flickering candlelight on his face as she did so.

His hand dropped; his eyes remained shut.

Gipsy stood for a second, watching him; then she picked up her belt. From it she took the knife.

“No man betrays me,” she whispered. “Not even you, my fancy court gentleman. I warned you, did I not. I said you’d be sorry. But you’ll not be sorry…because you’ll not be anything after tonight.”

Her eyes blazed as she lifted the knife.

He opened his eyes a second too late; he saw her bending over him; he saw her blazing eyes, but this time they shone with hate instead of love, with revenge, not with passion.

“Gipsy…” He tried to speak her name, but there was only a gurgle in his throat. He felt the hot blood on his chest…on his neck, before the darkness blocked out her face, the sordid room in candlelight, and wrapped itself about him, shutting out light, shutting out life.

GIPSY WASHED the blood from her naked body and put on her clothes. Then she blew out the candle and went down the stairs and out to the street.

She ran swiftly through the alley and through several narrow streets until she came to the house she wanted.

She knocked urgently on the door. There was no answer and again she knocked. At length she heard the sound of slow footsteps.

“Quickly, Father,” she cried. “Quickly!”

The door was opened and a man stood peering at her; he was struggling into the robes of a priest.

She stepped inside and shut the door.

“What has happened, my child?” he asked.

“I need your help. I have killed a man.”

He was silent in horror.

“You must help me. Tell me what to do.”

“This is murder,” said the priest.

“He deserved to die. He was a liar, a cheat and a fornicator.”

“It is not for you to pass judgment, my child.”

“You must help me, Father. It does not become any of us to prate of the sins of others.”

The priest was silent. He had sinned with the woman, it was true. But what a provocation such a woman was, particularly to one who led the celibate’s life on and off.

“Who is the man?” he asked.

“He is of the Court.”

The priest drew a deep breath. “Fool! Fool! Do you imagine that murder of a noble gentleman can go unnoticed? If it had been one of your kind I might have helped. But a gentleman of the Court! There is nothing I can do, my child, but hear your confession.”

“You will do more,” she said. “Because you are wise, Father, and you have been my friend.”

The priest fidgeted in his robes. He looked at her face in the candlelight. It was pale, and the eyes were enormous; there was no contrition there, only a contentment that vengeance had been wreaked on the faithless, only the determination that he who had shared in her sin should now share in her crime. She was a dangerous woman.

“It may well be that he was not in truth a gentleman of the Court,” said the priest. “It may be that that was a story he told you.”

“He was well dressed and he carried papers in his pockets.”

“That’s what he told you.”

“I felt them…tonight. They were papers.”

“Take me to where he lies.”

They hurried back to the house wherein the murdered man lay. The girl took the priest up to the room; it was not the mutilated body nor the bloodsoaked straw which claimed the priest’s attention, but the papers which were in the pockets of the man’s garments.

“Hold the candle nearer,” he commanded.

She did so and, as he read, the priest’s hand shook with excitement, for what he held in his hand was the draft of a secret treaty between the Kingdoms of Navarre and France.

“Well?” said the girl.

“This could be worth a fortune,” he said.

“You mean…papers? How so? But I shall sell his clothes. They should fetch something.”

“Yes, they should. But these papers are worth more than clothes, I’ll be ready to swear. I believe there are some who would pay highly for them.”

“Who would?”

“The Spaniards.” The priest’s mind became alert. Priests were so poor in Pamplona—perhaps as they were all over the world—and there were some who could not help being attracted by riches even as they were by the voluptuous charms of a woman.

The situation was full of danger. The man who lay on the straw was one whose kind rarely came their way. His death must not be traced to this house. The priest was now an accomplice of the woman and it was imperative to him to cover up this murder.

“Listen carefully,” he said. “I will leave at once on a journey. I am going to Spain, and there I shall endeavor to see the secretary of the King. He will, if I am not mistaken, be interested in this paper. But speed is essential. If what is written here comes to his knowledge before I reach him, then he will not be ready to pay me for what he already knows. But if he does not know…then he will be willing to pay me highly for what I can tell him.”

“What is on the paper?” asked the girl.

“Matters of state. This man did not lie. He was one of the secretaries of the King. Now listen to me. There is one thing we must do before I leave. We must get him out of this house. And when he is gone you must clean away all signs of his having been here. Let us waste no time.”

They worked feverishly. The priest had cast off his robes to prevent their being marked by blood, and worked in nothing but his drawers. The girl took off her clothes and put on only a light loose robe which could be washed immediately once she had rid herself of her victim.

They carried the body out of the house and through the alley. They then placed it against a wall and hurried back to the house, where the priest put on his robes and carefully secreted the papers about his person.

“I shall set out at once,” he said, “for there is little time to lose. You must tell people that I have been called away to see my sick brother. As for you, wash the house so that there are no signs of blood, wash your clothes and do not try to sell his until at least three months have passed.”

She caught his arm. “How do I know that when you have the money for the papers, you will come back?”

“I swear by my faith that I will.”

She was satisfied. He was after all a priest.

“If you do not…,” she said.

He shook his head and smiled at her. “Have no fear. I shall never forget you.”

He would not. She knew too many of his secrets; and she was a woman who did not hesitate to plunge a knife into the body of a man who had deceived her.

And while the priest set out on his journey for Spain, the girl cleaned the house and her garments, so that when the sun rose there was no sign there that the King’s secretary had ever been her guest.

CARDINAL XIMENES arrived in Logroño on the banks of the river Ebro at the spot which marked the boundary between Castile and Navarre.

Ferdinand received him with such pleasure that the Cardinal guessed something unusual had happened to cause this. He dismissed all, so that they were alone together.

Ferdinand said: “Cardinal, you were opposed to my plans for attacking Navarre. The English are sending a force under the command of the Marquis of Dorset. It is my desire that they shall hold the French while I march on Navarre, which you have wished to leave untouched because you say it is a peaceful state.”

The Cardinal nodded and then looked deep into Ferdinand’s glowing eyes.

Smiling, Ferdinand reached for some papers which lay on the table at which he sat. He thrust them at Ximenes.

“Your Excellency should read this.”

The Cardinal did so, and Ferdinand who was watching closely saw that almost imperceptible tightening of the thin lips.

“So you see,” cried Ferdinand triumphantly, “while you were seeking to protect this innocent little state, its King and Queen were making a treaty with our enemy against us.”

“So it would seem,” replied Ximenes.

“Is it not clear? You see those papers.”

“A rough draft of the treaty, yes. But how did they fall into your hands?”

“They were sold to me by a priest of Pamplona. I paid a high price for them—but not too high for their worth.”

“A priest! Like as not this person was masquerading as such.”

Ferdinand laughed slyly. “There are priests who do not regard their duty as highly as does your Eminence.”

“I should distrust this person.”

“So should I have done, but I am informed that one of the King of Navarre’s confidential secretaries was found stabbed to death in a byway of Pamplona—stripped of all his clothes. It is reasonable to suppose that he would carry such papers in his pocket.”

Ximenes nodded. He had no doubt of the authenticity of the documents. And since the state of Navarre was making such a treaty with France, there was only one course open to Spain: attack.

Ferdinand leaned across the table. “Am I to understand that Your Eminence now withdraws his opposition, and stands firmly behind the attack on Navarre?”

“In view of these documents,” answered Ximenes, who never allowed personal pride to stand between him and his duty, “I think we are justified in going forward against Navarre.”

The French Disaster

AT THE HEADQUARTERS OF HIS ARMY IN SAN SEBASTIAN Thomas Grey, second Marquis of Dorset, felt sick, dizzy and decidedly uneasy. He had long regretted the day when his King had put him in charge of ten thousand archers and sent him to Spain as the spearhead of an army which, when the country was ready would, with the King at its head, join Dorset.

From the first he had been bewildered. The help he had been led to expect from his Spanish allies did not come. Ferdinand’s army had done little to help him. There had been scarcely any fighting except for a few clashes with isolated French troops; and his men roamed the countryside, drinking too much Spanish wine, eating too much garlic to which they were unaccustomed and which did not agree with them, catching diseases and vermin from the gipsy girls.

If, thought Dorset, I were not so ill myself that I fear I shall never leave this accursed country, I should feel alarmed, very alarmed.

Home seemed far away. The wrath of the King unimportant. The flies here were such a pest and the sight and smell of men, suffering from the continual dysentery, so repellent, that what was happening in England was of little importance.

He felt listless; that was due to the dysentery; he had ceased to long for home, only because he felt so tired. He believed that he had bungled his commission and that there would be trouble if he ever reached England; but he was too weary to care.

He had been chosen for this honor not because of his military skill but because the King had a fondness for him. Dorset excelled at the jousts and that was enough to make the King admire him. He had enough skill to come near to rivalling the King without quite matching him—a state which endeared Henry to a man and made him his friend.

“Why, Dorset,” he had said, “I see no reason why you should not take the first contingent to Spain. These ministers of mine have now decided that they are in favor of war. Fox has given in at last—though the fellow was obstinate for so long. But you shall go, my friend, and show these Frenchmen the valor of our English archers.”

The rosy cheeks had glowed and the eyes sparkled. “Would I were in your shoes, Dorset. Would I were going to lead an army into battle. But they tell me the time is not ripe for me to leave yet. In a year mayhap I’ll be ready.”

So it was Dorset who came to Spain, and Dorset who now lay sick of the maladies which sprang from a foreign land.

Life had not been easy for him; indeed he had lived in uneasy times. He was closely related to the royal family, and to the York branch, not that of Lancaster. His grandfather had been Sir John Grey, the son of Elizabeth Woodville (Queen of Edward IV) by her marriage with Lord Ferrers of Groby. Such a connection would be regarded somewhat cautiously by the Tudors; and although he had been received at Court he had quickly fallen under the suspicion of Henry VII and been confined to the Tower.

Dorset remembered now those days of imprisonment when he had lain in his cell and hourly expected the summons to the executioner’s block. It would certainly have come had not Henry VII died; but, in those first months of power, his son had desired to show that he had escaped from the influence of his father. He had taken the heads of Dudley and Empson, his father’s favorites, and given a pardon to Dorset.

The Marquis had done well in the service of the golden boy. Bluff, hearty, the young sportsman had given his father’s prisoner the wardenship of Sawsey Forest; he made Dorset one of his companions, for such a figure was an ornament in the tiltyard.

And after that, greater honors had been bestowed. How happy Dorset would have been if he had been allowed to confine his battles to the tiltyard!

He was lying in his tent, turning from side to side, feeling too ill to care what happened to him, when one of his men entered to tell him that the English ambassador to Spain was without.

“Bring him in,” said Dorset.

And the ambassador entered. Dorset made an attempt to rise but he was too weak to do so.

“Sir John Still,” he said, “you find me indisposed.”

“I am grieved that this should be so.” The ambassador was frowning as though he too shared the uneasiness of all who were connected with this campaign. “I have come to see if there is anything you need beyond the two hundred mules and asses which I had sent to you.”

Dorset smiled wryly: “What we need is a means of getting back to England,” he said grimly.

Sir John Still looked startled, and Dorset went on: “The mules and asses which you sent were unable to work. They had been starved and many of them were dying when they arrived. Those which survived had never been exercised and were unable to work for us.”

“But I paid the Spaniards a great price for those animals.”

“Ah, another Spanish trick.”

“A trick?”

“Sir John, surely you know why we are here. The Spaniards have no intention of being our allies and helping us to regain our territories in France. We are here that the French may be uncertain of our numbers and, expecting that we might be a great army, must needs protect their land. Thus they are kept occupied while the Duke of Alva, at Ferdinand’s command, walks into Navarre.”

“You mean…that we English have been tricked!”

“Do not look so surprised, ambassador. All are tricked when they attempt to deal with Ferdinand of Aragon.”

“I bring you instructions from England,” said the ambassador. “The army is to remain here throughout the winter. Next year the King will be ready to join you.”

“Stay here during the winter!” cried Dorset. “It’s impossible. Those men out there are half dead now with the sickness from which you see me suffering. They’ll not endure it.”

“These are the orders from England.”

“They in England can have no notion of what is happening here. We are given garlic…garlic all the time. There is more garlic than real food. The men are unused to this; they suffer from it. The wines overheat their bodies. Eighteen hundred men have already died; if we stay here many more weeks there will not be a healthy man among us.”

“You cannot return. To do so would mean you had failed. What have you achieved since you have been here?”

“Ferdinand has conquered Navarre. We have served the purpose for which we came.”

“You speak like a traitor, my lord Dorset.”

“I speak truth. These men will die if they stay here. If disease does not finish them, the French will. No good can come of their staying.”

“Yet the King’s order is that they should.”

Dorset staggered to the door of the tent. “Come with me,” he said. “I will tell these men of the King’s command that they are to stay in Spain.”

The fresh air seemed too much for Dorset. He swayed uncertainly like a man intoxicated, and the ambassador had to hold him to steady him. Bent double with the pain which distorted his yellow face, Dorset tried to shout, but his voice was feeble. “Men! News from home.”

The word home acted on the camp like magic. Men crawled out of tents, dragging with them those who could not walk. There was a feverish joy in their faces. They believed that the horror was over, and their commander had summoned them to tell them to prepare to leave for home.

“The King’s orders,” said Dorset. “We are to stay here through the winter.”

There was a growl of discontent.

“No!” cried a voice; and others took up the cry. “Home! We are going home!”

“The orders of our most Gracious Sovereign.…”

“To the devil with our most Gracious Sovereign. Let him fight his own wars. Home! England! We’re going home to England.”

Dorset looked at the ambassador.

“You see,” he said; and he staggered wearily back into his tent.

Now he was afraid. He saw that he was caught between the desires of his King and those of his men. He was faced either with disobedience to the King or wholesale desertions.

“I must write to His Grace,” he said. “I must make him aware of the true state of affairs.”

The ambassador waited while he wrote; but meanwhile outside in the camp the cries of rebellion grew louder. Dorset knew, and the ambassador knew, that even the King’s order to remain in Spain would carry no weight with those men out there.

THE KING WAS watching the return of his troops. He stood, legs apart, hands clenched at his side, his eyes so narrowed that they were almost lost in the flesh of his face.

Beside him stood the Queen, and she was ready to weep at the sorry plight of these men. They were in rags and many were still suffering from the fever; some had to be carried ashore. Yet as they came they were shouting with incoherent joy because the soil they trod was English, and the tears showed clearly on their poor sunken cheeks.

“What a sad sight,” murmured the Queen.

“It sickens me!” the King growled.

But he did not see this return as Katharine did. He felt no pity. He had only room for anger. This was the army which he had sent to France and of which he had been so proud. “I have never seen a finer army!” he had written to John Still. And now…they looked like a party of vagabonds and beggars.

How dared they do this to him! He was the golden king, the darling of fortune. So far he had had everything he desired, except a son. He remembered this fleetingly and glared distastefully at his wife. There were tears in her eyes. She could weep for that band of scarecrows when she should be weeping because she had failed him and, although she could become pregnant, could not give birth to a healthy boy.

Katharine turned to him. “There is my lord Dorset, Henry. Oh, poor Dorset. How sick he is. See him. He cannot walk. They are carrying him on a litter.”

The King followed her gaze and strode over to the litter on which lay the emaciated figure of the man who had once been a champion of the jousts. The sight of such sickness disgusted Henry.

“Dorset!” he cried. “What means this? I sent you out with an army and an order to fight for victory. You return with these…scarecrows…and dishonorable defeat.”

Dorset tried to see who was towering over him, shouting at him.

He said: “Where am I? Is it night?”

“You are in the presence of your King,” roared Henry.

“They’ll mutiny,” murmured Dorset. “They’ll endure no more. Is it morning yet?”

“Take him away,” cried the King. “I never want to see his treacherous face again.”

The bearers picked up the litter and were passing on.

“He is sick, very sick,” Katharine ventured to point out.

Henry looked at her, and she noticed that characteristic narrowing of the eyes.

“He will be far sicker when I have done with him!”

“You can’t blame him for what has happened.”

“Then whom else!” snarled Henry. He looked about him impatiently. “Put me up a gallows,” he shouted. “Not one, but twenty…a hundred! By God and all his saints, I’ll show these paltry cowards what I do to those who fail to carry out my orders.”

His face was suffused with rage. The tyrant was bursting his bonds. The metamorphosis was taking place before the eyes of the Queen. The vain good-natured boy was showing signs of the brutal egocentric man.

Katharine, watching him, felt an apprehension which was not only for the men whom he had so carelessly condemned to death.

KATHARINE KNELT before the King. The terrible rage which she had seen on his face had not altogether disappeared. There were signs of it in the over-flushed cheeks, the brilliant blue of the eyes.

He was watching her with interest, and she suddenly knew that she could change this tragedy into one of those situations which so delighted him in a masque.

“Henry,” she cried, “I implore you to spare these men.”

“What!” he growled. “When they have disgraced England! When our enemies are laughing at us!”

“The odds against them were too great.…”

It was a mistake. The faint geniality which she had perceived to be breaking through was lost, and the blue eyes were dangerous. “You would seek to enter our state counsels, Kate? You would tell us how to conduct our wars?”

“Nay, Henry. That is for you and your ministers. But the climate…and that disease which attacked them…how could you or your ministers know that such a catastrophe would befall them? That was ill luck.”

“Ill luck,” he agreed, somewhat mollified.

“Henry, I beg of you, show your clemency towards them. For this time forget the sneers of your enemies. Instead prepare to show them your true mettle. Let them know that England is to be feared.”

“By God, yes!” cried the King. “They shall know this when I myself go to France.”

“It will be so. Your Grace will go with an army, not as Dorset went, with only his archers. You will make great conquests…and so, in your clemency and your greatness, you can afford to laugh at your enemies and…spare these men.”

“You have friends among them, Kate. Dorset is your friend.”

“And a friend also to Your Grace.”

He looked down at her head. Her hair fell about her shoulders—that beautiful hair; her eyes were lifted to his in supplication.

She was playing her part in the masque, but he did not know it; his masques were always real to him.

So he was pleased to see her thus, humble, begging favors. He was fond of her. She had failed so far but she was young yet. He would forgive her those miscarriages when she gave him a bonny son. In the meantime there was this game to be played.

“Kate,” he said, his voice slurred with emotion, “I give you the lives of these men. Rise, my dear wife. They deserve to die for their treachery to me and to England, but you plead…and how could such as I deny a fair lady what she asked!”

She bowed her head, took his hand and kissed it. It was alarming when the masque had to be played out in stark realities.

The Perfidy of Ferdinand

IN HIS HEADQUARTERS AT LOGROÑO, FERDINAND WAS IN gleeful conference with Cardinal Ximenes. It appeared that the King had cast off his infirmities; he was as a young man again. Perhaps, thought the Cardinal, watching him, he congratulates himself that, although his body may be failing him, his mind is as shrewd and cunning as it ever was—and indeed, it may be more so, for his experience teaches him further methods of doubledealing, of plotting against his friends while he professes his regard for them.

Ximenes could have felt sorry for the young King of England if he had not been convinced that what had happened to him was due to his own folly. The King of England was clearly a braggart, seeking easy glory. He had certainly not found it in Spain; and one of the first lessons he would have to learn was that none but the foolish would enter into alliance with the most avaricious, double-dealing monarch in Europe—Ferdinand of Aragon.

Henry was as yet oversentimental; he believed that because he was Ferdinand’s son-in-law he would be treated with special consideration. As if Ferdinand had ever considered anything but his gold and his glory.

“So, Excellency, the campaign is over; it merely remains to consolidate our gains. Jean d’ Albret and Catharine have fled to France. Let them remain there. As for me…I have no further wish for conflict, and I do not see why, if Louis is agreeable, I should not make a truce with him.”

“And your son-in-law?”

“The young coxcomb must fight his own battles…if he can, Excellency. If he can!”

“He received little help from his allies, Highness.”

Ferdinand snapped his fingers. “My son-in-law will have to learn that if he hopes to win battles he should not send an army into a foreign land without the means to maintain it.”

“He relied too strongly on the promised help of his ally.”

“It was not promised, I do assure you. But we waste our time. I hear he tried his gallant officers and that they were forced to give evidence on their knees! That must have been a sight, eh! He was trying them for the incompetence and lack of foresight of himself and his ministers. And it was my daughter who saved them from the gallows.”

“It would seem that the Queen of England has not forgotten the teachings of her mother.”

Ferdinand was sobered by the mention of Isabella; then he shrugged off the memory with the reminder that Isabella had worked unsparingly for Spain. She would surely have realized the importance of Navarre and have understood that the means of acquiring it were not so important as long as the deed was accomplished with the minimum of bloodshed and expense to Spain.

“I am sending dispatches to my son-in-law, Excellency. Here they are. Glance through them and give them your approval!”

Ximenes took the proffered documents.

In these Ferdinand explained to Henry that the incompetence of Dorset’s army had made conquest of Guienne impossible. He was not suggesting that Dorset was a true example of an Englishman; and it was his belief that English soldiers, if properly trained and armed, would make fair enough soldiers; perhaps then they would not show up so badly against those of Europe. At this time he could not ask Henry to send more men into Spain, even though he himself should lead them. He had been forced to conclude a six months’ truce with Louis, as he feared that, if he had not, the French might feel—in view of the sad spectacle they had recently witnessed of English troops in action—that it would be an act of folly not to invade England, where they might—as they had seen a sample of English valor and fighting prowess—expect an easy victory. It was a great regret to Ferdinand that the English had failed to achieve their object—the conquest of Guienne—and if it was still the desire of his dear son-in-law that the province should be won for England, he, Ferdinand would, at the conclusion of the six months’ truce, win it for England. He would need ten thousand German mercenaries to help him, for his dear son-in-law would readily understand that, in view of their recent capers, he could not ask for Englishmen. The cost of the mercenaries would be great, but it was not money his son-in-law lacked but men of valor and fighting spirit. Ferdinand would be hearing more of this through his ambassador, Don Luis Caroz, and more importantly and more intimately from his dearly beloved daughter who was also the wife of that dear and honored son, the King of England.

Ximenes glanced up after reading the document.

“This will act as an irritant rather than balm to your dear son-in-law for whom you have such an affection,” he said.

“It is what I intend,” answered Ferdinand. “Do you not see, the young coxcomb will be so incensed that he will immediately plan to make war on Louis. It is exactly what we need to keep Louis engaged while we rest from battle and enjoy the spoils of victory.”

Ximenes thought of Ferdinand’s daughter. He could scarcely remember what she looked like as it was many years since he had seen her. Her mother had felt tenderly towards her, too tenderly, he had often said; for her devotion to her family had often come between herself and her duty to God.

Yet he was sorry for Isabella’s daughter. He saw her as a helpless barrier between the youthful follies of her husband and the cruel ambition of her father.

How could he complain when Ferdinand was working for the glory of Spain? There could be no doubt that the recent conquest had brought glory to the country.

Ximenes handed the papers back to Ferdinand. He must approve; but how he longed for the peace of Alcalá, for that room in which the scholars sat with him working on the polyglot bible.

Ximenes believed then that he would have been a happier man if he had lived his hermit’s life, free from power and ambition.

Happy! he reproved himself. We are not put on this Earth to be happy!

Smiling complacently, Ferdinand sealed his documents, forgetting as he did so encroaching old age, the pains which beset his body, the constant needs of ointments and aphrodisiac potions that he might in some measure wear the semblance of youth.

He could win battles; he could outwit his enemies, with even more cunning than he had shown in the days of his youth. Experience was dearly bought; but there were moments such as this one when he valued it highly and would not have exchanged it for the virility of his young son-in-law of England.

KATHARINE WAS SEATED before her mirror and her women were dressing her hair. Her reflection looked back at her and she was not displeased with it. Henry admired her hair so much; he liked her to wear it loose by night—which tangled it; but often she compromised by having it plaited into two heavy ropes.

Henry was ardent again. They were full of hope, he and she; the next time there was the sign of a child she was to take especial care, he had commanded. It was clear to him that he was dogged by ill luck. Witness the campaign in Spain for instance. Their inability to produce a child who could live was merely another example of their bad luck.

She smiled. If only I had a child, a son, she thought, I could be completely happy.

“Maria,” she said to her maid of honor, Maria de Salinas, “you have a happy look today. Why is that?”

Maria was confused. “I, Your Grace? But I did not know.…”

“It is a look of contentment, as though something for which you longed has come to pass. Does it concern my Lord Willoughby?”

“He intends to speak for me, Your Grace.”

“Ah Maria, and since this has brought that look of happiness to your eyes, what can my answer be but yes?”

Maria fell to her knees and kissed Katharine’s hand. When she lifted her face to the Queen’s there were tears in her eyes.

“But you weep,” said Katharine, “and I thought you were happy.”

“It will mean that I can no longer remain in the service of Your Grace.”

“He will wish to leave Court and take you away to the country then?”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

“Well, Maria, we must accept that.” And she thought: How I shall miss her! Of all the girls who came with me from Spain, Maria was the best, the most faithful. It was Maria whom I could trust as I could trust no other. Now she will be gone.

“I myself feel like shedding tears. Yet this must be a happy occasion, for you love this man, Maria?”

Maria nodded.

“And it is a good match. I know the King will willingly give his consent with mine, so there is naught to make us sad, Maria. Why, Lord Willoughby will not carry you off to a strange country. There will be times when you will come to Court, and then we shall be together.”

Maria dried her eyes with her kerchief and Katharine, looking into the mirror, did not see her own reflection, but herself arriving in England, after saying an infinitely sorrowful farewell to her mother, with her the duenna Doña Elvira Manuel, who had proved treacherous, and her maids of honor who had all been chosen for their beauty. Maria had been one of the loveliest even of that lovely band. They were scattered now, most of them married…. Inez de Veñegas to Lord Mountjoy, and Francesca de Carceres, most unsuitably, to the banker Grimaldi.

“Maria, tell me, have you seen Francesca recently?”

“She still waits for an audience. Does Your Grace wish to see her? Perhaps, now that I am going.…”

Katharine’s face hardened. “She left me once, because she felt it was to her advantage to do so. I would never take back one who has proved her disloyalty to me and to her family.”

“I have heard, Your Grace, that the banker loves her truly.”

“Then if she is so loved she should be content with that state of life which she deliberately chose. There will never be a place for her in my household.”

When Katharine spoke as firmly as that Maria knew that her mind was made up.

Katharine changed the subject. “I hope that you do not intend to leave me at once, Maria.”

Maria knelt once more at the Queen’s feet and buried her face against Katharine’s skirts.

“It is my only regret that I cannot be in constant attendance on Your Grace.”

There was sudden commotion outside the apartment. The door was flung open and the King stalked in. His face was a deeper red than usual and his anger was apparent from the manner in which he strutted. In his hand he carried papers, and a quick glance at those papers, as she swung round from the mirror, told Katharine that it was news from Spain which had angered her husband.

Maria rose to her feet and dropped a curtsey with the other women in the apartment. The King did not bestow his usual smile of appreciation on some particular beauty who caught his eye. Henry was always single-minded and now his thoughts were on the papers he carried.

He waved his hand in an imperious gesture. It was eloquent. It meant: “Leave us.” The women hastened to obey, and Maria’s heart sank seeing those signs of anger in the King’s face, because she, who was closer to Katharine than any of her companions, knew that the Queen was beginning to fear the King.

When they were alone Henry stood glaring at his wife, for the first few seconds too angry to speak. She waited, having learned from experience that when the King was in such a mood a carelessly spoken word could fan the flame of anger.

Henry waved the papers as though they were banners and he were advancing on an enemy.

“News from your father!” he spat out. “He seems determined to insult me.”

“But Henry, I am sure this cannot be so. He has the utmost regard for you.”

“So it would seem. He tells me here that my armies are useless. He is offering to fight my battles for me if I will pay him to provide mercenaries!”

“This cannot be so.”

“You have eyes. Read this,” he roared.

She took the papers and glanced at them. She could only see her father as her mother had taught her to look at him. Isabella had never complained to their children of Ferdinand’s conduct; she had always represented him as the perfect King and father. Katharine had only heard by chance that her father had on many occasions been unfaithful to Isabella and that there were children to prove it. And even though she must accept him as an unfaithful husband—in her opinion to the greatest and most saintly woman who had ever lived—still she could not believe that he was anything but honorable; and she accepted in good faith what he had written.

“Well?” demanded Henry harshly.

“My father considered what happened to our men in Spain. He wishes to help you.”

“So he casts a sneer at me and my armies.”

“You read into this what is not intended, Henry.”

“I…I? I am a fool, I suppose, Madam. I lack your perception. There is something you and your father forget.” He came close to her, his eyes narrowed, and she shrank from the malice she saw in his face. “But for me, what would have happened to you? I brought you up to your present position. It would be wise not to forget that. There were many who were against our marriage. What were you then? A miserable outcast. Your father would not support you…you were living in poverty.” Henry folded his arms behind his back and scowled at her. “I was told that a monarch such as I might choose my wife from all the greatest heiresses in the world. And what did I do? I chose you. You, Madam, who had been the wife of my brother, who were neglected by your father, who was living in miserable poverty in Durham House. I raised you up. I set you on the throne. And this is my reward.…”

She tried to fight the terror which such words inspired. She had grown pale and her twitching fingers caught at the cloth of her gown.

“Henry,” she said, “this I know well. Even if I did not love you for your many qualities…I would be grateful and wish to serve you until the end of my life.”

He was slightly mollified. She thought: Oh God, how easy it is to placate him, how easy to anger him.

“’Tis as well you are aware of your debts,” he growled. “And your father! What have you to say for him? He too should be grateful for what I did for you. This is an example of his gratitude!”

“Henry, he is offering to help you.…”

“With German mercenaries! Because we English are unable to fight our own battles!”

“He does not mean that, Henry. I am sure of this.”

“Not mean it! Then why does he say it?”

“Because he believes you to be suffering a keen disappointment, because he is sorry our army did not achieve its end.”

“He does not want English troops on Spanish soil! By God, would I had hanged the traitor Dorset. Would I had not listened to your woman’s pleading for a worthless life.”

“Nay, Henry, you must not blame Dorset.” She was suddenly overwhelmed by her tenderness for this big man who, it seemed to her, at times had the heart and mind of a child. “Let us face the truth. We failed. We failed because we had not enough food for our men, and we sent them out illequipped. Certainly you cannot accept my father’s offer—though he makes it in friendship; I do assure you of that. But there is an answer to those who have jeered at our failure. There is an answer to my father.”

“What is this answer!”

“That you should prepare an army that will be invincible, that you should place yourself at the head of it and attack the French, not from the South but from the North. There you would find a climate not unlike our own; there would not be the same difficulties in feeding an army that was separated from England only by twenty-one miles of sea. And with you at the head of it…”

A slow smile was spreading across the King’s face. He did not speak for a few seconds; then he burst out: “By God, Kate, we have the answer there. That is it. We shall start from Calais…and go on from there. And this time it will not be a Marquis who commands, but a King.”

All ill humor had disappeared. He seized her in his arms and hugged her, but already his thoughts were far away from her; he was leading his men into triumphant battle. This would be a masque to outdo those merry exercises that had charmed the courtiers and the people at Windsor, Richmond and Westminster.

He was content—content with life, content with Kate.

He danced round the apartment with her, lifting her in his arms, pausing so that she should marvel at his strength, which she did—running his fingers through her hair and over her body.

“There’s one thing that will not please me. I shall be separated from my Kate. And what will she be doing while she awaits the return of the conqueror, eh?” The little eyes were alight with laughter and confidence. “Mayhap she will be nursing the heir of England…the heir to all those lands which I shall bring back to the English crown!”

Katharine was laughing in his arms. The danger was over for a while; the King was happy again.

SO IT WAS TO be war. Katharine was eager to show Henry how she could work for him and that he could rely on his Queen’s being always at his side.

Henry was in high spirits. He was certain that he was going to win fresh honors and was already regarding the coming war as a glorified masque. It was a comfort to know that he could safely leave those matters of minor importance to Katharine, and he was pleased with her because she was so eager to be made use of.

He spent all his nights with her.

“There is one thing only I long for, Kate, and that is to leave you pregnant on my departure. What joy for me! I go forth to win honor for England, knowing you are at home nursing my seed within this comely belly of yours. I’ll give England new dominions, Kate, and together we’ll give her heirs. How’s that?”

“Henry, if only it could be so I’d be the happiest woman on Earth.”

“Of course it shall be so.” He had no doubt.

Katharine summoned Thomas Wolsey to her presence; she was impressed by his efficient handling of his duties which now included the assembling of the materials to be used in the war.

She was glad one day when in conference with the almoner that the King joined them.

Henry’s face glowed with bluff good humor.

“Ha, Master Wolsey,” he cried. “Her Grace tells me that you are of great use to us.”

“I do my humble best, Sire,” answered Wolsey. “My regret is that I have not four pairs of hands and four heads with which to serve Your Grace the better.”

Henry laughed and laid a great hand on Wolsey’s shoulder. “We are well pleased with those two hands and that head, my friend. The Queen has shown me the value of your work. She regards you highly, and the Queen and I are of one mind on all matters.”

“There is great joy in serving such a master…and such a mistress.”

“And we are fortunate in our servant. Show me the list of supplies you have prepared.”

“They are here, Your Grace.”

“Fox tells me that you work with the vigor of two men. He too has a high opinion of you.”

“The Bishop has always been a good friend to me.”

“It pleases us. We like our ministers to work well together. Too often we hear of discord, so that it is pleasant to hear of harmony. Now, let me see. So many victuals, eh? So much conduct money. And you can raise it, Master Wolsey?”

“I have no doubt of it, Sire. I can explain in detail how I propose to make these arrangements.”

“Enough, enough. We trust you. Bother us not with the how and the why and the where. Let us find that we have what we need. That is all we ask of you.”

“It shall be so, Sire.”

Henry once more patted Wolsey’s shoulder and the almoner, who had always been a man to seize his opportunities, said with an air of impulsiveness which concealed a perfected rehearsal: “Your Graces, have I your permission to speak to you on a…somewhat delicate matter?”

Henry tried to look shrewd; Katharine was faintly alarmed. She was always afraid that someone whom she regarded highly would, by a carelessly spoken word, anger the King and so ruin a promising career.

“Speak,” said Henry.

Wolsey lowered his eyes. “This is bold of me, Your Grace, but I was bold in the service of your most noble and honored father, and thus found favor with him. I would serve Your Grace with all the zeal I gave to your father’s cause.”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry impatiently.

“It concerns my lord of Surrey.”

“What of my lord of Surrey?”

“I have noticed of late that he is failing. He plans to go to France with Your Grace. This is rash of me…but I shall not think of my own recklessness in speaking my mind—only of the service I could do Your Grace. Sire, the Earl of Surrey is too old to accompany Your Grace to France, and such men can do much to impede an expedition. If it is Your Grace’s wish that the Earl of Surrey should accompany you to France, then it is my wish also, but…”

Henry nodded. “He speaks truth,” he said. “Surrey is an old man. Do I want graybeards to march with me!”

The thought occurred to Katharine that the only reason he could want them would be to call attention to his own radiant youth.

But they were going into battle. Henry wanted young men beside him. He also wished to show this man that he appreciated what he had done. Bishop Fox, who looked upon Wolsey as his protégé, had informed the King that the energy of Wolsey astonished even him. He had taken control of tanneries and smithies, of bakeries and breweries; so that they were all working for the state to enable Master Wolsey to provide everything that was needed for the expedition. He worked all hours of the day and far into the night; he scarcely stopped to eat; he was determined to please the King by his diligence, determined that this time the war should not fail through lack of equipment.

I like this Thomas Wolsey, the King told himself.

To throw Surrey to him in exchange for all his labors was a small thing. Surrey was old and arrogant and had passed from the King’s favor. And Wolsey asked it, Henry believed, not out of enmity towards the old man, but in his zeal for the success of the cause.

“When we leave for France,” said Henry, “Surrey shall stay behind.”

Wolsey bowed his head in such humble gratitude that he might have been receiving a great honor for himself.

“I am greatly relieved, Your Grace; I feared my importuning…”

Henry slapped the almoner’s back with a blow which made him stagger a little.

“Have no fear, Master Wolsey. Serve us well and you will find us a good master.”

Wolsey took the King’s hand and kissed it; there were tears in the eyes which he raised to Henry’s face. “And the greatest, Sire,” he murmured. “A master whom all men must delight to serve.”

Henry’s pleasure was apparent. He was thinking: When this war is won, I’ll not forget Master Wolsey. Mayhap I’ll keep him near me. He’s a useful man, and a wise one.

WOLSEY, COMING FROM the royal apartment, was smiling to himself.

This war was serving him well, for it had brought him closer to the King’s notice. He was going to impress the young monarch with his worth, as he had his father on that occasion when the old King had believed he had not begun a mission and had then found it completed with efficiency and success.

“The way is clear for me,” he whispered to himself. “There is nothing to fear.”

He felt faintly regretful that he could not share his triumphs with his family. He would have liked to see Mistress Wynter and the boy and girl at Court. He would have liked to put honors in their way. Of course he would do so. Both his children would be well looked after. Yet it saddened him that they must remain hidden.

He wondered what the King would say if he knew that Wolsey escaped from Court now and then to a woman who had borne him two children. He could guess. The little eyes would show a shocked expression; the royal mouth would be prim. Henry would expect celibacy in his priests; and he would be harder than less sensual men on those who were incontinent. There was a man, thought Wolsey, who lusted after the personable women whom he encountered. Yet he did not know it perhaps. He feigned to have a kingly interest in his subjects; but the interest was greater when the subject was a woman and a fair one.

No, the matter must be kept secret; his enemies must never discover the existence of Mistress Wynter. And he had enemies—many of them. They were an essential part of a man’s life when that man had determined to rise from humble beginnings to greatness.

There was one of them approaching him at this moment.

The Earl of Surrey was pretending not to see him, but Wolsey decided that he should not pass.

“Good day, my lord.”

Surrey gave him a haughty stare.

“You did not see me,” went on Wolsey. “My lord, is your sight failing then?”

“’Tis as good as it was the day I was twenty.”

“A long, long time ago, my lord. You were deep in thought; mayhap that was why you did not see me. You were thinking of the campaign in France.”

Surrey’s curiosity overcame his contempt for one of such humble origin.

“You have been with the King?” he asked. “What news of our leaving? Are the stores ready yet?”

“They will be by the time the King is ready to leave. There will be work for us who go with him to France, and for those of you who stay behind.”

“I am prepared to leave whenever His Grace gives the word,” said Surrey.

“You are prepared to leave, my lord?”

“Indeed I am.”

“You are certain then that you are to serve with the King in France?”

“Of a surety I am certain. Am I not the King’s general?”

Wolsey smiled knowledgeably and in a manner which replaced Surrey’s bombast with fear.

He could have struck the man, but he did not wish to soil his hands by touching a tradesman’s son. Wolsey murmured: “A merry good day to you, my lord,” and passed on.

SURREY STOOD FOR a few seconds looking after the almoner; then as his rising rage smothered his good sense, he hurried to the royal apartments.

“I wish to see the King at once,” he demanded.

The guards looked astonished; but this was after all the great Earl of Surrey, and it might well be that he had news of importance to impart to the King.

He strode past them and threw open the door of the King’s apartment. Henry was leaning against a table where Wolsey had recently left him; Katharine was seated, and the King was twirling a lock of her hair in his fingers.

“Sire, I must have immediate speech with you!”

Henry looked up, rather peevishly. He did not expect people to burst in unannounced. Could it be that Surrey considered that he was of such nobility that he need not observe the laws of ordinary courtiers?

Henry let fall the lock of hair and fixed his gaze on Surrey. The Earl should have been warned by the glitter in the King’s eye, but he was too alarmed to take notice of anything.

“Sire, I have just met that butcher’s son, coming from your apartments. The insolence of the fellow is beyond endurance.”

“If you speak of my good friend Wolsey,” said Henry sharply, “I should warn you, my lord, to do so with more respect.”

“Your Grace, the fellow hinted that I am too old to follow you in battle. The impertinent butcher’s cur.…”

“Your face is an unhealthy purple, Surrey,” said Henry, “and it would seem that you are forgetful of your manners.” He turned to Katharine. “Could that be his age, do you think?”

Katharine said nothing. She dreaded such scenes. She wanted to warn Surrey, but there was no restraining the irate nobleman.

“The impudent jackanapes! I’d have his tongue cut out. I’d cut off both his ears.…”

“Which shows what a fool you are and how unfit for our counsels,” retorted Henry. “You would rob us of the man who is doing more than any to make the expedition into France a success.”

“He has bemused Your Grace with his sly ways.”

There was nothing he could have said to rouse Henry’s anger more certainly. To suggest that he, the astute and brilliant leader, was a dupe!

Oh Surrey, you fool! thought Katharine.

Henry stood up to his full height and his voice rumbled like thunder when he shouted: “Nay, my lord Earl, there is no room for you in my army. There is no room for you in my Court. You will leave it at once. Do not let me see you until I send for you.”

“Your Grace…”

“Are you so old then that you have lost your hearing!” roared Henry cruelly. “You heard me, sir. Go! At once. Leave the Court. You are banished from our sight. Will you go, or shall I have to call the guard?”

Surrey crumpled suddenly, so that he did indeed look like an old man.

He bowed stiffly and left the King’s presence.

FROM A WINDOW of the Palace Wolsey watched the departure of Surrey. He wanted to laugh aloud in his triumph.

“Such disgrace shall befall all the enemies of Thomas Wolsey,” he told himself. “No slight shall be forgotten.”

He remembered then a certain gentleman of Limington in Somerset, a Sir Amias Paulet. In the days when Thomas had been rector of Limington he had not shown what Paulet considered adequate respect to this local bigwig; and Paulet had, on some flimsy pretext, caused Thomas Wolsey to be set in the stocks.

Even now Thomas could remember the indignity, and he told himself that when the time was ripe Paulet should deeply regret the day he had Thomas Wolsey set in the stocks.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Nay, thought Thomas, I am no ordinary man, and any who robs me of one tooth shall pay with two of his own.

So Surrey, who had called the King’s almoner a butcher’s cur, had lost his chance of following the King to France; he had also lost his place at Court.

That was meet and fitting, thought Thomas smiling. There would be many scores to settle on the way up, and they should be settled…settled in full.

IT WAS SOME TIME since Ferdinand had felt so full of vigor. Hourly dispatches were reaching him. He was playing the double game of politics which was so dear to his heart, and he never enjoyed it so much as when he was deluding those who thought themselves to be his allies, and coming to secret terms with those whom his allies thought to be a mutual enemy.

There was only one matter of moment to Ferdinand: the good of Spain. Spain’s desire at this moment was for peace. She had Navarre and, with the acquisition of that important little state, she was ready to consolidate her triumphs.

The English were clamoring for action. Katharine wrote naïvely from England. His dear innocent daughter, did she think that politics were arranged like rules in a convent? She was eager to please that handsome young husband of hers and her father at the same time.

She was invaluable.

Through her, it seemed, Ferdinand could set the young monarch dancing to his tune. He could let England work for Spain. What an excellent state of affairs it was when one had docile children to work for one.

He was a little sad, thinking of his lost youth and his inability to get Germaine with child. The times when he could go to bed with several women in one night were over. But he was still the sly fox of Europe.

He would forget the fear of impotence; forget the delights of love and think of wars instead.

He would allow Caroz to make a treaty for him in London with his son-in-law. He would give his promises…although he had no intention of keeping them. Promises were counters used in a game. If it was worthwhile redeeming them, you did so; if not, you forgot you had ever made them.

He sat down and wrote to Caroz. “…my armies to invade Guienne while the English are to attack from the North. I doubt not that the present Henry will be about to repeat the success of that other Henry in France, and we shall soon be hearing news of another battle of Agincourt. Let there be a treaty between our two countries, and assure my son-in-law that I am in this matter with him, heart and soul.…”

While he was writing a page entered to tell him that the friar for whom he had sent had arrived.

“Bring him to me,” said Ferdinand.

And the man was brought.

Ferdinand was pleased with his appearance. He looked like a wandering friar; he could pass from Spain to the Court of France without attracting a great deal of notice.

“I have work for you,” he said. “You are to leave immediately for France. Seek out King Louis and tell him from whom you come. Tell him that the English are preparing to make war on him and that I, through my daughter, have information of where they will attack and in what force they will come. Sound him well. Let him know that I am ready to make peace with him for a consideration…terms which we can later discuss if he is ready to consider this matter.”

The friar listened eagerly to Ferdinand’s instructions and, when he had left, Ferdinand returned to the letter which he was writing to Caroz.

“I would have my son-in-law know that France is the enemy of us both and that we must stand together to crush her. Let me know how far preparations have proceeded, and we will sign our treaty so that all the world shall know that we are of one family and together in this matter.”

Ferdinand sealed his letters and sent for his messengers.

He stood at the window watching their departure, laughing inwardly.

I am no longer young, he chuckled, I cannot satisfy a wife, let alone a mistress. Yet I am still the slyest fox in Europe.

ON A BRIGHT APRIL DAY the King presided over the ceremony of signing the treaty with his father-in-law.

Luis Caroz, whose magnificence of person was only slightly less than that of the King, stood with Henry and Katharine; and a cheer went up from all those assembled, because they believed that with the help of Ferdinand they could not but be victorious against France.

The great days of conquest were about to begin. The triumphs of the warlike Henry V would be repeated. They looked at the glowing face of their twenty-two-year-old King and they told themselves that he would bring England to a new greatness.

Katharine felt content.

One of her dearest dreams was to make strong the friendship between her husband and father; that she believed she had achieved.

Surely that other—the bearing of a healthy son—must follow.

KATHARINE STARED at the letters in consternation. This could not be true. Her father could not have made a truce with the King of France a few days before Caroz was signing one on behalf of his master with the King of England.

There had been some confusion, a mistake somewhere.

She sent at once for Caroz. The ambassador came to her in complete bewilderment. As he passed through to her apartments he met her confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez. Fray Diego greeted the ambassador without much respect, and Caroz was quick to notice the quirk of satisfaction about the priest’s mouth.

Laugh, my little man, thought Caroz. Your days here are numbered. I am beginning to make Ferdinand understand that you work more for England than for Spain.

But Caroz had little time to spare for the impudent priest on this day, and hurried to the apartment where Katharine was eagerly waiting to receive him.

“You have heard this news?” she asked.

“Yes, your Grace.”

“There has been some mistake.”

Caroz shook his head. He knew his master better than the Queen knew her father, and it seemed to him that such an act was characteristic of Ferdinand. What worried him was the action Ferdinand would take next, for Caroz guessed that he had already settled on a scapegoat, and that would very likely be his ambassador in England.

“It cannot be that my father was making an agreement with France while the treaty of alliance was being signed here in England!”

“It would seem so, Your Grace.”

“How could such a terrible misunderstanding come about?”

“Doubtless your father will offer some explanation.”

Henry strode into the apartment. He was in a violent rage.

“Ha!” he cried. “Don Luis Caroz! So you are here. What news is this I hear from Spain? Someone has lied to me. How could your master give his name to two such agreements at the same time!”

“Sire, I can no more understand than you can.”

“Then it is time you did. I want an explanation of this conduct.” Henry turned to Katharine. “It would seem, Madam, that your father has been mocking us.”

Katharine shivered, for Henry looked as though he were ready to destroy all things Spanish, including Caroz and herself.

“It cannot be so,” she answered as calmly as she could. “This news must be false.”

“It’s to be hoped so,” growled Henry.

Caroz said: “Sire, have I Your Grace’s permission to retire, that I may dispatch a letter to my master with all speed?”

“Retire!” cried Henry. “It would be well for you to retire, Sir Ambassador. If you stay I may do to you what those who betray my trust deserve.”

The ambassador hurried away with all speed, leaving Katharine alone with her husband.

Henry stood in his favorite position, legs apart, fingers playing with his dagger hilt, eyes glinting blue fire between the lids which almost met.

“My ally!” he shouted. “So this is Spanish honor! By God, I have trusted you Spaniards too much. And what has it brought me? An alliance which is no alliance…a barren wife.”

“No…Henry.”

“No! What of this treaty your father has signed with France? France! Our enemy! His and mine! I have served you royally. I brought you from your poverty and set you on a throne. And how do you repay me? Three births and not a child to show for it. It would seem that Spaniards seek to make a mock of the King of England.”

“Henry, it is no more my fault than yours that we have no child. That matter has nothing to do with this treaty it is said my father has made with France.”

“Has it not, Madam. Has it not!”

“Henry, how could I be blamed because our children did not live?”

“Perhaps,” said Henry more quietly, “it is because it is not the will of God that you should bear children. Perhaps because you were my brother’s wife.…”

“The Pope gave us the dispensation,” she said, her voice trembling with a vague terror.

“Because he believed that you were a virgin when you married me.”

“As I was.”

While he looked at her the rage in his face subsided and it was replaced by a look which might have been one of speculation. “As you tell me, Madam,” he said.

And with that he turned and left her—bewildered, unhappy, and numbed by a fear which was as yet vague and shadowy.

FERDINAND WROTE to Henry and his daughter.

There had been a terrible misunderstanding. He was desolate because he feared he had been misrepresented. He had given no firm instruction that Caroz was to sign a treaty on his behalf with Henry. He was afraid that this matter had cast a slur on his honor; for even though he knew himself to be blameless, would others understand the truth?

It was a humiliating thing for a King to admit, but he feared that his ambassador in England was an incompetent fellow. He had misunderstood instructions…not deliberately. He would not believe that Don Luis was a rogue—but merely a fool.

“My dear daughter,” he wrote, “you who were brought up in our Court know well the piety of your mother and that it was her wish that all her family should share that piety. I am a sick man, daughter. You would not recognize me if you saw me now. I believe myself to be very close to death. My conscience troubled me. When death is near, those of us who have striven to lead a religious life have an urgent desire to set our affairs in order. Make peace with your enemies—that is one of God’s laws. So I looked about me and thought of my greatest enemy. Who could that be but Louis XII of France? So, believing that there should be reconciliation between Christians, I signed the truce with him. This was my reason. You, who are your mother’s daughter, will understand my motives.”

When Katharine read that letter her attitude towards her father began to change.

What loyalty do I owe to him now? she asked herself. It was the memory of her mother which had until this time made her wish to serve him; but her mother would never have agreed to the signing of these two treaties within a few days of each other.

It was not easy for one who had been brought up with the strictest regard for filial duty, to criticize a parent’s action, but Katharine was beginning to do so.

The letter which Ferdinand had written to Henry was in the same strain.

He did not wish his son-in-law to think that he put friendship with the King of France on the same level with that which he bore to the King of England, he wrote. Nay, he had made peace with France because he feared he had but a short time to live and wished to die at peace with his enemies. But out of his love for his son-in-law, he would be ready to break the truce with France if necessary. There was a way in which this could be done. The province of Béarn was not included in the treaty and, if Ferdinand attacked Béarn and the King of France came to its defense—as he most assuredly would—then he would attack the Spanish, which would be breaking the treaty. And so it would be France which had broken faith, not Spain.

Henry scowled when he read this. He was beginning to believe that he was a fool to put any trust in such a double dealer. But it did not mean that he was not going forward with his plans for war.

MARIA DE SALINAS came to the Queen’s side and whispered: “Caroz is without. He is in a sorry state. An attempt has been made on his life.”

Katharine, who had been sitting at her embroidery with two of her ladies, rose immediately and went with Maria into the adjoining anteroom.

“Bring him to me here,” she said.

Maria returned in a short time with Caroz. His fine satin doublet was torn, and there was blood on his arm.

“Your Grace,” he panted, “I was set upon in the street. I was attacked, but by a stroke of good fortune my attacker slipped just as he was about to thrust home his sword. It caught my arm and I ran…I ran for my life.”

“Bring me water and bandages,” said Katharine to Maria. “I will bind up the wound. I have a special unguent which is a wonderful healer.”

As she spoke she cut the sleeve away from the wound and saw to her relief that it was not deep.

“I am submitted to insults on all sides.” Caroz was almost sobbing. “Everyone here blames me for the treaty His Highness has made with the King of France. They have determined to kill me. It is unsafe for me to go abroad in the streets.”

“You are distraught, Don Luis,” said Katharine. “Pray calm yourself. This may have been nothing but the action of a cutpurse.”

“Nay, Your Grace. The people are infuriated with me. They blame me, although Your Grace well knows…”

Katharine said: “This may make you feel a little faint. Lie back and close your eyes.”

As she washed the wound and applied the unguent, she thought: Poor Don Luis. He is the scapegoat. I must do all in my power to save him. I should not forgive myself if he, bearing the blame for my father’s action, should also suffer the death wound which would be his should these people lay their hands upon him.

She bound the wound and made Don Luis lie down, setting two of her pages to watch over him.

Then she went to the King’s apartment.

Henry frowned at her. He was still displeased with the Spaniards and he wished her to know that she was included in that displeasure. But she faced him boldly. She was certain that some of his friends had set an assassin to attack Don Luis, and she believed that Henry alone could save the ambassador from another attack. She felt sickened with humiliation because of her father’s conduct and, although she had no great regard for Don Luis, she was determined that his death should not be placed to her family’s account.

“Henry,” she said, “Don Luis has been attacked.”

Henry growled his indifference.

“His murder would help us not at all.”

“Us?” he demanded. “For whom do you work, Madam? Do you set yourself on the side of your father or your husband?”

Katharine drew herself to her full height and in that moment she looked magnificent, with her eyes flashing and the color in her cheeks.

“I have made my vows to love, cherish and honor my husband,” she said distinctly. “I do not break my vows.”

Then Henry laughed exultantly. His Kate was a handsome woman. She was telling him clearly that she recognized her father’s duplicity and that she was ranging herself on her husband’s side against him. The woman adored him. That was easy to see.

“Why, Kate,” he said, “I knew it well.”

She threw herself into his arms and clung to him.

“Oh Henry, I am fearful that you should go to war.”

He stroked her hair gently. “No harm will come to me, Kate. I’ll give a good account of myself.”

“Yet I shall fret if you are away.”

“You are a good wife to me, Kate. But have no fear for me. I’ll go to France and I’ll come back…in triumph…and you shall share those triumphs with me.”

“Come back safely…that is all I ask.”

“Bah! You speak like a woman.” But he was not displeased that she should.

It was then that she asked him to forbid further attacks on Caroz.

“The man is a fool,” she said, “but no knave. Rest assured that he signed the treaty on my father’s behalf in good faith.”

“I’ll order it, Kate…since you ask me. Caroz can live on without fear of losing his life. And if your father does not recall him, he shall keep his position at Court.” His eyes narrowed. “The man is a fool. But sometimes it is not a bad thing when those who are set to work against us are fools.”

Katharine did not answer. She had shown clearly that she would never completely trust her father again. Henry was satisfied.

And so the life of Caroz was saved.

THE JUNE SUN shone on the walls of Dover Castle. From a window in the keep Katharine looked down on the fleet in the harbor, waiting to set sail. She knew most of the ships by name for she had taken the greatest interest in the preparations for this war. There lay the Peter Pomegranate—named in deference to her, whose device of the pomegranate had become so well known at the Court. There was the Anne of Greenwich side by side with the George of Falmouth; there was the Barbara, the Dragon and the Lion.

It had been a magnificent cavalcade which had passed along the road to Dover. The people had come out to cheer their King, and when they had seen him, so richly clad, so handsome, they had declared he was more like a god than a man. He was preceded by his Yeomen of the Guard in the Tudor colors, green and white; and the knights in armor and the gaily caparisoned horses were a colorful sight.

But it was the King who stood out in that glittering assembly. He was not in armor, but dressed as Supreme Head of the Navy of which he was very proud. There were four hundred ships waiting to set sail from Dover harbor, and he himself had superintended a great deal of the preparation for the journey. Thomas Wolsey was with him; he had learned more and more the value of that man.

And there rode Henry in his vest of gold brocade, his breeches of cloth of gold and his hose of scarlet. About his neck on a thick gold chain hung a whistle—the biggest any of the spectators had ever seen—and this was set with jewels which flashed in the sunlight. He blew on the whistle from time to time to the delight of all those who heard it.

Of all the pageants in which he had played his joyful parts there was not one which had delighted him as did this new game of going to war.

Katharine rode with him, applauding, admiring; and the glances he threw her way were full of love and tenderness.

There was a reason for this. As though to crown his happiness she had been able to give him, some few weeks before, the news which he had so wished to hear.

“Henry,” she had said, her eyes alight with happiness, “there can be no doubt that I am with child.”

Then he had embraced her and told her that there was only one regret in his life; that to make this holy war on France he must leave her.

“You must take care of yourself, Kate,” he had said. “Remember in this fair body lies the heir of England.”

She had sworn to take the utmost care.

Then he had requested her to be present at the meeting of the Council, and there he had announced that since he must go away he must appoint a Regent to govern the land in his absence.

“I have given this matter great thought. I have prayed for guidance, and I am leaving you the best and only possible Regent.” There was the pause for dramatic effect; then the little eyes, shining with sentiment, were on Katharine.

“Gentlemen of the Council, your Regent during my absence will be Her Grace the Queen.”

She had been overcome with joyful emotion, and she thought, as she did on all such occasions, If only my mother could be with me now!

So she was to be Regent during his absence. She was to have a Council to help her, should she need their help. The King had chosen the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Lovell, and the Earl of Surrey. The Earl had been allowed to return to Court for Henry was in a mellow mood. Many of his most able statesmen were accompanying him to France, and Surrey who, in spite of his arrogance, was a man of experience, could be more useful at Court than skulking in the country, perhaps planning mischief. So back to Court came the Earl—although Thomas Wolsey had discreetly tried to advise the King against the old man’s recall. Henry did not accept Wolsey’s advice, and Wolsey was too clever to press it.

So they had ridden into Dover, up the steep hill to the Castle, there to rest awhile until the expedition was ready to sail.

THE KING WAS now ready to embark. Beside him were the most courageous of his knights, men such as Brandon, Compton, Sir John Seymour, Sir Thomas Parr and Sir Thomas Boleyn. There was the indefatigable Thomas Wolsey determined to keep a wary eye on food supplies and equipment, not forgetting to glance with the faintest hint of triumph at the Earl of Surrey who was with those who remained behind.

There on Dover strand the King had decided a ceremony should take place. He wanted all his subjects to know in what affection he held his Queen; and when before them all he took her into his arms and kissed her loudly on both cheeks, a cheer went up, for the people never loved their King so much as when he, sparkling with the glitter of royalty, showed them that he was at heart an ordinary family man.

Then he took Katharine’s hand and addressed the assembly.

“My subjects, my friends, you see me about to depart on a holy war. I grieve to leave my country but it is God’s will that I should cross the sea to bring back to you that of which the French have robbed us. On this fine day you can see the coast of France; my town of Calais lies across the sea and I am now about to set out for that town. From there I shall seek to win back my rights and your rights. But while I am engaged on this duty I do not forget my people at home, so I leave you one who, I hope, is almost as dear to you as she is to me—my wife, your Queen. My friends, when I go aboard, when I set sail, Queen Katharine becomes the Governor of this Realm and Captain General of the forces for home defense.”

As he took Katharine’s hand and kissed it, another cheer went up.

He looked into her face and his eyes were glazed with tenderness and the pleasure he felt in scenes such as this.

“Farewell, my Kate. I will return with rich conquests. Guard yourself well…and that other.”

“I will, my King,” she answered.

A last embrace, and to the fanfares of trumpets he went abroad.

Katharine stood, with those who were remaining behind, on Dover strand, watching the glittering fleet as it set sail for France.

She was praying for Henry’s safety, for divine guidance that she might carry out her duties in a manner worthy of the daughter of Isabella of Castile.

She determined to surprise the King with her ability to govern; she was going to show him that if at one time she had sought to win advantages for Spain, she no longer did so; for there was only one country which she now called her own; and that was England.

Yet the real reason for her exultation lay within her own body. The child! This child must come forth from her womb, strong and healthy; and when he did come he must not be allowed to die.

There must not be another disaster. If such a calamity should befall her, all the affection of the last weeks, all the love and devotion which the King had sworn he bore her, would be as lightly swept away as the gaudy paper decorations after a masque.

Henry at War

BY THE TIME THE KING’S FLEET HAD REACHED CALAIS THE rain had begun to fall. This was disappointing as the cloth of gold and rich brocade trappings lost some of their dazzle in the downpour.

Henry was cheerful, however, determined to show his men that he was ready for any adversity, so certain of success that he was not going to be downcast by a little rain.

Then tents were set up; the army encamped; and on that first night, the King, his garments soaked, made the rounds of the camp like a practiced commander. He laughed at the rain and he made his men do the same.

“We are not the men to let a wetting disturb our spirits. We’ll snap our fingers at the weather as we will at that old rogue, the King of France.”

The men were cheered by the sight of him—pink cheeked, ruddy haired and full of health and high spirits.

Nor was the end of his endeavors for when he returned to his tent he did not take off his clothes.

“If this rain continues to fall,” he told his companions, “the Watch will be in poor spirits as the night progresses. I have heard how Henry V before Agincourt went among his men to comfort them. I will show my soldiers that they have as good a leader in me as the victors of Agincourt had in that other Henry.”

It was three o’clock when the King, still in his damp clothes, made the rounds of the camp.

He found the Watch disconsolate. In the darkness they did not recognize the figure on horseback immediately and Henry heard them, cursing the weather and talking of the warm beds in England which might have been theirs.

“Ay,” said the King, “warm English beds sound even more inviting than they are in reality—when remembered under the rain of other lands.”

“Your Grace!”

“Have no fear,” said Henry. “I myself was thinking of my own bed and the comforts and pleasures I might have been enjoying there. We are of a kind, my friends. Men, all of us. It is understandable that our thoughts turn to the comforts of home. But be of good cheer. You see, I, like you, am damp from the rain. I suffer all that you suffer. That is how I would have it. My men and their King are together in this war. He never forgets it; nor should you; and if we have been made to suffer in the beginning, fortune promises us better things, God willing.”

“Amen,” murmured the men. And then: “God bless Your Grace!” Smiling, Henry rode back to his own tent. He was not displeased with the rain which had enabled him to show his men that he was with them to take part in their misfortunes and give them a share in his triumphs.

IN THE MORNING the rain was over and the sun shone brilliantly. The King was in high spirits and he told himself that he could not leave his good people of Calais before he had made them gay with certain masques and joustings, so that they might see something of the skill which their King and his men would display in battle.

So there in Calais there was jousting and tilting; and the King won the admiration of all by his skill with the bow.

Henry, however, was impatient to be done with mock battles and begin the real fighting, but it was necessary to await the arrival of his ally against the French, the Emperor Maximilian.

There was much talk of Maximilian who was known as one of the greatest soldiers of Europe. Henry was delighted to have him as a friend in this struggle against the French. With the help of Maximilian he could afford to snap his fingers at the other dubious ally, Ferdinand.

It was while he was showing his skill at archery that a message came to him from Maximilian.

He discarded his bow and read it immediately.

The Emperor believed that the first steps in the conquest of France should be the taking of those two towns, Thérouanne and Tournai. Once these were in the hands of the allies, Maximilian pointed out, there would be no difficulty in pouring men in from Flanders. He wanted the King of England to know that he merely proffered the advice of an old campaigner and he was the happiest general in Europe to serve under the banner of the King of England.

Henry, whose plans had been not to go so far from the main object—Paris—as towns on the Flemish border, was so charmed by the Emperor’s last words that he succumbed immediately to his suggestions and set out for Thérouanne.

THE EMPEROR MAXIMILIAN—that hardened old campaigner—had been in communication with Ferdinand concerning the aspirations of the King of England.

“This young colt will become a menace to all if he is not curbed,” wrote Maximilian. “I am mindful of his recent expedition as your ally. He has a conceit which makes it unnecessary to deceive him because he so obligingly is ever ready to deceive himself.”

The Emperor had no great desire to make war on the King of France, but rather to make an alliance with him as Ferdinand had done; he was, as was Ferdinand, in secret negotiations with Louis.

The three great European rulers—Louis, Ferdinand and the Emperor—did not take very seriously the cavortings of the young King of England, who had too much money to squander; but they were all ready to make use of him, and Maximilian had offered a bargain which was irresistible. His treasury was empty and he desperately needed to fill it; therefore he was eager to come to terms with the English King. He would place at Henry’s service the cavalry of Burgundy and as many German Lanzknechts as he wanted. It would be necessary of course for Henry to pay for the hire of these men, because, while the Emperor had the men, he had not the means to keep them on the battlefield.

As for the Emperor himself, he would place himself under the command of Henry. “I shall be honored to serve under such a banner….” were words calculated to bring such satisfaction to the King of England that he would leap at the bargain without considering the cost. Such a general as the Emperor Maximilian must be paid for, and the King of England must understand that his personal expenses would be considerable. But all he would ask was a hundred crowns a day; and the King would naturally be expected to shoulder the expenses of the Emperor’s household guards.

“We are invincible,” Henry had cried, “now we have one of the greatest soldiers in Europe fighting under our banner.”

The three experienced old warriors now prepared to watch the antics of the young cockerel who believed that war was a superior—though more expensive—kind of masque.

Cynically Ferdinand waited. Louis was preparing to make peace with Maximilian and Ferdinand. Maximilian was telling himself that the conquest of Thérouanne and Tournai were all he needed, and he saw no reason why Henry should not pay him for winning them for himself.

Louis had given his instructions that his soldiers were to avoid battle with the English. They were merely to harry them and make their stay in France mildly uncomfortable.

Dorset’s campaign was remembered; so nobody took the English seriously…except themselves.

WHAT A GLORIOUS MOMENT when the Emperor, simply dressed in black—because he was mourning the death of his second wife—rode into the camp to pay homage to the dazzling young King.

Henry embraced the Emperor and would not let him kneel; but the glitter of triumph was in his eyes for all to see.

Maximilian, who cared not at all for cloth of gold but only for making his Empire great, was quite ready to kneel if by so doing he could deceive this young man.

There were tears in Henry’s eyes. “This is the greatest moment of my life,” he declared, “to fight side by side with your Imperial Highness.”

“Who is happy at this time to be your general,” answered the Emperor glibly.

“The capture of these towns should be an easy matter,” Henry told him. “And then…to Paris!”

“My daughter Margaret has written to me urging me to insist on your visiting her before you leave this land. She has heard of your fame and says that she will hold it hard against me if I allow you to depart without being her guest for a while.”

Henry smiled. He had heard that Margaret of Savoy was not uncomely, and the thought of shining in feminine company was very attractive.

“I desire to see the lady as much as she does to see me,” he declared.

“Then we must insist on that visit. My grandson has also heard of you. Charles—as you know he is being brought up by his aunt, my daughter Margaret—has said he wishes to see the King of England because he has heard that he is a young King possessed of all the virtues; and as he himself will be a ruler over great dominions he feels that to study the grace and prowess of great Harry of England would be a lesson to him.”

“I have heard excellent reports of that boy.”

“Ay, he’ll make a good King. He’s a serious young fellow.”

“I can scarce wait to see him…and his aunt. But first there is a war to be won.”

The Emperor agreed, and turned the conversation to plans for the first battle.

THE BATTLE WAS of short duration. The French, who had not taken their enemy seriously and had been ordered by Louis not to join in a pitched battle, put into effect a mock retreat before Thérouanne; but the English were very serious; and for that matter, so was Maximilian, as this town, with Tournai, was at a strategic point on the border of the Netherlands, and Maximilian’s object in joining this campaign was to win them.

The mock retreat soon became a retreat in real earnest; the small French forces were put to flight; and because they had been instructed not to fight, they were overcome by panic when they saw the weight of English and German forces; they galloped from the battlefield with the cavalry of the enemy in hot pursuit.

Henry was exultant; he had taken as prisoner the famous Chevalier Bayard, that knight who was known to be sans peur et sans reproche, and he felt that he was indeed making up for the disgrace which Dorset’s army had brought upon his country.

The battle was derisively called by the French: The Battle of the Spurs; and shortly afterwards, with the Emperor beside him, Henry had taken Tournai.

When these two towns, the taking of which had been his reason for entering the war, were in his hands, Maximilian had had enough of war. Not so Henry.

He burst into Maximilian’s tent and cried: “Now the way is clear. Now it is for us to go straight through to Paris to complete the victory.”

Maximilian was thinking quickly. The date was August 22nd. It was hot but the summer was almost at its end and in a few weeks the rains would start. Henry could have no notion what the Flanders mud could be like.

The idea of marching on Paris, even if it was possible to defeat Louis, would only mean, if they were successful, that this conceited young man would become more overbearing than ever. The English were becoming too powerful already, and Maximilian had no intention of helping them at the expense of Louis, who was already preparing to make a treaty with him as he was with Ferdinand.

He must be kept in Flanders until the winter set in; then he would have to return to England, for he could not stay where he was through the winter. He could spend the winter in England preparing for a fresh onslaught next spring if he liked; that was of little concern to Maximilian since he had achieved what he wanted: These two towns which jutted into the Hapsburg dominions and which were therefore a menace to Netherlands trade.

“Have I your permission to speak frankly to Your Grace?” he asked.

Henry was always so delighted when the Emperor addressed him in humble fashion that he was ready to give what was asked even before the request was made.

“You have indeed.”

“I am an old man. I have fought many battles. If we marched on Paris now, we could be defeated.”

“Defeated! Standing together as we do. Impossible!”

“Nay, Your Grace, if you will forgive my contradiction. Louis has not put all his forces into the field for the protection of these two insignificant towns. He would fight to the death for Paris. Our men need rest, and a little gaiety. It is always wise in war to consolidate one’s gains before one passes on to fresh conquests. I am under your command but it is my duty to give you the benefit of my experience. My daughter Margaret is impatient to see you. She is eager that the proposed marriage between Charles and your sister Mary may be discussed more fully. We have won these towns from the French. Let us fortify them and then go to my daughter’s court. There she will entertain you right royally…the King of England, conqueror of Thérouanne and Tournai.”

Henry wavered. He longed for conquest, yet the thought of being entertained and flattered by Margaret was growing more and more inviting.

WHEN MAXIMILIAN had left him Henry sent for Thomas Wolsey.

He looked affectionately at the almoner, of whose worth he had become daily more and more aware. When he needed anything, it was Thomas Wolsey who always seemed to be at his side to supply it. The Emperor had congratulated him on the excellence of his equipment. All this he owed to Wolsey.

He had even come to the point when he spoke to him of matters far beyond the man’s duty; and, moreover, listened to his advice which had always seemed to him sound.

When Wolsey came to the King he saw at once the indecision in the King’s eyes and he was alert. It was his policy to give the King the advice he hoped for and then allowed him to think that he had taken his, Wolsey’s.

The King put his arm through that of Wolsey and proceeded to walk with him about the tent…a habit of Henry’s when he was deep in thought and with one whom he wished to favor.

“Friend Thomas,” he said, “we have won a victory. These two towns are in our hands. The Emperor is of the opinion that this victory should be consolidated and that we should now proceed to his daughter’s court at Lille, there to rest awhile. Now you are in charge of our supplies. Is it your opinion that we need this time to make ready for further attacks?”

Wolsey hesitated. He could see that the King was torn between two desires and he was not certain which course the King had made up his mind to follow. Wolsey must be on the right side.

“Your Grace is tireless,” he said. “I know full well that it would be no hardship for you to continue in fierce battle.” He paused significantly. Then went on: “For others, who lack Your Grace’s powers…”

“Ah!” said the King, and it was almost a sigh of relief. “Yes, I owe something to my men, Thomas. I need them beside me when I ride into battle.”

Wolsey went on triumphantly now that he had received his cue. The King wished to go to the court of the Duchess of Savoy, but it must be a matter of duty not of pleasure.

“Therefore, Sire,” Wolsey continued, “I would say, since you command me to give you my humble advice, that for the sake of others—though not your august self—it would be desirable to rest awhile before continuing the fight.”

Wolsey’s arm was pressed; the King was smiling.

“I must perforce think of those others, Thomas. Much as it irks me to leave the field at this stage…I must think of them.”

“Your Grace is ever thoughtful of his subjects. They know this, and they will serve you with even greater zeal remembering Your Grace’s clemency towards them.”

The King sighed deeply but his eyes were glittering with delight.

“Then, my friend, what must be, must be. We shall be leaving ere long for Lille.”

Wolsey felt gratified; he had once more gracefully leaped what might have been a difficult hurdle.

The King was also gratified, for he went on: “The bishopric of Tournai was fallen vacant, I hear. Louis has put forward a new Bishop. I venture to think, now that Tournai is no longer in French hands, it is not for Louis to appoint its Bishop and my nomination will more readily receive the blessings of His Holiness.”

“Sire!” Wolsey’s gratitude shone from his eyes as he knelt and kissed his sovereign’s hand.

Henry beamed on him. “It is ever our wish,” he said, “to reward a good servant.”

Bishop of Tournai! pondered Wolsey. A further step along the road.

Bishop! he thought, and he kept his head lowered over Henry’s hand lest his eyes should betray the ambition which he felt was so strong that it must be obvious.

Bishop! Cardinal? And then: Pope himself!

The Flowers of the Forest

AT HOME IN ENGLAND KATHARINE TOOK HER responsibilities very seriously. She was eager that when he returned Henry should be satisfied with the manner in which she had governed the realm during his absence. She attended meetings of her Council and impressed them with her good sense; she spent any time she could spare from these duties with her ladies who were busily working, stitching standards, banners and badges. She prayed each day for the strength to do her duty and that the child she carried would not suffer because of her activities.

She felt well and full of confidence. The news from France was good. Henry was in high spirits; she had heard of the successful conclusion of the Battle of the Spurs; and she wondered now and then whether Henry was learning soldiers’ habits, for she knew that there would be women to haunt the camp. Would he remain faithful? She must remember how stoically her own mother had accepted Ferdinand’s infidelities; and Isabella had been a Queen in her own right. Ferdinand had ruled Castile as her consort, and Isabella never forgot that; and yet she meekly accepted his unfaithfulness as something which women, whose husbands are forced to spend long periods from their marriage beds, must regard as inevitable.

She was thankful that there was so much with which to occupy herself. There was always the child to comfort her, and she thanked God daily that she had become pregnant before Henry had left.

This one must live, she told herself again and again. It would not be possible to go on having such disappointments.

One day, when she sat stitching with her women, Surrey came into the apartment without ceremony.

“Your Grace,” he cried, “forgive this intrusion. You will understand when you hear the news. The Scots are gathering and preparing to swarm over the Border.”

She stared at him in horror. “But the King made a treaty with his brotherin-law…,” she began.

Surrey snapped his fingers. “Treaties, Your Grace, it would seem are made to be broken. This is no surprise to me. When the English army is overseas the Scots always attack.”

“We must meet this attack,” said Katharine quickly.

“Ay, Your Grace. I’ve men enough to meet the beggarly Scots.”

“Then go to it. There’s little time to waste.”

Katharine went with him to the Council chamber. The time for stitching was over.

As she did so she was aware of the child moving within her and she felt exultant because of its existence and a certain apprehension because of the anxieties to come.

She thought of Margaret, Henry’s sister, who was wife to James IV of Scotland, and it saddened her because sister must surely be working against brother.

She listened to Surrey, addressing the Council. His eyes gleamed and he seemed to have thrown off twenty years. It was as though he were saying, I was considered too old to join the French frolic. Now the King and the butcher’s cur shall see how real victories are won.

I pray God that Surrey may succeed, thought Katharine. His victory would be hers, and if they could defeat the Scots Henry would be well pleased with her.

And yet…nothing would please him long, she knew, unless she brought forth a healthy son.

She spoke to the Council.

“There is little time to lose,” she said. “Let us gather all our available forces and move at once to the Border. The Scottish King has broken his treaty and seeks to strike us in the back while the King with our armies is on foreign soil. Gentlemen, we must defeat him. We must show His Grace that there are as good men in England this day as there are in France.”

“We’ll do it,” cried Surrey; and everyone in the Council chamber echoed his words.

But this was no occasion for words only. Action was needed. No one and nothing must be spared in the great endeavor.

THE DAYS WERE FILLED with a hundred anxieties. How could she raise the money to supply an army in France and another on the Border? There was only one answer: New taxes must be levied. Surrey was already in the North, fortifying the Border, raising an army to subdue the Stuart, and she herself was in continual correspondence with Wolsey. The amount of money and goods which were needed for the French war was staggering; yet somehow she must raise it.

There was no time now to indulge in those restful hours of sewing with her ladies. Disastrous news came from the North, where James had mustered an army of, some said, one hundred thousand men and was crossing the Tweed determined on battle.

She saw panic in certain faces about her. The King abroad on his French adventure, his country undefended and only a woman in control. Was this to be the end of the Tudor dynasty? Were the Stuarts going to do what they had longed to do for generations—join the two countries under Stuart rule?

It was unthinkable. She was riding about the country rousing the people to a realization of their danger because that army must be raised somehow. Surrey could not be expected to drive back a hundred thousand warlike Scots unless he had an army to match them.

But she knew she should rest more. There were times when she threw herself on her bed too exhausted to take off her clothes. In this national danger she forgot even the child because there seemed only one goal: to save England.

As she passed through the various towns and villages she stopped to talk to the people who flocked to see her. She looked magnificent on her horse, her eyes alight with purpose.

“God’s hand is over those who fight for their homes,” she cried. “And I believe that in valor the English have always surpassed all other nations.”

The people cheered her and rallied to her banner, and when she reached Buckingham she had raised a force of sixty thousand men.

“I will lead them to York,” she said, “and there join up with Surrey.”

When she dismounted she could scarcely stand, so exhausted was she. But she was triumphant because she had achieved that which had seemed impossible and had surely proved herself to be a worthy Regent.

Tired as she was she found time to write to Henry before she slept. She also sent a note to Wolsey—that most able man—who in the midst of all his exertions never failed to find time to write to the Queen, although often Henry was too busy to do so.

She feared that Henry might be too rash on the battlefield; she was worried about his tendency to catch cold; she was having new linen sent for him as she knew how fastidious he was in such matters; and she asked good Master Wolsey, on whom she relied, to look after the King and keep him well, and advise him against over-rashness.

She sealed the letters and sent them off before she dropped into a deep sleep.

In the morning she was unable to leave her bed; her limbs were cramped, and there were frightening pains in her womb.

She felt sick with apprehension but she said to Maria de Salinas: “I rode too long yesterday. My condition is making itself felt.”

“Your Grace should abandon the idea of riding North, and stay here for awhile,” said Maria anxiously. “You have raised the men. They can join Surrey and his army while you rest a little.”

She protested but even as she did so she knew that however much she wished to ride on she would be unable to do so.

She spent that morning in bed after giving orders that the army was to march on without her. And as she lay, racked by periodic pains, she remembered how her mother had told her that she had once sacrificed a child to win a war.

THAT NIGHT her pains had increased and she could no longer feign not to understand the cause. The time had not come and the child was about to be born.

“Oh God,” she murmured, “so I have failed again.”

Her women were about the bed. They understood.

“Why, Maria,” she said, her mouth twisted bitterly, “it has come to be a pattern, has it not. Why…why should I be so forsaken?”

“Hush, Your Grace. You need your strength. You are young yet. All your life is before you.”

“It is the old cry, Maria. Next time…next time…And always this happens to me. Why? What have I done to deserve this?”

“You have exhausted yourself. You should never have left Richmond. It is easy to understand why this has happened. My dearest lady, rest now. Do not take it too hard. There will be another time.…”

Katharine cried out in pain, and Maria called to those who were waiting: “The child is about to be born.”

IT HAD BEEN a boy. She turned her face into the pillows and wept silently.

She would meet Henry on his return and her arms would be empty. He would look at her with those blue eyes, cold and angry. So you have failed once more! those eyes would say. And a little more of his affection would be lost.

They brought news to her as she lay in bed mourning for the lost boy.

“Your Grace, the Scots attacked Surrey’s men six miles south of Coldstream. They fought there on Flodden Hill and it is victory, Your Grace, with the King of Scots dead and his men slain or in retreat. It is such a victory that warms the heart. They can never rally after this.”

She lay still. So her efforts had not proved in vain. She had helped to save England for Henry, and she had lost him his child.

But how could she rejoice wholeheartedly? A Kingdom for the life of a child! Her mother had paid the same price. But how different had been the position of Isabella of Castile from that of Katharine of Aragon!

IN THE STREETS they were singing of victory. The battle of Flodden Field would be remembered down the ages, because it would be years before the Scots would be in a position to rise again. And this had been achieved with the King away from home and the Queen in control of the Kingdom.

“Long live Queen Katharine!” cried the people.

And she smiled and thought: How happy I should have been if I could have stood at the windows holding my child in my arms.

The people were singing Skelton’s song:

“Ye were stark mad to make a fray,

His Grace being then out of the way.

Ye wanted wit, sir, at a word

Ye lost your spurs and ye lost your sword.…”

And on the other side of the Border they were mournfully bewailing their dead.

But it was victory, thought Katharine, even though the child was lost. Had the Scots triumphed the kingdom might have been lost. As for the child—she was telling herself what so many others had told her: You are young yet. There is still time.

She sat down to write to Henry.

“Sir,

My lord Howard hath sent me a letter open to Your Grace within one of mine by which you shall see the great victory which our Lord hath sent your subjects in your absence.… To my thinking this battle hath been to Your Grace and all your realm, the greatest honor that could be and more than should you win all the crown of France. Thanked be God for it and I am sure Your Grace forgetteth not to do so.”

She went on to say that she was sending him the coat of the King of Scotland for his banner. She would have sent the body of the King of Scots himself, but those about her had persuaded her against this. She wished to know how the dead King’s body should be buried and would await Henry’s instructions on this matter.

“I am praying God to send you home shortly, for without this no joy here can be accomplished. I am preparing now to make my journey to our Lady of Walsingham.”

She did not mention the death of the child. As yet she could not bring herself to do so.

Bessie Blount

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s right,” said Maximilian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The women expected it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Each new experience was a revelation.

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

It behooved him to learn all he could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It does not mean you always will be.”

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

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

“Who should that be?”

“Who but myself?” he whispered.

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

“You cannot be serious.”

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

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

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

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

She stared at it with astonishment.

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

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

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

“When then?” Henry wanted to know.

“Next spring…next summer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sent for Brandon.

“How goes the courtship?” he asked slyly.

Brandon shook his head. “I need time.”

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

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

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

“Is that so? The lady is coy.”

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

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

“A pale shadow of Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not just, she was sure of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HENRY CAME riding to Richmond.

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

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

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

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

Katharine heard the commotion below.

“The King is here.”

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

“Oh, Maria, how do I look?”

“Beautiful, Your Grace.”

“Ah…you say that!”

“In my eyes Your Grace is beautiful.”

“That is because you love me, Maria.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The news was so good.”

“Ay, the best.”

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

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

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

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

“Very much, Henry.”

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

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

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

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

He was drinking freely; he had eaten well.

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

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

She did not object; she was filled with optimism.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Your Grace.”

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

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Can you play a musical instrument or sing?”

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

“Then pray let me hear you.”

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

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

“Pastance with good company

I love, and shall until I die.

Grudge who will, but none deny;

So God be pleased, this life will I

For my pastance

Hunt, sing and dance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought so.”

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

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

“No, Your Grace.”

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

“Yes, Your Grace.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry was changing subtly because he was falling in love.

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

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

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

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

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

During the masque they danced together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mistress Bessie,” he began.

She started to tremble.

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

“Your Grace…” she murmured.

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

“Anyone must know Your Grace.”

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

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

“Ah…Bessie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Sire.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Compton nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You must mean Elizabeth Blount,” said Katharine.

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

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

“Yes, yes; a pretty voice.”

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

“Then so be it,” said Henry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The French Marriage

IN THE BED, ABOUT WHICH THE ELABORATE CURTAINS HAD been drawn, Thomas Wolsey felt shut away from the world with Mistress Wynter.

He talked to her more freely than he could to any other person because he trusted her completely. It was his pride—that integral part of his nature which in its way was responsible for his rise to power and against which he knew he must continually be on guard, because as it sent him soaring, so could it send him crashing to disaster—which made these sessions so sweet to him. He must hide his brilliance from the rest of the world, how he was always a step in front of the rest, how he always knew what could happen and must wait…patiently, ready to leap into the right position at that half second before others saw the leap, so that it appeared that he had always stood firmly there.

Only his Lark knew how clever he was, only to her could he be frank.

They were both sad because his visits to the little house were less frequent now.

“Matters of state, sweetheart,” he would murmur into that pretty ear; and she would sigh and cling to him and, even while she listened to the tales of his genius, she still longed for him to be an ordinary man, like the merchants who were her neighbors.

They had eaten and drunk well. The table in this house was more lavish than it had been a year before; the garments his wife and children wore, more splendid. He had talked to his children, listened to an account of their progress; had dismissed them; and had brought Mistress Wynter to this bedchamber where they had made love.

Now was the time for talk; so he lay relaxed and spoke of all that was in his mind.

“But when you are Pope, Thomas, how shall I be able to see you then?”

“Why, ’twill be easier then, my love,” he told her. “A Pope is all-powerful. He does not have to fight his petty enemies as a Bishop does. Roderigo Borgia, who was Pope Alexander the Sixth, had his mistress living near the Vatican; he had his children living with him and none dared tell him this should not be done…except those who lived far away. The power of the Pope is as great as that of the King. Have no fear. When I am Pope our way will be made easier.”

“Then Thomas, how I wish you were Pope!”

“You go too fast. There are a great many steps, I can tell you, from tutor to King’s almoner, from King’s almoner to…My love, I have a piece of news for you. I have heard that I am to receive the Cardinal’s hat from Rome.”

“Thomas! Now you will be known as Cardinal Wolsey.”

She heard the ecstasy in his voice. “The hat!” he whispered. “When it is brought to me, I shall receive it with great ceremony so all may know that at last we have an English Cardinal; and that is good for England. Cardinal Wolsey! There is only one more step to be taken, my love. At the next conclave…why should not an English Pope be elected to wear the Papal Crown?”

“You will do it, Thomas. Have you not done everything that you have set out to do?”

“Not quite all. If that were so I should have my family with me.”

“And you a churchman, Thomas! How could that be?”

“I would do it. Doubt it not.”

She did not doubt it.

“You are different from all other men,” she said, “and I marvel that the whole world does not know it.”

“They will. Now I will tell you of the new house I have acquired.”

“A new house! For us, Thomas?”

“No,” he said sadly. “It is for myself. There I shall entertain the King; but perhaps one day it will be your home…yours and the children’s.”

“Tell me of the house, Thomas.”

“’Tis on the banks of the Thames, well past Richmond. The Manor of Hampton. It is a pleasant place and belongs to the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. I have bought the lease of this mansion and now I intend to make it my very own, for as it stands it suits me not. There I shall build a palace and it shall be a great palace, my sweetheart…a palace to compare with the palaces of Kings, that all the world shall know that if I wish to have a palace, I have the means to build me one.”

“It will be some time before this palace is built as you wish it.”

“Nay. I shall have them working well for me, sweetheart. I am setting the most prominent members of the Freemasons to work for me, and who now would care to displease Cardinal Wolsey? I have decided that there shall be five courts about which the apartments will be built. I tell you, they will be fit for a King.”

“Does the King know of this, Thomas? I mean, what will he say if a subject builds a palace to match his own?”

“He knows and shows great interest. I am well acquainted with our King, sweetheart. He likes not the display of wealth of certain noblemen who have the temerity to fancy themselves more royal than the Tudors, but with one whom he believes he has brought out of obscurity, it is a different matter. In Hampton Court Palace, my love, he will see a reflection of his own power. So I talk to him of the palace and he is of the opinion that I take his advice. But it is he, you know, who always takes mine.”

Wolsey began to laugh, but Mistress Wynter trembled slightly and when he asked what ailed her, she said: “You have come so high, Thomas, perilously high.”

“And you think—the higher the rise the greater the fall? Have no fear, my Lark, I am sure-footed enough to remain perilously high.”

“I was fearing that you might be too high to remember us…myself and the children.”

“Never. You shall see what I will do for our son…for you all. Remember, my prosperity is yours.”

“And soon you will be leaving England again for France.”

Wolsey was thoughtful. “I am not sure of that.”

“But the King is going to war this year as last. The whole country talks of it.”

“There are certain matters which set me wondering, my dear. When we were in Lille we made a treaty with Maximilian and Ferdinand to attack the French. We won two towns which were of the utmost importance to Maximilian, and we paid him thousands of crowns to work with us. It seemed to me at the time that Maximilian came very well out of that campaign—as Ferdinand did out of the previous one. What was in it for England? But the King was pleased, so it was necessary for his servant to be pleased. One thing I have learned: a man must never go against his King. So, because Henry is pleased, so must I seem to be. But I am uncertain. I believe that Henry will soon discover that Maximilian and Ferdinand are not the friends he believes them to be.”

“Then there would be no war in France?”

“It might well be so. My dear one, imagine these two wily old men. They have great experience of statesmanship. Remember that Maximilian’s son Philip, and Ferdinand’s daughter, mad Juana, were married. Their sons are Charles and young Ferdinand. They have their eyes on Italy, not on France. They want Italy for young Ferdinand because Charles will have the whole of Spain and possibly the Austrian Empire, which includes the Netherlands. The King of France also has his eyes on Italy. ’Tis my belief that the English invasion of France is being planned by Ferdinand and Maximilian to put fear into Louis’ heart, and that if they can make favorable terms with him regarding Italy they will be ready to leave their English allies to fight France alone. It was significant that after the capture of Thérouanne and Tournai Maximilian was very eager that hostilities should cease. He knew further battles would mean bitter losses and he did not wish to impoverish himself, but to be in a strong position to bargain with the French.”

“And our King does not know this?”

“As yet he is a happy boy; he thinks with the mind of a boy. He trusts others because he is frank himself. He has had warning of Ferdinand’s perfidy; yet he is prepared to trust him as ever.”

“It is because Ferdinand is his father-in-law, perhaps.”

“The Queen is a clever woman, I believe, but she is fast losing her influence. The King is enamored of Lady Taillebois but Katharine does not know this. Lady Taillebois does not interest herself in politics. But she might not please the King forever, and if there were a woman who made great demands on the King and sought to influence him…who knows what would happen.”

“Thomas, I am alarmed by all this. It seems so dangerous.”

“You have nothing to fear, my love. I will always protect you and our children.”

“But Thomas, what if…?”

She did not say it. It seemed sacrilege even to think of it. Thomas would always maintain his place. There was no man in England who was as clever as her Thomas.

THE KING PACED up and down his apartment and with him was Charles Brandon, the newly created Duke of Suffolk. Suffolk, recently returned from Flanders, looked grim.

“So she’ll not have you,” Henry was saying.

“She was adamant in her refusals. You can be sure Maximilian has had a hand in this.”

“An English Duke is match enough for a Duchess of Savoy!” growled Henry.

“Alas, Your Grace. She—or perhaps the Emperor—would not agree. And there is another matter.”

Henry nodded. “Say on, Charles.”

“There was a hesitancy in the Emperor’s manner when, on your instructions, I tried to bring the negotiations for the Princess Mary’s marriage to completion.”

“Hesitation! What do you mean?”

“He was evasive. He seemed unwilling to make the final arrangements. Your Grace, it appears to me that the Emperor is one such as Ferdinand. He makes plans with us, and at the same time with others elsewhere.”

Henry’s brows were drawn together, he was thinking of the man who had placed himself under his banner and declared his willingness to serve the King of England.

“I cannot believe this,” he shouted. “He served me well.”

“He was paid well for doing so, Your Grace.”

Henry’s face darkened; but he could take more from Brandon than almost any other man.

“What means this change of front?”

“I know not, Your Grace, but let us be prepared.”

Henry stamped angrily from the apartment, but he gave orders that preparations for war were to go on apace.

IT WAS A WEEK or so later when an envoy from France arrived to negotiate for those prisoners whom Henry had taken at the battles of Thérouanne and Tournai and who still remained in England.

The envoy asked if he might speak in private with the King and, when Henry received him—in Wolsey’s presence—the envoy said: “I have words for Your Grace’s ears alone.”

Wolsey retired with dignity, knowing that the King would immediately pass on the news to him, and indeed having a shrewd notion as to what it must be.

When they were alone the envoy said to Henry: “Your Grace, I have a message from my master, the King of France. He wishes to warn you that King Ferdinand has renewed the truce he made with France, and that the Emperor Maximilian stands beside him in this.”

“Impossible!” cried Henry. “This must be untrue.”

“Your Grace will soon hear confirmation of this,” said the envoy. “But my master, wishing to prepare you and to show you that he is willing to be your friend, determined to let you know of it as soon as the truce had been signed.”

The veins stood out at Henry’s temples; his face was purple and he cried: “The traitors! By God, I’ll be revenged for this. My friends indeed! Base traitors both. They’ll be sorry if these words you speak are truth. And if they are lies…then shall you be.”

“I speak truth, Your Grace.”

“By God!” cried Henry, and strode from the apartment; storming into Wolsey’s quarters, he told him the news.

Wolsey, who was already prepared for it, received it calmly enough.

“What now?” demanded Henry.

“We know our false friends for what they are.”

“That will not conquer France for us.”

“A project which Your Grace will doubtless decide must be set aside for a while.”

The King’s eyes were glazed with anger, and in those moments he looked like a petulant boy who has been deprived of some much desired toy.

“Your Grace, what else had the envoy to say?”

“What else? Was that not enough?”

“Enough indeed, Sire. But I thought mayhap the King of France, showing his friendship in this way, might have further signs of friendship to show us.”

Henry looked bewildered.

“Would Your Grace consider recalling the envoy? Perhaps a little delicate questioning with Your Grace’s usual subtlety might reveal something of the mind of the King of France.”

“What is this you are saying? Do you believe it possible that I might become the ally of the King of France!”

“Your Grace, the other powers of Europe have proved themselves no friends of yours.”

“’Tis true enough, by God.”

“And Your Grace is now telling yourself, I know, that there can be no harm in hearing what this Frenchman has to say.”

“Send for him,” growled Henry.

In a short time the envoy stood before them.

Wolsey said: “Is it Your Grace’s wish that I speak of those matters which you have explained to me?”

“Speak on,” said Henry.

“It would seem,” said Wolsey, “that the motive of the King of France is friendship towards his brother of England.”

“That is my master’s desire, Your Grace, Your Excellency.”

“Then how would he show this friendship?”

“By making a peace with the English who shall be his friends, and forming an alliance which could not but bring dismay to those who have so clearly shown themselves the enemies of both countries. He says that to show his good faith he would be happy to make a marriage between France and England. As you know, Your Grace, Your Excellency, the King is without a wife. He is still of marriageable age. The marriage of the Princess Mary with the treacherous Hapsburg surely cannot now take place. The King of France would be happy to take the Princess as his bride.”

Wolsey caught his breath. The King was astounded. This was a complete volte-face. But the treachery of Ferdinand and Maximilian rankled; and what better revenge could possibly be achieved than such a treaty, such a marriage? It would be France and England against Austria and Spain. Henry saw now that those two wily old men had wanted to set him fighting France while they turned their attention to Italy—thus widening the dominions of their grandsons.

It was all startlingly clear. And the revenge: this alliance, this marriage.

Wolsey was looking cautiously at the King. “His Grace will wish to have time to consider such a proposal,” he said.

“That is so,” said Henry.

The envoy was dismissed, and, placing his arm through that of Wolsey, Henry began to pace the apartment with him while they talked.

THE NEWS WAS OUT and Katharine was bewildered. So once more her father had shown his treachery. He and Maximilian together had been profiting by the inexperience of the King of England and had used him shamelessly: Ferdinand in the conquest of Navarre, Maximilian for the capture of those two towns which were important to Netherlands trade. In addition Maximilian had received many English crowns as payment for his double dealing. They had endeavored to win concessions from the King of France by informing him of imminent invasion by England so that he would be ready to make peace with them, almost at any price in order to be free to tackle the English invaders.

Louis however had had a plan of his own to outwit them: the French and English should forget old enmities and stand together as allies.

Caroz was bewildered; he did not know which way to turn; and, as on a previous occasion he saw that he would be in the position of scapegoat. He hurried to see Katharine and was met by Fray Diego Fernandez who informed him haughtily that the Queen was in no way pleased with his conduct of Spanish affairs.

Caroz, angry beyond discretion, pushed aside the priest and forced his way into the Queen’s apartment.

Katharine met him coolly.

“Your Grace,” he stammered, “this news…this alarming news.… The English are incensed against us.”

“Against you and your master,” said Katharine coldly.

“My…master…your Grace’s father.”

“There is nothing I have to discuss,” said Katharine. “I dissociate myself from the instructions of the King of Spain.”

Caroz was astonished, because he sensed the coldness in Katharine’s voice when she spoke of her father.

“Do you understand,” stormed Caroz, “that there is a possibility of a treaty of friendship between England and France?”

“These are matters for the King and his ministers,” said Katharine.

“But our country…”

“Is no longer my country. I count myself an Englishwoman now, and I put myself on the side of the English.”

Caroz was shocked. He bowed and took his leave.

As he went from the Queen’s apartments he saw Fray Diego who smiled at him insolently.

His recall to Spain shall be immediate, Caroz decided. It is he who has poisoned the Queen’s mind against her father.

THE PRINCESS MARY came hurrying into Katharine’s apartments, her lovely eyes wild, her hair in disorder.

“Oh Katharine,” she cried, “you have heard this news?”

Katharine nodded.

“I!” cried Mary. “To marry with that old man! He is fifty-two and they say he looks seventy. He is old, ugly and mean.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Katharine, “but I know of nothing I can do.”

Mary stood clenching her hands. She was of a deeply passionate nature and had been greatly indulged by her brother. Her youth and beauty aroused his tenderness; and the fact that he was her guardian had always made him feel sentimental towards her, so that she had had her own way in all other matters and was furious that in this, the most important of all, she could not.

“I will not be used in this way. I will not!” she cried.

“Oh Mary,” Katharine tried to soothe her, “it happens to us all, you know. We are obliged to marry the person who is chosen for us. We have no choice in the matter. We must needs obey.”

“I’ll not marry that old lecher,” cried Mary.

“You’ll be Queen of France.”

“Who cares to be Queen of France! Not I…if I have to take the King with the crown.”

“He will be kind to you. He has heard of your beauty and is very eager for the match.”

“Lecher! Lecher! Lecher!” shouted Mary, and Katharine thought how like her brother she was in that moment.

“He will be gentle, perhaps kinder, more gentle than a younger man.”

“Do I want gentleness! Do I want an old man drooling over my body!”

“Mary, I pray you be calm. It is the fate of us all.”

“Did you have to marry a rheumaticky old man?”

“No, but I came to a strange land to marry a boy whom I had never seen.”

“Arthur was handsome; he was young. And then you had Henry. Oh you fortunate Katharine!”

“You may be fortunate too. I am sure he will be kind to you, and kindness means so much. You were prepared to marry Charles, yet you did not know him.”

“At least he is young.” Mary’s eyes blazed afresh. “Oh, it is cruel…cruel. Why should I, because I am a Princess, not be allowed to marry the man of my choice?”

Katharine knew that she was thinking of Charles Brandon. The whole Court knew of her feelings for that handsome adventurer; none more than Brandon himself who would dearly have liked to match her passion with his own. And now that it seemed he was not going to get Margaret of Savoy, he would doubtless be very happy to take the Princess of England.

Mary’s defiance crumbled suddenly; she threw herself onto Katharine’s bed and began sobbing wildly.

WOLSEY WAS DIRECTING the King’s thoughts towards the French alliance. He could see great advantages there. He believed the King was willing enough; Henry had counted on the help of Ferdinand and Maximilian to enable him to win territories in France; he had memories of Dorset’s disastrous campaign, and he had begun to see the dangers of tackling the conquest of France alone.

Wolsey was forever at his ear, explaining without appearing to do so; carefully, skilfully planting those thoughts in the King’s mind which he wished him to have.

Contemplating an expedition to France gave Wolsey nightmares. What if they should fail to maintain supplies? What if there should be disaster for the English? There had to be a scapegoat, and that might well be the almoner who had won such praise for his conduct of the previous campaign. No, Wolsey was determined that there should not be an expedition to France this year.

There was something else which made him long for the French alliance.

He had received information from the Vatican to the effect that the Holy Father would be pleased to see an alliance between France and England and trusted his newly created Cardinal would work to that end. It was very necessary to please the Pope. It was important that the Holy Father and his Cardinals in the Vatican should feel they had a good friend in Cardinal Wolsey. It would be remembered when the time for the next conclave arrived.

So each day Henry began to see more clearly the advantages of the suggested alliance; and one of the most important clauses would be the marriage treaty between the Princess Mary and Louis XII.

In vain did Mary storm; Henry was sorry, but England must come before his sister’s whims.

He was truly sorry for her and his eyes were glazed with tenderness when she flung her arms about his neck and sought to cajole him.

“I would do what you ask, sister, if I could,” he cried, “but it does not rest with me.”

“It does. It does,” she cried vehemently. “You could refuse this day, and that would be an end to the matter.”

“Then there would be no alliance with the French.”

“Who cares for alliance with the French?”

“We all must, sweet sister. It is a matter of policy. We have to stand against those two scoundrels. You cannot see how important this is because you are yet a girl, but it is a matter of state. Were it not, willingly would I give you what you ask.”

“Henry, think of me—married to that old man!”

“I do, sweetheart, I do. But it must be. It is the duty of us all to marry for the good of our country.”

“He is old…old…”

“He is no worse than Charles. Charles looked to me like an idiot. By God, were I a maiden I’d as lief take Louis as Charles.”

“Charles is at least young. Louis is…ancient.”

“So much the better. You’ll be able to twirl him round your pretty fingers. Ah, you’ll get your way with the King of France, my sister, as you do with the King of England.”

“But do I? When he will not grant me this one little thing?”

“’Tis the one thing I cannot grant my dear sister. Be good, sweeting. Marry the man. He’ll not live long.”

Mary drew away from him and looked long into his face. He saw the new hope spring up in her eyes.

“Henry,” she said slowly, “if I make this marriage, will you grant me one request?”

“That’s my good sister,” he said. “Have done with your tantrums—for if news of these reached Louis’ ears he would not be pleased—and I’ll grant whatsoever you request.”

Mary took her brother’s face between her hands.

“Swear this,” she said.

“I swear,” he answered.

Then she went on, speaking very slowly and distinctly: “I will marry old Louis; but when he dies, I have Your Grace’s promise that I shall marry wheresoever I like for me to do.”

Henry laughed.

“You have my promise.”

Then she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him heartily on the lips.

Henry was delighted; she could always charm him, for his pride in this pretty sister—all Tudor, as he was fond of saying—was great.

Now the Court noticed that the Princess Mary had become resigned to the French marriage. There were no more displays of temper, no more tears of rage.

She allowed herself to be drawn into the preparations, and her manner was quiet and calculating yet a little aloof, as though she were looking far ahead, well into the future.

THE SUMMER was progressing. Henry was as deeply involved with Bessie as ever; he delighted in her, and familiarity did not pall.

He hated all Spaniards, he told himself; and he could not entirely forget that Katharine was one of them. She seemed to grow less attractive and, had it not been for the fact that she was pregnant, he could have come near to hating her at this further revelation of her father’s treachery.

It was comforting to see Mary quieter and even showing an interest in the preparations for her wedding.

One day in the early autumn, when he was told that Caroz wanted to see him, he agreed to give the audience although he disliked the Spanish ambassador and had scarcely spoken to him since he had discovered that he had been betrayed by Ferdinand a second time.

Caroz came into his presence and Henry nodded briefly to him, without warmth.

“Your Grace is indeed kind to receive me. I have sought this interview for many days.”

“I have been occupied with state matters which do not concern your master,” the King answered coldly.

“It is a great grief to me that we are excluded from Your Grace’s favor.”

“It is a greater grief to me that I ever trusted your master.”

Caroz bowed his head sorrowfully.

“My master seeks to recall the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez.”

Henry was about to say that this was a matter for the Queen, but he changed his mind. His conscience had been worrying him lately. He was spending a great deal of time in Bessie’s company, and after a passionate night with her he often felt uneasy. During one of these uneasy periods he had told himself that Katharine had worked for her father rather than her husband, and this was another reason why she had forfeited the right to his fidelity.

Now he asked himself why he should consult Katharine about the return of her confessor. He did not like the man. He did not like any Spaniards at this time.

Bessie had been particularly enchanting last night and consequently the burden of his guilt this day was heavier.

He stuck out his lower lip petulantly.

“Then let the man be sent back to Spain,” he said sullenly.

Caroz bowed low; he was exultant. The Queen could not countermand the King’s order; and he had the King’s word that Fernandez should be sent back to Spain.

KATHARINE was distraught. She had sent for her confessor and had been told that he was no longer at Court.

In desperation she summoned Caroz to her presence.

“What does this mean?” she demanded. “Where is Fray Diego?”

“On his way to Spain,” replied Caroz, unable to restrain a smirk.

“This is impossible. I was not told of his departure.”

“The orders were that he was to leave immediately.”

“Whose orders?”

“Those of the King of Spain.”

“The King of Spain’s orders are invalid here at the Court of England.”

“Not, I venture to point out, Your Grace, when they are also the orders of the King of England.”

“What do you mean?”

“The King, your husband, ordered that Fray Diego should be sent back to Spain with all speed. He had no wish for him to continue to serve you as confessor.”

Katharine hurried to the King’s apartment with as much speed as she could, for her body was now becoming cumbersome.

Henry, who was with Compton mixing an ointment, turned with the pestle in his hand to stare at her.

She said curtly to Compton: “I would speak to the King alone.”

Compton bowed and retired.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.

“I have just heard that my confessor has been dismissed.”

“Is that so?” said the King in a deceptively light tone.

“Dismissed,” went on Katharine, “without any order from me.”

“It is my privilege,” Henry told her, and so disturbed was she that she did not see the danger signals, “to decide who shall and who shall not remain at my Court.”

“My own confessor.…”

“A Spaniard!” Henry almost spat out the word. “May I tell you, Madam, that since I have had dealings with your father I do not trust Spaniards.”

“He has been with me many years.…”

“All the more reason why he should return to his own country.”

Katherine felt the tears in her eyes. Pregnancies were becoming more trying than they had been in the beginning, and her weakness often astonished her; usually she was not one to give way to tears.

“Henry…,” she began.

“Madam,” he interrupted, “do not seek to dictate to me. There have been spies enough at my Court. I would like to rid it of all Spaniards.”

She caught her breath with horror.

“You have forgotten that I am…,” she began.

But he cut in: “I do not forget. I know full well that you have been in league with your father, whispering in my ear, tempting me to this or that project…knowing all the while that it was to your father’s benefit…and not to mine.”

“Henry, I swear this to be untrue.”

“Swear if you will. But who trusts a Spaniard?”

“You talk to me as though I were a stranger…and an enemy.”

“You are a Spaniard!” he said.

She reached for the table to steady herself.

Evil rumors had been in the air of late. She had disregarded them as mere gossip: If the Queen does not give the King a child soon, he may decide that she is incapable of bearing children and seek a divorce.

She had thought at the time: How can people be so cruel? They make light of our tribulations with their gossip.

But now she wondered what had set such rumors in motion. When his eyes were narrowed like that he looked so cruel.

She turned away.

“I must go to my apartment,” she said. “I feel unwell.”

He did not answer her; but stood glowering while she walked slowly and in an ungainly manner from the apartment.

SHE WAS WAITING NOW—waiting for the birth of the child which would make all the difference to her future. If this time she could produce a healthy boy, all the King’s pleasure in his marriage would return. It was merely this run of bad luck, she told herself, which had turned him from her. So many failures. It really did seem that some evil fate was working against them. No wonder Henry was beginning to doubt whether it was possible for them to have a family; and because he was Henry, he would not say, Is it impossible for us to have children…but, for her? He would not believe that any failure could possibly come from himself.

She prayed continually: “Let me bear a healthy child. A boy, please, Holy Mother. But if that is asking too much, a girl would please, if only she may be healthy and live…just to prove that I can bear a healthy child.”

In her apartments the device of the pomegranate mocked her. It hung on embroidered tapestry on the walls; it was engraved on so many of her possessions. The pomegranate which signified fruitfulness and which she had seen so many times in her own home before she had understood the old Arabic meaning.

How ironic that she should have taken it as her device!

She dared not brood on the possibility of failure, so she tried to prove to Henry that she was completely faithful to his cause. When the French ambassadors arrived she received them with outward pleasure and the utmost cordiality; she gave a great deal of time to the sad young Mary, helping her to live through that difficult time, cheering her, recalling her own fears on parting from her mother, assuring her that if she would meekly accept her destiny she would eventually triumph over her fears.

She was invaluable at such a time. Even Henry grudgingly admitted it and, because he knew that she was telling him that she had cut off her allegiance to her own people and was determined to work entirely for his cause, he softened towards her.

With the coming of that July the negotiations for the French marriage were completed and the ceremony by proxy was performed.

Mary, her face pale, her large eyes tragic, submitted meekly enough; and Katharine, who was present at the putting to bed ceremony, was sorry for the girl. Quietly she looked on while Mary, shivering in her semi-nakedness, was put to bed by her women, and the Duc de Longueville, who was acting as proxy for the King of France, who was put to bed with her, he fully dressed apart from one naked leg with which he touched Mary. The marriage was then declared to be a true marriage, for the touching of French and English body was tantamount to consummation.

IN OCTOBER of that year Mary was taken with great pomp to Dover, there to set sail for France. Katharine and Henry accompanied her, and Katharine was fearful when she saw the sullen look in Mary’s eyes.

It was a sad occasion for Katharine—that stay at Dover Castle while they waited for storms to subside, for she could not help but remember her own journey from Spain to England and she understood exactly how Mary was feeling.

How sad was the fate of most Princesses! she thought.

She was eager to comfort her young sister-in-law, and tried to arouse Mary’s interest in her clothes and jewels; but Mary remained listless except for those occasions when her anger would burst out against a fate which forced her to marry an old man whom she was determined to despise because there was another whom she loved. The marriage had done nothing at all, Katharine saw, to turn her thoughts from Charles Brandon.

They seemed long, those weeks at Dover. Henry strode through the castle, impatient to have done with the painful parting and return to London, for there could be no real gaiety while the Queen of France went among them, like a mournful ghost of the gay Princess Mary.

Again and again Katharine sought to comfort her. “What rejoicing there will be in Paris,” she said.

But Mary merely shrugged her shoulders. “My heart will be in England,” she said, “so I shall care nothing for rejoicing in Paris.”

“You will…in time.”

“In time!” cried Mary, and her eyes suddenly blazed wickedly. “Ah,” she repeated, “in time.”

There were occasions when she was almost feverishly gay; she would laugh, a little too wildly; she would even sing and dance, and the songs were all of the future. Katharine wondered what was in her mind and was afraid.

Her women doubtless had a trying time. Katharine had noticed some charming girls among the little band who were to accompany Mary to France. Lady Anne and Lady Elisabeth Grey were two very attractive girls and she was sure they were helping in upholding Mary’s spirits.

One day when she went to Mary’s apartments she saw a very young girl, a child, there among the women.

Katharine called to her and the little girl came and curtsied. She had big, dark eyes and one of the most piquantly charming faces Katharine had ever seen.

“What are you doing here, my little one?” she asked.

“Your Grace,” answered the child with the dignity of a much older person, “I am to travel to France in the suite of the Queen. I am one of her maids of honor.”

Katharine smiled. “You are somewhat young for the post, it would seem.”

“I am past seven years old, Your Grace.” The answer was given with hauteur and most surprisingly dignity.

“It would seem young to me. Do you travel with any member of your family?”

“My father is to sail with us, Your Grace.”

“Tell me the name of your father, my child.”

“It is Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

“Ah, I know him well. So you are his daughter…Mary, is it?”

“No, Your Grace. Mary is my sister. My name is Anne.”

Katharine, amused by the precocity of the lovely little girl, smiled. “Well, Anne Boleyn,” she said, “I am sure you will serve your mistress well.”

The child swept a deep and somewhat mannered curtsey, and Katharine passed on.

The Open Rift

WHEN MARY HAD SAILED FOR FRANCE THE COURT RETURNED to Richmond, and with the coming of the winter Katharine felt that she had regained a little of her husband’s esteem which she had lost through the treachery of her father.

December was with them and plans for the Christmas festivities were beginning to be made. There were the usual whisperings, the secrets shared by little groups of courtiers, plans, Katharine guessed, for a pageant which would surprise her; there would doubtless be a Robin Hood or a Saracen Knight to startle the company with his prowess and later disclose himself to be the King. No round of gaiety would be complete without that little masquerade.

She felt old and tired, contemplating the excitement going on about her—like a woman among children. How was it possible for her to feel excitement about a pageant when she was so concerned with her own allimportant and most pressing problem. Is it true, she asked herself, that I am growing old, far in advance of the King?

It was a cold day and she awakened feeling tired. This was proving a difficult pregnancy and she wondered whether she was less robust than she had been; an alarming thought, because she foresaw many pregnancies ahead of her, and if her health failed, how could she go on attempting to bear children? And if she did not, of what use was she to her King and country? The word Divorce was like a maggot in her brain.

Because she felt too tired to talk she dismissed her women and sat alone. She went to her prie-dieu and there she prayed, remaining on her knees for nearly an hour, begging, pleading that this time she might have a healthy child.

She rose and stood for some time before the embroidered tapestry on the wall, which portrayed her device of the pomegranate.

This time all will be well, she promised herself.

She thought she would take a walk in the gardens, and as she wished to be alone she went down by a rarely frequented spiral stone staircase.

As this part of the Palace was seldom used, it was very quiet here. She felt a curiosity about it and wondered why it had been neglected. She paused on the staircase to open a door, and saw a pleasant enough room. Entering, she found that the windows looked out on a courtyard in which grass grew among the cobbles. There was little sun in this part and she idly supposed that was why it was so rarely used.

She shut the door quietly and went on. Halfway down the staircase was another door and, as she passed this, hearing the sound of voices, she paused and listened. Surely that was Henry’s voice.

She must be mistaken, for she had heard that he had gone off with the hunt that day. Impulsively she opened the door, and thus discovered what most members of the Court had known for many months. There could be no mistake. Bessie Blount, Lady Taillebois, was lying on a couch and Henry was with her. There could be no doubt whatever what they were doing: rarely could any have been discovered so completely in flagrante delicto. Katharine gave a gasp of horror.

Henry turned his head and looked straight at her, and in that second of time shame, fury, hatred flashed from his eyes.

Katharine waited for no more; she turned, shut the door, and stumbled back the way she had come. As she missed her footing and fell, the cold stone struck into her body, and she felt a sharp pain that was like a protest from the child; but she picked herself up and hurried on.

When she reached her own apartments she shut herself in.

One of her women came to her and asked if she were ill.

“I am merely tired,” she said firmly. “I wish to be alone that I may rest.”

HENRY CAME into the room, his face was scarlet and his eyes sparkled with anger.

He had been caught by his wife in an extremely compromising situation with another woman, and he was deeply ashamed of the figure he had cut in her eyes. When Henry was ashamed of himself he was angry, and because he had always come to terms with his conscience before he indulged in what might be considered sinful, he was always prepared to defend his virtue. Thus he was doubly angry when he was shamed, and as he could never be angry with himself the flood of that anger must be allowed to flow over someone else.

He stood glowering at her as she lay on her bed.

She did not attempt to rise as she would have done on any other occasion. For one thing she felt too ill and there was a dull nagging pain in her womb which terrified her.

He said: “Well, Madam, what have you to say?”

She was suddenly too tired to placate him, too weary to hide her anger. She was no longer the diplomatic Queen; she was the wronged wife.

“Should I have anything to say? Should not you be the one to explain?”

“Explain! Do you forget I am the King? Why should I be called upon to explain?”

“You are also my husband. What I saw…horrified me.”

Henry was thinking of what she had seen and he grew hot with indignation—not with himself and Bessie for being thus together, but with Katharine for shaming them.

“Why so?” he asked, battling with the rage which threatened to make him incoherent.

“You ask that! Should I be delighted to see you behaving thus…with that woman?”

“Listen to me,” said Henry. “I brought you to your present eminence. What were you when I married you? Daughter of the King of Spain. A man who neglected you and used you to trap me. Yet I married you. Against the advice of my ministers I married you…because I pitied you…because I thought you would make me a good wife…would give me children. And what have you given me? Stillborn children! One son who lived for a few days! Madam, I am beginning to wonder whether you are incapable of bearing children.”

“Is it for this reason that you dally thus shamelessly in daylight with the women of your Court?”

“This is but one woman,” he said, “and her I love dearly. She gives me such pleasure, Madam, as is beyond your ken. I have given you the chance to bear me sons; I have considered your health; I have not disturbed your nights. And because, in my consideration for you, I have found another to allay those desires which methinks are natural to all men, you play the shrew.”

“I see,” said Katharine, “that I have been mightily mistaken. I thought you a virtuous man. I did not know you.”

“Find me one more virtuous in this Court! I hear Mass regularly each day…and more than once a day. I have sought to please God and his saints.…”

“They must be delighted by such spectacles as I have just witnessed.”

“You blaspheme, Madam.”

“You commit adultery—by far the greater sin.”

Henry’s face was purple with rage.

“You forget your position, Madam.”

Katharine rose from her bed and came to stand before him.

“I have never forgotten my position,” she said. “I was ready to show my gratitude. I have spent long hours on my knees praying for a healthy child. Has it occurred to you that our failure might in some measure be due to yourself?”

“I understand you not,” he said coldly.

“The sensual appetites of men when indulged, so I have heard, may make them sterile.”

Henry was purple with rage. He was so furious that he could not speak for some seconds, and Katharine went on: “I know you have blamed me for our inability to get healthy children; knowing what I now know I am of the opinion that the cause may well come from you.”

“This…is monstrous!” cried the King.

She turned away from him for in that moment the pain of her body was greater than the pain of her mind. Her face was twisted with the effort to keep back her cry of agony.

Henry watched her and, guessing that the shock she had suffered might have brought about a premature birth, he swallowed his anger and going to the door began bellowing for her women.

When they came running, he said: “The Queen is ill. See to her.”

Then he strode back to his own apartments; all who saw him scuttled away; even his dogs were aware of his moods and, instead of bounding towards him, they slunk after him keeping a good distance between themselves and that glittering angry figure.

IT WAS OVER—yet another failure.

It was no consolation to know that the child was male.

“Oh God,” moaned Katharine, sick and weak in her bed, “have You deserted me then?”

She was ill for several weeks and when she rose from her bed the Christmas festivities were in full progress.

She joined them and the King was cool to her, but now there was no longer anger between them. His attitude implied that she must accept with a good grace whatever she found in him; and since she was his Queen he would be at her side on public occasions.

But change had come to the Court. The Queen had aged visibly. Her body was no longer that of a young woman; it bore the marks of several pregnancies and had lost its shapeliness; her hair, still long and plentiful, was without that bright color which had been so attractive and had done so much to lighten the somewhat heavy nature of her face; now that it was dull mouse-color she looked much darker than before, and as her skin had become sallow she was thought of as a dark woman.

The King had changed too. He would never be so easily duped by his political enemies in future. He was still the golden, handsome King, but he was no longer a boy; he was a young man in the very prime of life. A certain bloom of innocence had been rubbed off. Now he led Bessie Blount in the dance and caressed her openly before his courtiers, no longer attempting to conceal the fact that he spent his nights with her. Often they would ride together to Jericho with a little company of friends and stay there, while Katharine remained behind at Richmond, Westminster or Greenwich.

Bessie was accepted as the chief mistress, and although there were others—little lights-o’-love who amused him for a while—none took Bessie’s place.

The courtiers smiled. “It is natural,” they said. “And since the Queen is so dull and has lost what beauty she had, and as she is fast becoming an old woman, who can blame young Henry?”

It was hurtful to Katharine, but she hid her feelings; yet she wondered whether she would be able to get a child now.

So much had happened in a year.

Now she spent most of her time sewing with her women, hearing Mass, praying in her own apartments, making pilgrimages to such places as the shrine at Walsingham.

Often she thought of those days when Henry had seemed contented with his wife. But it was not only the husband whom she had lost. She often remembered how, at one time when he had received foreign dispatches, he brought them to her and they read them together. He never did this now.

There were two others who had supplanted her.

There was Cardinal Wolsey in state affairs, and in his bed there was Bessie Blount.

A Venetian Embassy and a Cardinal’s Hat

IT WAS NEW YEAR’S NIGHT AND THERE MUST BE ENTERTAINment at the Court to celebrate such an occasion; so the great hall of Westminster had been decorated with cloth of gold, and at night, by torchlight, it was a beautiful sight indeed.

The people had crowded in to watch the royal sport; and on such an occasion Henry liked to show his people that he lived in the splendor expected of a King.

Katharine was seated on a dais at one end of the great hall as she had sat so often before. About her were her ladies, and she was glad to have with her her dear Maria de Salinas who, with her husband, was paying a visit to the Court. Maria had heard of the King’s open liaison with Elizabeth Blount and had condoled with Katharine about this. It was the way of Kings, she said, and not to be taken seriously. Why, even the people accepted the fact that the King must have his mistress.

Katharine was considerably comforted by Maria and, perhaps because of that, looked more like her old self on that night. She was magnificently dressed in rich blue velvet, and diamonds, sapphires and rubies glittered about her person.

While she sat there a messenger came to her in the costume of Savoy and begged to be allowed to speak to her. Katharine recognized one of the gentlemen of the Court and knew at once that this was part of the entertainment.

“Pray speak on,” she said.

There was silence in the hall, and the Savoyard said in loud ringing tones but using a foreign accent: “Your Grace of England, there are without a band of dancers from Savoy. They have travelled far that they may enchant you with their dancing on this first night of the New Year. Have they your permission to enter and dance for the pleasure of the Court?”

“I beg you bring them in at once. They must perform for us.”

Katharine sat back on her throne while the party were brought in. There at the head of them were two tall figures—whom she knew well. One was Henry, the other Brandon. They were masked, but beneath the mask it was possible to see the King’s golden hair.

“Welcome, Gentlemen,” said Katharine.

They bowed low; and as they did so Katharine’s eyes began to sparkle, for this was as it had been in the old days, and it might mean that Henry was going to forget their differences and treat her once more as his wife.

When Henry spoke—and who could not recognize his voice—he said: “Most beautiful Queen of this fair land, we are strolling dancers from the land of Savoy. We would fain dance before you so that Your Grace may judge whether there are not as good dancers from Savoy as live in this fair land.”

Katharine threw herself into the game. “You may try,” she said, “but I must warn you, we have most excellent dancers in this land, and they are led by the King himself whom all agree none has ever equalled. If you would care to try your skill against us, do so. But I dare swear you will be dismayed when you see the King dance.”

“We are happy, Your Grace, to put our skill to the test, and you shall be our judge.”

Katharine signed to the musicians then and by the light of the torches the little party took its place before her. There were four men and four women, all in blue velvet and cloth of silver and their costumes were fashioned after the manner of Savoy.

The dancing began. It was a beautiful ballet outstanding on account of the high leaping of the leader.

There were murmurs in the crowd. “Can it be? Does he in truth outjump the King? Where is his Grace? He should see the unusual skill of these men and in particular the leader.”

Sitting back Katharine marvelled at the ability of all to enter so wholeheartedly into the game and to show such seeming innocence of the masquerade which all must have seen so many times before.

At length the dancing ceased and the dancers were all on their knees before the Queen’s throne.

“I pray you,” said Katharine, “unmask, that we may see your faces.”

The dancers rose to their feet and Katharine kept her eyes on the leader while he, with a dramatic gesture, drew off his mask.

There was a gasp throughout the Court and then loud bursts of applause. Henry bowed to the Queen and turned about so that none should be in doubt as to his identity.

He has not grown up at all, thought Katharine; and she felt a little happier, for it was more pleasant to see the naïve boy taking the place of the brutal man.

He then stepped to the Queen’s side and taking her hand kissed it, which drew more lusty cheers from the people.

Holy Mother of God, murmured Katharine to herself, can we really go back to the beginning? Can it really be as though our troubles never happened?

She was more than ready to meet him halfway.

She said so clearly that all might hear: “So it was Your Grace. I could not believe there was one to rival you, and yet it seemed that Savoyard could do so. I thank Your Grace for my good pastance.”

Then boldly she rose and putting her hands to his face drew him down to her and kissed him.

For a few seconds she held her breath with apprehension, but he had returned her kiss, and the people cheered.

“Good Kate,” he whispered, “’tis all done in thy honor.”

It seemed to the watchers then that something of the Queen’s youth returned, as Henry sat beside her and they talked amicably.

That night they slept together. The need to get a child was as urgent as ever. It was a return to the old pattern; and there was, after all, to be another chance.

IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER the New Year revels when a messenger from France came to Westminster with an urgent dispatch for the King.

Henry read the news and let out an exclamation of dismay. He had the messenger taken to the kitchens to be refreshed and sent at once for Wolsey.

“News!” he cried. “News from France. Louis is dead. He died on New Year’s day.”

Wolsey took the news calmly; he had not expected Louis to live long; a new bride, such as Mary, would not act as an elixir to such as he was, for Louis was Gallic and as such would ape the gallant no matter at what cost.

Wolsey smiled secretly thinking of the old man trying to play lover to that young and passionate girl.

“This means, Your Grace, that Francis of Angoulême will now be King of France unless…”

“Exactly,” said the King, “unless my sister is with child by the King; then Francis’ long nose will be a little out of joint. I’ll warrant the sly fellow is beside himself with anxiety. Imagine! For years he and his mother and doting sister have watched old Louis…waiting for him to die. Then the old man marries my sister. ‘Is she with child?’ ‘Is she not with child?’ This is a fine joke.”

“Let us hope, Your Grace, that the Queen of France has conceived. With one sister Queen of France and another Queen of Scotland, Your Grace would be most fortunately placed.”

“’Tis so. ’Tis so.”

Henry smiled at Wolsey. He appreciated this servant, being fully aware that Wolsey possessed something which he himself lacked. He called it seriousness. He would come to it in time; but at this stage he did not want to devote all his energies to state affairs. He had discovered that he was not as completely devoted to war as he had imagined he would be. When he entered into a game he liked to know what the outcome would be. He wanted the shouts of wonder at his prowess. These did not always come in war. Even Ferdinand and Maximilian—those great warriors, who, all would admit, had had their share of victories—frequently suffered defeat and humiliation. Henry had not been prepared to go to war alone with France, and the reason was that he feared defeat.

He was indeed growing up and it was unfortunate for his peace of mind that, in spite of his vanity and frequent displays of naïveté, he was also intelligent. And this intelligence kept asserting itself—even as his conscience did—to disturb his peace.

Therefore he was grateful to Wolsey. That man had genius, and while he could place state affairs in those capable hands he could be at peace. He was ready to show his appreciation to Wolsey who must be well on the way to becoming one of the richest men in England—next to himself. Henry rejoiced in Wolsey’s advancement; he was ready to abet it. His face softened at the sight of the man; he would put his arm about his shoulders as they walked in the gardens, so that all might realize the esteem in which he held his new Cardinal.

So now he said: “Well, Thomas, what’s to be done?”

“There is nothing we can do but wait, Sire. All depends on whether the Queen of France carries the heir.”

Henry nodded. “My poor sister! There she is, all alone in that country. And she will have to endure the period of mourning as a widow, shut into her darkened apartments where she will be most unhappy. I must send my envoy at once to France to convey my condolences…to my sister, to Francis…”

“And we will not add, Sire,” said Wolsey with a smile, “that here we are praying that the Queen is with child.”

The King laughed aloud and slapped Wolsey’s shoulder.

“Nay, Thomas, we’ll not mention the matter. I had thought that Suffolk might be the envoy on this occasion.”

Wolsey was silent for a moment, and Henry’s expressive mouth tightened. Wolsey was grateful for that mobile countenance which so often gave a hint of the King’s desires before Henry uttered them.

Suffolk! pondered Wolsey. The Queen of France would be an excellent pawn in skilful hands. Were they going to throw her to Suffolk merely because her wanton body lusted after that man?

He followed Henry’s thoughts. This was his sister Mary, his favorite sister who was gay and pretty; knowing how to flatter her brother she fostered his sentimentality towards her, and had lured him into a promise. “If I marry the King of France, when he is dead I shall marry whom I please.” And Henry knew who pleased her.

He wanted to comfort her now, to say: Look, little sister, you are a widow in a foreign land; so I am sending you a gift to cheer you. And the gift was Suffolk.

Henry was telling himself that Brandon was a worthy envoy; and as he was ardently courting the Duchess of Savoy, in these circumstances sending him would merely be a gesture; no harm could come of it. Mary would have enough sense to know that there must be no dalliance with Suffolk while she might be carrying the heir of France within her.

In any case Henry had made up his mind.

So must it be, thought Wolsey, who was not going to commit the folly of going against the King in this matter and mayhap through it lose control of other and more important affairs.

“If Your Grace is satisfied with Suffolk as your envoy to the Court of France, then so I am,” he said.

THE CARDINAL READ the letter from Suffolk. He was gratified because the Duke had written to him. It indicated that this man understood that the one most likely to influence the King was Thomas Wolsey.

His Cardinal’s hat had not yet arrived, but that was coming. He was growing more and more certain that one day he would gain the Papal crown; in the meantime he was content to govern England.

Suffolk had written that he and Mary had married.

Wolsey laughed aloud at the folly of the man. Then he thought of his own folly with Mistress Wynter, and his laughter faded a little.

But to marry with the Princess so soon after the death of her husband! Moreover, was Brandon in a position to marry? There were some who maintained that he was already married; and he had certainly been involved in matrimonial tangles with three other women. The first was Elizabeth Grey, daughter of the Viscount of Lisle, who had been made his ward and whom he had contracted to marry. This lady had refused to marry him and the patent was cancelled. Later he had contracted to marry a certain Ann Brown, but before the marriage was celebrated he obtained a dispensation and married a widow named Margaret Mortymer, who was a relative of his. When he was weary of this woman he acquired a declaration of invalidity from the Church on the grounds of consanguinity, and it was said that later he went through a form of marriage with Ann Brown by whom he had had a daughter. Certainly his past did not bear too close a scrutiny and it was questionable whether he was in a position to marry again. Yet such was his fascination that not only had he charmed Mary but to some extent Henry as well.

Wolsey read the letter:

“The Queen would never let me be in rest until I had granted her to be married; and so now, to be plain with you, I have married her heartily, and have lain with her in so much I fear me lest she be with child. I am like to be undone if the matter should come to the knowledge of the King, my master.”

He was asking Wolsey to break the news gently and to convey loving messages from Mary to Henry in the hope that he might be softened towards them and allow them to return home, which they longed to do.

Wolsey considered the matter. The King had provoked this situation. He had known how headstrong his sister was, and he had promised her that if she married Louis she should choose her next husband. Henry, Wolsey was sure, would feign anger at the news, but he would not be greatly disturbed. He loved his sister dearly and missed her, so would be glad to have her home. He missed Suffolk too, for that gay adventurer was one of the most amusing of his friends.

Therefore it was without much trepidation that Wolsey sought an audience and showed Henry the letter which he had received from Suffolk.

“By God’s Holy mother!” ejaculated Henry. “So they are married—and she, like as not, with child. What if…”

“We should know, Your Grace, if the King of France was its father. I fear that is not so. Poor Louis, he could not get his wife with child.”

For a moment there was a deep silence, and to Wolsey’s consternation he saw the healthy flush in the King’s cheeks darken.

So, thought Wolsey, he is already beginning to wonder whether he is capable of begetting children. Is it so? One would have thought Elizabeth Blount might have shown some signs by now; and the Court was becoming so accustomed to Katharine’s failures that they expected her miscarriages before they occurred.

Wolsey said quickly: “The King of France was too old to beget children.”

The King breathed more easily. The danger was past, and Wolsey went on: “What are Your Grace’s wishes in this matter?”

“I am deeply shocked,” said Henry. “Punishment there must be. I am displeased with them…both.”

But indeed he was not. He was already wishing they were at the Court. He indulged his pleasures so much that he put their gratification before matters of state. While Wolsey thought of the grand marriages which might have been arranged for Mary, Henry was thinking: Mary will be happy; and I shall be happy to have my sister with me again.

But as ever he was ready to listen to Wolsey’s advice; and, when later Suffolk wrote to Henry begging to be allowed to come home and offering his body, knowing that he might be “put to death, imprisoned, or destroyed” for this great sin he had committed, Henry left it to Wolsey to suggest on what terms the erring couple might be allowed to return.

“Let them return to Your Grace the gift you made the Princess Mary of plate and jewels,” suggested Wolsey; “let Suffolk undertake to pay by yearly installments the expenses you incurred by the French marriage. Then it would seem that they had been adequately punished. All would know that none dares flout your Grace’s wishes with impunity, and at the same time these two, for whom we all have great affection, could—after a short period—return to Court.”

Henry was delighted with the solution.

Once again he was realizing how much he could rely upon his dear friend Wolsey.

THAT YOUNG GAY AMORIST, Francis of Angoulême, had leaped happily into the position which he and his family had coveted for himself for so long.

With what great joy he discovered that Mary Tudor was not with child; and, although he himself had cast lascivious eyes on this attractive English girl, the Suffolk marriage seemed a happy enough conclusion to that affair.

He was ambitious and energetic, and in the first weeks of his accession he was turning his eyes towards Italy.

It was during March of that year that a Venetian embassy arrived in England with the blessing of Francis.

The position of the Venetians in Europe was dictated by their trade. They were first and foremost traders and asked only to be allowed to continue to sell those goods for which they were famous. Since Maximilian had captured Verona, he had proved a serious handicap to Venetian trade, and the people of Venice believed that an alliance with France would enable them to regain Verona; and as France was aware that her power in Lombardy depended on Venetian friendship there was a rapprochement between the two.

It seemed important to Venice that England should strengthen her alliance with France, which should have been cemented by the marriage between Louis XII and the Princess Mary; but with Louis dead and his widow already the wife of English Brandon it seemed necessary to send an embassy to England.

So on a sparkling March day the Venetian embassy arrived, having been entertained most lavishly on the way by the new King of France.

Henry was on his mettle. He believed that Francis would have made a great effort to impress the Venetians with his grandeur and elegance, and was determined to outdo the King of France whom he had always believed to be his especial rival ever since he had heard that Marguerite of Angoulême—who had once been suggested as a bride for Henry—had declared her brother to be the handsomest, wittiest and most charming man in the world and one whom she would always love beyond any other.

So he was prepared. He was a sight so dazzling on that morning that even those who were accustomed to his splendor were astonished.

The Venetians had sailed up the Thames to Richmond in a barge which was gaily decorated with cloth of gold and silver. Before they entered the King’s presence they were given bread and wine to sustain them, and then they were taken to the King’s chapel to hear Mass.

When this was over they were led into the presence of the King. The Palace had been decorated to receive them, and gold and silver cloth and tapestries had been hung in each apartment. In these rooms three hundred halberdiers, wearing silver breast plates, stood at attention, in order to impress the newcomers with the might of England. They were astonished because the halberdiers, who were chosen for their height, towered above the little Venetians, their fresh faces glowing in striking contrast to the swarthy ones of the men of Venice.

Then to the King’s chamber where Henry waited to receive them. He was standing when they entered, leaning against his throne. He wanted them to receive an immediate impression of his great height, which they could not do if he sat. Henry was indeed an impressive figure; his purple velvet mantle was lined with white satin, and fell behind him in a train four yards long; this mantle was fastened across his massive chest by a thick chain made entirely of gold; his doublet was of satin, crimson and white in color; and on his head was a cap of red velvet decorated with a white feather. About his neck was a gold collar with St. George picked out in fine diamonds; and below that another collar from which hung a round diamond the size of a big walnut; and from this diamond hung a large flawless pearl.

The Venetians blinked. Francis had been elegantly splendid, but Henry was more colorfully so.

Henry was delighted with the impression he so obviously created; the blue eyes, under the red hair which was combed straight about his head, sparkled; he held out a hand, the fingers of which seemed entirely covered by dazzling gems.

Henry welcomed the newcomers warmly, telling them how happy he was to have them at his Court. They would be in need of refreshment, so he had a banquet prepared for them, and when they had eaten they should see the joust which Henry believed had been perfected by his countrymen.

The Venetians, overwhelmed by the friendliness and the hospitality of the King, were then graciously received by members of the King’s Council at the head of whom was the new Cardinal Wolsey whom they well knew to be the most important man in the realm.

They met the Queen—herself gorgeously attired and glittering with jewels; but they had heard rumors of the King’s feelings towards his wife and they did not believe her to have any real influence with him now.

Henry led the way to the banquet where he surrounded himself by the leaders of the embassy and delightedly watched their incredulity at the dishes produced by his cooks and the ability of the English to consume large quantities of food.

He had no intention of talking of state matters; that would come later with Wolsey; but he was eager to know whether the newcomers were comparing him with Francis in their minds.

He was soon asking questions about his great rival. “You have recently left the King of France; tell me, is he as tall as I am?”

“There can be very little difference in the height of the King of France and the King of England,” was the answer. “Your Grace is a big man; and so is Francis.”

“Is he a fat man, this young King of France?”

“No, Your Grace. He could not be called a fat man. Far from it. He is lean and lithe.”

“Lean and lithe.” Henry caressed his own plump thigh.

“What are his legs like?” demanded Henry.

The Venetians were puzzled; they looked at each other. What sort of legs had the King of France? To be truthful they had not taken particular note of his legs; but they recalled that they must be spare because of the leanness of the King’s body.

“Spare legs, eh!” cried Henry. “Look at mine.” He held up his legs to display the fine calf, well shaped, firm, the leg of an athletic man. “Has he a leg like that, eh?”

The Venetians were certain that the King of France had not a leg like that.

Henry laughed, well pleased. Then he threw open his doublet. “Look at this thigh,” he said. “’Tis every bit as firm and well shaped as my leg. Has the King of France a thigh like that?”

When the Venetians assured Henry that the thigh of the King of France could not be compared with the thigh of the King of England, he was delighted and felt full of affection towards them and Francis.

“Methinks,” he said, “I am very fond of this King of France.”

After the banquet Henry retired to prepare himself for the joust; and later this was held in the Palace courtyard.

Henry excelled even his previous exploits on that day, shivering many a lance; which was as it should be; and one by one his opponents went down before him.

He was extremely happy.

When he joined the Venetians to be congratulated he said: “I should like to joust with the King of France as my opponent.”

But even as he spoke there was a shadow on his face. He was alarmed by this King on the other side of the water; he had heard so many tales of him, of his bravery, his wit and his lechery. He had scarcely been on the throne a week when he was talking of leading his armies to victory; and Henry had discovered that he himself had no great desire to place himself at the head of his armies.

What if he were to joust with Francis and Francis should win? Did Compton, Kingston and the rest go down before their King because they knew it was wise to do so?

“So,” he growled, “the King of France thinks to make war on Italy. He will cross the Alps. Will his people love him, think you, since he plunges them into a war at the very beginning of his reign?”

Then he was angry because he had longed to bring conquests to his people; and this he had failed to do. He burst out: “He is afraid of me. Why, were I to invade his kingdom he would not be able to cross the Alps into Italy, would he? So you see, all depends on me. If I invade France, Francis cannot make war on Italy. If I do not, he can. You see, my friends, in these hands I hold the future of France.”

The thought pleased him, and he was once more in good spirits.

Now to forget war and plan new entertainments to impress the visitors.

THAT MAY WAS a happy month. Katharine rejoiced in the coming of spring which she had always loved in England. The dark winter was over; there were buds on the trees and wild parsley and stitchwort shone white in the hedges mingling with the blue of speedwell and ground ivy.

The season of renewal, she thought; and this year she had been happier than she had for some time, for it seemed to her that her relationship with Henry had been renewed and it was like the return of spring. She too had become wiser.

She had learned that she must accept her husband for the lusty young man he was, five years her junior; she must turn a blind eye on those flirtations which took place without too much secrecy; she must accept Elizabeth Blount as her maid of honor and her husband’s chief mistress, and not care that he shared the bed of one because of his great desire to do so and of the other in order to serve the state and produce an heir.

She was full of hope that May. He visited her often; he was kind to her; she rarely saw an outburst of anger. She had learned how to avoid them.

This then was May Day, and Henry was happy because the occasion called for one of those ceremonial pageants in which he delighted.

He came to the Queen’s apartment early and he was already clad in green velvet—doublet, hose and shoes; and even his cap, which was sporting a jaunty feather, was of the same green.

“A merry good day to Your Grace,” he called blithely. “I come to see if you will venture a-maying with me this morn.”

“There is none with whom I would wish to go a-maying but Your Grace.”

“Then Kate, your wish is granted. We leave at once. Come.”

She was dressed in green velvet to match the King’s, and because she was happy she had regained some of that youthful charm which had attracted him in the early days of their marriage.

So from the Palace of Greenwich they rode out to Shooter’s Hill surrounded by members of the Venetian embassy and nobles of the Court, all gaily dressed to share in the maying.

When they reached the hill a party of men dressed as outlaws, led by one who was clearly meant to be Robin Hood, galloped up to them.

“Ho!” cried Henry. “What means this, and who are you who dare molest the King and Queen of England?”

Robin Hood swept off his hat; and Katharine recognized him through the mask as one of Henry’s courtiers.

“Molest His Grace the King! That we would never do. The outlaws of the Forest respect the King even as do the gentlemen of the Court. Would Your Grace step into the good green wood and learn how the outlaws live?”

Henry turned to Katharine.

“Would Your Grace venture into the forest with so many outlaws?”

“My lord,” answered Katharine, “where Your Grace ventured there would I fearlessly go.”

Henry was delighted with her answer and Katharine thought: I begin to play his games as well as he does himself.

So into the forest they rode, and there they were taken to a sylvan bower made of hawthorn boughs, spring flowers and moss, where a breakfast of venison and wine was laid out.

“All for the pleasure of Your Graces,” said Robin Hood.

The King expressed his delight and watched Katharine closely to see if she appreciated this surprise. She did not disappoint him.

They sat close like lovers and the King took her hand and kissed it.

He was happy; he knew that his sister Mary and her husband were on their way to England, and that pleased him. He was going to enjoy being very displeased with them and then forgiving them; and he was going to be very happy to have them near him once more.

The sun shone brilliantly, and after the feast when they left the wood, several beautiful girls in a vehicle which was decorated with flowers and drawn by five horses were waiting for them. The girls represented Spring and they sang sweetly the praise of the sweetest season of all, not forgetting to add a few paeans of praise to their goodly King and Queen.

And so the May Day procession rode back to Greenwich.

That was a happy day. The King was like a young lover again.

Within the next few days Katharine conceived once more; and this time she was determined that her child should live.

THAT SUMMER WAS a happy one. The knowledge that she was once more pregnant delighted Katharine and the King.

“Why, this time, sweetheart,” said Henry, “our hopes shall not be disappointed. You have a goodly boy within you and he’ll be the first of many.”

Katharine allowed herself to believe this. She would not think of possible bad luck. This was her year.

In September there came news of Francis’s victory. The King of France was hailed already as one of the greatest soldiers in history. Young, intrepid, he set out to perform the impossible and prove it possible.

Contrary to Henry’s assertion that it depended on him whether or not France went into Italy, Francis—indifferent as to whether or not Henry made an attempt to invade France—had crossed the Alps with twenty thousand men, going from Barcelonnette to Salazzo, crossing passes which were no more than narrow tracks, accoutred as he was for war. That was not all. He had fought and won the resounding victory of Marignano.

Henry’s anger when this news was brought to him was too great to hide.

He looked, said those who watched him at the time, as though he were about to burst into tears.

“He will have to face Maximilian,” snapped out Henry.

“Nay, Your Grace. Maximilian now seeks friendship with my master,” the French envoy answered.

“I assure you he is not seeking that friendship,” snapped Henry.

The envoy lifted his shoulders, smiled and remained silent.

“How many of France’s enemies have fallen in battle?” demanded Henry.

“Sire, it is some twenty thousand.”

“You lie. I hear from sources which I trust that it was but ten thousand.”

Henry dismissed the envoy and sulked for several hours.

News of Francis’s success with the Pope was brought to him. Leo hailed the young conqueror and when Francis had attempted to kiss his toe had lifted him in his arms and embraced him.

Leo, it was said, had promised to support Francis, and when Maximilian died—and there must then be an election to decide who should be the next Emperor—he promised to give Francis his support.

It was intolerable.

“Ha,” cried Henry. “They will learn that wise men do not trust Frenchmen.”

But even these events worked favorably for Katharine, for Ferdinand, knowing that the alliance between France and England was weakening, wrote to Henry in a most friendly fashion. He guessed how that young bantam, Henry, would be feeling and was determined to exploit the situation to the full.

Ferdinand did not like to see lack of good faith in families, he wrote. He thought fondly of his dear son and daughter. And to prove this he did an extraordinary thing; he sent Henry a collar studded with jewels, two horses caprisoned in the richest manner, and a jewelled sword.

Ferdinand, it was said, was either genuinely seeking Henry’s friendship this time or in his dotage to send such gifts.

But it was very pleasant for Katharine, nursing the child in her womb, basking in the tenderness of her husband, enjoying the atmosphere of tolerance which had grown up about them—all this and reunion with her own country!

All will be well, thought Katharine. I am happy because I have learned to take life comfortably as it comes along; I no longer fight, I accept. Perhaps that is the lesson of life.

She did not greatly care. She busied herself with the preparations for her confinement.

She had never felt so calm and confident.

THAT SEPTEMBER the Cardinal’s hat arrived from Rome.

This, Wolsey assured himself, was the greatest moment of his life so far; but he was convinced that it was nothing compared with what was to come.

He determined that the country and the Court should be aware of his rising greatness; they should not be allowed to think that the arrival of a Cardinal’s hat was an everyday affair.

He was a little angry with the Pope for sending an ordinary messenger, and he immediately sent word that he was to be detained as soon after disembarking as possible.

He announced to the City that a great procession was about to take place, and the people, who liked nothing so much as the pageantry provided by the Court and were only content with their colorless lives because of it, turned out in their thousands.

Wolsey knew that Mistress Wynter and his children would be watching; and the thought added to his pleasure.

The Pope’s messenger was persuaded to discard his simple raiment in exchange for one of fine silk; this he was happy to do, for the clothes were his reward for taking part in the ceremony.

Then he rode towards London, and was met at Blackheath by a great and vividly colored procession made up of the members of the Cardinal’s household. There they were, his higher servants and his lower servants, all aping their master, all giving themselves airs and strutting in a manner which implied: “We are the servants of the great Cardinal and therefore far above the servants of every nobleman in the land. Only the King’s servants are our equals, and we wish the world to know it.”

So through the City the hat was borne so that all might see it and marvel at it.

“It is being taken to the great Cardinal,” said the citizens, “who is not only beloved by the people but by the Pope.”

In his apartments at the Palace of Westminster Wolsey waited to receive the hat.

Taking it reverently in his hands he placed it in state upon a table on which tapers glowed.

He then declared that this was in honor of England and he would have all Englishmen under the King pay homage to the hat. None should consider himself too important to come forward and pay his homage in deep obeisance.

There was a murmuring among the Dukes and Earls of the realm; but Wolsey was creeping higher and higher in the King’s favor, for Henry believed that he could not do without him if he were to pursue his life of pleasure. It gave him great content, when he hunted through the day, to think of friend Thomas grappling with state affairs. He believed in this man, who had come to his present position from humble beginnings. He had proved his genius.

Therefore Wolsey insisted that all those disgruntled noblemen—chief among whom was the Duke of Buckingham—should pay homage to his hat; and one by one they succumbed; so it was that Wolsey acquired at that time not only a Cardinal’s hat but the hatred and envy of almost every ambitious man in the land.

What did he care! If Katharine believed this was her year, Thomas Wolsey knew it was his.

Before the year was out he could count his gains. Cardinal Wolsey, papal legate, Archbishop of York and Lord Chancellor of England, Prime Minister of State. Under the King he was the richest man in England, and many believed that his wealth might even be greater than Henry’s. In his hands was the disposal of all ecclesiastical benefices; he held priories and bishoprics, among which were the rich ones of York and Durham, Bath and Hereford; he also held the Abbeys of St. Albans and Lincoln.

He had come as far as he could in this country; but he did not believe that was the end. His eyes were firmly fixed on Rome.

The Death of Ferdinand

FERDINAND WAS OFTEN THINKING OF HIS DAUGHTER IN England. Indeed lately he had begun to ponder on the past, a habit he had never indulged in before. This may have been due to the fact that his health was rapidly declining. His limbs were swollen with dropsy, and, although he longed to rest them, he found it difficult to breathe within closed walls because of the distressing condition of his heart.

There were times when he had to battle for his breath, and then would come these sessions of reminiscence. His conscience did not trouble him. He had been a fighter all his life and he knew that the only way he could have preserved what he had, was to have fought and schemed for it.

He had heard an alarming rumor that Henry of England believed his wife to be incapable of bearing healthy children because not one of them so far had lived. Ferdinand knew the significance behind such rumors.

But Catalina is strong, he told himself. She is her mother’s daughter. She will know how to hold her place.

It was not for him to worry about his daughter; his great concern was to keep the breath in his body.

There was one place where he felt more comfortable, and that was out of doors. The closeness of cities was intolerable to him, for the air seemed to choke him. He would not admit that he was old; he dared not admit it. If he did he would have young Charles closing in on him, eager to snatch the crown.

He could feel angry about young Charles. The boy did not know Spain, and did not even speak Spanish; he was Fleming from the top of his flaxen head to the toes of those—if he could believe reports—ungainly feet. He lacked the dignity of the Spaniard.

“If I could only put his brother Ferdinand in his place, how willingly would I do so.” Ferdinand thought lovingly of his grandson who bore the same name as himself, and who had been as the son he had longed for. He had had the boy educated in the manner of a Spanish grandee, he himself supervising that education; he loved young Ferdinand.

His eyes glinted. Why should he not give his possessions to Ferdinand?

He laughed to picture the disapproving face of Ximenes who would remind him of his duty and that Charles was the heir, the elder of mad Juana’s sons. Ximenes would rigidly adhere to his duty. Or would he? He had a great affection for young Ferdinand also.

But I have many years left to me, he assured himself, refusing to think of death. It was true he was nearly sixty-four years old—a good age—but his father had been long-lived and, but for this dropsy and the accursed difficulty in breathing, he would not feel his age. He had a young wife, and he still endeavored to persuade her that he was young, yet he was beginning to wonder if the continual use of aphrodisiacs did not aggravate his condition.

As he sat brooding thus he was joined by the Duke of Alva who looked at him keenly and said: “Your Highness yearns for the fresh air of the country. Come to my place near Placencia. There are stags in plenty and good hunting.”

Ferdinand felt young at the thought of the hunt.

“Let us leave this very day,” he said.

When they came into the country he took deep breaths of the December air. Ah, he thought, this suits me well. I am a young man again in the country. He looked at Germaine who rode beside him. She was so fresh and youthful that it did him good to see her; yet his thoughts strayed momentarily to his wife Isabella who had been a year older than he was, and he felt a sudden desire to be back in those old days when he and Isabella had fought for a kingdom, and at times for supremacy over each other.

As usual the fresh air was beneficial and he found that if the day’s hunting was not too long, he could enjoy it. Alva, concerned for his health, made sure that the hunt finished when the King showed signs of fatigue, and Ferdinand began to feel better.

In January he decided that he should travel on to Andalusia, for he was never one to neglect state duties for pleasure.

Perhaps the hunt had been too strenuous, perhaps the journey was too arduous, but Ferdinand was finding it so difficult to breathe that by the time his party reached the little village of Madrigalejo not far from Truxillo, he could not go on.

There was great consternation among his followers as there was no place worthy to provide a lodging for the King. Yet stop they must, and certain friars in the village came forward and said they had a humble house which they would place at the King’s disposal.

The house was small indeed; rarely in his adventurous life had Ferdinand rested in such a place; but he knew that he could not go on, so he gasped out his gratitude to the friars, and allowed himself to be helped to a rough bed.

He looked round the small room and grimaced. Was this the place where the most ambitious man in Europe was to spend his last days on Earth?

Almost immediately he laughed at himself. His last days! He had never been easily defeated and he would not be now. After a little rest he would be ready to go on with his journey; he had learned one lesson; he would take more rest; he would give up his rejuvenating potions and live more as a man of his years must expect to live. If he curtailed his physical exercise he could direct state affairs from a couch. He thanked God that he was in possession of his mental powers.

But as he lay in that humble dwelling news was brought from the village of Velilla in Aragon. In this village was a bell which was said to be miraculous; when any major disaster was about to befall Aragon the bell tolled. Certain bold men had sought to stop the bell’s tolling only to be dashed to death. The bell, it was said, rang and stopped of its own volition, when the warning had been given.

Now, said rumor, the bell of Velilla was tolling for the imminent death of great Ferdinand of Aragon.

So stunned by this were those about him that Ferdinand asked what ailed them; and one, unable to withstand the insistent interrogation, told Ferdinand that the bell of Velilla had given a warning of imminent disaster.

Ferdinand was horrified because until this moment he had not believed death could possibly come to him. To other men, yes; but in his youth he had seen himself as an immortal; such self-made legends died slowly.

But the bell was tolling…tolling him out of life.

He said: “I must make my will.”

He thanked God…and Isabella…in that moment for Ximenes, because thinking of the tolling of the Velilla bell, his great anxiety was not for himself but for the good of his country. Ximenes he could trust. There was a man who was above reproach, above ambition, who would never give honors to his friends and family unless he honestly believed they deserved them. He remembered even now all he owed to Isabella, and he would serve Isabella’s family with all his powerful ability.

Then Cardinal Ximenes, Archbishop of Toledo, should be the Regent of Spain, until such time as his grandson was ready to rule it.

Ximenes would support Charles, he knew. Ferdinand grimaced. Oh, that I were not on my death-bed! Oh, that I might fight for a kingdom and bestow it on my grandson Ferdinand!

But this was a matter outside the control of a dying man. There was no question of the succession of Castile; as for the succession of Aragon and Naples they must fall to Juana—mad Juana, a prisoner in Tordesillas—and to her heirs. The Regency of Castile should go to Ximenes and that of Aragon to his dear son the Archbishop of Saragossa.

Ferdinand could smile wryly, and it seemed to him then that his first wife Isabella was at his bedside and that he snapped his fingers at her. “Yes, Isabella, my bastard son, my dear one on whom I bestowed the Archbishopric of Saragossa when he was six years old. How shocked you were, my prim Isabella, when you discovered his existence! But see, he is a good and noble boy, of sound good sense and beloved by the people. The Aragonese love my illegitimate son more than you did, Isabella.”

He would not forget his grandson Ferdinand. He should have an annual income of fifty thousand ducats and a share in Naples. As for Germaine, she must be provided for. She should have thirty thousand gold florins, and five thousand should be added to that while she remained a widow. Would that be long? He pictured her—gay Germaine—with a husband who did not have to resort to potions. Jealous anger almost choked him and he had to restrain himself in order to get back his breath.

He saw a man standing at his bedside and demanded: “Who is there?” Some of his servants came forward and said: “Highness, it is Adrian of Utrecht who has arrived here, having heard of the indisposition of Your Highness.”

Ferdinand turned his face to the wall to hide his anger. Adrian of Utrecht, the chief adviser of his grandson Charles.

So, he thought, the carrion crows have arrived already. They sit and wait for the last flicker of life to subside. They are mistaken. I’m not going to die.

He turned and gasped: “Tell…that man to go. He has come too soon. Send him away.”

So Adrian of Utrecht was forced to leave the house. But Ferdinand was wrong.

A few days later when his gentlemen came to his bed to wish him good morning, they found that he was dead.

The Princess Mary

THE CHRISTMAS FESTIVITIES WERE OVER AND KATHARINE was glad. She was expecting the child in February and was determined not to exhaust herself by overexertion.

Henry continued tender. He was quite happy for her to be a mere spectator at those entertainments in which he played the central part. He could tell her solicitously that she was to retire to bed and rest; then he would be off to Elizabeth Blount or perhaps to some other young woman who had caught his passing fancy.

Katharine did not mind. She was patiently waiting.

That winter was a hard one—the coldest in living memory—and it was while the frost was at its worst, and the ice on the Thames so thick that carts could pass over it, that news was brought to Henry of the death of Ferdinand.

He received it with elation. Ferdinand, that old trickster, was dead. Henry would never have completely forgiven him for duping him as he had. It was the passing of an era; he knew that well. There would be a new ruler in Spain. Henry wanted to laugh aloud. It would be that boy whom he had met in Flanders—that slow-speaking young oaf, with the prominent eyes and the pasty skin. There would be one who was a complete contrast to Ferdinand.

He was far from displeased. Now he would turn his hatred and envy of the Spanish ruler to the King of France, that sly-eyed, fascinating creature who was bold and had begun his reign—as Henry had longed to do—by offering his people conquest.

But for the time being, Ferdinand was dead.

“This will be a shock to the Queen,” he said to Wolsey when they discussed the news. “It would be better to keep it from her until after the child is born.”

“Your Grace’s thoughtfulness is equalled only by your wisdom.”

“You agree, eh, she should not be told?”

“It would be unwise to tell her in her present state. There might be another disaster.”

The King nodded. His eyes had become cunning. Wolsey followed his thoughts. Katharine had lost a powerful ally in her father. If the King should decide to repudiate her now, there would be no great power in Europe to be incensed by this treatment of her, for in place of a warlike and cunning father-protector she had only a young and inexperienced nephew.

Wolsey thought: Bear a healthy son, Katharine, or you will be in acute danger.

“I will let it be known,” said Wolsey, “that on pain of Your Grace’s displeasure, none is to tell the Queen of her father’s death.”

IT WAS ON the 18th day of February of the year 1516, in the Palace of Greenwich, when Katharine’s child was born.

Katharine came out of her agony to hear the cry of a child.

Her first thought was: “Then the child is alive.”

She saw faces about her bed, among them Henry’s. She heard a voice say: “The child is healthy, Your Grace. The child lives.”

She was aware of a great contentment. How she loved that child! All my life I shall love it, she thought, if only for the joy it has brought me in this moment.

But why did they say “the child?”

“A…boy?” she asked.

The brief silence told her the answer before it came: “A bonny girl, Your Grace.”

There was a faint intake of breath. But it was too much to hope for a boy and a child that lived.

Henry was beside her bed.

“We have a healthy child, Kate,” he said. “And the next…why, that will be a boy.”

Days of acute anxiety followed; she was terrified that events would take the same tragic course as on so many other occasions. But this little girl was different from the beginning; she lived and flourished.

When it was time for her christening it was decided that she should be called Mary after Henry’s sister who, having returned to England and been publicly married to the Duke of Suffolk at Greenwich, was now installed high in the King’s favor.

It was the Queen’s great delight to watch over the Princess Mary. She loved her with deep devotion which could scarcely have been so intense but for all the disappointments which had preceded the birth.

Even the grief she suffered when she heard of her father’s death, and the faint fear which, knowing something of the exigencies of state, this event must arouse in her, was softened, because at last she had her child, her healthy little Mary, the delight of her life.

KATHARINE, playing with her daughter, knew that this was the happiest period of her life. The child was charming; she rarely cried but would lie solemnly in her cradle or in Katharine’s arms.

Katharine would stand with the wet-nurse, Katharine Pole, and the governess, Margaret Bryan, wife of Sir Thomas Bryan, about the little Princess’s cradle; and they made an admiring circle, while they watched the child playing with the gold pomander which had been a present from her Aunt Mary, now Duchess of Suffolk. The child seemed to love that ornament which later she might stuff with perfumes and wear about her waist, but which at the moment she liked to suck.

Henry would come in and join the circle. Then Katharine Pole and Margaret Bryan would draw back and leave the parents together.

Henry’s eyes would be glazed with tenderness. This was his child and he told himself that more than anything on Earth he wanted children. He marvelled at those plump wrists, at the fingers, at the eyes which looked solemnly into his. He was delighted with the down of reddish hair on that little head, because it was his own color.

Katharine watching him loved him afresh; they had something they could share now: this adorable little daughter.

“By God, Kate,” murmured Henry, “we’ve produced a little beauty.”

He wanted to hold her; and he was delighted when she did not cry as he picked her up. He would sit, looking a little incongruous, that big figure, glittering with jewels, holding the baby somewhat awkwardly yet so tenderly in his arms.

He insisted on having her brought to the banqueting hall or his presence chamber when his courtiers were present or when he was receiving foreign ambassadors.

“My daughter,” he would say proudly, and take her in his arms, rocking her to and fro.

She never cried as most children would, but her large solemn eyes would stare at that big face at this time all suffused with tenderness and love.

The ambassadors would look on, admiring the baby, and the courtiers were continually discovering new likenesses to the King.

“She has the temper of an angel,” said the Venetian ambassador.

“You are right there,” cried Henry. “By God, Mr. Ambassador, this baby never cries.”

Mary was almost perfect in the eyes of the King. If she had but been a boy she would have been quite so.

BEFORE FERDINAND’S DEATH he had recalled Caroz and sent in his place Bernardino de Mesa, a very different type from Caroz. De Mesa was a Dominican friar, quiet, seemingly humble but in truth one of the shrewdest of Spaniards. It was a master stroke for Ferdinand to have sent him because his outward meekness was just what was needed to offset Wolsey’s arrogance and ostentation.

Ferdinand had realized too late that the Cardinal was the real ruler of England. However, de Mesa immediately began an attempt to repair the damage Caroz had done; and it was on de Mesa’s suggestion that Ferdinand had sent Henry the handsome present.

But Ferdinand was dead; de Mesa would have a new master; Katharine was no longer interested in politics as her attention was focused on her daughter; but Wolsey favored the Spanish ambassador because he was knowledgeable in that field which was one of the utmost interest to the Cardinal—the Papal Court.

De Mesa waited apprehensively for new policies. While Ximenes was Regent he imagined that there would be little change; but what would happen when young Charles took the reins of government, guided no doubt by his Flemish favorites?

De Mesa sought to speak to the Queen of these matters but Katharine had become half-hearted, since her father’s perfidy and death had shocked her deeply.

She no longer wanted to feel herself a Spaniard; she had her daughter to absorb her; and all the time de Mesa was seeking to draw her attention to European politics she was thinking: How she grows! To think that we can dispense with Katharine Pole’s services now! She will be easily weaned. Was there ever such a good tempered child? They say sweet temper means good health. Soon she will have her own household, but not yet. For a while her place will be in her mother’s apartments.

She smiled absently at the Spanish ambassador, but she did not see him; she saw only the bright eyes of her daughter, the round, chubby cheeks and that adorable fluff of reddish hair on the top of the exquisite little head which so delighted the child’s father.

And when Henry’s sister, Margaret, Queen of Scotland, came to London to seek her brother’s help against her enemies, Katharine’s great interest was in discussing Margaret’s children with her and trying to win her sister-in-law’s admiration for the beloved little Princess.

“’Prentices and Clubs”

THE FOLLOWING SPRING THERE WAS DISQUIET IN THE streets of London.

During recent years many foreigners had settled there, and these people, being mostly exiles from their native lands—serious people who had fled perhaps for religious reasons—were by nature industrious. Day in, day out, they would be at their work, and so they prospered. There were Flemings who were expert weavers; Italians who were not only bankers but could make the finest armor and swords. The Hanseatic traders brought over leather, rope, wax, timber, nails and tar; and of course since the coming of Katharine to London to marry Prince Arthur there had always been Spaniards in London.

Life was hard for the citizens of London. During the cruel winter many had died of starvation in the streets and there had been rumblings of dissatisfaction all through the year.

With the coming of spring the young apprentices gathered in the streets and talked of the injustice of foreigners coming to their city and making a good living, while they and their kind lived in such poor conditions.

They themselves could not understand the joy some of these cordwainers and weavers, these glaziers and lacemakers found in the work alone. They did not seem to ask for pleasure as the apprentices did. They cared for their work with the passion of craftsmen, and those who lacked this skill were angry with those who possessed it.

They met in Ficquets Fields and near the Fleet Bridge, and talked of these matters.

There was one among them, a youth named Lincoln, who demanded: “Why should we stand by and see foreigners take away our livings? Why should we allow the foreigners to live in our city at all?”

The ignorant apprentices shook their fists. They had a leader; they craved excitement in their dull lives. They were ready.

So on a May morning of the year 1517, instead of rising early to go and gather May flowers in the nearby countryside, the apprentices gathered together and, instead of the cry “Let’s a-maying,” there were shouts of “’Prentices and Clubs!”

The revolt had begun.

The apprentices stormed into the city; there were hundreds of them and they made a formidable company. Through the streets of London they came, carrying flaming torches in their hands; they broke into the shops of the foreigners; they came out carrying bales of silk, the finest lace, jewels, hats, textiles.

When they had ransacked these shops and houses they set them on fire. News was brought to the King at Richmond.

Henry was first angry; then alarmed. The people could always frighten him because he had a dread of unpopularity.

He decided to remain at Richmond until others had the revolt under control.

CHAOS REIGNED in London.

The under-sheriff of the city, Sir Thomas More, pitying the plight of the apprentices and knowing that they would be quickly subdued, went among them, risking his life, for tempers were running high, imploring them to stop their violence.

Wolsey meanwhile had taken the position in hand and had sent for the Earl of Surrey who arrived with troops and very soon had hundreds of people under arrest and others hanging from gibbets which had been quickly erected throughout the city.

Meanwhile Henry waited at Richmond, determined not to go into his capital until order was restored.

It was eleven days after the uprising that he rode into the city and took his place on a dais in Westminster Hall. With him came three Queens—Katharine, Mary—who had been Queen of France and was far happier to be Duchess of Suffolk—and Margaret, Queen of Scotland.

“Bring the prisoners to me,” cried Henry, his brows drawn together in a deep frown, “that I may see these people who would revolt against me.”

There was a sound of wailing from the spectators as the prisoners were brought in. There were some four hundred men and eleven women, all grimy from their stay in prison, all desperate, for they knew what had happened to their leaders and they expected the same fate to befall themselves; they even came with ropes about their necks; and in the crowd which had pressed into the Hall and clustered round it were the families of these men and women.

The King raged in his anger. They had dared rise against his merchants; they had burned the houses of his citizens; they deserved the worst death which men could devise.

His troops were stationed about the city; his guards surrounded him, and he was eager to show these people the might of the Tudor.

Wolsey came close to him. He said: “Your Grace, I beg of you in your clemency spare these men.”

Henry’s little eyes glittered. He hated them, those wild-eyed men and women. They had dared show criticism of his rule. Yet…they were the people. A King must always please his people.

He caught Wolsey’s eye; the Cardinal was warning him: “It would be as well, Your Grace, to pardon these men. A fine gesture…here in the heart of your capital. A powerful King but a merciful one.”

Yes, he knew. But here was the spirit of the masque again. He must play his part as he always had done.

He scowled at Wolsey and said: “These prisoners should be taken from here and hanged by the neck on gibbets prepared for them within the city.”

Katharine was watching the faces of some of the women who had pressed into the hall. They were mothers, and some of these boys who stood there on the threshold of death, the halters round their necks, had been their babies.

It was more than she could bear. Stripping off her headdress so that her hair fell about her shoulders—as became a supplicant—she threw herself at the King’s feet.

“Your Grace, I implore you, spare these prisoners. They are young. Let them grow to serve Your Grace.”

Henry, legs apart, his fingers playing with the great pearl which hung about his neck, regarded her with assumed tenderness and said: “You are a woman, Kate, and soft. You know nothing of these matters.…”

Katharine turned to Mary and Margaret and they, seeing the appeal in her eyes and being moved themselves by the sight of those miserable prisoners and their sorrowing families, loosened their hair and knelt with Katharine at the King’s feet.

Henry regarded them, and his eyes were a brilliant blue.

Three Queens knelt at his feet! What a spectacle for his people!

He appeared to consider.

Wolsey—the great Cardinal who, when he went abroad, rode through the streets in a procession which rivalled that of a king’s—also appealed to Henry.

His appeal was a warning, but there was no need for the warning. Henry was about to make the grand gesture.

“I am not proof against such pleading,” he declared. “And I know full well that these foolish men and women now regret their folly. They shall live to be my very good subjects.”

There was a sudden shout of joy. The prisoners took the halters from their necks and threw them high into the air.

Henry stood watching them—sons rushing into their mother’s arms, wives embracing husbands—a smug smile of pleasure on his face.

As Katharine watched, the tears flowed down her cheeks.

The King Triumphant

LITTLE MARY WAS GROWING UP TO BE A MODEL CHILD. SHE was now two years old and had her separate establishment at Ditton Park in Buckinghamshire. Katharine could not bear to be separated from the child, and consequently she spent a great deal of time in her daughter’s nursery; and she contrived to be often at Windsor Castle so that the child could be ferried over to her there.

Katharine was going to supervise her education as Isabella had her children’s. She was going to take her mother as an example; Mary should learn to love and depend on her mother as she, Katharine, had on hers.

Already Mary was showing great promise. She had a lively intelligence, could speak clearly and knew how to receive important personages. It was a constant delight to present them to her that she might charm them as she charmed her parents.

Henry was almost as devoted as Katharine. He enjoyed taking the child in his arms or on his knees and playing with her. Only occasionally would the frown appear between his eyes, and Katharine would know then that he was thinking: Why is this child not a boy?

Mary quickly showed an aptitude for music, and, young as she was, Katharine taught her how to play on the virginals. The Queen would sit with the little girl on her lap, the four feet long box in which the keyboard was set, placed on the table; and there the childish fingers would pick out the notes.

Her progress was amazing, and Henry as well as Katharine liked to show off her talent as much as possible.

What happy days they were; and to crown her pleasure, Katharine discovered that she was once more pregnant.

“Now we have a healthy girl, we must get us a boy,” said Henry.

His tone was playful but there was a faint threat beneath it. He was determined to have a boy…from someone.

AUTUMN HAD COME and the King hunted all through the day and returned in the late afternoon to banquets and masques.

Katharine was spending the days in happy preoccupation with her domestic affairs. There was so much to occupy her days. She liked to sit sewing with her women; and it was her delight to embroider Henry’s linen, and garments for little Mary. She had moved away from the sphere of politics and was happier for it.

Her hopes of bearing another healthy child were high. Mary was a joy in more ways than one. Not only was she her charming self but she was a promise of future children, a symbol which insisted that what could be done once could be done again.

This was the happiest of her pregnancies—apart from the first one. This time she could feel almost complacent.

“But let it be a boy,” she prayed. “O Holy Mother, intercede for me and give me a boy.”

She was seated at the table on the dais; the hunters had returned hungry from the forest, and Henry was in his place at the center of the table where there was much jesting and laughter.

Elizabeth Blount was present. Katharine always looked for her among the guests, and she marvelled that Henry could have been faithful to a woman for so long. Elizabeth was, of course, a beauty; and she was entirely the King’s. The marriage to Sir Gilbert Taillebois was one in name only. They could be certain of this. Sir Gilbert would not dare to be a husband to Elizabeth while she was the King’s paramour.

Poor Gilbert! thought Katharine with some contempt. He stands by, like a cur, waiting for his master to throw the bone after he has finished gnawing it.

She felt no jealousy of Elizabeth; she felt nothing but this great desire to bear a son.

She did notice, however, that Elizabeth looked different tonight. She was even more attractive than usual. A diamond glittered at her throat. A gift from the King of course. She was dressed in blue velvet with cloth of silver, and those colors were very becoming to her fair beauty. She was subdued tonight. Had she perhaps noticed that the King was less attentive? Yet she seemed radiant. Had she another lover?

Katharine ceased to think of the woman. It was no concern of hers if Henry discarded a mistress, because there would be another if he dispensed with this one. She was not a giddy girl to look for faithfulness in a man such as Henry.

There was a burst of laughter at the table. The King had made a joke. It must be the King’s, for only his jokes provoked such abandoned laughter.

Katharine set her face into a smile, but she was not thinking of the King nor of Elizabeth Blount.

The child stirred suddenly within her. “Holy Mother, give me a healthy child…a healthy male child.”

HENRY’S HAND touched that of Elizabeth in the dance. She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

He pressed her hand warmly. He too had noticed the change in her tonight.

“But you are more fair than ever,” he whispered.

“Your Grace…” Her voice faltered.

“Speak up, Bessie.”

“There is something I must tell you.”

“What is this?”

“I…wish to tell you as soon as we can be alone.”

“You’re frightened, Bessie. What’s wrong?”

“I pray Your Grace…. When we are alone.”

Henry narrowed his eyes, but she was whirled away from him in the dance.

SHE WAS WAITING for him in the antechamber where he had bidden her go.

“Slip away,” he had said when their hands had touched again in the dance. “I will join you. None will notice us.”

At one time she would have smiled at his belief that, when he did not wish to be noticed, he never was. As if everyone in the hall was not aware of the movements of the King! But tonight she was too preoccupied with her thoughts and fears.

He shut the door and stood looking at her.

“Well, Bessie?”

“Your Grace…I…we…I am with child.”

Henry stared at her.

Then he began to laugh. “By God, Bessie,” he cried, “I had begun to think you were a barren woman. When I considered all the nights we have been together…and no sign of a child. I began to wonder what was wrong with you…or…”

He frowned, as though admonishing himself.

He came towards her then, and there was a tender smile on his lips.

“Your Grace is not displeased…?”

Bessie was thinking: This will be the end. He will not want a pregnant woman. There will be someone else. Nothing will ever be the same again.

“Displeased!” He took her face in his hands and gently pinched her cheeks. “There’s nothing could have pleased me more.”

He seized her in his arms and held her so tightly that she would have cried out with the pain if she had dared. Then he swung her into his arms and held her up, looking at her.

Displeased! he was thinking. He had said that nothing could please him more; that was not true. If Bessie gave him a son he would be delighted, but a legitimate son was what he desired more than anything on Earth.

Now that Bessie carried their child he could look more closely at the fears which had been trying to intrude into his mind.

When there was failure to produce children it was natural to presume that something might be wrong with the would-be parents—both of them perhaps. Katharine was not barren. She could become pregnant; her failure lay in not giving birth to a healthy male child. Among her offspring there had been boys—but stillborn, or, as in the case of the first, living only a few days.

If Bessie Blount bore a healthy child, it would prove, would it not, that the fault did not lie with him.

True there was Mary—but one living girl in all those pregnancies! It was almost as though God was against him in some way, as though He had said, you shall not have a male heir.

His high spirits began to overflow. He began dancing round the small chamber with Bessie in his arms.

Then he was sober suddenly. “We must take care of you, my Bessie,” he said, lowering her gently to the ground. “We must cherish this little body of thine now that it shelters a royal child.”

They returned to the ballroom and were covertly watched.

The King does not grow out of his love for Bessie Blount, it was whispered. See, he is as enamored of her now as he was when he first saw her.

KATHARINE WAS in her daughter’s apartments. Mary was seated at the table, propped up with cushions so that she was high enough to reach the virginals which had been placed on the table.

The plump little fingers were moving over the keys with a dexterity astonishing in one so young.

Katharine watched her. She was not yet three years old; surely there was not another child like her in the whole of the kingdom.

“My precious daughter,” she murmured.

Glancing through the window she saw that the November mist was wreathed about the trees like gray ghosts; the ghosts of unborn children, she thought, and shivered.

She placed her hands on the child in her womb; and involuntarily the prayer rose to her lips. “A boy. Let it be a boy.”

If I have a boy—as healthy, as bright as my little Mary, then Henry will be pleased with me. It is all he needs to make him happy. What need have I to concern myself with the Elizabeth Blounts of the Court if only I can have a healthy boy.

The child had finished her piece. Margaret Bryan clapped her hands, and the Duchess of Norfolk and her daughter, Lady Margaret Herbert, who were both in attendance on the little Princess, clapped with her.

Katharine rose to embrace her daughter and, as she did so, she felt the now familiar nagging pains begin.

She cried out in alarm. It was not the pains which frightened her. It was the gray mist out there. It looked like ghosts…ghosts of children who had made a brief appearance on Earth and then had gone away. It reminded her that this was but November and her child was not due to be born until the Christmas festivities should begin.

SO IT WAS OVER.

She lay frustrated, sick, weary and a little frightened. She heard voices which seemed to come from a long way off but which she knew were in her bedchamber.

“A daughter…a stillborn daughter.”

Oh my God, she thought, then You have forsaken me.

There were other voices, but these were in her mind.

“They say the King fears his marriage does not find favor in Heaven.” “They say it is because he married his brother’s wife.” “They say it would not be difficult to end such a marriage…now, for the Queen’s father is dead and there is no need to fear her nephew…he is but a boy. Why should the King fear him?”

She closed her eyes. She was too weak to care what became of her.

She thought: This was my last chance. I have tried so many times. We have one daughter. But where is the son he so desperately needs, where is the boy who could make him tender towards me?

HE WAS STANDING by her bedside, and they were alone. When he had that look in his eyes, people slunk away from him. Even his dogs were aware of it. She had seen him often standing, legs apart, eyes blue fire, chin jutting forward—the sullen, angry boy. The dogs waited in corners and the clever men like Cardinal Wolsey were called away on urgent state matters.

Now they had left him with her; and she lay helplessly looking up at him.

She said: “I am sorry, Henry. We have failed once more.”

“We have failed? I did my part. It is you who fail to do yours.”

“I do not know where I failed, Henry.”

Those were the wrong words. How easy it was to speak the wrong words.

“You would suggest that it is something in me!”

“I do not know what it is, Henry.”

She thought he would strike her then.

O God, she thought, how much it means to him! How angry he is!

He had taken one step towards the bed and stopped; then he turned and began pacing the room. He was holding in his anger. He was hurt and bewildered. He had thought, after Mary, that they would get a son.

She knew that with each attempt she lost some charm for him. Each time she took to her bed in the hope of giving birth, she rose from it more wan, more listless; each time she left some of her youth behind.

She understood him well enough to know that these failures hurt him so much because they brought an insidious doubt into his mind. He would admit this to none, but she who had lived close to him for nine years knew him perhaps better than he knew himself, for he was a man who would never know himself well because he refused to look where it was not pleasant to do so.

Yet he could not drive the question from his mind. Is it in some measure due to me? Am I incapable of begetting a healthy son?

He could not bear that he should be anything but perfect. He loved himself so much.

Even in that moment she, who was so much wiser, was sorry for him. If she could, she would have risen from her bed and comforted him.

He had paused before the device which hung on the wall. The device of the pomegranate—the Arabic sign of fertility.

Oh, if I could but go back to the happy days in Granada before I had seen England, when my beloved mother was alive, I would never have chosen this as my device.

Henry began to laugh, and his laughter was not pleasant to hear.

He lifted his hand, and she thought that he was about to tear the device from the wall and trample on it. As though with difficulty he restrained himself; then, without another look at her, he strode from the room.

HENRY RODE OUT to a certain Priory, and with him he took only his most intimate friends. Compton and Bryan were among them, and they chatted and laughed gaily as they went along.

But Henry had not his heart in the raillery. He listened half-heartedly and there was a strained expression on his face. And after a while they fell silent.

Henry believed what was waiting for him at the Priory was of the utmost importance. He was praying, as he went along, for a sign. He would discuss his thoughts with no one, for as yet he was afraid of them; but if what he hoped should happen, then he might begin to reshape his life.

When they reached the Priory, he rode ahead of his friends into the courtyard, and grooms who clearly were expecting the important visitor hurried out to do them service.

Henry leaped out of the saddle; he was striding into the building and as he did so he was met by two excited nuns; their faces under their black hoods were flushed and their eyes alight with excitement.

“What news?” demanded Henry.

“It is all over, Your Grace. Her ladyship is well and will be eager to see you.”

“And…is there a child?”

“Yes, Your Grace, a bonny child.”

Holy Mother of God, they torture me, thought Henry.

He shouted. “Boy or girl?”

“A bonny boy, Your Grace.”

Henry gave a shout of triumph.

He called to Compton who was close behind him: “Did you hear that? A boy! Bessie has my boy!” Then he seized the nearest nun by the shoulder. “Take me to them,” he cried. “Take me to Lady Taillebois and my son.”

They led the way, running, for this was an impatient King.

He saw her on her pillows, her red gold hair spread about her as he had seen it so many times before. She was pale and triumphant. She was his beautiful Bessie who had given him what he wanted, now as she always had.

“Why, Bessie.” He was on his knees by the bed. “So you’ve done it, eh, girl? You’ve come through it, eh?” He took her hand and kissed it loudly. “And the child? Where is he?” Suspicion shot up in his eyes. “Where is he, I say?”

A nun had appeared; she was holding a child.

Henry was on his feet, staring down at the burden in her arms.

So small. So wrinkled. Yet a child. His child. He wanted to shout with joy. There was the faint down on that small head—and it was Tudor red.

Tears were in his eyes. The smallness of the child moved him; this little one, his son!

Then he thought, Holy Mother, how could you do this to me…? You give Bessie my son…when I want to give him my crown.

He took the child from the woman.

“Your Grace, have a care. He is young yet.”

“Do you think to tell me to have a care for my own child? Let me tell you, woman, this child means as much to me as my crown. This is my son. By God, this boy shall know great honors….” He was overcome with love for the child, with gratitude to Bessie, who had not only given him a son, but proved his capability to beget sons. He said rashly: “This child might have my crown.”

Bryan and Compton exchanged glances.

The remarks of an exuberant father on beholding his son?

Mayhap. But both Bryan and Compton were wondering what effect the existence of this young child could have on the Queen.

HENRY HAD SUMMONED the whole Court to that Manor which he had some time since bought for Bessie Blount. This was the occasion of the christening of his son.

It was to be a grand ceremony, for he would have everyone know that since he welcomed his son into the world with such joy, so must they all.

There was one guest at the ceremony whom many thought it was cruel to have asked. She had come, pale and resigned, looking like a middle-aged woman since her last pregnancy.

Poor Katharine! How sad it was that it was she who, out of so many pregnancies, had been only able to produce one daughter while Bessie Blount should give the King a healthy son.

She brought presents for the child. She showed no resentment for she had already learned that it was wise to hide her true feelings.

The King seemed unaware of the indignity he was heaping upon her; he seemed at that time unaware of her.

And when the name of the newly born child was asked, it was Henry himself who answered in a deep, resonant voice which could be heard by all: “This child’s name is Henry Fitzroy.”

And as he spoke he looked at Katharine. She was startled; she had always known that there was cruelty in his nature; but now she read his thoughts: You see, I can get me a son. But not through my wife. Here is my boy…my healthy boy. Is it not strange that you should have tried so many times and failed? Is it because our marriage is frowned on in Heaven? Is it, my wife? My wife!

Now her nightmares had taken shape. They were no vague phantoms.

She saw the speculation in those blue eyes.

She thought: I am the Queen. None can change that. And she would not meet his gaze for fear she should be tempted to look into the future.

She was here in the Manor he had bought for his mistress; she was attending the christening of his only son—and a son by that mistress.

For the present she was the Queen of England. She would not look beyond that.

The Cardinal’s Revenge

KATHARINE, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, SAT AT HER WINDOW LOOKing down on the Palace gardens; her hands lay idly in her lap, her tapestry momentarily neglected. She was now approaching her thirty-fifth birthday, and her once graceful figure had grown somewhat heavy during the years of disappointing pregnancies; yet she had lost none of her dignity; the humiliation she was forced to suffer could not rob her of that serene assurance which reminded all who came into her presence that she was not only the Queen of England but the daughter of Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.

She wore the fashionable five-cornered hood which glittered with jewels, and from it hung a black mantilla, for although it was nineteen years since she had left her own country she still clung to certain customs and fashions of her native land; her gown was of blue velvet trimmed with sable; and as she sat, her feet gracefully crossed, her petticoat of gold-colored satin was visible; at her throat were rubies, and similar jewels decorated the cordelière belt which encircled her thick waist and fell to her feet.

Now as she gazed out of the window the expression on her regular, though heavy, features was serious in the extreme; and the high forehead was wrinkled in a frown. The woman who was watching her felt compassion welling up within her, for she knew that the Queen was uneasy.

And the reason was obvious, thought Lady Willoughby who, as Maria de Salinas, had come with Katharine to England nineteen years before, and until her marriage to Lord Willoughby had never left her mistress’s service; and even now returned to her whenever she found it possible to do so.

Katharine the Queen had anxieties enough.

If there could only be a male child, thought Maria. One male child. Is that too much to ask? Why is it denied her?

They had been so close to each other for so many years that there were occasions when they read each other’s thoughts, and the Queen, glancing away from the gardens, caught Maria’s pitying look and answered that unspoken thought.

“I have a feeling that it will never be, Maria,” she said. “There have been so many attempts.”

Maria flushed, angry with herself because she had betrayed thoughts which could only bring further pain to her beloved mistress.

“Your Grace has a charming, healthy daughter.”

Katharine’s face became young and almost beautiful as it invariably did when her daughter, the five-year-old Princess Mary, was mentioned.

“She grows more beautiful as the months pass,” murmured the Queen, smiling to herself. “She is so gay, so merry, that she has won her father’s heart so certainly that I do believe that when he is with her he forgives her for not being a boy.”

“No one could wish the Princess Mary to be other than she is,” murmured Maria.

“No. I would not change her. Is that not strange, Maria? If it were possible to turn her into a boy I would not do so. I would not have her different in any way.” The smile disappeared and she went on: “How I wish I could have her more often with me here at Greenwich.”

“It is because the King is so eager that she shall enjoy the state which is due to her that he insists on her maintaining a separate household.”

The Queen nodded and turned to her tapestry.

“We shall be leaving for Windsor shortly,” she said; “then I shall have her ferried over from Ditton Park. I long to hear how she is progressing with the virginals. Did you ever know a child of five who showed such musical talent?”

“Never,” answered Maria, thinking: I must keep her mind on Mary, for that will give her a respite from less pleasant matters.

But as she was reminding Katharine of that occasion when the King had carried his daughter down to the state apartments and insisted on the ambassadors of France and Spain paying homage to the little girl’s rank and accomplishments, a shout from the grounds diverted the Queen’s attention to other matters, and Maria noticed the momentary closing of the eyes which denoted that disgust she felt for what was happening down there.

It was a mistake, Maria told herself, for the Queen to hold aloof from the King’s pastimes; and while she sympathized with Katharine and understood her mistress’s revulsion, she felt that it was unwise of her to show such feeling. The King was a man who looked for adulation and, because it was almost always unstintingly given, he was quick to perceive when it was not; and merely by declining to accompany him to the arena, the Queen had doubtless offended him. True, she had pleaded indisposition; but the King, who was himself so rarely indisposed, was apt to regard the illness of others with scepticism and derision.

No, it was unfortunate that while the King, surrounded by his courtiers, was watching a bear being torn to pieces by his ban dogs, which had been kept hungry for hours in order to increase their ferocity, the Queen should be sitting over her tapestry with one faithful friend at her side.

More shouts followed, and the sound of trumpets came through the open window.

Katharine said: “The game will have ended. How thankful I am that I was not there to witness the death agony of some poor creature.”

“We shall never grow accustomed to English sports, I fear,” answered Maria. “After all these years we remain Spanish.”

“Yet we are English now, Maria, by reason of our marriages. We both have English husbands, and Spain seems so very far away; yet I shall never forget the Alhambra and my mother.”

“You would like to return to Spain, Your Grace?”

Katharine shook her head “I did not want to after she had died. For me she was Spain. I do not think I could have endured life there after she had gone. There would have been too much to remind me. It is so many years since she died…yet for me she never died. She lives on in my heart and brings me comfort still. I say to myself, when I think of my own sweet daughter: Katharine of Aragon will be such a mother to the Princess Mary as Isabella of Castile was to Katharine of Aragon.”

“She was both great and wise.”

“There are times,” went on Katharine, “when I wish with all my heart that she were here, that she had her apartments in this Palace and that I could go to her, tell her what perplexes me, so that out of her great wisdom she might tell me what to do.”

What could even great Isabella tell her daughter? wondered Maria. How could she advise her to please that wayward husband of hers? She could only say, as so many at Court could say: Give him a son. Then you will be safe.

Katharine looked at the woman who for so long had been her dearest friend. She knows of my troubles, thought the Queen. It would be impossible for her not to know. Who in this Court does not know that the King is persistently unfaithful to his wife, that he is beginning to find her five years seniority distasteful, that he is dissatisfied because, although she has proved herself capable of becoming pregnant, she has also shown herself unable to bear him a healthy male child? Twelve years of marriage had resulted in several miscarriages and only one healthy child—a daughter.

She was not one to ask for sympathy; she knew it was dangerous to confide in others. Yet Maria de Salinas was her very dear friend and she believed there was no one in her life who loved her more. It was a sad admission. Her husband no longer loved her; she was fully conscious of that sad fact. Her mother who had loved her dearly—even as she herself loved Mary—was long since dead. Recently her father, the ambitious, parsimonious Ferdinand, had died; but of course Ferdinand had never had much love to spare for any one person, his possessions taking all the affection he had to give; and to him she had merely been an important counter in the game of politics which was his life. Mary loved her; but Mary was a child.

God grant she never has to suffer as I have, thought the Queen hastily.

But all would be well for Mary who was now heir to the throne, because there was no Salic law in England. If there were no male children born to her parents, and one day she ascended the throne, she would be Queen in her own right, which was a very different matter from being a King’s Consort.

Katharine’s mother had been a Queen in her own right and, much as she had loved her husband, she had never forgotten it; for although Ferdinand had often been unfaithful—there were several illegitimate children to prove it—although she had accepted this as inevitable, forgiven him and remained his loving and submissive wife, in state matters she had held rigorously to her supremacy.

“Oh, Maria!” she sighed. “I am passing through troublous times, and I feel…alone.”

Maria went to Katharine and kneeling, buried her face in the blue velvet. “Your Grace, while I live to serve you, you are never alone.”

“I know it, Maria…my very good friend. I love you dearly, as you love me, and to no other would I speak of these matters. But to you I will say this: I despair of getting a male child. There is so little opportunity. The King rarely visits my bed. And since the birth of a son to Elizabeth Blount his manner towards me grows colder.”

“That sly creature!” Maria said angrily.

“Nay, do not blame her. She was a shy girl, and he is her King. He said, ‘Come hither’ and the girl has no more power to resist than a rabbit facing a stoat. And she has given him this son.”

“I hear that she no longer pleases him.”

The Queen shrugged her shoulders. “He has taken the boy away to be brought up.”

“In seclusion, Your Grace,” said Maria quickly. “But royally. If another woman should give him a son…”

Maria knew that the Queen was thinking of that catastrophe which she feared so much that she would not even speak of it. It was summed up in one dangerous word which was whispered throughout the Court: Divorce.

Impossible! Maria assured herself. Even Henry would never dare. How could he when the nephew of the Queen was not only King of Spain but Emperor of Austria, the greatest monarch of them all. No, it was all so much talk. Had the Queen been some humble princess, there might have been cause for fear; but the aunt of the Emperor was surely safe from all such indignities.

The Queen went on: “There is this new girl.”

Maria waited.

“She was in France; he found her during that extravagant frolic. She is of a bad reputation and is known in the court of France as a wanton. I cannot understand him. But I have decided to send for the girl.”

Maria trembled. She wanted to say: Oh…no…no. It is folly. Let the King have his women, and look the other way.

“She is the daughter of Thomas Boleyn. I believe he has two girls and a boy. The other girl is in France now and much younger, and is said to be more intelligent than her sister. It is to be hoped this is so. But I shall have something to say to this Boleyn girl.”

“And His Grace…”

“His Grace was amused by her wantonness…as it appears many have been before.”

“Your Grace, this affair has gone…”

“As far as it is possible to go. It would not surprise me if Mary Boleyn is not already with child…perhaps twins. Boys, I’ll dare swear.”

It was unlike the Queen to show such feeling, and Maria trembled afresh. Characteristically the Queen noticed the expression in Maria’s face and was sobered by it—not because she feared for herself, but because she had troubled her friend.

“Have no fear, Maria,” she said. “I shall dismiss this girl from the Court. I shall know how to deal with such a one. The King has amused himself with her, but she is no Elizabeth Blount. He will do nothing to detain her at Court. He will merely look about him and…find another.”

“But if he will find another…”

“I understand your meaning, Maria. Why dismiss this girl? Simply because her reputation is so light. No, if the King must have a mistress it should be one who has not shared the beds of quite so many. I hear that she even included the King of France among her lovers, briefly, oh very briefly. Elizabeth Blount at least behaved decorously and she was connected with the Mountjoys. These Boleyns, I have heard, have descended from trade.”

“Is that so, Your Grace? When one considers Thomas Boleyn that is surprising.”

“Thomas Boleyn gives himself airs, indeed. A very ambitious man, Maria. I wonder he does not take this girl of his and put her into a convent. But I do assure you that I have not been misinformed as to his origins, for when I heard of the King’s…connection…with this girl I had enquiries made. One Geoffrey Boleyn was apprentice to a mercer in London…oh, it is a long time ago, I grant you, and he became rich; but he was a tradesman, no more, no less. Becoming Lord Mayor of London and buying Blickling Hall from Sir John Falstaff, and Hever Castle from the Cobbhams, does not alter that. So this family rose through trade and advantageous marriages. They are connected with the Ormonds, and Thomas’s wife is Norfolk’s daughter. But this girl…this Mary…is doubtless a throw-back to the days of trade.”

How bitter she is, thought Maria; and how unlike herself. My poor Queen Katharine, are you becoming a frightened woman?

“It is a deplorable state of affairs when such people are allowed to come to Court,” went on Katharine.

There was a brief silence and Maria took advantage of it to say that she had heard the Emperor might again visit England and how she hoped this was true.

“I hope so too,” said Katharine. “I think the King has changed the opinion he once held of my nephew.”

“All who saw him on his visit to England were impressed by his serious ways and his fondness for Your Grace.”

Katharine smiled tenderly. “I could not look on him without sadness, although it gave me so much pleasure to see him. He is indeed worthy of his destiny, but I could not help thinking of my sister.”

Maria winced and wished she had not turned the conversation in this direction. There was so much tragedy in the life of the Queen that it seemed impossible to avoid it. Now in reviving her memories of her nephew’s visit she had reminded her of her poor sister Juana, Charles’s mother, who was insane and living out her sad life in the castle of Tordesillas and who would have been the ruler of Spain had she not lost her reason.

“Poor Juana,” went on Katharine, “she was always wild, but we never thought it would come to this. There are times when I can feel almost happy because my mother is dead. I always thought that the deaths of my brother and eldest sister shocked her so deeply that she went earlier to her tomb than she would otherwise have done. But if she were alive now, if she could see her daughters—one mad, the other tormented…”

Maria interrupted, forgetting that it was a breach of etiquette to do so. “Your Grace’s troubles will be over one day. You have a healthy daughter; there will surely one day be a son.”

And so they had arrived back at the matter of the moment; this was the subject which occupied the minds of all at Court. A son. Will there be a son born to the King and Queen? There must be…for, if there is not, the position of Queen Katharine in England will be uncertain.

The Queen had turned back to the window.

“They are coming now,” she said, and picked up her tapestry.

The two women worked in silence for some moments while the sounds from without increased. Those of voices accompanied by laughter floated up to them, but they kept their eyes on the tapestry.

The King’s voice was immediately recognizable; loud and resonant, it was that of a man who knew he only has to speak to achieve the result he wished. If he wanted laughter his courtiers gave it in full measure, with the required implication that his jokes were more witty than any other’s; his frown was also more terrifying.

Katharine was thinking: Yet at heart he is only a boy. He plays at kingship. It is those about him who hold the power; men such as Thomas Wolsey on whom he depends more and more. An able man, this Thomas Wolsey, but an ambitious one, and the daughter of Ferdinand must know that ambition could warp a man’s nature. But so far Wolsey’s ambition was—like the King’s strength—in check, and it seemed that Wolsey acted for the good of the state. Katharine had thought him her friend until recent months, when there were signs of a French alliance. Then she had not been so sure.

But it was not such as Thomas Wolsey whose company she most enjoyed. There were even now occasions when she could be at peace in the King’s company; this was when he invited men such as Dr. Linacre or Thomas More to his private apartments for an intimate supper. In particular was Katharine drawn to Thomas More; there was a man whose gentle charm and astringent wit had made an instant appeal to her, but perhaps what she had admired most of all was that integrity which she sensed in the man. It was so rare a quality that all seemed to change when they came into contact with it; even Henry ceased to be the licentious young man and was a serious monarch, determined to increase his intellectual stature and work for the good of his people. It was small wonder that she looked forward with pleasure to those days when the King said: “Come, Master More, you shall sup with us tonight, and you may talk to us of astronomy, geometry or divinity; but willy-nilly we shall be merry with you.”

And strangely enough they would be for, with Thomas More leading the conversation, however serious its nature, it must be merry.

But on this day such as Thomas More and Dr. Linacre would not be the King’s companions.

She glanced out of the window. The King was leading his courtiers towards the Palace, and with him were his brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk, William Compton and Thomas Boleyn.

Katharine’s mouth tightened at the sight of the last.

Thomas Boleyn was the kind of man who would be delighted to offer his daughter to the King in exchange for honors. The honors were evidently being granted, and the man had been at the King’s side during his meeting with the King of France—that ostentatious and vulgar display of the “Field of the Cloth of Gold”—and he remained there.

But not for long, vowed Katharine—unless he can hold his place by his own qualities and not through the lewdness of his daughter.

Wherever the King went there was ceremony. Now the heralds stationed at the doors were playing a fanfare—a warning to all those who had been within the Palace while the King was at sport to leap to attention. He would stroll through the Palace smiling graciously, if his mood was a good one; and it would seem that it was so now from the sound of his voice, and the laughter which followed his remarks.

She wondered whether he would go to his own apartments or come to hers. What did he wish now? Sweet music? Would he call for his lute and entertain the company with one of his own musical compositions? Would he perhaps summon Mary Boleyn and dismiss his courtiers? He was a young healthy animal and his whims and moods could change in a moment.

“He is coming here,” she said, and she saw the faint flush begin in Maria’s cheeks as the door was flung open.

The King stood on the threshold looking at his Queen and her attendant bent over their tapestry.

Maria rose immediately, as did Katharine, and they both made a deep curtsey as Henry came into the room chuckling, his fair face flushed, his blue eyes as bright as chips of glazed china with the sun on them; his golden beard jutting out inviting admiration; he had recently grown it because King François had one, and he believed that a golden beard was more becoming than a black one.

Beside him most other men looked meager, and it was not merely the aura of kingship which made them so. It was true they fell away from him, giving him always the center of the stage, for every word, every gesture which was made in his presence must remind him that he was the King whom they all idolized.

He was glittering with jewels. How he loved color and display! And since he had returned from France he had worn brighter colors, more dazzling jewels. It was true that he did so with a hint of defiance; and Katharine knew that it would be a long time before he forgot the sly looks of the King of France, the caustic wit which, it had to be confessed, had set the King of England at a loss; that long nose, those brilliant dark eyes, had frequently seemed to hold a touch of mockery. The King of France was the only man who in recent years had dared snap his fingers at Henry and make sly jokes at his expense. Oh, the extravagant folly of that Field of the Cloth of Gold! All sham, thought Katharine, with two monarchs swearing friendship while hatred filled their hearts.

But Henry was not thinking of François now as he stood at the threshold of his wife’s apartment. He was in a favorite position, legs apart—perhaps to display that fine plump calf; his jerkin was of purple velvet, the sleeves slashed and puffed; his doublet of cloth of gold decorated with pearls; on his head was a blue velvet cap in which a white feather curled and diamonds scintillated; about his neck was a gold chain on which hung a large pearl and ruby; the plump white fingers were heavily loaded with rings, mostly of rubies and diamonds.

It was small wonder that wherever he went the people shouted for him; unlike his father he was a King who looked like a King.

“How now, Kate?” he said; and she straightened herself to look into his face, to read the expression there—his was the most expressive face at Court—and Katharine saw that for this moment his mood was a benign one. “You’ve missed a goodly sight.” He slapped his thigh, which set the jewels flashing in the sunlight.

“Then ’twas good sport, Your Grace?” answered Katharine, smiling.

“’Twas so indeed. Was it not?” He turned his head slightly and there was an immediate chorus of assent. “The dogs were game,” he went on, “and the bear was determined to stay alive. They won in the end, but I’ve lost two of my dogs.”

“Your Grace will replace them.”

“Doubt it not,” he said. “We missed you. You should have been at our side.” His expression had changed and was faintly peevish. She understood. He had been with Mary Boleyn last night and was making excuses to himself for conduct which shocked him a little, even though it was his own. She knew that he was tormented periodically by his conscience; a strange burden for such a man to carry. Yet she rejoiced in the King’s conscience; she believed that if he ever contemplated some dastardly act, it would be there to deter him.

“It was my regret that I was not,” answered Katharine.

He growled and his eyes narrowed so that the bright blue was scarcely visible. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he snapped his fingers and said: “Leave us with the Queen.”

There was immediate obedience from those who had accompanied him into the apartment; and Maria de Salinas hurried to where the King stood, dropped a curtsey, and followed the others out. Henry did not glance at her; his lower lip was protruding slightly as the plump fingers of his right hand played with the great ruby on his left.

Katharine experienced a twinge of that apprehension which was troubling her more and more frequently nowadays. He had felt contented when he was watching his animals; when he had crossed the gardens and come into the Palace he had been happy. It was the sight of her sitting at her tapestry which had aroused his anger.

When they were alone he grumbled: “Here is a pleasant state of affairs. The King must sit alone and watch good sport because his Queen prefers not to sit beside him that people may see their King and Queen together.”

“I believed I did not displease Your Grace in remaining in my apartment.”

“You knew full well that I wished you to be beside me.”

“But Henry, when I explained my indisposition, you seemed contented enough that I should remain in the Palace.”

It was true; he had shrugged his shoulders when she had pleaded a headache; would she never learn that what he accepted at one time with indifference could arouse his anger at another?

“I liked it not,” he growled. “And if this headache of yours was so distressing, do you improve it with the needle? Nay, ’twas our rough English sports that disgusted you. Come, admit it. Our English games are too rough for Spanish ladies, who faint at the sight of blood. ’Tis so, is it not?”

“It is true that I find the torturing of animals distasteful.”

“’Tis odd in one who comes from Spain where they make a religious spectacle out of torturing people.”

She shuddered; the thought of cruelty was distasteful to her; she knew that during the reign of her revered mother the Spanish Inquisition had tortured heretics and handed them over to the Secular authorities to be burned to death. This she had often told herself was a matter of faith; those who suffered at the autos-de-fé in her native land did so because they had sinned against the Church. In her eyes this was a necessary chastisement, blessed by Holy Church.

She said quietly: “I do not care to witness the shedding of blood.”

“Bah!” cried the King. “’Tis good sport. And ’twould be well that the people see us together. Like as not we shall be hearing that all is not well between us. Rumors grow from such carelessness, and such rumors would not please me.”

“There are rumors already. I’ll warrant the secret of your mistresses is not kept to the Court.”

The King’s ruddy face grew a shade darker and there was a hint of purple in it. She knew she was being foolish, knew that he was like an ostrich, that he fondly imagined that no one was aware of his infidelities or, if they were, looked upon them as a kingly game no more degrading than the hounding of animals to death.

“And is it meet that you should reproach me for seeking elsewhere what I cannot find in your bed?” he demanded.

“I have always done my best to please you there.”

The eyes narrowed still more; the face was an even darker shade, the chin jutted out in a more bellicose manner; and only the beard prevented his looking like a boy in a tantrum.

“Then,” he shouted, “let me tell you this, Madam. You have not pleased me there!”

She closed her eyes waiting for the onslaught of cruel words. He would not spare her because, with the guilt of his adultery heavy upon him, he had to find excuses for his conscience. He was talking to that now—not to her.

The tirade ended; a slightly pious expression crossed the scarlet face; the blue eyes opened wider and were turned upwards. His voice was hushed as he spoke.

“There are times, Kate, when I think that in some way you and I have offended God. All these years we have prayed for a boy and again and again our hopes have been disappointed.”

And those words smote her ears like a funeral knell; the more so because they were spoken quietly in a calculating manner; he had momentarily forgotten the need to appease his conscience; he was planning for the future.

He had expressed that thought before, and always in that portentous manner, so that it sounded like the opening chorus, the prelude to a drama on which the curtain was about to rise.

So now she waited for what would follow. It must come one day. If not this day, the next. Perhaps a week might elapse, a month, a year…but come it would.

He was eyeing her craftily, distastefully, the woman who no longer had the power to arouse any desire in him, the woman who after twelve years of marriage had failed to give what he most desired: a son born in wedlock.

There was nevertheless still to be respite; for suddenly he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

But Katharine knew that the curtain was soon to rise.

AS THE COURTIERS left the King and Queen together, many an understanding glance was exchanged. It was common knowledge that all was not well between the royal pair. Who could blame the King, said the gay young men, married to a woman five years older than himself—a woman who was overpious and a solemn Spaniard—when he was surrounded by gay young English girls all eager for a frolic! It would have been different of course had there been a son.

There was one among the company whose smile was complacent. This did not go unnoticed. Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, had good reason to be delighted by this lack of royal fertility. Secretly Buckingham believed himself to be more royal than the Tudors, and there were many who, had they dared to express such an opinion, would have agreed with him.

Buckingham was a proud man; he could not forget that through his father he was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, son of Edward III, and that his mother had been Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had married Edward IV. And who were the Tudors but a bastard sprig from the royal tree!

Never could Buckingham look on the King without this thought crossing his mind: There but for the chances of fate might stand Edward Stafford.

Such thoughts were only safe when locked in the secret places of the mind; and it was unwise to betray, even by a look, that they existed. Buckingham was a rash man and therefore, since he lived under Henry VIII, an unwise one.

The old Duke of Norfolk who was at his side, guessing his thoughts, whispered: “Caution, Edward.”

As Buckingham turned to look at his friend a faint frown of exasperation appeared on his brow. Further resentment flared up in his mind against the King. Why should he have to be cautious lest the stupid young King should realize that he fancied himself in his place? If Henry had a spark of imagination, he would guess this was so.

Norfolk and Buckingham were intimate friends and there was a connection between the families because Buckingham’s daughter had married Norfolk’s son.

Buckingham smiled wryly. The old man would want no trouble to befall his friend and connection by marriage, and would be thinking that such trouble often embraced the whole of a family.

“Your looks betray your thoughts,” whispered Norfolk. “There are those who are ready to carry tales. Let us go to your apartments where we shall be able to talk in peace.”

Buckingham nodded and they disengaged themselves from the crowd.

“You should be watchful,” murmured Norfolk as they mounted the staircase on their way to Buckingham’s apartment.

Buckingham shrugged elegant shoulders. “Oh come,” he said, “Henry knows that I’m as royal as he is. He doesn’t need my careless looks to remind him.”

“All the more reason for caution. I should have thought you would have been warned by the case of Bulmer.”

Buckingham smiled reminiscently. It had been worth it, he decided; even though at the time he had suffered some uneasy moments.

But he was glad that he had shown his daring to the Court; there was no doubt of that when he had approached Sir William Bulmer, who was in the service of the King, and bribed him with an offer of better service in his own retinue. He had done this out of bravado, out of that ever persistent desire to show the King that he was of equal standing. Buckingham had never forgotten how Henry had sought to seduce his, Buckingham’s, sister, as though she were some serving girl at the Court. Perhaps Henry also had not forgotten Buckingham’s action in having the girl whirled out of his orbit by her enraged husband just at that moment when successful seduction seemed imminent. Buckingham had scored then. It was a glorious victory for a Duke to win over a King. And he had tried again with Bulmer. Not so successfully, for the King, no longer an uncertain boy, had summoned Bulmer to the Star Chamber and accused him of having deserted the royal service. Bulmer had cowered before the onslaught of the King’s anger and had been kept on his knees until he despaired of ever being allowed to rise.

But at length Henry had relented, forgiven Bulmer and taken him back into his service. The affair, however, was meant to be a warning—chiefly to an arrogant Duke. Yet the Duke still thought his dangerous thoughts; and it was possible to read them in almost every gesture that he made.

“Ah, Bulmer,” he mused now. “That man was a coward. He should have returned to me.”

“It might have cost him his head,” suggested Norfolk.

“I would rather lose my head than be known as a coward.”

“Take care that you are not called upon to prove those words, Edward.”

“Henry does not possess a surfeit of bravery,” retorted Buckingham. “Look how he let my sister go.”

“It would be a different state of affairs if that had happened today. Henry was a boy when he decided on your sister. I do believe that up to that time he had never been unfaithful to the Queen. Those days are over.”

“He realized that we Staffords would not accept the insult.”

“You deceive yourself. If he fancied your wife or mine he’d care not a jot for our families. The King is no longer a boy to be led. He is a man who will have what he wants and thrust aside all those who stand in his way.”

“If he respects royalty he must include those who are as royal as he is.”

“Henry sees only one point of view, his own. He is the King. The rest of us, be we dukes or lords, are so far beneath him that he would have our heads, ay, and feel it was but his due, should the fancy take him. That is why I bid you to be cautious. Ha, here comes Wolsey, on his way to the royal apartments, I’ll swear.”

“The butcher’s dog is for ever sniffing at the heels of his master,” said Buckingham, without taking the precaution of lowering his voice.

Thomas Wolsey was making his way towards them, an impressive figure in his scarlet Cardinal’s robes. He was a man of about forty-five, his expression alert, his face mildly disfigured by smallpox, and the lid of one eye hanging lower than the other, which gave an added expression of wisdom to his clever face.

Buckingham did not pause as he approached; his gaze became cold and he looked beyond the Cardinal as though he could not see the red-clad figure.

“A merry good day to you, gentlemen,” said the Cardinal.

“Good day to you,” answered Norfolk.

“I trust, my lords, you enjoyed good sport and that His Grace is happy because of it.”

“The sport was fair enough,” murmured Norfolk; but Buckingham, who had not spoken, was walking on.

Wolsey did not appear to have noticed; he inclined his head slightly and Norfolk did likewise, as Wolsey went on towards the King’s apartments, the two Dukes on to Buckingham’s.

“’Tis my belief he heard your words,” said Norfolk.

“’Tis my hope that he did.”

“Curb your pride, Edward. Will you never understand that he is forever at the King’s side, ready to pour his poison in the royal ear?”

“Let him pour—if the King listens to the butcher’s boy he is unworthy to be King.”

“Edward…you fool! When will you learn? You already have an enemy in the Cardinal; if you love your life do not seek one in the King.”

But Buckingham strode on ahead of Norfolk, so that the old man had to hurry to keep up with him; and thus they came to his apartments.

As they entered three men of his retinue who were conversing together bowed to him and his companion. These were Delacourt his confessor, Robert Gilbert his chancellor, and Charles Knyvet who was not only his steward but his cousin.

The Dukes acknowledged their greetings and when they had passed into Buckingham’s private apartment he said: “My servants are aware of it. They know full well that their master might, by good chance, ascend the throne.”

“I trust,” put in Norfolk nervously, “that you have never spoken of such matters in their presence.”

“Often,” laughed Buckingham. “Why, only the other day Delacourt said to me: ‘If the Princess Mary died, Your Grace would be heir to the throne.’ Why, my friend, you tremble. Norfolk, I’m surprised at you.”

“I never heard such folly.”

“Listen to me,” murmured Buckingham soothingly. “The King is not such a fool as to attack the nobility. He has too much respect for royalty to harm me. So set aside your fears. This much I tell you: I will be treated with the respect due to me. Now, what do you think the King is saying to his Queen at this moment? He is upbraiding her for not accompanying him to watch the sport; but what he really means is that she is of no use to him since she cannot give him a son. I do believe he has begun to despair of ever getting a boy by her.”

“But the boys he gets by others will not provide the heir to the throne.”

Buckingham chuckled. “No. There’ll be no heir—and is the Princess Mary really a healthy child? But the King would do well to forget his anxieties. He has good heirs in me and mine.”

It was useless, Norfolk saw, to turn Buckingham from the subject which obsessed him; nevertheless he tried; and they talked awhile of the Field of the Cloth of Gold and the treaties which had been made with François Premier and the Emperor Charles.

Norfolk, who had not accompanied the royal party to France on that occasion, grumbled about the cost to which England had been put, and Buckingham agreed with him. The nobility would be on short commons for the next few months in order to pay for all the finery they had had to provide.

“And for what?” demanded Buckingham. “That our Henry might show François what a fine fellow he is! As if François could not match pageant with pageant!”

Norfolk sourly agreed. He had not stood in high favor with the King since Thomas Wolsey had risen to such eminence; he hated the Cardinal as much as Buckingham did, but he had had an opportunity of realizing the venom and power of the man, and he was too shrewd to take unnecessary risks.

Buckingham was in a rebellious mood that day and, being conscious that members of his retinue were hovering, and fearing some indiscretion might be uttered in their presence, in which he might be involved, Norfolk took his leave as soon as he could politely do so.

When he was alone Buckingham brooded on that favorite subject of his, which aroused such bitterness within him and which, try as he might, he could never succeed in dismissing from his mind. He could work himself to a fury over what he construed as an insult from anyone of lowlier birth than his own, and the very presence of Wolsey at Court seemed an affront.

Norfolk’s warnings had only succeeded in intensifying his recklessness, and when Knyvet came to his apartment to ask his advice about some matter of his stewardship, the Duke said: “His Grace of Norfolk has been talking to me of the affair of William Bulmer.”

“Ah, Your Grace,” said Knyvet, “that man is now back in the King’s service. Some say he had a lucky escape.”

“Oh yes, he went back like a whipped cur. He would have done better to have remained with me. I shall not forget that he deserted me…when the time comes.”

Knyvet looked startled. “It is not easy to disobey the King’s command.”

Buckingham lifted his shoulders. “At one time I believed the King was preparing to have me sent to the Tower for my part in that affair.”

“Your Grace to the Tower!”

Buckingham nodded. “Kings do not last for ever,” he mused. “My father learned that. He was in conflict with Richard III. But my father was no coward. He planned that when he was brought to the King he would have his dagger ready and plunge it into that false heart. I do assure you, cousin, that had an indignity been forced upon me, I should have been as ready to avenge the honor of my family as my father was.”

Knyvet murmured: “Your Grace cannot mean…”

“And,” interrupted Buckingham fiercely, “if the King were to die and the Princess were to die, I should take over the crown of this Kingdom, and none should say me nay.”

Knyvet recoiled, which amused Buckingham. How terrified everyone was of being drawn into a conspiracy! Such fear in others spurred the Duke on to further recklessness. He said: “Is Hopkins, the monk, in the Palace today?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then send him to me. I have heard that he can see into the future. I want him to look into mine.”

“I will have him brought to Your Grace.”

“With all speed,” cried Buckingham.

He paced excitedly up and down his apartment while waiting for the monk; and when the man was brought to him he shouted so that several of his servants could not fail to hear him: “So, Hopkins, you are here. I want you to tell me what the future holds for me. I want you to tell me what chance I have of attaining the throne.”

The monk shut the door and put his fingers to his lips. The face which peered out of his hood was shrewd. He took in the details of the apartment; the love of luxury was apparent. Here was a noble Duke who could do him much good in exchange for the prophecy he wanted. Hopkins knew that if he told the Duke that he would be more likely to end his days on a scaffold than on a throne (and one did not have to be a soothsayer to suspect that) he would be dismissed without reward. But such as this Duke would be ready to pay well for what he wanted to hear.

Hopkins looked long into that arrogant face, half closed his eyes and murmured: “I see greatness ahead for Your Grace.”

“What sort of greatness?”

“All that you desire will be yours. I see a crown…”

A slow, satisfied smile spread across the Duke’s face. This fellow has great and unusual powers, he told himself. It shall come to pass. Has he not prophesied that it shall?

So he presented the monk with a heavy purse; and from that moment his manner grew a shade more arrogant.

IN ONE OF the privy gardens of the Palace a young man and woman sat on a wicker seat, their arms about each other. In the distance the shouts from the arena could be heard but both were oblivious of everything but the ardour of their passion.

The woman was plump and dark-haired; her body voluptuously curved; and the expression of her face, soft and sensuous betrayed her nature. One glance was enough to see that she was one who had been endowed by nature with a deep appreciation and knowledge of fleshly pleasures; and her generous nature was one which wanted to share these. It was the secret of her great appeal to almost every man who saw her. And if they tired of her quickly it was because she could hold nothing back, but must give all that was demanded; so that in a short time there was little to learn of Mary Boleyn.

Since her early teens Mary had been in and out of more beds than she could remember. The Kings of England and France had been her lovers; so had the humblest officers of the Court. Mary was overflowing with desire which demanded appeasement and, being on such terms with pleasure and of a generous nature which never sought material gain, her favors had until this time been bestowed on most of those who asked for them.

Now she was in love and discovering that the emotions this young man aroused in her were of a different nature from those she had ever felt for any other person. She was still Mary, as uninhibited as a young animal in forest or jungle; lust was strong in her but it was tempered by affection, and when she thought of her future with her lover it was not only sharing his bed that filled her mind, but sharing his table, his fortune, and being a mother to the children they would have. This was a new and exciting experience for Mary Boleyn.

“And so,” he was saying now, as his hands caressed the bare plump bosom, “we shall marry.”

“Yes, Will,” she answered, her lips slightly parted, her eyes glazed, while she wondered whether they dared here in full daylight. If they were discovered and tales carried to the King…! It was only a few nights ago that His Grace had summoned her to his bed. He might be somewhat angry if he knew of her love for Will Carey.

“And when shall I speak to your father?”

Mary was alarmed. She caught his hand and pressed it against her breast. It was so easy to lose oneself in a sensuous dream and forget reality. In truth she was more afraid of her father than of the King. The King might decide that it was a good idea that she married. It was often the case in relationships such as theirs. He had found a husband for Elizabeth Blount and there was always a possibility that a mistress might become pregnant, when the necessary hasty marriage could be a little undignified. No, she did not think the King would object to the marriage; though he might insist that husbandly activities were confined only to giving his wife his name. Mary would not be greatly perturbed. Could she imagine herself living in a house with Will, and not…The thought made her want to laugh.

But her father—approaching him was another matter.

Thomas Boleyn had never thought much of his daughter Mary until she had caught the King’s eye. Now he was inclined to regard her with greater respect than he had even for his son George; and all knew how clever George was.

Strange that Mary should have been the one…with her wantonness which had earned her many a beating in the past…to have brought honors to the family. But if Will Carey went to her father and asked for his daughter’s hand there would be trouble.

“He’ll never give his consent,” she said sadly.

“Why should he not?”

“You do not know my father, Will. He is the most ambitious of men, and of late he has risen high in the King’s service.”

“Does he not wish to see his daughter married?”

“Mayhap, but alas, Will, you have no money and are only a younger son of your father. To us such matters are of no moment because we love, and that is all we ask. But my father does not believe in love. He will never give his consent.”

“Then what can we do?” Will asked in despair.

Mary took his face in her hands and kissed his lips. The kiss was full of invitation and promise. She was telling him that, even if they had to wait awhile for marriage, they had much to give each other in the meantime.

“I want to take you away from Court, Mary.”

“And I want to go.” She frowned. If the King sent for her, she must go to him. But it would really be Will with whom she wished to make love.

“What can we do about it? We must do something. I cannot wait forever.”

“Something will happen, Will, never fear. We will be patient…about marriage…and something will happen; you will see.”

Will fell upon her in a storm of passion. She was the ideal mistress, never withholding, always ready to give. But he wanted to take her away that he might keep her all to himself and that no others might share the pleasures which she gave so wholeheartedly. He knew about the King, of course. He could never be sure, when she was not with him, whether she was with the King.

She soothed him as she well knew how and after a while she said: “I will speak to my father of your offer.”

“And if he forbids us to meet?”

“No one could prevent our meeting, Will.”

But Will was unconvinced.

“They are returning from their sport now,” went on Mary. “My father will surely have been with the King. It may well be that his mood is a good one. Will, what if I spoke to him now?”

“But it is surely I who should speak to him, Mary.”

She shook her head, imagining her father intimidating her lover. Will was a man who might easily be intimidated, and her father, who had always been formidable, had become more so during the years of success.

She withdrew herself from him, sighing regretfully. “Nay, Will,” she said, “I will find him, and if the moment is a good one, speak to him. I know him better than you and if he shows signs of anger I shall know how to withdraw and pretend that our matter is of no importance.”

“You will not let him dissuade you?”

“No one shall persuade me to give you up, Will.”

He believed her, because he knew that she could be strong where her passions were concerned.

THOMAS BOLEYN, taking a moment’s respite in his private apartments of the Palace whither he had retired when the King dismissed the courtiers that he might be alone with the Queen, was confronted by his daughter, who asked to speak with him in private.

Graciously he granted this permission, for Mary had become an important member of the household since the King had elevated her to the position of mistress.

Even so Thomas regarded her with faint distaste. Her dress was crumpled and her hair escaping from her headdress. Though, Thomas thought fleetingly, it may be the slut in her which appeals to the King. Yet although he was pleased with her, he was often anxious because he must constantly ask himself how long she would continue to hold the King’s attention.

It was difficult to reconcile himself to the fact that Mary had sprung to such importance. She had always been the fool of the family. The other two were such a precocious pair. He had high hopes of George and it was his plan to bring him into prominence at Court at the earliest opportunity; he was sure that when that young man was a little older he would prove an amusing companion for the King. As for Anne, she was too young yet to make plans for. At the present time she was at the Court of France whence he heard news of her from time to time, and how her cleverness and charm pleased the King and Queen and members of their Court. But that the little slut Mary should have found favor with the King…was incredible.

“Well, my daughter?”

“Father, I have been thinking that it is time I married.”

Thomas was alert. Had the King put this into her head? If so he would be following the normal procedure. The King would feel happier with a mistress who had a husband; it forestalled an undignified shuffling into marriage if the need to do so should arise. No doubt Henry had found some worthy husband for his favorite; and Thomas, even if he wanted to, would not be such a fool as to refuse his consent to a marriage suggested by the King.

“Perhaps you are right, Mary,” he said. “Whom have you in mind?”

Mary smiled in what seemed to the practical Thomas a vacuous manner as she murmured: “It is William Carey, Father.”

“William Carey! You cannot mean…No, you could not. I was thinking of Carey’s son…a younger brother.…”

“It is that Will, Father.”

Thomas was astounded and horrified. Surely the King would never suggest such a lowly match for a woman in whom he had been interested. It was an insult. The blood rushed to Thomas’s face and showed even in the whites of his eyes. “The King…,” he stammered.

“The King might not object to this marriage,” Mary began.

“He has suggested it to you?”

“Oh…no! It is because Will and I have fallen in love.”

Thomas stared at his daughter. “You must be mad, girl. You…have fallen in love with this Will Carey? A younger son of a family that can scarcely be called distinguished!”

“One does not think of family honors or wealth when one falls in love,” said Mary simply.

“You have lost your wits, girl.”

“I believe it is called losing one’s heart,” replied Mary with some spirit.

“The same thing, doubtless. Well, you may put this young man out of your mind. I want to hear no more of such nonsense. It may well be that, if you are patient, the King will suggest a good marriage for you. Indeed, it might be a good plan for you to make some light suggestions. Carefully, mind. Hint perhaps that marriage might be necessary…”

Mary bowed her head that he might not see the defiance which had sprung into her eyes. Hitherto she had been as easily swayed as a willow wand, but the thought of Will had stiffened her resistance. Strangely enough she was ready to put up a fight, to displease her father and the King, if need be, for the sake of Will Carey.

Thomas laid his hand on her shoulder; he had no doubt of her obedience. He was confident of his power when he looked back and saw how far he had come in the last years. He was forty-three years old, in good health, and his ambition was limitless. The King’s pleasure in him was stressed by the fact that he had designated Sir Thomas Boleyn to play such a large part in making the arrangements for the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and now that Henry had favored his daughter he was more grateful to Thomas than ever, because he had produced such a willing and comely girl. Mary had always been pliable, lacking the arrogance and temper of George and Anne.

Had he looked a little closer at Mary on that occasion he might have noticed that when her jaw was purposefully set, as it was at this moment, she bore a striking resemblance to her headstrong brother and sister.

But Thomas was too sure of his daughter, too sure of his ability to subdue her, to be alarmed.

He patted her shoulder. “Now, my daughter, no more of this foolishness. There’ll be a grand marriage for you, and now is the time to ask for it. I see no reason why you should not become a Duchess. That would please you, His Grace, and your family.”

Still she kept her head lowered, and giving her a playful push he dismissed her.

She was glad to escape because of the overwhelming desire to tell him that she was no longer his puppet, nor the King’s; Mary Boleyn in love, fighting for the future she desired, was as formidable as any young woman of spirit.

THE GREAT CARDINAL was alone in his audience chamber, where he stood at the window looking out over the parkland of that most magnificent of his residences, Hampton Court. He could always find delight in this place which he regarded as essentially his own; for how different it had become in those years since he had taken over the lease from the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem and raised this impressive edifice to what it was at this time, built around five courts and containing 1,500 rooms.

Here was opulence of a kind not seen even in the King’s own palaces; the walls were hung with the finest tapestry which the Cardinal caused to be changed once a week; throughout the palace were exquisite pieces of furniture and treasures which proclaimed the wealth of their owner. The Cardinal was a man who liked to be constantly reminded of his possessions, for he had attained them through his own brilliance, and because he remembered humbler days he found the greater pleasure in them. He did not care that the people murmured and said that his court was more magnificent than that of the King; that was how he wished it to be. He often said to himself: “All that is Henry’s is his because he is his father’s son. All that is mine, is mine because I am Thomas Wolsey.”

He encouraged ostentation. Let noblemen such as Norfolk and Buckingham sneer. They would sneer once too often. Let them make sly references to the butcher’s shop in which they swore he had been born. What did he care? These men were fools; and Wolsey believed that one day he would triumph over all his enemies. He was determined to do so, for he was not the man to forget a slight.

He smoothed the crimson satin of his robes and caressed his tippet of fine sable.

Oh, it was good to be rich. It was good to have power and to feel that power growing. There was very little he wished for and did not possess, for he was not a man to seek the impossible. The greatest power in England, the Papal Crown…these were not impossibilities. And if he longed to install his family here in Hampton Court, to boast to the King of his son—his fine sturdy Thomas, named after himself, but known as Wynter—he accepted the impossibility of doing so. As a prelate he could not allow the fact of that uncanonical marriage of his to be known; he was therefore reconciled to keeping his family in the background while he could bestow honors on his son.

He was smiling to himself now because he knew of the activities which would be going on in the great kitchens. There was a special banquet this day; the King would be present in some disguise. Wolsey had not been specifically told that Henry would come; he had merely heard that a party of gentlemen from a far country planned to test the hospitality of Hampton Court, for they had heard that it vied with that to be enjoyed at the King’s Court.

Wolsey laughed aloud. Such childish games! One among them would be the King, and the company must express its surprise when he discarded the disguise, and then the great delight and pleasure all felt in the honor of having their King with them.

“A game,” mused Wolsey, “that we have played countless times and will doubtless play countless times again, for it seems that His Grace never tires of it.”

But was His Grace tiring? Had there been an indication recently of a change in the King’s attitude to life? Was he taking more interest in matters of state, a little less in masking?

The longer the King remained a pleasure-loving boy the greater pleased would the Cardinal be. Those workmanlike hands of his were the hands to hold the helm. He wanted no interference.

Let the golden boy frolic with his women. Wolsey frowned a little. Boleyn was growing somewhat presumptuous on account of that brazen girl of his; and the man was becoming a little too important. But the Cardinal could deal with such; it was the King’s interference that he most feared; and while the King was concerned with a girl he could be expected to leave matters of state to his trusted Chancellor.

The guests were already arriving. He would not join them until the coming of the party of gentlemen in disguise, for that was beneath his dignity. His guests must wait for him to come among them, as at Greenwich or Westminster they waited for the King.

He knew that they would whisper together of the magnificence they saw about them, of the manner in which he dressed his servants, so that many of them were more richly clad than his guests. In the kitchens now his master cook, attired in scarlet satin with a gold chain about his neck, would be directing his many servants as though he himself was the lord of this manor; and that was how Wolsey would have it: that each man—from his steward who was a dean, and his treasurer who was a knight, to his grooms and yeomen of the pastry and his very scullery boys—should know, and tell the world by his demeanor, that it was better to be a page of the pantry in the household of Cardinal Wolsey than a gentleman steward in the house of any nobleman under the King.

As he brooded, his man Cavendish came to the door of the apartment and craved his master’s indulgence for disturbing him, but a certain Charles Knyvet, late of the household of the Duke of Buckingham, was begging an audience with him.

Wolsey did not speak for a second. He felt a surge of hatred rise within him at the mention of the hated Buckingham. There was a man who had been born to wealth and nobility and who never failed to remind the Cardinal of it. It was in every look, every gesture and, often when he passed, Wolsey would hear the words: butcher’s dog.

One day Buckingham was going to regret that he dared scorn Thomas Wolsey, for the Cardinal was not the sort to forget a grudge; all insults were remembered in order to be repaid tenfold; for that dignity which he had had to nurture, having cost him so much to come by, was doubly dear to him.

This was interesting. Knyvet to see him! He knew that the fellow was related to Buckingham—a poor relation—who had been in the Duke’s employ until recently. There had been some difference of opinion between Master Knyvet and his rich relation, with the result that Knyvet had been dismissed from the ducal household.

So he came to see the Cardinal.

Wolsey regarded his hands thoughtfully. “You discovered his business?”

“He said it was for the ears of Your Eminence alone.”

The Cardinal nodded; but he would not see the man—not at the first request. That would be beneath the dignity of the great Cardinal.

“Tell him he may present himself again,” he said.

Cavendish bowed. The man was favored. At least the Cardinal had not refused his request for an interview.

So Cavendish went back through the eight rooms, which had to be traversed before the Cardinal’s private chamber was reached, and in which none who sought an audience might wait.

Now Wolsey could hear shouts on the river, the sound of music, and he decided it was time for him to leave his apartment and cross the park to the water’s edge, there to receive the party, for it would contain one before whom even a great Cardinal must bow.

He made his way down his private staircase and out into the sunshine; standing at the river’s edge he watched the boat approach the privy stairs. In it was a party of men dressed in dazzling colors, all heavily masked and wearing beards, some of gold wire, some of black. The Cardinal saw with some dismay that the masks, the false beards, and caps of gold and scarlet which covered their heads were all-concealing, and this was going to be one of those occasions when it was not easy to pick out the King.

Usually his great height betrayed him; but there were several who appeared to be as tall. A faint irritation came to the Cardinal, although he hastened to suppress it; one of the first steps to disfavor was taken when one betrayed a lack of interest in the King’s pastimes. That was one of the lesser ways in which the Queen was failing.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he cried, “welcome to Hampton Court.”

One of the masked men said in a deliberately disguised voice which Wolsey could not recognize: “We come from a strange land, and news of the hospitality of the great Cardinal has been brought to us, so we would test it.”

“Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to entertain you. Come into the palace. The banquet is about to be served, and there are many guests at my table who will delight you as you will delight them.”

“Are there fair ladies?” asked one.

“In plenty,” answered the Cardinal.

One tall man with a black beard came to the Cardinal’s side. “Fair ladies at the table of a Cardinal?” he murmured.

Wolsey spread his hands, believing he heard mockery in the voice. This disturbed him faintly for he fancied it might well be the King who walked beside him.

“My lord,” he answered, “I give all I have to my guests. If I believe the company of fair ladies will enliven the occasion for them, then I invite fair ladies to my table.”

“’Tis true you are a perfect host.”

They had come to the gates of the palace beside which stood two tall yeomen and two grooms, so still that they looked like statues, so gorgeously apparelled that they looked like members of the nobility.

“Methinks,” said the black-bearded man in an aside to one of his companions, “that we come not to the Cardinal’s court but to the King’s Court.”

“It pleases me that you should think so, my lord,” said Wolsey, “for you come from a strange land and now that you are in the King’s realm you will know that a Chancellor could possess such a manor only if his master were as far above him as you, my lord, are above my grooms whom you so recently have passed.”

“Then is the King’s Court of even greater brilliance?”

“If it were but a hut by the river it would be of greater brilliance because our lord the King was therein. When you have seen him you will understand.”

He was feeling a little uneasy. It was disconcerting to be unsure of the King’s identity. The game was indeed changing when that golden figure could not be immediately discovered.

“It would seem that you are not only a great Cardinal but a loyal subject.”

“There is none more loyal in the kingdom,” replied Wolsey vehemently; “and none with more reason to be. All that I am, I am because of the King’s grace; all that I possess comes from his mercy.”

“Well spoken,” said the black-bearded man. “Let us to your banquet table; for the news of its excellence has travelled far.”

In the banqueting hall the guests were already assembled, and the sight was magnificent, for the great hall was hung with finest tapestry, and many tables were set side by side. In the place of honor was a canopy under which it was the Cardinal’s custom to sit, and here he would be served separately by two of his chief servants. The brilliance of the gathering was dazzling, and the members of the Cardinal’s retinue in their colorful livery contributed in no small way to the opulence of the occasion.

Wolsey’s eyes were on the black-bearded man. “You shall be seated in the place of honor,” he said.

“Nay, my lord Cardinal, it pleases us that you should take your place under the cloth of state and behave as though we were the humblest of your guests.”

But as he took his place under the canopy the Cardinal’s apprehension increased. Previously during such masquerades he had discovered the King immediately and acted accordingly. Irritated as he was, he forced himself to appear gracious and to behave as though this really was a party of foreign travellers who had come unexpectedly to his table.

But it was difficult. Who were behind those masks? Buckingham doubtless. Boleyn? Compton? Suffolk? All Henry’s cronies and therefore casting wary eyes at a man of the people who had risen so far above them.

He signed to his servants to serve the banquet but his eyes ranged about the table. The napery was exquisite; the food as plentiful as that supplied at the King’s table. Everything was of the best. Capons, pheasants, snipe, venison, chickens and monumental pies. Who but the Cardinal’s cooks could produce such light pastry with the golden look? Peacocks, oysters, stags, bucks, partridges, beef and mutton. There were fish of many descriptions; sauces made from cloves and raisins, sugar, cinnamon and ginger; and gallons of French wines with Malmsey, and muscadell—all to be drunk from fine Venetian glasses which were the wonder of all who saw them.

But while the company gave themselves to the appreciation of this banquet Wolsey continued uneasy, and suddenly he raised his voice and said:

“My friends, there is one among us who is so noble that I know it to be my duty to surrender my place to him. I cannot sit under this canopy in good spirit while he, who is so much more worthy than I, takes his place unrecognized at my table.”

There was silence, and then one of the masked men spoke; and a great hatred seized Wolsey when he recognized the disguised voice as that of Buckingham. “My Lord Cardinal, there are many members of the nobility present.”

“I speak of one,” said Wolsey.

Then one of the masked men said in a muffled voice: “Since Your Eminence believes there is such a noble personage among us, you should remove the mask of that man that all may see him.”

It was the invitation to unmask, always the great climax of these childish games.

The Cardinal stood up. “It shall be so!” he said. And he walked along the tables to that man with the black beard, and stood before him.

“Take off his mask if you believe it to be he,” commanded a voice which was husky with suppressed laughter.

And Wolsey stretched up and removed the false beard and the mask, to disclose the features of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.

While he stared with dismay there was a shout of laughter and a tall figure rose and confronted Wolsey.

“So my lord Cardinal,” he cried, removing his mask, “you would deny your King!”

Wolsey knelt and took Henry’s hand.

“May God forgive me,” he murmured.

Henry, his face scarlet with pleasure, his blue eyes sparkling, flung his gold wire beard from him. He began to laugh in that deep rumbling way which appeared to be infectious for the whole company laughed with him.

Thomas stood up and raised his eyes to the jovial giant.

“So Thomas, my friend, you did not know me.”

“Your Grace, I have never seen you so perfectly disguised.”

Henry slapped his satin thigh. “’Twas a good mask. And I’ll applaud Suffolk. He led you astray, did he not. Yet I thought you would have seen he lacked that inch or so.”

“But surely Your Grace stooped to deceive me?”

“Ha! Stoop I did. And ’twas effective.”

“And I had thought I could find Your Grace anywhere…in any circumstances.”

“So, friend Thomas, you offer me your seat of honor, eh?”

“Everything I have belongs to Your Grace. And now I would crave your indulgence and ask you to wait awhile before you sit to table. That which was served for a band of travellers is not what I would put before my King.”

“How so, Thomas?”

“If Your Grace will excuse me I will send for my master cooks. When the King comes to Hampton Court that which is served must not only be fit for a King but fit for the King of England.”

Henry’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. There was never such a one as Thomas Wolsey. He could be trusted to rise to any occasion. Whether it was matching the wits of his great enemy, François Premier, or talking of treaties with the Emperor Charles, Wolsey was the man he wanted to have beside him. And in a mask such as this he could be as effective as at the Council table.

“Go to, Thomas,” he said; and when Thomas gave a quiet order to his stewards the King’s merry eyes watched the ceremonial arrival of Thomas’s cooks in their scarlet velvet livery and golden chains.

“The fellows look as royal as myself,” he said in an aside to Suffolk. But he enjoyed it. He admired Wolsey for living in this manner; it was a credit to his country and his King.

“We are honored by the presence of the King,” said Wolsey to his cooks. “Have this food removed; bring in new and scented napery; set new dishes on the tables. I wish for a banquet—not worthy to set before His Grace, for that would be impossible—but the best we can offer.”

The cooks bowed and with ceremony left the hall followed by their clerks of the kitchens, surveyors of the dresser, clerks of the hall-kitchens and clerk of the spicery who followed the master cooks as Wolsey’s gentlemen of the household followed him on his ceremonial journeys from Hampton to Westminster Hall.

Then the guests left the tables and Wolsey led the King to another apartment; the banquet was postponed for an hour that it might be made worthy of the King.

Nothing could have pleased Henry more, for the climax of his game was that he should receive the homage due to him as King. Buckingham might grumble to Norfolk that the butcher’s cur was vulgar in the extreme; but there was not a man present who did not know that it was the red-clad figure which led the way and that which was clad in jewelled cloth of gold followed, because it was pleasant and easy to do so.

So it was with Wolsey that Henry walked in the hall of Hampton Court, his arm laid heavily on the shoulder of the Chancellor so that all could see—if they had ever doubted it—that he looked upon Thomas Wolsey as his friend, that he rejoiced in the Cardinal’s possessions because they were a symbol of how high a humble man could rise in his service, that he saw Thomas’s glory as a reflection of his own power. Nothing the jealous near-royals could do would alter that.

And when the food was prepared and the company reassembled in the great banqueting hall, Henry took his place under the canopy of state and all were merry as it pleased the King to be; but Henry would have, seated on his right hand, his host and friend, Thomas Wolsey.

He wanted all to know that he had great love for that man.

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN Knyvet again asked for an audience with the Cardinal, Wolsey received him.

The Cardinal, in crimson damask on this morning, sat at his table, his hands—very white in contrast to the crimson—spread out before him.

“You have something to tell me?” he asked.

“My lord Cardinal, I have wrestled with my conscience…”

How they always wrestled with their consciences! As though it was not the desire for revenge which so often brought them to him!

“I am listening,” said Wolsey.

“It concerns my Lord Buckingham.”

“In whose service you are.”

“In whose service I was, Your Eminence.”

“So you are with him no longer?”

Wolsey’s face was impassive but he was chuckling inwardly. So the fool Buckingham had dismissed a man from his service after having been indiscreet before him. The trouble with Buckingham was that he felt himself too important to need caution. It might be that the time was near when he would learn that he misjudged that importance.

“A little difference between us, Your Eminence. The Duke has a hasty temper.”

“I am sorry.”

“Your Eminence, it is a matter of relief to me to be free of him. Although he is my cousin I must say that.”

There was venom there. It might be usefully employed.

“And why have you come to see me?”

“Because I felt it my duty to do so.”

“You wish to tell me something about the Duke?”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

“I am listening.”

“I would have Your Eminence know that it is my duty to King and State which impels me to lay these matters before you.”

“I accept that.”

“Then I would say that my lord and cousin has uttered remarks against the King’s Grace which seem to me treasonable.”

“And what were these remarks?”

“Before the Princess Mary was born he claimed to be heir to the throne. Since Her Highness’s birth he has said that should she die he would be the heir.”

“Is that so?”

“Your Eminence, he has referred constantly to his noble birth and has made slighting remarks concerning the bastardy of a certain family.”

Wolsey nodded encouragingly.

“Your Eminence, he has consulted a soothsayer who has told him that the crown will one day be his.”

“It would seem that your cousin is a rash man, Master Knyvet.”

“’Twould seem so, Eminence. You will remember that he lured Sir William Bulmer from the King’s service into his.”

“I remember the occasion well. The King was angry and declared he would have no servant of his hanging on another man’s sleeve.”

“Yes, Eminence, and my Lord Buckingham told me that had the King reprimanded him and sent him to the Tower, he would have asked for an audience with His Grace, and when it was granted would have stabbed the King and taken over the rule of this kingdom.”

“His recklessness is greater than I believed it to be. Why was he such a fool as to dismiss a man to whom he had uttered such treasonable words?”

Knyvet flushed uncomfortably. “He accused me of oppressing the tenantry.”

“And he dismissed you? And it was only when you were dismissed that you recognized these remarks of his as those of a traitor?”

Knyvet shivered and began to wish that he had not come to the Cardinal, but Wolsey had begun to smile as he laid a hand on the ex-steward’s shoulder.

“My lord, I came to you because I felt it to be my duty…”

“It was indeed your duty. But what will be said of a man who only recognizes his duty when his master dismisses him from his service?”

“You would not find it difficult to prove the truth. I was not the only one who heard these remarks. There were Hopkins the monk, and my lord’s confessor, Delacourt, and Gilbert his chancellor. My lord lacks caution and speaks his mind before his servants.”

The Chancellor waved a hand, which was enough to tell Knyvet that he was dismissed.

Knyvet looked at him in amazement; he had often heard Buckingham sneer at Wolsey; surely, he reasoned, Wolsey should reward one who brought such evidence to him.

But the Cardinal’s white hand was now at his lips suppressing a yawn; and there was nothing Knyvet could do but bow and retire with as much dignity as possible.

When he was alone the Cardinal took a tablet from a drawer and set it before him; then he began to write: “Hopkins the monk, Delacourt the confessor, Gilbert the chancellor.”

It might be that he could use these men if and when a certain occasion arose.

THE QUEEN had dismissed all her women with the exception of Maria de Salinas.

“I think, Maria,” she said thoughtfully, “that when the woman comes in, you should go.”

Maria bowed her head. She was sorry that the Queen had made up her mind to see this woman. It would have been better, she was sure, to ignore her. Moreover, if the woman went to the King and complained to him, what an undignified position the Queen would be in!

“You are thinking that I am being unwise?” Katharine demanded.

“Your Grace, who am I to think such thoughts?”

“I am not the King, Maria, in constant need of flattery. I like to hear the truth from my friends.”

“I think, Your Grace, that the interview may be distasteful to you.”

“There is so much that is distasteful to me,” Katharine answered sadly.

“Your Grace, I hear voices without.”

“She is come. When she enters, Maria my dear, leave at once.” A page entered and told the Queen that Mistress Boleyn was without and saying that she had come at the Queen’s command.

“It is true. Bring her to me. Now Maria, you will go.”

Maria curtseyed and went out as Mary Boleyn entered.

Mary came to stand before the Queen; she made a deep curtsey, raising her big, dark eyes fearfully to the Queen’s face as she did so.

Mary shivered inwardly. How frozen she looked! No wonder Henry went elsewhere for his comforts. She would be a cold bedfellow.

So this is the girl for whom he has neglected me! thought Katharine. She has the look of a slut. Why does he not choose someone more in keeping with his rank?

“Mistress Mary Boleyn, pray rise,” said the Queen.

The girl straightened herself and stood forlornly waiting for what the Queen had to say.

“You are the center of a most distressing scandal,” began Katharine, and watching the slow flush mount to the girl’s forehead, thought that it was some small comfort that she felt some shame. “It is unbecoming of you and…in those who share your misdemeanors.”

Mary looked at her helplessly. She wanted to explain: It was at Ardres or Guisnes—she was not quite sure. She had noticed his eyes upon her; and she had known the meaning of the looks he gave her. Then he had caught her alone one day and when his hands had strayed over her body there was nothing she could do but say Yes. She would have said Yes to anyone who was as handsome and had such need of her. With the King, of course, there could be no thought of refusal. Did not the Queen understand this? Poor lady. Mary believed she really did not. She did not know the King very well then. She did not know the way of the Court.

But how explain? She hung her head for she was ashamed; and she was deeply sorry that she had caused the good and pious Queen distress. Strangely enough she had never thought of the Queen; she could never think of anything at such times but the need for gratification, and when it was over it was too late. Mary was not the sort to waste regrets on things which it was too late to change.

What was the Queen asking of her now? To refuse the King! Did anyone ever refuse the King?

Then an idea occurred to her. The Queen still had some power, even with the King. Although she was so old and the King was clearly tired of her, she was still a Princess of Spain and her nephew was the most important monarch in Europe.

Mary had wanted to tell the Queen that she was sorry, that she would willingly end her liaison with the King tomorrow if she could. But it was so difficult to explain. So Mary did the only thing possible; she burst into tears.

Katharine was quite unprepared for such a loss of control, and for a few moments did not know what to say to the girl.

“Your Grace,” sobbed Mary. “I wish I were a good woman…but I’m afraid I’m not. I was made this way. And now that I want to marry Will…Oh dear, it is all so difficult, but I wish…oh how I wish…”

“You should control yourself,” said the Queen coldly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mary, dabbing at her eyes.

“What is this talk of marriage?”

“I am in love, Your Grace, with Will Carey. He is a younger son, and my father does not find him a good enough match for me. He has…forbidden us…”

“I see. So this young man is willing to marry you in spite of the scandal you have brought on yourself.”

“There would be no more scandal, Your Grace, if only I could marry Will. I want none but Will, and he wants none but me. If Your Grace would speak for us…”

A strange state of affairs, pondered the Queen. I send for her to reprimand her for her lewd conduct with the King, and she asks me to help her to marry with a young man whom she says she loves.

Yet there was something lovable about the girl. Katharine had never thought that she could feel a slight degree of tenderness towards any of her husband’s mistresses, but she was finding that this could be so. Mary with her plump bosom that seemed to resent being restrained within that laced bodice, her tiny waist and her flaring hips, had the air of a wanton even when she was distressed as she was at this moment; and there was also a look of the slattern about her; and yet that gentleness, that desire to please, that certain helplessness was appealing.

How could he deceive me with such a one? Katharine asked herself. Elizabeth Blount had been different—a young and beautiful virgin when he had first seen her; and their affaire had been conducted with decorum. But Katharine was certain that the King had not been this girl’s first lover.

And for many nights he had not visited his wife because the creature had claimed his attention. This slut had been preferred to a princess of Spain; the daughter of Thomas Boleyn—who for all his airs had his roots in trade—had been preferred to the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand!

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She was jealous of this girl, because she knew that there would be such passion between her and the King as there never had been between the King and his wife. How did you manage to attract him? she wanted to ask. How did you manage to keep him? He went to you in spite of his conscience, in spite of the scandal which he hates. Yet he cannot bring himself to come to me when it is right and proper that he should, and it is his duty to give me the chance of bearing a son.

She ought to hate the girl, but it was impossible to hate her when she stood there, an occasional sob still shaking her body.

The Queen said: “So you have spoken to your father of this marriage?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He is against it.”

“Why so?”

“Because Will is only a younger son.”

“And do you not think that you might look higher?”

“I could not look higher, Your Grace, than the man I love.”

Katharine was shaken. She had expected to find a calculating mind beneath that voluptuous exterior; but the girl’s looks did not lie. She was indeed soft and loving.

“That is a worthy sentiment,” murmured the Queen. “When I sent for you I had thought of dismissing you from the Court, of sending you back to your father’s castle at Hever.” The Queen half closed her eyes, visualizing the scene with Henry if she had dared to do this. “But,” she went on, “since you speak to me of your love for this young man, and speak of it with sincerity, I feel that I should like to help you.”

“Your Grace!” The babyish mouth was slightly open; the dark tearful eyes wide.

“Yes,” said the Queen. “I can see that you need to be married. Your husband will then keep you out of mischief.”

“And Your Grace will…”

“I will arrange for your marriage to Will Carey. The ceremony shall be here at Court and I myself will attend.”

“Your Grace!”

There was no mistaking the joy in the girl’s face.

Katharine held out her hand, Mary took it and pressed a damp hot face against it.

“You may go now,” said the Queen graciously, and watched the girl depart.

A slut, she thought. And no virgin when he found her. Yet he desired her as he never did his wife.

Why should this be? Katharine asked herself passionately. Is there no hope left to me? What is the use of praying for a son when the King has given up all hope of begetting one? How can there be a son when he never comes to me, when he spends his manhood on girls such as Mary Boleyn?

THERE WERE isolated moments in life, thought Katharine, which were sheer happiness; and what had happened in the past and what the future held could not touch them. As she sat watching her daughter Mary leaning against her father’s knee while he instructed her in playing the lute, she assured herself that this was one of them.

The King’s face was flushed and he was smiling; there was rare tenderness about his mouth; he dearly loved children, and he would have been a contented man if, instead of one small girl in the nursery, there were half a dozen—and more than one lusty boy among them.

But in this happy moment he was well pleased with his little daughter.

How enchanting she is! thought Katharine. How dainty! How healthy with that flush in her cheeks and her long hair falling about her shoulders! Why am I ever sad while I have my Mary?

“Ha!” boomed the King, “you are going to be a musician, my daughter. There is no doubt of that.” He turned, smiling to Katharine. “Did you hear that? She shall have the best teacher in the land.”

“She already has that,” said Katharine meaningfully, and she went to the pair and laid her hand lightly on the King’s shoulder. He patted that hand affectionately.

Holy Mother of God, the Queen prayed silently, if we had only one son, all would be well between us. Who would believe, witnessing this scene of domestic felicity, that he continually betrays me and that…

But she would not allow herself to say it even to herself. It was impossible. Only her enemies had whispered it because they hated her. They must have forgotten that she was of the House of Spain and that the Emperor was her own sister’s son.

“Henry,” went on Katharine, “I want to discuss her general education with you. I wish her to receive tuition in languages, history and all subjects which will be of use to her in later life.”

“It shall be so,” agreed Henry.

“I have been talking to Thomas More on this subject.”

“A good fellow, Thomas More,” murmured the King, “and none could give you better advice.”

“His daughters, I have heard, are the best educated in England. He firmly believes that there should be no difference between the education of girls and boys.”

The King’s look of contentment faded; his lower lip protruded in an expression of discontent.

I should not have said that, thought Katharine. I have reminded him that while Thomas More has a son, he, the King, has none—at least not a legitimate son.

These pitfalls appeared on every occasion. Was there no escaping them?

The King was staring at Mary’s brown curls, and she knew that he was thinking to himself: Why was this girl not a boy?

The little girl was extremely sensitive and this was not the first time that she had been aware of the discontent she aroused in her father. She lowered her eyes and stared at the lute in his hands. He frightened her, this big and glittering father, who would sometimes pick her up in his arms and expect her to shout with glee because he noticed her. She did shout, because Mary always tried to do what was expected of her, but the glee was assumed, and in her father’s presence the child was never completely free from apprehension.

She longed to please him and applied an almost feverish concentration on her lessons, and in particular, her music; and because she knew that he liked to boast of her abilities, she was terrified that she would fall short of his expectation.

Those occasions when he smothered her with his exuberant affection were almost as alarming as when he showed his displeasure in her sex.

She had begun to ask herself: “Where did I fail? What could I have done to have made myself be born a boy?”

She took a swift glance at her mother. How glad she was that the Queen was present, for in the company of her mother she felt safer. If she could have had her wish they would have been together always; she would have liked to sleep in her mother’s chamber, and stay with her the whole day long. Whenever she was afraid, she thought of her mother; and when they were alone together she was completely happy.

Now she raised her eyes and found her mother’s gaze upon her. The Queen smiled reassuringly because she immediately sensed her little daughter’s disquiet.

We must never show our differences in the child’s presence, thought Katharine. But how long can I protect her from rumor? She already knows that her father constantly rages against the fate which made her a girl and not a boy.

The Queen said quickly: “Now that you have the lute in your hands, Henry, play us one of your songs, and sing to us.”

The frown lifted from the King’s brow. He was still boyish enough to be drawn from discontent by a treat. It was like offering a child a sweetmeat, and compliments were the sweetmeats Henry most desired.

“Since you ask me, Katharine, I will sing for you. And what of my daughter? Does she wish to hear her father sing?”

The little girl was alert. She said in a shy voice: “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You do not sound quite certain,” he growled.

The Queen put in hastily: “Mary is all eagerness, but a little shy of showing her pleasure.” She held out her hand to the Princess who immediately ran to her.

Oh the comfort of those velvet skirts, the joy of hiding her face momentarily in them, of feeling that gentle, protective hand on her head! The Princess Mary looked up at her mother with adoration shining in her eyes.

The Queen smiled and held that head against her skirts once more. It would not be wise for her father to see that the love she had for her mother was greater than that which she had for him. Mary did not understand that he demanded always to be the most admired, the best loved.

“I do not look for shyness in my daughter,” murmured the King. But his fingers were already plucking at the lute and he was singing his favorite song in a pleasant tenor voice.

The Queen settled herself in her chair and kept her arm about her daughter.

Snuggling up to her Mary prayed: “Please, Holy Mother of God, let me stay with my mother…always.”

The song came to an end and the King stared before him, his eyes glazed with the pleasure he found in his own creation, while the Queen clapped her hands and signed to her daughter to do the same. Thus the King was appeased.

When their daughter had been returned to her governess, Katharine said to the King: “Mary Boleyn has been to see me to plead for permission to marry.”

The King did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “Is that so?”

“Yes. It seems that she wishes to marry a certain William Carey, who is a younger son and I fancy not to her father’s liking.”

“Thomas Boleyn wants a better match for the girl, I’ll warrant.”

“Thomas Boleyn is an ambitious man. I have promised to help the girl.”

The King shrugged his shoulders. “The matter is in your hands.”

“I had thought in the circumstances…”

He swung round on her, his eyes narrowed. What was she hinting? Was she reproaching him because he had found the girl attractive?

“In what circumstances?” he demanded.

She saw that she had strayed into one of those pitfalls which it was always so necessary to avoid. She should have murmured that, as the girl was of the Court and her father stood high in the King’s favor, she had believed that she should first ask for the King’s approval before consenting to her marriage.

But her natural dignity revolted. Was she not, after all, a daughter of the House of Spain? Should she allow herself to be treated as a woman of no importance? The recent interview with her daughter had reminded her of her own mother, and she believed that little Mary felt for her the same devotion that she herself had felt for Isabella of Castile. Isabella would never have lost her dignity over one of her husband’s mistresses.

Katharine said coldly: “In view of the fact that the girl is—or was—your paramour…”

The King’s face darkened. In his eyes sins seemed blacker when they were openly referred to. He might placate his conscience to some extent (“I am but a man. The girl was more than willing. My wife is sickly and after each pregnancy she grows more so. Providence sends me these willing girls, who, by God, lose nothing through the affair, that I may save my wife discomfort”) but when his wife actually spoke of the matter with that smouldering resentment in her eyes she emphasized the unworthiness of his conduct. Therefore if he had been dissatisfied with her a moment before, as soon as she uttered those words he hated her.

“You forget to whom you speak, Madam,” he said.

“Why should you think that? Is the girl then the mistress of others? I must say it does not surprise me.”

“This girl’s marriage is of no interest to me,” cried Henry. “But your insolent accusations are, Madam, I would have you know. I have suffered much. I have been a loving husband. You forget how I brought you out of poverty…exile, one might say. You forget that against the advice of my ministers I married you. And how did you repay me? By denying me that which I longed for above all else. All these years of marriage…and no son…no son…”

“That is our mutual sorrow, Henry. Am I to blame?”

His eyes narrowed cruelly. “It is strange that you cannot bear a son.”

“When Elizabeth Blount has done so for you?” she demanded.

“I have a son.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and his attitude had become pious. “As King of the realm and one whose task it is to provide his country with heirs I thought it my duty to see wherein the fault lay.”

How could one reason with such a man? He was telling her now that when he had first seen that beautiful young girl and had seduced her, it was not because he had lusted after her, but only to prove to his people that, although his Queen could not give him a son, another could.

No, it was impossible to reason with him because when he made these preposterous statements he really believed them. He had to believe in the virtuous picture he envisaged. It was the only way in which he could appease his conscience.

He was going on: “I have prayed each day and night; I have heard Mass five times a day. I cannot understand why this should be denied me, when I have served God so well. But there is a reason.”

Cunning lights were in his eyes; they suggested that he had his own beliefs as to why his greatest wish should have been denied him. For a moment she thought he was going to tell her; but he changed his mind, and turning, strode to the door.

There he paused, and she saw that he had made an effort to control his features. He said coldly: “If you wish to arrange the marriage of any of the Court women, you should consult me. This you have done and in this case I say I pass the matter into your hands.”

With that he left her. But she was scarcely listening.

What plans was he making? What did he say of his marriage, behind locked doors in the presence of that man Wolsey?

A cold fear touched her heart. She went to her window and looked out on the river. Then she remembered the visit of the Emperor and that he would come again.

Henry wanted the friendship of the Emperor, for England, even as she did.

He would not be so foolish as to dare harm, by word or deed, the aunt of the most powerful monarch in Europe.

ON A BLEAK January day Mary Boleyn was married to William Carey. The Queen honored the bride and bridegroom with her presence, and the ceremony was well attended because Mary, on account of her relationship with the King, was a person of interest.

When Mary took the hand of her husband, there were whispers among those present. What now? they asked each other. Surely if the King were still interested in the girl he would have made a grander match for her than this. It could only mean that he had finished with her, and Mary—silly little Mary—had not had the wits to ask for a grand title and wealth as a reward for services rendered.

But Mary, as she passed among the guests, looked so dazzlingly happy that it appeared she had gained all she sought; and the same could have been said for Will Carey.

The Queen received the young couple’s homage with something like affection—which seemed strange, considering how proud the Queen was and that the girl had lately been her rival.

The general opinion was that the King’s affair with Mary Boleyn was over. The fact that Thomas Boleyn did not attend the ceremony confirmed this.

“I hear he has renounced her,” said one of the ladies to the nearest gentleman.

“Small wonder!” was the reply. “Thomas was climbing high, doing his duty as complaisant father. He’s furious with the girl and would have prevented the marriage if Mary had not won the Queen’s consent.”

“And the Queen readily gave it—naturally.”

“Well, it is a strange affair, I grant you. This is very different from the Blount affair.”

“What of that child?”

“Doubtless we shall hear news of him some day, unless of course the Queen surprises us all and produces that elusive male heir.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen.”

Many furtive glances were sent in the Queen’s direction and the whispered gossip went on, but Katharine gave no sign that she was aware of this.

She felt sure that there would be other mistresses. That had become inevitable since she no longer appealed to the King as a woman; and because she could not safely suffer more pregnancies he was not interested in her.

She had her daughter Mary, and Mary would one day be Queen because it was impossible for the King to have a legitimate son. It was sad, but it was something they must accept.

This at least, she told herself, is the end of the Boleyn affair.

THE KING AND QUEEN sat at the banquet table; about them were assembled all the great personalities of their Court, for this was a ceremonial occasion. On the King’s right hand sat the Cardinal, and every now and then they would put their heads together to whisper something which was for their ears alone The complacent expression on the Cardinal’s face was apparent; there was little he liked more than these grand occasions when the King selected him from all others and showed his preference.

This was particularly delightful when the noblemen of the Court could look on and see the King’s reliance on him; and on this occasion the Duke of Buckingham was present, and he made no secret of his distaste for the King’s preference.

The musicians played as the sucking pig was brought in and ceased as it was placed on the table by the steward; homage to the dish was expressed by a respectful silence.

The King looked on the table with drowsy eyes; he had already partaken of many dishes and his face was flushed with wine. His bright blue eyes were slightly glazed as they rested on the group of young girls who sat together at some distance from him.

It seemed that he was no longer enamored of Mary Boleyn and that others might hope to take her place.

The Cardinal was aware of the King’s glances and rejoiced. He liked the King to have his pleasures. He had no desire for him to discover that statecraft could be more absorbing than the pursuit of women; when he did, that could mean a slowing down in Wolsey’s rapid journey to the heights of power.

Wolsey wished his King to remain the healthy, active boy—the young man who could tire out five horses a day at the hunt, who could be an easy victor at the joust, who could beat all his opponents at a game of tennis; and whose thoughts ran on the pursuit of women.

Thomas More had said once: “If the lion knew his strength, it would be hard for any man to rule him.”

No one knew the truth of this better than Wolsey. Therefore he planned to keep the lion unaware of his strength. At the moment he was so. Not through any lack of conceit but because it was so pleasant to be a figure of glory in the tiltyard, at the masques and balls, and to leave state matters to the efficient Cardinal. Why should he tire his eyes by studying state papers? Wolsey was the man for that. The King had often said with a rumbling laugh that a state document could bring a brighter shine to Wolsey’s eyes than any wench could.

It pleased Henry that the shrewd Cardinal should be the perfect complement to the dazzling King. But the lion must not know his strength.

Wolsey looked about the company and his eyes came to rest on the Queen. There was one of whom he must be wary. Relations between them had been less cordial since the friendship of England with France, for, like the good Spaniard that she was, Katharine hated the French. She looked at Europe and saw the only two rulers of consequence there—François Premier and the Emperor Charles—and she knew that they must inevitably be the most bitter of enemies. Each fought for power and there would be continual strife between them. It was Katharine’s great desire that England should be the ally of her nephew Charles; and she had blamed Wolsey for the rapprochement with François which had led to that fantastic spectacle at Guisnes and Ardres. She had been cool with him, a little arrogant, and would have to learn in time that none was allowed to show arrogance towards the great Cardinal—not even the Queen.

Rarely had the Cardinal felt so contented as he did at this banquet. He was climbing high and would go higher, never forgetting that the ultimate goal was the Papal chair, for once he had attained it he would be free from the whims of the King of England. Until then he must feign to submit to them.

He shall be kept in ignorance, thought Wolsey. Such blissful ignorance. Those bright blue eyes must be kept shining for conquest in the tiltyard and the ladies’ chambers; they must not discover the delights of statecraft until the Cardinal had become the Pope.

The King’s plump white hands were greasy with sucking pig; he called for music, and the minstrels began to play one of his songs, which could not fail to increase his good humour.

How easy to handle! thought Wolsey, and his eyes met those of Buckingham who gave him a haughty stare.

Buckingham turned towards Norfolk who was sitting beside him and made a comment which Wolsey knew was derogatory to himself. But Buckingham was a fool. He had spoken during the playing of the King’s music.

“You do not like the song?” demanded Henry, his eyes suddenly narrowed.

“Your Grace,” answered Buckingham suavely, “I was but commenting on its charm.”

“It spoils the pleasure of others when you drown the music with your chatter,” grumbled the King.

“Then,” answered Buckingham, “would Your Grace allow the musicians to play it again that all may hear it in silence?”

Henry waved a hand and the tune was repeated.

Fool Buckingham! thought Wolsey. He was heading straight for trouble.

The Cardinal excelled at collecting information about those he wished to destroy. His spy ring was notorious throughout the Court. Did Buckingham think that because he was a noble duke—as royal as the King, as he loved to stress—he was immune from it?

The music over, the King rose from the banqueting table. On such an occasion it was the duty of one of his gentlemen to bring a silver ewer in which he might wash his hands. The duty was performed by noblemen of the highest rank, and on this occasion the task fell to the Duke of Buckingham.

The ewer was handed to Buckingham by one of his ushers; he took it and bowed before Henry who washed his hands as was the custom.

When the King had finished, the Cardinal, who had been standing beside Henry, put his hands into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.

For a few seconds Buckingham was too astonished to do anything but stand still holding the bowl. Then a slow flush spread from his neck to his forehead. He, the great Duke of Buckingham, who believed himself more royal than Henry Tudor, to hold the ewer for a man who had been born in a butcher’s shop!

In an access of rage he threw the greasy water over the Cardinal’s shoes, drenching his red satin robe as he did so.

There was silence. Even the King looked on astonished.

The Cardinal was the first to recover. He turned to Henry and murmured: “A display of temper, Your Grace, by one who thinks himself privileged to show such in your presence.”

Henry had walked away and the Cardinal followed him.

Buckingham stood staring after them.

“’Tis a sad day for England,” he muttered, “when a noble duke is expected to hold the ewer for a butcher’s cur.”

IN THE KING’S PRIVATE CHAMBER, Henry was laughing.

“’Twas a merry sight, Thomas, to see you there with the water drenching your robes.”

“I am delighted to have provided Your Grace with some amusement,” murmured Wolsey.

“I have rarely seen you so astonished. As for Buckingham, he was in a rage.”

“And in your presence!”

Henry clapped a hand on Wolsey’s shoulder. “I know Buckingham. He was never one to hold in his temper. And when you…Thomas Wolsey…not a member of the nobility, dipped your hands into the bowl…”

“As Your Grace’s Chancellor…”

“Buckingham pays more respects to a man’s family tree than to his attainments, Thomas.”

“Well I know it, for the man’s a fool, and I thank the saints nightly that this realm has been blessed with a ruler who is of such wisdom.”

The King smiled almost roguishly. “As for me, Thomas, I care not whether men come from butchers’ shops or country mansions. I am the King, and all my subjects are born beneath me. I look down on one and all.”

“Even on Buckingham!”

“Why do you say that, Thomas?”

“Because the Duke has strange notions about his birth. He fancies himself to be as royal as Your Grace.”

The roguishness disappeared and a look of cruelty played about the tight little mouth. “You said Buckingham was a fool, Thomas. We are once again in agreement.”

Now it was Thomas’s turn to smile.

He believed the time had come to make an end of his enemy.

THE CARDINAL allowed a few weeks to pass; then one day he came to the King in pretended consternation.

“What ails you, Thomas?” asked Henry.

“I have made discoveries, Your Grace, which I hesitate to lay before you, of such a shocking nature are they.”

“Come, come,” said the King testily; he was in a white silk shirt and purple satin breeches, puffed and slashed, ready for a game of tennis.

“They concern my Lord Buckingham. I must regretfully advise your Grace that I believe him to be guilty of treason.”

“Treason!”

“Of a most heinous nature.”

“How so?”

“He lays claim to the throne and declares he will have it one day.”

“What!” roared the King, tennis forgotten. There was one subject which filled him, as a Tudor, with alarm. That was the suggestion that anyone in the realm had a greater right to the throne than he had. His father had had to fight for the crown; he had won it and brought prosperity to England, uniting the houses of York and Lancaster by his marriage; but the hideous Wars of the Roses were not so far behind that they could be forgotten; and the very mention of a pretender to the throne was enough to rouse Henry to fury.

“I have long suspected him,” the Cardinal soothed. “Hence his hatred of me and the enmity between us. This I should feel towards any who sought to harm Your Grace. I have made it my duty to test his servants, and I now have the results of these labors to lay before Your Grace.”

“What are these results?”

“In the first place Buckingham feels himself to be as royal as your Grace.”

“The rogue!” cried Henry.

“He has said that there is no bar sinister on his escutcheon.”

Wolsey had the pleasure of seeing the red color flame into the plump cheeks. “He has told his confessor, Delacourt, that if you were to die and the Princess Mary were to die, he would have the throne.”

“By God!” cried the King. “He shall lose his head—for it is his just deserts.”

“That is not all,” went on the Cardinal. “I have learned that he consults a soothsayer, and that he has been told that one day he will mount the throne.”

“And how can he do this? Tell me that. Does he think to go to war…with me!”

“He’s a fool, Your Grace, but not such a fool as that. He knows the people love you and that you have your friends. Soothsayers often practice another trade. I have heard they are often well versed in the art of poison.”

Henry was speechless for a few seconds. Then he burst out: “We’ll have him in the Tower. We’ll have him on the rack. We’ll have the truth from him. By God, his head shall be forfeit for what he has done.”

“Your Grace,” murmured the Cardinal, “we must build up a case against him. This I believe we can do.”

“You mean we can send him to the scaffold?”

“Why should we not, if we can prove him guilty of treason?”

“He would have to be tried before his peers. Forget not, Thomas, that this is Buckingham; ’tis true that there is royal blood in his veins. You think his peers would judge him worthy of the traitors’ death?”

“If the case were strong enough against him.”

“Norfolk would be one of his judges. You know the bonds between them. He and his fellows would be loth to condemn one of such nobility. Had he raised an army against the Crown, that would be another matter. But it would seem that he has done nothing but prate.”

“Against Your Grace!”

“Thomas, I understand you well. You serve me with all your heart. I brought you up, and you have had little but insults from these men. But they are the nobility; they make a shield around the throne. They have certain privileges.”

“Your Grace, I concern myself only with the safety of my master.” The Cardinal snapped his fingers. “I care not that for this shield. Your Grace, I crave pardon but I say this: You know not your strength. All men about the throne should tremble at your displeasure…be they scullions or noble dukes. This could be so. This must be so. You are our lord and our King.”

For a few seconds the two men regarded each other. The Cardinal knew that this was one of the most significant moments of his career.

He was showing the young lion that the golden walls of his cage were only silken strands to be pushed aside when ever he wished. Yet looking at this man of turbulent passions, even then the Cardinal wondered what he had done. But he was vindictive by nature; and from the moment he had seen the greasy water splash his satin robes he had determined at all costs to have his revenge.

THE NEWS SPREAD round the Court.

“This cannot be,” it was whispered. “What has he done, but talk? Who can prove that this and that was said? Who are the witnesses against him? A pack of disgruntled servants! This trial is a warning. Do not forget this is the noble Duke of Buckingham. He will be freed with a pardon and a warning.”

But the King’s anger against Buckingham was intense when he examined the evidence which his Chancellor had put before him.

His face was scarlet as he read the report of Buckingham’s carelessly spoken words. It was infuriating that anyone should dare think such thoughts, let alone express them. And in the hearing of servants, so that those words could be repeated in the streets, in taverns, wherever men congregated! This was treason.

And what care I, thought Henry, if this be a noble duke! Am I not the King?

For the first time he had realized the extent of his power. He was going to show all those about him that none could speak treason against the King with impunity. He was greedy for blood—the blood of any man who dared oppose him. He could shed that blood when and where he wished; he was the supreme ruler.

Norfolk came to him in some distress. Henry had never felt any great affection for Norfolk. The Duke seemed so ancient, being almost fifty years older than the King; his ideas were set in the past, and Henry thought that the old man would have liked to censure him if he dared. He had been young and daring in the days of Henry’s maternal grandfather, Edward IV, but those days of glory were far behind him.

“Well, well?” Henry greeted him testily.

“Your Grace, I am deeply disturbed by the imprisonment of my kinsman, Buckingham.”

“We have all been deeply disturbed by the treason he has sought to spread,” growled the King.

“Your Grace, he has been foolish. He has been careless.”

“Methinks that he has too often repeated his treason to offer the excuse that he spoke in an unguarded moment. This is a plot…a scheme to overthrow the Crown, and there is one word for such conduct; that is treason. And I tell you this, my lord Duke, there is but one sentence which rightminded judges can pronounce on such a man.”

Norfolk was startled. He knew the King was subject to sudden anger, but he had not believed that he could be so vehemently determined on the destruction of one who had been in his intimate circle and known as his friend. And for what reason? Merely a carelessly spoken word repeated by a dissatisfied servant!

Norfolk had never been noted for his tact; he went on. “Your Grace, Buckingham is of the high nobility.”

“I care not how high he be. He shall have justice.”

“Your Grace, he has erred and will learn his lesson. I’ll warrant that after the trial he will be a wiser man.”

“It is a pity that there will be so little time left to him to practice his newfound wisdom,” said the King venomously.

Then Norfolk knew. Henry was determined on the death of Buckingham.

But even so, he could not let the matter end there. He and Buckingham were not only friends but connected by the marriage of his son and Buckingham’s daughter. He thought of the grief in his family if Buckingham should die; moreover he must stand by the rights of the nobility. This was not rebellion against the King; Buckingham had not set out to overthrow the Crown. The King must be made to understand that, powerful as he was, he was not entitled to send the nobility to death because of a careless word.

“Your Grace cannot mean that you demand his life!”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “My lord Norfolk,” he said significantly, “do you also seek to rule this realm?” Norfolk flinched and Henry began to shout: “Get from here…lest you find yourself sharing the fate of your kinsman. By God and all His saints, I will show you, who believe yourselves to be royal, that there is only one King of this country; and when treason stalks, blood shall flow.”

Norfolk bowed low and was glad to escape from the King’s presence. He felt sick at heart. He had received his orders. Buckingham was to be judged guilty by his peers; he was to pay the supreme penalty.

The pleasure-loving boy King was no more; he had been replaced by the vengeful man.

HE STOOD AT THE BAR, the reckless Buckingham, facing the seventeen peers, headed by Norfolk, who were his judges. His arms folded, his head held high, he was ready to throw away his life rather than beg for mercy.

Old Norfolk could not restrain his tears. He wanted to shout: This is madness. Are we going to condemn one of ourselves to the scaffold on the evidence of his servants?

But Norfolk had received his orders; he had looked into those little blue eyes and had seen the blood-lust there. Insults to the King, though carelessly uttered, must be paid for in blood; for the King was all-powerful and the old nobility must realize that.

Calmly Buckingham heard the charges brought against him. He had listened to prophecies of the King’s death and his own ascension to the throne; he had said that he would kill the King; he had many times mentioned the fact that only the King and the Princess Mary stood between him and the throne.

He defended himself against these charges. He pointed out that none but his unworthy servants had been able to speak against him. Was the court going to take the word of disgruntled servants before that of the Duke of Buckingham?

But Wolsey had prepared the case against him skilfully; and moreover all seventeen of his judges knew that the King was demanding a verdict of guilty; and if any of them refused to give the King what he wanted, it would be remembered against them; and it was likely that ere long they would be standing where Buckingham now stood.

The old Duke of Norfolk might weep, but nevertheless when his fellow judges agreed that the prisoner was guilty he read the terrible sentence.

“Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, you are found guilty of treason.” His voice faltered as he went on: “You shall be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution, there to be hanged, cut down alive, your members to be cut off and cast into the fire, your bowels burned before your eyes, your head smitten off, your body to be quartered and divided at the King’s will. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Buckingham seemed less disturbed than Norfolk.

When he was asked if he had anything to say, he replied in a clear, steady voice: “My lord, you have said to me as a traitor should be said unto, but I was never a traitor. Still, my lords, I shall not malign you as you have done unto me. May the eternal God forgive you my death, as I do!” He drew himself to his full height and a scornful expression came into his eyes. “I shall never sue the King for my life,” he went on. “Howbeit, he is a gracious Prince, and more grace may come from him than I desire. I ask you to pray for me.”

They took him thence back to his prison of the Tower, and those who had gathered to watch his progress knew that he was condemned when they saw that the edge of the axe was turned towards him.

MARIA DE SALINAS, Countess of Willoughby, was with the Queen when she heard that the Duke of Norfolk was begging an audience.

Katharine had him brought to her at once, and the old man’s grief distressed her because she guessed at once what it meant.

“I pray you be seated, my lord,” she said. “I fear you bring bad news.”

He gazed at her, and he seemed to be in a state of bewildered misery.

“Your Grace, I have come from the court where I have pronounced the death sentence, for treason, on the Duke of Buckingham.”

“But this is impossible.”

The old Duke shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace. ’Twas so.”

“But to find him guilty of treason…”

“It was the King’s wish.”

“But his peers?”

The Duke lifted a trembling hand in resignation.

Katharine was indignant. She had known Buckingham to be arrogant, to have offended the Cardinal, to have been overproud of his royal connections, but these were venial sins; a noble duke was not condemned to the barbaric traitors’ death for that.

“It is known what influence Your Grace has with the King,” went on Norfolk. “I have come to plead with you to beg him to spare Buckingham’s life. I am certain that this sentence will not be carried out. I am sure that the King means only to warn him. But if Your Grace would but speak to the King…”

“I promise you I shall do so,” said Katharine.

The Duke fell to his knees and taking her hand kissed it.

“Maria,” said Katharine, “send for my lord Surrey that he may look after his father.”

The Duke shook his head. “My son is in Ireland, Your Grace. Dispatched thither on the orders of the Cardinal.” His lips curved ironically.

“The Cardinal doubtless thought to spare him the anxiety of his father-in-law’s trial,” the Queen suggested.

“He sent him away because he thought he might have spoken in his father-in-law’s favor,” Norfolk replied roughly.

Poor old man! thought Katharine. Buckingham is very dear to him and if this terrible sentence is carried out there will be mourning, not only among the Staffords, but the Howards also.

She shivered, contemplating the hideous ceremony of pain and humiliation. They could not do that to a noble duke!

She laid her hand lightly on Norfolk’s shoulder. “Rise, my lord,” she said. “I will speak to the King and implore him to show mercy.”

“Your Grace is good to us,” murmured Norfolk.

When he had gone, Maria looked sorrowfully at her mistress.

“Your Grace…,” she began.

Katharine smiled sadly at her dear friend. “I know what you want to say, Maria. This is a dangerous matter. You want to advise me not to meddle.”

Maria said quickly: “’Tis so.”

“No harm can come to me if I plead for Buckingham. I am at least the King’s wife, Maria.”

Maria did not answer. She was afraid of the new trend of events, afraid of what effect it would have on her mistress.

“I shall go to the King at once,” said Katharine. “I want to put those poor people out of their misery as quickly as possible.”

There was nothing Maria could do; so, as Katharine left her apartment for the King’s, she went to the window and stood looking broodingly out over the gardens.

THE CARDINAL was with the King.

“What now, Kate?” asked Henry, mildly testy.

“I would have a word with Your Grace if you will grant me a few minutes.”

“Say on,” said Henry.

Katharine looked at the Cardinal who bowed and went with reluctance towards the door.

“Henry,” said Katharine, catching her husband’s sleeve, “I want you to show mercy to the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Why so?” he demanded coldly.

“Because I believe that a warning will suffice to make him your very good friend in the future.”

“So we are to allow traitors to live?”

“It was not treason in the accepted form.”

“And what, I pray you, is the accepted form?”

“There was no rebellion. He did not take up arms against you.”

“How can you know what methods he used against me? I believe he was planning to poison me.”

“Henry, he would never do that. He was rash and foolish…but I do not think he would ever commit a crime like that.”

“And what can you know of the schemes of such a rogue?”

“I knew him well. He it was who met me when I first came to England.”

“I tell you this, Madam,” roared the King. “Any who acts treason against me shall pay with his life—be he your dearest friend on Earth.”

“But Henry, he is a noble duke…the highest in the land.”

“So he believed. ’Twas his opinion of himself which brought him to where he is this day.”

“His relations are the most powerful in the land,” persisted Katharine. “His wife, the daughter of Northumberland; the Percys will not forget. His son married to Salisbury’s daughter. This will alienate the Poles. His daughter is married to Norfolk’s son. The Howards will grieve deeply. Then there are the Staffords themselves. Four of our noblest families…”

Henry moved a step nearer to his wife. “I forget none of this,” he said. “And were my own brother—and I had one—guilty of treason, he should suffer a like fate.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands. “Henry, shall a noble duke be taken out and barbarously killed before the eyes of the people!”

“The fate of traitors is no concern of mine. He was judged by his peers and found guilty.”

Meanwhile the Cardinal waited anxiously in the antechamber. He knew that the Queen had come to plead for Buckingham. She must not succeed.

Moreover it was necessary that the Queen herself should learn her lesson from the fate of this man. Once she and the Cardinal had been good friends; but now, since the friendship with France, she had looked on him with suspicion. He had heard himself referred to as a butcher’s boy in her hearing, and she had offered no reprimand to the speaker.

It was not only noble dukes who must be taught that it was unwise to lose the friendship of the Cardinal.

He picked up a sheaf of papers and looked at them. Then with determination he passed through the anteroom into the King’s chamber.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I crave your pardon for the intrusion. An important matter of state requires your attention…”

The Queen looked angry, but that was of small importance as the King was not displeased.

He was saying: “He shall die. But we will show mercy unto him. It shall be the executioner’s axe in place of the sentence which you feel to be an insult to his nobility.”

The Cardinal was not ruffled.

The method mattered little to him, as long as Buckingham died.

ON A BRIGHT MAY DAY the Duke was brought out from his lodging in the Tower to meet his death on the Hill.

There were many to watch this nobleman’s last hour on Earth. There were many to sigh for him and weep for him. He had been arrogant and reckless; he had been harsh to some of his tenants, causing them great hardship with his enclosure laws; but it seemed cruel that this man, who was in his early forties, should have to walk out of his prison to face death on such a bright May morning. His good characteristics were remembered; he was a very religious man and had founded colleges. And now he was to die because he had offended the King and the Cardinal.

He met his death bravely, as all expected he would; and while his body was being taken to its burial place in Austin Friars, among those who thought of him were the King, the Queen and the Cardinal…the Queen with sorrow, the King with righteous indignation, and the Cardinal with deep pleasure which was however pricked by apprehension.

Buckingham would insult him no more, but the Cardinal was too shrewd a man not to know that he had paid a high price for his vengeance.

A subtle change had crept into the King’s demeanor. The lion was no longer couchant. He had risen; he was testing his strength.

And, when he had assessed the full measure of that power, who would be safe? A Queen? A Cardinal?

The Queen’s Enemy

IN HER APARTMENTS AT GREENWICH PALACE THE PRINCESS Mary was being prepared by her women for a ceremonial occasion. They were all very excited and kept telling the little girl that she would be the target of all eyes on this occasion.

She wriggled beneath her headdress which seemed too tight.

“Be careful, my precious one,” said her governess. “Remember, you must walk very slowly and as I have taught you.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “I will remember.”

The women looked at her fondly. She was such a good child, rather too serious perhaps, but always eager to learn her lessons and please those about her.

Six-year-old Mary felt uncomfortable in the stiff gown, but she liked the dazzling jewels which decorated it; she pulled at the gold chain about her neck because it seemed so heavy.

“Careful, my lady. Hands down. That’s right. Let me see the sort of curtsey you will make to your bridegroom when you meet him.”

Mary obediently made a deep curtsey, which was not easy in the heavy gown, and several of the women clapped their hands.

“Does she not look beautiful!” asked one of another.

“She’s the most beautiful and the luckiest Princess in all the world.”

Mary did not believe them, and knew that they were bribing her to behave in such a way that she would be a credit to them.

“What is the Emperor Charles like?” she asked.

“What is he like! He is tall and handsome and the greatest ruler in the world—save only your royal father, of course. And he loves you dearly.”

“How is it possible to love people whom one does not know?”

The child was too clever for them.

“Do you not love the saints?” her governess asked. “And do you know them? Have you seen them and talked with them? Thus it is with the Emperor Charles. He has come all across the seas to hold your hand and promise to marry you.”

The little girl was silent, but there was nothing to fear, because her mother had told her that she was not to go away from her. Being affianced to the Emperor would make no difference at all; they would be together as before, she and her beloved mother.

Mary wished they could be together now, the two of them alone, in the royal nursery, bent over the books while she learned her Latin, and perhaps if her progress pleased her mother, to shut up the books and be allowed to sit at her feet while she told stories of those days when she was a little girl herself in far away Spain. There she had learned lessons in her nursery, but she had had sisters and a brother. How Mary wished that she had sisters and a brother. Perhaps only a brother would suffice. Then her father would not frown so when he remembered she was his only child and a girl.

No, there was no need to feel anxious about this coming ceremony. She had been affianced before. Strangely enough, although last time it had been to a French Prince, the ceremony had taken place in this very Palace; and she was not sure whether she remembered the occasion or her mother had told her about it and she thought she remembered; in any case it was vivid in her mind: Herself a little girl of two in a dress made of cloth of gold, and a cap of black velvet which was covered in dazzling jewels. There had been a man who had taken the place of her bridegroom-to-be because her bridegroom could not be present. He had only just been born, but he was very important because he was the son of the King of France, and her father had wanted to show his friendship for the King of France at that time. A diamond ring had been put on her finger; she was sure she remembered the difficulty she had had in trying to keep it on.

But that was four years ago, and now her father was no longer the friend of the King of France. She often wondered about that baby and whether he had been told that while he was in his cradle he was affianced to her; she wondered what he thought about it.

Now, of course, it might never have taken place; it was of no importance whatsoever.

What she did remember though, was her mother coming into her apartment and taking her in her arms and laughing with her, and weeping a little. “Only because I am so happy, my darling daughter,” she had said.

The reason for the Queen’s happiness was that there would be no French marriage. Instead there was to be a Spanish one. “And this makes me happy,” said the Queen, “because Spain is my country; and you will go there one day and rule that country as the wife of the Emperor. My mother, your grandmother, was once the Queen of Spain.”

So Mary had been happy because her mother was happy; and she shivered with horror to think that she might have been married to the little French boy; then she smiled with pleasure because instead she was to marry the Emperor who was also the King of Spain.

A page came into the apartment with the message for which Mary had been waiting.

“The Queen is ready to receive the Princess.”

Mary was eager, as always, to go to her mother.

The Queen was waiting for her in her own private apartments and when the little girl came in she dismissed everyone so that they could be alone; and this was how Mary longed for it to be. She wished though that she was not wearing these ceremonial clothes, so that she could cling to her mother; she wished that she could sit in her lap and ask for stories of Spain.

The Queen knelt so that her face was on a level with her daughter’s. “Why, you are a little woman today,” she said tenderly.

“And does it not please Your Grace?”

“Call me Mother, sweeting, when we are alone.”

Mary put her hands about her mother’s neck and looked gravely into her eyes. “I wish we could stay together for hours and hours—the two of us and none other.”

“Well, that will be so later.”

“Then I shall think of later all the time the ceremony goes on.”

“Oh no, my darling, you must not do that. This is a great occasion. Soon I shall take you by the hand and lead you down to the hall, and there will be your father and with him the Emperor.”

“But I shall not go away with him yet,” said Mary earnestly.

“Not yet, my darling, not for six long years.”

Mary smiled. Six years was as long as her life had been and therefore seemed for ever.

“You love the Emperor, Mother, do you not?”

“There is no one I would rather see the husband of my dearest daughter than the Emperor.”

“Yet you have seen him but little, Mother. How can you love someone whom you do not know?”

“Well, my darling, I love his mother dearly. She is my own sister; and when we were little she and I were brought up together in the same nursery. She married and went into Flanders, and I came to England and married. But once she came to England with her husband to see me…”

Mary wanted to ask why, if her mother loved her sister so much, she always seemed so sad when she spoke of her; but she was afraid of the answer, for she did not want any sadness on this occasion.

But into the Queen’s eyes there had come a glazed look, and at that moment she did not see the room in Greenwich Palace and her little daughter, but another room in the Alcazar in Madrid in which children played: herself the youngest and the gravest and Juana, in a tantrum, kicking their governess because she had attempted to curb her. In those days Juana had been the wild one; her sister had not known then that later she would be Juana the Mad. Only their mother, watching and brooding, had suffered cruel doubts because she remembered the madness of her own mother and feared that the taint had been passed on to Juana.

But what thoughts were these? Juana was safe in her asylum at Tordesillas, living like an animal, some said, in tattered rags, eating her food from the floor, refusing to have women round her because she was still jealous of them although her husband, on whose account she had been so jealous, was long since dead. And because Juana was mad, her eldest son Charles was the Emperor of Austria and King of Spain and, since the discoveries of Columbus, ruler of new rich lands across the ocean. He was the most powerful monarch in the world—and to this young man Mary was to be affianced.

“I wasn’t here when Charles’s mother came.”

“Oh no, my darling, that was long, long ago, before you were born, before I was married to your father.”

“Yet you had left your mother.”

Katharine took the little face in her hands and kissed it. She hesitated, wondering whether to put aside the question; but, she reasoned, she has to know my history some day, and it is better that she should learn it from me than any other.

“I left my mother to come here and marry your uncle Arthur. He was the King’s elder brother and, had he lived, he would have been the King, and your father the Archbishop of Canterbury. So I married Arthur, and when Arthur died I married your father.”

“What was my uncle Arthur like, Mother?”

“He was kind and gentle and rather delicate.”

“Not like my father,” said the girl. “Did he want sons?”

Those words made the Queen feel that she could have wept. She took her daughter in her arms, not only because she was overcome by tenderness for her, but because she did not want her to see the tears in her eyes.

“He was too young,” she said in a muffled voice. “He was but a boy and he died before he grew to manhood.”

“How old is Charles, Mother?”

“He is twenty-two years old.”

“So old?”

“It is not really very old, Mary.”

“How many years older than I?”

“Now you should be able to tell me that.”

Mary was thoughtful for a few moments; then she said: “Is it sixteen?”

“That is so.”

“Oh Mother, it seems so many.”

“Nonsense, darling; I am more than ten years older than Charles, yet you can be happy with me, can you not?”

“I can be so happy with you, Mother, that I believe I am never really happy when I am away from you.”

The Queen laid her cheek against her daughter’s. “Oh my darling,” she said, “do not love me too much.”

“How can I love you too much?”

“You are right, Mary. It can never be too much. I loved my mother so much that when I left her and when she left this Earth it seemed to me that she was still with me. I loved her so much that I was never alone.”

The child looked bewildered and the Queen reproached herself for this outburst of emotion. She, who to everyone else was so calm and restrained, was on occasions forced to let her emotions flow over this beloved daughter who meant more to her than any other living person.

I frighten the child with my confidences, she thought, and stood up, taking Mary’s hands in hers and smiling down at her.

“There, my love, are you ready?”

“Will you stand beside me all the time?”

“Perhaps not all the time, but I shall be there watching. And when you greet him I shall be beside you. Listen. I can hear the trumpets. That means they are close. We should be waiting to greet them. Come. Give me your hand. Now, darling, smile. You are very happy.”

“Are you happy too, Mother?”

“Indeed, yes. One of the dearest wishes of my heart is about to be fulfilled. Now we are ready to greet my nephew, who will be my son when he is the husband of my beloved daughter.”

She held the little hand firmly in hers; and together they descended to the hall for the ceremonial greeting.

AS THE ROYAL CAVALCADE came from Windsor to Greenwich the people massed in their thousands to watch their King pass by. Loudly they cheered him, for he was a magnificent sight on horseback, and beside him the Emperor appeared a somewhat poor figure. The King of England was over six feet tall, his skin was pink and smooth as a boy’s, his blue eyes were bright and clear, and he glowed with good health, so that in comparison the Emperor looked pallid and unhealthy. His teeth were prominent and none too white, and he breathed through his mouth which was perpetually ajar; his aquiline nose had a pinched look and the only color in his face was the blue of his eyes. He was serious, whereas the King of England was gay; he smiled faintly while Henry roared forth his good humor.

But he seemed happy to be in England, and Henry was clearly pleased with him because of the contrast they made and the attention which was therefore called to his own many physical perfections.

As they rode along Henry was thinking of the masques and pageants with which he would impress this young man; but Charles was thinking of the loan he must try to wring from the English. As his father had been, he was perpetually in need of funds to maintain his vast Empire, and in his struggle with the King of France he needed money to pay his mercenaries.

He knew that he would have to pay a price for English gold and English support, and had at last decided that he would accept betrothal to the Princess Mary. He had come to this decision with some reluctance—not because he was against an English match, not that he did not believe the child to be unusually accomplished; but it was distressing to contemplate her age and that he could not hope for an heir until at least eight years had passed. However, there was nothing to be done but accept the inevitable as graciously as he could, for he was fully aware that alliance with England was not only desirable but a necessity.

So as they rode along he listened to the King’s conversation, laughed at his jokes and gave an impression to all who saw them that they were the best of friends.

In the cavalcade rode the Cardinal and, as always, his retinue was as magnificent as that of the King. He was wearing his red robes of taffety this day—the finest obtainable—and about his neck hung a tippet of sables; borne before him was the great seal, and one of the noblemen, whom he had deigned to take into his household, carried his Cardinal’s hat on a cushion and was bareheaded to indicate the respect he had for it; behind him rode other gentlemen of his household and his higher servants in their red and gold livery.

Wolsey was uneasy during that ride. He felt that since the death of Buckingham the King had taken too great an interest in state affairs. He was inclined to meddle and he did not always want to follow in that direction in which Wolsey would have led him.

The Cardinal was no more sure of this quiet young man than he was of the flamboyant François. In fact he felt that it would be necessary to be even more wary of the Emperor. François was dashing, bold, reckless and lecherous; and a shrewd statesman could often guess which turning he would take. But this pale, serious young man, who was somewhat hesitant in speech and had an air of humility—which Wolsey knew to be entirely false—might be unpredictable and by far the shrewdest ruler of the three who were now so important in Europe.

Charles had had the foresight to recognize that, if he were to consolidate the alliance he wished for, he must first placate Wolsey, and for that reason he had promised the Cardinal a considerable “pension.” The thought of vast sums being paid to him from the Imperial coffers was sweet, but some promises were made to be broken; and Wolsey was not certain whether Charles was to be relied on. He had also promised what was more important still: to use his influence at the Papal election, for the great goal of the Cardinal was the Papal crown since, possessing that, he would stand apart from kings, a ruler in his own right. He yearned for that crown.

There had been a disappointment early that year when Pope Leo X had died and a Papal election had taken place. Wolsey had felt that his chances of election were slender, but the promise of Imperial favor had sent his hopes soaring. He received only seven votes, and Adrian VI was elected.

This was not such a bitter disappointment as it might have been, for the Cardinal did not believe Adrian would live long and it seemed certain that another election would be held before many months had passed. If by that time Wolsey could show himself to be the true friend of the Emperor it might be that the promise of help would this time be fulfilled.

Perhaps he had no reason to feel disappointed; he was rising higher and higher in his own country and only last year Henry had presented him with the Abbey of St. Albans, doubtless to repay him for the money from his own pocket which he had spent on the recent embassy to Calais, whither he had gone to help settle differences between François and the Emperor.

And now the friendship with Charles was being strengthened and a treaty had been signed at Windsor in which Henry and Charles agreed on an invasion of France before the May of 1524.

This was where the King had shown himself inclined to meddle. Wolsey himself was not eager to go to war. War to him meant expense, for even with victory the spoils were often scarcely worth the effort made to obtain them. But war to Henry meant the glory of conquest, and it was as irresistible to him as one of the games he played with such élan at a pageant.

Still, a goodly pension from the Emperor, the promise of Imperial support at the next Papal election, and the need to fall in with the King’s wishes—they were very acceptable, thought Thomas Wolsey as he rode on to Greenwich.

AT THE DOOR of the Palace stood the Queen holding the hand of her daughter.

The Emperor dismounted and went towards them. He knelt before his aunt and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently.

Mary looked on, and she thought she loved the Emperor—firstly because he was so delighted to see her mother and looked at her so fondly; secondly because her mother was so pleased with him; and thirdly because there was nothing in that pale face to alarm a six-year-old girl.

Now he had turned to greet Mary. He took her hand and stooped low to kiss it; and as he did so there was a cheer from all those watching.

The King could not allow them to keep the center of the stage too long and was very quickly beside them, taking his daughter in his arms to the great delight of all who watched, particularly the common people. They might admire the grace of Charles, but they liked better the King’s homely manners. Henry knew it, and he was delighted because he was now the center of attention and admiration.

So they went into the Palace, Mary walking between her father and mother while the Emperor was at the Queen’s side.

Katharine felt happy to have with her one who was of her own family, although Charles did not resemble his mother in the least, nor was he, with his pallid looks, like his father who had been known as Philip the Handsome.

A momentary anxiety came to Katharine as she wondered whether Charles resembled his father in any other way. Philip had found women irresistible, and with his Flemish mistresses had submitted the passionate Juana to many an indignity, which conduct it was believed had aggravated her madness.

But surely there was no need to fear that her daughter would be submitted to similar treatment by this serious young man.

“I am so happy to have you with us,” she told her nephew.

“You cannot be more delighted than I am,” replied Charles in his somewhat hesitant way; but Katharine felt that the slight stammer accentuated his sincerity.

Henry said: “After the banquet our daughter shall show Your Imperial Highness how skilful she is at the virginals.”

“It would seem I have a most accomplished bride,” replied Charles and when, glancing up at him, Mary saw he was smiling at her with kindliness, she knew he was telling her not to be afraid.

So into the banqueting hall they went and sat down with ceremony, when good English food was served.

The King looked on in high good humor. He was pleased because he and the Emperor were going to make war on François, and he had sworn vengeance on the King of France ever since he, Henry, had challenged him to a wrestling match only to be ignobly thrown to the ground by that lean, smiling giant.

He was even pleased with Katharine on this occasion. She had played her part in bringing about the Spanish alliance; for there was no doubt that the Emperor was more ready to enter into alliance with an England whose Queen was his aunt than he would otherwise have been.

Henry caught the brooding eye of his Cardinal fixed on the pale young man.

Ha! he thought, Wolsey is uncertain. He is not enamored of our nephew. He looks for treachery in all who are not English. ’Tis not a bad trait in a Chancellor.

He thought of how Wolsey had bargained when they had made the treaty. A good servant, he mused, and one devoted to the interests of his King and country.

Enough of solemnity, he decided, and clapped his hands. “Music!” he cried. “Let there be music.”

So the minstrels played, and later Mary sat at the virginals and showed her fiancé how skilful she was.

“Is it possible that she is but six years old!” cried Charles.

And the King roared his delight.

“I think,” said the Emperor, “that with one so advanced it should not be necessary for me to wait six years for her. Let me take her with me. I promise you she shall have all the care at my court that you could give her at yours.”

Katharine cried in alarm: “No, no. She is too young to leave her home. Six years is not so long, nephew. You must wait six years.”

Charles gave her his slow, kindly smile. “I am in your hands,” he said.

Mary who had been listening to this conversation had grown numb with terror. Six years was a lifetime, but he wanted to take her now. This young man no longer seemed so kindly; he represented a danger. For the first time in her life she became aware that she might be taken from her mother’s side.

Katharine, who was watching her, noticed her alarm and knew the cause. She said: “It is past the Princess’s bed time. The excitement of Your Excellency’s visit has exhausted her. I ask your leave for her to retire to her apartments.”

Charles bowed his head and Henry murmured: “Let her women take her to bed, and we will show our nephew some of our English dances.”

So Mary was taken away while the royal party went into the ballroom; and soon the King was dancing and leaping to the admiration of all.

Katharine slipped away when the revelry was at its height and went to her daughter’s apartment, where she found Mary lying in her bed, her cheeks still flushed, her eyes wide open.

“Still awake, my darling?” Katharine gently reproved.

“Oh, Mother, I knew you would come.”

Katharine laid a hand on the flushed forehead. “You are afraid you will be sent away.”

Mary did not answer but her small body had begun to tremble.

“It shall not be, my little one,” went on the Queen. “The Emperor said…”

“He meant it not. It was to compliment you that he spoke those words. It is what is called diplomacy. Have no fear, you shall not leave me for a long, long time…not until you are old enough to want to go.”

“Mother, how could I ever want to go from you?”

Katharine lifted the little hand and kissed it.

“When you grow up you will love others better than your Mother.”

“I never shall. I swear I never shall.”

“You are too young to swear eternal love, my darling. But I am here now I slipped away from the ball because I knew you would be fretting.”

Katharine lay on the bed and held the child in her arms.

“Oh Mother, you love me, do you not?”

“With all my heart, sweeting.”

“And I love you with all of mine. I never want to go away from England, Mother…unless you come with me.”

“Hush, my sweetheart. All will be well. You will see.”

“And you will not let the Emperor take me away?”

“No…not for years and years…”

The child was reassured; and the Queen lay still holding her daughter fondly in her arms, thinking of a young girl in Spain who had been afraid and had told her mother that she wished to stay with her forever.

This is the fate of royal children, she told herself.

The comfort of her mother’s arms soothed Mary and soon she slept. Then Katharine gently disengaged herself; the Queen must not stay too long from the ball.

THE KING was momentarily contented. He was at war with France and he dreamed of being one day crowned in Rheims. His temper was good. He spent more time than he ever had engaged on matters of state, and the Cardinal, seated beside him, explaining when the need arose to do so, was feeling certain twinges of uneasiness.

He had been forced to support the war somewhat against his wishes; yet he was too wily to let anyone know that he was against it. The King wished it and Wolsey had no intention of arousing Henry’s anger by seeming lukewarm about a project which so pleased the King.

Henry had inherited the wealth which his miserly father had so carefully accumulated; but he had spent lavishly and already the treasury was alarmingly depleted.

“Nothing,” said the Cardinal, “absorbs wealth as quickly as war. We shall need money if we are to succeed in France.”

The King waved a plump hand. “Then I am sure there is no one who can raise it more ably than my good Chancellor.”

So be it, thought Wolsey. But the levying of taxes was a delicate matter and he suspected that the people who were obliged to pay them would blame, not their glittering charming King, but his apparently mean and grasping Chancellor.

There was talk of the King’s going to France with his army, but although Henry declared his eagerness to do this, nothing came of it. His adventures abroad with his armies in the earlier years of his reign had not been distinguished although he had thought they had at the time. Much as Henry would have enjoyed riding through the streets of Paris, a conqueror, and even more so returning home to England as the King who had brought France to the English dominions, he was now wise enough to realize that even hardened campaigners did not always succeed in battle, and that he was a novice at the game of war. Failure was something he could not bear to contemplate. Therefore he felt it was safer to wage war on the enemy with a strip of channel between himself and the armies.

François Premier was a King who rode into battle recklessly; but then François was a reckless fellow. He might win his successes, but he also had to face his defeats.

So Henry put aside the plans for a personal visit to the battlefields. But war was an exciting game played from a distance, and Wolsey must find the money to continue it.

THESE WERE HAPPY DAYS for the Queen. Her husband and her nephew were allies and they stood together against the King of France whom she believed to be more of a menace to Christianity than the Turk. François, already notorious for his lecherous way of life, must surely come to disaster; and since her serious-minded nephew had the power of England beside him she was certain that Charles was invincible.

She had her daughter under the same roof with her and she herself supervised her lessons.

Mary was docile and happy as long as her mother was with her. The King left Katharine alone, it was true, but she believed that even he had ceased to fret for a son, and accepted the fact that their daughter Mary was heir to the throne; and one day when she married Charles she would be the Empress of Austria and the Queen of Spain as well as the Queen of England. That matter was happily settled.

She was constantly seeking the best method of teaching her daughter, and one day she summoned Thomas More to her that she might discuss with him the manner in which his own daughters were educated.

As usual she found great pleasure in his company. She talked a little about the war but she saw that the subject was distressing to him—which was to be expected, for he was a man to whom violence was abhorrent—so she turned the conversation to his family, which she knew could not fail to please him.

She told him of her desire that the Princess Mary should receive the best education in all subjects which would be of use to her, and Thomas said: “Has your Grace thought of consulting Juan Luis Vives?”

“I had not until this moment,” she said, “but now that you mention him I believe he is the man who could help me in the education of the Princess. I pray you, bring him with you and come to see me at this hour tomorrow.” When Thomas had left her she wondered why she had not thought of Vives before. He had so much to recommend him. In the first place he was one of her own countrymen and she felt that, as her daughter was after all half Spanish and would be the wife of the King of Spain, there must be a Spanish angle to her education.

Both Erasmus and Sir Thomas More had called her attention to Juan Luis Vives, and those two were men whose intellectual abilities had won the admiration of the world. Vives was a man, said Thomas, forced by poverty to hide his light under a bushel. He was living at Bruges in obscurity; he had published very little of his writings and few people had ever heard of him. Erasmus would bear him out, for Vives had studied Greek with him at Louvain. It was Thomas’s opinion that Vives should be brought to England and encouraged by the Court, for there was little his native Valencia or the city of Bruges could offer him.

Katharine, out of her great admiration for Thomas, had immediately sent money to Vives with a letter in which she explained her interest in his work. It had not been difficult to persuade Henry—with the help of Thomas More—that Vives would be an ornament to the English Court; and Henry, who, when he was not masking or engaged in sport, liked occasionally to have conversation with men of intellect (François Premier boasted that his Court was the most intellectual in Europe and Henry was eager to rival it) very willingly agreed that Vives should be given a yearly pension.

Thus in gratitude Vives dedicated his book, Commentaries on Saint Augustine to Henry, which so delighted the King that he called him to England to lecture at the college which Wolsey had recently founded at Oxford.

This had happened some years before, but Vives made a point of spending a certain part of each year in England with his friends and patrons; and it so happened that he was in London at this time. So the very next day he arrived in the company of Thomas More for an interview with the Queen regarding her daughter’s education.

Katharine received them in her private apartment and they sat together at the window overlooking the Palace gardens as they talked.

“You know, Master Vives, why I have commanded you to come to me?” asked Katharine.

“My friend has given me some idea of what Your Grace desires,” Vives answered.

“My daughter’s education is a matter which is of the utmost importance to me. Tell me how you think this should be arranged.”

“Sir Thomas and I are of one opinion on the education of young people,” said Vives.

“It is true,” added Thomas. “We both believe that it is folly to presume that a girl’s education is of less importance than that of a boy.”

“It is but natural,” went on Vives, “that an intelligent girl may come to a better understanding of Latin and Greek than a boy who is not possessed of the same intelligence.”

“I would have my daughter educated in scholarly subjects, but at the same time I wish her to learn the feminine arts,” answered Katharine.

“In that I am in full agreement with Your Grace,” said Vives.

“What more charming sight,” mused Thomas, “than a girl at her embroidery?”

“Or even at the spinning wheel working on wool and flax,” added Vives. “These are excellent accomplishments, but Your Grace has not summoned me to discuss them.”

“I am going to appoint you my daughter’s tutor,” the Queen told Vives, “and I wish you immediately to draw up a list of books for her to read.”

Vives bowed his head. “I will go to my task with the utmost pleasure, and I can immediately say that I think the Princess should read the New Testament both night and morning, and also certain selected portions of the Old Testament. She must become fully conversant with the gospels. She should, I believe also study Plutarch’s Enchiridion, Seneca’s Maxims, and of course Plato and Cicero.” He glanced at his friend. “I suggest that Sir Thomas More’s Utopia would provide good reading.”

The Queen smiled to see the look of pride on Thomas’s face thinking that his few vanities made him human, and therein lay the secret of his lovable nature.

“And what of the Paraphrase of Erasmus?” asked Thomas quickly.

“That also,” agreed Vives. “And I think the Princess should not waste her time on books of chivalry and romance. Any stories she might wish to read for her entertainment should either be sacred or historical, so that her time is not wasted in idleness. The only exception I would make is the story of Griselda, which contains such an excellent example of patience that the Princess might profit from it.”

Katharine said: “I can see that you will be an excellent tutor, but we must remember that she is but a child. Her life must not be all study. There must be some pleasure.”

Vives looked surprised; to him the greatest pleasure was in study, and he believed the Princess to be the most fortunate of children, having such a plan of study made for her.

Thomas laughed. “I’ll swear the Lady Mary, who so loves her music, will find time to escape to it from her books now and then. I know my own daughters….” (Katharine noticed the look of pride when he spoke of his daughters, which was even more marked than when he spoke of his books) “…are proficient in Greek and Latin but they find time to be merry.”

“Yours is a merry household,” answered the Queen.

And she found that she was comparing the King and Thomas More—two fathers who could not be more unlike. She had seen Thomas in company with his eldest daughter, Margaret, had seen them walk, their arms entwined, had heard the girl’s unrepressed laughter ringing out as she scolded her father in an affectionate way. It was impossible to imagine Mary and Henry thus.

What a fortunate man, this Thomas More; what a fortunate family!

“There is much merriment at Court,” answered Thomas gravely.

But he understood of course—he was a man who would always understand—and a great tenderness touched his face; the Queen knew that it expressed the compassion he felt for her little daughter, who would study alone—not as Thomas’s family did—and would be taught by the somewhat stern though excellent Vives instead of merry Thomas.

Somewhere from the grounds she heard the sound of laughter, and glancing down saw a group of young people. They made a charming picture on the grass in their brightly colored clothes and there was one girl among them who appeared to be the center of attraction. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, somewhat sallow of complexion and, although not a beauty, certainly striking. She seemed to have more vitality than any other member of the group and was quite clearly taking the attention of the young men from the other girls who were present.

“A high-spirited party,” said the Queen; and Vives and Thomas More glanced out of the window. “That girl seems familiar but I do not recall who she is. Surely that is Thomas Wyatt with her—and Henry Percy.”

“The girl is Thomas Boleyn’s daughter, Your Grace,” Thomas told her.

Then Katharine knew of whom the girl reminded her. It was Mary Boleyn. The resemblance was slight, otherwise she would have realized immediately. This girl had an air of dignity and assurance, and pride too—all qualities in which Mary had been dismally lacking.

“This is the second girl, I believe,” said the Queen.

“Recently home from France on account of the war,” explained Thomas.

“Doubtless her father is looking for a place at Court for her,” said the Queen.

“He will find it,” replied Thomas, “not only for Anne but for his George also.”

“I trust,” said the Queen, “that this Anne is not like her sister in her morals, and that George does not bear too strong a resemblance to his father.”

“From what I have seen of them,” Thomas answered, “I should say they are a dazzling pair.”

“Well then, I suppose we must resign ourselves,” said the Queen with a smile, “for it seems the Boleyns have come to Court.”

THE CARDINAL had shut himself in his private apartments at Hampton Court; seated at the window from which he could see the river, he was waiting for a message which was all-important to him, for it would tell him whether his greatest ambition was realized or not.

The pale November sun shone wanly on the river. He thought: I shall miss Hampton Court; I shall miss England.

He would miss his family too; but he would find means of seeing them. He would have young Thomas in Rome with him, because he would very quickly overcome all difficulties. He thought of Rodrigo Borgia, Alexander VI, who, while living in the Vatican, had yet arranged to have his children with him; for a Pope was as powerful as a King; and once he was supreme in the Vatican, the frowns of unpredictable Henry would be of little moment to him.

Yet, he mused, I shall not forget my own country, and it will be a good day for England when an Englishman takes the Papal Crown.

How long the waiting seemed! He would see nobody. He had told his secretaries that he was to be disturbed only by messengers from abroad because he was working on important matters of state.

But soon the messenger must come.

He began to pace the apartment because he could no longer bear to stare at the river.

His chances were good. On the death of Leo X when Adrian VI had been elected, his hopes had been slender. Why should the Cardinals have elected a comparative newcomer to their ranks, an Englishman who had not previously worked closely with the Vatican? That election had taken place at the beginning of the year, and Adrian’s tenure of the Papacy had indeed been a short one for in September news had come to England of his death, and for the next two months the Cardinal had given less thought to affairs in England; his mind was on what would happen at the next conclave.

Since the election of Adrian and his death the Emperor Charles had visited England, and he had become more aware than he had been before of the important part played by the Cardinal in the foreign policy of England. To win Wolsey’s approval of the alliance he had offered large sums of money, a pension no less; but Wolsey had begun to grow uneasy because none of these sums of money had yet been paid; and he could get no satisfaction as to when they would be from Louis de Praet, who was now Charles’s Ambassador in England.

Money was needed to prosecute the war, was the excuse, and Wolsey was angry to contemplate the riches which were being squandered on useless battlefields in Europe, riches which could have been used not only to make the country prosperous but would have enabled him to increase his personal treasures.

But there was one concession which Charles could make and would cost him little in money; and this was what the Cardinal needed more than anything else in the world: His influence at the Conclave. The powerful Emperor, of whom every Cardinal would stand in awe, had but to make it known that he wished to see an English Pope in the Vatican and that those who depended on his bounty were to give their vote to Cardinal Wolsey, and the Papal crown would be won.

This the Emperor could do. He would do it. He must…since he had failed to supply the pension.

“If he does not…,” said Wolsey aloud, but he did not continue.

He would not face the possibility of failure. The Emperor could and would.

The Cardinal’s unpopularity throughout the country was growing, and people looked on sullenly when he paraded the streets on his way to Westminster. He went in all his splendid pomp, but that did nothing to appease the people’s anger, but rather increased it. They were openly murmuring against him.

He had always known, during his brilliant career, when it was time to move on, so now he was aware that he had reached the pinnacle of power in England, and that it was time to take the final step to Rome. It must be now, for there might not be another opportunity.

This war will end in failure, he thought. And when there are failures, scapegoats are sought. Who would make a better scapegoat, in the eyes of the people, than the opulent Cardinal?

He was alert because he had seen a boat pulling up at the privy stairs, and he guessed it could be his messenger.

He tried to curb his impatience; he was so eager to go down to meet the man, but, as much as he longed to, he must remember his position and his dignity.

How long it seemed to take for him to cross the park! Now he had entered the palace. Soon the usher would come to his door.

I must be calm, he told himself. I must show no excitement, no eagerness.

Cavendish was at the door.

“A messenger is without, Your Eminence. He asks that he may be brought at once to your presence.”

“A messenger?” He was sure the beating of his heart disturbed the red satin of his robe. “Let him wait…no, on second thoughts I will see him now.”

Cavendish bowed low. Now he would be traversing the eight rooms to that one in which the messenger waited…the all-important messenger. It seemed an hour before he was standing on the threshold of the room.

“You have a message for me?” he said.

“Your Eminence,” said the man and held out a roll of parchment.

As Wolsey took it it seemed to burn his fingers, but still he restrained himself.

“You may go now to the kitchens. Tell them I sent you and you are to be refreshed.”

The man bowed and was gone; so at last he was alone.

He tore at the parchment, his trembling fingers impeding him; he felt dizzy and it was some seconds before he read the words which danced like black demons on the parchment scroll.

He stared at them and tried to force them by his dominant will to reform themselves into what he wished to read.

But of what use was that? The result was there for him to see and there was nothing he could do to alter it.

“Cardinal de’ Medici has been elected the new Pope of Rome, Clement VII.”

Never since the days of his obscurity had he known a defeat like this. Disappointed he had been when Adrian was elected; but then he had been sure that there would shortly be another conclave, and he had needed the time to consolidate his forces.

But when would he have another chance? Perhaps never.

This was the darkest moment of his life so far. He had come such a long way; he could not believe in failure. Was he to fail with the very peak of achievement in sight? It seemed so.

Then a burning rage took possession of him. It was directed against one man—a sly pallid youth who had promised so much and done so little, who had seemed perhaps a little simple in his humility. But there was no real humility behind those mild blue eyes. A wily statesman lurked there, a statesman who believed he could best outwit his rivals by deceiving them with their belief in his own incompetence.

Wolsey spoke softly to himself: “The Emperor has done this. He has refused me the Papal crown as he has the pensions he promised me. He shall regret it, as all those shall who become the enemies of Thomas Wolsey.”

ALL THROUGH THE WINTER Wolsey successfully hid his rancor against the Emperor while he was waiting for his opportunity. Determined to break the friendship between Henry and Charles, he kept a sharp watch on Katharine for, since her nephew was his enemy, she must be also.

He asked the King’s permission to introduce a new woman to the Queen’s intimate circle, and Henry, delighted to do his Chancellor a favor, agreed that the woman should become one of the Queen’s maids of honor.

Katharine did not like the woman, but she was enjoying her new peaceful existence too much to protest. She need not see much of her; and in any case she was so completely wrapped up in her daughter that she had little time for anything or anyone else. Vives’s curriculum was certainly a strenuous one and sometimes she thought Mary spent too much time in study; however the little girl was a willing pupil and, to help her, Katharine herself studied with her and commanded some of the ladies of the Court to do likewise.

Being so pleasantly engaged she scarcely noticed the woman and thus gave her excellent opportunities for hiding herself when the Spanish Ambassador called and had conversations with the Queen; nor was it difficult to find a means of conveying those letters, which the Queen wrote to her nephew, to Wolsey before they were sent to Spain.

As for the Cardinal, he had always been able to wait for revenge and, as he had never favored the Spanish policy and had always thought that alliance with the French would be a better alternative, he began to plan to this end.

The winter passed; there were good reports of the progress of the war, but no material gains came the way of the English; and the King preferred to forget what was happening on the Continent in the Christmas and New Year Revels.

During these Katharine was aware on several occasions of Thomas Boleyn’s daughter Anne who always seemed to be in the center of a merry and admiring group, with either Wyatt or Henry Percy at her side. Katharine had noticed the King, glowering at these young people as though their high spirits annoyed him. Could it be that he was angry because he was no longer quite so young; was he tiring of pageants and masques?

ALL THROUGH THE SPRING and summer there was news of the war, but none of it good. Wolsey was trying to raise money; the Emperor was still making promises to pay, not only what he had borrowed, but Wolsey’s pension.

That is money we shall likely never see, thought Wolsey; but he did not tell the King this because Henry was at the moment eager to maintain his alliance with Charles, and his hatred of François was as strong as ever.

One summer’s day Dr. Linacre, the King’s physician, begged an audience of the Queen, and when he came into her presence he brought a bouquet of beautiful roses.

Katharine congratulated him warmly because she knew that he had recently brought this rose to England, and had succeeded in making it grow in English soil.

The doctor was delighted and as he bowed low before her Katharine smiled at his enthusiasm and held out a hand to take the roses.

“They are beautiful,” she cried.

“I knew Your Grace would think so. I have come to ask permission of you and the King to present you with trees I have grown.”

“I am sure His Grace will be delighted.”

“I had doubts that they would grow in our soil. Our climate is so different from that of Damascus.”

“And you have succeeded magnificently. I know the King will be as pleased as I am to accept these trees.”

“I have called it the Damask Rose,” said the doctor.

“An excellent name, and so explicit.”

She was still admiring the roses when the King entered the apartment. The peaceful atmosphere was immediately disturbed for the King’s face was of that faintly purplish tinge which nowadays indicated anger, and his eyes ice-blue, his mouth tight.

“Your Grace,” began the doctor, who could think of nothing but the pleasure his roses gave him and, he believed, must give all those who looked at them, “I have been showing the Queen the new Damask Rose.”

“Very pleasant,” said the King shortly.

“Dr. Linacre wishes to present us with trees too,” said the Queen.

“They will be some of the first to be planted in this country, Your Grace,” went on the doctor. “I shall count it an honor…”

“We thank you,” said the King. He took one of the roses in his hand and studied it, but Katharine knew that he gave it little attention. “It is indeed beautiful. We accept the trees. They shall be tended with care, and I am sure give us pleasure for many years to come.”

The doctor bowed and asked the Queen’s permission to take some of the roses to the Princess Mary. Katharine gave that permission willingly and the doctor took his leave.

When he had gone, Henry walked to the window and stood glowering out.

Katharine knew that it was on occasions like this when his dogs and all wise men and women kept their distance from him, but she was his wife and must know what disturbed him, so she asked: “Does aught ail you, Henry?”

He turned and she noticed how his lower lip jutted out.

“Oh, ’tis naught but the folly of young Percy.”

“Northumberland’s son?”

“Yes, Henry Percy. The young fool has been presumptuous enough to promise marriage to one of the girls of the Court.”

“And you cannot grant permission for this marriage?”

“Northumberland’s is one of the most noble families in the land,” growled Henry.

“Is the girl whom he has chosen so lowly?”

“She is not of his rank.”

“So far below him then?”

“It is Thomas Boleyn’s girl.”

“Oh?” The Queen thought of the girl as she had seen her about the Court—a flamboyant personality, one made to attract attention to herself, decidedly French in manners and style of dressing. Indeed since the beginning of the French wars, when the girl had come to England, fashions had been changing and becoming more French, which was strange when it was considered that the English were at war with that country. “I have noticed her often,” went on the Queen. “She seems to be one who attracts attention to herself. I have seen Percy with her and Wyatt also.”

“Wyatt is married so he could not make a fool of himself,” muttered the King.

“Thomas Boleyn has risen in your favor in the last years, Henry. Is the girl so very much below Percy?”

“Come, come, he is the eldest son of Northumberland. His father will never consent to the match.”

“But the girl’s mother is a Howard and…”

Henry made an irritable gesture, wriggling his shoulders like a petulant boy. “Northumberland is coming to Court to forbid his son to have anything to do with the girl. Indeed she is pledged already to marry the son of Piers Butler. As to Percy, he is to marry Shrewsbury’s girl—Mary Talbot…a suitable match.”

Katharine stared sadly before her. She was sorry for the lovers.

“I thought the Boleyn girl to be well educated, and she has a certain dignity.”

The King turned on her angrily. “’Tis a most unsuitable match. The Cardinal has already reprimanded that young fool Percy and made him see his folly. ’Tis a pity he ever took service with the Cardinal, since it has brought him into close contact with the girl.”

“Percy will be docile,” said the Queen. She remembered him as she had last seen him at the side of that vital, glowing girl, and she had seen what a contrast they made—she so full of life, he so gentle, weak almost. She was certain there would be no rebellion from Percy.

“He had better be,” said the King. “In any case he’s banished from Court and has been ordered not to see the girl again. His duty now is to marry Mary Talbot as soon as possible, and we shall see that that is done.”

“Ah well, Henry, then the matter will be settled. But I am surprised that you should feel so strongly about it.”

“You are surprised!” The King’s eyes were fierce. “Let me tell you that the welfare of the young people at my Court is my greatest concern.”

“I know it well.”

The King strode from her apartment; and she continued to wonder why he should have been so incensed by such a trivial matter.

She saw Anne Boleyn a few days later, and all the sparkle seemed to have gone out of her. She was dejected and sullen.

Poor girl! pondered the Queen. She is heartbroken at the loss of her lover.

She wondered whether to send for her and offer her comfort; but decided that would be unwise, and tantamount to acting against the wishes of the King.

A week passed and she remembered that she had not seen the girl; so she asked one of her women if Anne Boleyn was still at Court.

“No, Your Grace,” was the answer, “she has returned to Hever Castle on the King’s command.”

Banished from Court! And simply because she accepted Percy’s offer of marriage.

The King’s anger was unaccountable.

AS THE CARDINAL bent over the documents on his table his usher entered and told him that a merchant of Genoa was craving an audience with His Eminence.

“What is his business?” asked the Cardinal.

“He would tell me nothing, Eminence, except that he had merchandise to show you which he would show no other, and that he felt sure you would be willing to grant him an interview if you would but look at the nature of the articles he has to lay before you.”

Wolsey was thoughtful. Was he right when he fancied there was a hint of subtlety in the merchant’s words? What was the nature of the merchandise he wished to show? Could it be information—secret information?

A year ago he would have had the merchant told that he might call again; since his defeat at the Papal election he had added that to his caution which he had subtracted from his dignity.

“Bring the man to me,” he said.

Cavendish retired and returned in a few moments with a dark-skinned man who carried a bag in a manner to suggest that what it contained was very precious indeed.

“You may leave,” Wolsey told Cavendish; and as soon as he was alone with the Genoese, the man set down his bag and said: “My lord Cardinal, I am not merely a merchant. I come on behalf of one who is eager to negotiate with you.”

“And who is that?”

“The Duchesse of Savoy.”

The Cardinal was silent. He knew that in truth this man was a messenger from François Premier, because, in everything François did, his mother, Louise of Savoy, was firmly behind him. Therefore if this man did indeed come from the Duchesse, it was tantamount to coming from the King of France.

At last Wolsey spoke. “For what purpose are you here?”

“My lady Duchesse knows full well the perfidy of the Emperor, which Your Eminence has so recently had reason to deplore. She believes that England would be happier in friendship with the King of France than with this perfidious Emperor. She knows that the King of England is deeply involved with the Emperor, that the Princess Mary is the Emperor’s betrothed; but she feels that a greater understanding could be possible between France and England if Your Eminence and she were friends. She sends you letters which I bring to you; and if it should please Your Eminence to answer these letters, your reply can be safely trusted to my care.”

“Your credentials?” asked the Cardinal.

The merchant opened his bag and produced papers which Wolsey studied.

These told him that he was in the presence of Giovanni Joachino Passano, a man whom he could trust; Passano was in England as a merchant and would carry on that trade. If the Cardinal could find lodgings for him it would make their meetings easier to arrange and he would be always at his disposal as the go-between for correspondence between France and England.

The Cardinal was thoughtful.

He was determined to end the war, the cessation of which was necessary for England’s solvency; he was equally determined to show the Emperor that he could not neglect his promise to Thomas Wolsey with impunity. Secret communications with France would be useful at this moment.

“I shall lodge you in London with a servant of mine in whom I have the utmost trust,” he said. “As a merchant of Genoa it will be understood that you are constantly travelling between London and the Continent. I shall study these papers you have brought to me and it may be that I shall wish you to carry my answers to the Duchesse.”

“If that is so, Your Eminence, I shall be at your service.”

“Let me see the articles you have brought with you to sell.”

For the next ten minutes the Cardinal examined the exquisite cloth which the merchant showed him; then he summoned one of his pages and told him to send in a certain servant, one who did not live in the Cardinal’s intimate entourage but had his lodgings in London.

When this man arrived he said to him: “Here is Giovanni Joachino Passano, a merchant from Genoa, who has brought me rich cloth. I wish him to return to Genoa in due course to bring me more, but for the time being he needs lodgings in London. Take him into your house, that he may be near at hand when I wish to give him my orders.”

The servant was delighted to be so selected and assured the Cardinal that the Genoese merchant should have the best room in his house, and all the respect deserved by one whose merchandise pleased the Cardinal.

Wolsey nodded his approval in a manner which implied good services would not be forgotten.

And so the agent of Louise of Savoy—who was naturally the servant of François Premier—had his lodgings in London; and the Cardinal often called him to Hampton Court, where they would remain together and alone, sometimes for hours at a time.

THE KING CAME riding to Greenwich from Hever Castle where he had been spending a night as the guest of Sir Thomas Boleyn. As soon as he reached the Palace he summoned the Cardinal to his presence.

He greeted Wolsey with the pleasure he habitually bestowed upon his favorite minister, but there was a change in his manner which baffled the Cardinal.

He seemed almost subdued, which was rare in Henry; he looked more like a boy than ever and there was a certain gentleness about him which the Cardinal had never seen before.

“’Twas pleasant in the country,” he said. “I declare Boleyn’s castle of Hever is a restful place in which to spend a night.”

That was strange also. When had Henry ever asked for restfulness?

“Your Grace took but a small party with you?”

“’Twas enough. I declare, Thomas, I am weary of ceremony on every occasion.”

“’Tis pleasant for Your Grace to escape now and then; and may I say that it is doubly pleasant for your servant to see you again.

“Good Thomas,” murmured the King, but the Cardinal felt that his attention was elsewhere.

Was this a good time to let him know that it might not be difficult to make peace with France, to whisper in the royal ear those first drops of poison regarding the Emperor? It seemed likely while he was in this gentle mood.

“Boleyn entertained me royally at his castle,” went on Henry musingly. “I thought I would show my gratitude by granting him certain land. You might see what we could do for him.”

“It shall be so, Your Grace.”

“I had thought of elevating him to the peerage…as Viscount Rochford.”

“This would take time, Your Grace.”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry testily. “But it is in my mind to do so.”

“He is a fortunate man to have found such favor in Your Grace’s eyes, particularly as his daughter so recently offended you.”

“Ah…the girl.” The King began to smile. “A haughty wench, Thomas. I saw little of her during my stay at Hever.”

“She was absent from her home?”

“Indisposed.”

“Your Grace was doubtless glad not to be bothered by the presence of the girl, preferring the company of her father.”

“Bold,” mused Henry, “and haughty.”

“Your Grace believes this indisposition to have been sulks on account of banishment from Court. The saucy wench should be clapped into prison for behaving so.”

“Nay nay,” said the King. “I do not disturb myself with the vagaries of girls. I believe her to have declared she will be revenged on you, Thomas.”

Thomas laughed. “Should I tremble, Your Grace?”

“I notice she has flashing black eyes and the look of a witch. She blames you for sending Percy back to his father.”

“She should blame Percy for being so easily persuaded, or herself for choosing such a lover.”

“As usual, Thomas, you speak good sense.”

Wolsey bowed his head in appreciation of the compliment and went on: “Your Grace, I confess I am disturbed about the war.”

“Ah yes.” The King seemed reluctant to end the discussion of his trip to Hever.

“I do not trust the Emperor.”

“I begin to agree with you, Thomas.”

“We have been pouring our resources into war and have so far not gained a foot of French soil. If Your Grace considers our expenditure…”

“I am considering it, Thomas, considering it with great sadness.”

“Look at the progress the Emperor has made. He has driven the French from Italy. But what gain to us is that? He has strengthened his frontiers in the Netherlands and Spain. That is good…for the Emperor. I would say, Your Grace, that in Charles we have another such as Maximilian.”

Henry nodded and his face darkened, as he remembered how he had been duped by Charles’s grandfathers—the Emperor Maximilian and Ferdinand of Aragon.

“I had hoped much from the rising of the Duke of Bourbon against François,” said Henry.

“And we hoped in vain, Your Grace.”

“Well, Thomas, what can we do?”

“I should be ready to forget all that we have spent on this enterprise and put out feelers for a separate peace with France.”

The King’s frown sent a shiver of alarm through the Cardinal. Fleetingly he wondered what Henry’s reaction would be if he discovered that Giovanni Joachino Passano paid regular visits to him, not to sell him cloth but to carry letters back and forth between the chief of the King’s ministers and the mother of François. One thing was certain; he was playing a dangerous game.

The King was like a child who had set his heart on a certain glittering bauble; in this case the conquest of France. Such a project was an impossibility—Wolsey knew.

“Dispatches from the Emperor have been increasingly gloomy, Your Grace.”

Henry stuck out his lower lip like a petulant child.

“I have poured money into this project,” he began.

“And the Emperor asks for more, Your Grace. He says that unless we provide it the entire enterprise may be fruitless. It would appear now that even the Pope…” Wolsey’s voice was faintly bitter. “…whom he helped to elect, is uncertain of him!”

“Ah, the Pope!” said Henry, and an alert expression had crept into his face. He knew it had been a bitter disappointment to Wolsey that he was not elected, and he wondered how he himself would have fared, robbed of the services of his Chancellor. It seemed to him in that moment that there was a tinge of disloyalty in the Cardinal’s disappointment. “You were overeager to leave us, Thomas,” he said with a trace of petulance.

“Solely that I could have worked for England from the Vatican.”

Henry was sorry for his suspicions. “I believe that to be so,” he said. “Well, it did not happen as we wished it, Thomas. But Clement is a good friend to you and to me.”

“He could not be the friend of one and not the other,” said Wolsey.

“’Tis true,” answered the King. “And I rejoiced when he confirmed your Legateship for life, and gave you the Bishopric of Durham.”

“Your Grace is good to me.”

“Well, you have a King and a Pope as your good friends, Thomas; I wonder which you value the more.”

“Your Grace does not need me to answer that question.”

Henry smiled well pleased, and the Cardinal knew that no rumors had reached him concerning the French spy in their midst.

“Then Your Grace would not be prepared to think of peace?”

“Thomas, there is one reason why I stand firmly with the Emperor and, no matter what our losses, there I shall remain. Do not forget that he is betrothed to the Princess Mary. While he adheres to that promise we must forgive him if he breaks some others.”

The Cardinal then understood that he must continue to work in secret.

THE QUEEN and her daughter sat with some of the women of the Court busily working with their needles. As they bent over their work one of their number read to them from Thomas More’s Utopia; this was a custom which Katharine remembered from the days of her childhood, when her mother had sought to have the hands usefully employed while the mind was exercised.

Katharine’s life was becoming increasingly busy. She spent a great deal of time with her daughter, whose education was, she believed, in constant need of her supervision. Her daughter was her greatest joy, and while she had her with her she could not be unhappy. Mary was now nine years old and it was distressing to remember that in three more years she would be expected to leave her home and go to the Court of the Emperor. Three years was such a short time. But I must not be selfish, thought the Queen. My daughter will be a great Queen, and it is not for me to regret that which is necessary to make her so.

Nevertheless, she wished to have her with her at every moment of the day, so that none of the time which they could spend together would be lost.

Now they were working on small garments which would be given to the poor women who had babies and no means of clothing them. Katharine was alarmed by the growing poverty among some classes in England; she knew that many people were wandering from town to town, village to village, homeless, sleeping in barns and under hedges, working when they could, eating when they could; and, as was inevitable in these circumstances, now and then stealing or starving to death.

Thomas More, when he came to her intimate suppers, had on several occasions spoken of his growing anxiety about the new conditions in England. He had pointed out that the prosperity of the upper classes was in some measure responsible for the poverty of the lower. There was a great demand for fine cloth which meant that many of the landowners, deciding to keep more sheep, took small-holdings from the men who had hitherto farmed them, and turned them into grazing land. The land which had been rented to them lost, turned out of their cottages, hundreds of these small farmers had become vagabonds.

Thomas More had said that the enclosing of land had so far affected no more than about five percent of the entire population but he felt that to be a great deal.

Katharine was therefore doing all she could to right this evil, and she had appointed her Almoner to distribute funds from her own purse to the poor. She set aside a regular portion of her income for charity and took a great pleasure in providing the needy with clothes and food. Thus, temporarily, she abandoned the tapestry which she delighted to work and set herself and her women making garments for the poor.

Thus they were sitting together when a page entered to tell the Queen that the Seigneur de Praet, the Emperor’s ambassador in England, was without and begging an audience.

As it was rarely that she had an opportunity of seeing her nephew’s ambassador, she said that she would receive him at once; and this meant the dismissal of all present.

Seeing the look of disappointment in Mary’s face she took the child’s hand in hers and kissed it. “Go along now for your practice on the virginals,” she said. “When the Seigneur has left I will come and hear how you are getting on.”

Mary smiled and curtseyed; and the Queen’s eyes remained on her until she had disappeared. Almost before the ladies had all left the apartment the Seigneur de Praet was being ushered in.

Katharine received him with graciousness although she did not feel the same confidence in him as she could have had in an ambassador of her own nationality. But the Seigneur, as a Flemish nobleman, was preferable, in Charles’s eyes, to a Spaniard. Katharine had to remember that Charles was more Fleming than Spaniard because he had spent very little time in Spain and had been brought up in Flanders, so it was natural of course, that he should choose Flemings rather than Spaniards to represent him.

The Seigneur was a very grand gentleman and he had already been unwise enough to show his lack of respect for Cardinal Wolsey on account of the latter’s humble birth. It seemed incredible to him that he should be expected to treat with one who, so rumor had it, had spent his infancy in a butcher’s shop.

As for the Queen, he found her so Spanish in some ways, so English in others, that he had never felt on very easy terms with her. Moreover whenever he had sought an interview he had always found it difficult to reach her; and he suspected the reason. The Cardinal contrived this—and for what cause? Because, for all his outward protestations, he was no friend of the Emperor.

Now de Praet was excited because he had made an important discovery and was determined at all costs to lay it before the Queen. Strangely enough on this occasion he had found no difficulty in reaching her.

As Katharine welcomed him and he bent over her hand, one of the women who had been in the sewing party slipped away unnoticed from the group of women who had just left and went swiftly into the anteroom adjoining the Queen’s apartment. There she took up her stand near the door and very quietly lifted the latch so that it was slightly ajar without seeming to be so.

“Your Grace,” said de Praet, “it is a great pleasure to find myself at last in your presence.”

“You have news for me from the Emperor?”

“No, but I have discovered treachery which I must immediately lay before you. Our enemy is working against us. Your Grace knows whom I mean.”

“The French?”

“They work continually against us. I was referring to one nearer at home who, while he pretends to be our friend and supports the King’s war, is in fact working against us.” He lowered his voice and whispered: “The Cardinal.”

“Ah!” said Katharine.

“It does not surprise you.”

“Nothing the Cardinal did would surprise me.”

“What can be expected…he was not born to this.”

“Do not let us underestimate his skill,” said the Queen. “He is a brilliant man. It is for this reason that we must be very wary of him.”

“Your Grace will be surprised when I tell you that I have discovered he is in secret negotiations with the French.”

“Without the King’s knowledge!”

“That I cannot say, Your Grace, but he is a traitor to my master and your nephew. There is a certain merchant from Genoa, now lodging with one of his servants, and this man is a regular go-between for François and Wolsey.”

“It is impossible!”

“Not with such a one. I can tell you we should never have trusted him.”

“The King knows nothing of this, I am sure.”

De Praet lifted his shoulders. “It is impossible to know what the King knows, how far Wolsey works in conjunction with His Grace, how far on his own account.”

“Should not the King be told of Wolsey’s action?”

“If the King is already aware of these negotiations with France—and we must not lose sight of this—we should be playing into their hands by telling them of our discovery.”

Katharine was horrified. It seemed to her that Charles’s ambassador was drawing her towards a controversy in which she might well, by supporting her nephew, be obliged to work against her husband. This was reminiscent of those days of humility before her marriage to Henry when her father, Ferdinand, had used her in his negotiations with Henry’s father.

She said quickly: “I fear my nephew has made promises which he has not kept.”

“The Emperor is engaged in bitter war and needs all the money he can find to prosecute that war; he has little to spare for bribes.”

“He has accepted loans and has not repaid them,” Katharine reminded him.

“He will…in due course. Your Grace knows that he is a man of honor.”

“I am sure of that.”

“Then Your Grace will write to the Emperor and tell him of these discoveries? He should be warned.”

“I could not work against the King.”

“This would not be so. You would merely be telling him of the Cardinal’s perfidy. Your Grace, it is imperative that he should be aware of this. I myself shall write and tell him, and to stress the urgency of the situation I beg of you to do the same.”

“I will write to him,” said the Queen.

De Praet bowed. “If you would do so with all speed I believe you would be doing your nephew a great service.”

“I will do so without delay.”

“Then I shall take leave of you that you may lose no time. I do assure Your Grace that the matter is urgent.”

As soon as he had left her she went to her table and took up writing materials, carefully considering what she would say to her nephew. She began by imploring him to be frank with her husband, to let him know exactly how the war was progressing, and above all not to make promises unless he was sure he could keep them. She added that the Cardinal was aggrieved because he believed that with the Emperor’s help he might have achieved the Papacy. She implored Charles to be aware of Wolsey who was as vindictive as he was ambitious. There were rumors that he was already pondering the desirability of a rapprochement with the enemy. Charles must not make the mistake of so many who believed that because of Wolsey’s humble origins he lacked ability; rather should he believe that the Cardinal possessed a shrewd and brilliant brain; for the more lowly his beginnings, the greater must be his brilliance, since he had come so far.

Carefully she sealed the letter and summoned a page.

One of her women was coming towards her, having slipped unseen from the anteroom wherein she had overheard the conversation between Katharine and de Praet.

“I want a page to take this to the courier,” said Katharine.

“If Your Grace will allow me I will take it to him.”

Katharine handed the letter to the woman, who took it not to the courier, but to another of the Cardinal’s spies. It was not difficult to find one as the Cardinal had them placed in the most strategic positions in the Court, and one of these was undoubtedly the Queen’s household.

“Take this with all speed to the Cardinal,” she instructed.

Then she joined the ladies who were stitching together and listening to Utopia.

THE CARDINAL read the Queen’s letter which she had addressed to her nephew. So it was known that he was in negotiation with the French! He did not relish the Queen’s comments about himself; but they did not surprise him for he had long suspected that she regarded him as an enemy.

It would be unfortunate if his negotiations with Louise of Savoy through Passano were made known to the King by Charles’s ambassador. He did not think this was likely, because his spies were thick about the ambassador and all his correspondence came to Wolsey before it went overseas. It was not difficult to reconstruct the ambassadorial seal; and the Cardinal had felt it was a matter of common sense that he should ascertain what de Praet was writing to his master at such a time.

If the letters contained news which Wolsey did not wish Charles to receive they were destroyed; only those which were innocuous went through. De Praet was scarcely a subtle ambassador; Charles must realize this. He would have been wiser to have chosen a Spaniard rather than a Fleming. The Cardinal had always had more respect for the solemn subtleties of the Spaniards than for the brash bonhomie of the Flemish.

De Praet concerned him but little for if he became dangerous some means could be found to remove him; it was the Queen with whom his thoughts were occupied. She would be an enemy of some consequence. He would never lose sight of the fact that she was not only the King’s wife and mother of the heir to the throne, but also the aunt of the Emperor. Relations between the King and the Queen were not of the best; but still she was the Queen and as such wielded a certain influence.

She was therefore a potential enemy to be watched with the utmost diligence; and as the Cardinal had always believed in crippling the power of those who he feared might harm him, he began to think frequently about the Queen.

In the meantime he burned the letter which she believed was on its way to the Emperor, and decided to be ready for the first opportunity which came his way.

It came soon, as he expected it would.

He had been going over the cost of the war with Henry, a subject which never failed to make the King angry. Wolsey could see that it would not be difficult to wean him from the Emperor, and that it was only the hope of marrying Mary to Charles that caused him to remain Charles’s ally.

“This marriage is of such importance,” murmured Wolsey. “And it should be taking place within three years. The Queen already mourns because her daughter will have to go away. Alas, daughters must leave their royal homes; which is always so sad for those who love them. With sons…”

The King was startled. Few people were bold enough to mention the subject of sons in his presence. He looked at the Cardinal who was staring idly before him.

Wolsey went on as though to himself: “I do not altogether despair.”

“What’s this?” growled Henry.

Wolsey made a show of appearing startled. “Your Grace, I crave your pardon. My thoughts ran on. It is unforgivable in your presence, but I forgot…”

“Of what do you not despair?”

Wolsey pretended to hesitate. Then as the King frowned he went on: “It is a matter which occupies my thoughts day and night.”

“What is?”

“Your Grace’s happiness; Your Grace’s contentment.”

The King looked slightly mollified but he said sullenly: “You speak in riddles.”

“Louis XII did it satisfactorily. Your Grace’s sister Margaret did it in Scotland…”

Light dawned in the King’s face; the little eyes were suddenly ablaze with interest. There was no need to ask what his Chancellor meant, because the people he had mentioned had rid themselves of unwanted spouses.

“Well,” said Henry as Wolsey did not go on, “what have you in mind?”

“I have spoken too soon,” murmured Wolsey. “I am certain there must be a way…I am certain that we can find it. But so far I cannot see it clearly.”

“Thomas,” said the King almost tenderly, “I have known you but once fail to reach your objective and that was when you did not get the Papal Crown.”

“I relied on false friends then, Your Grace. It is a good lesson to have learned. Henceforth let us rely on none but ourselves.”

Henry nodded.

“And you say there is a way out for me?”

“I shall not rest,” said the Cardinal, “until I see Your Grace the sire of a healthy boy…nay, not one, but several.”

“How is this possible?”

“As it has been possible for others.”

“Divorce!” whispered Henry.

“Your Grace, let us make this our secret matter. Let us keep it constantly in our minds. That is what I do when a problem baffles me. Leave it there…maturing, one might say. It so often happens that after a while the answer presents itself.”

The King grasped his Chancellor’s hand.

“You bring me that which I had almost lost, Thomas. You bring me hope.” The Cardinal returned that affectionate smile. “It shall come to pass because Your Grace can only know contentment when he gives his country what it most needs.”

“How well you know me, Thomas.”

“It may be necessary for Your Grace to harden his heart. You will remember how nobly you married your brother’s widow. Your brother’s widow…,” he repeated emphatically.

“I know full well,” replied Henry. “But I tell you this, Thomas, though I am a man with feelings most tender, I am a King also.” The little mouth was prudish suddenly. “And I would not consider the fine feelings of Henry Tudor if my duty to my kingdom dictated that I should overcome them.”

“Then, Your Grace, let us bring our minds to bear on it…and for a time…this shall be our secret matter.”

The King was excited and well pleased.

So the battle had begun, the Cardinal told himself. Let those who set themselves against Thomas Wolsey beware—even though they be queens.

The Jilting of Mary

THE KING GLANCED AT HIS CONFESSOR, JOHN LONGLAND the Bishop of Lincoln, and shook his head gloomily. He had confessed his sins and received absolution; but he did not dismiss the Bishop who waited, believing that the King had not confessed all that was on his conscience.

“Your Grace has something else to tell me?”

“A certain matter hangs heavily upon my conscience,” began the King.

“It appears so, Your Grace.”

“Then I will tell you, for it may well be that you can find some comfort to offer me. I would have you turn to the twentieth chapter of Leviticus, and you will see what disturbs me.”

The Bishop took his bible and turned to that chapter.

“I pray you read verse twenty-one,” said the King.

The Bishop read: “‘And if a man shall take his brother’s wife, it is an unclean thing; he hath uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.’” He stopped reading and was silent, not daring to make comment.

Then Henry said: “You see! You have read that. Does it not state clearly God’s will? They shall be childless…and in all these years…”

Seeking to comfort the King, the Bishop said quickly: “God cannot be displeased with Your Grace. He has given you the Princess Mary.”

“A girl!” snarled the King. “I think of those sons which were born to us. Born dead. Again and again God gave us signs of His displeasure…and we heeded them not. We went on living…in sin.”

“Your Grace distresses himself unduly. There may yet be a son.”

“There will be no son,” Henry shouted.

“Your Grace, there was a dispensation. There is no need for Your Grace to feel anxious.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. He snapped: “There is every need. This burden of sin lies heavy on my conscience. I, who have lived as near to God as a man can live…I who have heard Mass five times a day…have confessed my sins regularly and have always obtained absolution…I, the King, have offended against the laws of God. I have lived for all these years with a woman who is not my wife in the eyes of God. So He tells me this…He denies me my son. Do you not see that while I live thus there will never be a son!”

“Your Grace, let us pray for God’s help.”

Henry could have cuffed the Bishop. He was no Thomas Wolsey. He was anxious to please the King but he lacked the Chancellor’s wits. He thought to please him by assuring him that he had nothing to fear, that his marriage was legal.

Fool! Fool! he thought. Then he remembered the Chancellor’s injunctions: As yet it is our secret matter.

He went on to his knees, and while the Bishop prayed he thought: Thomas is right. Good Thomas. ’Tis a delicate matter. There is the Emperor to be thought of. He will never stand aside and see his aunt repudiated. We have to go carefully. So…caution for a while.

When they rose from their knees, the Bishop said: “Your Grace is unduly concerned; I shall redouble my prayers that you may be blessed with a son.”

And the King’s feelings were under such control that instead of roaring “Fool” at the man, he merely murmured: “I thank you, Bishop. I too shall pray.”

IN HIS PRIVATE CHAMBER at Hampton Court the Cardinal was reading the letters which de Praet had written to the Emperor. There was matter therein which if laid before the King could bring about the man’s downfall.

Had the time come to expose the ambassador to the King?

Wolsey was for prompt action. François and Louise were restive, and they were anxious for an immediate secret alliance with the English against the Emperor. An end, thought Wolsey, to this senseless war. What could be more desirable?

Although his spies worked well for him, there must be occasions when it was impossible to learn all that passed between the Queen and her nephew’s ambassador.

The case against the Queen must necessarily move slowly. But, thought Wolsey, you are doomed, Madam. You have yet to discover that. But I shall find a French Princess for Henry, and then the bonds with your perfidious nephew will be cut forever.

What of Mary? Well, that marriage was three years away and more royal marriages were proposed than celebrated.

He wished that he could take de Praet’s letters to Henry and say: You see how your ally’s ambassador works against you. You see what an opinion he has of your Chancellor who cares more for your welfare than his own.

He was sure Henry would be furious; and then would be the time to bring forward those French ambassadors, whom he had waiting in hiding, that they might treat with Henry.

Yet how could he go to the King and say, My spies bring me the ambassador’s letters; I have a method of breaking the seals and resealing them so expertly that none could guess they have been tampered with. Might not the King question the honor of his Chancellor? Of course he could explain that what he had done had been in the interest of the State; but it was never wise to expose one’s methods too freely.

Wolsey had an idea. The city gates were closed each evening, and if any foreigner tried to pass through them he would be arrested by the watch and brought before a royal officer. If the Cardinal gave orders that any letters found on suspected persons were to be brought to him personally, and if he could delay de Praet’s courier until the gates of the city had been closed, it was certain that the letters found on that courier would find their way to his table. It was almost certain too that those letters would contain words which would not please the King. And what more reasonable than that the Cardinal, so assiduous in the protection of the King’s realm, should read those letters in person, and lay them before his master?

It was the way to deal with the matter and not difficult, with so many spies surrounding the ambassador, to waylay his courier and prevent his attempting to leave the city until after the gates were closed; and as the man did not know the city’s laws the plot worked as smoothly as Wolsey could have hoped. In a very short time the courier had been arrested by the watch as he attempted to leave the city, searched, and the letters found. They now lay on Wolsey’s table.

Luck was with him. Both the King and Wolsey were referred to in these documents in a manner which was slighting, and Wolsey could scarcely wait to reach the King’s apartments.

“A matter of some importance, Your Grace.”

The King waved a hand and those men who had been with him immediately departed leaving Henry alone with his Chancellor.

Wolsey quickly told Henry what had happened and as he laid the documents before him, was delighted to see the rich color flood the plump cheeks and the eyes blaze with anger.

“I had long suspected him,” said Wolsey; “and now Providence has enabled me to lay evidence of this man’s perfidy before Your Grace.”

“He shall go to the Tower!”

“A foreign ambassador, Your Grace?”

“By God, this is treason.”

“As he is an ambassador of the Emperor, might I suggest that we place guards at the door of his house and forbid him to leave?”

“Let it be done!” commanded the King.

THE SEIGNEUR DE PRAET stood before the Cardinal in the latter’s private chamber at Hampton Court. The Flemish nobleman looked with something like scorn at the red satin garments of the Chancellor; he had felt incensed, as he disembarked at the privy stairs and walked across the grass, at the sight of that magnificent edifice; but when he had entered the place and seen the gloriously apparelled servants, the valuable treasures in every room, he had said to himself: Is it possible that a man of the people could own so much? He was resentful, believing possessions and honors to be the prerogative of the nobility.

It was easy when he was not in the presence of Cardinal Wolsey to sneer at his origins; when he stood before him he could not help being conscious of the man’s intellectual power; the rather protruding brown eyes of the man of the people seemed to look into his mind, discovering his secret thoughts, to suggest that the reason he clung to the importance of his noble birth was because, knowing himself at a mental disadvantage, he sought to flaunt every little asset he possessed.

Archbishop of York, Cardinal, Papal Legate and Chancellor. So many great titles for one man to hold—and he a man who had risen from the people. In spite of one’s prejudices, one must feel in awe of such achievements.

He was received almost haughtily by the Cardinal’s stewards. They would make His Eminence aware of the Seigneur’s arrival. Had His Eminence summoned him to Hampton Court? Because if this was not so, they doubted whether they could disturb His Eminence at such an hour.

This was an insult. It did not occur to him that it might be intended. He presumed the servants to be ignorant of his standing.

“Tell the Cardinal,” he said in his haughtiest manner, “that the Ambassador of His Imperial Highness, The Emperor of Austria and the King of Spain, calls upon him at his own wish.”

He was kept waiting for fifteen minutes and then, fuming with rage, was led through the eight splendid rooms to the Cardinal’s private apartment. Wolsey was seated at his table and did not rise when the ambassador entered.

What can one expect of a butcher’s son? de Praet asked himself.

Wolsey continued to study the paper before him for a few seconds until de Praet said angrily: “I have come as you asked me to, my Lord Cardinal.”

“Oh, yes,” said Wolsey, laying aside the paper with what appeared to be reluctance. “I have bad news for you, Mr. Ambassador.”

There was insult in the title and de Praet felt the blood rushing to his face. Was he, the Emperor’s ambassador, to be kept standing while the Cardinal remained sitting at his desk! He might be a servant come to receive a reprimand.

“Bad news!” he cried. “What bad news is this?”

“Your courier was arrested last night and certain documents were taken from him.”

“My courier! This is an insult to the Emperor.”

“It happened quite naturally,” explained the Cardinal. “He delayed his departure until the gates of the city were closed. As you may know, the law says that all foreigners, attempting to enter or leave the city after the gates are closed, are arrested and searched.”

“But he should have left before that. What delayed him?”

The Cardinal lifted his shoulders and smiled. “It is useless to ask me to keep an eye on your servants, Seigneur. This is what has happened. The letters you have written to the Emperor were brought before me. I had no recourse but to read them. We have to be very careful when dealing with those whom we believe to be spies. As it so happened I considered the contents of those letters treasonable, and I saw that it was my duty to lay them before the King.”

De Praet was startled. He remembered the frankness with which he discussed the King and Cardinal in his letters to his master; he remembered the slighting comments he had made about them both—particularly this man who was now smiling blandly at him.

“His Grace,” went on Wolsey, “was much displeased. It seemed to him that we have been harboring an enemy in our midst.”

De Praet shouted: “You have done this. You had the man arrested. It is a plot.”

“And the letters? Shall you say that I wrote those treasonable documents?” Wolsey demanded with a smile.

“They were intended for the Emperor.”

“I did not expect for a moment that they were intended for the King and myself.”

“I shall go to the King,” said de Praet. “I have evidence against you, Master Wolsey. I know that you have been receiving a spy from France. I know that you are working to destroy the alliance between the King and the Emperor. The King does not know the Cardinal whom he trusts. If he did he would not trust him. But he shall know. I have the evidence. I shall go back to my house; and when I have collected this evidence, which shall bear out my word, I will lose no time in going to the King and laying before him all I have discovered.”

Wolsey continued to smile, and the ambassador turned and walked quickly out of the apartments. The Cardinal went to the window and watched him hurrying across the grass to his boat.

“Helpful of him to explain his intentions in such detail,” he murmured to himself, and then called his stewards to him and began to give orders.

De Praet cursed the slowness of his boat as he was rowed back to London. His indignation increased as he rehearsed what he would say to the King.

When he reached his house he went in and collected certain documents which he had kept in a safe place, and made a careful list of all the people he would call as witnesses against the Cardinal.

Then he was ready to set out for Greenwich. But as he attempted to leave his house two guards barred his way. He saw then that many of them were stationed about his house.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded fiercely, but his fierceness had no effect on the guards.

“Begging Your Excellency’s pardon,” said one of them, “you are not to leave this house.”

“Who dares to restrict the Imperial ambassador?”

“The King, Your Excellency.”

De Praet was so angry that for a moment he could find no words to express his indignation; but as he grew a little calmer he realized that he was defeated. They called him the King’s prisoner, but he was in truth that of the Cardinal.

Yet, he reflected, in this country that was one and the same thing.

WITH SATISFACTION Wolsey presented himself to the King.

“The spy is a prisoner in his lodging,” he said. “He can do little harm now.”

“Let him remain so,” said Henry, who was still smarting from the references to himself in the ambassador’s correspondence; accustomed to flattery he was always surprised when he did not receive it, and on those rare occasions when he discovered disparaging comments had been made about him he never failed to be deeply shocked.

This was the moment to drive home the advantage, and Wolsey murmured: “It may be that Your Grace will see fit to acquaint our own ambassador with your horror. It is for the Emperor to send us an ambassador, not a spy.”

“I shall write to Dr. Sampson and command him to express my displeasure to the Emperor.”

“Your Grace is wise. It is as well that he should be acquainted with your displeasure. In this campaign he has had all the advantages.”

Henry scowled but he believed that what Wolsey said was true.

“Your Grace,” went on the Chancellor, “as you know, I am ever watchful and I have discovered that there are in England at this moment emissaries from France.”

The King’s face flamed, and Wolsey with great temerity continued before he could speak: “If Your Grace would but see these men there would be no necessity to commit yourself in any way. But in view of the manner in which the Emperor has behaved towards us, I personally see little harm in listening to these men. It may be that Your Grace, in his greater wisdom, has some reason for not wishing to see them. If that is so, then I shall see that they are sent back to France without delay.”

“Were it not for the betrothal to our daughter, Thomas, I should be seeking a way out of this alliance.”

“We must remember the importance of this match,” agreed Wolsey. “But could we not say that this is a matter apart? If we listened to the French we could then perhaps use their desire for friendship to extract some advantage from the Emperor. Your Grace knows full well that we have had little so far.”

“I know it well.” The King hesitated. “I see no harm in listening to what these men have to say.”

Wolsey consolidated his gains before the King had time to withdraw.

“I beg of Your Grace to come to Hampton Court; I shall send for the men, and if you see them there it will make less talk than if they came to Greenwich.”

The King was agreeable. He was beginning to take a deep interest in Hampton Court, and the Cardinal had thought somewhat uneasily that occasionally he saw an acquisitive gleam in the blue eyes. “I will come to your fair manor, Thomas,” he said. “I confess to a fondness for the place.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And there’s something else, I confess. My own palaces look a little less grand, less like the residences of a King, after my visits to Hampton Court.”

“I have furnished the place that it might be a refuge for Your Grace at any time it is your pleasure and my delight that you visit it.”

“Then let us see these men from France at Hampton, Thomas.”

Victory! thought the Cardinal. But in a measure uneasy victory. The King had changed since Buckingham’s execution. Often one had the feeling that he was eager to prove the power he had over all men—including his dear friend and counsellor, Thomas Wolsey.

THE KING PACED up and down his bedchamber. He was alone, which was rare for him; but he had wished it so. He was not at ease. He did not want to see these messengers from France; what he wanted was news of the Emperor’s victory, to hear that the fair land of France was conquered and that the King of England was invited to go to Rheims to receive the crown he longed for.

But to make peace would mean an end of that dream.

He hated the King of France as, he believed, he could never hate Charles. François was bold and witty; handsome and clever; he was a rival as Charles—pallid, without good looks, serious—could never be. So while Henry hated François he could only distrust Charles. Not that he did not distrust François also. But the Emperor was young, his wife’s nephew and therefore his own. Charles had called Henry Uncle when he was in England and deferred to his advice. Not that he had taken it. He was sly, full of pretence; but he was young and when they were together Henry could patronize him. When he was with François he had to summon all his wits and then be outwitted.

It seemed to him that he had reached a stage of his life when all that he longed for most was denied him. He wanted the crown of France and cynical François stood between him and it; he wanted a son and Katharine stood between him and that goal; he wanted a young girl who had caught his imagination, and she flouted him, telling him that he, being married, was in no position to make advances to her.

So he, the King, was frustrated of his three greatest desires. It was a state of affairs which he had not thought possible.

He knew the position in Europe was so bad that it could not continue; and if he did not win France this year, perhaps he would win it some other year. He would never give up hope. The matter of getting a son was more urgent. He was not old by any means, but being thirty-four years of age he was no longer a boy. He was impatient for sons. Yet he remained married to Katharine—if it was a marriage. His conscience was telling him that it was not, and that the sooner he made this known to his people the more pleased God would be with him. But Thomas Wolsey was to be trusted and he had said: Wait.

And then the girl. He had seen her at the Court, and had been maddened at the thought of her marrying Percy—maddened with the foolish young man for thinking to take what the King desired, and with the girl herself for agreeing to the marriage; then he had seen her in her father’s garden at Hever, where she had treated him not as the King but as a would-be lover who did not please her. He should have been angry; he should have had the girl sent to the Tower; but a strange softness, which he had never felt before, had come to him. He had merely allowed himself to be so treated, which was wonderfully mysterious.

He had ridden away from Hever, still thinking of her and—although he was surprised at himself for doing so—had visited the place again and again…not as a King honoring a subject but as a humble suitor cap in hand.

Yet she continued to resist him. So here again he was frustrated.

A king must not consider his own personal desires, he told himself. I must not think of her but of these men who come from François.

He stood at the window looking out on the river, but he did not see it because instead he saw a garden at Hever and in it the most fascinating young woman he had ever known.

There was a bustle below, and as he turned from the window, roughly jolted from his dream of Hever, the Cardinal came into the room.

The King was surprised by his unceremonious entry, and by the fact that his cap was somewhat askew. The pockmarked face was as pale as ever but the brown eyes gleamed so that Henry knew the Cardinal came to announce some matter of importance.

“Your Grace…news…”

Wolsey was breathless and the King saw that behind him stood a man who was obviously travel-stained and looked as though he had ridden far.

“What news?” demanded the King who, in spite of the excitement, was still faintly bemused by memories of the bold and haughty girl who had dared repulse him.

“From the battlefield, Your Grace. The Imperial troops have routed the French at Pavia. The French army is destroyed and François himself is the Emperor’s prisoner.”

Henry clapped his hands together and his great joy showed in his face.

At last the vision of Hever was replaced by one of a handsome, golden-haired, golden-bearded King receiving the crown at Rheims.

“This is news which gives me the greatest pleasure. It is certain…? There has been no mistake?”

The Cardinal turned to the travel-stained man behind him, who came forward and bowed low before the King.

“Your Grace, this is true. The King of France has been taken prisoner at Pavia and is now the Emperor’s captive.”

Henry laid his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You are as welcome as the Angel Gabriel was to the Virgin Mary!” he declared. “Why, Thomas,” he went on, turning to the Cardinal, “this is the best news we have had for many a long day.”

Wolsey bowed his head as though in assent; and while the King fired questions at the messenger he slipped away to send his own messenger to meet the French emissaries. He wished them to be told that the King could not see them as he had hoped to on this day.

“NOW,” Henry wrote to the Emperor Charles, “is the time for us to invade France jointly. Let us meet in Paris. Let France be handed to me that it may come under the domination of England. I shall then have the greatest pleasure in accompanying Your Imperial Highness to Rome where I shall see you crowned.”

He was so delighted that he went about the Court in high good humor. He was jubilant with Katharine, for was it not her nephew who had captured the King of France? Had not she helped to strengthen the bonds between the two countries? Their daughter was the affianced bride of the Emperor who was now more powerful than ever. When she married him and had her first son, that son should be proclaimed the future King of England, lord of Ireland and Wales, and now…France. This boy would be the greatest monarch in the world, for he would also inherit Spain, Austria, the Netherlands, Naples, Sicily and the recently discovered dominions of the New World. This would be a boy with Tudor blood in his veins. Perhaps it was not so important that he had no son when his grandson would be a monarch such as the world had never seen before.

He was gay and jovial with his Queen—although he could not bring himself to share her bed. The memories of a laughing girl, who would not be put out of his mind, prevented that.

As for the girl herself, who had more respect for her own virtue than the King’s royalty, she should be dismissed from his mind. There would be other girls at his Court only too eager to comfort him for her loss.

Those were good days, spent chiefly in making plans for his coronation in France.

Katharine was delighted; at last she could share the King’s pleasure. He liked to walk with her in the gardens of the Palace, his arm in hers while he made plans for his journey to France.

But Henry could not forgive Charles’s ambassador for the manner in which he had written of himself and the Chancellor, and de Praet was still kept a prisoner in his house. In vain did Katharine plead for him; in vain did she ask permission for the man to come and see her. Henry became sullen when she mentioned these matters, and replied shortly that he would not tolerate spies in England, even Spanish spies. And finally, when the dispirited de Praet asked for leave to return to his own country and Henry gave it, Katharine was not allowed to see him before he left; she consoled herself however that never had Henry’s friendship for Charles been so firm as it was at this time, so that the fact that Charles had no ambassador in England did not seem so important as it would have been a short time ago.

WHEN THE EMPEROR read Henry’s letter he raised his eyebrows in dismay.

Henry crowned in Rheims King of France! Himself crowned in Rome! The English King had no idea of the situation.

Charles had taken the French King prisoner, it was true, and that was a success; the army which had served with François was disbanded, but that did not constitute all the men at arms in France. Charles himself had suffered enormous losses; his army was only in slightly better condition than that of the French; moreover he had no money to pay his mercenaries.

Charles was a realist. He knew that the Italian princes, who had had to submit to him, did so with great unwillingness, that the Pope was watching his movements with anxiety. His mercenaries had demanded the spoils of battle as he could not pay them, and as a result the countryside had been ravaged as the troops passed through; and as the sullen people were ready to revolt against the conqueror, this was no time to talk of crowning ceremonies. Henry seemed to think that war was a game and that the winner received all the spoils of victory. Had he not learned yet that in wars such as this there were often very little spoils?

The Emperor was weary of battle. He had the upper hand now; François was in prison in Madrid, and while he was there it would be possible to make him agree to humiliating terms. It was a matter of taking what he could; but it was totally unrealistic to imagine that he could take France and hand it to his ally as though it were a particularly fine horse or even a castle.

“When will my uncle grow up?” he sighed.

There was another matter which was disturbing him. He was twenty-four years of age and affianced to Mary who was nine. He was tired of waiting, and his ministers had implied that the people of Spain were eager for an alliance with Portugal.

His cousin, Isabella of Portugal, was of a marriageable age at this present time, and her dowry was nine hundred thousand golden ducats. How useful such a sum would be! And Mary’s dowry? He had had it already in loans from her father, and he knew that to take Mary would merely be to wipe off the debts he had incurred in the war.

He wanted a wife now…not in three years’ time. In three years’ time he might have a lusty son. When he went to war he would have a Queen to leave in Spain as his regent. Moreover Portugal had always been closely allied with Spain. The people wanted one of their own as their Queen, not a strange little girl who, although half Spanish, would seem to them wholly English.

True, he had given his promise, but his grandfathers had made promises when it was expedient to do so; and when state policy demanded that those promises should be broken, they broke them. Charles was sorry because his aunt would be hurt and the King of England would be angry. But he did not greatly care for the King of England. A strip of Channel divided them and they had always been uneasy allies.

Wolsey had turned against him he knew from the few letters he had received from de Praet; and he was certain that he had not received all that de Praet had written. Wolsey was a wily fellow and it was unfortunate that they should be enemies, but that must be accepted.

He could not simply jilt Mary, but he could make a condition that her parents would find it impossible to fulfil. Suppose he demanded that she be sent at once to Spain? He knew his aunt would never agree to part with her daughter at this stage. He would demand half as much again as Henry had already paid towards the cost of the war, knowing that this would be refused. But these would be the terms he would insist on if he were to carry out his part of the bargain.

The Portuguese ambassador was waiting to see him; he would have to have something to tell him when he came. He must decide whether there should be discussions between the two countries regarding the betrothal of himself and Isabella.

He therefore sent for a gentleman of his entourage, and while he was waiting for him he wrote a letter which, on account of the news it contained, he put into code.

When the Knight Commander Peñalosa was shown into his presence, he signed to him to be seated.

“I have a letter here which you are to take to England. It is in code, so you must go at once to de Praet who will decode it for you. Then you will read the contents and discuss with de Praet and the Queen the best manner of putting the proposals it contains to the King of England. De Praet will then inform me of the King’s reception of this news. This is of the utmost importance. You must leave at once.”

Peñalosa left with the letter and prepared to set out for England, while Charles received the Portuguese ambassador.

By the time Peñalosa reached England, de Praet had left and there was no one who could decode the letter. Peñalosa sought an audience with the Queen, but the Cardinal, who was more watchful of her than ever, had so surrounded her with his spies that Peñalosa was never allowed to see her except in public. If Katharine’s eyes alighted on him by chance she had no notion that he was an important messenger from her nephew.

KATHARINE WAS with her women engaged in that occupation which so frequently occupied her—the making of clothes for the poor—when the storm broke.

The King strutted into her apartment and one wave of his hands sent her women curtseying and scuttling away like so many frightened mice.

“Henry,” Katharine asked, “what ails you?”

He stood, legs apart, that alarming frown between his brows, so that she felt her spirits sink. She knew that he had come to tell her of some great disaster.

In his hand he carried a document, and her heart began to beat rapidly as she recognized her nephew’s seal.

“You may well ask,” said the King ominously.

“It is news from the Emperor?”

“It is, Madam. News from the biggest scoundrel that ever trod the soil of Europe.”

“Oh no…Henry.”

“Oh yes, Madam. Yes, yes, yes. This nephew of yours has insulted us…myself, you and our daughter.”

“The marriage…”

“There will be no marriage. Our daughter has been tossed aside as though she were of no importance…tossed aside for what he believes to be a better match.”

“It is impossible.”

“So you would doubt my word.”

“No, Henry, but I am sure there is some explanation.”

“There is explanation enough. This treacherous scoundrel believes that he can serve himself better by marriage with his cousin of Portugal. He has already possessed himself of Mary’s dowry in loans…which will never be repaid. Now his greedy hands are reaching out for his cousin’s ducats.”

“But he is promised to Mary.”

Henry came close to her and his eyes looked cruel. “When have your family ever respected their promises? I should have understood. I should have suspected. I do not forget how your father deceived me again and again. And Maximilian…this Charles’s grandfather…he deceived me in like manner. I am deceived every way I turn. Spain! I would to God I had never heard of that country. What have I ever had from Spain? Broken promises…my treasury rifled…lies…lies…lies and a barren wife!”

“Henry…I implore you…”

“You would implore me? What would you implore, Madam? That I say thank you to this nephew of yours? Thank you for deceiving me. Thank you for jilting my daughter. I’d as lief thank you, Madam, for all the sons you have not given me!”

“That was no fault of mine,” she said with spirit. “I have done my best.”

“No fault of yours? Then whose fault, Madam? You know I have a healthy son. It is more than you have. All those years and one daughter…and that daughter, jilted…by your nephew.”

For the moment tears came to his eyes—tears of self pity. All that he desired was denied him. The crown of France; the sons; the marriage of his daughter to the greatest monarch in Christendom; the favors of a sprightly young girl who persistently avoided him. Why was the King so frustrated?

His conscience gave him the answer. Because you have offended God. You have lived with a woman who is not your wife because she was first the wife of your brother. You will never know good fortune while you live in sin, for God will continue to turn his face from you.

He hated her then—this woman with her sagging shapeless body. How different from that other! This woman who could no longer arouse the slightest desire within him. The woman whose nephew had betrayed him and their daughter.

It was difficult to hold in the words, to remember that as yet it was the secret matter.

But how he hated her!

She flinched before the cruelty in his eyes; she saw the brutal curve of his mouth. Thus had he looked when he had determined to send Buckingham to the scaffold.

He was controlling himself; she knew that. He was holding in the words he longed to utter. She almost wished that he would speak so that she might know what thoughts were in the secret places of his mind.

He forced himself to leave her; he went straight to his apartments and summoned Wolsey.

He would be revenged on Charles. He could not reach the Emperor, but the aunt should suffer for the nephew. None should treat him so scurvily and escape. Charles should learn that he, Henry, cared nothing for the House of Spain and Austria. Had Charles forgotten that there was one member of that House who was completely in his power?

“Come, Wolsey,” he growled, while he waited for his Chancellor. “We’ll make peace with France; we’ll have a French Prince for Mary. We’ll form an alliance to make His Imperial Highness tremble. We shall show you, Master Charles, that we care naught for you and yours! A plague on the House of Spain and Austria—and all those who belong to it!”

THAT JUNE DAY a ceremony took place in Bridewell Palace and the King had commanded all the high officials of the Court to attend: he was particularly anxious that Peñalosa, who was the only ambassador Charles had in England at the time, should be present at the ceremony and send an account of it to his master.

The hero of this occasion was a small boy, six years old. He was handsome, and his pink and gold Tudor beauty both delighted and exasperated Henry.

Every time he looked at the boy he said to himself: Why could he not have been my legitimate son!

Henry had ceased to think of the boy’s mother; she had been handsomely rewarded for giving the King a proof of his ability to beget sons. Manors in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire had been bestowed on her, so she would have no cause to regret those days when she had been the King’s mistress.

Henry had watched with smouldering eyes while this handsome boy was created a Knight of the Garter; and now this even more significant ceremony was taking place.

He came to stand before the King; on either side of him were the leading Dukes of England—Norfolk and Suffolk.

But this boy, thought Henry, shall take precedence over all. For I would have all understand that he is my son and living proof of the fact that I can get sons with other women—though not with my wife.

Holy Mother of God, he prayed as he watched; I see my fault. I live in sin with my brother’s wife and for that reason my union is not blessed with sons. How could it be when in the eyes of God it is a sinful union!

Now proud Norfolk and Suffolk had taken a step backwards that the newly created Duke might stand alone as one whose titles would henceforth set him above them; he would now be known as the first peer of the land, and his titles were impressive: Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Lord High Admiral of England, Wales, Ireland, Normandy, Gascony and Aquitaine, Knight of the Garter, and first peer of England.

There was a buzz of excitement throughout Court circles which extended to the streets of the city.

Even in the taverns the importance of the ceremony was understood.

“This means one thing: The King, despairing of sons by his wife, honored Elizabeth Blount’s boy.”

“Note the significance of that title—Richmond,” it was whispered. “The King’s father was Duke of Richmond before he became King. Depend upon it, the King has decided that that boy shall one day wear the crown.”

“It is not possible while Mary lives.”

“If the King decrees, it will be possible. None will dare gainsay him. And this ceremony is to prepare his people for what he intends to bring about.”

“The people would not accept the boy while Mary lives.”

“The people will accept what the King wishes. It is better not to argue against the King. Remember Buckingham.”

The name of Buckingham could still send shivers through most bodies.

And so it was generally agreed that the ceremony at Bridewell was a first step in the direction the King intended to go as regards his illegitimate son.

KATHARINE WHO COULD often suffer in silence on her own account could not do so on her daughter’s.

She faced the King boldly on the first opportunity when they were alone and declared her horror and fear at the recognition given to Henry Fitzroy.

“You forget,” Henry told her coldly, “that the Duke of Richmond is my son.”

“Should you be so proud to call him so?”

“Yes, Madam. Proud I am and always shall be. For his birth gave me the answer I sought. It is no fault of mine that I have no legitimate son.”

“And so you had this one merely to prove this?” she asked with a trace of sarcasm rare in her.

“I did,” said Henry who had told himself this was the case, so frequently that he believed it.

“This is an insult to our daughter. Has she not been insulted enough?”

“By your nephew…yes. This is no insult to Mary. I still accept her as my daughter.” A cunning look came into his eyes. “She is a girl and her position may not be so different from that of the little Duke.”

This was going too far; it was betraying the secret matter. He must be cautious. Katharine did not construe his words as he had meant them. She thought only that he planned to set this illegitimate son before his daughter because of his sex.

“You cannot mean you would set aside our daughter for a…bastard!”

His eyes narrowed. He wanted to speak of what was in his mind. He was never one for secrets. He wanted her to know that although she was a daughter of the hated House of Spain, because she had previously married his brother it might well be that she had no legitimate hold on him.

“Mary is a girl,” he said sullenly.

“There is no reason why she should not make as good a monarch as a man. My own mother…”

The King snapped his fingers. “I have no wish to hear of your sainted mother. And know this, if I decide that any man, woman or child in this kingdom shall be elevated…” His eyes were even more cruel suddenly. “…or set down, this shall be done and none shall be allowed to stand in my way.”

“I wonder,” said the Queen, “that you allowed our daughter to keep the title, Princess of Wales. Why did you not take that away from her and bestow it on your bastard? Then there could have been no doubt of your intentions.”

He looked at her in silent hatred for a few seconds; then fearing that he would be unable to keep from her all the plans which were fermenting in his mind, he left her.

WOLSEY WAS waiting for him in his apartment. The Chancellor saw the flushed face and angry looks and guessed that Henry had been listening to Katharine’s reproaches.

“Your Grace looks displeased,” he murmured.

“’Tis the Queen; I have never known her so bold…so careless of my feelings.”

“The Queen is afraid, Your Grace. She has her qualms about the marriage, even as you do. Perhaps more so.”

“She could not be more uneasy.”

Wolsey lowered his voice. “She knows, Your Grace, whether or not the marriage with your brother was consummated.”

“You think this is a sign of her guilt?”

“The guilty are often those who feel most fear, Your Grace.”

“You are right, Thomas. And her boldness astonished me.”

“She is surrounded by women who urge her to behave thus. The Queen herself should be…malleable.”

Henry’s lower lip jutted out. “There’s strength beneath that gentleness, Thomas.”

“Your Grace is right as usual, but that strength is, shall we say, given support by some of those women about her.”

The King looked questioningly at Wolsey.

“There is the Countess of Salisbury for one. She has ever been close to the Queen. Lady Willoughby is another. Women like that chat in secret, talking of wrongs, urging resistance.”

“They shall be banished from Court.”

“May I suggest, Your Grace, that we move with care? We do not want to rouse too much sympathy in…the wrong quarters.”

“You mean that there would be those to take her side against me!”

“Among the people, Your Grace. And some men of the Court, in secret. Let Lady Willoughby be sent away from Court. As for Lady Salisbury…If Your Grace will trust this matter to me, and commission me to deal with the Queen’s household, I will see that those women likely to influence her are removed from her side.”

“Do that, Thomas. By God, she must understand that I’ll not stand by and accept her reproaches. She had the temerity to suggest that I might soon take Mary’s title of Wales that I might give it to young Henry.”

“The Queen may well wean the Princess’s affection from Your Grace.”

The King looked at his Chancellor; and for a few moments they both remained thoughtful.

THIS WAS the most cruel blow of all. Katharine had been so stunned when she heard the news that she could not believe it was true.

All the humiliations, all the uneasiness of the past years had been forgotten when she was in the presence of her daughter; her only joy in life had been wrapped up in the child. The love between them was intense, as deep and abiding as that which Katharine had shared with her own mother.

In all her troubles she had been able to tell herself: I have my daughter.

And now Mary was to be taken away from her.

She did not weep. This was too great a sorrow to be assuaged by tears. She sat limply staring before her while her dearest friend, Maria de Salinas, Countess of Willoughby, sat beside her, desperately seeking for words which would comfort her.

But there was no comfort. Maria herself would not long be at the Queen’s side. She was to leave Court, and she believed she knew why.

One of the Queen’s women had recently been dismissed from the Court and she had confessed to Maria that the reason was because she had declined to act as the Cardinal’s spy. His idea was clearly to remove from the Queen’s side all those who would not work for him against her.

What did it all mean? Maria asked herself. Should I try to warn her? If only I could stay with her to comfort her.

But now Katharine could think of nothing but her daughter.

“Why should she be taken from me?” she demanded passionately. “When she marries it may be necessary for her to leave me. There cannot be many years left to us. Why must I lose her now?”

“I think, Your Grace,” said Maria, desperately seeking a reason that might soothe the Queen, “that the King wishes her to go to Wales so that the country may know she is still Princess of the Principality and heir to the throne.”

The Queen brightened at that suggestion. “It may be so,” she said. “The people did not like his elevating the bastard.”

“That is the answer, Your Grace. You can depend upon it, she will not stay long. It is merely a gesture. I feel certain that is the reason.”

“I shall miss her so much,” said the Queen.

“Yes, Your Grace, but perhaps it is well that she should go.”

Katharine said: “There is one consolation; Lady Salisbury is going with her as her governess. I cannot tell you how that cheers me.”

One more friend, thought Maria, to be taken from the Queen’s side.

Katharine rose suddenly and said: “I shall go to my daughter now. I would like to break this news to her myself. I trust that she has not already heard it. Stay here, Maria. I would be alone with her.”

In the Princess’s apartments the little girl was seated at the virginals; one or two of her attendants were with her. When the Queen entered they curtseyed and moved away from the Princess who leaped from her chair and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“That was well played,” said the Queen, trying to control her emotion.

She smiled at the attendants and nodded. They understood; the Queen often wished to be alone with her daughter.

“I was hoping you would come, Mother,” said the Princess. “I have learned a new piece and wanted to play it to you.”

“We will hear it later,” answered Katharine. “I have come to talk to you.”

She sat on a stool near the virginals, and Mary came to stand beside her while the Queen put her arm about her daughter.

“You have heard no rumors about Wales?” asked the Queen.

“Wales, Mother? What sort of rumors?”

The Queen was relieved. “Well, you know you are Princess of Wales and it is the custom for the Prince or Princess to visit the Principality at some time.”

“We are going to Wales then, Mother?’

“You are going, my darling.”

Mary drew away from her mother and looked at her in startled dismay.

“Oh, it will not be for long,” said the Queen.

“But why do you not come with me?”

“It is the wish of your father that you go alone. You see, you are the Princess of Wales. You are the one the people want to see.”

“You must come too, Mother.”

“My darling, if only I could!”

“I will not go without you.” For a moment Mary looked like her father.

“My darling, your father has commanded you to go.”

Mary threw herself against her mother and clung to her. “But it is so far away.”

“Not so very far, and you will come back soon. We shall write to each other and there will be the letters to look forward to.”

“I don’t want to go away from you, Mother…ever.”

The Queen felt the tears, which she had so far managed to keep in check, rising to her eyes.

“My love, these partings are the fate of royal people.”

“I wish I were not royal then.”

“Hush, my darling. You must never say that. We have a duty to our people which is something we must never forget.”

Mary pulled at the rings on her mother’s fingers but Katharine knew she was not thinking of them. “Mother,” she said, “if I were to plead with my father…”

The Queen shook her head. “He has decided. You must go. But do not let us spoil what time is left to us in grieving. Time will pass, my darling, more quickly than you realize. I shall hear of you from your governess and tutors, and you will write to me yourself. You see I shall have all that to live for.”

Mary nodded slowly. Poor child! thought the Queen. She has learned to keep her feelings in check. She has learned that the fate of Princesses can often be cruel and that one thing is certain, they must be accepted.

“You will go to Ludlow Castle,” said the Queen trying to speak brightly. “It is a beautiful place.”

“Tell me about when you were there, Mother.”

“It was long…long ago. I went there with my first husband.”

“My father’s brother,” murmured Mary.

“It was so long ago,” said the Queen, and she thought of those days when she had been married to the gentle Arthur who was so different from Henry; Arthur who had been her husband for scarcely six months.

“Tell me about the castle,” said Mary.

“It rises from the point of a headland,” the Queen told her, “and is guarded by a wide, deep fosse. It is grand and imposing with its battlemented towers; and the surrounding country is superb…indeed some of the best I have ever seen.”

The Princess nodded sadly.

“You will be happy there,” murmured Katharine, putting her lips to Mary’s forehead. “We shall not be very far away from each other, and soon you will come back to me.”

“How soon?” asked Mary.

“You will be surprised how soon.”

“I would rather know. It is always so much easier to bear if you know how long. Then I could count the days.”

“My darling, you will be happy there. When I left my mother, the ocean separated us. This is not the same at all.”

“No,” said Mary slowly. “It is not the same at all.”

“And now, my love, go to the virginals. Play the piece which you wished me to hear.”

Mary hesitated and for a moment Katharine feared that the child would lose her hold on that rigid control. But obediently she rose, went to the virginals, sat down and began to play; and as she did so, the tears, which would no longer be kept back, rolled silently down her cheeks.

The Princess at Ludlow Castle

THE PRINCESS MARY WAS MELANCHOLY IN THE CASTLE OF Ludlow and the Countess of Salisbury was alarmed on her account. The only thing which could bring the child out of that languid indifference as to what went on around her was a letter from her mother.

Each day she told the Countess how long they had been at Ludlow; and she would ask wistfully if there were any news of their returning to her father’s Court.

“All in good time,” the Countess would say. “With the passing of each day we are a little nearer to our return.”

The Princess rode often in the beautiful woods close to the castle; she had to admit that the country was some of the fairest she had ever seen; but it was clear that when she was separated from her mother she could not be happy, and the Countess feared that her health would be affected by her melancholy.

Great plans were afoot for the celebrations of Christmas, The New Year and Twelfth Night.

“There will be plays, masques and a banquet…just as at your father’s Court,” the Countess told her.

“I wonder whether my mother will come,” was all the Princess could say.

It was true that she had a certain interest in her lessons; she worked hard at her Latin and her music and sometimes she would chuckle and say: “My mother will be surprised that I have come so far. I shall write to her in Latin, and when she comes I shall play all my new pieces.”

The Countess was grateful that she had this interest in her Latin and music, and made the most of it. There had been rumors which had come to the Countess’s notice before she left Court and, although she could not believe there was much truth in them, they made her very uneasy. The fact that the Queen had married the King’s brother could have no effect on the present marriage. The Pope had given the necessary dispensation, and during all the years the King and Queen had been married there had never before been any suggestion that the marriage might not be legal.

She was a wise woman, and in her fifty-two years she had seen much tragedy. None understood, more than she did, the Tudors’s fierce determination to fight off all those who threatened to take the crown from them. It was natural that the King wanted to make sure of the Tudor succession. Desperately he needed a son, and Katharine had failed to give it to him.

There were times when Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, wished that she were not a Plantagenet and so near to the throne. She had lived through troublous times. Her maternal grandfather had been that Earl of Warwick who had been known as the Kingmaker; her father had been the Duke of Clarence, brother of Richard III, who had been imprisoned in the Tower and there, it was believed, had been drowned in a butt of malmsey. She had been a young child when that had happened and it had made a deep and terrible impression on her; ever after she had been aware of the insecurity of life and the favor of Kings; and it seemed to her that those who lived nearest the throne had the most to fear. That was why she often thought with deep compassion of the Queen, and now as she sat with her royal charge she could grow quite melancholy wondering what the future held for her. Only recently tragedy had struck at her family through her youngest child, Ursula, wife of Henry Stafford, son of the Duke of Buckingham whose life had recently come to an end on the block.

Henry VIII had occasionally been kind to her family; she had fancied that he wanted to make amends to them for his father’s murder of her brother Edward who, as the Earl of Warwick, had been a menace to the throne. But how long would that favor last? She believed now that she was regarded with suspicion by Wolsey because of her close friendship with the Queen.

If Katharine could have been with her in Ludlow she would have been almost happy. It was peaceful here and seemed so far from the world of ambition. And how happy little Mary would have been if the Queen were here! But as the weeks stretched into months the love between the governess and her charge grew deeper and did—so the Countess fervently hoped—compensate in some measure for the child’s loss of her mother.

Margaret tried to replace that mother, and it was a great joy to her to know that the times of the day to which Mary looked forward more than any other were those when she and the Countess were alone together; and the little girl, released from her lessons which Margaret often felt were too much for her would sit at the Countess’s feet and demand to hear stories of her life.

And when Mary said: “My mother used to tell me stories of the days when she was a girl in Spain…” Margaret knew that the substitution had taken place in the child’s mind; and she wrote to the Queen telling her of these pleasant hours which seemed to give consolation to Mary for her exile.

Through Margaret’s description of her family Mary began to know the Pole children so well that they seemed to be her intimate friends. There was Henry, Lord Montague, who had followed the King to France to the Field of the Cloth of Gold. Margaret did not tell the child of the anxiety she had suffered when Henry had been arrested at the time of the trial of the Duke of Buckingham because his father-in-law was a connection of the Duke’s; in any case he had been speedily released, and very soon afterwards had been restored to favor, being among those noblemen who had greeted the Emperor Charles on his arrival in England. The Countess would talk of her sons, Arthur, Reginald, Geoffrey and her daughter Ursula, with such loving detail that the Princess knew that these quiet hours were as enjoyable to the Countess as they were to her.

But it was of Reginald that Mary liked best to hear; Reginald was learned and deeply religious, and Mary had always felt that to give lifelong devotion to religion was the best way of living. Therefore Reginald became her hero.

The Countess told how she had always meant him to go into the Church and how eager he had been to follow that calling, although he had not yet taken holy orders.

“There is no better man in the world than my Reginald,” said Margaret proudly, and Mary began to believe her.

“When he was a boy at Oxford he astonished his tutors,” the fond mother declared. “In truth I think they began to realize that he was more clever than they. He became a Dean at Wimborne though still a layman. He held many posts, and then he decided to go to Padua, and that is where he is now. The King, your father, is pleased with him and there is great hospitality in his house there. Scholars flock to see him. He thinks it is because he is a kinsman of the King.”

“But it is really because of his noble character,” Mary asserted.

“I believe that to be so. Mary, I think he will soon be coming to England.”

Mary clasped her hands in ecstasy. “And will he come to Ludlow?”

“Come to see his mother! Of a certainty he will. You do not know my Reginald.”

“I do,” declared the Princess.

And after that they often spoke of his coming and when Mary awoke in the mornings she would say to herself: “Will there be news from my mother today?” And then: “Is Reginald now on his way to the Castle?”

It was only these hopes which made the separation tolerable. But the months passed and there was no news of Mary’s joining her mother; and Reginald continued to stay in Italy.

HENRY CUT HIMSELF OFF from communication with his Queen, and she rarely saw him. She lived quietly, working on her garments for the poor, reading religious books, going to Mass, praying privately. Her great joy was writing letters to her daughter, but what a difficult task this was when she must suppress her fierce longing, and not convey her fears that the long absence was stifling that deep affection they had for each other!

Henry was growing impatient. He had begun to wonder whether Wolsey was working as wholeheartedly for him as he had once believed. Wolsey was a man who had seen that his own pockets were well lined; and should a king feel such gratitude towards a man who in his service had grown as rich as surely only a king should be?

Wolsey was constantly whispering caution, and Henry was becoming a little uncertain of the game the Chancellor was playing. There was a new faction springing up at Court, and at the center of this was George Boleyn whom the King found a fascinating young man, largely because he was the brother of Anne.

Anne remained at Hever, but she should not do so for long. Henry had already shown his favor to the family by raising Sir Thomas to the peerage, so that he now bore the title of Viscount Rochford. He had even given poor Will Carey, Mary’s husband, a post at Court as gentleman of the Privy Chamber. He was certain that soon the haughty girl would give in to his pleading, and stop talking about her virtue.

But at the same time it was this Boleyn faction which was making him doubt Wolsey. He sent for his Chancellor in order to discuss a matter which was of great concern to them both at this time: the marriage of the Princess Mary.

When Wolsey entered, the King did not greet him with the affectionate look which the Chancellor usually received from him. Wolsey was acutely aware of the King’s changing attitude towards him and it was doubly alarming because he was not sure of its origin.

“I have news from France,” said Henry. “It seems that François is rejecting our offer of my daughter.”

Wolsey nodded gravely. Here was one matter on which they were in agreement; they shared the desire for a marriage between Mary and a member of the royal French family. Nothing would disturb the Emperor more; at the same time if Mary were to marry into France she would very soon be sent to that country; and if the King were about to rid himself of the Queen, Mary’s presence in England could prove an embarrassment. There was no need to speak of this matter. Each knew that it was well to the fore in the mind of the other.

The King took a document from his table which had been sent to him from Louise of Savoy who was her son’s Regent while he, François, remained the Emperor’s prisoner in Madrid.

“Read it,” commanded the King; and Wolsey read that the Duchesse of Savoy could not express sufficient regret that the marriage between her son and the Princess Mary was not possible. She knew that the Princess of England excelled all other Princesses; she had heard nothing but good of her character, her attainments and her beauty. Alas, a tragic fate had befallen her son; he was in the hands of the Emperor and harsh terms were being imposed on him. Not the least harsh of these—in view of the offer of the Princess’s hand from England—was that he should marry the Emperor’s sister Eleanora whom Emanuel of Portugal had recently left a widow. It seemed likely that the King of France would have to comply with this unless Eleanora refused to marry him.

The Duchesse however hoped that this might not make an end of their desire for a French-English alliance. She had grandsons. She was certain that François would welcome the Princess Mary as the wife of his son Henri, Duc d’Orléans.

“Well,” the King demanded, “what do you think of this proposition?”

“A fair one. Marriage to young Henri would, in truth, be more suitable than marriage with François.”

“A second son,” murmured the King.

“Eldest sons sometimes die,” Wolsey reminded him.

“That’s so,” replied the King, himself a second son. He was thoughtful for awhile. “The child is young…not yet ten years of age. There is time. But it shall be a French match for her.”

“I am in full agreement with Your Grace.”

“I rejoice to hear it.” Was it his imagination, wondered Wolsey, or was there a trace of sarcasm in the King’s voice? The little blue eyes swept over the rich satin robes. “We shall be having French ambassadors here soon, I doubt not. When they come it would be well for them to be entertained at Hampton Court.”

“Hampton Court is, as always, at Your Grace’s command.”

“These foreigners…,” mused Henry. “They do not think they are at Court until they are received at Hampton. Is it meet a subject should possess such a palace?”

Wolsey quickly saw the meaning behind the words. He had always gambled. He gambled now.

“There is only one reason why a subject could possess such a palace,” he answered quickly, “and that is that he can put it into the hands of his King.”

Suddenly the peevish animosity died in the King’s face and the old affection was back there. The blue eyes were so bright that Wolsey was not sure whether it was tears of friendship or covetousness which he saw there.

The Chancellor felt a catch of fear at his heart; it was as though he were running towards danger; and that only by throwing his most valued possessions to his pursuers could he stave off the evil moment of disaster. He was playing for time. He believed that he could regain his power over the King…given time. He could arrange a divorce for Henry, get him married to a French Princess, put an end to unprofitable wars—then he would be able to rout all his enemies. But he needed time.

The King put his own construction on those words.

“A goodly gift,” he said, “from a loyal subject to his affectionate master. I would not offend you, Thomas, by refusing your handsome gift. But you shall live on there…you shall entertain these foreigners there…in my name, eh? Then they will no longer sing in the streets: ‘The King’s Court or Hampton Court…’ for from now on Hampton Court is the King’s Court.”

Wolsey bowed his head and taking the King’s hand kissed it. He was glad to hide his face for a few seconds; the loss of his most cherished possession was a blow, and he found it difficult to hide the sorrow he was feeling.

THE DAYS WERE DREARY to Katharine, one so much like another. She had no friend in whom she could confide. Maria de Salinas was no longer at Court; Margaret Pole was in Ludlow with Mary; and, saddest of all, there was no mention of Mary’s returning.

The women who surrounded her, she knew, were not her true friends, but had been put there by her enemy, Wolsey, to spy on her. She saw the King frequently but never in private; he was courteous to her but she fancied that he was afraid to meet her eye and always seemed relieved when he parted from her.

On one or two occasions she had mentioned their daughter to which he invariably replied with prompt finality: “It pleases me that she now has her own Court in her own Principality. She will learn something of government there in Ludlow.”

She wanted to protest: She is only a child. At least allow me to go and stay with her there.

But she knew that it was impossible to speak of such things in public, and there was never an opportunity of doing so in private.

She guessed that there was a mistress—perhaps several. Light-o’-loves, she thought contemptuously; and as she could not discuss this matter with the women who surrounded her, who would report to their master every word she said, she was silent.

She knew that negotiations were going forward with a view to a French alliance for Mary. She prayed that this might not be carried through. What she dreaded more than anything was alliance with France because she longed to restore friendship between her nephew and her husband. She believed that, if only Charles could explain in person, or if only he had a good and efficient ambassador, Henry would understand that he had been forced to do what he had done. None could be more disappointed at his rejection of Mary than she was. Had it not been the dearest dream of her life that her nephew and daughter should marry? But Charles was no longer very young and it was understandable that he should feel the need to marry without delay. She did not believe that Charles had wantonly deceived her husband; it was pressure of circumstances—and that must at times afflict every head of state—which had made him do so.

She wrote many letters to Charles—cautiously worded—for she could not be sure that they would reach him. A little spice was added to those dreary days by this game of outwitting the Cardinal, whom she had now begun to regard as her greatest enemy.

And one day in the spring of that long year a letter from her nephew was smuggled to her and she felt a great triumph, as at least one of hers had reached him. That made her feel that she had some friends at the English Court.

Charles wrote that he was sending a new ambassador to England, Don Iñigo de Mendoza, who would be travelling through France and should arrive in England not long after she received this letter. He knew, of course, that Wolsey was doing his utmost to make a French alliance for Mary and that Katharine would agree with him that such an alliance would be fatal to their interests. He believed that she would find Mendoza more to her liking than ambassadors from Flanders, and it was for this reason that he was sending a Spaniard to England.

When Katharine read this letter she felt the tears of joy rushing to her eyes. Mendoza was coming. A Spaniard, one with whom she could converse in her native tongue. She even knew Iñigo. He had been her mother’s favorite page, and she had seen him often riding in the entourage when Isabella had gone from town to town visiting her dominions, her family with her, as she had insisted whenever possible. Perhaps they would talk of Granada and Madrid, of the days of Isabella’s greatness.

Katharine closed her eyes and thought of her early life in Spain, when she had never been forced to suffer the humiliation she had endured since coming to England, when she had been surrounded by the love of her family and, most of all, that of her mother.

“Oh Holy Mother,” she murmured, “how sad life becomes when the greatest joy it has to offer is in remembering the past.”

THROUGH THE SPRING and summer Katharine awaited the arrival of Mendoza in vain. A little news did seep through to her and eventually she discovered that the French were determined to delay the arrival of the Spanish ambassador in England until a French embassy had been able to arrange for the marriage of Mary with the Duc d’Orléans.

They had promised Mendoza free passage through France, but shortly after he had set foot on that land he was arrested as a foreign spy and put into prison where he remained for months without trial.

Katharine was in despair because plans for the French marriage were going forward, although she did console herself that the matter could not be viewed with any certainty. François had been released from his prison in Madrid but he had only been allowed to go home if he promised on oath to send his two sons to Madrid as hostages for his good faith in carrying out the terms Charles had imposed on him. Thus the little boy who was betrothed to Mary was now the Emperor’s prisoner in his father’s stead.

Katharine was reminded now of those days between the death of her first husband, Arthur, and her marriage with Henry, when she lived through the uneventful yet dangerous months. Unable to be lulled by a false feeling of security and with dreadful premonition always in her mind that a storm was soon to break about her, she waited, knowing that when it did come it would contain an element of the unexpected, to face which she would need every scrap of courage she possessed.

It was December of that year when Mendoza arrived in London, but by that time she knew it was too late to stop the negotiations with France.

The first action of Mendoza was to beg an audience of the Queen. This she granted and he came speedily to her apartments.

She received him with emotion because of the memories of early and happier days he brought with him.

“It gives me great pleasure to see you,” she told him.

“I cannot express to Your Grace my pleasure in being here. I have found the delay almost intolerable.”

She looked at him closely and saw what those months in a French prison must have done to him; but, of course, when she had seen him in her mother’s entourage he had been nothing but a boy. She was forgetting how many years ago that was.

This was not the time to waste on reminiscences and she said: “There is much we have to say to each other. I am seriously alarmed about the relations between my nephew and this country.”

“The Emperor greatly desires to put them back on a friendly footing.”

“The King is incensed on account of his treatment of Mary.”

“Your Grace is also displeased.”

“It was of course a bitter disappointment to me.”

“The Emperor was pressed hard by the people of Spain, and he needed money from Portugal.”

“I know…I know. But let us talk of what we shall do to put matters right between Spain and England. I must tell you that the Cardinal is my most bitter enemy. I am surrounded by his spies and I know not whom I can trust. You will know that he is the most powerful man in England.”

Mendoza nodded. “We shall have to make sure that he cannot interfere with our correspondence as he did with de Praet’s.”

At that moment a page appeared at the door. Katharine looked at him in surprise, because she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed.

The page’s look was apologetic, but before he could speak he was thrust aside and a red-clad figure came into the room.

“My lord Cardinal!” cried the Queen.

“Your Grace…Your Excellency…I come on the King’s orders.”

“What orders are these?” demanded Katharine haughtily.

“He requests the Imperial Ambassador to come to his apartment without delay.”

“His Excellency called to see me…,” the Queen began.

The Cardinal smiled at her whimsically. “The King’s command,” he murmured.

“His Excellency will call on the King within an hour.”

“The King’s orders are that I shall conduct him to his presence with all speed.”

Katharine felt exasperation. She turned to the Ambassador and said rapidly in Spanish: “You see how it is. I am constantly overlooked.”

But there was nothing to be done and the Ambassador must leave at once for the King’s apartment, having achieved nothing by his visit to the Queen.

Katharine, with resignation, watched him go, knowing that future meetings between them would be difficult to arrange, and that when they talked together they would never be sure who overheard them; they must remember that anything they wrote to the Emperor would almost certainly be first censored by the Cardinal.

TWO WONDERFUL EVENTS befell the Princess Mary.

It was strange, she reflected afterwards, that she should have waited for these things to happen and that they should have followed so swiftly on one another.

She was in one of her favorite haunts on a tower looking out over the battlements. The country was so beautiful that she found great peace merely by looking at it. She enjoyed riding in the woods with a party from her suite; during the warm days they had picnicked on the grass, and that was pleasant; but one of the most pleasurable occupations was kneeling up here on a stone seat inside the tower and looking out over the hills. This was her favorite view, for below in all its beauty was the valley of the Teme with the Stretton Hills forming a background.

She had been here so long that she was beginning to believe she would never leave the place; and yet every day she awoke with the thought in her mind: Will it be today?

Sometimes she let her fancy wander, imagining that a party of riders appeared in the valley, that she watched as they came nearer; and seeing the royal standard, knew that her mother had come.

It was nearly eighteen months since they had been parted.

How fortunate that I did not know how long it would be! she thought. If I had, I should never have been able to endure it.

But all through those months hope had been with her, and she often prayed that whatever happened to her she would always be able to hope.

She had grown considerably in the months of separation. Her mother would see a change. She had learned a great deal; she could write Greek and Latin very well now, and could compose verses in these two languages. As for her music, that had improved even more.

One day, as she knelt in her favorite position, she did see a party of riders in the valley. She stared, believing in those first moments that she was dreaming, so often she had imagined she saw riders.

She kept her eyes on the party and as it came nearer she saw that it was a group of men and that they were making straight for the Castle. She watched until they were within its walls before she turned from the battlements and went to her own apartments, knowing that she would soon be told who the newcomers were.

It was the Countess herself who came into Mary’s apartment and, in all the eighteen months during which they had been in Ludlow Castle, Mary had never seen the Countess so radiant.

“Your Highness,” she cried, “I have wonderful news. There is someone who is most eager to meet you. I want your permission to present him to you at once.”

And there he was, in the room; tall, handsome, obviously of the nobility, austerely dressed though not in clerical robes, he seemed godlike to Mary.

“My son Reginald,” went on Margaret, “who is also your humble servant.”

He knelt before Mary and she smiled at him as she bade him rise. “Welcome,” she said. “I feel I know you already because we have talked of you so often, your mother and I.”

“Yes,” agreed Margaret. “Her Highness insisted on hearing tales of my family.”

“I found those tales interesting,” said Mary. She turned to Margaret. “I trust they are busy in the kitchens preparing a welcoming banquet.”

In that moment she felt grown up, the mistress of the Castle, Margaret noticed, and a wild hope was born in her mind.

She said: “I will leave my son with you while I go to the kitchens. I want to give orders myself for, as Your Highness says, this is a special occasion and we wish everyone within the Castle to know it.”

Mary scarcely noticed that she had left. She went to the ornate chair which was kept especially for her and sat down, signing for Reginald to be seated too.

“We live somewhat simply here,” she told him, “when compared with my father’s Court. I pray you tell me about your stay on the Continent.”

“It has been a very long one,” he answered. “It is five years since I left England. A great deal can happen in five years; I have lived in Padua and Rome, and I have now come to complete my studies at Sheen…in the Carthusian monastery there.”

“How wonderful! Your life is dedicated to God.”

“All our lives are dedicated to some purpose,” he replied. “I was fortunate to be able to choose the way I should go. My mother wanted me to go into the Church. I was very happy to do this but I have not yet taken Holy Orders.”

“Have you come straight here from Rome?”

“Oh no, I visited London first and presented myself to Their Graces.”

“You have seen my mother!”

“Yes, I saw her and when I told her that I should visit my mother at Ludlow she begged me to commend her to you and to tell you that she sends her dearest love.”

Mary turned away for a moment, overcome by her emotion. Even the arrival of this man who had played a part in her dreams could not stifle her longing for her mother.

She asked questions about the Court. He did not tell her of the plans for a French marriage, nor of the speculations as to the efforts the Queen and the new Spanish ambassador would make to prevent this. He thought her charming, but a child; and yet during that first interview he was made aware of her serious turn of mind and that she had long ago put away childish things.

When Margaret returned and found them, absorbed in each other, and saw her son’s interest in the child and Mary’s in him—for Mary was unable to disguise the change his coming had made, and during the whole of her stay at Ludlow she had not looked so joyous—she said to herself: “Foreign matches seem to come to nothing. Why should not Mary marry my son?”

Oh, but how handsome he was! Twenty-seven years old, yet he looked younger; his gentle, noble nature had left his face unlined. There was in him the nobility of the Plantagenets, and the resemblance to his ancestor, Edward IV, was at times marked. It would strengthen the crown if Tudor and Plantagenet were joined together, thought Margaret. And she was glad that Reginald had not yet taken Holy Orders.

During the next days the two of them were continually together. They rode out of the Castle, surrounded by the Princess’s attendants naturally, but they were always side by side, a little apart from the rest of the cavalcade. She played on the virginals for his pleasure; and there were balls and banquets as well as masques in Ludlow Castle.

The Princess Mary was growing pretty, for the sternness and slight strain, which had prevented her being so before, had left her; her pale cheeks were flushed and she was less absorbed in her lessons than she had been.

It was not possible, thought Margaret, for an eleven-year-old child to be in love with a man of twenty-seven, but Mary’s feelings were engaged and she was ready to idealize the man who for so long had figured in her reveries.

And as though the tide of Mary’s fortune had really turned, a week or so after the arrival of Reginald Pole, Margaret came to her apartment one day holding a letter in her hand.

Mary’s heart leaped with excitement because she saw that it bore the royal seal.

“I have news from Court,” she said. “We are to prepare to leave at once for London.”

“Oh…Margaret!”

“Yes, my love. We have waited so long, have we not. But did I not tell you that if we were patient it would come? Well, here it is.”

Mary took the letter and read it. Then she said slowly: “And Reginald…will he come with us?”

“There would be no point in leaving him in Ludlow. He will surely accompany us on the journey.”

Mary looked as though she were about to dance round the room; then she remembered her dignity, and smiling she said in a clear, calm voice: “I am well pleased.”

The King’s Conscience

EACH MORNING WHEN CARDINAL WOLSEY AWOKE, HE WOULD immediately be conscious of a black cloud of depression. He was not quite certain what it meant, but it was no phantom left over from a nightmare. It was real and it was hanging over him; each day it seemed to take him a little longer to assure himself that he could overcome any difficulties which might present themselves.

On this morning he awoke early and lay listening to the birds singing their songs in the trees of Hampton Court Gardens.

Once he could have said to himself: All this is mine. Those trees, that grass, this magnificent palace and all it contains. But that glory was of the past. He had lost some of his treasures; he must hold firmly to what he had.

Each day, it seemed to him, he was more and more unsure of the King’s temper.

Yesterday Henry had looked at him slyly and murmured that he had heard from Mistress Anne Boleyn’s lips that she had no love for My Lord Cardinal.

Why should he care for the malicious words of a careless girl? He would know how to deal with Anne Boleyn if she were ever important enough to demand his attention. At the moment she was amusing the King.

“Let be, let be,” murmured Wolsey. “I like the King to amuse himself with women. While he does so it keeps him from meddling in state affairs.”

And it was true that of late the King was paying less attention to state affairs; although of course, in a manner characteristic of him, he would think the “secret matter” the biggest state affair of all. To rid himself of Katharine, to take a new French Princess to be his bride…a French bride for the King; a French bridegroom for the Princess Mary…what heavier blow could be struck at the Emperor?

The King was eager that they should begin working out the details of his separation from Katharine. The difficulty was that, if the King’s marriage was no true marriage, what then of the Princess Mary? A bastard? Would François Premier want to betroth his son to a bastard?

The situation was full of dangers. Not that he did not believe he could overcome them; but he wished the attitude of the King had not changed towards him.

He had thrown Hampton Court to his master, and one would have thought that such a gift was something to remember for as long as they both should live; but the King did not seem to think so, for although he now proudly referred to “my palace at Hampton,” his attitude to the Cardinal had not grown more kindly.

There was no doubt about it; the King must be placated. And what he was demanding was the end of his marriage.

Wolsey rose from his bed and within an hour of his rising he was receiving Richard Wolman, who had been Vicar of Walden in Essex and Canon of St. Stevens in Westminster until the King, recently, had made him his chaplain, since when he had lived at Court.

When Richard Wolman stood before the Cardinal, Wolsey said: “I have sent for you that we may discuss the delicate matter of the King’s conscience.”

Wolman bowed his head.

“You know of this matter,” stated Wolsey.

“His Grace has mentioned it to me on several occasions.”

“Then you should go to him and accuse him of living in sin. Tell him that you think that as a sinner of nearly eighteen years’ standing he should put himself before his Archbishop and the ecclesiastical Court to answer the charges which you have brought against him.”

Richard Wolman turned pale. “Cardinal…you cannot mean…Why, the King would…”

Wolsey laughed, and lately his laughter was tinged with bitterness. “The King will frown at you, stamp his feet and show rage. But he’ll not forget those who serve him…as he wishes to be served. Go now and be thankful that you have been chosen to serve the King…and yourself.”

Wolman bowed his head. “You can be assured of my obedience,” he said.

“That is well,” answered Wolsey. “Lose no time. The King grows impatient.”

THE KING NARROWED HIS eyes and studied his chaplain.

“Speak up!” he barked. “Speak up!”

“Your Grace, it is in all humility I bring this charge against you.”

“You bring a charge against me!” The voice was fierce but there was a note of eagerness in it. He was like a tame lion going through his tricks.

“Your Grace, it is after much meditation and prayer…”

“Get on! Get on!” said Henry impatiently.

“I have been considering Your Grace’s marriage, and I come, with much fear and trembling, as Your Grace’s chaplain to…to charge you with living in sin for eighteen years with a woman who cannot be your wife.”

“What! This is monstrous!”

Henry stamped his foot and gave such a good imitation of genuine anger, that Wolman began to tremble. “Your Grace,” he said, “I crave your pardon. If I have offended you…”

“If you have offended me! You come here and charge me…and who has more earnestly endeavored to lead a godly life?…you charge me with…immorality.”

Wolman fell to his knees. He was thinking: This is a plan of the Cardinal’s to ruin me. What a fool I was to allow myself to be persuaded. This is the end of my career at Court, perhaps on Earth.

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon. I spoke carelessly. If Your Grace will overlook…”

“Silence!” thundered the King. Then his voice softened suddenly. “If my chaplain has a criticism of my conduct I am not the man to turn a deaf ear to that criticism.”

“It was presumptuous of me, Your Grace. I pray you forget…”

“Alas, I cannot forget. How could I forget a matter which for so long has given me many troublous thoughts?”

Great relief swept over Wolman. This was no trick. In coming here and making the accusation he had served the King and the Cardinal as they wished to be served.

“Get up,” went on Henry. “Now you have spoken, and right glad I am to have this matter brought into the light of day. I married a woman who was my brother’s wife, and in the Book of Leviticus we are told that this is a sin in the eyes of God. I have been shown God’s displeasure. I have been denied a male heir. What are you and your ecclesiastics prepared to do in this matter?”

Wolman, completely restored to confidence, began to outline Wolsey’s plan. “Your Grace will know that I have talked of this matter with His Eminence the Cardinal.”

Good Thomas, thought Henry. Acquisitive, avaricious he might be, but he could be relied upon to work out a plan of action which would bring the King his desires.

“The Cardinal feels it will be necessary to summon Your Grace before a Council led by himself and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

The King nodded. He could rely on Thomas; as for Archbishop Warham, he was a timid fellow and could be trusted to do as his King commanded.

“There,” went on Wolman, “the matter would be discussed, and if the Council found that Your Grace had never in truth been married…”

The King interrupted: “I should then be free to marry.”

“It would be necessary doubtless to have the matter confirmed in Rome.”

The King nodded. Clement was a good friend to him and Wolsey. He felt jubilant.

He clapped his hand on Wolman’s shoulder. “You have been bold,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “thus to accuse me. But we ever like bold men even when they upbraid us for our sins.”

GABRIEL DE GRAMMONT, Bishop of Tarbes, led his train into the King’s apartment, where Henry, with Wolsey, Warham and several of his most eminent ministers, was waiting to receive them.

Wolsey was delighted because he felt that at last the alliance with France was secure. This would mean war with the Emperor. Wolsey visualized a Europe rising in unison against that young man. Henry had recently received an appeal from Clement who implored him to stand against the Emperor; if he did not, declared the Pope, Charles would shortly be the universal monarch. The Italian countryside had been devastated by his troops, and there was only one course of action: England, France, and the Vatican must stand against the conqueror. The letter had come at an opportune moment and Henry had been deeply impressed by it. And when Wolsey had pointed out: “We must stand by Clement now, for it may be that shortly we shall wish him to stand by us” Henry understood, and was as eager as his Cardinal for the French alliance.

So they had helped the Pope by sending Sir John Russell to Rome with money which would enable Clement to pay his troops and assist in the garrisoning of the City. His Holiness, when he heard English help was on the way, had called a blessing on the English King and Cardinal, and had said that their friendly action had restored him from death to life.

The moment was certainly ripe to apply to him for the Bull which would confirm that the marriage between the King of England and the Emperor’s aunt was not valid and that therefore the King of England was free to marry where he wished.

Henry listened to the French Ambassadors outlining the terms of the new alliance which would mean certain war with the Emperor. François was not the man who would sit down under defeat; he would want to regain all that he had lost; he was waiting for his turn to impose harsh terms on Charles.

Henry nodded shrewdly. He knew that his people had always regarded the French as their natural enemies; and that since the coming of Katharine to England they favored the Spanish alliance. Katharine had contrived to endear herself to the people, because they thought her serious and virtuous and there were many who had profited from her charities. Henry was a little disturbed that she had made such a good impression, but the people must be forced to understand the desirability of getting a male heir. When they realized that the important men of the Church, backed by the Pope himself, considered the King’s marriage unlawful, they would be as eager as he was to accept it as no marriage at all. They would look forward to the pageantry a royal marriage would mean.

Henry pictured it: His bride beside him in the Palace of the Tower of London where she would come before her Coronation; he saw the glittering crown on her head; he saw her sitting beside him in the tiltyard, all haughtiness gone, only gratitude and love for him who had lifted her to such eminence. And the face he saw beneath the crown, the eyes that smiled at him with a faint hint of mockery, were not those of some stranger from France but a well-known young lady, a well-loved one, one who had haunted him ever since he had first seen her at Court and who had beguiled him in the gardens of her father’s castle of Hever.

“By God!” he whispered to himself. “Why not?”

He could hear her voice, high-pitched and imperious: “Your wife I cannot be, both in respect of mine own unworthiness and because you have a queen already. Your mistress I will not be.”

And, strangely enough, he who had never been humble was so before this girl; he, who had looked upon the gratification of his desires as his Divine right, was content to wait and plead.

He had to rouse himself from his reverie to listen to the Frenchmen; and when he did so the words of Grammont startled him.

“There is one point which I feel compelled to raise at this time,” he was saying. “Rumors are circulating concerning the King’s marriage. My master would wish to know whether it is certain that the Princess Mary is the legitimate daughter of the King.”

Sudden anger flamed in Henry’s eyes to be replaced by immediate exultation.

If the legitimacy of the Princess Mary was in question, who could blame him for his determination to have the circumstances of his marriage examined?

He forced a look of intense sadness into his face and glanced towards Wolsey, who said quietly: “We heed the Bishop’s words. Little good can come of discussing that matter further at this stage.”

KATHARINE WATCHED her daughter riding into the Palace of Richmond and she thought: This is one of the happiest moments of my life.

How radiant the child looked! How she had grown! Was she as happy as her mother was by this reunion?

Mary came forward ceremoniously, her eyes lowered. It is because she fears her emotions, Katharine decided. What a Queen she will make when her time comes.

With Mary came her governess, Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, and Margaret’s son Reginald, both good friends of the Queen. So here was further cause for rejoicing.

Now her daughter knelt before her, and Katharine, who could stand on ceremony no longer, raised her up and embraced her.

“My dearest daughter…”

“Oh Mother, it has been so long.”

“Soon we shall be alone, my darling, and able to talk freely to each other.”

“That will be wonderful, Mother.”

She has not changed towards me, thought Katharine exultantly. How foolish of me to fear that she would.

She turned reluctantly from her daughter to greet Margaret. “I thank you for the good care you have taken of my daughter.”

“To serve Your Grace and Her Highness is my pleasure,” answered Margaret formally, but the gleam in her eyes was certainly not formal.

“And your son is here too.” She smiled at Reginald. “That gives me great pleasure.”

So they entered the Palace, and as soon as possible Katharine took her daughter to her private apartments that they might be alone.

“I have longed for this,” she told Mary.

“Oh, Mother, if you could only know how much I longed to see you. I used to kneel in the turret watching for a party of riders which would be you and your suite on the way to the Castle.”

“My dear child…and I never came!”

“No, but I always hoped. I never knew before how important hope is. One goes on being disappointed and loses it for a while, and then…there it is again.”

“You have learned an important lesson, my dearest.”

“And one day, Mother, Reginald came. That was a consolation.”

“Ah, I noticed that there was friendship between you.”

“Is he not wonderful, Mother? He is so clever and yet so kind. I think he is the gentlest man I ever knew.”

Katharine smiled. “And you liked his gentleness?”

“So much, Mother. With him I felt at peace. And after he had been with us a short time the message came that I was to return to you. We shall not be parted again.”

Katharine did not answer. It was her duty to prepare her daughter to receive the French ambassadors who would carry news of her beauty, accomplishments and deportment to the King of France.

And if this marriage were to take place within a year…or very little longer…Mary would be sent to France, for there could be no excuse for keeping her at home any longer. Katharine felt she could not endure another separation.

“You are sad, Mother,” said Mary. “Is it this marriage they are arranging for me which makes you so?”

The Queen nodded. “But we will not think of unpleasant things. It could not happen for a very long time. I will tell you this: I will do everything in my power to postpone, nay prevent it.”

Mary threw herself into her mother’s arms and cried passionately: “Yes, please do. Do not let them send me away from you again. Why could I not marry in my own country?”

Katharine stroked her daughter’s hair.

“Because, my darling, you would have to marry someone who is as royal as yourself.”

“There are people here who are as royal as I am.”

Katharine felt a twinge of alarm. Such words, when applied to one of the King’s subjects, could be dangerous. Buckingham had used them too often.

“Edward IV was Reginald’s ancestor and mine also. So Reginald is as royal as I am.”

The Queen was silent, thinking: Then has she thought of Reginald as a husband?

The idea excited Katharine. And why not? It was true Reginald Pole had Plantagenet blood in his veins. Surely it was a better policy to arrange marriages rather than executions for those whose royalty could be a threat to the crown.

If Mary married Reginald Pole, she could remain in England. Katharine visualized a happy future with her daughter never far from her side. She pictured herself with Mary’s children who would take the place in her heart of those she had never had. If only it could be. If only she could prevent this French alliance!

“Yes,” she said slowly, “Reginald Pole has royal blood in his veins. I am glad that you feel affection for him because I know him to be a good man, and his mother is one of my dearest friends.”

Mary was astute enough to read the promise in those words. She embraced her mother in sudden ecstasy as though, thought Katharine, she believes me to be all-powerful.

But let her think that, because it makes her happy; and we must be happy in these hours of reunion.

LATER KATHARINE sat with her dear friend Margaret Pole and they were alone together, which gave pleasure to them both.

Katharine was saying: “This is one of the happiest days of my life. I have dreamed of it ever since Mary went away.”

“As she has too,” added Margaret.

“It pleases me that she and Reginald should be drawn to each other.”

“They have indeed become good friends. The Princess is such a serious child that the difference in their ages is scarcely noticeable. My son considers her to be one of the most highly educated ladies it has been his pleasure to meet.”

“Your son has not taken Holy Orders?”

“No, he has not done so yet.”

“Does he intend to?”

“I think he is eager to study more before he does so. That is why he is going to the Carthusians at Sheen.”

The Queen smiled and a thought came to Margaret which she had had before; then it had seemed a wild dream, but it did not seem so now because she believed she read the Queen’s thoughts correctly.

Katharine went on: “The French marriage does not please me.”

“But the King and the Cardinal…”

“Oh yes, the Cardinal leads the King the way he wishes him to go.”

Margaret was surprised that the Queen should speak so frankly; then she realized that Katharine did so because the bond between them was a little closer even than it had been before.

“I shall not allow Mary to receive the French ambassadors tomorrow,” went on the Queen. “I shall make the excuse that she is too weary after her long journey from Ludlow. Depend upon it, I shall do all in my power to prevent this proposed marriage. Nor do I despair of so doing. Monarchs are fickle, and François more fickle than most. Mary was betrothed to this boy once before, you remember. There was great enthusiasm…even a ceremony…and then a few years later it was as though that ceremony had never taken place.”

“The Princess is sensitive. One does not care to think of her in a foreign court. And I believe that that of the French is the most licentious in the world.”

The Queen shuddered. “How I should like to make a match nearer home for her. There are more worthy men in England than across the seas.”

The two women had drawn closer together; they were not Queen and subject merely, not only lifelong friends; they were two mothers discussing the future of the children who meant everything in the world to them.

WHILE THE QUEEN sat with Margaret Pole, Iñigo de Mendoza called at the Palace and asked for an interview with her. It was imperative, he declared, that he see Her Grace without delay.

When the message was brought to the Queen, Margaret, without being bidden to do so, left her presence and Mendoza was ushered in.

Katharine saw from his expression that he was extremely agitated, and his first words told her why.

“The Cardinal is working to separate you and the King; he has called together certain bishops and lawyers that they may secretly declare the marriage to be null.”

Katharine could not speak. She knew that the King no longer desired her; that his disappointment at the lack of a male child continued to rankle. But to cast her off as a woman who had been living with him all these years outside the sanctity of marriage, was unthinkable. Such a thing could not happen to a daughter of Spain.

“I fear I have given you a great shock,” said the ambassador. “But it is a matter which must be faced quickly. This must not be allowed to happen.”

“It is the Cardinal who has done this,” said the Queen. “He has long been my enemy.”

“He could not have done it without the King’s consent,” the ambassador reminded her.

“The King is a careless boy at heart. He is tired of me…so he allows Wolsey to persuade him that he should be rid of me.”

“Your Grace, we must act immediately.”

“What can we do if the King has decided to rid himself of me?”

“We can do our best to prevent him.”

“You do not know the King. All that he desires comes to him. He takes it as his Divine right.”

“He may have his will with his own subjects, but Your Grace is of the House of Spain. Have you forgotten that the Emperor is the son of your sister?”

“They care little for the Emperor here now,” said Katharine wearily.

“Your Grace,” the ambassador replied almost sternly, “they will have to care.”

Katharine covered her eyes with her hand. “So this is the end,” she said.

“The end! Indeed it is not. Your Grace, if you will not fight for yourself, you must fight for your daughter.”

“Mary! Of course…she is involved in this.” The Queen had dropped her hand, and the ambassador saw how her eyes flashed. “Are they saying that Mary is a bastard?”

“If the marriage were declared null, that is what I fear she would be called, Your Grace.”

“That shall never be,” said the Queen firmly.

“I knew Your Grace would say that. I beg of you, be as calm as you can, for it is calmness we need if we are to outwit those who work against us. It would be helpful, I am sure, if you could behave as though you know nothing of this which is being called the King’s Secret Matter. The only help we can hope for must be from the Emperor and in view of existing relations our task is made difficult. I beg Your Grace to speak of this matter to no one until we have found a means of conveying the news to my master, your nephew.”

“This we must do without delay.”

“Your Grace is right. But to send a letter might be to act rashly. I feel sure that everything that leaves my hands is in danger of falling into those of the Cardinal’s spies. We must find a messenger who will go to the Emperor with nothing written down, who will tell him by word of mouth what is happening here in England. Let us discover such a man, who must be humble enough not to excite suspicion, yet loyal enough to keep his secrets until he arrives in Spain.”

The Queen, knowing that the ambassador spoke wisely, agreed.

“I will call on you tomorrow,” he told her. “By then I hope to have some plan. In the meantime I trust Your Grace will give no sign that we have wind of the King’s Secret Matter.”

When Mendoza left her, Katharine sat for a long time, very still, an expression of melancholy amplifying the lines on her face.

Such a short while ago she had felt so happy because her daughter was returned to her. Now her happiness had been shattered, for she knew that the greatest calamity which could befall her was threateningly near.

“There are times,” she murmured, “when I think God has deserted me.”

AS HENRY PREPARED to set out for the Cardinal’s Palace of York Place, a complacent smile played about his mouth, and his eyes were gleaming with satisfaction in which humour mingled.

It was an amusing situation when a King was summoned to appear before a court, charged with immorality. He believed that those lawyers and men of the Church must be telling themselves that here was the most tolerant King on Earth. He might have had them all clapped into the Tower for their presumption. But what had he done? Meekly accepted the summons to appear before them and hear his case thrown from the prosecuting to the defending counsels like a ball in a game.

He was certain that the outcome of the case would be that he was found guilty, after which there would be nothing to do but his penance for his sins, receive absolution and marry again that he might do his duty to his country and give it a male heir. The Pope would be called in to have the dispensation, which Julius II had given, declared invalid, but he need have no qualms about that; Clement was the friend of England. It had been a clever stroke to answer his appeal for help against the Emperor. Wolsey was to be commended for his far-sightedness.

So the King set out for York Place in high spirits.

As he stepped from his barge he studied the Palace and thought how grand it looked. It was the town residence of the Archbishops of York and thus it had passed into Wolsey’s possession; but the Cardinal had added a magnificence to it which it had not possessed before, and although it may have lacked the grandeur of Hampton Court it was a very fine palace. Henry’s eyes smouldered a little as he surveyed it. Hampton Court was now his, yet he felt a little resentful that a subject should possess such a residence as that of York Place.

He was slightly mollified when he entered and was received by the Cardinal who exchanged with him a secret look which was meant to imply that the stage was set and in a very short time they would have achieved their desire.

At the end of a hall on a dais Wolsey took his place beside William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Among those gathered in the hall were John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, who was said to be one of the wisest and saintliest men in England, Dr. Bell who was to be the King’s Counsel, and Dr. Wolman who was to state the case against Henry’s marriage.

Dr. Wolman opened the proceedings against the King.

“Henry, King of England, you are called to this archiepiscopal court to answer a charge of living in sin with your brother’s wife…”

Henry listened with the shocked appearance of a man who, in his innocence, has been caught up in a sinful intrigue, and when Wolman had stated the case against the King’s marriage Dr. Bell rose to speak for him.

His Grace had, it was well known, married his brother’s widow, but it was said that the marriage of Prince Arthur and the Infanta Katharine had never been consummated. The reigning King, Henry VII, had expressed his desire that this consummation should not take place on account of the bridegroom’s youth and delicate state of health. And when he died, six months after the marriage, Katharine had stayed in England and in the year 1509 had married their sovereign lord. A dispensation had been received from Pope Julius II, and it was the defense’s case that the King had married in good faith and that it had not occurred to him that his marriage could be anything but legal. Then the Bishop of Tarbes had made a suggestion, and it became clear that this was the result of some pernicious rumor he had heard. It was the King’s desire to stand by the finding of this court, but he was going to ask them to say that his marriage to Katharine of Aragon was a legal one.

Henry’s eyes narrowed as he studied Dr. Bell, but Wolsey had assured him that they could trust Bell. He must put the King’s case in such a manner that it would appear to be a case for the defense. But Bell would know how to act when the moment came.

Wolman was on his feet; he did not think the marriage could have remained unconsummated during the six months the married pair lived together. It would be remembered that they travelled to Ludlow with their own Court and there made merry together. If the marriage had been consummated then, Katharine of Aragon had been the wife of the King’s brother in actual fact, and Wolman maintained that the marriage was illegal.

When it was Henry’s turn to speak he did so with apparent sincerity, for he had convinced himself that it was solely because he wished to stand unsullied in the eyes of God and his subjects that he was glad the matter had been brought to light.

“I can but rejoice that this matter has been brought into the light of day,” he told the court. “Lately it has much troubled my conscience. I could not understand why our prayers should be unanswered. The Queen’s persistent ill health has been a matter of great concern to me, and I trust you learned gentlemen will unravel this delicate matter that I may peacefully return to my wife or—which will cause me much sorrow—declare that our marriage was no marriage and our union must end without delay.”

William Warham listened intently. He lacked the guile of Wolsey and he was coming to the end of an arduous life. He was in his seventies and often it seemed to those about him that he was failing. He was simple enough to believe that the reason for this enquiry was the fact that the Bishop of Tarbes had raised the question of the Princess’s legitimacy. He was anxious to give the matter his most careful attention with the hope that he might lead the members of this court to come to the right conclusion.

The details of the King’s marriage were discussed at length; Katharine’s arrival in England was recalled, followed by her marriage to Arthur which had lasted only six months.

“If that marriage was consummated,” said Warham, “then the Queen has most certainly been the wife of Prince Arthur, and the King could be said to have taken his brother’s wife.”

“Which,” sighed the King, “according to the Holy Word is an unclean thing. Such unions shall be childless, says the Bible. And behold a son has been denied me.”

“But there was a dispensation from the Pope,” put in the Bishop of Rochester. “I think Your Grace should not reproach yourself.”

“The Pope would have been under the impression that the marriage had not been consummated, when he granted the dispensation,” said Wolman. “If it could be proved that the marriage had been consummated, then clearly there could be no marriage between the King and Katharine of Aragon.”

“I think,” persisted Rochester gently, “that the King should suppress his qualms, for there seems little doubt that his marriage is a good one and that the Bull, which legalized it, was sufficient to do so.”

Henry studied John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, from beneath lowered lids. He found it hard to hide his animosity. A curse on these saintly men who expressed their opinions with freedom even before their rulers. Fisher was the Queen’s confessor and clearly her partisan. Wolsey should not have included the man in this court. It was folly to have done so.

Warham was weak and growing simple in his old age. Warham could be handled. But the King was not sure of Fisher.

By God, he thought, I’ll have him in the Tower, beloved of the people though he may be, if he dares to stand out against me.

“My lords,” Wolsey was saying, “I beg of you to come to a quick decision in this case, for the matter is grievous to the King. His Grace is perplexed. If you decide that his union is unlawful, remember it will be necessary for him to part from the Lady Katharine at once, and this will afford him great sorrow for, though he be not in truth her husband, he has a husband’s affection for her.”

Warham’s gentle gray eyes were sad. He was thinking of the Queen who would be deeply disturbed if she knew what was happening at York Place.

Henry was now on his feet telling the court how devoted he was to his wife, how there was no other motive in his heart but the desire to free himself from a sinful union that he might live in peace with God. Katharine had been his wife for eighteen years, and he had found in her all he had hoped to find in a wife.

“Save in one thing!” His voice thundered. “And that, gentlemen, is this matter which is of the utmost importance to my kingdom. Our marriage has not been as fruitful as we wished. We have but one daughter. Again and again it seemed that my wife would produce the son for whom we prayed each night and day; but we were disappointed. It is not until now—when the Bishop of Tarbes comes to my kingdom with his revealing enquiry—that I see the divine pattern of these continual misfortunes. Ah, gentlemen, if you decide that my marriage is no marriage, if I must part with her…whom I love dearly and have always regarded as my wife…then your King will be the most unhappy of men. For the Lady Katharine is of such virtue, such gentleness and humility, possessed of all the qualities pertaining to nobility; and if I were to marry again—and it were not a sin to marry her—she is the woman I would choose above all others.”

As he spoke he seemed to see a vital young face laughing at him, mocking him. There was more than a trace of mockery in Anne. It was part of her witchery and it enslaved him.

He found himself answering her in his thoughts: Well, ’tis for our future. Were I to tell these Bishops of my need for you, they would never understand. Poor old fellows, what could they know of what is between us two!

But the mood passed quickly, and in a few moments he was believing all he said. The little mouth, which had grown slack as he thought of Anne, tightened and became prim. I should never have thought of casting off Katharine but for the continued gnawing of my conscience, he told himself; and he immediately believed it. Katharine was the woman he had insisted on marrying eighteen years ago; it was not because her body had grown shapeless, her hair lacked lustre, and that she provoked no physical desire in him that he would be rid of her. It had nothing to do with the most fascinating woman he had ever known, who still kept aloof and would not submit to him, yet maddened him with her promises of what would be his if she were his wife. No, he told himself sternly, Anne was apart from this. He loved Anne with every pulse of his body; his unsatisfied desire was becoming more than he could endure; and since he had discovered that no other woman would suffice in her place, he was making secret plans now to give Anne what she wanted. (By God, she asks a high price for herself, a crown no less. But worth it, my beauty!) Yet, he assured himself, but for the demands of conscience he would never have questioned his marriage to Katharine. It was solely because he feared he was living in sin, and must quickly cease to do so, that he was here before his bishops and lawyers this day.

“This matter cannot be settled in any haste,” said Warham. “The findings of the court must be examined.”

Henry fidgeted. He was almost on his feet. He wanted to shout at them: You idle fellows. Time to examine your findings! What do you want with that? I tell you I want a divorce, and, by God, a divorce I shall have or clap every man of you into the Tower.

But in time he saw the horror which was dawning in the Cardinal’s eyes and restrained himself with difficulty.

So the court was adjourned.

THE KING WAS with the Cardinal when the messengers arrived; these were messengers with no ordinary tidings; they demanded that they be taken with all speed to the King’s presence, assuring those who tried to detain them that it would go ill with them if the news they carried were kept from the King an instant longer than it need be.

When this message was brought to Henry he said: “Let them come to me at once.”

They came in, travel-stained and breathless from their haste, their eyes alight with the excitement of those who have news which is such as is heard once in a lifetime.

“Your Grace…Your Eminence…” The words then began to tumble out. “Bourbon’s troops have attacked Rome. The city is in the hands of savage soldiery. The Pope has escaped with his life by shutting himself up in the Castle of St. Angelo. The carnage, Your Grace, Your Eminence, is indescribable.”

Henry was horrified. The Pope a prisoner! Rome in the hands of lewd and savage soldiers! Never had such a disaster befallen Christendom.

The Constable of Bourbon, the declared enemy of the King of France, was siding with the Emperor, and his army it was which had launched this attack on Rome. Bourbon himself was dead; indeed, he had had no desire to attack Rome; but his army was reduced to famine; there was no money with which to pay them; they demanded conquest and would have killed him if he had stood in their way.

So on that fateful May day this ragged, starving, desperate army had marched on Rome.

Bourbon had been killed in the attack but his men did not need him. On they had rushed, into Rome.

Never had men and women seen such wanton destruction; the fact that this was the city of Rome seemed to raise greater determination to destroy and desecrate than men had ever felt before.

The invaders stormed into the streets, killing men, women and children who were in their way; they battered their way into the palaces and great houses; they crammed food into their starving mouths; they poured wine down their scorching throats. But they had not come merely to eat and drink.

They invaded the churches, seizing the rich ornaments, images, vases, chalices which were brought into the streets and piled high into any means of conveyance the marauders were able to snatch. Every man was determined to have his pile of treasures, to reward himself for the months of bitter privation.

During those five terrible days when the soldiers were in possession of Rome, they determined that every woman should be raped and not a single virgin left in the city. The greatest amusement was afforded them by the nuns who had believed that their cloth would protect them. Into the convents burst the soldiers. They caught the nuns at prayer and stripped them of those robes which the innocent women had thought would protect them. Horror had pervaded the convents of Rome.

In the streets wine ran from the broken casks, and satiated soldiers lay in the gutters exhausted by their excesses. Priceless tapestry and gleaming utensils which had been stolen from altars and palaces and thrown from windows were lying in the street. The soldiers were mercenaries from Spain, Germany and Naples; and to the desecration of Rome each brought the worst of his national characteristics. The Germans destroyed with brutal efficiency; the Neapolitans were responsible for the greatest sexual outrages; and the Spaniards took a great delight in inflicting subtle cruelty.

It was not enough to commit rape and murder; others must join in their fun. So they brought monks and nuns together, stripped them of their robes and forced the monks to rape the nuns, while these vile soldiers stood by applauding and mocking.

Never had such sights been seen in Rome, and the people who had managed to escape with their lives cried out in great lamentation, declaring that if God did not punish such wickedness it must be believed that He did not trouble Himself about the affairs of this world.

This was the story the messengers brought to the King on that May day, and to which he listened in increasing anger and horror.

He sent the messengers away to be refreshed, and when they had gone he turned to the Cardinal.

“This is the most terrible tale I ever heard.”

“And doubly so,” answered Wolsey, “coming at this time.”

Henry was startled. While he was listening to the tale of horror he had forgotten his own predicament.

Wolsey went on: “The Pope a prisoner in the Castle Sant’ Angelo! Although Bourbon led the attack on Rome, the Pope is now the Emperor’s prisoner. Your Grace will see that, being the prisoner of the Emperor, he will not be in a position to declare invalid the dispensation regarding the Emperor’s aunt.”

“By God, I see what you mean,” said Henry. “But he will not long be a prisoner. It is monstrous that the Holy Father should be treated so.”

“I am in agreement with Your Grace. But I fear this will mean delay.”

The King’s mouth was petulant. “I weary of delay,” he murmured.

“We must act quickly, Your Grace, and there are two tasks which lie ahead of us. We must send an embassy to France without delay in order that we may, with the help of our ally, liberate the Pope from this humiliating situation.”

“Who will go on such an embassy?”

“It is a delicate matter, in view of what is involved,” said Wolsey.

“You must go, Thomas. None could succeed as you will. You know all that is in my heart at this time; and you will bring about that which we need.”

Wolsey bowed his head. “I will begin my preparations at once, Your Grace.”

“You spoke of another task.”

“Yes, Your Grace. The Queen will have heard rumors of our court of enquiry. I think she should be told of Your Grace’s conflict with your conscience.”

“And who should tell her this?” demanded Henry.

Wolsey was silent and Henry went on sullenly: “I see what is in your mind. This should come from no lips but my own.”

THE PRINCESS MARY was seated in her favorite position on a stool at her mother’s feet, leaning her head against the velvet of Katharine’s skirt. She was saying how happy she was that they could be together again, and that the long sojourn at Ludlow seemed like a nightmare.

“Oh Mother,” cried the Princess, “is there any more news of my marriage?”

“None, my darling.”

“You would tell me, would you not. You would not try to shield me…because, Mother, I would rather know the truth.”

“My dearest, if I knew of anything concerning your marriage I should tell you, because I believe with you that it is well to be prepared.”

Mary took her mother’s hand and played with the rings as she used to when she was a baby.

“I fancied you seemed distraught of late. I wondered if there had been some evil news…”

Katharine laid her hand on her daughter’s head and held it firmly against her. She was glad Mary could not see her face. Evil news! she thought. The most evil news that could be brought to me! Your father is trying to cast me off.

But she would not tell Mary this, for who could say how the girl would act? She might be foolhardy enough, affectionate enough, to face her father, to upbraid him for his treatment of her mother. She must not do that. Henry could never endure criticism, more especially when he was doing something of which he might be ashamed. He could harm Mary as certainly as he could harm Katharine. Indeed, thought the Queen, my daughter’s destiny is so entwined with mine that the evil which befalls me must touch her also. Better for her not to know of this terrible shadow which hangs over us. Let her be kept in ignorance for as long as possible.

“There is no further news of your marriage,” said the Queen firmly. “Nor do I think there will be. These friendships with foreign countries are flimsy. They come and go.”

“It would be so much better if I were married to someone at home here,” said Mary.

“Perhaps that may happen,” replied the Queen soothingly. “Who shall say?”

Mary turned and lifted a radiant face to her mother. “You see Mother, not only should I marry someone who was of my own country…speaking my own language, understanding our ways…but I should be with you. Imagine, forevermore we should be together! Perhaps I should not always live at Court. Perhaps I should have a house in the country; but you would come and visit me there…and often I should be at Court. When my children are born you would be beside me. Would that not be so much happier than our being separated and your hearing the news through messengers?”

“It would be the happiest state which could befall us both.”

“Then you will tell my father so?”

“My darling, do you think I have any influence with your father?”

“Oh…but you are my mother.”

The Queen’s brows were drawn together in consternation and, realizing that she had let a certain bitterness creep into her voice, she said quickly: “Kings are eager to make marriages of state for their sons and daughters. But depend upon it, Mary, that if I have any influence it shall be used to bring you your heart’s desire.”

They were silent for a while and the Queen wondered whether Mary was really thinking of Reginald Pole when she talked of marriage, and whether it was possible for one so young to be in love with a man.

While they sat thus the King came into the apartment. He was alone, which was unusual, for he rarely moved about the Palace without a little cluster of attendants. He was more somberly clad than usual and he looked like a man with a private sorrow.

The Queen and Princess rose, and both curtseyed as he approached.

“Ha!” he said. “So our daughter is with you. It is pleasant to see you back at Court, daughter.”

“I thank Your Grace,” murmured Mary.

“And you play the virginals as well as ever, I believe. You must prove this to us.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Do you wish me to now?”

“No…no. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with your mother, and I am going to send you away. Go and practice on the virginals so that you will not disappoint me when you next show me your progress.”

As Mary curtseyed again and went away, Katharine was thinking: What can I say to him now, knowing what I do? How can anything ever be the same between us again?

As soon as Mary had left them, Henry turned to her, his hands clasped behind his back, on his face an expression of melancholy, his mouth tight and prim, the general effect being that before Katharine stood a man who had forced himself to a painful duty.

He began: “Katharine, I have a grievous matter to discuss with you.”

“I am eager to discuss that matter with you,” she answered.

“Ah,” he went on, “I would give half my kingdom if by so doing I could have prevented this from happening.”

“I pray you tell me what is in your mind.”

“Katharine, you were poor and desolate when I married you; you were a stranger in a strange land; you were the widow of my brother, and it seemed that there was no home for you in the country of your birth nor here in the country of your adoption.”

“I shall never forget those days,” she answered.

“And I determined to change all that. I was young and idealistic, and you were young too, then, and beautiful.”

“Both qualities which I no longer possess.”

The King turned his eyes to the ceiling. “That could be of no importance in this matter. But it seems that learned men…men of the Church…have examined our marriage…or what we believed to be our marriage…and they have found that it is no true marriage.”

“Then they deceive you,” she said fiercely.

“As I told them. But they are learned men and they quote the law to me. They read the Bible to me and tell me that I have sinned against God’s laws. We have both sinned, Katharine.”

“This makes no sense,” retorted Katharine. “How could we have sinned by marrying?”

“It is so clear to me now. It is in the Bible. Read it, Katharine. Read the twenty-first verse of the twentieth chapter of Leviticus. Then you will see that ours was no true marriage and that for all these years we have been living in sin.”

Katharine stared at him blankly. This was no surprise to her, but to hear it from his own lips, to see that stubborn determination which she knew so well, light up his eyes, shocked her more deeply than she had ever been shocked before.

“I know,” went on the King, “that this is a matter which distresses you, even as it distresses me. I will admit to a temptation to turn my back on this, to scoff at my critics, to say, Let us forget that I married my brother’s wife. But I can hear the voice of God speaking to me through my conscience…”

“When did your conscience first begin to trouble you?” she asked.

“It was when I heard the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes; when he questioned Mary’s legitimacy.”

At the mention of her daughter, Katharine’s bravado crumpled; she looked older suddenly and a very frightened woman.

“You see,” went on the King, “much as this distresses me, and indeed it breaks my heart to consider that we can no longer live together…”

“Which we have not done for some time,” she reminded him. “We had ceased to be bedfellows before your conscience was troubled.”

“Your poor state of health…my consideration for you…my fears that another pregnancy would be beyond your strength…”

“And your interest in others…,” murmured Katharine.

But Henry went on as though he had not heard her: “What a tragedy when a King and Queen, so long married, so devoted to each other, should suddenly understand that their marriage is no marriage, and that they must separate. I have given this matter much thought I have said to myself, What will become of her? For myself, I have not cared. But for you, Katharine…you whom I always, until this time, thought of as my wife…” He paused, pretending to be overcome by his emotions.

She wanted to shout at him that she despised him, that she knew it was not his conscience that was behind this dastardly plot but his desire for a new wife. She wanted to say: How dare you cast insults at a Princess of Spain? And what of our daughter? Will you, merely that you may satisfy your lust in the sanctity of a marriage bed, cast me off and proclaim our daughter a bastard!

It was the thought of Mary which was unnerving her. Her usual calm had deserted her; she could feel her mouth trembling so that it would not form the words she wanted to utter; her limbs were threatening to collapse.

Henry went on: “Knowing your serious nature, your love of the Church and all it stands for, it seemed to me that you would wish to enter a convent and there pass the rest of your days in peace. It should be a convent of your choosing and you should be its abbess. You need have no fear that you would lose any of the dignity of your rank…”

A voice within her cried: Do you think you could strip me of that? You have insulted me by telling me that I lived with you for all these years when I was not your legal wife; and now you dare tell me—the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand—that you will not rob me of my rank!

But the words would not come and the hot tears were spilling over and running down her cheeks.

Henry stared at her. He had never seen her thus. That she, who had always been so conscious of her dignity and rank, should weep, was something he had not considered.

It horrified him.

“Now, Kate,” he said, “you must not weep. You must be brave…as I would fain be. Think not that I cease to love you. Love you I always shall. The Bishops may say what they will; you may not be my wife in the eyes of God but always I shall love you as I did in those days when you were so poor and lonely and I lifted you up to share my throne. Do not grieve. Who knows…they may find that there is naught wrong with our marriage after all. Kate, Kate, dry your eyes. And remember this: For the time being this is our secret matter. We do not want it bruited abroad. If I could but come to terms with my conscience I would snap my fingers at these Bishops, Kate. I’d have them clapped into the Tower for daring to hint…”

But she was not listening. She did not believe him. She did not see the virtuous, religious man he was trying to show her; she saw only the lustful King who was tired of one wife and wanted another.

Her tears fell faster, and convulsive sobs shook her body.

Henry stood awhile, staring at her in dismay; then he turned abruptly and left her.

The Queen and the Cardinal in Danger

WHEN THE QUEEN HAD RECOVERED FROM HER GRIEF SHE sent for Mendoza.

“All that we feared has come to pass,” she told him. “The King is determined to rid himself of me. He has told me that his conscience troubles him because learned men have assured him that we are not truly married.”

“So it has gone as far as that!” muttered Mendoza. “We shall need a strong advocate to defend Your Grace…”

“Where should I find one here in England?” she asked.

“Your Grace can trust none of the King’s subjects. We must immediately appeal to the Emperor.”

“I will write to him with all speed.”

Mendoza shook his head. “It is very doubtful that any appeal from you would be allowed to reach him.”

Katharine stared helplessly at the ambassador.

“Or,” he continued, “any appeal from me either. The Cardinal’s spies will be doubly vigilant. We must smuggle a messenger out of the country, and it must be done in such a way that no suspicion is attached to him.”

“What a sad state of affairs when I am denied a lawyer to defend me.”

“Let us be hopeful,” answered Mendoza, “and say that the King knows that he has such a poor case that he dare not allow a good lawyer to defend you. Is there any member of Your Grace’s household whom you trust completely?”

Katharine thought awhile and then said: “He must be a Spaniard for he will have to travel into Spain to reach the Emperor. I can only think of Francisco Felipez who has been in my service for twenty-seven years. I am sure he is to be trusted.”

“An excellent choice. He should leave for Spain as soon as possible. But he should carry nothing in writing and it should seem that you do not send him but that he wishes to go of his own accord.”

“I will summon him and together we will form some plan.”

“It would be unwise for Your Grace to send for him now while I am here. I am certain that we are being closely watched. Indeed, it may be unwise to send for him at all, because it will doubtless be suspected that you will try to get a message through to the Emperor. If Your Grace could seize an opportunity of speaking to him when he is performing some duty—just whispering a word to him when no one will notice—that would be the best plan. Then if he expresses a desire to see his family, it will not appear that he is on Your Grace’s business.”

“How I hate this intrigue! I feel like a prisoner in the Tower rather than a Queen in her Palace.”

The ambassador looked at her sadly. He wondered what might have befallen her, standing in the King’s way as she did, had she not been the aunt of the Emperor.

FRANCISCO FELIPEZ presented himself to the King and asked if he might speak to him in private.

Henry granted this request, thinking that the man came with some message from the Queen, but as soon as they were alone Felipez said: “Your Grace, I am in great distress. My mother is dying and wishes to give me her blessing. I have come to ask your permission to go to her.”

“You are a servant of the Queen,” said Henry. “Have you not asked her for this licence?”

Felipez looked uneasy. “I have, Your Grace.”

“Well?”

“And she has refused it.”

The King’s blue eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Why so?” he demanded.

“She believes that I do not speak the truth.”

“And has she reason to believe this?”

“None, Your Grace.”

“This is unlike the Queen. I have always thought her to be most considerate of her servants.”

“The Queen has changed. She accused me of seeking to leave her, as all her servants would do in time.”

“But why should she say such a thing?”

The man hesitated, but Henry insisted that he should continue. “Your Grace, the Queen says that, since you are displeased with her, all her servants will find excuses to leave her.”

“I fear the Queen is suffering from delusions,” said Henry. “It grieves me that she should have so little thought for her servants. You did well to come to me. I will grant your licence; I will do more. I will give you a safe-conduct through France which will make your journey so much easier.”

Felipez fell to his knees, tears of gratitude in his eyes.

“We see you are pleased,” said Henry gruffly. “I will give you your licence now.”

“How can I thank Your Grace?” stammered the man.

But Henry waved a hand and went to the table. He wrote for a while, then handed the man a document.

“This will suffice,” he said. “You need have no fear that you will be intercepted. I trust that you will reach your mother in time.”

When Felipez had gone, Henry thought: There is a man who, should he return to England, will be my servant, not the Queen’s.

It was some days later when Henry remembered the incident and mentioned it in a letter he wrote to the Cardinal who was now in France.

The Cardinal’s answer came back promptly.

“This man but feigns to visit his sick mother. Your Highness will realize that it is chiefly for disclosing your secret matter to the Emperor and to devise means and ways of how it may be impeached. I pray Your Grace to ascertain whether this man has left England and, if he has not, to stop him. If he has left, I will, if it be in my power, have him intercepted in his journey across France, for if this matter should come to the Emperor’s ears, it should be no little hindrance to Your Grace.”

When Henry read that letter he was furious. He had been foolish not to see through the ruse. What a cunning woman the Queen had become! He should have seen through her deception. And because the Cardinal had seen at once, and because had the Cardinal been in England the licence would never have been granted, Henry, perversely, felt irritated with the Cardinal.

There was another reason which made him uneasy when he thought of the Cardinal. There were certain matters which he had withheld from his minister. Anne hated Wolsey and she was gradually persuading Henry to hate him.

Anne had said: “If the Cardinal knew of our desires he would work against us. Never have I forgotten the time when he treated me as though I were the lowest serving wench—and all because Henry Percy had spoken for me.”

“But, sweetheart, if any man can get me my divorce, that man is the Cardinal,” Henry had insisted.

Anne had agreed with that. They should use the Cardinal, for he was a wily man; she did not deny that. But he believed that the purpose of the divorce he was trying to arrange was that Henry might marry Renée, daughter of Louis XII, not Anne Boleyn.

So there were secrets which the King had kept from the Cardinal, and during recent months it had often been necessary to deceive him. Once there had been complete accord between them, but this was no longer so, and now Henry was irritated to think of those secrets; he might have despised himself for his duplicity, but as he could not do that, he gave vent to his feelings in his dislike of Wolsey.

He brushed the man out of his thoughts and had the Court searched for Francisco Felipez. He could not be found. It seemed that he had left England several days before.

THE KING SENT for one of his secretaries, Dr. William Knight. This was a man whom he trusted and who had already shown himself a worthy ambassador, for Henry had often sent him abroad on state business.

William Knight was a man of some fifty years and Henry had chosen him for his wisdom and experience.

“Ah, my good William,” said the King as soon as Dr. Knight entered his apartment, “you have been in my service many years, and I have great faith in you; that is why I now assign to you the most important task of your life.”

William Knight was surprised. He stammered: “Your Grace knows that whatever task is assigned to me I will perform with all my wits.”

“We know it, William. That is why we are entrusting you with this matter. You are to leave at once for Rome, travelling through France of course.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And when you reach Rome you must find some means of seeing the Pope. I wish this matter of the divorce to be hastened. I chafe with the delay. I wish you to ask the Pope to give Cardinal Wolsey the power to try our case here in England. And there is one other matter. As soon as the divorce is settled I shall marry—immediately. I consider it my duty to marry and I have chosen the Lady Anne Boleyn to be my wife.”

William Knight did not answer. He had heard rumors of course. He knew that the Boleyn faction had great influence with the King, but had not realized that the matter had gone so far and that the King could possibly contemplate marriage with Thomas Boleyn’s daughter while Wolsey was in France—not exactly negotiating for a marriage with the Princess Renée, but surely with this in mind.

“There is one matter,” went on the King, “which gives me great concern. I fear there may be an obstacle to my union with the Lady Anne, owing to a relationship I once had with her sister, Mary. Because of the existing canon law a close relationship has been established between the Lady Anne and myself, and in order that this be removed there would have to be a dispensation from the Pope. Your mission in Rome is that you request the Pope, beside giving Wolsey permission to try the case, to give you the dispensation which would enable me to marry the Lady Anne with a free conscience.”

William Knight bowed. “I will set out for Rome at once,” he told the King, “and serve Your Grace with all my heart and power.”

Henry slapped his secretary’s shoulder.

“Begone, good William. I look to see you back ere long. Bring me what I wish and I’ll not forget the service you have rendered. But, by God, make haste. I chafe against delay.”

WOLSEY HAD set out for France, travelling to the coast with even more than his usual pomp. His red satin robes, his tippet of sables, made him a dazzling figure in the midst of his brilliant cavalcade; he held himself erect and glanced neither to right nor left, because he knew that the looks of those who had gathered to see him pass would be hostile. At one time he would have scorned them; he did so no longer; he, the proud Cardinal, would have eagerly welcomed one kindly smile, would have been delighted with one friendly word.

He thought as he rode along that he was like a man climbing a mountain. He had come far over the grassy slopes which had been easy to scale; but now the top was in sight and he had to traverse the glacial surface to reach it. He had come so far that there was no going back; and he was on the treacherous ground where one false step could send him hurtling into the valley of degradation.

All about him were his servants in their red and gold livery. Where the crowd was thick his gentlemen ushers cried out: “On, my lords and masters, on before. Make way for my Lord’s Grace.”

Even he who had been wont to pass each day from York Place or Hampton to Westminster Hall in the greatest pomp had never travelled quite so magnificently as he did at this time. Now he rode as the King’s vicar-general, and as he went through the City and over London bridge, through Kent on his way to the sea, he could not help wondering how many more such glorious journeys there would be for him; and what the next journey would be, and whether the people would come from their houses to watch Wolsey pass by.

Yet even though his heart was heavy with foreboding, he could enjoy this ostentatious display. Here he was the central figure among nine hundred horsemen, seated on his mule with its trappings of crimson velvet and stirrups of copper and gilt. In his hand he held an orange, the inside of which had been removed and replaced with unguents and vinegar which would be proof against the pestilential air. Delicately he sniffed it when he passed through the poor villages and from the corner of his eye saw the ragged men and women who had come out to stare at him. Before him were carried two enormous crosses of silver and two pillars, also of silver, the great seal of England and his Cardinal’s hat, that all might realize that he was not merely the great Cardinal, as his red robes proclaimed him, but the Chancellor and the richest man in England—under the King.

He proposed to make two calls on his way to Dover. One should be at Rochester and the other at Canterbury, that he might confer with the Archbishops, Fisher and Warham. The King had commanded him to do this for Henry was unsure of those two. It was Warham who had wanted time to consider the findings of the court. If this had not been so, it might have been declared, before the news of the Sack of Rome reached London, that the marriage was invalid. As for Fisher, since he was the Queen’s confessor, Henry suspected him of being the Queen’s friend.

So the Cardinal halted at Rochester and there was received in the Bishop’s palace.

When they were alone together Wolsey said tentatively that he believed the Bishop was not fully informed of the King’s Secret Matter and that the King was eager that this should be remedied. He then went over the old ground to stress the suggestion made by the Bishop of Tarbes and the King’s consequent misgivings.

Fisher listened gravely, and his compassion for the Queen was intensified by all he heard.

“I fear,” said Wolsey, “that when His Grace broached the matter to the Queen she became hysterical, much to the King’s displeasure.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” answered Fisher.

“As her confessor,” Wolsey replied, “you might bring her to a mood of submission. His Grace feels that you have much influence with her and that you might remind her of the comfort to be found in a life of seclusion.”

The Bishop nodded and, when the Cardinal had left him, he was on his knees for a long time praying for the Queen.

Then on to Canterbury to see Warham and to hint to him that Henry would expect no opposition to the divorce; and, sure that he was bringing Warham to the right state of mind, he continued on his way.

And so to France, there to pass through the countryside, to be gaped at and watched in silence as he proceeded along the road to Paris.

There was nothing lacking in the welcome given him by François and Louise. Pageants and balls were arranged for his pleasure; plays were enacted before him; and all of a greater wit and subtlety than those he was accustomed to witness at the Court of England. François insisted on showing him some of the fine building he was carrying out; building was one of the French King’s passions and almost as important to him as the pursuit of women. Wolsey was enchanted by the superb architecture he saw in France, and dreamed of rebuilding some of his own residences in England. This made him think of Hampton Court which was no longer his and, because when he had been obliged to throw that mansion to the King it had been a gesture which marked the change in their relationship, he was depressed; and it occurred to him then that he would never be able to plan new additions to his palaces.

But his skill was still with him. He completed the treaty with France and gave a pledge that Mary should marry the Duc d’Orléans. As yet he could do little but hint of the King’s marriage with the Princess Renée, because it was scarcely diplomatic to discuss the proposed marriage of a man who was not yet recognized as a bachelor in the eyes of the world. But François could understand a hint better than most; and naturally he was fully aware of the King’s Secret Matter, and he gave hint for hint; he would welcome a marriage between the Princess Renée and the King of England, once the latter was free to take a wife.

Wolsey was resting at Compiègne when Dr. Knight caught up with him. The Cardinal was surprised to see his fellow countryman and received him warmly, eager to know on what business he had come to France.

Dr. Knight had received no instructions not to inform Wolsey of his mission; he believed that the Cardinal was perfecting the more difficult negotiations with François while he, Knight, had the simpler task—for it would be simple once he could reach the Pope—of requesting the required dispensation and asking permission for Wolsey to conduct the enquiry into the divorce.

When the two men were alone together, Knight explained: “The King decided, soon after you had left, that he would send me to Rome. I am now on my way there.”

Wolsey was startled and depressed. If the King was not keeping him informed of all the measures he was taking, it was a bad sign.

“What is your mission in Rome?” he asked, hoping to sound casual.

“In the first place to get the permission of His Holiness for you to try the case.”

Wolsey gave a great sigh of relief. It was reasonable that such a request should not come from him personally, and he immediately saw the point of the King’s engaging Knight for this commission.

“And in the second place?” he asked.

“Oh…a simple matter. The King’s conscience worries him regarding a previous connection with Mary Boleyn.”

“With Mary Boleyn!”

“It seems the girl was his mistress at one time.”

“And his conscience worries him…”

“I confess I was a little surprised. It is true that family has been giving itself airs of late but I did not know the King was infatuated so much as to consider marriage.”

“Please explain,” said Wolsey calmly.

“Since the King proposes to marry Anne Boleyn he requires a dispensation on account of his sexual conduct with her sister.”

Wolsey was speechless for a few seconds. Somewhere close by a bell began to toll, and it seemed to him that the bell tolled for Cardinal Wolsey.

He soon recovered his poise. He was eager that Knight should not guess how deep the rift was between him and the King.

“The King’s conscience is ever active,” he said lightly.

“He is cautious now—eager that when he marries again it shall be a true marriage and that he runs no risk of offending the Deity and thus be deprived of a male heir.”

Wolsey nodded, eager to be alone with his thoughts.

When Knight had left him he sat for a long time staring before him. He had come to France, and one of his missions was to hint at a French marriage for the King. The King knew this. And yet…all the time they had discussed this matter together he had been contemplating marriage with Anne Boleyn.

“That black-eyed witch!” muttered Wolsey; and suddenly so much was clear to him. He knew why the King had slowly but certainly turned his back on him. Mistress Anne had commanded him to do so. Mistress Anne hated the Cardinal who had upbraided her as though she were a humble serving wench at the time when Percy had tried to marry her. Vengeance had blazed from those proud eyes and he had laughed, because he could not believe that he—the great Cardinal—had anything to fear from a foolish girl.

Now this girl was constantly at the King’s side; she had bewitched him so completely that, unsuitable as the marriage was (and to think he had declared her not good enough for Percy!) he was determined to marry her. It was desire for this black-eyed girl, not his miserable conscience, that had set this matter in motion. And the most powerful person at Court was now Anne Boleyn, the declared enemy of the Cardinal.

It had happened under his very eyes and he had not seen it. He had been blind—he who had come so far because he had always seen a move ahead of all others. But he was old and tired now and he was afraid.

What now? he asked himself; and once more he heard the tolling of the bell.

He wanted to pray then, for help, for guidance.

I shall overcome this, as I have all other obstacles. I shall make this woman sorry that she proclaimed herself my enemy.

He seemed to hear mocking laughter, and he thought it sounded like Buckingham’s laughter. Buckingham had lost his head; it had not been difficult to teach him a lesson, and he was one of the foremost noblemen in the land. Should he fear a woman—and one whose claims to nobility were slight?

No, he was not afraid.

Yet he wanted to pray and suddenly realized that he could not do so. All he could do was sink to his knees and talk of his fear, ask for the power to triumph over his enemies. But that did not seem like a prayer.

He rose. He would return to England and there he would see the King; and now there would be no secrets between them. He was no longer deceived by the King’s attitude to the Lady which he had believed to be similar to that which he had felt towards many another.

This was different. This was something the King had never felt before, and it explained the change in their relationship.

Wolsey must tread very warily. Always before he had triumphed; why should he not triumph again?

Tomorrow he would leave for England, his mission completed. He would retire and after a good night’s rest he would be refreshed.

He went to the window to look out on the peaceful scene below, and as he stood there he saw that someone had drawn a sketch on the woodwork with a piece of charcoal.

It was not pretty. There was a gallows and there was something lifelike about the figure which hung from it. The Cardinal’s robes had been roughly but effectively sketched.

Who had done that? Someone in his suite? Someone who hated him and took a vicious delight in making such a sketch where, more likely than not, his eyes would alight on it.

The Cardinal took his kerchief and was about to rub it away. Then he hesitated. No. It would be a sign of weakness. Let it remain; let others see it. He was accustomed to abuse. It had always been his from the start of the climb, yet it had had little effect on his success. If it had not then, why should it now?

So he went to bed; but he slept ill that night. He dreamed of a black-eyed woman who, for the King’s delight, was drawing charcoal sketches of a Cardinal swinging on the gallows.

THE QUEEN’S BARGE SAILED from Greenwich to Richmond, and all along the banks the people stood cheering her as she passed. The Princess Mary was with Katharine; she could scarcely bear the girl to be out of her sight, and her greatest fear was that they would be separated.

“God bless the Queen!” shouted the people. “God bless the Princess Mary!”

Katharine acknowledged their greetings and the Princess did the same. It was comforting to go among these people, for everywhere they showed their pleasure in her. Henry might talk in hushed tones of his Secret Matter, but he was the only one who believed it was a secret, and the King’s desire for a divorce was discussed in every tavern along the river. Almost without exception the people were on the side of the Queen. The women were fierce in championing her cause.

“A pretty state of affairs,” they grumbled, “when a man tires of his wife and says she is not his wife that he may be free to choose a younger woman. If this is marriage, then save us from it!”

Since Queen Katharine had come to England, the English had felt the Spaniards to be their friends, and their natural enemies the French; some believed the latter to be a species of monkey and that many of them had tails which their fine clothes hid.

And the villain behind it all was the Cardinal. They had always hated the Cardinal. “Who was the Cardinal?” they had often asked each other. “No better than you or I. Did you know his father was a butcher?”

Who imposed taxes to fight wars which no one wanted? The Cardinal.

Who lived like a king although he was the son of a butcher? Who made treaties with France because France paid him well to do so? Who was responsible for all the poverty in the country? Who chopped off the head of the noble Duke of Buckingham because he had thrown dirty water over his shoes? The answer to all these questions was Wolsey.

They thought of him as they had seen him so many times, riding through the streets on his mule which was caparisoned in scarlet and gold, sniffing his orange as though he disdained them and feared contamination with them.

The King has been led astray by him. The King was jovial, fond of sport; the King was young and easily led. Wolsey had wanted to make an alliance with the French, so he had made the King doubt the validity of his marriage to Katharine of Aragon; and the Princess Mary—the dear little Princess Mary—was proclaimed a bastard!

“Long live Queen Katharine!” cried the people. “Queen Katharine for ever!”

To the barge came the sound of singing and Katharine took heart as she heard it, for it proclaimed the love of the people for the Princess Mary whom they regarded as the heir to the throne.

“Yea, a Princess whom to describe

It were hard for an orator.

She is but a child in age,

And yet she is both wise and sage—

And beautiful in flavor.

Perfectly doth she represent

The singular graces excellent

Both of her father and mother.

Howbeit, this disregarding,

The carter of York is meddling

For to divorce them asunder.”

In that song was not only their love of their Princess and their determination to support Katharine’s cause but their hatred of Wolsey, Archbishop of York, whom they sometimes referred to as a carter, sometimes a butcher.

“Long live the Princess Mary!” cried the people; and Mary lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the greeting and smiled in her eager but dignified way which never failed to please them.

And so they came to the oddly shaped turrets of Richmond which glowed in the sunshine like inverted pears.

In the quiet of her apartments Bishop Fisher was waiting for Katharine who had summoned him thither.

“My lord,” she said, when they were alone, “it pleases me that you have come. I have need of your counsel.”

“I pray Your Grace to calm yourself. Wolsey visited me on his way to the coast. He told me how distressed you were after your interview with the King.”

“I fear I lost control.”

“We must pray for greater control.”

“Sometimes I could hope that death would come to me.”

“When we die, Your Grace, is a matter for God to decide.”

“I know it is wrong of me, but there are times when I feel that life is too bitter to be borne.”

“And you pray that this cup might pass from you,” murmured the Bishop. “There is one, Your Grace, who needs you now. You must not forget that this matter concerns your daughter.”

“It is that which breaks my heart.”

“We are not defeated yet.”

“My lord, you say we. Does that mean that you will stand beside me?”

“I will pray with you and for you.”

She looked at him searchingly. “I have always felt you to be my friend as well as my confessor. I know you to be a good man. But I am well acquainted with the King’s nature. He is a boy at heart, but boys can be selfish, my lord Bishop. They stretch out greedy hands for that which they want, and because they are boys, lacking the experience of suffering, they do not think what pain may be caused to those who stand in their way.”

The Bishop looked at her sadly. He believed she did not understand her husband if she thought of him merely as a boy who had been led into temptation. The Bishop had looked at the King and seen the cruelty behind the jovial mask. He prayed that this gentle woman would never be forced to see her husband in a different light from the one in which she saw him now.

“You will need courage,” said the Bishop. “Let us pray for courage.”

They prayed and when they rose from their knees the Queen said: “I shall not go into a convent. That is what they are trying to force me to do.”

“It is what they hope you will do.”

“I know. But I shall never do it. There is my daughter to fight for; and let me tell you this, my lord Bishop: I shall never agree to be put aside, and the reason is that, if I did so, they would brand my daughter with bastardy. That is something I shall never allow to happen.”

John Fisher bowed his head. He believed that the Queen’s decision was the right one and a brave one. He had seen the vicious determination in the King’s face; he had seen the shrewd cunning in Wolsey’s. Could this gentle woman defend herself against them; and what would be the result to herself…and to those who supported her?

She had made her choice and he knew that she would not diverge from it. John Fisher too made his choice.

She would not have many friends when the King abandoned her; but he, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, would be one of them.

THE QUEEN WAS DELIGHTED when Mendoza brought her the news.

“Felipez did his work well,” he said. “I have heard from the Emperor, and he sends notes for you and for the King. I know that His Grace was not pleased with his, as it reproved him for his treatment of you and expressed shock and indignation.”

The Queen clasped her hands together. “I knew I could trust Charles,” she cried. “He is immersed in his wars, but when a matter of vital importance arises, such as this, he would always stand by his family. His support will make all the difference in the world.”

“I am in agreement with Your Grace,” said Mendoza. “And we should not forget that the Pope, without whom the marriage cannot be declared invalid, is at your nephew’s mercy. Here is the letter he sends to you.”

Katharine took it eagerly and as she read it a smile of triumph touched her lips.

Charles was horrified; he was shocked beyond measure. It would seem that the King of England had forgotten, so long had his wife been in England, that she was a daughter of the House of Spain. He was sending Cardinal Quiñones, the General of the Franciscans, to Rome with all speed; he would look after her affairs there; and she could trust her nephew to watch over her cause and help her. Clement VII, still in Castel Sant’ Angelo, was too wise a man to flout the wishes of the Emperor.

Katharine put her lips to the letter. “God bless you, Charles,” she murmured. “Families should stand together always.”

She felt the tears touch her eyes, for she was reminded suddenly of Charles’s mother, running wildly round the nursery in the days when they were children, trying to quarrel with her sisters and brother; and their mother drawing the rebellious child to her and explaining that sisters and brothers should never quarrel; they must always stand together against the rest of the world if need be.

Oh to be a child again! thought Katharine. Oh to be back there in Madrid, in Granada, in Valladolid…under the loving wing of that best and wisest of mothers…never to grow up, never to leave the nest!

Then she thought of her own daughter. Had she remained a child herself she would never have had Mary.

She laughed at her folly. She should feel exultant because Charles had answered her cry for help.

THE CARDINAL had returned to England, and, hearing that the King was in residence at Greenwich, he sent his messenger to the Palace to tell Henry of his arrival and ask where His Grace would wish to receive him.

Henry was in good spirits when the messenger arrived; a pageant was being enacted before him and it had been the work of Anne Boleyn, her brother George and some of the bright young poets who were members of their set. Henry was finding these young people far more to his taste than the older men and women. Moreover Anne was the leader of the group, and where Anne was, there Henry wished to be.

Anne, imperious in her beauty and fully aware of the hold she had over the King, bold, flamboyant and arrogant, had already taken upon herself the role of Queen which she expected shortly to be hers in fact. She seemed to delight in shocking those about her by taking such liberties that the King would never have tolerated from anyone else and yet meekly accepted when coming from her.

So when the messenger asked where and when His Grace would wish to receive the newly returned Cardinal, it was Anne who answered in her sprightly way: “Where should the Cardinal come except where the King is?”

There was a breathless silence. Would the King endure such boldness even from her? Was she suggesting that the Cardinal—still the greatest of the King’s ministers—should come into the ballroom, travel-stained as he must be? Was she ordering him to come in as though he were some lackey?

Apparently in the King’s eyes she could do no wrong, for he laughed aloud and said: “That’s true enough!” and repeated: “Where should the Cardinal come except where the King is?”

“Your Grace will receive him here!” said Wolsey’s messenger, aghast.

“You heard His Grace’s command,” answered Anne sharply.

So the messenger bowed himself from their presence and went to Wolsey who, with the stains of travel on his red satin robes and sweat on his brow, a little breathless from the journey, very weary, hoping for a little time in which to bathe himself, change his linen and rest awhile that he might collect his thoughts and frame his conversation with the King, listened in astonishment.

“To go straight to his presence! You have not heard aright,” he insisted.

“Your Eminence, it is the King’s command, given through the Lady Anne, that you should go to him at once.”

The Lady Anne! So she was with him. She was already the Queen of England in all but name. And that would come, for the King demanded it. And he, poor fool, had helped to sow the seeds of that desire for divorce in the fickle mind; he, who had had dreams of a French alliance, a permanent bulwark against the Emperor, had helped to bring the Lady Anne—his most bitter enemy—to where she now stood.

He could do nothing but obey; so, weary, conscious of his unkempt appearance, he went into the ballroom and made his way to the King.

It was as he had feared. There stood the King, and beside him the Lady Anne. The others had moved away leaving the three of them together.

“Your Grace…my lady…”

The King’s eyes were not unkind; but they showed he was absentminded; their blue was shining with pleasure in his companion, desire for her; even as they stood, his hand caressed her shoulder.

And she smiled at Wolsey—the enemy’s smile, the smile of one who inflicts humiliation and rejoices. It was as if she were saying to him: Do you remember Anne Boleyn who was not good enough for Percy? Do you remember how you berated her as though she were some slut from the kitchens? This is the same Anne Boleyn who now stands beside the King, who says, You shall come to us now! and whom you dare not disobey.

“I trust you have good news for us, Thomas,” said the King.

“The mission went well, Your Grace.”

But Henry scarcely saw his minister. Good news meant for him one thing. When could he go to bed with this woman, accompanied by a good conscience?

This was a more dangerous moment than any the Cardinal had yet passed through; he felt now as he had felt when he had heard the bell’s tolling at Compiègne, when he had seen the charcoal drawing of a Cardinal hanging on the gallows. No, his apprehension went deeper than that.

He knew that this day there were two people in England who were in acute danger. And if one of these was Katharine the Queen, the other was Cardinal Wolsey.

The King Penitent

THROUGH THE WINTER WHICH FOLLOWED, KATHARINE tried to ignore her fears. She continued to live much as she had lived before; her days were made up of sewing, reading, prayers, listening to music and playing an occasional game of cards with her maids.

There was one of these maids of honor who commanded her attention; she could no longer be blind to the position of Anne Boleyn in the Court. At the center of all the tourneys and masques was this woman, and her constant companions were her brother, Thomas Wyatt and some of the other bright men of the younger artistic set. They wrote plays and pageants which they acted for the King’s pleasure; and it was, during those fateful winter days, as though there were two groups—one which revolved round the Queen and the other round Anne; it was in Anne’s that the King was to be found.

Often Katharine would absent herself from some entertainment because her dignity would not allow her to see the King treating Anne Boleyn as though she were already the Queen.

She herself did not show by her demeanor that she regarded this woman as different from any other of her maids of honor; she made herself seem blind to the fact that the King was chafing against his marriage to her and made no secret of his desire for Anne.

As for Anne, imperious as she might be to all others, including the King, she was subdued by the dignity of the Queen; and because of Katharine’s restraint there were no difficult scenes between them. Henry avoided his wife as much as possible; they shared no part of their private life. He had said that he regarded himself as a bachelor and that while he deplored the necessity of waiting until he was publicly announced to be that, nothing could prevent him from regarding himself as one.

Only once did Katharine show that she knew Anne was trying to usurp her position; that was during a game of cards. Anne had dealt, and Katharine said: “My Lady Anne, you have good hap to stop at a king; but you are not like others, you will have all or none.”

Anne had seemed a little shaken by this comment and had played her hand badly, but Katharine remained serene, and those who watched said: “She believes that the King will come to his senses, that he will realize it is impossible for him to cast her off.”

Yet that evening when she was alone she thought of the imperious young beauty, with her flashing dark eyes and her exotic clothes, her grace, her manner of holding herself as though she already wore a crown on her head, and she dared not look too far into the future.

Sometimes she felt so alone. There was her daughter who meant everything to her, but she did not care to speak to Mary of this trouble. She hoped that Mary knew nothing of it; the child was too sensitive.

As long as we are together, she told herself, I suppose I can endure anything. But I shall stand out firmly against a convent, for Mary’s sake.

She considered those who might help her. Mendoza would stand beside her but he was only an ambassador and no theologian. His word would carry little weight in this country. Warham was an honest man, but he was old and very much in awe of Wolsey and the King. The women who had been her friends had been sent away from her. How comforting it would have been to have talked with Maria de Salinas! Luis Vives had left England after having been told sharply by Wolsey that he would be wise not to meddle in the King’s affairs. Vives was a scholar who was eager to avoid conflict, so perhaps he had thought it as well to leave while he could do so.

Thomas More came to see her. He did not speak of what was known as the King’s Secret Matter, but managed to convey to her the assurance that he was her friend.

John Fisher, to whom she confessed her sins, also came and brought comfort.

“I have been warned,” he told her, “not to meddle in the King’s matter, but if I can be of use to Your Grace I shall continue to disobey those orders.”

“I thank God for your friendship,” Katharine told him.

“Let us pray for courage,” answered the Bishop; and they prayed together.

Often during those winter months when her spirits were at their lowest, she thought of Fisher and More, and felt happier because they were not far away, and although they might not have much influence in this matter with the King, they were her friends.

With the spring came news from Rome. The Pope had appointed Lorenzo Campeggio, Cardinal of Santa Anastasia, to come to England to decide the case in conjunction with Cardinal Wolsey.

THERE WAS consternation at Court. It was June and the heat was oppressive. One day a man walking by the river suddenly fell and lay on the bank and, when certain passers-by paused to see what ailed him, it was clear that he was a victim of the sweating sickness.

The same day several more people died in the streets; the epidemic had come to London.

Periodically this scourge returned, killing people in their thousands, and when it appeared in the big cities such as London it brought panic with it for it was in the hot and fetid streets that the sickness was more quickly passed from one to another.

Henry was disturbed when the news was brought to him. He was at Greenwich and he decided that he would stay there for a few days and not journey to Westminster through the infected city even by barge.

It was his gentleman of the bedchamber, William Carey, who had brought him the news. He had been gracious to Will Carey because Anne expected him to be so to all her relations, and Will was in need of advancement, having very little money of his own. Moreover Henry was not displeased to favor the man, for he still thought affectionately of Will’s wife Mary, although he now heartily wished that she had never been his mistress, since there was a possibility that this might make it necessary for him to procure a dispensation on her account.

“The sweat is claiming more victims, Your Grace,” said Will. “I saw several people lying in the streets as I came through the city.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “I do not know,” he said gloomily, “why this pestilence should visit my country every now and then. I do believe that there are some of my subjects who are of the opinion that it is sent to us when we have in some way offended God.”

“Ah, it may be so, Your Grace.”

Will was thinking that the King referred to his living in sin with Katharine and, because Mary had told him that they must always stand by Anne who had stood by them so magnificently, he added: “It may be that when your Grace’s matter is settled the sickness will pass.”

“It may well be, it may well be,” murmured the King.

But he was uneasy. He had ceased to cohabit with Katharine these many months, so he could no longer be said to be living in sin; it was strange that God should have sent the sweat now that he had realized his sinful way of life and was seeking to rectify it.

In common with most he believed that pestilences were a sign of Divine anger. Then, in spite of his desire to break away from Katharine, God had sent a pestilence to his Kingdom.

His expression was sullen, and Will, who by living near to him had learned when to remain silent, said no more. Indeed Will himself was experiencing a strange shivering fit which had nothing to do with being in the presence of the King. When Henry had strolled to the window and stood looking out on the river accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, Will seized the opportunity to leave the royal apartments.

Before he had time to reach his own quarters he felt the dreaded sweat on his body.

“YOUR GRACE, the sweat is in the Palace.”

Henry heard the dreaded words and stared at the man who was speaking to him.

“One of Your Grace’s gentlemen has succumbed to the sickness. He is dead.”

Henry shouted: “Who?”

“Will Carey, Your Grace.”

Will Carey! He had been speaking to the man only a few hours before.

Henry was trembling. “Leave me,” he said.

Will Carey dead! Will was a man whom he had favored because of his relationship to Anne. And he was the first victim in the Palace, the King’s own Palace.

Mary would be left a widow with her two young children, and Anne would be seeking help for her ere long, for she was ever zealous regarding the needs of her family.

But even as he thought of Anne his terror caught up with him. Now he must face the truth. Why was he seeking to rid himself of Katharine? Was it indeed because he feared he had lived in sin all these years, or was it because he was tired of Katharine and wanted a new wife?

He half closed his eyes and set his mouth into the familiar prim lines, but he could not hold that expression because he was thinking of Anne, Anne in black velvet, in scarlet and gold, Anne stretching out her arms to him, no longer holding him off. It was no use; there were times when even he could not deceive himself.

He sent for Wolsey; he believed then that in times of peril he would always send for Wolsey.

The Cardinal came from Hampton in his barge. He made no concessions to the plague, beyond the orange which he carried more as an elegant gesture than out of fear. Wolsey had little concern for the sweat; he had other and more pressing matters with which to occupy himself.

“We are deeply disturbed by this pestilence,” said the King. “It seems that the Almighty is displeased with us.”

The Cardinal asked: “For what reason does Your Grace think God is displeased?”

“I will admit,” answered the King, “that I have thought with much eagerness of my approaching marriage.”

Wolsey looked grim. Let the King’s conscience worry him. It was well that it should. If he lusted after Anne Boleyn, let him regard that as a sin.

“That may well be,” said Wolsey.

The King looked startled, but the Cardinal’s expression was as gloomy as his own.

“It is true that I am not in actual fact married to Katharine,” went on the King almost defiantly.

Wolsey spread his hands. “Perhaps, Your Grace, it would be well, until we have proved that the marriage with the Lady Katharine is no true marriage, if Your Grace continued to live the life of a bachelor.”

A hot flush spread itself across Henry’s features as he muttered: “I have heard Mass each day…more than once. I have confessed each day…”

“None knows Your Grace’s piety better than I, but it may be that is not enough.”

“Not…enough!”

“It may be that it would be wise at this stage to send the Lady Anne back to her father’s castle.”

Henry looked so angry for a few moments that Wolsey felt he had gone too far. But after a while the King nodded. He was clearly very frightened.

“Mayhap you are right,” he said.

An easy victory, thought the Cardinal; and that day the Lady Anne Boleyn was sent to her father’s castle at Hever.

As for Henry, he changed his mode of life. He made several wills; he was often in the Queen’s company when they conversed like good friends, and he would sit with her watching her at her tapestry; when she went to a religious service in the chapel, he would accompany her and none appeared to be more devout than the King. It would seem that he had dismissed Anne Boleyn and returned to the Queen in all but one respect; he would not share her bed.

How virtuously he lived during those hot summer weeks! Soon after Carey’s death he insisted that the Court leave Greenwich, and first they went to Eltham and then farther away from the City. Henry kept his physicians beside him; he was in terror that he might become a victim of the sickness.

He made Dr. Butts talk to him of plasters and lotions which might serve, in less severe cases, to save the lives of victims. His greatest pleasure was to concoct these cures with the doctor, and he even made a plaster of his own and gave the recipe to apothecaries that they might make it for their customers. It was said to be efficacious in mild cases and was known as The King’s Own Plaster.

Still further news came of death. When his old friend Sir William Compton died, Henry was deeply distressed. He remembered how, on his first illness, after his return from France, when an ulcer had appeared on his leg, he and Compton had made plasters together, for Compton had also suffered with an ulcer.

And now…Compton was a victim of the sweat!

The Cardinal, who was so busy with his affairs at Hampton, was surprised by the King’s conscience which insisted that at this time he part with Anne Boleyn by sending her home to Hever while he himself posed as a virtuous husband to Katharine, although not sharing her bed. Wolsey wondered whether Henry admitted to himself that he avoided this because he found her unattractive or whether he told himself that he still believed she was not his wife.

But although he had sent Anne away, Henry wrote loving letters to her, erotic letters, telling her of his need of her, hinting at what the future held for them both. As though God, being so busy watching him at confession and Mass, did not see the sly little notes which were sent behind His back.

At one time the Cardinal might have rejoiced in this characteristic of the King’s; now he knew how dangerous it might prove. So Wolsey was one who was too concerned with his own affairs to be worried by the possibility of death through the sweating sickness.

Nor was Katharine afraid. If death came she would be ready to welcome it, for life had little to offer her. Many people were dying, and accounts of deaths came every day, but she had few friends to lose. She thanked God that Maria de Salinas was in the country far from risk of infection, and Margaret Pole was with Mary who had also been sent out of danger.

Meanwhile the King lived his ostentatiously virtuous life and longed for the epidemic to pass.

But one day there came news from Hever which threw the King into a panic: Anne was a victim of the sweating sickness.

Henry threw aside his penitence and sat down at once to write a letter to her.

Her news had made him desolate. He would willingly share her sufferings. He could not send her his first physician because the man was absent at this time and he feared delay, so he was sending her his good Dr. Butts. She must be guided by Dr. Butts. He longed for her, and to see her again would be greater comfort to him than all the most precious jewels in the world.

Then he settled himself to wait. It was no use. He could no longer pretend. He could no longer sit with the Queen and listen to her conversation; he had to face the truth. He wanted Anne. He would have Anne.

So his conscience—on which he could almost always rely to do what was required of it—began greatly to trouble him once more concerning his marriage with his brother’s widow. If the sickness had been a sign of God’s anger, that anger was the result of his living in sin with Katharine, and the sooner he was free of her the better pleased would he—and God—be. Why was that Cardinal Campeggio taking such a long time to arrive? Wolsey was a laggard. Why had he not arranged matters better than this?

He waited for news from Hever. He could think of nothing but his need of her. And when that news came, and it was good news, he was full of joy for many days, taking it that, since his darling’s life was spared, this was a sign of heavenly approval for their union.

He no longer sat with Katharine; there was no longer need to confess so regularly, to pray so long.

The sickness was abating; Anne had recovered; soon she would be with him.

But where was Campeggio? And what was the sluggish Wolsey doing to bring him his heart’s desire?

The Marriage Brief

CARDINAL LORENZO CAMPEGGIO ARRIVED IN LONDON IN October. It was three months since he had set out from Rome, and he had been expected long before. Wolsey received him at York Place where he arrived inconspicuously, much to Wolsey’s disgust, for even now, anxious as he was, he hated to miss an opportunity of giving the people a display of his magnificence. Wolsey would have preferred to go out with his household about him—his silver crosses, his pillars of silver, his seal and his Cardinal’s hat—and to have a ceremonial meeting with his fellow Cardinal in public.

Campeggio had other ideas and had kept his arrival a secret until he came quietly to York Place.

Wolsey embraced him and gave orders for apartments to be made ready for the distinguished visitor. “The best we have to offer. Your Eminence, we have long awaited this pleasure.”

Campeggio winced as Wolsey took his hands. “I suffer agonies from the gout,” he told his host; and indeed it was obvious that he spoke the truth. When Wolsey looked into that pale face with the lines of pain strongly marked on it, he assured himself that here was a man who would not be difficult to lead. Surely one who suffered as Campeggio did would be more concerned with resting his weary limbs than fighting Katharine’s battle.

“We shall do our utmost to make you comfortable here,” Wolsey told him; “and we shall put the best physicians at your service.”

“There is little physicians can do for me,” mourned Campeggio. “My friend, there are days when I am in such pain that I cannot bear the light of day. Then I ask nothing but to lie in a dark room and that no one should come near me.”

“Yours must have been a grievously painful journey.”

Campeggio lifted his shoulders despairingly. “There were times when it was impossible for me to ride; even travelling in a litter was too much for me. Hence the delay.”

Wolsey was not so foolish as to believe that Campeggio’s gout was the only reason for the delay. He guessed that the Pope, in his very delicate position, would not be eager to proclaim the marriage of the Emperor’s aunt invalid. Clearly Clement was playing for time. Campeggio’s gout had been very useful; and doubtless would be in the future.

“The King,” Wolsey told Campeggio, “is most eager to have this matter settled.”

“So I believe.” Campeggio shook his head sadly. “It is not good for the Church,” he went on. “Whatever the outcome, His Holiness will not feel easy in his mind.”

“But if the King’s marriage is no marriage…”

“His Holiness is horrified at the thought that the King of England and the Infanta of Spain may have been living in sin for eighteen years.”

“It should not be a difficult matter,” insisted Wolsey, “to prove that owing to the Queen’s previous marriage, that with the King cannot be legal.”

“I cannot agree,” Campeggio retorted. “It may well prove a most difficult matter.”

Wolsey understood then that the Pope was not going to grant a divorce, because he was too much in awe of the Emperor; and Wolsey believed that Clement had sent Campeggio, who was as much an expert in vacillation as he was himself, to conduct the case with very definite orders that nothing must be settled in a hurry, and before any decision was reached the Vatican must be informed.

The King would be infuriated by the delay, and if he were disappointed in the manner in which the case was conducted, he would blame Wolsey.

WHEN CAMPEGGIO had recovered from the strain of his journey, he went, accompanied by Wolsey, to Greenwich to see the King.

Henry received him with outward cordiality but inward suspicions. He did not like the appearance of Campeggio—the Legate was unhealthy; he looked pale and tired; his limbs were swollen with the gout which had so lengthened his journey across France. Could not Clement have sent a healthy man! the King grumbled to himself. Moreover there was a shrewd look in the fellow’s eyes, a certain dignity which Henry believed was meant to remind him that he was a servant of the Pope and served no other.

By God, thought the King, there has been delay enough.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said; and bade Campeggio be seated with Wolsey beside him.

When Henry had offered condolences for the Legate’s sufferings he plunged into the real reasons for his being in England.

“There has been much delay,” he said, “and I wish the proceedings to begin at once.”

“As soon as possible,” murmured Campeggio. “But I would like to say that if we could settle this matter without much noise it would please His Holiness.”

“I care not how it is settled, provided it is settled,” said the King.

“His Holiness begs Your Grace to consider the effect of a divorce on your subjects.”

Wolsey watching closely saw the danger signals leap up in the King’s eyes. He said quickly: “His Holiness has no need to ask His Grace to do that. His Grace’s one great concern is the wellbeing of his subjects, and it is for their good that he seeks freedom from this alliance which has proved a barren one.”

Henry threw a grateful glance at his Chancellor.

“Then,” went on Campeggio, “I am sure I have an acceptable solution. His Holiness will examine the dispensation made by his predecessor, Julius II, and adjust it, making a new dispensation in which there can be no manner of doubt that the marriage between Henry Tudor and Katharine of Aragon is lawful.”

Wolsey dared not look at the King because he knew that Henry would be unable to contain his rage.

“So I have waited three months to hear that!” spluttered Henry. “It may well be that I know more of this matter than any other person. I have grappled with my conscience, and it tells me this: never…never…shall I find favor in the sight of God while I continue to live with a woman who is not my wife in His eyes.”

“Your Grace knows more of the matter than any theologian, it seems,” said Campeggio with a faint smile.

“That is so!” thundered Henry. “And all I want of you is a decision whether or not that marriage is valid.”

Campeggio, who had a wry sense of humor, murmured: “I gather that what Your Grace wishes is a decision that the marriage is not valid.”

“His Grace has suffered much from indecision,” added Wolsey.

“The indecision of others,” retorted Campeggio. “I see that there is no uncertainty in his mind. Now His Holiness is most eager that there should be an amicable settlement of this grievous matter, and my first duty will be to see the Queen and suggest to her that she retire into a convent. If she would do this and renounce her marriage, His Holiness would then without delay declare the marriage null and void. It would be her choice, and none could complain of that.”

Henry’s anger was a little appeased. If Katharine would but be sensible, how simply this matter could end. What was her life outside convent walls that she could not make this small sacrifice? She could live inside a convent in much the same manner as she did outside. It seemed to him a little thing to ask.

“She might be told,” he suggested, “that if she will retire to a convent, her daughter shall not suffer but shall be next in succession after my legitimate male heirs. There, you see how I am ready to be reasonable. All I ask is that she shall slip quietly away from Court into her convent.”

“I will put this matter to her,” replied Campeggio. “It is the only solution which would please the Holy Father. If she should refuse…”

“Why should she refuse?” demanded Henry. “What has she to lose? She shall have every comfort inside convent walls as she does outside.”

“She would have to embrace a life of celibacy.”

“Bah!” cried the King. “She has embraced that for several months. I tell you this: I have not shared her bed all that time. Nor would I ever do so again.”

“Unless of course,” murmured Campeggio rather slyly, “His Holiness declared the marriage to be a true one.”

The King’s anger caught him off his guard. “Never! Never! Never!” he cried.

Campeggio smiled faintly. “I see that an angel descending from Heaven could not persuade you to do what you have made up your mind not to do. My next duty is to see the Queen.”

KATHARINE RECEIVED the two Cardinals in her apartments where Campeggio opened the interview by telling her that he came to advise her to enter a convent. Wolsey, watching her closely, saw the stubborn line of her mouth and knew that she would not give way without a struggle.

“I have no intention of going into a convent,” she told him.

“Your Grace, this may be a sacrifice which is asked of you, but through it you would settle a matter which gives great distress to many people.”

“Distress?” she said significantly. “To whom does it bring greater distress than to me?”

“Do you remember what happened in the case of Louis XII? His wife retired to a convent and so made him free to marry again.”

“I do not intend to follow the example of others. Each case is different. For myself I say that I am the King’s wife, and none shall say that I am not.”

“Does Your Grace understand that unless you comply with this request there must be a case which will be tried in a court?” Wolsey asked.

She turned to Wolsey. “Yes, my lord Cardinal, I understand.”

“If you would take our advice…,” began Wolsey.

“Take your advice, my lord? I have always deplored your voluptuous way of life, and I know full well that when you hate you are as a scorpion. You hate my nephew because he did not make you Pope. And because I am his aunt you have turned your venom on me, and I know that it is your malice which has kindled this fire. Do you think I would take advice from you?”

Wolsey turned to Campeggio and his expression said: You see that we have a hysterical woman with whom to deal.

“Your Grace,” interposed Campeggio, “I would tell you that, if you allow this case to be tried in the light of day, it may well go against you, in which event your good name would suffer grievous damage.”

“I should rejoice if this case were brought into the light of day,” replied Katharine, “for I have no fear of the truth.”

Campeggio’s hope of an easy settlement of this matter was fast evaporating. The King was determined to separate from the Queen; and the Queen, in her way, was as stubborn as the King.

He still did not abandon hope of forcing her into a convent. If he could get her to admit that her marriage with Arthur had been consummated, he believed he could persuade her to go into a convent. He had summed up her character. She was a pious woman and would never lie in the confessional even though, for her daughter’s sake, she might do so outside it.

He said: “Would Your Grace consider confessing to me?”

She did not hesitate for a moment. “I should be happy to do so.”

Campeggio turned to Wolsey who said immediately: “I will take my leave.”

He went back with all haste to the King to tell him what had taken place at the interview; and Campeggio and Katharine went into the Queen’s private chamber that she might confess to him.

When she knelt the Legate from Rome asked the fatal question: “Your Grace was married to Prince Arthur for some six months, from November until April; did you never during that time share a bed with the Prince?”

“Yes,” answered Katharine, “I did.”

“On how many occasions?”

“We slept together only seven nights during those six months.”

“Ah,” said Campeggio, “and would you tell me that not once during those seven nights…”

Katharine interrupted: “Always he left me as he found me—a virgin.”

“And this you swear in the name of God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost?”

“This I swear,” said Katharine emphatically.

He sighed, knowing that she spoke the truth; the gout was beginning to nag and he longed for the peace of a dark room. He could see that this case was not going to be settled without a great deal of trouble; nothing, he decided, must be settled quickly. The situation in Europe was fluid. It would go ill with him and the Holy Father if they granted Henry his wish and then found that the whole of Christendom was in the hands of the Emperor.

HENRY WAS FURIOUS when he learned of Katharine’s determination not to go into a convent.

He summoned Wolsey, and the Chancellor came apprehensively, wondering in what mood he would find the King. He was not kept long in doubt.Henry was striding up and down his apartment, his little eyes seeming almost to disappear in the folds of puffy flesh; an unhealthy tinge of purple showed in his cheeks.

“So the Queen will not go into a convent!” he roared. “She does this out of perversity. What difference could it make to her? As for your gouty companion, I like him not. I think the pair of you put your heads together and plot how best you can cheat me of my rights.”

“Your Grace!”

“Ay!” said the King. “Cardinals! They fancy they serve the Pope.” His eyes narrowed still further. “They shall discover that the Pope has no power to protect them from the wrath of a King!”

“Your Grace, I admit to sharing your disappointment in Campeggio. He seems to delight in delay. I have reasoned with him. I have told him of your Grace’s wishes. I have reminded him that when the Holy Father was in distress he came to you, and how out of your benevolence…”

“’Tis so,” interrupted the King. “I sent him money. And what good did it do? You advised it, Master Wolsey. You said: ‘We will help him now and later he will help us.’ Whom do you serve—your King or your Pope?”

“With all my heart and soul, with all the powers that God has given me, I serve my King.”

The King softened slightly. “Then what are we to do, Thomas? What are we to do? How much longer must I go on in this sorry state?”

“When the case is heard, Your Grace, we shall have the decision of the court…”

“Presided over by that man…he has his orders from Clement, and I may not like those orders.”

“Your Grace, you have your own Chancellor to fight for you.”

“Ah, Thomas, if they had but let you try this case as I so wished!”

“Your Grace would have been free of his encumbrances ere now.”

“I know it. I know it. But this waiting galls me. There are times when I think I am surrounded by enemies who plot against me.”

“Clement is uncertain at this time, Your Grace. I hear that he is not enjoying good health. The Sack of Rome and his imprisonment have shocked him deeply. It may be that he will not be long for this world.”

Henry looked at his Chancellor and suddenly he burst out laughing.

“Ha!” he cried. “If we had an English Pope there would not be all this trouble for the King of England; that’s what you’re thinking, eh Thomas?”

“An English Pope would never forget that he owed his good fortune to an English King.”

Henry clapped his hand on Wolsey’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll pray that Clement may see the light or…fail to see aught else. He’s shaking in his shoes, that Holy Father of ours. He fears to offend Charles and he fears to offend me, so he sends his gouty old advocate and says: ‘Do nothing…promise nothing…wait!’ By God and all His saints, I cannot think how I endure him and his master’s policy.”

“We shall win our case, Your Grace. Have no fear of it. Remember that your Chancellor will sit with Campeggio, and while he is there Your Grace has the best advocate he could possibly procure.”

“We shall find means of winning our case,” said Henry darkly. “But it grieves me that the Queen should have so little regard for the fitness of this matter as to refuse our request. Why should she refuse to go into a convent! What difference could it make to her?” His eyes narrowed. “There are times when I wonder if she does this to spite me; and if she is so determined to do me harm, how can we know where such plans would stop? I have my enemies. It might be that they work against me in secret. If the Queen were involved with them in some plot against me…”

Henry fell silent. He could not continue even before his Chancellor; and to Wolsey his words and the secretive manner in which he said them were like a cold breeze on a hot summer’s day. The climate of the King’s favor was growing very uncertain.

Wolsey could not have much hope for the Queen’s future peace if she did not comply with the King’s desires. Perhaps she was unwise. Perhaps life in a convent, however abhorrent it seemed to her, would be preferable to what her life would be were she to arouse the full fury of the King’s displeasure.

SINCE THE QUEEN REFUSED to enter a convent, Campeggio realized that there would have to be a court case; and as this was so it was impossible to deny Katharine the advisers who would be granted to any defendant in such circumstances.

Accordingly William Warham and John Fisher, Archbishops of Canterbury and Rochester respectively, were appointed her leading counsel; the Bishop of London, Cuthbert Tunstall and Henry Standish, Bishop of St. Asaph’s, joined them with John Clerk, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. It was arranged that as the Queen was a foreigner she should not rely entirely on Englishmen for her defense, and Luis Vives and one of her confessors, Jorge de Athequa, were appointed with two Flemings. The Flemings and Vives were abroad, and it seemed unlikely that they would be of much use to her; and she was shrewd enough to know that, with the exception of John Fisher, those who had been chosen to support her cause would be in great fear of offending the King.

Preparations for the hearing were going forward and Campeggio looked on with some misgivings. His great plan was to postpone the hearing on any pretext whatsoever, as he dreaded being forced to give a judgment while the affairs of Europe were so unsettled. His gout provided him with a good excuse, and there were whole days when he shut himself in a darkened room while the servants assured all callers that he was too ill to see them.

One day when Katharine was with her chaplain, Thomas Abell, the priest said to her: “Your Grace, the Imperial ambassador desires urgent speech with you, and he wishes to come before you disguised as a priest as he is fearful that, if he comes undisguised, that which he has to say to you will be overheard.”

Katharine was torn between her anger that she could not receive her nephew’s ambassador without fear of being overheard, and apprehension as to what new schemes were afoot.

She looked at Thomas Abell, and wondered how far she could trust him. He had not been long in her service but she could say that during that time he had served her well. She decided that she had such need of friends that she must accept friendship when it was offered, without looking too suspiciously at it.

“He has asked my assistance in this matter,” went on Thomas Abell, “and being eager to serve Your Grace I told him I would do what I could.”

“Then bring him to me in my chapel,” she said. “I will speak to him there.”

So it was that Iñigo de Mendoza came to her robed as a priest, a hood concealing his features, and as, there in the chapel, he knelt beside her, she realized at once that he was deeply excited.

“Your Grace,” he said, “the best of news! Do you remember a de Puebla who once served your father here in England?”

“I remember him well,” Katharine answered. “He is long since dead.”

“But his son who is now a chaplain lives, and he has found an important document among his father’s papers.”

“What document is this?”

“It is a brief of the same date as the Bull of Dispensation granted by Julius II, but this goes more deeply into the matter, and if we could lay our hands on the original—which is among the archives in Madrid—we could show without doubt that your marriage with the King is legal.”

“You have this?”

“I have the copy of it which de Puebla has given me. I propose to put it into the hands of your defending counsel.”

“Then pray do this,” said the Queen.

“I trust none of them save Fisher and I am afraid that, as this case is being heard in England, there will be scarcely a man here who would stand against the wishes of the King. What we must work for is to have the case tried in Rome. Then we could hope for justice. At least we have this document, which I have brought to you. Your best plan would be to give it to Fisher. Tell him that it is but a copy and that the original is in Spain. I think we shall see some consternation among our enemies.”

Katharine took the document and studied it. She was immediately aware of its importance and her spirits rose as Mendoza took his leave and left her in the chapel.

THE KING, pacing up and down his apartment, stopped to glare at his Chancellor.

“It seems that everyone conspires against me! When is this hearing to take place? When am I to be granted my divorce? With others, these matters are settled in a matter of weeks. With me they must last for years. And why? Because those who should serve me, bestir themselves not at all.”

The Cardinal’s thoughts were miles away…in Rome. Heartening news had been brought to him a few days before. Clement had suffered a great shock, his health was declining, and it was believed that he could not recover.

Let this be granted to me, prayed the Cardinal. Here is the way out of danger, the path which will lead me to new power. My day is over in England. I am going down…down…The King grows tired of his Thomas Wolsey who once so pleased him, since Anne Boleyn pours poison into his ear. My great mistake was when I made an enemy of that woman. She will not believe that it was at the King’s command that I berated her, that I told her she was not worthy to marry into the House of Northumberland. But she blames me; and she has determined to destroy me.

Once it might have been said: Thomas Wolsey’s will is the King’s will. That was no longer so, but it was true to say that that which Anne Boleyn desired, the King desired also, for at this time his one wish was to please her.

The woman was a witch. None other could so completely have bemused the King.

So he must become the new Pope. He prayed at every possible moment of the day, and often during sleepless nights, for this mercy. But he was not the man to trust to prayer. He had climbed high, he had often said to himself, through the actions of Thomas Wolsey rather than of God. Now Thomas Wolsey must continue to fight. He had asked François for his help, and François had promised to give it. But would the French King prove as unreliable as the Emperor? Wolsey had sent Gardiner to Rome with a list of Cardinals and bags of gold. No expense was to be spared, no bribe was to be considered too much. He would spend all he had to win at the next Conclave, because this time he knew he was not only fighting for power; he was fighting for his life.

So his thoughts wandered during the King’s tirade, and fervently he hoped that soon he would be free of the unpredictable moods of the King of England.

But the King’s next words were so startling that Wolsey’s thoughts were diverted from his hopes of the next Conclave.

“This brief that is in the Queen’s hands. We must get it. Warham tells me that it is worked out in such detail that it gives no shadow of a doubt that the marriage is a true one.”

“This…brief?” murmured Wolsey.

The King was too excited to show his impatience. “Warham has brought this news. He says that through de Puebla’s son this document has reached the Queen. It is enough to win the case for her.”

Wolsey was alert. He had to remember that the Papal Crown was not yet his; Clement was not even dead; he must not lose his grip on the power he possessed in England. He must show himself as eager as he ever was to work for the King.

He asked a few searching questions and then he said: “But, Your Grace, this is not the original document. It is only a copy.”

“But the original document is in Spain.”

“First,” went on the Chancellor, “we shall declare our belief that the paper which the Queen holds will be considered a forgery unless she produces the original. Therefore she must write immediately to the Emperor imploring him to forward the original to her here.”

“And when it comes…if indeed it be as the copy?”

“It will come to her counsel,” said Wolsey with a smile. “We shall not have any difficulty in laying our hands on it when it is in England.”

Henry smiled slyly.

“And,” went on Wolsey, “when it is in our possession…” He lifted his hands in a significant gesture. “But, Your Grace will see that we must get that brief, and our first step is to persuade the Queen to write to her nephew, urging him to send the document to her.”

“I shall order her to do this without delay,” said the King.

“Your Grace,” Wolsey began tentatively and hesitated.

“Yes, yes?” said the King impatiently.

“It would be well if the Queen wrote on the advice of her counsel. Allow me to send for Warham and Tunstall. They will not hesitate to obey Your Grace.”

Henry nodded and his eyes were affectionate once more. By God, he thought, this man Wolsey has much skill. Then he frowned. He greatly wished that Anne did not dislike the Chancellor so. He had told her that Wolsey was working for them, but she would not believe it. He was her enemy, she said, whose great desire was to marry the King to a French Princess, and now that he knew the King would have none other than Anne Boleyn he sought to delay the divorce with all the means in his power.

There were times when Henry agreed with Anne; but when he was alone with his Chancellor he was sure she was wrong. He did wish that there was not this hatred between two for whom he had such regard.

“Do that,” he commanded.

“We must watch Fisher,” said Wolsey. “There is a man whom I do not trust to serve Your Grace.”

“He’s one of these saints!” cried the King. “I know full well his kind, that which declares: ‘I would give my head for what I believe to be right.’ Master Fisher should take care. He may one day be called on to prove his words. And now…send Warham and Tunstall to me. By God, we’ll have that document in our hands before many weeks have passed. As for Master Campeggio, you may tell him this: If he delays much longer he will have to answer to me.”

Wolsey bowed his head; he could not hide the smile which touched his lips. Campeggio cared not for the King of England, because he answered to one master only—a man who, in his own kingdom, was more powerful than any king.

It was pleasant to brood on Papal power.

Wolsey’s lips were mocking; he was praying for the death of Clement and that the result of the next Conclave might bring him freedom from an exacting master and the utmost power in his own right.

KATHARINE RECEIVED her advisers and as they stood in a semicircle about her she looked at each man in turn: Warham, Fisher, Tunstall, Clerk and Standish. They were eagerly explaining to her what she must do and Warham was their spokesman.

“It is clear, Your Grace, that the copy of this document cannot be accepted as of any importance. We must have the original. And we know full well that its contents are of the utmost importance to Your Grace’s case.”

“Do you suggest that I should write to the Emperor, asking for it?”

“It is the only recourse open to Your Grace.”

“And you are all in agreement that this is what I should do?”

There was a chorus of assent, only Fisher remaining silent.

She did not comment on this, but she understood. The Bishop of Rochester was warning her that on no account must the document be brought to England.

“The King grows impatient,” went on Warham, “for until this document is produced the case cannot be opened. He declares that Cardinal Campeggio is delighted by the delay, but His Grace grows weary of it. Your Grace should with all speed write to the Emperor imploring him to send this document to you here in England.”

“Since we have a good copy here,” she asked, “why should that not suffice?”

“A copy is but a copy which could well be a forgery. We must have the original. For your sake and that of the Princess Mary, Your Grace, I beg of you to write to the Emperor for the original of this document.”

She looked at Fisher and read the warning in his eyes. He was a brave man. He would have spoken out but he knew—and she knew—that if he did so he would shortly be removed from her Council of advisers and no good would come of that. But his looks implied that on no account must she write to Spain for the document and that it was false to say that the copy would have no value in the court. This was a ruse to bring the original document to England and there destroy it, since it would prove an impediment to the King’s case.

She answered them boldly: “Gentlemen, we have here a very fair copy. That will suffice to show the court. It is well, I believe that the original should remain in the Emperor’s keeping. I shall not send to Spain for it.”

The men who were pledged to defend her left her, and she saw from Fisher’s looks that she had acted correctly.

But when they had gone she was afraid. Hers was a pitiable position, when she could not trust her own Council.

KATHARINE STOOD before the Royal Council which was presided over by the Chancellor. Wolsey studied her shrewdly. Poor, brave woman, he thought, what hope does she think she has when she attempts to stand against the King’s wishes?

“Your Grace,” said the Chancellor, “I have to tell you that I speak for the King and his Council. Are we to understand that you refuse to write to the Emperor asking him to return that brief which is of the utmost importance in this case?”

“You may understand that. There is a good copy of the brief which can be used in the court; and I see no reason why the original should not remain for safe keeping in the hands of the Emperor.”

“Your Grace, you will forgive my temerity but, in refusing to obey the King’s command, you lay yourself open to a charge of high treason.”

Katharine was silent and Wolsey saw that he had shocked her. Now she would perhaps begin to realize the folly of pitting her strength against that of the King and his ministers who, more realistic than she was, understood that not to obey meant risking their lives.

“Your Grace,” went on Wolsey soothingly, “I have prepared here a draft of a letter which the King desires you to copy and send to the Emperor.”

She held out her hand for it and read a plea to her nephew that he dispatch the brief with all speed to England as it was most necessary for her defense in the pending action.

She looked at the Chancellor, the man whom she had begun to hate because she considered him to be the instigator of all her troubles. He was ruthless; he had to procure the divorce for the King or suffer his displeasure and he did not care how he achieved that end. She did not doubt that when the brief came to England it would be mislaid and destroyed, for it was the finest evidence she could possibly have.

“So I am certain,” went on the Chancellor, “that Your Grace will wish to comply with the King’s desire in this matter.”

She bowed her head. She could see that she would have to write the letter, but she would write another explaining that she had written under duress. She felt desolate, for it seemed that she depended so much on that pale aloof young man who might so easily consider her troubles unworthy of his attention.

Wolsey read her thoughts and said: “Your Grace must swear not to write to the Emperor any other letter but this. If you did so, that could only be construed as high treason.”

She saw her predicament. She had to give way, so she bowed before the power of her enemies.

AS SHE KNELT in her chapel, a priest came and knelt beside her.

“Your Grace,” whispered Mendoza, “the brief must not come to England.”

“You know I must write to my nephew,” she replied. “I am being forced to it, and I gave my word that I would write no other letter to him.”

“Then we must find a means of communicating without letters.”

“A messenger whom we could trust?”

“That is so. Francisco Felipez did good service once.”

“Perhaps he would be suspect if he did so again.”

“Is there anyone else in your suite whom you could trust?”

“There is Montoya. He is a Spaniard, and loyal. But I do not think he would be so resourceful as Felipez.”

“Then let us chance Felipez. This time he should not ask for permission, as the matter is very dangerous. Let him leave at once for Spain, with nothing in writing. When he reaches the Emperor he must explain to him how dangerous it would be to send the brief to England as it would almost surely be destroyed.”

“Felipez shall leave at once,” said the Queen. “He will then have a good start of the messenger with the letter.”

“Let us pray for the success of his journey,” murmured Mendoza. “But later. Now there is not a moment to be lost.”

THE CARDINAL, brooding on his affairs in his private apartments at York Place, was interrupted by the arrival of a man who asked permission to speak with him on a private matter.

Wolsey received the man at once, for he was one of his spies in the Queen’s household.

“Your Eminence,” said the man, “Francisco Felipez disappeared from the Queen’s household yesterday. I have made one or two enquiries and it seems he was seen riding hard on the road to the coast.”

Wolsey rose and his eyes glowed with anger.

So the Queen, for all her outward resignation, was putting up a fight. Her man must not reach the Emperor, as the King’s hopes of procuring a divorce could well depend on that brief. He would not rest—nor would the King—until it was in their hands.

Felipez must be stopped before he reached Madrid.

THE QUEEN was seated with a few women while she worked with her needle and one of them read aloud. She was anxious that there should be no change in her routine.

Yet she was not listening to the reader; her thoughts were with her nephew. Felipez would have reached him by now; he would be explaining all that was happening to the Emperor’s aunt in England, and the urgent need for Charles to hold that brief in safe keeping, so that it could be shown to the Pope if there were any attempt to declare her marriage invalid.

Charles was a man of honor; he had the utmost respect for family ties, and he would see that to treat her as Henry was planning to do was an insult to Spain. He would understand, as soon as Felipez explained to him, that the King’s ministers were not to be trusted. She blamed the King’s ministers—chief of them Wolsey. She could never for long see Henry as the monster he sometimes appeared to be. He had been led astray, she believed. He was young in heart and spirit; he was lusty and sensual and she had never greatly pleased him physically; she was too religiously minded and the sexual act to her was only tolerable as the necessary prelude to childbearing. Henry had always seemed to her like a boy; those childish games which he had once played at every masque, when he had disguised himself and expected all to be so surprised when the disguise was removed, were symbolic. He had not grown up; he was easily led astray. He was still the chivalrous knight who had rescued her from humiliation when he was eighteen years old. Never would she forget those early days of their marriage; always she would remember that he it was who had rescued her. At this time he was in the thrall of the wicked minister, Wolsey, and he was bemused by the black-eyed witch named Anne Boleyn.

If she could live through these troublous days, if she could bring Henry to a sense of duty, she was sure that they would settle down happily together. This was what she prayed for.

But in the meantime she must continue the fight against the machinations of those about him and the inclinations of his own youthful desires.

There was a commotion below her window and, setting aside her work, she went to it and looking out, saw a man limping into the Palace; his arm was bandaged and it was clear that he had recently met with an accident.

She stood very still, clenching her hands, for she had recognized the man as Francisco Felipez, who should at this time be in Spain.

She turned to the group of women and said: “I think that one of my servants has met with an accident. One of you must go below and bring him to me at once. I would hear what has befallen him.”

One of them obeyed and Katharine said to the others: “Put away the work for today and leave me.”

When Francisco Felipez came to her her first emotion was relief to see that he was not seriously hurt.

“You have been involved in an accident?” she asked.

His expression was apologetic. “I was riding through France, Your Grace, and in the town of Abbeville I was set upon by footpads. They knocked me unconscious and rifled my pockets.” He grinned ruefully. “They found nothing to interest them there, Your Grace. So they left me with a broken arm which meant that I was unable to ride my horse. A merchant bound it for me and helped me to return to England.”

“My poor Francisco,” said the Queen, “you are in pain.”

“It is nothing, Your Grace. I can only regret that I had to delay so long before returning to you, and that I was unable to continue my journey because of my inability to ride.”

“I will send you to my physician. Your arm needs attention.”

“And Your Grace has no further commission for me?”

Katharine shook her head. She understood that he had been seen to leave England, that the nature of his mission had been guessed, that he had been incapacitated by the Cardinal’s men, and that the hope of conveying an understanding of her peril to the Emperor was now slight.

THE CARDINAL sat with his head buried in his hands. He had been reading dispatches from Rome, and had learned that Clement, after seeming near to death, was making a remarkable recovery. The position at the Vatican was more hopeful and it seemed as though the Pope had taken a new grip on life. It followed that the chances of a Conclave in the near future were gradually but certainly fading; and the Cardinal’s position in England had worsened.

Each day the King viewed him with more disfavor after listening to the complaints of Anne Boleyn. Continually Henry chafed against the delay. Had there ever, he asked himself, been such procrastination over such a simple matter? Other Kings, when they needed to rid themselves of unwanted wives, procured a dispensation and the matter was done with. But he, Henry Tudor, who had always until now, taken what he wanted, was balked at every turn.

And what could his faithful servant do to hasten the decision when Campeggio had clearly been advised by the Pope to avoid a trial of the case if possible, and if not to use every means to delay bringing matters to a head! Wolsey was powerless to work without Campeggio; and the Pope and the King were pulling in opposite directions.

One of his most trusted servants entered the apartment, and the Cardinal, startled, withdrew his hands.

“I suffer from a headache,” Wolsey explained.

“A pressure of work, Your Eminence,” was the answer.

“Can it be so? I have suffered from a pressure of work, Cromwell, for as long as I can remember.”

Thomas Cromwell sighed sympathetically and laid some documents before the Cardinal. In a lesser degree Thomas Cromwell shared his master’s uneasiness, for people in the Court and in the City were beginning to show their dislike of him, which was entirely due to the fact that he was the Cardinal’s man.

He thought of himself as a parasite feeding on the abundance of the Cardinal; and if Wolsey fell, what would happen to Cromwell?

Could Wolsey stand out against all the powers that fought against him? There could not be a man in England who had more enemies. Norfolk and Suffolk were watching like vultures; so was Lord Darcy; and the Boleyn faction, which was daily growing stronger, was standing by eagerly waiting for the kill.

The King? The King was Wolsey’s only hope. Henry still admired the cleverness of his minister and was loath to part with his favorite. That was Wolsey’s hope…and Thomas Cromwell’s.

Now suppose the Lady Anne lost a little of her influence over the King; suppose she gave way to his pleadings and became his mistress; suppose Henry made the natural discovery that Anne was very little different from other women…then Wolsey might yet retain his hold on the King. That was if the French alliance provided all that Wolsey and Henry hoped for. But François was an unreliable ally—even as Charles had been.

So many suppositions, thought Thomas Cromwell, for a Cardinal’s fate to depend on, and the fate of his lawyer who had risen because he was in his service hung with that of his master.

It was nearly six years before that Thomas Cromwell had set up in Gray’s Inn and had been called to work for the Cardinal. He had helped to suppress certain small monasteries in order to promote colleges at Ipswich and Oxford in which the Cardinal was interested, and there had been complaints about the manner in which he, Cromwell, and his colleague, John Allen, had set about this business, but the Cardinal had protected them from trouble.

Wolsey had been pleased with him, and since then all his legal business had gone into Thomas Cromwell’s hands. Thus it was that a lawyer could rise from obscurity to greatness, but Thomas Cromwell was too shrewd not to know that a man could as easily fall as rise.

He had come a very long way from his father’s blacksmith’s shop, although his father was a man of enterprise and had been a fuller and shearer of cloth in addition to his trade as blacksmith. Thomas had intended to go farther, and after a somewhat wild youth, which had resulted in a term of imprisonment and flight from the country, he had, following a period spent abroad, returned sobered, with the intention of making his fortune.

He had every reason to be pleased with what he had done until he suddenly understood that the Cardinal’s good fortune was turning sour.

“These are troublous times,” murmured Cromwell.

“You speak truth,” answered the Cardinal grimly.

“Your Eminence,” went on Cromwell, “what in your opinion will be the King’s answer if the Pope refuses to grant his divorce?”

Wolsey’s body seemed to stiffen. Then he said slowly: “The King will have only one course of action. He will accept his fate, and give up all plans for remarriage.”

“Your Eminence has noticed, no doubt, that there are many Lutheran books entering the country.”

“I know it. Since that man Luther set the new doctrines before the world there seems no way of preventing these books from coming here. They are smuggled in; they are read, talked of…”

“Is it true, Your Eminence, that the King himself is interested in these ideas?”

Wolsey looked up sharply at the thickset lawyer, with the big head which seemed too close to his shoulders; at the strong jaw and thin lips which made his mouth look like a trap, at the cold expression, the gleaming, intelligent dark eyes.

“How did you know that he was?” demanded Wolsey. “Has he told you this?”

Cromwell smiled deprecatingly to indicate his humility. That smile said: Would the King confide in Thomas Cromwell? “No, Your Eminence,” he answered. “But the Boleyns are interested. I believe the Lady passed a book to the King and told him he must read it. And he, being told he must, obeyed.”

Wolsey was silent.

Cromwell leaned forward slightly and whispered: “What if the King should so dislike the Pope that he became more than a little interested in heresy?”

“He never would,” declared Wolsey. “Is he not Defender of the Faith?”

“He was a fierce foe of Luther at the time that title was bestowed on him. But times change, Eminence.”

Once more Wolsey looked up into that cold, clever face. He had a great respect for the lawyer’s intelligence.

“What mean you, Cromwell?” he asked.

Cromwell shrugged his shoulders. “That the Lady and her friends might give their support to Lutheranism, seeing thereby a way to dispense with the services of the Pope.”

“I think not,” said the Cardinal, rising and smoothing the red folds of his robe as though to remind himself and Cromwell of the importance of Rome. “The King has always been devoted to the Church.”

Cromwell bowed and Wolsey said: “I must go now to His Grace. I have a matter of some importance to discuss with him.”

The lawyer walked from the apartment at the side of the Cardinal, his manner obsequious. He was thinking that Wolsey was growing old and that old men lost their shrewdness. Then his problem was pressing down upon him: What will Cromwell do when Wolsey has fallen? When would be the time for the parasite to leave his host? And where would he find another?

Cromwell’s eyes glinted at the thought. He would leap up, not down. Was it such a long jump from a Cardinal to a King?

THE CARDINAL had summoned Thomas Abell, the Queen’s chaplain, to appear before him and the King.

“He will be here in a few minutes, Your Grace,” Wolsey told Henry.

“And you think he is the man for this mission?”

“I am sure we could not find a better, Your Grace, for since he is the Queen’s chaplain, the Emperor will think he acts for the Queen.”

“It seems a marvellous thing,” said Henry peevishly, “that there should be this delay. When…when…when shall I be granted what I wish? How much longer must I live in this uncertainty?”

“As soon as we have the brief safely in our hands the case can be opened. But let us not despair of the Queen’s entering a convent.”

“She is a stubborn woman,” grumbled the King.

“I know, Your Grace, but she pins hope to this brief. Once it is in our hands her case will crumble.”

A page entered to say that Thomas Abell was without.

“Send him in,” commanded Wolsey.

Thomas Abell bowed low before the King.

“Now to our business,” said Henry.

“It is His Grace’s wish,” said the Cardinal, “that you should leave at once for Spain. You are to go to the Emperor and hand him a letter from the Queen. He will give you a certain document, and this you are to bring to His Grace with all speed.”

“Your Grace, Your Eminence,” said Thomas Abell, “gladly would I serve you, but I must tell you that I have little Spanish and I fear that would be an impediment to me in this mission.”

Henry looked at Wolsey who said quickly: “You shall take a servant and interpreter with you.”

“Then I shall set out with all speed. There is a man in the Queen’s household who would make a good servant and is moreover a Spaniard. I refer to Montoya. If this man could accompany me I should have no qualms in setting out immediately.”

“Let it be so,” said the Cardinal. “You should leave tomorrow, and in the meantime it is His Grace’s wish that you should have no communication with the Queen. You must carry with you, apart from this one, no letters from the Queen to the Emperor. To do this would incur the King’s displeasure and, as you know, you could then be accused of high treason.”

Thomas Abell said he understood, and withdrew in order to make his preparations for the journey, while Wolsey summoned Montoya that the importance of his journey might be impressed upon him.

When he left the King and the Cardinal, Thomas Abell was thoughtful. He was to carry a letter from the Queen to the Emperor, and this letter was to be given him by the Cardinal. He was not to take any other message from the Queen to her nephew. It therefore seemed to him that the letter which he carried, although in the Queen’s handwriting and purporting to express her wishes, had no doubt been written under duress.

Thomas Abell was a deeply religious man. His position at Court had by no means increased his ambitions, which were not for worldly gain. He was a man who cared passionately for causes; and it seemed to him that the Queen’s cause was more worthy than the King’s.

There had been a moment, as he confronted the King and Cardinal, when he had almost refused to obey their orders. No, he wanted to say, I refuse to work against the Queen in this matter of the divorce.

That would doubtless have been construed as high treason and he might have been hustled to the Tower. Such a possibility would not have deterred him in the least. Indeed, he had a secret longing for a martyr’s crown. But it had occurred to him that by accepting this commission he might serve the Queen’s cause more effectively than by refusing it.

He obeyed the instructions and did not see the Queen before he left, her letter safely in his scrip; the voluble Montoya riding beside him.

They travelled across France and the journey was tedious; but there was much to talk of as they went, for Montoya was well versed in what was known throughout the Court as the Secret Matter; he filled in gaps for Abell; so that long before they came into Spain, the chaplain knew that the Queen had been forced to write the letter he carried, that she knew that, once the brief left the Emperor’s safe keeping, her case was lost, that she had tried to reach him by means of Franciso Felipez who had been set upon and all but killed by the Cardinal’s men.

So Abell made up his mind; and when he reached Spain and was taken into the Emperor’s presence, with Montoya to translate, he told the Emperor that the Queen had been forced to write the letter asking for the brief, and that unless the Emperor kept the original in his hands the Queen would have no redress; he had, moreover, worked out a plan that a notorially attested copy, which would be valid in any court, should be made and the original kept in safety in Spain.

The Emperor listened gravely and thanked the chaplain, who he saw was his aunt’s very good friend. He assured Abell that the copy should be made and he himself would ensure that the original brief would be kept in the royal archives at Madrid.

Abell was delighted with the success of his mission and, while he waited for the copy of the brief to be made, he started to write a book in which he set out the Queen’s case; and the more he worked, the clearer it became to him that the King based his desire for a divorce on false premises.

Abell now had a cause for which he was ready to give his life.

He was eager to return to England, there to hand the copy of the brief to Wolsey, and complete his book which he would eventually publish, no matter what the consequences should be.

“Come into the Court”

HENRY WAS GROWING MORE AND MORE DISTURBED. HE HAD noticed the change towards him in the people’s attitude. When he rode in the streets there was no longer the spontaneous outburst of cheering; and the approval of the people had always been very dear to him. Anne was growing restive; she continually complained and accused him of making promises which he was unable—or unwilling—to keep. The knowledge of his impotence in this matter infuriated Henry.

Moreover the popularity of the Queen had increased since the plan for the divorce had become known. If she appeared at a balcony crowds would collect and shout: “Long live our Queen!” as though to remind all who heard them—including the King—that they would not allow her to be cast aside for the sake of Anne Boleyn. Anne herself had on one or two occasions been in danger from the people. They called her the “whore” and shouted that they’d “have no Nan Bullen as their Queen!”

Moreover the copy of the brief had arrived, and that was useless for Henry’s purpose while the original was in the Emperor’s keeping. The Pope, weak in health and weak in purpose, vacillated between the King and the Emperor, desperately trying to placate first one, then the other.

But the Emperor was nearer at hand and more formidable, so Clement had declared that, since Campeggio seemed unable to proceed with the trial in England, the whole matter had better be referred to Rome.

“Tried in Rome!” shouted the King. “A fine state of affairs. What hope should I have of obtaining a divorce if the matter were tried in Rome under the whip of the Emperor!”

No. There must be no more delay. They must go ahead with the trial even though the brief did remain in the Emperor’s hands. He must rely on Wolsey who knew full well, the King malevolently reminded himself, that if the case did not go in the King’s favor Master Cardinal would have a great deal for which to answer.

In the meantime he could not endure his unpopularity with the people and sought to remedy this by making a public pronouncement of his difficulties. He therefore called together as many of the burgesses of London who could be squeezed into the great hall of Bridewell Palace, led by the Lord Mayor, aldermen and many from the Inns of Court; and on a dull November Sunday afternoon he took his place on a dais and endeavored to put his case before them.

Henry was always at his best when he played a part, because his belief in the part of the moment was absolute.

He was a glittering figure, standing there on the dais, the light filtering through the windows making his jewels scintillate; he was exceedingly handsome, standing in his characteristic attitude, legs apart—which made him look so broad and sturdy—his glittering hands folded across his blue and gold doublet.

He surveyed the crowd before him with the benevolent eyes of a father-figure, for he had already assured himself that what he wanted was for their good rather than his own.

“My friends,” he cried, “there is much disquiet throughout the land because up to this time God has denied me my greatest wish—to give you the heir who would naturally follow me. This matter has for some time gravely disturbed my conscience, and I doubt not that there have been many evil rumors in the streets concerning it.”

He went on to remind his audience of the prosperity they had enjoyed under his rule.

“My beloved subjects, it is a matter of great concern to me that one day I must die and be no longer with you. So I wish to leave you one, whom I have trained to take the burden of kingship from my shoulders, one on whose head I could contemplate the placing of my crown and die happy. There are some among you who may remember the horror of civil war. If this country were to be plunged into like horror on my death, my friends, my dear subjects, I believe I should have lived in vain. I wish to live in friendship with France and so I plan to marry my daughter to a French Prince. I wish also to live in friendship with the Emperor Charles, for I know full well that this country’s disagreements with him have caused certain hardship to some of our people.”

There was grave nodding among the assembly. The clothiers had cried out again and again that they could not live if they could not sell their cloth in the Flemish markets.

“It was during the negotiations for my daughter’s marriage that a point was made which has caused me great perturbation. The French ambassador, the Bishop of Tarbes, has raised the question of my daughter’s legitimacy. It was a point which I could not ignore since, my friends, this matter had for some time given me cause for uneasiness. I have since consulted bishops and lawyers, and they have assured me that I have, for all the years that I have believed the Lady Katharine to be my wife, been living in mortal sin.

“Ah,” went on Henry, “if it might be adjudged that the Lady Katharine is my lawful wife, nothing could be more pleasant or acceptable to me, both for the clearing of my conscience, and for her own good qualities, and conditions which I know her to be in. For I assure you all that beside her noble parentage she is a woman of gentleness, humility and buxomness; yea, and of all good qualities pertaining to nobility she is without comparison. So that if I were to marry again I would choose her above all women. But if it be determined in judgment that our marriage is against God’s law, then shall I sorrow, parting from so good a lady and a loving companion. These be the sores that vex my mind. These be the pangs which trouble my conscience, for the declaration of which I have assembled you together. I beg of you now go your ways, and in doing so form no hasty judgments on your Prince’s actions.”

The meeting was over. Henry left the hall, and those who had assembled to hear him went into the streets where they stood about in little groups talking; but the theme of their conversation was still sympathy for the Queen.

IÑIGO DE MENDOZA, who had learned of the King’s oration at Bridewell, sat down to communicate with his master.

“There is nothing I can do here,” he wrote, “to further the Queen’s cause. The King is determined to have an end of this matter and there will be a trial. The Queen’s chances of receiving justice at the hands of the judges are slight. She needs an ambassador who is also a lawyer. I therefore implore Your Excellency to recall me from a post which I have not the ability to fulfill.”

All through the winter Mendoza awaited his recall.

It came at the end of the spring, when it had been decided to open the Court at Blackfriars for the hearing of the King’s Matter, which was no longer secret.

THERE COULD BE NO more delay. The summons had been sent both to the King and the Queen, and the Legatine Court was to be set up in Blackfriars on the 16th day of June.

Katharine, who during this most difficult time had not changed her mode of life, was with her daughter when the summons came.

Poor little Mary! She was fully aware of the troubles between her parents and how she herself was affected. She had lost her healthy looks and had grown nervous, starting with dismay when any messengers appeared; she still kept her feelings under control, but there were occasions when she would throw herself into her mother’s arms and without a word demand to be comforted.

Now as the scroll was handed to her mother Mary began to tremble.

The Queen dismissed the messenger, but she did not look at the scroll.She laid it aside, telling herself that she would study it when her daughter was no longer with her. But although Mary tried to play the virginals, she was thinking of the scroll and her fingers faltered so that Katharine knew that it was useless to try to keep the secret from her.

“You must not fret, my darling,” she said.

“Mother,” answered the Princess, turning from the instrument, “if you are in truth not married to the King then I am but a bastard, is that not so?”

A hot flush touched the Queen’s pale face. “It is wrong even to question it,” she answered. “I will not allow it. You are the legitimate daughter of the King and myself, the only heir to the throne.”

“Yes, I know that to be true, Mother; but there may be some who insist it is not so, and if they should succeed, what would become of us?”

The Queen shrugged her shoulders. “They cannot succeed…if there is justice.”

“There is not always justice, is there, Mother?”

The Queen did not answer and Mary went on: “I was talking to Reginald of this matter. He said that no matter what the verdict of the court was, he would never call anyone but you the Queen of England, and none heir to the throne but myself.”

“So we have some friends,” said Katharine. “Why should we not have justice too?”

“Perhaps because our friends will not be in the court? That is what you are afraid of, Mother. Your friends are not allowed to stay with you here, so why should they be allowed to act as judges?”

“I think I have some friends.”

“But, Mother, what is important is that we are not separated. That is why, when I am frightened, I remind myself that if they say you are no true Queen, then I cannot be the true heir. So that if you are sent away I shall go with you.”

“My darling…my darling,” said the Queen with a sob in her voice; and Mary ran to her and knelt at her feet.

“Is that all you care about then?” asked Katharine.

“I do not care what they say of me,” came Mary’s muffled answer, “if they will but let me stay with you for ever. If I am a bastard the French Prince will not want me. We shall go away from Court, Mother, you and I, and we shall stay quietly somewhere in the country, and there will be no talk of my going over the sea to marry.” She laughed on a high, hysterical note. “For who will want to marry a bastard!”

“Hush! Hush!” admonished the Queen.

“Oh, but you are afraid, Mother.”

“No…no…”

“If you are not afraid, why do you not open the scroll?”

“Because we are together now and I do not see you as often as I wish. So matters of state can wait.”

“We are both thinking of it, Mother. We do not escape it by ignoring it.”

The Queen smiled and, going to where she had laid the scroll, picked it up and read it. Mary ran to her and stood before her, anxiously scanning her mother’s face.

“It is a summons to appear at Blackfriars,” she said.

“A summons? Should the Queen be summoned?”

“Yes, Mary. For the King will be summoned also.”

“And at this court they will decide…”

Katharine nodded. “They will decide.”

Mary kissed her mother’s hand. “All will be well,” she said. “If they decide one way you will be the King’s wife and we shall be as we were. If the other, we shall go away together, away from the Court, away from the fear of a royal marriage in a strange country. Oh, Mother, let us be happy.”

“Yes, let us be happy while we are together.”

And she tried to set aside the gloom which hung about her. She did not believe, as Mary did, that if her marriage were proved invalid she and her daughter would be allowed to slip away quietly into oblivion. But she did not tell Mary this. Why disturb the child’s peace of mind, and how could she know how long such peace would be enjoyed?

THE QUEEN CAME to Campeggio’s apartment. She felt desolate; she scarcely knew this man, and yet it was to him she must go.

She had confessed to John Fisher on the previous day and they had taken advantage of their privacy to discuss the coming trial. She had not asked Fisher to come to her for this purpose, because she knew that Wolsey’s spies were all about her and, although it was reasonable that she should ask the advice of a man who had been chosen to defend her, she did not want to put John Fisher in any danger, for she knew he was an honest man who would speak his mind even though his views were not those of the King and Cardinal.

It was Fisher who had advised her to see Campeggio in the vain hope that she might be able to persuade the Legate to have the case tried in Rome.

Campeggio, who could feel the beginning of an attack of the gout, was irritated by the arrival of the Queen. If only she had shown good sense she would be in a convent by now and he would be back in Italy where he belonged. He had used his delaying tactics, on Clement’s command, for as long as he had been able, but it was impossible to hold out any longer against the King’s desire. What he must do now was prevent the case from reaching any conclusion, for he was certain that the King would not allow it to be said that there had never been any impediment to the marriage, and Clement dared not so offend the Emperor as to grant the divorce.

A delicate situation, especially so since his fellow Legate was Cardinal Wolsey whose own fate depended on giving the King what he wanted—and quickly.

Thus he felt irritated by the Queen who could so easily have solved the problem for them all by giving up her life outside convent walls.

“Your Grace…,” he murmured, bowing with difficulty.

“I regret that you are in pain,” said the Queen with genuine sympathy.

“I am accustomed to it, Your Grace.”

“I am sorry for all who suffer,” said the Queen. “I have come to ask you not to hold this court. I have lodged an appeal to His Holiness and have high hopes that the case will be heard outside England—where I might have a greater chance of justice.”

“Your Grace,” Campeggio pointed out, “His Holiness has already appointed two Legates. This is tantamount to having your case tried in Rome.”

“I am surprised that you should have so small an opinion of my intelligence as to push me aside with such a comment,” Katharine retorted scornfully. “If this case is tried in England all the advantages will be the King’s. Have you forgotten who one of the Legates is?”

“The matter has not slipped my memory, Your Grace.”

“Wolsey!” she cried. “The man whom I have to thank for all my troubles. I have always abhorred his way of life, which is not that of a priest. He hates my nephew because he did not help him to become a Pope.”

“You should pray to God,” Campeggio told her. “He would help you to bear your trials.”

“And who,” cried Katharine, “would dare to pronounce a verdict contrary to the King’s wishes?”

“I would, if the findings of the court should show me clearly that the King was wrong.”

“The findings of the court!” snapped Katharine. “Do you not know that there cannot be more than one or two men who would dare give a decision which the King did not want? So you can rely with certainty on the findings of the court!”

“Let us pray,” said Campeggio.

They did so, but Katharine could only think of the fate which was waiting for her and her daughter.

What will become of us? she asked herself. And then she prayed that whatever disaster should befall her, her daughter should remain unscathed.

THERE WAS TENSION in the great hall at the Blackfriars Palace. The case had begun.

Never had those assembled seen anything quite like this before.

Seated on chairs covered by cloth of gold and placed at a table over which was hung a tapestry cloth sat the Legates, Cardinals Campeggio and Wolsey. On the right of the table was an ornate chair with a canopy over it; this was in readiness for the King who was expected to appear in a few days’ time; on the left hand side of the table was a chair as rich but lacking the canopy, which was meant for the Queen.

Henry did not appear in person but sent two proxies. Katharine, however, arrived in the company of four Bishops and several of her women.

As Katharine entered there was a stir in the court, for she was not expected until that day when the King would be there. She did not go to the chair which was intended for her, but to the table where she stood before the Legates. There was a hushed silence in the court as she began to speak.

“My lords, I come to make a protest against this court and to ask that the case may be transferred to Rome.”

Katharine was conscious of the malevolent gaze of Wolsey and the peevish one of Campeggio. To the first she was an enemy to be ruthlessly removed; to the second she was an irritation, the woman who might, by going into a convent, have saved him so much trouble and allowed him to rest his gouty limbs in a more congenial climate. The sight of those two men filled Katharine with further apprehension and an immense determination to fight for her future and that of her daughter.

“Why does Your Grace object to this court?” Wolsey asked coldly.

“I object because it is hostile to me,” replied the Queen. “I demand to be tried by unprejudiced judges.”

Campeggio appeared to be shocked; Wolsey looked pained, but Katharine went on boldly: “This case has been referred to Rome; in due course it could be tried there; the verdict must have the sanction of the Holy Father. I protest against this matter’s being tried here.”

Wolsey rose and said: “Your Grace is misinformed.” And Campeggio added: “Your Grace can be assured that justice shall be done, and I urgently pray you to take confidence in the members of this court who serve none but justice.”

Katharine turned away and, holding her head high, left the court followed by her train.

It was useless, she was telling herself. There was nothing she could do to prevent the trial.

She could only go back to her apartments and wait until that day when she, with Henry, must appear in person before the Legatine court.

“HENRY, KING OF ENGLAND, come into the court!” The cry rang out in the great hall of Blackfriars.

Henry was seated under the canopy, and above him on the dais were the two Cardinals, magnificent in their robes of scarlet. At the foot of this dais were the Bishops and officers of the court, with William Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, at their head. There sat the counsellors of the two opposing parties; Dr. Bell and Dr. Sampson for the King, and the Bishop of Rochester and the Bishop of St. Asaph’s for the Queen.

The voice of the crier, calling the King, silenced the whispers. Those who were present could not help but marvel that the King and Queen could be called into court as though they were common people.

This, it was murmured, shows the power of Rome. Only the Pope would dare summon the King of England to appear in court in his own country. Since we were ruled by one of the Pope’s cardinals—our butcher’s son—England has been but a vassal of Rome.

Henry himself felt a wave of anger to be so summoned. He would have refused to attend this trial; he would have stated that he had no intention of accepting any verdict but the one he wanted; but the people must be placated; they were already murmuring against the injustice done to his Queen. It was part of his policy to say: “Reluctant I am to part from her whom I believed to be my wife, but I do so on the orders of the Church.” Therefore what could he do but submit himself to the jurisdiction of the Church, making sure, of course, that his Cardinal understood how the verdict must go.

So he answered in a voice devoid of rancor: “Here I am, my lords.”

“Katharine, Queen of England, come into the court.”

Katharine stood up, crossed herself, and to the astonishment of the Bishops and officers of the court, made her way to the chair in which Henry sat. She knelt before him and began to speak in a ringing voice which could be heard all over the hall.

“Sir, I beseech you, for all the love there has been between us, and for the love of God, let me have right and justice. Take pity on me and have compassion for me, because I am a poor stranger born outside your dominions. I have here in this court no unprejudiced counsellor, and I appeal to you as the head of justice within your realm. Alas! Wherein have I offended you? I take God and all the world to witness that I have been to you a true, humble and obedient wife, ever conformable to your will and pleasure. I have been pleased and contented with all things wherein you had delight and dalliance. I loved all those you loved, only for your sake, whether they were my friends or mine enemies. These twenty years I have been your true wife, and by me you have had divers children, although it has pleased God to call them out of this world, which has been no fault of mine. I put it to your conscience whether I came not to you as a maid. If you have since found any dishonor in my conduct, then I am content to depart, albeit to my great shame and disparagement; but if none there can be, then I beseech you, thus lowlily, to let me remain in my proper state.”

There was a hush in the court as she paused for breath. She had at the beginning of the hearing stated that fact which was the crux of the matter. Her marriage to Prince Arthur had been no true marriage; she had stated before this court that she had been a virgin when she married Henry.

The King flinched a little; his face was stern; he did not look at his kneeling wife, but stared straight before him.

“The King, your father,” went on Katharine, “was accounted in his day a second Solomon for wisdom, and my father, Ferdinand, was esteemed one of the wisest kings that had ever reigned in Spain; both were excellent princes, full of wisdom and royal behavior. They had learned and judicious counsellors and they thought our marriage good and lawful. Therefore it is a wonder to me to hear what new inventions are brought up against me, who never meant aught but honestly.”

Again she paused. Campeggio moved in his chair to ease his painful limbs. She makes her own advocate, he thought; where could she have found a better? It will not be easy for them to find against her.

He was pleased with her. It was what he wished, for Clement’s orders were that the court should come to no decision.

“You cause me to stand to the judgment of this new court,” continued the Queen, “wherein you do me much wrong if you intend any kind of cruelty; you may condemn me for lack of sufficient answer, since your subjects cannot be impartial counsellors for me, as they dare not, for fear of you, disobey your will. Therefore most humbly do I require you, in the way of charity and for the love of God, who is the just Judge of all, to spare me the sentence of this new court, until I be advertised in what way my friends in Spain may advise me to take. And if you will not extend to me this favor, your pleasure be fulfilled, and to God do I commit my cause.”

Katharine stood up and all in the court saw that there were tears on her cheeks. The Bishops looked on grimly, not daring to show their sympathy in the presence of the King, who still sat staring stonily before him; but in the body of the hall many a kerchief was applied to an eye and secret prayers for the Queen were murmured.

She took the arm of her receiver-general and instead of making her way back to her seat she began to move through the crowd towards the door.

The crier was in consternation. He called: “Katharine, Queen of England, come again into the court.”

But Katharine did not seem to hear and, staring before her, her eyes misted with tears, she continued towards the door.

“Your Grace,” whispered the receiver-general, “you are being called back to the court!”

“I hear the call,” answered the Queen, in tones which could be heard by those about her, “but I heed it not. Let us go. This is no court where I may have justice.”

“Katharine, Queen of England, come again into the court!” shouted the distracted crier.

But Katharine passed out of the court into the sunshine.

The Queen had gone, and Henry was fully aware of the impression she had made.

He rose and addressed the assembly. He spoke with conviction and considerable powers of oratory; he was well practiced in this speech for he had uttered it may times before. He explained that he had no wish to rid himself of a virtuous woman who had always been a good wife to him. It was his conscience which urged him to take action. It had been put to him by learned men—bishops and lawyers—that he was living in sin with a woman who had been his brother’s wife. The twenty-first verse of the twentieth chapter of Leviticus had been brought to his notice, and it was for this reason that he—determined to live at peace with God—had decided to ask learned men whether he was truly married. If the answer was in the affirmative he would rejoice, for there was none who pleased him as did the woman who had been his wife for twenty years; but if on the other hand it were shown to him that he was living in sin with her, then, much as this would grieve him, he would part with her.

After Katharine’s speech the King’s sounded insincere. It was a fact that the whole court and country knew of his passion for Anne Boleyn, and that it was this woman’s desire to share his crown before allowing him to become her lover which was, if not the only motive for bringing the case, an important one.

However, Henry, believing in what he said while he said it, did manage to infuse a certain ring of truth into his words.

When he had finished speaking Wolsey rose to his feet, came to the chair in which Henry was sitting and knelt there.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I beseech you to tell this assembled court whether or not I have been the first to suggest you should part from the Queen. Much slander has been spoken against me in this respect and there are many who feel that, should this be truth, I am no fit person to sit as Legate in this case.”

The King gave a short laugh and cried: “Nay, my Lord Cardinal, I cannot say you have been the prime mover in this matter. Rather have you set yourself against me.”

Wolsey rose from his knees and bowed to the King. “I thank your Grace for telling this court that I am no prejudiced judge.”

Wolsey returned to his seat and Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, rose to produce a scroll which he told the court contained the names of the Bishops who had agreed that an enquiry into the matter of the King’s marriage was necessary. He then began to read out the names on the scroll.

When he came to that of John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, Fisher rose from the bench and cried: “That is a forgery, for I have signed no such document.”

Henry, who was growing more and more impatient at the delay and wondering when the judges would declare his marriage null and void—which he had believed they would quickly do—was unable to restrain himself. “How so?” he cried irritably. “Here is your name and seal.”

“Your Grace, that is not my hand or seal.”

Henry’s brows were lowered over his eyes. Once he had loved that man Fisher. It was such men who, in the days of his youth, he had wished to have about him. Thomas More was another. They had never flattered him as blatantly as other people did and when he did wring a word of praise from them it was doubly sweet. John Fisher had at one time been his tutor—a gentle kindly man with whom it had been a pleasure for an exuberant youth to work with now and then.

But now Fisher was on the Queen’s side. He was the Queen’s counsel. He did not approve of a divorce. He believed that, having married Katharine and been disappointed in her, his King should yet remain her faithful husband.

What did Fisher know of the needs of a healthy man who was in the prime of life?

As he glowered at his one-time tutor, Henry hated the tall, spare figure. The fellow looks as though he spends his time shut in a cell, fasting, he thought derisively. No matter what love I had for him it shall be forgotten if he dares oppose me in this matter. He will have to learn that those who cross me do so at the peril of their lives.

And now what was this matter of a forgery?

Warham was saying: “This is your seal.”

Fisher retorted: “My Lord, you know full well this is not my seal. You know that you approached me in this matter and I said that I would never give my name to such a document.”

Warham could see the King’s anger mounting. Warham was all for peace. He did not think that Fisher realized the full force of the King’s passion in this matter. Perhaps Fisher was too honest to understand that when the King was being driven by his lust he was like a wild animal in his need to assuage it. Warham tried to end the matter as lightly as possible.

“You were loath to put your seal to this document, it is true,” he murmured. “But you will remember that in the end we decided that I should do it for you.”

“My lord,” said Fisher, “this is not true.”

The King shifted angrily in his seat. Warham sighed and put down the document; it was a gesture which meant that no good could come of pursuing that matter further.

“We will proceed with the hearing,” Wolsey announced. Henry sat sullenly wondering what effect Fisher had already had on the court. By God, he thought, that man’s no friend of mine if deliberately he flouts me in order to serve the Queen.

But all would be well. Katharine had been right when she had said that few in this court would dare disobey him. They would not; and thus they would give him the verdict he was demanding. What difference would one dissenting voice make?

But he hated the dissenters. He could never endure criticism. And when it came from someone whom he had once admired, it was doubly wounding.

He scarcely heard what was being said about him until it was Fisher’s turn to make his speech for the Queen.

“Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder…”

As soon as Fisher had finished speaking, Henry rose from his seat.

He had had enough for one day. The session was over.

THE DAYS PASSED with maddening slowness for the King. It was a month since the trial had begun and still no conclusion had been reached. Each day the counsels for the King and those for the Queen argued their cases; and it was clear that Fisher alone was determined to do his utmost to win a victory for the Queen.

Campeggio was in despair, for although he applied his delaying tactics whenever possible he could see that he could not extend the proceedings much longer, and, in view of the evidence he had heard, he knew that if he made a decision it would have to be in favor of the King.

This he could not do, as his strict orders from the Pope were that he should give no definite verdict.

Understanding the motives behind his fellow Legate’s methods Wolsey was depressed; he knew that Campeggio’s one desire was to prolong the action of the court until he could suitably disband it.

This was the state of affairs when the Cardinal was summoned to the King’s presence.

Henry was purple with anger, and striding up and down the apartment waving papers in his hands. He did not speak as Wolsey approached, but merely thrust the papers at the Cardinal.

Wolsey read the news and felt sick with horror. François had suffered defeat in Italy and a peace was to be made between him and the Emperor. Margaret, Regent of the Netherlands, who was the Emperor’s aunt, and Louise of Savoy, the mother of François, had arranged this peace which was consequently called The Ladies’ Peace. It was natural that Clement should at the same time sign a treaty with the Emperor.

“And,” cried Henry, glowering at his Chancellor, “these matters are settled and we are told nothing of them until they are completed. It seems to me that our French ally is as treacherous as our Spanish ones. Why is it that we are always betrayed?”

“Your Grace,” stammered Wolsey, who was near exhaustion and whose mind had been concentrated on the King’s divorce, “this will mean that Campeggio will never give us the verdict we want.”

“This trial is nothing but a mockery!” roared the King. “Is it not marvellous that I should be made to wait so long for that which others have for the asking?”

“Circumstances have moved against us, Your Grace. But for the sack of Rome…”

“Do not give me your buts…,” cried the King. “Give me freedom to marry, that I may provide my kingdom with an heir.”

“It would seem, Your Grace, that we should make another appeal to the Queen. If she would but retire to a convent, I am certain that Clement would immediately grant the divorce. All we need is her consent to do so, nay her desire to do so. The Emperor himself would not object to that.”

“She must be made to see reason,” insisted the King.

“Your Grace, have I your permission to make one more appeal to her?”

“Do so, without delay.”

Wolsey was relieved to escape from the King, and immediately went to Campeggio’s apartments, and there made the suggestion that they should go to the Queen and endeavor to show her what a benefit she would confer, not only on herself, but on all others, if she would retire to a nunnery.

THE TWO CARDINALS went by barge to Bridewell where the Queen at that time had her lodging. She was sitting with some of her women, working on her embroidery, for, she had said, she was so melancholy at this time that working with bright colors raised her spirits.

When she heard that the Cardinals had called on her, she went to greet them with skeins of red and white silk hanging about her neck.

“Your Grace,” said Wolsey, “we crave your pardon for disturbing your peace, and pray you to give us a hearing.”

“Gladly will I do so,” she answered, “but I cannot argue with such as you. I am not clever enough.” She touched the skeins about her neck. “You see how I pass my time, and my maids are not the ablest counsellors, yet I have no others in England. And Spain, where there are those on whom I could rely, is far away.”

“Take us into your privy chamber,” said Wolsey, “and there we will show you the cause of our coming.”

“My Lords,” answered the Queen, “if you have anything to say, speak it openly before these folk, for I fear nothing that can be alleged against me, but I would all the world should see and hear it. Therefore speak your minds openly, I pray you.”

Wolsey was uneasy and had no desire to speak before the women, so he began to explain his mission in Latin, but Katharine interrupted.

“Pray, my good lord, speak to me in English, for I can, thank God, speak and understand English, though I do know some Latin.”

So there was nothing to be done but to speak to her in the presence of her women in English, and Wolsey said: “Your Grace, if you will consent to the divorce you shall lack nothing you desire in riches and honors. If you should desire to go into a convent, which would be a seemly setting for your devout manner of living, you shall have all that you require there. The King will place the Princess Mary next in order of succession to the issue of his second marriage.”

“My lords,” said Katharine, “I could not answer you suddenly, for I have no one to advise me.”

Campeggio said: “Cardinal Wolsey and I would gladly give you the advice you need.”

“Then now come to my private chamber and there we will speak of these matters,” she said.

So the two Cardinals and the Queen retired together, and she told them once more that she had no wish to enter a convent, that the Princess Mary was the true heir to the throne, that she herself was indeed married to the King, for she had never in truth been wife to his brother; and this she would maintain no matter what befell her.

It was clear to the Cardinals that they could not make her change her decision, so they left her, Wolsey in deep melancholy, Campeggio determined to bring a speedy end to the case.

“This matter,” said Wolsey as they stepped into the barge, “must be settled without delay. We must give our judgment, and, on what we have heard, how can we help but decide in the King’s favor?”

Campeggio shook his head. “I am not satisfied that we have heard all the truth. The Queen is right when she says this is a prejudiced court. Nay, there is one course open to us. We must refer the matter to His Holiness.”

“The King will never stomach further delay.”

“This matter,” answered Campeggio, “is not in the King’s hands.”

Wolsey did not answer. He envied Campeggio his freedom. He would return to Rome where he had only to answer to the Pope and by delaying judgment he had carried out his orders. But Wolsey…he had served the King, and each day Henry’s displeasure and dissatisfaction increased.

So slowly they sailed along the river—Campeggio would leave the barge for his lodgings and the rest for which his limbs were crying out, but Wolsey must return to the King and once more report failure.

CAMPEGGIO ARRIVED at the court. He took his place beside Wolsey, but as the proceedings were about to open, he rose and addressed the company.

“This court is under the jurisdiction of Rome,” he announced, “and the holidays have begun in Rome. Therefore this court is closed until the holidays are over. We shall reassemble here on October the first.”

There was a gasp of astonishment. Wolsey was as startled as the rest, and his brown eyes looked like great marbles in his pallid face. True, he had been expecting something like this, but not so soon. He knew, of course, that Campeggio would never open the court again; that his one idea was to return to Italy and not come back. He had done his duty. He had opened the court of enquiry and had kept it going for a month; now he sought this excuse to close it; and meanwhile the state of affairs in Europe had steadied themselves, giving Clement some indication of which side he must take.

This was disaster at home and abroad. Wolsey’s French foreign policy had failed, for the Emperor and François were now friends, and neither felt much affection for England. So he had failed in that, and the people would be more against him than ever. He had also failed the King. He had promised him divorce, yet he was no nearer getting it than he had been more than a year ago.

Suffolk, Henry’s brother-in-law, who had been working zealously in the King’s cause, suddenly clenched his fist and hammered it on the table.

“England was never merry,” he declared, “since we had Cardinals among us.”

And as he spoke he glared at Wolsey who could not resist reminding him of that occasion when Suffolk had married Henry’s sister Mary and had appealed for the Cardinal’s help to placate the King. “Had it not been for one Cardinal,” he said, “you my Lord Suffolk, might have lost your head, and with it the opportunity of reviling Cardinals.”

The court broke up, and Wolsey was smiling as he saw Suffolk’s crestfallen face. Norfolk was watching him with hatred too. So was Darcy. But they dared not speak against him. He was still the most powerful man in the land—under the King; and while he had the King’s support, his enemies were powerless to touch him.

The King had already heard the news when Wolsey reached him.

Henry was alone and the Cardinal was surprised to see that his face was pale rather than scarlet as might have been expected. The eyes were as cold as ice.

“So,” he said, “the Pope’s man has closed the court.”

Wolsey bowed his head in assent.

“And all these weeks have been wasted. He never meant to settle this matter. Meanwhile I am left uncertain.”

“Your Grace, the Papal Legate has from the beginning practiced procrastination to a fine degree.”

“You need not tell me this. And the Queen has refused once more to enter a convent!”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

The little blue eyes were narrowed. “I’ll warrant she wishes me dead,” he said.

Wolsey was startled. “Your Grace…,” he began.

Henry was scowling. His Chancellor had not the sharp wits which had once been his.

“It would not surprise me,” went on Henry, “if there should be a plot afoot to kill both me and you.”

“Is it so, Your Grace?” Wolsey was waiting for orders and the King was satisfied.

“If such a plot should be discovered,” went on the King, “and it was found that the Queen had a part in it…” The little mouth was cruel, the eyes ruthless. “…she should not expect to be spared,” he added.

Wolsey was thinking: Queen Katharine, you are a fool. Why did you not take yourself off to a convent? There you would have been safe. This is a man who takes what he wants, no matter who stands in his way. And you, Queen Katharine, now stand most dangerously in his path.

The King went on: “This is a matter which should be laid before the Council. They will be prepared to act if evidence is brought before them. You will see to this, for I hold it to be of great importance to our safety…yours and mine.”

Wolsey bowed his assent.

He was vaguely troubled by his conscience, which over the years of good living he had learned to stifle.

So it has come to this, he thought. Katharine, you are in acute danger…and so am I.

The Fall of Wolsey

NEVER IN THE WHOLE OF HER LIFE HAD KATHARINE FELT so desolate and alone.

She lay on her bed, the drawn curtains shutting her in a small world of temporary peace. What will become of me? she asked herself, as she had continued to do since the Council’s document had been brought to her. But she was not really thinking of what would become of herself; for there was one other whose safety was of greater concern to her than that of any other living person. She knew what it meant to be alone and friendless. What if such a fate befell her daughter?

“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed. “Guide me through this perilous period of my life.”

The evil suggestion was afoot that she was trying to work some ill on the King and the Cardinal. Did they truly think that she—who never willingly harmed the humblest beggar—would try to poison the King and his chief minister? They had wronged her wilfully—at least the Cardinal had; she believed him to be the prime mover against her, and still saw Henry as an innocent boy who could be led. How could they honestly believe that she, a pious woman, could think for one moment of committing murder?

This was another plot of course to drive her into a convent.

Lying in her bed she thought of the comfort of a bare-walled cell, of the pleasant sound of bells, of escape from a world of intrigue. It attracted her strongly.

She sat up in her bed and once more read the scroll which she had been clutching in her hands as she lay there.

It informed her that she had not shown as much love for the King as she ought; that she appeared too often in the streets, where she sought to work on the affections of the people. She showed no concern for the King’s preoccupation with his conscience, and the King could only conclude that she hated him. His Council therefore was advising him to separate from her at bed and board and to take the Princess Mary from her.

To take the Princess Mary from her!

If they had not added that, they might have frightened her into a convent. But while she had her daughter to think of she would never retire into oblivion.

Attached to the document was a note in Wolsey’s hand. He had written that the Queen was unwise to resist the King, that the Princess Mary had not received the blessing of Heaven and that the brief which was held by the Emperor was a forgery.

“What will become of me?” she repeated. Whatever the future held, she would never allow them to frighten her into a convent, which would be tantamount to admitting that her marriage with the King was no true marriage. Never would she forget the slur this would cast on Mary.

She threw aside the scroll and lay down again, closing her eyes tightly, and said: “Let them do with this body what they will. Let them accuse me of attempting to murder the King and the Cardinal. Let them make me a prisoner in the Tower. Let them send me to the scaffold. Never will I allow them to brand Mary a bastard.”

EVEN GREATER than the Queen’s sufferings were those of the Cardinal, for he lacked Katharine’s spiritual resignation and constantly reproached himself for his own blindness which, looking back, he could see had brought him to that precipice on which he now stood; he mourned all that he had lost, and there was none of Katharine’s selflessness in his grief.

Henry had left London with the Court without seeing him, and was now at Grafton Manor, that beautiful palace which was situated on the borders of the shires of Buckingham and Northampton, and had once been the home of Elizabeth Woodville. Anne Boleyn was with the King, and Anne was now Queen of England in all but name; moreover she ruled the King as Katharine had never done. It was Anne who had suggested that Henry should leave Greenwich without informing his Chancellor; a procedure which but a few months before would have been unthinkable.

And now there had been no summons for him to go to Grafton; he had to beg leave—he, the mighty Cardinal—to accompany Campeggio who must pay his respects to the King before leaving the country.

What a sad and sorrowful journey it was, through London, where the people came out to see him pass! He travelled with his usual pomp but it seemed an empty show now, for the humblest beggar could not feel more fearful of his future than the great Cardinal of England.

Campeggio rode in silence beside him; his gout, he believed, had not improved since his sojourn in England and he was glad to be leaving and rid of a tiresome and delicate task; yet he had time to be sorry for his fellow Cardinal.

Poor Wolsey! He had worked hard to bribe his way into the Vatican…and failed. The Emperor had failed him; François had failed him; and now, most tragic of all, his own sovereign was being pressed to discard him. What then, when the whole world stood against him?

Optimism had never been far below the surface of Wolsey’s nature; it was to this quality that, in a large measure, he owed his success. He believed that when he saw the King, Henry would remember how, over so many years, they had worked together, and he would not leave him unprotected and at the mercy of his enemies who were even now massing against him. Lord Darcy had already drawn up a list of his misdeeds in order that he might be impeached. They would be saying of him that he had incurred a præmunire because he had maintained Papal jurisdiction in England. He had failed to give the King the divorce he needed, and his enemies would be only too ready to declare that he had served not the King but the Pope. Norfolk and Suffolk had always hated him; and now they were joined by the powerful Boleyn faction headed by Anne herself, who ever since he had berated her for daring to raise her eyes to Percy, had been his enemy and had sought to destroy him with a vindictiveness only paralleled by Wolsey’s own hounding of those who he considered had humiliated him.

It was the case of Buckingham repeating itself; only on this occasion the victim was the Cardinal himself.

And so they came to Grafton. There was revelry in the Manor, for Anne Boleyn and her brother George were in charge of the entertainments; and none knew how to amuse the King as they did. There would be hunting parties by day—the woods about Grafton had been the hunting ground of kings for many years—and the Lady would accompany the King and show him in a hundred ways how happy he would be if only he could discard the ageing Katharine and take to wife her brilliant, dazzling self.

The arrival of the Cardinals was expected and several of the King’s household were assembled to welcome them. Campeggio was helped from his mule and led into the Manor to be shown the apartments which had been made ready for him; but no one approached Wolsey, and he stood uncertain what to do, a feeling of terrible desolation sweeping over him. For one of the rare occasions in his life he felt at a loss; it was no use assuming his usual arrogance because it would be ignored; he stood aloof, looking what he felt: a lonely old man.

He became aware that no preparation had been made for him at the Manor and that he would be forced to find lodgings in the nearby village. Such an insult was so intolerable and unexpected that he could not collect his wits; he could only stand lonely and silent, aware of little but his abject misery.

A voice at his side startled him. “You are concerned for a lodging, my lord?”

It was a handsome youth whom he recognized as Henry Norris, and because he knew this fellow to be one of those who were deeply involved with the Boleyns and formed part of that admiring court which was always to be found where Anne was, Wolsey believed that he was being mocked.

“What is that to you?” he asked. “I doubt not that lodgings have been prepared for me.”

“My lord, I have reason to believe that they have not.”

Only when Wolsey looked into that handsome face and saw compassion there, did he realize how low he had fallen. Here he stood, the great Cardinal and Chancellor, close friend of the King, seeking favors from a young gentleman of the Court who, such a short time before, had been wont to ask favors of him.

“I pray you,” went on Henry Norris, “allow me to put a lodging at your disposal.”

The great Cardinal hesitated and then said: “I thank you for your kindness to me in my need.”

So it was Henry Norris who took him to a lodging in Grafton, and but for the compassion of that young man there would have been no place for him at the King’s Court.

THERE WAS excitement at Grafton. The Cardinal was in the Manor but all knew that no lodging had been prepared for him. That was on the orders of the Lady Anne, who commanded all, since she commanded the King. Now she would command Henry to dismiss his Chancellor, and all those who had hated the Cardinal for so long and had yearned to see his downfall were waiting expectantly.

Henry knew this, and he was disturbed. He had begun to realize that his relationship with the Cardinal had been one based on stronger feelings than he had ever experienced before in regard to one of his ministers; and much as he wished to please Anne, he could not bring himself lightly to cast aside this man with whom he had lived so closely and shared so much.

Anne insisted that Wolsey was no friend to the King because he worked for the Pope rather than Henry. And, she ventured to suggest, had the Cardinal so desired, the divorce would have been granted by now.

“Nay, sweetheart,” replied Henry, “I know him better than you or any other man. He worked for me. ’Twas no fault of his. He made mistakes but not willingly.”

Anne retorted that if Norfolk or Suffolk, or her own father had done much less than Wolsey they would have lost their heads.

“I perceive you are not a friend of my lord Cardinal, darling,” Henry answered.

“I am no friend of any man who is not the friend of Your Grace!” was the reply, which delighted Henry as far as Anne was concerned but left him perplexed regarding Wolsey.

And now he must go to the presence chamber where Wolsey would be waiting with the other courtiers. He could picture the scene. The proud Cardinal in one corner alone, and the groups of excited people who would be watching for the King’s entry and waiting to see the Cardinal approach his master—to be greeted coldly or perhaps not greeted at all.

Henry tried to work up a feeling of resentment. Why should he be denied his divorce? Why had not Wolsey procured it for him? Was it true that when the matter had been first suggested the Cardinal had intended a French marriage? Was it possible that, when he had known that the King’s heart was set on Anne, he had worked with the Papal Legate and the Pope against the King?

Scowling, Henry entered the presence chamber and it was as he had believed it would be. He saw the expectant looks on the faces of those assembled there—and Wolsey alone, his head held high, but something in his expression betraying the desolation in his heart.

Their eyes met and Wolsey knelt, but the sight of him, kneeling there, touched Henry deeply. A genuine affection made him forget all his resolutions; he went to his old friend and counsellor and, putting both his hands on his shoulders, lifted him up and, smiling, said: “Ha, my lord Cardinal, it pleases me to see you here.”

Wolsey seemed bemused as he stood beside the King, and Henry, slipping his arm through that of his minister, drew him to the window seat and there sat, indicating that Wolsey should sit down beside him.

“There has been too much friendship between us two for aught to change it,” said Henry, his voice slurred with sentiment.

And the glance Wolsey gave him contained such gratitude, such adoration, that the King was contented, even though he knew Anne would be displeased when she heard what had happened. But there were certain things which even Anne could not understand and, as he sat there in the window seat with Wolsey beside him, Henry recalled the security and comfort which, in the past, this clever statesman had brought to him.

“Matters have worked against us,” continued Henry, “but it will not always be so. I feel little sorrow to see your fellow Cardinal depart; he has been no friend to us, Thomas.”

“He obeyed orders from Rome, Your Grace. He served the Pope; it was not enough that one of the Legates worked wholeheartedly for his King.”

Henry patted Wolsey’s knee. “It may be,” he said darkly, “that we shall win without the Pope’s help.”

“His Holiness would give it, but for his fear of the Emperor.”

“He’s a weak fellow, this Clement. He sways with the wind.”

“His position is so uncertain since the sack of Rome.”

Henry nodded, and Wolsey went on, his spirits rising: “If Your Grace will grant me an audience in the morning, before I must depart with Campeggio, we could discuss the matter further. There are many ears cocked to listen here, many eyes to watch.”

“’Tis so,” said Henry nodding, and rising he put his arm once more through that of his Chancellor, and went with him back to the group of his gentlemen who were standing some distance from them.

WHAT COMFORT to rest his weary limbs in the bed for which he must be grateful to young Norris! How simple to explain the neglect!

It had happened without the King’s knowledge. Naturally he would have believed that preparations were made for his Chancellor, for his dear friend the Cardinal. It was his enemies who had sought to degrade him. He was fully aware of the existence of them. When had he ever been without them?

As he stretched out blissfully he told himself that he had been unduly worried. He had suffered misfortunes, but he was as strong now as he had ever been and, while the King was his friend, he was invincible.

How he had misjudged his King! Hot tempered, selfish, hypocritical, capable of extraordinary blindness where his own faults and desires were concerned, yet Henry’s heart was warm for those who had been his friends; and while that friendship could be relied on, there was nothing to fear. All that he, Wolsey, had done to serve his King was worthwhile. He would not regret the loss of Hampton Court; the gift was a symbol of the love between them which was indestructible. Nothing could change it…not even the vindictiveness of Anne Boleyn.

And tomorrow, thought Wolsey, we shall be alone together. Before I ride away with Campeggio on our way to the coast, I shall have had my intimate talk with Henry. All misunderstandings will be cleared away and it will be as it was in the old days when there was perfect accord between us. I will procure the divorce for him, but by that time, Mistress Anne Boleyn, he will have recovered from his infatuation. You have declared yourself my enemy; I declare myself yours. It shall be a French Princess for His Grace.

Tomorrow…tomorrow…thought Wolsey, and slept. It was the most peaceful night he had enjoyed for a long time.

“A good bed, Norris,” he murmured, when he awoke and saw that it was daylight. “I’ll not forget you.”

He rose and found that it was later than he had at first thought; but there was plenty of time to see the King before he left with Campeggio. In excellent spirits he dressed and, as he was about to make his way to the King’s apartments, he met Henry Norris.

“I thank you for a good night’s lodging,” he said.

“Your Eminence looks refreshed,” was the answer.

Wolsey patted the young man’s shoulder. “I shall not forget your goodness to me. Now I go to seek the King.”

Norris looked surprised. “His Grace left early this morning in the company of the Lady Anne.”

Wolsey could not speak; he felt a lump in his throat which seemed as though it would choke him.

“They have gone off with a party for a day’s hunting,” continued Norris. “They’ll not be back till dusk.”

It was like arriving at this place and finding no lodging prepared for him. She was the cause of that; and she was the cause of this. Doubtless she had heard of the King’s display of friendship and determined that there should be no more.

So he must leave with Campeggio, and that interview from which he had hoped so much would never take place. His defeat seemed as certain as it had been on his arrival.

In the palace they would be saying: Perhaps his fall is not as imminent as we hoped…but it is coming. Look at the warning shadows.

THESE WERE uneasy months. The King stormed through the Court sometimes like a bewildered, angry bull, at others like a peevish boy. Why was a divorce denied him? Why was he so provoked?

He was politician enough to know the answer. It was because the Emperor was more powerful at the Vatican than the King of England, and the woman the King wished to put aside was the Emperor’s aunt; it was as simple as that.

“Yet I will have my way!” declared the King.

In the Boleyn circle he had met a man who interested him because, although of somewhat obscure origins, he expounded original ideas. This man was a certain Thomas Cranmer, a scholar who had passed through Cambridge and had there become acquainted with Stephen Gardiner and Richard Fox. This man, Cranmer, had, during the course of conversation, which naturally enough turned on the main topic of the day, expressed original views on the way in which the King might obtain a divorce in spite of the continued vacillation of the Vatican.

“It is clear,” Cranmer had said, “that the Pope is reluctant to grant the divorce because he fears the Emperor. Is it not time that the King looked for a solution to his Matter outside the Vatican?”

Gardiner and Fox had suggested that he should explain how this could be done; to which Cranmer made answer that he believed the King should first make the universities see the reason behind his desires, and then appeal to enlightened opinion. Was England always going to remain a vassal of the Holy See?

Dr. Cranmer had voiced these opinions in other circles, and it was for this reason that the Boleyns had taken him under their protection and were making it known that Dr. Cranmer was a man of new, startling and brilliant ideas.

When Gardiner and Fox told the King of Cranmer’s suggestion, Henry had listened intently and, as he did so, his expression lightened; he cried out: “By God, that man hath the right sow by the ear! Who is he? Let him be brought to me. I would talk with such a one.”

So Cranmer had been brought forward and Henry had not been disappointed by their discourse, which had started a new train of thought in his mind.

THE QUEEN’S melancholy was lifted a little by the arrival of the new Imperial ambassador. This was Eustache Chapuys, an energetic Spaniard who had not been in England long before Katharine realized that here she had a stronger champion than she had had in Mendoza. Of humble beginnings, he had none of the aristocrat’s preoccupation with his own nobility and was not constantly looking for slights. His family had, with some struggle, managed to send him to the University of Turin, and from there he had begun to make his fortune. He was now forty years old and this opportunity to work for the Queen against the divorce seemed to him like the chance of a lifetime; he was determined to succeed.

However, arriving in England he had discovered that it was very difficult to speak in private with the Queen, who very quickly warned him that she was spied on at all times, and implored him to be very wary of Wolsey. He understood at once that this was no exaggeration. As for the King, he met the new ambassador with reproaches, complaining that by withholding the Papal brief the Emperor had done a grave injury, not only to his but to Katharine’s cause.

“If,” Henry had said, “I could have been assured that the brief was genuine, I should, at this time be living with the Queen, for that is what I wish beyond all things, and it is solely because my conscience tells me that to resume marital relations with the Emperor’s aunt would be to live in sin, that I refrain from doing so. Yet, since the Emperor will not release the brief I must conclude that he knows it to be a forgery and is afraid to submit it to the light of day.”

“Your Grace,” Chapuys had answered, “I myself can assure you that the brief is no forgery and that the copy you received in England is exact in every detail. Your conscience need disturb you no more.”

Henry had been angry with the ambassador, and this was not a good beginning to their relationship; but at least he would understand that in the new ambassador he had a worthy adversary, and Katharine a good friend.

So Katharine’s hope increased, because she believed that her case would be tried in Rome, and there she would have justice. She was convinced that all that was necessary to make Henry send Anne Boleyn back to Hever and turn to his true wife was an order from Rome.

But how sad she was in the Palace, where Anne ruled as though she were Queen, and Katharine was only at the King’s side on the most formal occasions! The humiliation she could have endured; but it was Anne’s decree that the Princess Mary should not be present at Court, and because Anne commanded this, Mary was kept away.

She fears the King’s affection for my daughter, Katharine decided; and there was a little comfort in that belief. But how she longed for the child’s company. On those rare occasions when she was with the King she sought to lead the conversation to their daughter’s absence in an endeavor to arouse a desire in him to have her with them.

But he was sullenly pursuing Anne, and Katharine often wondered whether his dogged determination to have his way was as strong as his desire.

One day when he had supped in her apartments she seized an opportunity to whisper to him: “Henry, would you not like to see our daughter here?”

“She is well enough where she is.”

“I miss her very much.”

“Then there is no reason why you should not go to her.”

“To go to her would be to leave you. Why cannot we all be together?”

He was silent and turned away from her. But she could not control her tongue. “As for myself,” she went on, “I see so little of you. I am often alone, neglected and forsaken. Who would believe that I was the Queen? I must brood on my wrongs continually.”

“Who forces you to do so?” demanded Henry. “Why do you not count your blessings?”

“My blessings! My daughter not allowed to come to me! My husband declaring he has never been my husband and seeking to marry another woman!”

“If you are neglected,” said Henry, his voice rising, “that, Madam, is your affair. There is no need for you to remain here if you wish to go. Do I keep you a prisoner? I do not. You may go whither you like. As for the way I live…it is no concern of yours, for learned men have assured me that I am not your husband.”

“You know that you are my husband. You know that I was a virgin when I married you. You choose to forget that now. But, Henry, do not rely on your lawyers and doctors who tell you what they know you want to hear. They are not my judges. It is the Pope who will decide; and I thank God for that.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. He was thinking of recent conversations with Cranmer, Gardiner, Fox and Anne, and he said slowly and deliberately: “If the Pope does not decide in my favor, I shall know what to do.”

She flashed at him: “What could you do without the Pope’s approval?” Henry snapped his fingers and his lips scarcely moved as he replied, though the words smote clearly on Katharine’s ear: “This I should do, Madam. I should declare the Pope a heretic and marry when and whom I please.”

THE CARDINAL was taking a solitary tour through York Place, knowing that it was doubtless the last time he would do so. Here were stored many of his treasures which almost rivalled those which had been in Hampton Court when he had lost that mansion to the King.

He stood at the windows but he did not see the scenes below; he leaned his heated head against the rich velvet hangings, as he glanced round the room, at the tapestries and pictures, at the exquisite furniture which he had so treasured.

In the pocket of his gown was the communication he had received from the King. The Lady Anne, it seemed, had set her heart on York Place. She would have no other house in London. Therefore the King asked the Cardinal to offer this up to her.

Hampton Court…and now York Place! One by one his treasures were being stripped from him. Thus it would be until he had nothing left to give but his life. Would they be content to leave him that?

He knew that a Bill of Indictment had been registered against him; he knew the hour could not be long delayed when Norfolk and Suffolk would arrive to demand that he give up the Great Seal.

The days of greatness were over. The fight for survival had begun.

He did not have long to wait. Smug, smiling, like dogs who had at last been thrown the titbits for which they had been begging, Norfolk and Suffolk arrived to demand the delivering up of the Great Seal.

He received them with dignity in the beautiful hall, surrounded by rich treasures which he must soon surrender. His dignity was still with him.

“I would see the King’s handwriting on this demand,” said Wolsey, “for how may I know you come at his command if I do not?”

Norfolk and Suffolk flushed and looked at each other. Neither was noted for his quick wits. Then Suffolk spluttered: “You know full well that we come on the King’s command.”

“How should I know, when there is no written order from him?”

“Then is it a surprise to you that you should be asked to hand back the Seal?”

“This is not a question of my emotions, my lords, but of your authority to take the Seal from me. I shall not give it to you unless you bring me a written order from the King.”

The Dukes were angry but they had never been able to argue successfully with Wolsey.

“Come,” said Suffolk, “we will return in a very short time with what he demands.”

And they left him. It would be a short time, Wolsey knew. But there was a small hope within him. The King had not wished to put his name to a demand for the Great Seal. He had turned his back on Wolsey, but at least he had not joined the pack who were waiting to tear the old minister to pieces.

THE CARDINAL was in great terror. It was not the fact that Norfolk and Suffolk had returned to take the Seal from him, with a written command from the King. That, he had known, was inevitable. It was not that he was ordered to leave York Place for Esher, an empty house which belonged to his bishopric of Winchester. It was the knowledge that his physician had been taken to the Tower where he might be put to the question, and betray secrets which could mean disaster to Wolsey if they were ever told to the King.

He had been desperate. He had seen disaster coming and had sought to win back all he had lost in one desperate throw. His enemy was Anne Boleyn and he had determined to be rid of her, knowing that if he could do this, he could quickly win back the King’s regard.

As a Cardinal he was in a position to have direct communication with the Pope, and he had made use of his advantages by advising the Pope to insist that the King send Anne from the Court or face excommunication. This had seemed to him to offer a solution of his troubles, because if the King dismissed Anne he, Wolsey, would very quickly return to his old position. If the King did not dismiss Anne but defied the Pope, Wolsey calculated that opinion in the country would be split; the situation would be dangerous for England; and the King would quickly realize that there was only one man strong enough to save the country from disaster; that man was Wolsey.

This had been his plan, and it had been made not for the good of the country, not for the good of the King, but for the salvation of Wolsey.

He had failed in his attempt; yet it was not that failure which disturbed him, but the knowledge that his weak physician may have confessed this secret and that the King might soon be aware of what he had done.

What hope would there be for him then? Banishment to Esher! It would not end there.

The grim shadow of the Tower lay before him; he could see himself walking from his prison with the executioner beside him and the blade of the axe turned towards him.

Now outside York Place and all along the banks of the river the people were assembling; craft of all description crowded the river. It was a holiday for them. They believed they were gathering to watch Wolsey on his way to the Tower.

He would pass out of York Place with all the pomp and ceremony with which he had been wont to make his journey from Hampton to Westminster. There would no longer be the Great Seal to proclaim him Chancellor. But he still had his Cardinal’s hat and his magnificently attired entourage. He would have his fool beside him, his cooks and stewards, his ushers and secretaries, as though the journey from York Place to Esher was no different from many another journey he had taken.

But he felt sick and weary. Thomas Cromwell was with him, and Cromwell’s dejection was clear to see. Was he mourning for the downfall of a friend, or asking himself what effect the loss of an influential benefactor would have? Who could say? And what did it matter now?

So out of York Place he came to take barge for Putney. Soon they would be counting the treasures there, and delightedly laying before the King and the Lady the lists of valuables, the costly booty. York Place was following Hampton Court; and Esher lay before him, an empty house where he would endeavor to keep his state until perhaps he was called to an even less comfortable lodging.

He was making up his mind what he would do. There were two courses open to him. It was no use appealing to Parliament, which was under the influence of Norfolk; but he could take his case to the law courts. There he had a fair chance of winning, because he was still the wiliest statesman in the land. But it would never do to win. The King would never forgive that. There was one object which he must keep in mind; one preoccupation which must be his to the exclusion of all else. He must keep his head upon his shoulders. He knew what he must do. He would admit that he had incurred a præmunire and he would ask the King, in payment for his sins, to take all that he possessed.

He smiled wryly, thinking of those bright blue eyes alight with acquisitiveness. While Henry studied the lists of possessions which would fall into his eager hands he might spare a little kindness for his one-time Chancellor and favorite minister. He might say: “Good Thomas, he always knew what would please me best.”

Disembarking at Putney he continued his journey away from the glories of the past into the frightening unknown future. The people watched him sullenly. This was an occasion for which they had long waited.

“His next journey will be to the Tower!” they cried.

And some raised their voices, because there was now no need to fear: “To the scaffold with the butcher’s cur!”

But as he rode through the muddy streets on his way to Esher he was met by Sir Henry Norris, the young man who had given him a lodging at Grafton.

He was moved by the sight of the young man, and he found that he could be touched more deeply by discovering that there were some in the world who did not hate him than by anything else. He realized that, apart from that little family which he kept shut away from his public life and of whom during the last busy years he had seen very little, he had tender thoughts for no one and had used all who came within his orbit in the manner in which they could serve him best. Therefore a sign of friendship from any of these people seemed a marvellous thing.

Thus with Norris. But it was more than his friendship that Norris had to offer on this day.

“Your Eminence,” he said; “I come from the King. He sent you this as a token of the friendship which he still feels towards you in memory of the past.”

Norris was holding out a ring which Wolsey had seen many times on the King’s finger, and when he recognized it the tears began to fall down the Cardinal’s cheeks. There had been some true friendship between them then. He had been more than a wily minister to his King.

If I could but reach him, thought Wolsey. Oh Lord, give me one half hour alone with him and I will make him listen to me and share my opinions. There was never ill-feeling between us that was not engendered by that black night-crow. Give me a chance to talk to him…

But it was too late. Or was it? Here was the ring…the token of friendship.

He must show his gratitude to this young man, so he dismounted and embraced Norris; then he knelt in the mud to give thanks to God because his King had sent him a token of friendship. He could not remove his hat easily because the ribbon was too tightly tied, so he tore the ribbon and knelt bareheaded while Norris looked on embarrassed, and the crowds watched in bewilderment.

The Cardinal had no thought for them. Henry had sent him a token, and with the token—hope.

He gave Norris an amulet—a gold cross and chain—and, wondering what gift he could send to the King which would convey the depth of his gratitude, he saw his Fool standing by and he called to him.

“Go with Sir Henry Norris to the King,” he said, “and serve him as you have served me.”

The Fool looked at him with mournful eyes and shook his head.

“What means this?” asked Wolsey. “It is better to serve a King than a Cardinal; did you not know that, Fool?”

He was expecting some merry retort, but none came. Instead the man said: “I serve none but my master.”

And as he stood there, his satin robes spattered with the mud of the streets, the ring warm on his finger, the Cardinal was once more astonished to find that he who had cared for nothing but ambition had yet found one or two who would serve him for love.

“You are indeed a fool,” he said.

“The Cardinal’s Fool, not the King’s Fool,” was the answer.

Wolsey signed to him to go, but the Fool knelt and clung to the red satin robes until it was necessary to call six yeomen to drag him protesting away.

The strangeness of that street scene, thought Wolsey, as he rode on to Esher, will remain with me for as long as I live.

IN THE MANOR HOUSE at Esher there were neither beds, cups, cooking utensils nor sheets.

Wolsey entered the hall and stared about him in dismay at the emptiness. His servants gathered round him wonderingly. Thomas Cromwell moved towards an embrasure and looked out of the window, his eyes alert, his traplike mouth tight. What now? he was asking himself. Need the end of Thomas Wolsey be the end of Thomas Cromwell?

The Cardinal asked that all his servants should be brought into the hall, and there he addressed them.

“As you see, we have come to a house which is empty of food and furniture. We must bestir ourselves and borrow for the needs of myself and one or two servants. For the rest of you, I advise you to return to your homes. It may well be that in three or four weeks I shall have cleared myself of the charges which are being brought against me; then I shall return to power and call you back to me. Now you must go for, as you see, you cannot stay here.”

Across that room the eyes of Cromwell met those of Wolsey.

Cromwell took five pounds in gold from his purse and said: “There are many among us who owe what they have to the Cardinal. There was a time when great blessings flowed from him. Now we see him stripped of his possessions, his home this manor in which there is nowhere to lay his head. It is my hope that many here will follow my example and add to this sum, so that some comfort may be bought for His Eminence during the time which may elapse before he returns to favor.”

And before the Cardinal’s astonished eyes certain members of his household came forward and laid what sums of money they could afford beside that set down by Cromwell.

Then his servants busied themselves and went out to borrow beds and cooking utensils from neighboring houses; and there was activity in the manor of Esher.

So, until a call came for him to go elsewhere, he would live there surrounded only by those lower servants who were necessary to look after his physical comforts.

The others—the ambitious men—rode away from Esher; and among them was Thomas Cromwell, who had made up his mind to try his fortune in the King’s Court.

THERE WAS TIME, in the weeks which followed, to review his life, to reproach himself with having strayed far from the road of self-denial, to do penance because his ambition had destroyed him first spiritually and now physically.

He was a sick man. He scarcely slept, and when he did he was constantly awakened by nightmares. During his stay at Esher, in much discomfort, he had suffered from dropsy. The house was damp as well as ill-furnished, and he had appealed to the King to allow him to move nearer to London where the air, suiting him better, might help him to throw off his malaise. Henry was still kind to him, though refusing all requests to receive him in audience. Was there some softness in the King’s nature which told him that once he and his ex-chancellor were in each other’s company all would be forgotten but the friendship they had once had for each other? Was that why the King so stubbornly refused that much-desired interview?

Well, he was alone, shorn of his power; no longer did men come to him seeking favors. But the King had allowed him to move to the lodge in Richmond Park, had sent him another ring with his portrait and had demanded that Anne Boleyn also send him a token of her esteem. An empty gift from the Lady, but showing that even she dared not disdain the Cardinal too harshly in the King’s presence. Henry had also sent Dr. Butts, with orders that his good physician’s commands were to be obeyed.

But Wolsey had not been allowed to stay in Richmond. Norfolk and Suffolk saw to that. Wolsey smiled wryly to hear how disturbed those two were, and how they had put their ducal heads together to plan how to keep him and the King apart. And so he had returned to his house at Southwell for the summer months and attempted to live there in some state. But Norfolk would not leave him in peace and insisted that he go to York.

How painfully he travelled, a sad and lonely exile! Yet he was enjoying a hitherto unknown popularity with the people, and many came to him to ask his blessing.

And so he came to Cawood which was but twelve miles from the city of York, his destination. There he stayed awhile, confirming and blessing people who asked this service of him, in his obscurity living like a man of the Church, as in the role of statesman he had never done before.

Yet always he waited for a word from the King, a sign that Henry was ready to welcome him back. He was a sick man, and there was but one elixir which could restore him to health; it was what he had fought for and won, and now knew he could never live happily without: The King’s favor.

HENRY MISSED HIS WOLSEY.

Often he would shout at those who served him: “It was never thus in the Cardinal’s day.”

His new Chancellor was Thomas More, a man for whom he had a deep affection; but More was no Wolsey. He never considered his own comforts nor those of his King. More, who was a lawyer, was a thousand times more a churchman than the Cardinal had ever been, but saintly men made uneasy companions and More had taken office only on condition that he was not asked to act in the matter of the divorce. Henry was aware that Thomas More was one of those who believed him to be truly married to Katharine. It was small wonder that he yearned for his accommodating Wolsey.

But his enemies were pleading for the Cardinal’s blood. It did not please them that he should merely be sent into exile. They wanted to see him lay his head on the block.

There was Anne who would not rest until Wolsey was dead. She was scornful, her black eyes flashing. How often had she cried: “If my father or my lords Norfolk and Suffolk had done half what he has done they would have lost their heads.”

Henry wanted to explain to Anne: We were more than King and statesman. We were friends. I have sent him from me. Let that suffice.

There was Norfolk forever whispering in his ear. When the King was a little anxious about an ulcer on his leg, which refused to heal, it was Norfolk who cried:

“Your Grace, the Cardinal suffered from the great pox. Is it to be wondered at? Your Grace knows the life he led. Yet knowing that the pox was with him he came to Your Grace, blowing upon your noble person with his perilous breath.”

“Nay,” said the King. “This ulcer of mine has naught to do with Wolsey.”

“And, Sire, did you know that he spoke often of ‘The King and I’ as though there was no difference in your rank?”

“We were friends,” said Henry with a smile, “and when I was a young man and given to pleasure, he taught me much.”

“Did Your Grace know that he had as mistress the daughter of a certain Lark, and by her had two children…a son and daughter?”

“A son,” said the King wistfully. “So even Wolsey had a son.”

“I heard that he married the woman off to give her and her children a name. The boy received great benefits.”

The King nodded. He was not to be shocked or moved to anger against his minister.

But there came a day when news was brought to him by both Norfolk and Suffolk.

“Your Grace, the Cardinal’s Italian physician, Dr. Augustine Agostini, has made an important statement.”

“What statement is this?”

“He tells us that the Cardinal suggested to the Pope that he should command you to put aside the Lady Anne and return to the Lady Katharine and, if you failed to do this, to excommunicate you.”

Henry’s face grew purple with anger.

“Then he is indeed guilty,” he said. “He has indeed incurred a Præmunire.”

“Worse still, Your Grace. He deserves the traitor’s death, for what he has done could be called high treason.”

The King nodded. He was distressed; but before he had time to allow his feelings to soften, the warrant for the Cardinal’s arrest was put before him and signed.

Norfolk and Suffolk were delighted. No more need they fear the anger of the Cardinal. His days were numbered.

IN THE CARDINAL’S LODGINGS at Cawood there was peace. Wolsey sat at supper. He felt comforted, contemplating that soon he would arrive in York and there, he promised himself, he would endeavor to spend his last months—he was sure it would not be more—in pious living.

As he supped he became aware of a commotion in the house, and then of footsteps on the stairs, and when the door was thrown open, to his astonishment he saw a man who had once been in his service: young Northumberland. He rose somewhat hastily from the table and went forward to embrace the young man who, he believed, had come on a visit of friendship. In those first seconds he forgot that this was the young man whom once, in the days of his power, he had sternly berated for contemplating marriage with Anne Boleyn.

“My friend,” he cried, “it gives me great pleasure to see you here…”

But as he approached, Northumberland drew himself up and did not take the Cardinal’s outstretched hands.

He looked down at the old man and said in a voice so soft that it could scarcely be heard: “My lord Cardinal, I come to arrest you on a charge of high treason.”

“My dear boy…,” began Wolsey.

But Northumberland’s face was expressionless; he looked down on Wolsey, without emotion, without pity.

And as he stood there, the Cardinal saw others come into the room, and he knew that what he had dreaded for so long was about to happen.

THE PAINFUL JOURNEY BACK to London began.

There was time to brood, and he thought of Anne’s arranging that Northumberland should be sent to arrest their enemy. Poor, pallid Northumberland, doubtless he would not have been willing, for he had ever lacked Anne’s spirit. It would have been an ill match. She should have thanked the Cardinal for breaking it. But how like her, to send Northumberland, she, who resembled himself, and never forgot a slight, and demanded payment in full—with interest.

So, because of her, he was riding back to London, and his constant prayer now was that he would never reach that city. In his dreams he was passing along the dark river and through the traitor’s gate; he was placing his head on the block. Was that to be the end of the journey?

There were many halting places as he could not travel far at one time. His dropsy had grown worse, and he suffered from dysentery and mental discomfort. He was an old, tired man, and he longed to rest his weary limbs; how could he travel quickly towards a cold bed in a dismal cell, there to live a few weeks under the shadow of the axe?

So far have I risen, he mused, that there is a long way to fall.

When he arrived at Sheffield Park the Earl of Shrewsbury welcomed him as though he were still the chief minister. He rested there awhile, for he was exhausted and it was physically impossible to ride on.

It was at Sheffield that messengers came from the King, and to his horror Wolsey saw that at the head of them was Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower. This could mean only one thing: Kingston had come himself to take him straight to the fortress; and in spite of Kingston’s assurances that Henry still thought of the Cardinal as his friend, Wolsey was seized with violent illness, and all those about him declared that from that moment he lost his desire to live and began to yearn for death.

In the company of Kingston he travelled down to Leicester, blessing the people as he went. How differently they felt about him now. They no longer called him “butcher’s cur” because they were no longer envious of him. They pitied him. They had learned of the pious life he had led in exile, and they regarded him as the holy man his garments proclaimed him.

The party drew up at the Abbey; it was dusk and servants with torches hurried out to welcome them. The Abbot, knowing who his guest was, came forward to salute the Cardinal and receive his blessing; but as Wolsey tried to dismount, his limbs gave way and he collapsed at the Abbot’s feet.

“Your Eminence,” cried the Abbot, trying to raise him, “welcome to Leicester. Your servants rejoice to have you with us for as long as you can rest here.”

With the help of the Abbot the Cardinal rose to his feet; he was trembling with fatigue and sickness.

“Father Abbot,” he said, “methinks I shall stay with you forever, for hither I have come to lay my bones among you.”

Alarmed, the Abbot gave orders that the Cardinal should be helped to his room. His usher, George Cavendish, was at his side; indeed, he had been with him through his triumphs and his trials, and nothing but death could part them.

“Stay near me, George,” murmured the Cardinal. “You know as I do, that now it will not be long.”

Cavendish discovered that he was weeping silently but the Cardinal was too exhausted to notice his tears.

For a day and a night he lay in his room, unable to move, unaware of time. He slept awhile and awoke hungry and asked for food, which was brought to him.

He partook of the food almost ravenously and then paused to ask Cavendish what it was he ate.

“’Tis a cullis of chicken, my lord, which has been made especially for you in order to nourish you.”

“And you say we have been here a day and a night; then this will be St. Andrew’s Eve.”

“’Tis so, Your Eminence.”

“A fast day…and you give me chicken to eat!”

“Your waning strength needs it, Eminence.”

“Take it away,” said Wolsey. “I will eat no more.”

“Your Eminence needs to regain his strength.”

“Why George? That I may be well enough to travel to the block?”

“Your Eminence…,” began Cavendish in a faltering voice.

“You should not distress yourself, George, for I feel death near, and death coming now is merciful to me. Go now. I believe my time is short and I would see my confessor.”

He made his confession; and afterwards he lay still like a man who is waiting patiently though with longing.

Kingston came to his bedside and Wolsey smiled at him quizzically, remembering how the sight of the man had filled him with fear before.

“Your Eminence will recover,” said Kingston.

“No, my lord. For what purpose should I recover?”

“You are afraid that I come to take you to the Tower. You should cast aside that fear, because you will not recover while it is with you.”

“I would rather die in Leicester Abbey, Kingston, than on Tower Hill.”

“You should cast aside this fear,” repeated Kingston.

“Nay, Master Kingston, you do not deceive me with fair words. I see the matter against me, how it is framed.”

There was silence in the room; then Wolsey spoke quietly and firmly, and Kingston was not sure that he addressed himself to him.

“If I had served God as diligently as I have done the King, He would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”

He closed his eyes, and Kingston rose and left the chamber. At the door he met George Cavendish and shaking his head said: “Your master is in a sorry state.”

“I fear he will not last long, my lord. He is set on death. He thought to die ere this. He said that he would die this morning and he even prophesied the time. He said to me: ‘George, you will lose your master. The time is drawing near when I shall depart this Earth.’ Then he asked what time it was and I told him ‘Eight of the clock.’ ‘Eight of the clock in the morning,’ he said. ‘Nay it cannot be, for I am to die at eight of the clock in the morning.’”

“He rambled doubtless.”

“Doubtless, my lord, but he seemed so certain.”

“Well, eight of the clock passed, and he lives.”

Kingston went on, and Cavendish entered the Cardinal’s chamber to see if he lacked anything. Wolsey was sleeping and seemed at peace.

Cavendish was at his bedside through the night and the next morning—when he died.

As the Cardinal drew his last breath, the faithful usher heard the clock strike eight.

The Last Farewell

THOMAS CROMWELL WAS ON HIS WAY TO AN APPOINTMENT with the King. His eyes were gleaming with excitement; he had proved to himself that it was possible for an astute man to profit by disaster, to make success out of failure, for, incredible as it seemed, out of the decline of Wolsey had come the rise of Thomas Cromwell.

Yet he had remained the friend of Wolsey until the end. He wanted men to know that he was a true friend; and he and the Cardinal had been too closely attached for him to break away when Wolsey was in danger. As Member of Parliament for Taunton he had pleaded Wolsey’s case in the Lower House and so earned the Cardinal’s gratitude and at the same time the admiration even of his enemies.

He was a shrewd and able man. No one could doubt that; and it was said that if he could work so well for one master, why should he not for another. The son of a blacksmith, he must be possessed of outstanding ability to have come so far, a feat which was only outrivalled by that of Wolsey himself.

Shortly after Wolsey’s death Cromwell was made a Privy Councillor, not, naturally, of the same importance as Norfolk or Thomas Boleyn, who was now the Earl of Wiltshire, but a man who had already found his way into that magic circle in which limitless opportunity was offered.

It was not long before Cromwell had attracted the attention of the King. Henry did not like the man personally but the shrewdness, the alert mind, the humble origins, all reminded him of Wolsey, and he was already beginning to regret the loss of the Cardinal and remembered those days when, in any difficulty, he summoned his dear Thomas to his side.

Therefore he was more ready than he might otherwise have been to take notice of Cromwell. Thus came Cromwell’s opportunity—a private interview with the King.

When he was ushered into the presence, the King pondered wistfully: The fellow lacks the polish of Wolsey!

But he remembered that Wolsey had singled out this man and that fact counted in his favor. Cromwell had been a good friend to Wolsey in the days of his decline; so he was capable of loyalty.

The King waved his hand to indicate that Cromwell might dispense with ceremony and come to the point.

“Your Grace, I have long considered this matter of the Divorce…”

Henry was startled. The man was brash. Others spoke in hushed tones of this matter; they broached it only with the utmost tact. Cromwell looked bland, smug almost; as though he were playing a game of cards and held a trump in his hand.

“You are not alone in that,” said Henry with a hint of sarcasm which did not appear to be noticed by Cromwell, whose dark eyes burned with enthusiasm as he leaned forward and gazed intently at the King.

“Your Grace is debarred from success in this matter by the cowardly ways of your advisers. They are afraid of Rome. They are superstitious, Your Grace. They fear the wrath of the Pope.”

“And you do not?”

“Sire, I am a practical man unmoved by symbols. I fear only my King.”

“H’m! Go on, go on,” he urged, slightly mollified.

“It has been a marvel to me that Your Grace’s advisers have not seen what must be done, ere this. Thomas Wolsey was a Cardinal; it was natural that he should have been in awe of Rome. But those men who now advise Your Grace are not Cardinals. Why should they so fear the Pope?”

It was strange for Henry to have questions fired at him. He did not care for the man’s crude manners, but the matter of his discourse had its interests.

“At this time,” went on Cromwell, “it would seem that England has two heads—a King and a Pope. Furthermore, since the Pope denies the King that which he desires, it appears that the Pope holds more power in England than the King.”

Henry was beginning to frown, but Cromwell went on quickly: “As a loyal subject of the King this pleases me not at all.”

“The power of Kings is temporal,” murmured Henry.

“I would wish to see my King holding supreme power, temporal and spiritual.”

Henry was startled, but Cromwell continued blithely: “I cannot see why our King should not dispense with the Church of Rome. Why should not the Church of England stand alone with the King as its Supreme Head? Would it be necessary then for the King to plead in Rome for what he needs?”

Henry was aghast. He had often said that he would declare the Pope a heretic, that if the Pope would not grant him a divorce he would find some other means of getting it; but this man was proposing a more daring step than he had ever taken. He was suggesting that the Church should sever its connections with Rome; that the King, not the Pope, should be Supreme Head of the Church.

The King listened and his eyes burned as fiercely as those of Cromwell.

“In a few years,” Cromwell told him, “I could make Your Grace the richest and most powerful King in Christendom…but not while you remain a vassal of the Pope.”

It was astounding. It meant more than the Divorce. The King was shaken. There was so much to consider. If only Wolsey were here…but Wolsey would never work for the severance of England from Rome. Wolsey had been a Cardinal, his eyes constantly on the Papal Crown; he had even pleaded guilty to attempting to set up Papal jurisdiction in England. New times needed new ideas. Wolsey’s day was gone and a new era was beginning.

When Henry at length dismissed Cromwell he was telling himself that Cromwell, like Cranmer, had the right sow by the ear.

KATHARINE AT RICHMOND was unaware of the great schemes which were absorbing the King and his new ministers. Mary was with her, and she was determined to enjoy the hours she spent with her daughter. Mary was now fifteen years old, an age when many girls were married; but the question of Mary’s marriage had been shelved; how could it be otherwise when there was so much controversy about her birth?

During these days Katharine seemed possessed of a feverish desire to make the most of each hour they spent together; each day when she arose she would wonder whether some command would be given and her daughter taken from her. She knew that Henry was as devoted to Anne as ever; that they had taken over York Place and, like a newly married pair, were exulting in all the treasures they found there.

The palace had ceased to be known as York Place, which had been its name as the town residence of the Archbishops of York; it was now the King’s palace and, because of the reconstructions which had been made in white stone, it was called White Hall.

Now Wolsey had gone, Katharine felt that she was rid of her greatest enemy. She could tell herself that in good time the Pope would give the only possible verdict, and when Henry realized that their marriage was accepted as valid, he must, for the sake of reason and his good name, accept her as his wife. So she allowed herself to be lulled into a certain peace which Mary’s presence made it possible for her to enjoy.

Reginald Pole was in England and it was delightful when he came to visit them, which he did very frequently. He was their friend and staunch supporter. One day, mused Katharine, why should he not be consort of the Queen? What a brilliant adviser Mary would have! What a tender, gentle husband!

“That is what I want for her,” the Queen told her friend, Maria de Salinas, who, now that she was a widow, had come back into the Queen’s service. “A tender, gentle husband, that she may never be submitted to the trials which I have had to bear.”

Katharine and Mary were sitting together over the Latin exercise when a page entered the apartment to tell them that Reginald was without and begging an audience.

Mary clasped her hands together in delight, and Katharine could not reprove her. Poor child, let her not attempt to curb her pleasure by hiding it. Katharine said with a smile: “You may bring him to us.”

Reginald came in and the three of them were alone together. Mary took both his hands when he had bowed first to the Queen and then to herself.

“Reginald, it seems so long since we saw you.”

He smiled at her youthful exuberance. “It is five days, Your Highness.”

“That,” said Mary, “is a very long time for friends to be apart.”

“We have so few friends now,” Katharine quickly added.

“You have more than you know,” Reginald replied seriously. “Many of the people are your friends.”

“They greet us warmly when we go among them,” Mary agreed. “But we have few friends at Court whom we can trust. I believe they are afraid of…” Mary’s lips tightened and she looked suddenly old, “…of…that woman,” she finished.

Katharine changed the subject. “Reginald, something has happened, has it not?”

“Your Grace has a penetrating eye.”

“I can see it in your expression. You look…perplexed.”

Reginald took a document from the pocket of his doublet and handed it to the Queen. While she studied it he turned to Mary who laid her hand on his arm. “Reginald,” she said, almost imploringly, “you are not going away?”

“I do not know,” he said. “So much depends on the King.”

“Please do not go away.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “If I followed my own will I would never go away.”

“Nor if you followed mine,” said Mary.

Katharine lowered the document and looked from one to the other. The sight of them together frightened her while yet it pleased her. If only it could be, she thought; yet how can it?

“So the King has offered you the archbishopric of York or Winchester,” she said.

Mary caught her breath in dismay. If he became an Archbishop he would take Holy Orders and marriage would be outside his power. Mary loved him with all the force of her serious young nature. She had dreamed that they would go away from Court, quietly with her mother to where they might forget such hateful matters as divorce, such hateful words as bastard, where they would never even think of the Lady who hated them so much and was determined to keep them apart. In her youthful innocence she dreamed of the three of them leaving Court in secret, going out of the country to Padua or some such place which Reginald knew well.

“These offices became vacant on the death of the Cardinal,” Reginald explained, “and someone is needed to fill them.”

“It is a great honor,” the Queen said almost listlessly.

“It is one, I have told him, that I cannot accept.”

The relief in the apartment was great. Mary laughed aloud and took Reginald’s hand. “I am glad,” she cried. “I could not bear to think of your stepping into the Cardinal’s shoes.”

“Nor I,” he said. “But that is not all. In my refusal of this offer I implored the King not to be deluded by his ministers and his passion for a wanton woman. I am summoned to his presence in White Hall.”

Mary was horrified; although her father had shown her affection at times, she had never conquered her fear of him. Katharine was equally afraid. She knew the climate of the King’s temper. He was fond of Reginald, but when the people of whom he was fond ceased to agree with him he could easily hate them. She thought of the tenderness he had once shown to her; and she believed that his hatred of her was the greater because of it.

“Oh, Reginald,” she murmured, “have a care.”

“You should not have mentioned us,” said Mary imperiously.

“I believed I must say what I felt to be right.”

Katharine turned to her daughter and said gently: “We must all speak and act according to our consciences.”

“I came to see you before I presented myself to the King,” said Reginald. And both understood that he had come because this might, in view of the seriousness of the occasion, be the last time he could visit them. Neither of them spoke, and he went on: “I should go now. I dare not keep the King waiting.”

He kissed their hands, and Mary suddenly forgot the dignity due to her rank as, like a child, she flung her arms about him; and Katharine was too moved to prevent her.

When he had gone, Mary began to weep, silently.

“My darling, control yourself,” murmured the Queen, putting an arm about her.

But Mary merely shook her head. “What cruel times we live in,” she whispered. “What cruel and perilous times!”

WHEN REGINALD LEFT the Queen and the Princess he took a barge to White Hall. He knew full well that the archbishopric had been offered him as a bribe. He was of royal blood and the friend of the Queen and the Princess; the King was hinting: “Come, work with me, and here is an example of the prizes which shall be yours.”

That was why in refusing the offer he had told the King that he firmly believed in the royal marriage and implored his kinsman not to imperil his soul by attempting to deny it.

The result: A summons to White Hall.

As he entered the palace he thought of the great Cardinal who had once occupied it; and all this splendor had been passed to the King—a mute appeal…“all my possessions in exchange for my life…” What an example of the worth of treasures upon Earth!

Reginald uttered a prayer for the Cardinal’s soul as he made his way to the gallery whither the King had summoned him.

I enter the Palace of White Hall a free man, he thought; how shall I leave it? It was very possible that he would do so with a halberdier on either side of him and thence take barge to the Tower.

Before he reached the gallery he met his elder brother, Lord Montague, who, having heard of the summons, was waiting for him.

As soon as Montague saw Reginald, he drew him into an anteroom and cried: “You are a fool. Do you want us all to lose our heads?”

“News travels fast,” Reginald replied. “So you know I have refused York and Winchester.”

“And have sought to teach the King his business at the same time.”

“The archbishoprics were offered as a bribe; it was necessary to explain why I could not take either of them.”

“It was enough to refuse and thereby offend the King; but to add criticism of his conduct…are you mad, brother?”

“I do not think so,” answered Reginald, “unless it be madness to speak one’s mind.”

“That could be a very good definition of mental disorder,” said Montague; and he turned away from his brother, who went on to the gallery.

Henry was expecting him and he was not kept waiting long. The King stood, massive in his jewelled garments, and for a few seconds while Reginald bowed he glared at him through half-closed eyes.

“So, sir,” said Henry at length, “you think so little of my gifts that you haughtily refuse them!”

“Not haughtily, Your Grace.”

“Do not dare contradict me. How dare you tell me what I should do! Is the King to take orders?”

“No, Sire, but perhaps advice.”

“You young coxcomb, so you would presume to advise me!”

“Sire, I would plead with you on behalf of the Queen and the Princess Mary.”

“You would be wise to keep your mouth shut.”

“Nay, Your Grace, I hold that a wise man is one who speaks out of his love for the truth and not out of expediency.”

Henry came closer to him, and his scarlet glowing cheeks were close to Reginald’s pale ones.

“Is it wise then to gamble with your head?”

“Yes, Sire, for the sake of truth.”

“The sake of truth! You dare to come to my presence in the manner of a father confessor…you whom I could send to the block merely by signing my name?”

“I come not as a father confessor, Your Grace, but as a humble kinsman of you and the Princess Mary.”

“Ha,” interrupted Henry, “so you prate of your royal blood. Take care that you do not think too highly of it. Mayhap you remember what befell a certain Duke of Buckingham?”

The sight of Reginald’s calm face incensed the King; this was largely because here was another of those men, like Fisher and More, whose approval meant so much to him. They were men of integrity and he needed their approval and support. They maddened him when they would not give it.

“I remember well, Sire,” Reginald answered.

“And the memory does not help you to change your views?”

“No, Your Grace.”

The King’s mood altered suddenly. “Now listen. I am asking you to come down from the seat of judgment. I am assured by learned men that I am not truly married to the Lady Katharine. I need the help of men such as you. You could write a treatise for me; you could explain the need of my severance from the Lady Katharine and my remarriage. I command you to do this. You are a man whom people respect; your word would carry much weight.” He laid a hand on Reginald’s shoulder affectionately. “Come now, Reginald, my dear cousin. Do this for love of me.”

“Sire, on any other matter I would serve you with all my heart, but…”

“But!” Henry shrieked, pushing Reginald from him. “It would seem you forget to whom you speak.”

“I forget not,” answered Reginald. “But I crave Your Grace to excuse me in this matter.”

Henry’s hand flew to his dagger. “Do you not know that it is high treason to disobey the King?”

Reginald was silent.

“Do you?” cried the King. “By God, if you do not I shall find means to teach you.” He called for a page, and when the young man appeared he shouted: “Send Lord Montague to me without delay.”

The page departed and in a few moments Reginald’s brother came hurrying into the gallery.

Henry shook his fist at Montague. “By God,” he cried, “I’ll have every member of your family clapped into the Tower. I’ll brook no more insolence from you.”

Montague stammered: “Your Grace, pray tell me what any member of my family has done to displease you.”

Henry pointed at Reginald. “This brother of yours should be kept in better order. He dares to come here and meddle in my affairs. I’d have you know, Montague, that I have a way with meddlers.”

“Yes, Your Grace; on behalf of my family I offer my deepest regrets.…”

“Take him away,” shouted Henry, “before I lose my patience, before I order him to be sent to the Tower.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

They bowed and left the irate Henry glaring after them, thinking: By God, ’twere better if Master Reginald had never come back to England.

When they were alone Montague turned indignantly to his brother.

“You…fool!” he cried.

“I will say to you, brother, what I have said to the King. Is it foolish to adhere to what one believes to be the truth?”

“Indeed you are a fool, having been at Court, to ask such a question. A man is a fool who attempts to wrestle with kings. I thought he would commit you to the Tower without delay.”

“I believe he was contemplating the effect it would have on certain of his subjects if he did.”

“You are calm enough. Do you seek a martyr’s crown?”

“I hope never to perjure my soul for the sake of my head,” said Reginald quietly.

He left his brother, who was filled with apprehension. Reginald was thinking of the King’s suggestion that he should write a treatise. He would; but it would not put forward the reasons why the King should separate from Katharine; instead it would show why the marriage was a true one.

WHEN HE WAS LEFT alone Henry’s anger abated a little. He began to think of the earnest young man whom he had threatened. He liked Reginald. He had always admired him; he knew him to be learned and pious; and now he had proved himself to be no coward.

Why could such men not see the truth about this marriage? Why did all the men he most respected set themselves against him?

He had tried to win the approval of Chancellor More but he could not do so. More was a clever lawyer and knew how to back out of any discourse that grew uncomfortable for him. What Henry most wanted was for Thomas More to work with him in all matters, and especially that of the divorce. He wanted Reginald Pole to do the same.

Brooding on these matters he sent once more for Reginald and his brother Montague, and when they stood before him he smiled at them in a friendly fashion.

“It is not meet,” he said, “for kinsmen to quarrel.”

“Sire, you are indeed gracious,” said Montague.

Reginald did not speak, and Henry went on: “I am overwrought. These are troublous times. It may be that I appeared more angry towards you two than I felt.”

“We rejoice to hear it,” said Montague, and Reginald echoed those words.

“Come,” said Henry, stepping between them and slipping an arm through one of each, “we are kinsmen and friends. Reginald here has his own ideas as to what is right and what is wrong. I will not say that he is alone in this, although many learned men would not agree with him—nor can I, much as I should long to. Remember this: I have to answer to my conscience. Oh, I respect those who have views and do not hide them and are not afraid to say ‘This I think,’ or ‘With that I disagree.’ I take all that has been said in good part.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Reginald with real emotion in his voice.

Henry’s tones softened and he turned almost pleadingly to Reginald. “Why, if you could bring yourself to approve of my divorce, no one would be dearer to me than you.”

Montague was looking appealingly at his brother; but Reginald remained silent.

Henry released their arms and patted both brothers in a gesture of dismissal.

“Forget it not,” he said.

DURING THE WARM JUNE weather the Court rode from Greenwich to Windsor. The Queen was in the party with her daughter and Maria de Salinas; and the King rode gaily with the Lady Anne. In the party Cranmer and Cromwell also rode.

There was a new confidence about the Lady, as there was about the King. All noticed this except the Queen and her daughter, for the former believed firmly that nothing could be settled without the sanction of the Pope, and the latter fitted her mood to that of her mother.

There were grave rumors everywhere and the whole Court was expecting that the King’s patience would not last much longer.

Henry brooded as he rode. Why should I endure this continual frustration? he asked himself. He looked at the glowing face of Anne beside him and he longed to be able to soothe his troublesome conscience by telling the world that she was not his mistress but his wife.

But events were moving fast. Cranmer had now obtained the opinions of the universities of Europe regarding the divorce, and had discovered several who believed it was expedient. Henry had made up his mind that when they reached Windsor he would ask the Queen to allow the matter to be judged in an English court.

Once that took place he would have the desired result in a matter of days. Who in England would dare to go against him? He could count the dissenters on the fingers of one hand. More, Fisher, Reginald Pole. There were others, more obscure men whom he did not consider to be of much importance. It was different in the case of those three. The public looked to them for guidance.

A plague on them! he thought. Why must they put obstacles in my path?

As they came to Windsor, the King looked with pleasure at the forest. There would be good hunting, and there was little he liked better than a day in the open; then to return to good feasting and masking, and later to retire between the sheets with the right bedfellow.

She had succumbed at last and he wondered what he would do were she to become pregnant. Then, by God, he told himself, I would make them act.

Oddly enough she did not. But he would not spoil his pleasure by brooding on that. When they could be free in their love, when she could dispense with her fretful questions as to how much longer he would allow the delay; when he could take her with a good conscience…ah, then their union would be blessed with healthy boys.

They entered the castle, and the Queen retired with her little court and the King retired with his.

It would seem there are two queens at this Court, grumbled some of the courtiers; but most of them knew to which Court they should attach themselves…if they sought advancement. The Lady’s bright black eyes missed little, and any attention to the Queen or the Princess Mary was noted.

The Queen in her apartments was attended by her few ladies. She was not so much afraid of spies as she had been in the days of Wolsey; and she was very happy to have her daughter and Maria with her.

She prayed on her arrival and in her prayers, as always, asked that the King might be turned from his sad and evil scheme and come back to her.

Mary was in her own apartment, her women preparing her for the banquet, when Henry came to see the Queen. Her women went scuttling away at a look from him, and Katharine cried: “Oh, Henry, how pleased I am that you should come to see me. It is a rare honor.”

“I would come often enough if I could but satisfy myself that you were in truth my wife.”

“Henry, I do not think that deep within your heart you believe that I am not.”

It was wrong, of course. She should not say such things; but there were occasions when the bitterness was too much to be hidden.

He ignored her words as though he had not heard them. He said: “Dr. Cranmer has procured the opinions of the universities. There are many who believe we should be formally divorced.”

“Ah, Henry, you have many friends. I alas have few.”

“I think you too have friends,” he said. “Now I am going to ask you to give me something.”

“There is little I would deny you.”

“I ask only sweet reasonableness.”

“I try always to be reasonable.”

“Then I am sure you will agree that this matter has continued too long, and it is time it were brought to an end. I want to refer it to the arbitration of four English prelates and four nobles.”

Her expression was stony. “No,” she said.

“Katharine, you call this reasonableness?”

“I do. A court in this country is unnecessary. It is a waste of time, for any court you set up would decide in your favor.”

“This is nonsense.”

“Henry, have done with hypocrisy. You know it to be truth. May God grant you a quiet conscience.”

“You talk to me of a quiet conscience when you know it to be perpetually disturbed by this matter.”

“Let it speak for itself, Henry. Do not provoke it with your desire, but let it say what it knows to be truth. Abide by it. Come back to me and then I think your conscience need never trouble you again on this matter.”

“Never!” cried the King.

She answered his obstinacy with her own.

“Never will I abide by any decision except that of Rome.”

The King gave her a murderous glance before he strode out of her apartment.

HENRY CALLED NORFOLK and Suffolk to him and when they were alone said: “I fear the Queen hates me.”

The Dukes looked alert. They had heard this statement from the King’s lips before this, and they knew that it was meant to be the prelude to some action which he was willing himself to take.

Henry went on: “I believe she delights in my discomfiture, that she seeks to prolong it; that, knowing herself not to be my wife, she is determined to proclaim to the world that she is. I believe that she is seeking to lure my subjects from me.”

“That,” said Suffolk, “would amount to treason.”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, I must agree,” replied Henry. “Eustache Chapuys is nothing but a spy. I believe that it is the Emperor’s desire to bring about a civil war in England, to split the country and to set the Queen and the Princess Mary at the head of the rebels.”

“This is indeed treason,” declared Norfolk.

“I have seen some of the letters which Chapuys has written to his master. In them he states that the English people are against a divorce and it would not surprise him if they rose in protest. They have full sympathy for the Queen, he writes significantly. I believe that the Spanish ambassador, with the help of the Queen, is ready to raise an insurrection.”

“Your Grace, should he not be arrested?” asked Norfolk.

Henry raised a hand. “This is a delicate matter. Although Katharine is no true wife to me, for many years I believed her to be so.”

Henry was thinking of the discontent among the people who, when Katharine’s barge sailed up or down river, lined the banks to cheer her. To put Katharine under arrest would be to turn their sympathy into fury and the desire to protect their Queen. Moreover, he did not believe for one moment that Katharine would ever put herself at the head of an insurrection. How lacking in subtlety were these two! Wolsey would have grasped his meaning immediately.

“Nay,” went on Henry, “she is no wife to me, but I confess to a certain tenderness. I would be lenient with her.”

“But Your Grace will not continue to be in her company,” said Norfolk, who was a little sharper than Suffolk and had at last begun to follow the King’s train of thought.

“I fear the time has come when we must part…finally,” Henry replied.

“I am in full agreement,” Suffolk put in. “Your Grace should separate yourself from the Lady Katharine both at bed and board. It would not be safe for you to do otherwise.”

A look of sadness came into the King’s face. “After so many years…,” he murmured.

But the Dukes were now aware of the part they were expected to play, and Suffolk said sternly: “Your Grace would do well not to think of a woman with whom you have for so long been living in sin.”

Henry laid a hand on his brother-in-law’s arm. “You do well to remind me.”

His eyes were vindictive suddenly because he was remembering her obstinacy and how quickly this case could have been settled but for that. He went on: “’Tis my belief that she sets my daughter Mary against me.”

Suffolk piped up dutifully: “Your Grace, should not the Princess Mary be taken from her?”

“That might be wise,” answered the King, looking at Norfolk.

The Duke was well aware of what was expected of him. He spoke vehemently. “Above all, the Princess Mary should be removed from the Lady Katharine. That I consider to be of the greatest importance.”

“Thank you, my friends,” said the King. “You echo the thoughts which my tenderness would not let me utter. But since this is your advice, and I know it to be based on sound good sense, I will accept your decision.”

MARY CAME INTO the Queen’s apartments, her face pale, her eyes frightened.

“Mother,” she cried, even before Katharine had had time to sign to the women to leave them, “I am to go away from you.”

Katharine took her daughter’s hands and found that they were trembling. “Be calm, my precious.”

“I am to go to Richmond. Those are my father’s orders.”

“Well, you will go to Richmond and soon I shall come to you there.”

“Suppose you cannot?”

“But why…why?”

“I do not know…except that it is a feeling I have. I was told to prepare to leave at once. Why, Mother? What harm am I doing them here? Do I prevent his…his…being with that odious woman?”

“Hush, my love. Go to Richmond. I will find means of coming to you there.”

Mary had begun to shiver. “Mother, I am afraid. Reginald is writing his treatise and it is all for us. I tremble for Reginald. I do not believe he understands what this could mean.”

“He understands, my darling.”

“Then he does not seem to care.”

“Reginald is a good man, a brave man. He could not be so if he trimmed his opinions to the prevailing wind. Do not fear for him, my child; for the only thing we should fear in life is our own wrongdoing. Go to Richmond, as your father commands. Think of me, pray for me…as I shall for you. You will be in my thoughts every minute of the day, and rest assured that as soon as I am able I shall be at your side.”

“But Mother, what harm are we doing him…by being together? Does he not know that this is the only joy that is left to us?”

“My darling, be brave.”

“There is tension in the Castle. Something is about to happen. Mother, I have a terrible fear that, if I leave you now, I shall never see you again.”

“You are overwrought. This is merely another parting.”

“Why…why…should there be these partings? What harm are we doing?”

“It is the second time you have spoken of harm. No one thinks we are doing harm, my love.”

“They do, Mother. I see it in their looks. Our love harms him in some way and he is afraid of it. I cannot leave you. Let us go away together.” Mary drew away from her mother. Her eyes were brilliant with sudden hope and speculation. “I will send for Reginald. I will ask him to take us with him to Italy. There the Pope will give us refuge—or perhaps the Emperor will.”

Katharine laughed gently, and drawing her daughter to her stroked her hair.

“No, my love,” she said. “That would profit us little. We are in your father’s hands, but nothing can harm us if we do our duty. It matters little what becomes of our bodies, as long as our souls are pure. Go to Richmond and remember that there I am with you as I am when we are close like this, for you are never absent from my thoughts.”

“Oh, Mother if I could but rid myself of this fear…”

“Pray, my child. You will find comfort in prayer.”

They embraced and remained together until one of Mary’s women came to say that her party was ready to leave for Richmond, and the King’s orders were that they were to depart at once.

At the door Mary turned to look at her mother, and so doleful was her expression that it was as though she looked for the last time on the beloved face.

HOW SHE MISSED MARY! It was but a few days since she had left, but it seemed longer. She had had no opportunity of appealing to the King as she had not since been in his company alone.

He treated her with cool detachment, and she noticed that never once did he allow his eyes to meet her own; she was aware of the speculative glances of the courtiers; they knew more than she did and they were alert.

One morning she was awakened early by sounds below; she heard the whisper of voices as she lay in her bed, and afterwards the sound of horses’ hoofs. People were arriving at the Castle, she supposed, and because she was weary after a sleepless night, she slept again.

In the early morning when two of her women came to awaken her, they brought her a message from the King, which told her that Henry was leaving Windsor and when he returned he wished her to be gone. Since she was not his wife and had no thought for his comfort he desired never to see her again.

She read the message twice before she grasped the full importance of it. Then she said: “I wish to see the King without delay.”

“Your Grace,” was the answer, “the King left Windsor with a hunting party at dawn. He is now on his way to Woodstock.”

She understood. He had slunk away without telling her he was going; he had not even wanted to say goodbye. But soon he would be returning to Windsor, and when he did so he expected to find her gone. More than that, he had expressly commanded that she should be gone.

“It matters not where I go,” she murmured, “I am still his wife. Nothing will alter that.”

Maria came to her, for the news had reached her as soon as it had the Queen. She understood that Katharine was now forsaken.

“Where does Your Grace wish to go now?” she asked.

“What does it matter where I go?” retorted Katharine; and she wondered with increasing pain whether the King had determined, not only to live apart from her, but also to separate her from their child.

She recovered her dignity. She had some friends even in England; and she was sure that the Pope would give his decision in her favor. Her nephew would support her. The battle was not yet lost.

She said calmly: “We will go to my manor of the Moor in Hertfordshire; there I shall rest awhile and make plans for my future.”

That day they left Windsor, and Katharine knew that she had reached yet another turning point in her life.

Poison at the Bishop’s Table

JOHN FISHER, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER, FACED THE gathering of Bishops.

He was deeply disturbed, he said, because of a certain request with which he could not comply. The King was asking the Church and clergy to accept him as Supreme Head of the Church of England, and he, John Fisher, could not understand how that could be. There was and had always been one Head of the Church, and that was His Holiness the Pope. He did not see how, by making the claim to this title, it could be the King’s.

The Bishops listened with averted eyes. The King had issued what he called this request, yet it was not in truth a request but a command. So many of them who owed their positions to the King, dared not contemplate what might become of them should they not bow to his will.

John Fisher seemed oblivious of his danger. This was an impossible thing, he urged them. They could not, with good consciences, change the law of the Church which had existed through the ages.

Warham, Archbishop of Canterbury, fidgeted uneasily as he listened. That head would be severed from the gaunt body before long, he was sure, if Fisher did not curb his tongue. Oh, that I should have lived so long! he thought. I am too old and tired now to navigate such dangerous waters. What will become of us all?

Alas, for him, as Archbishop of Canterbury, he could not remain silent.

Supreme Head of the Church! he mused. This is a break with Rome. There has never been anything like it in this country’s ecclesiastical history. Nothing will ever be the same again. It is an impossible thing. And yet the King commanded it; and Warham knew well that it would go hard for those, like Fisher, who attempted to oppose it.

Fisher was looking at him now. “And you, my lord Archbishop…?”

Everything that he said would be reported to the King. One word spoken which should have been left unsaid was enough to send a man to the block. I am too old, he thought, too old and tired.

He heard his voice speaking the carefully chosen words. “It is my belief that we might accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church as far as the law of Christ allows…”

Beautifully noncommittal, certain to give offence to none. He was aware of Fisher’s scornful eyes. But all men were not made to be martyrs.

One of the Bishops added that His Grace, fearing that the Supreme Head of the Church was a title which might not be acceptable to some of the clergy, had modestly changed it to: Supreme Head…after God.

Warham felt his lips curved in a smile of cynicism. So Henry was prepared to accept only the domination of God. He was safe enough, for he could expect no opposition to his desires from that direction. His conscience would always stand a firm bulwark between him and God.

Fisher was on his feet again but Warham silenced him.

“We have heard the views of the Bishop of Rochester,” he said, “and now I would ask the assembled company if they are prepared to accept the King as Supreme Head of the Church, as I am…as far as the law of Christ allows.”

There was silence. Heads were downcast in the rows of benches. “Your silence I construe as consent,” said Warham. He did not look at Fisher who must understand that one voice raised against the King’s command was of little matter when so many were in agreement. Fisher should learn wisdom; there were times when silence was salvation.

THE BISHOP OF ROCHESTER lived humbly in his London residence, but his doors were kept open and there was always a meal to be given to any who called on him when there was food on his table.

Perhaps his guests were not so many since the meeting of the Bishops. Those who wished him well deplored his outspokenness; some sought to advise him; but there were few who wished it to be said that they were in agreement with him.

It was a few days after the meeting when his cook, Richard Rouse, returning to the kitchens after shopping in the markets, was met by a stranger who asked for a word with him.

Richard Rouse was flattered, for beneath the disguise of a merchant he recognized a person of the quality. The cook was a man of ambition; he had not been long in the service of the Bishop and he was proud to be employed by a man of such importance; he did not see why he should not rise in his profession; the house of an Archbishop might be his next appointment; and after that—why should he not serve the King?

The stranger took him to a tavern where they sat and drank awhile.

“I have heard that you are an excellent cook,” Rouse was told. “And that your services are not appreciated in that household in which you serve.”

“My master is a good one.”

“Any cook can call a master good who has a poor palate. The Bishop might be eating stinking fish in place of the excellent dishes you put before him. He would know no difference.”

“His thoughts are on other matters,” sighed Rouse.

“That’s a tragedy for a good cook. Such a master would never sing his praises in the right quarters.”

“I fear so.”

“How would you like to work in the royal kitchens?”

There was no need for Rouse to answer, but he did. “It is the ambition of my life.”

“It need not be so far away.”

“Who are you?” Rouse demanded.

“You will discover, if you are a wise man.”

“How can I convince you of my wisdom?”

“By taking this powder and slipping it into the Bishop’s broth.”

Rouse turned pale.

“I thought,” said his companion contemptuously, “that you were an ambitious man.”

“But this powder…”

“It is calculated to improve the flavor of the broth.”

“The Bishop will not notice that the flavor is improved.”

“Others at his table might.”

Rouse was afraid, but he would not look at his fear. He tried to find an explanation of the stranger’s conduct which would be acceptable to him. The man wanted to help him to a place in the King’s kitchens because he believed his talents were wasted on the Bishop of Rochester; therefore he was giving him a new flavoring which would make people marvel at the broth he put before them. Perhaps at the table would be one of the King’s higher servants…That was a very pleasant explanation. The only other was one he had no wish to examine.

He was a man who was always hoping for a great opportunity; he would never forgive himself if, when it came, he was not ready to take it.

THE LORD CHANCELLOR brought grave news to the King.

Henry studied Thomas More with affectionate impatience. Here was a man who might have done so much in molding public opinion, because if it could be said “Sir Thomas More is of the opinion that my marriage is no true marriage,” thousands would say “This matter is beyond me, but if Sir Thomas More says this is so, then it must be so, for he is not only a learned man, but a good man.”

But Thomas was obstinate. His smile was sunny, his manner bland, and his wit always a joy to listen to. But whenever Henry broached the matter of the divorce Thomas would have some answer for him to which he could not take offence and yet showed clearly that Thomas was not prepared to advance his cause.

Now Thomas was grave. “The Bishop of Rochester is grievously ill, Your Grace.”

Henry’s heart leaped exultantly. Fisher had become a nuisance; he always looked as if he were on the point of death. Henry was sentimental enough to remember his old affection for the man, but his death would be a relief. He was another of those obstinate men who did not seem to care how near they approached danger to themselves as long as they clung to their miserable opinions.

“He has been ailing for some time,” the King answered. “He is not strong.”

“Nay, Your Grace, he became ill after partaking of the broth served at his table.”

“What’s this?” cried Henry, the color flaming into his face.

“He was seized with convulsions, Your Grace, and so were others at his table. It would seem that there has been an attempt to poison him.”

“Have his servants been questioned?”

“Your Grace, his cook has been arrested and under torture confesses that a white powder was given him by a stranger with instructions to put it into the Bishop’s broth. He declares he was told it would but improve the flavor.”

Henry did not meet his Chancellor’s eyes.

“Has he confessed on whose instructions he acted?”

“Not yet, Your Grace.”

Henry looked at his Chancellor helplessly. He was thinking of a pair of indignant black eyes, of a lady’s outbursts of anger because of the dilatoriness which she sometimes accused the King of sharing; he thought of her ambitious family.

What if the cook, put to the torture, mentioned names which must not be mentioned?

Yet the Chancellor was looking at him expectantly. He could not take this man into his confidence as he had that other Chancellor.

Oh, Wolsey, he thought, my friend, my counsellor, why did I ever allow them to drive a wedge between us? Rogue you may have been to some extent, but you were my man, and we understood each other; a look, a gesture, and you knew my mind as these men of honor never can.

He said: “Poisoning is the worst of crimes. If this fellow is guilty he must pay the full penalty of his misdeeds. Let him be put to the torture, and if he should disclose names, let those names be written down and shown to none other but me.”

Sir Thomas More bowed his head. There were times when Henry felt that this man understood every little twist and turn of his mind; and that made for great discomfort.

He glanced away. “I will send my best physician to the Bishop,” he said. “Let us hope that his frugal appetite means that he took but little of the poisoned broth.”

The Chancellor’s expression was sorrowful. Fisher was a friend of his—they were two of a kind.

Death is in the air, he thought as he left the King’s presence.

CROWDS WERE GATHERED in Smithfield to watch the death of Richard Rouse. The name of the cook who had longed for fame and fortune was now on every tongue. He would be remembered for years to come because it was due to him that a new law had been made.

Several people who had sat at the Bishop’s table had died; the Bishop himself remained very ill. Poisoning, said the King in great indignation, was one of the most heinous crimes a man could commit. And, perhaps because he would have been so relieved to know the Bishop was dead, he felt it his duty to show the people how much he regretted this attempt on the old man’s life. The severest punishment man could conceive must be inflicted on the poisoner. After some deliberation the new law had come into being. The death penalty for poisoners from henceforth was that they should be hung in chains and lowered into a cauldron of boiling oil, withdrawn and lowered again; this to be continued until death.

And so the crowds assembled in the great square to see the new death penalty put into practice on the cook of the Bishop of Rochester.

Richard Rouse, who had to be carried out to the place of execution, looked very different from the jaunty man who had spoken to a stranger in a tavern such a short time before.

He was crippled from the rack, and his hands, mangled by the thumbscrews, hung limply at his sides.

With dull eyes he looked at the chains and the great cauldron under which the flames crackled.

There was silence as he was hung in the chains and lifted high before he was lowered into the pot of boiling oil. His screams would be remembered for ever by those who heard them. Up again his poor tortured body was lifted and plunged down into the bubbling oil. And suddenly…he was silent. Once again he was lowered into that cauldron, and still no sound came.

People shuddered and turned away. Voices were raised in the crowd. “Richard Rouse put the powder into the broth, but who in truth poisoned those people who had sat at the Bishop’s table?”

It was recalled that the Bishop had been one who had worked zealously for the Queen. Now he was only alive because of his frugal appetite, although even he had come close to death. Who would wish to remove the Bishop? The King? He could send the Bishop to the Tower if he wished, merely by giving an order. But there were others.

A cry went up from Smithfield: “We’ll have no Nan Bullen for our Queen. God bless Katharine, Queen of England!”

Katharine in Exile

IN THE CASTLE OF AMPTHILL KATHARINE TRIED TO RETAIN the dignity of a Queen. Her routine was as it had always been. She spent a great deal of time at prayer and at her needlework, reading and conversing with the women she had brought with her and in particular with Maria, the only one in whom she had complete trust; only to Maria did she refer to her troubles, and to the fact that she was separated from the King.

Each day she waited for some news, for she knew that in the world outside Ampthill events were moving quickly towards a great climax.

She could not believe that Henry would dare disobey the Pope; and she was certain that when Clement gave the verdict in her favor, which he must surely do, Henry would be forced to take her back.

She had one desire to which she clung with all the fervor of her nature; only this thing mattered to her now. She had lost Henry’s affection forever; she was fully aware of that. But Mary was the King’s legitimate daughter, and she was determined that she should not be ousted from the succession, no matter what it cost her mother.

“I will sign nothing,” she told Maria. “I will not give way an inch. They can have me murdered in my bed if they will; but I will never admit that I am not truly married to Henry, for to do that would be to proclaim Mary a bastard.”

The great joy of her life was in the letters she received from Mary. What if the final cruelty were inflicted and that joy denied her! How would she endure her life then?

But so far they both had their letters.

Her faithful Thomas Abell had been taken from her when he had published his book, setting forth his views on the divorce. She had warned him that he risked his life, but he cared nothing for that; and when they had come to take him away, he had gone almost gleefully. It was well that he should, he told her, for many would know that he was in the Tower, and why.

News came to Ampthill. The Pope had at last decided to act, and he summoned Henry to Rome to answer Queen Katharine’s appeal; he must, was the Holy Father’s command, appear in person or send a proxy.

Henry’s answer had been to snap his fingers at the Pope. Who was the Pope? he demanded. What had the Pope to do with England? The English Church had severed itself from Rome. There was one Supreme Head of the Church of England (under God) and that was His Majesty King Henry VIII.

This was momentous. This was telling the world that the rumor, that the Church of England was cutting itself free from Rome, was a fact.

But all this was paled by news of her daughter. Margaret Pole was with Mary still, and for that Katharine was grateful; Reginald had been sent to Italy, and Katharine knew that, much as Margaret loved her son, she was relieved that he was out of England, for it was growing increasingly unsafe to be in England and to disagree with the King.

Margaret wrote: “Her Highness the Princess has been ailing since she parted from Your Grace. It has grieved me deeply to watch her. She has had so little interest in life and her appetite is so poor. Constantly she speaks of Your Grace, and I know that if you could be with her she would be well. She has had to take to her bed…”

The Queen could not bear to think of Mary, sick and lonely, longing for her as she herself longed for Mary.

“What harm can we do by being together?” she demanded of Maria. “How dare he make us suffer so! He has his woman. Does our being together prevent that? Why should he be allowed to make us suffer so, merely that he may appease his conscience by telling himself—and others—that I plot against him with my daughter?”

But there was no comfort for Maria to offer her mistress, and at times Katharine came near to hating her husband.

Then she would throw herself on to her knees and pray.

“Forgive me, oh Lord. Holy Mother, intercede for me. He has been led into temptation. He does not understand how he tortures his wife and daughter. He is young…bent on pursuing pleasure, led away by bad counsellors.…”

But was this true? Was he so young? Who was it who had determined that no one should stand in the way of divorce? Who but Henry himself? Once she had blamed Wolsey, but Wolsey was dead, and this persecution persisted and had indeed intensified.

She sat down to write to him, and wrote as only a mother could write who was crying for her child.

“Have pity on us. My daughter is pining for me, and I for her. Do not continue in this cruelty. Let me go to her.”

She sent the letter to him without delay, and then began the weary waiting for his reply.

But the days passed, the weeks passed, and there was no answer from the King.

STIRRING NEWS came from Court. Sir Thomas More, unable to evade the great issue any longer, had resigned the Chancellorship rather than fall in with the King’s wishes.

Katharine prayed long for Thomas More when she heard that news, prayed for that pleasant family of his who lived so happily in their Chelsea home.

William Warham died; some said that like Wolsey he was fortunate to finish his life in a bed when he was but a few short steps from the scaffold. He was eighty-two years old and in the last weeks of his life had been issued with a writ of præmunire—a small offence but one by which he had shown he had not accepted the King as Supreme Head. Perhaps the old man was forgetful; perhaps he had not understood that it was necessary now to receive the King’s permission in all matters concerning the Church as well as the state. He had behaved according to procedure before the severance from Rome. These were dangerous times and the King was jealous of his new authority.

Fortunate Warham, who could take to his bed and die in peace.

Dr. Cranmer became the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Henry need fear no opposition from him; he was the man who, with Thomas Cromwell, had worked more than any to extricate the King from the tyranny of Rome.

Lord Audley was now Chancellor in place of Sir Thomas More, and gradually the King was ridding himself of the men who might oppose him.

John Fisher had recovered from the poison and was still living, but he was very frail. Katharine prayed for him and often trembled for him.

She heard that the King had honored Anne Boleyn by making her Marchioness of Pembroke and that he planned to take her to France with him as though she were his Queen.

This was humiliating in the extreme because it seemed that François and the French Court were now ready to accept Anne Boleyn as Queen of England.

But all these matters seemed insignificant when the news came from Margaret Pole that Mary had recovered and was almost well again.

“Still grieving for Your Grace, but, I thank God, growing stronger every day.”

“If I could but see her,” sighed the Queen. “I would cease to fret on account of anything else which might happen to me.”

ON A JANUARY DAY in the year 1533 the King rose early. There was a grim purpose about him, and those who lived close to him had noted that during the last months a change had crept over him. The strong sentimental streak in his nature had become subdued and in its place was a new cruelty. He had always flown into sudden rages but these had quickly passed; now they often left him sullen and brooding. All those men whose duty it was to be in contact with him knew they must tread warily.

The little mouth had a strong determination about it on that morning. This was a day to which he had looked forward for six years, and now that it had come, the thought occurred to him that it was less desirable than it had seemed all those years ago. Waiting had not enhanced his emotions; perhaps they had grown stale; perhaps his main thought as he prepared himself for what was about to take place was one of triumph over great odds rather than the climax of years of devotion.

He was going to make his way to an attic in the west turret of White Hall, not so much as a doting bridegroom as a man who has made up his mind to some action; and, even though it seemed less desirable to him than it had previously, he was determined to carry it out simply because it had been denied him and he was eager to show that he was a man who would allow no one to say him nay.

When he was ready he said to one of his gentlemen: “Go and seek my chaplain, Dr. Rowland Lee, and tell him that I wish him to celebrate Mass without delay. Bring him to me here.”

Dr. Rowland Lee, who had hastily dressed himself, came to the King in some surprise, wondering why he had been sent for at such an early hour of the morning.

“Ah,” said the King who had dismissed all but two of his grooms—Norris and Heneage. “I wish you to celebrate Mass in one of the attics. Follow me.”

The little party made their way to the attic and very shortly were joined by two ladies, one of whom was Anne Boleyn, Marchioness of Pembroke, and the other her train bearer, Anne Savage.

Henry turned to Dr. Lee. “Now,” he said, “marry us.”

The doctor was taken aback. “Sire…,” he stammered. “I…could not do this.”

“You could not do it? Why not?”

“I…I dare not, Sire.”

The blue eyes were narrowed; the cruel lines appeared about the mouth. “And if I command you?”

“Sire,” pleaded Dr. Lee, “I know that you went through a ceremony of marriage with Queen Katharine, and although I am aware of your Secret Matter I could not marry you unless there was a dispensation pronouncing your marriage null and void.”

For one second those assembled thought the King would strike his chaplain. Then suddenly his mood changed; he slipped his arm through that of the man, drew him away and whispered: “Perform this ceremony and you shall be rewarded with the See of Lichfield.”

“Your Grace, Your Majesty…I dare not…”

It took a long time, thought the King, for these dunderheads to learn who was the Supreme Head of the Church. He was impatient, and he could see that this fellow was so immersed in the old laws of the Church that he could not cast them aside easily. Yet this ceremony must take place. Anne was with child. What if that were a boy she carried! There could be no more delay. It would be disastrous if Anne’s boy should be declared illegitimate.

He made a decision. “You need have no fear. The Pope has pronounced himself in favor of the divorce and the dispensation is in my keeping.”

Dr. Lee drew a deep sigh of relief.

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon. Your Grace will understand…”

“Enough,” interrupted Henry. “Do your work.”

And in the lonely attic at White Hall, Henry VIII went through a ceremony of marriage with Anne Boleyn, while Norris, Heneage and Anne Savage stood by as witnesses.

THE KING SENT for the newly appointed Archbishop of Canterbury.

Thomas Cranmer, who had come so far since the Boleyns had brought him to the King’s notice, was very eager that his royal benefactor should not regret having raised him so high.

When they were alone Henry explained to his Archbishop what he expected of him. There were many in England who clung to old ideas, and he was going to have every man who held any position of importance sign an oath which would declare his belief in the supremacy of the King. But that was for later. There was this tiresome matter of the divorce.

He knew himself never to have been married to Katharine, and he had been surrounded by rogues and vacillating fools—until now, he hoped.

The matter was urgent. He considered himself already married to Queen Anne, and he was certain that he had God’s blessing because the marriage was already promising fruitfulness. He must have a speedy end to the old matter though, and it was the duty of the new Archbishop of Canterbury to see that this was so.

The Archbishop was nothing if not resourceful. “The first step, Your Grace, is a new law to make it illegal for appeals in ecclesiastical causes to be carried out of the kingdom to Rome.”

The King nodded, smiling. “I see where this will lead us,” he said.

“And when this becomes a law of the land, it would be meet for the Archbishop of Canterbury to ask Your Grace’s leave to declare the nullity of the marriage with Katharine of Aragon.”

The King, continuing to smile, slipped his arm through that of his Archbishop. “It is a marvellous thing,” he murmured, “that all the wise and learned men who argued this matter did not think of this before.”

And when Cranmer had left him, he continued to think of Cranmer, whose ideas had been so useful to him. Cromwell and Cranmer, they were two men who had suddenly sprung into prominence and, because their ideas were fresh and bold, with a few sharp strokes they were cutting the bonds which for so many years had bound him.

He would not forget them.

IT WAS A BRIGHT April day when Katharine heard the news. It came to her in a letter from Chapuys. Now that she was exiled she did receive letters more freely than she had when she had been at Court surrounded by Wolsey’s spies, and so was in constant touch with the Spanish ambassador.

Often she thought that, had her nephew sent her a man with the energy of Eustache Chapuys some years ago, she might have had the advantage of very valuable advice. Chapuys was indefatigable. She had a great admiration for him; she knew that he was of humble origin and that he had come to England hoping to achieve fame and fortune; yet, when he had heard of the wrongs done to her, he had thrown himself so wholeheartedly into her cause that he had become the most ardent champion it had ever been her good fortune to have. Alas, she thought, luck was never with me, for he came too late.

Now she read his letter and the news it contained startled her.

The King, wrote Chapuys, had secretly gone through a form of marriage with the Concubine who was shortly to be proclaimed Queen. The fact was that she was with child by the King and Henry was taking no chances of the child’s being branded illegitimate. Therefore, Katharine would shortly receive a summons to appear before a court which Cranmer was about to open at Dunstable. On no account must she answer that summons. Nevertheless they would conduct the court without her; but her absence would cause some discomfiture and delay; and owing to the recent law that ecclesiastical cases must be settled in England and not referred to Rome, they could be sure that Cranmer would pronounce the marriage null and void. She would see, of course, that there would then be no need of a dispensation from the Pope, because such a dispensation was unnecessary as the King would accept the ruling of Cranmer’s court, which would be that Katharine and the King had never truly been married.

She sighed as she read these words.

She would obey Chapuys’s instructions. He was one of the few people she could trust; and when the summons came for her to appear at Dunstable, following quickly on Chapuys’s warning, she ignored it.

But her absence could not prevent the court’s being opened and the case tried.

On the 23rd of May Cranmer declared that the marriage between King Henry VIII and Katharine of Aragon was invalid, and that the Queen of England was no longer Katharine but Anne.

The weary waiting was over. The matter had been settled simply by cutting the knot which bound England to the Church of Rome. There need no longer be talk of the divorce, for a divorce was not necessary between people who had never been married.

NEWS CAME TO AMPTHILL of the coronation of Queen Anne. Great pomp there had been in the streets of London; Katharine heard of how Anne had ridden in triumph under a canopy of state in purple velvet lined with ermine. A Queen at last! All the nobility had attended her coronation; they dared do no other; but the people in the streets had shown less enthusiasm than was usual on such occasions. Royal pageants were the highlights of living to them; they always welcomed them, especially when the King ordered that wine should flow in the conduits; but on this occasion there were few cheers.

Katharine’s women tried to cheer her as they sat at their needlework.

“They say, Your Grace, that there was scarcely a cheer as she rode through the city.”

Katharine nodded, and Maria who sat beside her knew that the Queen was remembering her own coronation: coming to the Tower from Greenwich, dressed in white embroidered satin, a coronal set with many glittering stones on her head, her long hair hanging down her back: remembering the ardent looks of Henry, who had insisted on marrying her against the advice of his ministers. In those days she had believed that nothing could happen to spoil their happiness.

“I heard,” said one of her women, “that my lord of Shrewsbury declared he was too old to shout for a new Queen. He also said that the new Queen was a goggle-eyed whore; and many people heard him cry ‘God save Queen Katharine who is our own righteous Queen!’”

Katharine shook her head. “Do not repeat such things,” she warned.

“But, Your Grace, I had it on the best authority. It is true the people do not like Queen Anne. Many of them say they will not have her as their Queen.”

“You should pray for her,” answered Katharine.

Her women looked at her in astonishment.

“Pray for Nan Bullen!”

“Once,” said the Queen, “I rode through the streets of London, the Queen, the King’s chosen bride. He faced opposition, you know, to marry me.” She had dropped her needlework into her lap and her eyes were misty as she looked into the past. “And look you, what I have come to. It may not be long before she is in like case.”

There was silence, and the Queen took up her work and began to sew.

It was clear to all that Katharine’s thoughts were far away; and when the sewing was over, and rising from her chair she was about to go to her private chapel, she tripped and fell, driving a pin into her foot.

Maria and others of her ladies helped her to her bed, and in the morning her foot was swollen and it was necessary to call her physician.

During the next days she remained in her bed. She had developed a cough which would not leave her in spite of the warm summer weather. And as she lay she wondered what steps the new Queen would take to further her discomfiture, for she was sure this would come. She pictured Anne, riding through the streets filled with sullen people. Ambitious, haughty and bold, Anne would certainly take measures to show the people that she was their new mistress.

Katharine did not have to wait long.

She was still in bed on account of the accident to her foot, and her cough had not improved, when her women came to tell her that a party of men had come from the King, and at their head was Lord Mountjoy.

Lord Mountjoy! He had once been her chamberlain and a very good servant to her; she was pleased then to hear that he it was who had been chosen to convey the King’s wishes to her.

But when he was brought into her presence she realized quickly that her one-time servant was now the King’s man.

“Your Grace,” he told her, “you will know that at the court at Dunstable your marriage to the King was declared null and void by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and leave was given both to you and the King to marry elsewhere.”

She bowed her head. “I have been informed of this.”

“You will know also that the coronation of Queen Anne has also taken place.”

Katharine nodded once more in acquiescence.

“The King decrees that, as it is impossible for there to be two Queens of England, you will henceforth be known as Princess of Wales since you are the widow of his brother Arthur, Prince of Wales.”

Katharine raised herself on her elbow. “I am the Queen of England,” she said, “and that is my title.”

“But Your Grace knows that the Lords spiritual and temporal have declared the marriage invalid.”

“All the world knows by what authority it was done,” retorted Katharine. “By power, not justice. This case is now pending in Rome and the matter depends not on judgment given in this realm, but in the Court of Rome, before the Pope, whom I believe to be God’s vicar and judge on Earth.”

“Madam, you speak treason,” said Mountjoy.

“It is a sorry state,” answered the Queen mournfully, “when truth becomes treason.”

Mountjoy handed her the documents he had brought with him from the King and, glancing at them, she saw that throughout she was referred to as the Princess Dowager.

She called Maria to bring her a pen and boldly struck out the words Princess Dowager wherever they occurred.

Mountjoy watched her in dismay, and as he did so he remembered the occasion of her coronation and how she had always been a just mistress to him.

“Madam,” he said, pleading, “I beg of you to take care. It would be a grievous thing if you were charged with high treason.”

She smiled at him. “If I agreed with your persuasions, my Lord Mountjoy, I should slander myself. Would you have me confess that I have been the King’s harlot these twenty-four years?”

Mountjoy felt unnerved, and could not proceed as he had been instructed to do. Katharine sensed this and softened towards him.

“Do not distress yourself,” she said, “I know full well that you do what you have been commanded to do.”

Mountjoy went on to his knees. “Madam,” he said, “should I be called upon to persecute you further, I should decline to do so…no matter what the consequences.”

“I thank you, Lord Mountjoy, but I would not have you suffer for me. Take these papers back to the King. Tell him that I am his wife now as I was on the day he married me. Tell him also that I shall not accept the title of Princess Dowager because my title is Queen of England. That I shall remain until my death.”

Apprehensively Mountjoy went back to Court.

DISTURBED BY MOUNTJOY’S account of what had happened, Henry decided that Katharine should be sent farther from London and commanded that she move her household from Ampthill to Buckden, there to take up residence in a palace which belonged to the Bishop of Lincoln. In the summer, when Katharine arrived, this place was charming, offering views over the fen country; Katharine had yet to discover how damp and bleak it could be in winter and what a disastrous effect it would have on her health.

She was extremely unhappy to move because, not only was she to change her place of residence, but she was also to lose certain members of her household. She had had too many friends at Ampthill, and they had upheld her in her sauciness, said the King. She could manage with a smaller household at Buckden; and one of the first to be dismissed should be Maria de Salinas who had always been her strong partisan from the days when she had first arrived in England. The edict had been that all those who refused to address her as the Princess of Wales should be dismissed. Katharine promptly forbade anyone to address her by any title but that of Queen.

She was desolate to lose Maria. This was the bitterest blow of the entire upheaval, and those who watched their farewell wept with them.

Katharine’s stubborn determination was a source of great irritation to the King, but he was fully aware that the people who lived in the villages surrounding her were her fervent supporters, and he had heard that when she had travelled from Ampthill to Buckden the way along which she had passed had been crowded with people who shouted: “Long live the Queen!”

She was an encumbrance and an embarrassment to him but he knew he must treat her with care. Therefore he finally allowed her a few servants—though he firmly refused to allow Maria to be one of them—whom he excused from taking an oath to address her as the Princess of Wales; and with this smaller household, Katharine lived at Buckden.

There was one fact for which she was thankful. Her chaplain, Dr. Abell, who had written against the divorce, had been released from prison and allowed to come back to her. The man was too obscure, Henry decided, to be of much importance.

At Buckden Katharine endeavored to return to the old routine. Her life was quiet, and she spent a great deal of time in her chamber which had a window looking into the chapel. She seemed to find great comfort in sitting alone in this window seat.

She busied herself with the care of the poor people living close by who had never known any to show such solicitude for their well-being before. There was food to be had at the palace for the hungry; the Queen and her ladies made garments for those who needed them; and although Katharine was far from rich she set aside a large part of her income for the comfort of the poor.

“A saint has come among us,” said the people; and they declared they would call no other Queen but Katharine.

Henry knew what was happening and it angered him, for it seemed to him that all those who admired the Queen were criticizing him; he could not endure criticism. But there was one matter which occupied his thoughts day and night. Anne was about to give birth to their child.

A son, he told himself exultantly, will put an end to all trouble. Once I have my son there will be such rejoicing that no one will give much thought to Katharine. It will be a sign that God is pleased with me for discarding one who was not in truth my wife, and taking another.

A son! Night and day he prayed for a lusty son; he dreamed of the boy who would look exactly like himself. He himself would teach him—make a man of him, make a King of him. Once he held that boy in his arms everything would be worth while, and his people would rejoice with him.

IT WAS SEPTEMBER OF that fateful year 1533 when Anne was brought to bed.

Henry could scarcely contain his excitement, and had already invited François to be the boy’s sponsor. His name? It should be Henry…or perhaps Edward. Henry was a good name for a King. Henry IX. But that was years away, of course. Henry VIII had many years before him, many more sons to father.

Queen Anne suffered much in her travail. She was as anxious as the King. Was there a certain apprehension in her anxiety? The King was still devoted to her—her passionate and possessive lover—but now that she had time for sober reflection she could not help remembering his indifference to the sufferings of his first wife. Once he had been devoted to Katharine; she had heard that he had ridden in pageants as Sir Loyal Heart; and his loyalty was then for Katharine of Aragon—short-lived loyalty. Was he a man whose passions faded quickly? He had been her devoted admirer for many years, but was that due to his faithfulness or a stubborn determination to have his will which her cleverness in keeping him at bay had inflamed?

A son will make all the difference, the new Queen told herself. Holy Mother of God, give me a son.

THE CRY OF A CHILD in the royal apartments! The eager question, and the answer that put an end to hope.

“A girl, Your Majesty, a healthy girl.”

The bitterness of disappointment was hard to bear, but the child was healthy. The King tried to push aside his disappointment.

Anne looked strangely humble in her bed, and he was still in love with her.

“Our next will be a boy, sweetheart,” he told her.

And she smiled in agreement.

So they rejoiced in their daughter, and called her Elizabeth.

MARGARET POLE was anxious concerning the Princess Mary who had never seemed to regain her full strength since her parting from her mother. Margaret knew that she brooded a great deal and was constantly wondering what would happen next.

Mary was no longer a child; being seventeen years of age, she was old enough to understand the political significance of what was happening about her. There was a strong streak of the Spaniard in her, which was natural as, before their separation, she had been so close to her mother.

Mary was restless, delicate, given to fits of melancholy. And what else could be expected? Margaret asked herself. What a tragedy that a child should be torn from her mother’s side when the bond between them was so strong, and when her position was so uncertain with her father.

But for Queen Anne, Margaret often thought, Henry would not have been unkind to his daughter. She was his child and he was eager to have children, even girls. But those occasional bursts of fondness were perhaps the very reason why Anne would not allow Mary at Court. Could it be that the new Queen was afraid of the influence Mary might have on her father?

It was so very tragic, and Margaret, while she thought fearfully of her own son Reginald who had offended the King, continually asked herself how she could make Mary’s life brighter.

Mary liked to play the lute or the virginals, for music was still her favorite occupation; but Margaret fancied as she listened to her that she played listlessly and there was a melancholy note in her music.

“Play something lively, something to make us feel gay,” Margaret suggested.

But Mary turned on her almost angrily: “How can I feel gay when I am not allowed to see my mother, when I know she is not in good health and mayhap has no one to care for her?”

“If I could write to her and tell her that you are cheerful, that would do her much good, I am sure.”

“You could not deceive her. How could I be cheerful when I long to see her as I know she does me?” Mary rose from the virginals and came to stand by her companion. “What will happen to us now that the Concubine has a child? They will say this Elizabeth comes before me, I’ll swear.”

“How could they do that?”

“You know full well they could do it. They have said my mother’s marriage was no marriage. That means one thing. The bastard Elizabeth will be declared heir to the throne until they get themselves a boy.” Mary’s face grew hard and stern. “I pray they never get a boy.”

“Your Highness…my dear Princess…forgive me, but…”

“I must not say such things! I must pray, I suppose, that the Concubine may be fruitful! I must pray that there is peace in this land, even though to bring this about I must declare my mother lived in sin with the King and I am therefore a bastard!”

“My dear…my dear…”

Mary walked away to the window. “Reginald was brave,” she cried, clenching her hands. “He was strong. He did not care if he offended my father. He would not have cared if they had cut off his head.”

“He would have died a martyr’s death and we should have been left to suffer,” answered Margaret soberly. “Let us thank God that he is out of the country at this time.”

“There is a party riding into the courtyard,” said Mary.

Margaret rose swiftly and came to her side.

“They come from the Court,” she said. “I recognize those women as of her suite.”

“We want none of the Concubine’s household here,” Mary cried.

“You must receive them, Your Highness, and hear their business.”

“I will not,” Mary said firmly and went out of the room.

It was not Mary however whom they had come to see, but the Countess. Two women were brought to her and they stated their business briefly.

The Lady Mary was no longer heir to the throne, for her mother was the Princess Dowager and had never been the King’s true wife. Certain jewels were in her possession which were the property of the crown. It was necessary now that these jewels be handed to them, for they were messengers from the King and Queen and had papers to prove this. The Lady Mary’s jewels now belonged to the Princess Elizabeth, and it was Margaret Pole’s duty to give them up.

Margaret stood very still; she had grown pale.

“I know the jewels to which you refer,” she said. “They are the property of the Princess Mary and I should be failing in my duty if I gave them up.”

“They are no longer the property of the Lady Mary. Here is an order from the Queen.”

Margaret studied the order. But I do not consider Anne to be the Queen, she said to herself. I shall certainly not give up the Princess Mary’s jewels.

So she remained stubborn, and the next day when the party rode away from Beauleigh, Mary’s jewels remained behind.

When Mary heard what had happened she praised her governess. “Let them do what they will to us,” she said. “We will stand out against them.”

“They will be back,” said Margaret apprehensively.

Mary held her head high as she declared: “They know I am the true heir to the throne. They must. I shall never stand aside for this young Elizabeth.”

But how could they hold out against the King and Queen? They could show defiance for a while, but not for long.

Queen Anne, in her new power, would not allow Margaret Pole and Mary to flout her wishes. Shortly afterwards a command came from the King: The Countess of Salisbury was discharged from her duty as governess to the Lady Mary and the pension paid to her in that capacity would immediately cease.

When Mary heard the news she was stricken with grief.

“Not you too!” she cried. “I have lost my mother and Reginald…you are all that is left to me.”

“I will stay with you,” answered Margaret. “I shall have no pension but I have money of my own. We shall not allow a matter of my pension to part us.”

Then Mary threw herself into her governess’s arms. “You must never…never leave me,” she said solemnly.

But it was not to be expected that the Queen would allow Margaret to remain with Mary after she had dared refuse to obey a command. She would make the King see what a danger Mary could be. It was clear that she was truculent by her refusal to return what did not really belong to her. Queen Anne had a child to fight for now, and she vas determined that her Elizabeth, not Katharine’s Mary, should be regarded as heir to the throne.

Margaret saw that she had acted foolishly. What were a few jewels compared with real friendship, devotion and love? What would happen to Mary when she had no one to protect her? How would the news that Mary’s governess had been dismissed affect Katharine, who had admitted often that she could feel some comfort knowing that Mary was with her very dear friend?

The edict came. Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, was to leave the household of the Lady Mary, who herself was to be sent from Beauleigh to Hunsdon, where she would live under the same roof as her half-sister, the Princess Elizabeth. And to remind her that she was not the King’s legitimate daughter, and therefore not entitled to be called Princess, she should live in humble state near the magnificence of Anne’s baby daughter.

Bitterly they wept. They could not visualize parting, so long had they been together.

“One by one those whom I love are taken from me,” sobbed Mary. “Now there is no one left. What new punishment will they inflict upon me?”

EUSTACHE CHAPUYS had asked for a private interview with the King.

“Your Majesty,” said the Spanish ambassador, “I come to you because I can speak with greater freedom than can any of your subjects. The measures you have taken against the Queen and her daughter, the Princess Mary, are very harsh.”

Henry glowered at him, but Chapuys smiled ingratiatingly.

“I speak thus, Your Majesty, because it is my great desire to see harmony between you and my master.”

“There would be harmony between us but for the fact that you are continually writing to him of his aunt’s misfortunes. If his aunt and her daughter were no more…that would be an end of our troubles.”

Alarm shot into the ambassador’s mind. Henry was not subtle. The idea had doubtless entered his head that life would be more comfortable if Mary and Katharine were out of his way. The Queen must be warned to watch what she ate; the Princess Mary must also take precautions. Chapuys’s mind had been busy with plans for some time. He dreamed of smuggling the Princess Mary out of the country, getting her married to Reginald Pole, calling to all those who frowned on the break with Rome and the new marriage with Anne Boleyn to rise against the King. He visualized a dethroned Henry, Mary reigning with Reginald Pole as her consort, and the bonds with Rome tied firmly once more. Perhaps the King had been made aware of such a possibility. He was surrounded by astute ministers.

He must go carefully; but in the meantime he must try to make matters easier for the Queen and Princess.

“If they died suddenly Your Majesty’s subjects would not be pleased.”

“What mean you?” Henry demanded through half closed eyes.

“That there might well be rebellion in England,” said the ambassador bluntly.

“You think my subjects would rebel against me!”

Eustache Chapuys lifted his shoulders. “Oh, the people love Your Majesty, but they love Queen Katharine too. They may love their King, but not his new marriage.”

“You go too far.”

“Perhaps I am overzealous in my desires to create harmony between you and my master.”

Henry was thinking: The man’s a spy! I would to God we still had Mendoza here. This Chapuys is too sharp. We must be watchful of him.

He was uneasy. He did know that the people were grumbling against his marriage. They never shouted for Anne in the streets; and he was aware that when Katharine appeared they let her know that she had their sympathy.

“I come to ask Your Majesty,” went on Chapuys, “to show a little kindness to Queen Katharine, if not for her sake for the sake of the people. There is one thing she yearns for above all others: To see her daughter. Would Your Grace now allow them to meet?”

“No,” said the King firmly.

“Then would Your Grace give me permission to visit the Queen?”

“No, no, no!” was the answer.

The Spanish ambassador bowed, and the King signified that the audience was over.

It was unfortunate that Katharine’s request should come when Henry was pondering the insinuations of Chapuys. She was finding Buckden very damp and unhealthy. She suffered from rheumatism and gout, and she asked the King to allow her to move to a house which would offer her more comfort.

Henry read her request frowning, and sent for Suffolk.

He tapped the letter and said: “The Queen complains again. Buckden is not to her liking. She asks permission to leave.”

“And Your Majesty has decided that she may leave?”

“I was turning over in my mind where she might go.”

“There is Fotheringay, Your Majesty. That could be put at her disposal.”

Henry thought of the castle on the north bank of the river Nen in Northamptonshire. Its situation was notoriously unhealthy, but it was far enough away not to give cause for concern.

“Let it be Fotheringay,” said Henry.

WHEN KATHARINE heard that she was to go to Fotheringay she cried out in protest.

“It is even more unhealthy than Buckden!” she said. “Is it true that the King wishes to see an end of me?”

She was weary of living and she was certain that if she went to Fotheringay she would not be long for this world. It was a comforting thought, but immediately she dismissed it. What of Mary? She visualized her daughter, shorn of her rank, forced to live under the same roof as Anne Boleyn’s daughter, doubtless expected to pay homage to the child. It was intolerable. She must live to fight for Mary. Chapuys was full of ideas; he was constantly writing to her. He was ready to go to great lengths in her cause and that of the Princess Mary. And here she was, weakly welcoming death.

She would certainly not go to Fotheringay.

“I will not leave Buckden for Fotheringay,” she wrote to the King, “unless you bind me with ropes and take me there.”

But Henry was now determined to move her and, since she would not accept Fotheringay, he declared that she should go to Somersham in the Isle of Ely.

“As this place is no more acceptable to me than the Castle of Fotheringay,” she wrote, “I will remain where I am.”

But the King had decided that she should go to Somersham, for there she could live with a smaller household. Moreover he knew that she was far from well, and Somersham, like Fotheringay, was unhealthy. If Katharine were to die a natural death, and he could cease to think of her and the effect she was having on his popularity, he would enjoy greater peace of mind.

He sent Suffolk down to Buckden with instructions to move the Queen and certain members of her household to Somersham.

THE DUKE OF SUFFOLK had arrived at Buckden and was asking audience of the Princess Dowager. Katharine, walking with difficulty, received him in the great hall.

“My lady,” said Suffolk, bowing, but not too low, making a difference in the homage he would give to a Queen and one who was of less importance than himself, “I come on the King’s orders to move you and your household to Somersham.”

“I thank you, my lord Duke,” answered Katharine coldly, “but I have no intention of leaving Buckden for Somersham.”

Suffolk inclined his head. “My lady, I fear you have no choice in this matter as it is the King’s order that you should move.”

“I refuse this order,” retorted Katharine. “Here I stay. You see the poor state of my health. Buckden does not serve it well, but Somersham is even more damp and unhealthy. I shall not leave this house until one which pleases me is found for me.”

“My lady, you leave me no alternative…”

She interrupted him: “…but to go back to the King and tell him that I refuse.”

“That is not what I intended, my lady. I have orders from the King to move you, and I at least must obey my master.”

“I’m afraid your task is impossible, my lord, if I refuse to go.”

“There are ways, Madam,” answered the Duke, “and these must needs be adopted in the service of the King.”

Katharine turned and, leaving him, retired to her apartments.

She expected him to ride off to tell the King what had happened, but he did not do this; and sitting at her window waiting to see him leave, she waited in vain. Then suddenly from below she heard unusual noises, and before she could summon any of her women to ask what was happening, one came to her.

“Your Grace,” said the woman, “they are moving the furniture. They are preparing to take it away. Already the hall is being stripped bare.”

“This is impossible!” said the Queen. “They cannot turn me out of Buckden without my consent.”

But she was wrong, because this was exactly what Suffolk had made up his mind to do.

Secretly Suffolk was ashamed of this commission and wished that the King had chosen some other to carry it out; it was particularly distasteful to him, because he had, on the death of the King’s sister Mary, recently married the daughter of Maria de Salinas who was such a close friend of the Queen. But his bucolic mind could suggest no other way of disguising his distaste than by truculence. Moreover he had orders to move the Queen from Buckden, and he did not care to contemplate what the King would say if he returned to Court and explained that he had been unable to carry out his task.

Katharine went to the hall and saw that what she had been told was correct. The tapestries had already been taken down from the walls, and the furniture was being prepared for removal.

Angrily she confronted Suffolk. “How dare you move my furniture without my consent?” she demanded.

He bowed. “The King’s orders are that it and you should be removed.”

“I tell you I shall not go.”

She left him and went up to her bedchamber. Several of her faithful women were there, and she locked the door on herself and them.

Suffolk followed her and stood outside the door begging her to be reasonable.

She would not answer him and, realizing that it was no use arguing with a locked door, Suffolk went back to the hall.

“Go into all the rooms save those of the Queen’s private apartments, which are locked against us,” he commanded. “Dismantle the beds and pack all that needs to be packed. We are moving this household to Somersham.”

The work went on while Katharine remained in her own apartments; but Suffolk and his retinue had been seen arriving, and it was not long before news of what was happening within the manor house was spread throughout the villages. As the crowd outside grew, Suffolk, who had posted his guards about the house, was soon made aware that the Queen’s neighbors were gathering to protect her. It was a silent crowd, watching from a distance; but it was noted that many of the men carried choppers and billhooks; and Suffolk, who had never been noted for his quick wits, was uneasy. Here was a humiliating situation: the Queen locked in her own apartments with a few of her faithful servants; he and his men dismantling the house, preparing to move; and outside, the Queen’s neighbors gathering to protect her! Suffolk knew that if he attempted to remove the Queen by force there would be a battle. He could imagine Henry’s fury when news of this reached his ears.

Yet something must be done; but the winter evening was near and he could do nothing that night, so he called a halt to his men. They should see about their night quarters and making a meal. They were prepared for this for they had not expected to complete their task in one day and night.

In the morning, Suffolk told himself, I shall work out a plan. He thought wistfully of the Christmas revelry which would be taking place at the Court. The new Queen and her admirers would certainly arrange a lively pageant. There would be fun for those at Court, while he had to spend his time in this gloomy mansion, trying to persuade an obstinate woman to do something which she had sworn not to do.

But in the morning the situation was the same. Katharine remained in her own apartments, waited on by her faithful servants who treated the invaders as though they did not exist.

Meanwhile by daylight the crowds waiting outside seemed to be more formidable—young, strong countrymen with their ferocious-looking billhooks. If he attempted to force a way through them Suffolk knew there would assuredly be a clash.

More than ever he wished himself back at Court; but he could see only one possible course. He must write to the King and tell him the circumstances; he would be cursed for an incompetent fool, but that was better than being responsible for a fight between the King’s soldiers and the Queen’s protectors. Suffolk was shrewd enough to know that such an incident might be the spark to start a civil war.

Already the King was preoccupied with fears of a rebellion which might seek to set his daughter Mary on the throne.

Yet he was undecided. He put off writing to the King, telling himself that Katharine might relent. She was after all an ageing woman, a lonely woman who had suffered the greatest humiliation possible. Perhaps those yokels waiting outside to defend her would grow tired. So Suffolk decided to wait.

For five days he waited and still Katharine’s door remained locked. She took her food in her own apartments and would not open her door to Suffolk.

His patience ended. He went to her door and hammered on it.

“If you do not come out, I shall take you by force,” he shouted.

“You would have to do that,” was Katharine’s answer. “Break down my door if you will. Bind me with ropes. Carry me to your litter. That is the only way you will get me to move from this house.”

Suffolk swore in his angry uncertainty. There were spies in this household. They were carrying tales to those waiting people so that everything that was happening in this house was known. He was sure that the Queen’s neighbors were sending word to friends miles away, and that the ranks about the house were swelling.

He dared not take her by force. He and his men would be torn to pieces if he did.

He returned to the hall, looked gloomily at the dismantled room; then he wrote to the King, to Cromwell and to Norfolk, explaining the Queen’s obstinacy and his fear of mob violence from the crowd which now seemed to be some thousands.

He dispatched the letters and prepared to depart himself.

He saw Thomas Abell coming from the Queen’s apartments and called to him.

“So, sir priest, you are still here with the Princess Dowager.”

“As you see, my lord Duke.”

“And upholding her in her obstinacy as you ever did,” snarled Suffolk.

“The Queen is a lady of stern ideals.”

“The Queen? There is but one Queen of England. That is Queen Anne.”

“There is but one Queen, my lord; and I say that Queen is Queen Katharine.”

“By God,” cried Suffolk, “you speak high treason.” He shouted to his men. “Take this priest. He will leave with us as our prisoner.”

He summoned all those servants, who were not with Katharine, to his presence and forthwith arrested several of them. At least he would not go back to London empty handed. Then he was ready to leave. He glanced round the castle which looked as though it had been sacked by invading soldiery—which in some measure it had—before he rode out into the courtyard and gave the order to depart.

The crowds parted for them to pass; no one spoke, but the looks were sullen.

Katharine came down from her private apartments and gazed in dismay at the havoc in her house. But when she heard that some of her servants had been taken prisoner, among them the faithful Abell, she ceased to care about the state of her dwelling. She thought of Abell going back to the discomfort of the Tower, where he might be submitted to torture as he had been before, and a feeling of utter desolation took possession of her.

Will there be no end to this persecution? she asked herself. Then she began to weep, for the strain of the last days had been greater than she had realized while they were happening; and although when confined to her room, unsure of whether she would be removed by force, she had not wept, now she could not prevent herself from doing so.

Two of her women came and stood with her.

“Your Majesty, pray return to your bed. There is more comfort there.”

She did not answer but held her kerchief to her streaming eyes.

“A curse on Anne Boleyn,” said one of the women.

Katharine lowered her kerchief and turned her stern gaze on the speaker. “Nay,” she said. “Hold your peace. Do not curse her. Rather pray for her. Even now the time is coming fast when you shall have reason to pity her and lament her case.”

She turned slowly and mounted the stairs to her apartment. Her women looked after her in wonderment. Then they shivered, for she spoke with the voice of a prophet.

In the Castle of Kimbolton

KATHARINE CONTINUED to live in her private apartments, and the rest of the castle remained as Suffolk’s men had left it: the tapestries unhung, the furniture dismantled.

Every day Katharine expected to receive a command from the King to leave Buckden for some place of his choice, but Henry was too occupied by affairs at Court to concern himself with her.

There was about this life an air of transience. She scarcely left her apartments, and heard Mass at the window of her bedroom which looked down on the chapel; her food was cooked by her bedroom fire, and those who served her, living closer to her, began to find love of her mingling with the respect she had always inspired.

The winter was bitter and she often felt, during those rigorous weeks when she lay shivering in her bed, that she could not live long in this condition. Her great concern was for her daughter who she knew, through Chapuys, was as much in danger as she was herself.

Chapuys wrote to her that she must take care what she ate, and that her meals should be cooked only by her most trusted servants because he believed that in high quarters there was a plot to remove both her and the Princess Mary.

This threat did not diminish when in the March of that year Clement at last gave his verdict, declaring that the marriage of Henry VIII and Katharine of Aragon was valid in the eyes of God and the Church.

“Too late!” sighed Katharine. “Five weary years too late!”

She knew that Clement’s verdict could do her and Mary no good now, but could only increase the wrath of her enemies among whom she knew in her heart—but she tried hard not to admit this—was the King, her husband.

In May of that year the King ordered her to leave Buckden for Kimbolton Castle in Huntingdonshire; and this time she obeyed.

THE REIGN OF TERROR had begun. There were certain stubborn men who refused to take the Oath of Supremacy, and the King was no longer the carefree boy who was eager only for his pleasure.

His marriage with Anne was turning sour. Where was the boy for whom he had dared so much? Where was the tender passion he had once felt for Anne?

In Kimbolton Castle was the woman whom many still called his Queen. He was waiting impatiently for her death which surely could not be long delayed. The last years of anxiety and living in damp houses had ruined her health, he had heard; yet she clung as stubbornly to life as she had to her determination not to enter a nunnery.

A plague on obstinate women…and obstinate men.

He knew that Chapuys was dangerous, and he had refused again and again the ambassador’s requests to see Katharine. How did he know what was being planned in secret? Was it true that plans were afoot to smuggle Mary from the country and marry her to Reginald Pole, that traitor who dared tell him…his King…that he disapproved of his conduct?

A plague on all men and women who risked their lives for a cause which was not the King’s. They should see whither that road led.

Mary was as obstinate as her mother, refusing to travel with her baby sister, declaring that she was a Princess and would answer to no other title, continually pleading to see her mother; now she was most inconveniently ill, and it was being whispered that she had been poisoned.

Katharine wrote to him from Kimbolton: “Our daughter is ill. You cannot keep her from me now. I beg of you, allow me to see her. Do you remember how long it is since I did so? What joy does this cruelty bring you?”

The King’s eyes narrowed as he read that appeal. Let them meet! Let them plot together! Let them smuggle notes to sly Chapuys…plans to get Mary abroad, married to Pole—a signal doubtless for their friends in England to rise against him!

“Never!” he cried.

THOSE WHO DID NOT obey the King should suffer the supreme penalty. In April of that bloodstained year five Carthusian monks were brought for trial and found to be guilty of high treason. Their crime: They refused to sign the Oath declaring the King to be Supreme Head of the Church.

“Let them understand,” growled Henry, “what it means to disobey the King. Let all who plan like disobedience look on and see.”

In that May the tortured bodies of these five martyrs were brought out of their prison for execution. The degrading and horrible traitors’ death was accorded them and they were dragged on hurdles to Tyburn, hanged, cut down alive, their bodies ripped open and their bowels and hearts impaled on spears and shown to the spectators, that all might understand what happened to those who disobeyed the King.

In June more monks of the Charterhouse were brought to Tyburn and similarly dealt with. And a few days later John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was brought from his prison to die the traitors’ death. Fortunately for him, there were some for whom it was expedient to show leniency; so the King said he would be merciful. Not for the bishop, whom some of the King’s misguided subjects loved, the barbarous death accorded to the Carthusians; Fisher was allowed to die by means of the executioner’s axe.

In July Sir Thomas More was brought from the Tower of London, where he had been for fifteen months, and he too laid his head upon the block.

When Katharine heard of the death of these old friends she shut herself into her chamber and remained there alone.

She still could not believe that the gay young husband who had married her in the days of her humiliation was in truth the brutal murderer of good men. She still clung to the belief that it was those about him who urged him to these deeds. Now she feigned to believe it was Anne Boleyn, as once she had believed it was Wolsey.

Yet in her heart she knew that he was all-powerful; more so than ever now that he had cut himself off from the Pope.

John Fisher! she sighed. Thomas More! My dear friends…and the King’s! How could he murder two such men?

But she knew. And she wondered who will be next?

She was very fearful for her daughter…and herself.

THE WINTER HAD COME AGAIN, and Katharine knew with certainty that she could not live through it. She was now so feeble that she must keep to her bed for days at a time; and some premonition told her that her end was near.

Once more she appealed to Henry.

“I do not think I have long to live. I pray you permit our daughter to come to me. You surely cannot prevent her from receiving my last blessing in person.”

She was hopeful when she had dispatched that appeal because she persisted in believing that Henry was not so cruel as he seemed.

But this plea, like others, was unanswered, and she now understood that she would never see her beloved daughter again in this life.

Chapuys, hearing of the Queen’s condition, was alarmed and went at once to the King. He was shocked to see the hopeful expression in the King’s face. The man is a monster, he thought angrily.

“I ask Your Majesty’s permission to visit the Queen at Kimbolton,” he said.

Henry ignored the request, and began to speak of affairs in Europe. François would not rest until Milan was his; and could he win Milan without the help of England?

Chapuys did not answer. Instead he said: “I have heard from the Queen’s physician that she is near death. She implores you to allow her to see her daughter.”

“It is a matter which I could not decide without consulting my council.” Henry took Chapuys by the shoulders and studied him intently. “The Emperor ignores his interests when he meddles in matters which are outside his concern. If he refuses my friendship, why should I not make an alliance with an ally who is eager to be my friend?”

“Your Majesty cannot believe the Emperor would ever abandon Queen Katharine while she is alive.”

A smile of complacency crossed the King’s face. “Then perhaps it is not important. She will not live long.”

“It is for this reason that I ask your permission to visit her.”

Henry shrugged his shoulders. She was dying; she could not long be an encumbrance to him.

“Go to her if you wish,” he said. “But there shall be no meeting between her and the Lady Mary.”

Chapuys did not wait, for fear that the King might change his mind. He left Henry’s presence and with all speed set out for Kimbolton.

CHAPUYS KNELT by her bed and his heart was touched by the sight of her. The skin was tightly drawn across her bones; her hair, once so beautiful, hung limp and lustreless. Talking exhausted her. But she brightened at the sight of him; and when she saw his distress she told him not to weep, for, as he would see, death held no terrors for her, and since she was parted from her daughter life had little to offer.

Then she pushed aside her grievances and wished to hear news of her daughter and to give instructions as to what was to happen after her death.

“I have so little to leave,” she said. “A few furs, a few jewels…but they are hers; and she will love them, more because they were mine than because of their value. When you see her, tell her that I loved her dearly and that had it not been for my delight in her I doubt I could have borne my sorrows. Oh, my dear friend, I fear I have brought great suffering to this country. Worthy men have died and others have endangered their souls. Yet I am Henry’s wife, and how could I deny that?”

Chapuys tried to soothe her, and it was gratifying to him to know that he brought her some comfort. He looked round the room, at the few candles, at the rushes on the floor. A humble room to provide the death chamber of Isabella’s daughter.

But his visit so comforted her that she seemed to recover.

IT WAS SIX O’CLOCK on New Year’s Day when a small party of weary travellers arrived at the gate of the Castle. At their head was a woman who declared that they were half dead with fatigue and implored to be given shelter.

The gatekeeper told her that none could be admitted to the Castle unless carrying a written permission from the King to do so; but the woman wept and begged him not to leave her without shelter in this bitter January night.

The gatekeeper was touched by the piteous spectacle the travellers presented, and consented to allow their leader to see Sir Edmund Bedingfeld whom the King had appointed steward to Katharine, but who was in fact her jailor.

When the woman was in his presence, her hooded cloak wrapped tightly about her shivering body, she entreated him to allow her to warm herself at a fire, and she was taken into the hall of the Castle.

“Tell me,” she said as she stretched her white hands to the blaze, “is the Princess Dowager still alive?”

“She is,” was the answer.

“I had heard that she was dead,” said the woman sombrely. “I fear she soon may be.”

“I pray you let me see her.”

“Who are you?”

“I have letters to prove my identity.”

“Then show them to me.”

“This I will do in the morning. They are now in the possession of my women.”

“I should need to see them,” said Bedingfeld, “before I could allow you to visit the Princess Dowager.”

The woman went to her two servants who were standing some distance away, but instead of speaking to them she suddenly ran to the staircase and began to mount it.

Bedingfeld was so astonished that he could only stare after her, and in those few seconds she took the opportunity to get well ahead.

“Who is your mistress?” he demanded of the women; but they shook their heads and would not answer; and by that time the woman was at the top of the first flight of stairs and had come upon one of the Queen’s maids.

“Take me to the Queen. I am a friend whom she will wish to see.”

Bedingfeld cried: “Halt, I say.”

The maid did not listen to him and turning began to run, while the visitor followed her.

The door of Katharine’s bedchamber was thrown open and the maid cried: “Your Majesty, Lady Willoughby has come to see you.”

Then the Queen tried to raise herself, and Maria de Salinas ran to the bedside, threw herself on her knees and embraced her.

When Bedingfeld entered the room he saw the two women in each other’s arms. He saw the tears on the Queen’s wasted cheeks; he heard her say: “So Maria, you came to me; so I am not to die alone. I am not abandoned like some forgotten beast.”

The Queen’s eyes met his over the head of her faithful Maria, and she said: “Leave us. My dear friend has braved much to come to me. I command you to leave us together.”

And Bedingfeld turned quietly and shut the door.

THERE WERE NOT MANY days left; and Maria de Salinas did not leave the Queen’s bedside. She told Katharine of how she had made the perilous journey unknown to anyone, because she had determined to be with her mistress.

“Oh Maria, how happy you have made me,” sighed the Queen. “The pity of it, there is little time left for us to be together.”

“Nay,” cried Maria, “you will get well now that I am here to nurse you.”

“I am beyond nursing,” replied the Queen; “yet not so far gone that I cannot rejoice in your dear presence.”

Maria refused to leave the Queen’s bedchamber, and during the days that followed she it was who nursed her and sat by her bed talking to her.

There were times when Katharine forgot that she was in her bed in dreary Kimbolton, and believed that she was in the Alhambra at Granada, that she wandered through the Court of Myrtles, that she looked down from her window on to the Courtyard of Lions; and that beside her there was one, benign and loving, her mother Isabella. Maria sitting at her bedside could speak of those days and, with Maria’s hand in hers, they spoke the language of their native Castile; and it seemed to Katharine that the pains of her body and the sorrows of her life in England slipped away from her. Here was sunshine and pleasure amid the rosy towers, she saw the sign of the pomegranate engraved on the walls—the symbol of fertility which she had taken as her own, she forgot with what irony, because the years had slipped away and she was young again.

Maria watched her with startled eyes, for she knew that Katharine’s life was ebbing away.

She sent for the priests and Extreme Unction was given. And at two o’clock in the afternoon of the 7th of January 1536 Katharine died.

WHEN THE NEWS was brought to Henry he was jubilant.

“Praise be to God,” he cried. “We are delivered from the fear of war. Now I shall be able to treat with the French; for they will be fearful that I shall make an alliance with the Emperor.”

There was another reason for his pleasure. She had been a perpetual embarrassment to him while there were men to believe she was still his wife.

He dressed himself in yellow from head to foot and wore a waving white plume in his cap, declaring that the revelries were to continue because there should be no period of mourning for a woman who had never been his wife.

Queen Anne followed his example and dressed in yellow. Like the King she was relieved by the death of Katharine; but there was a shadow across her relief. She was aware—as were many at Court—how the King’s eyes would light with speculation as they rested on a certain prim but sly maid of honor whose name was Jane Seymour.

Now there was a feverish gaiety about the King and his Queen. Death was waiting round the corner for so many. But through the Court strode the King, the little Elizabeth in his arms, demanding admiration for his daughter. Some wondered what the fate of that other daughter would be, remembering a time when he had walked among them with Mary in his arms.

“On with the dance!” cried the King; and the musicians played while the company danced with abandon.

Queen Katharine was dead; More was dead; Fisher was dead. They formed part of the procession of martyrs.

Dance today! was the order of the Court, for who could know what tomorrow would hold? Whose turn would come next?

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Catherine of Aragon, Garrett Mattingly.

The Divorce of Catherine of Aragon, James Anthony Froude.

History of England, James Anthony Froude.

The Lives of the Queens of England, Agnes Strickland.

The Political History of England (1485–1587), H. A. L. Fisher.

The National and Domestic History of England, William Hickman Smith Aubrey.

Henry VIII, A. E. Pollard.

The Private Character of Henry VIII, Frederick Chamberlin.

The Wives of Henry VIII, Martin Hume.

Henry VIII: A Difficult Patient, Sir Arthur S. MacNalty.

Henry the Eighth, Francis Hackett.

History of England under Henry VIII, Edward Lord Herbert.

British History, John Wade.

England in Tudor Times, L. F. Salzman.

The Dictionary of National Biography, Edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee.

Abbeys, Castles and Ancient Halls of England and Wales, John Timbs and Alexander Gunn.

Life of Wolsey, Cavendish.

Wolsey (Great Lives), Ashley Sampson.

ABOUT THE BOOK

When Catalina, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, sets sail to England, she leaves her beloved homeland forever to become Katharine, wife of Prince Arthur and future Queen of England. But when her sickly husband dies before the marriage has been consummated or the full dowry paid, Katharine finds herself stranded in England, a hostage to negotiations between her parents and King Henry VII. After years in England, her household is impoverished and their future uncertain as they hope for the one event that will restore Katharine’s honor and position: marriage to Henry, Arthur’s younger brother and heir to the throne of England. Finally, the willful Henry chooses Katharine as his bride, saving her from poverty and despair—as he will remind her throughout their marriage.

The marriage and reign of Katharine and Henry starts full of hope and pageantry, as Henry indulges his love of sport and masques and affectionately dedicates all to his bride. Katharine shows herself to be a wise and capable Queen, responding expertly to Henry’s moods and leading his armies as regent during his absence. But as Katharine’s numerous pregnancies yield only a single surviving daughter, Henry sees her failing at her most important task: to produce healthy male heirs. Meanwhile Henry, who prides himself on his virtuous life, begins to make excuses for extramarital dalliances, and the aging Katharine must compete with younger and gayer ladies of court.

With Henry’s attentions wandering from his wife to his mistresses to his rival powers in Europe, the powerful and ambitious Cardinal Wolsey guides affairs of state. As Katharine’s nephew Charles assumes his power as Emperor and François takes the throne in France, the wily Wolsey is in place to negotiate policy for England. But none can hold the King’s loyalty when the King’s own pleasure demands otherwise, and as Anne Boleyn ingratiates herself to Henry, her own path to the throne derails Wolsey’s to the papacy. As the downfall of some of England’s most elevated will prove, Henry’s power and pleasure come first in England.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1 During her early years in Spain, Katharine is frequently guided by her mother’s words about what is expected of a princess of Spain. Discuss what was expected of a Spanish princess, taking into account Isabella’s specific advice as well as Ferdinand’s expectations and the realities of Katharine’s experience. How does this advice guide her behavior as princess, and then as Queen?

2 Katharine lives in England for years, with her welfare largely dependent on the whims of Henry VII and the diplomacy of her father’s ambassadors. In the end, her patience seems to be rewarded—again by the whim of a king. What do you make of her obedience in staying in England all those years? Was this a wise gamble? Were any other options open to her? What might have happened if she had taken a more active role in her own fate or continued as ambassadress after de Puebla’s retirement?

3 In the years after Arthur’s death, is Katharine herself aware of—or interested in—the value of her marriage for Spain, or is she simply hoping to secure a comfortable future for herself and her attendants? Does her reaction to news of Francesca’s engagement say anything about how her hopes for her own marriage may have changed? Is her view of the arrangements for Princess Mary’s marriage consistent with what she hoped for in her own?

4 What do you think would have become of Katharine if Henry VIII had not chosen to marry her? Would she have remained in England? Where else might she have sought to marry?

5 Discuss how circumstances in Spain and England would have been different if Katharine and Juana’s roles had been reversed. Would Katharine have tolerated Philip’s philandering? Would she have stood firm in her claim to Castile, or allowed Philip’s flag to fly beside hers over Spain?

6 What do you make of Ferdinand? What are his defining qualities as a ruler and as a father? Is his treatment of Juana kinder than Philip’s was? How does his inconsistent correspondence with Katharine reflect his feelings toward her? Discuss how his reflections at the end of his life comment on his view of himself and his role as a monarch.

7 Discuss Henry’s relationship with his conscience. How does he make moral decisions? What, in his eyes, makes him a virtuous man?

8 During the course of the book, Henry is attracted to many women other than his wife, but Bessie Blount and Anne Boleyn intrigue him more than most. What is it about each of them that attracts him? What hope does Anne have of holding his attention? What advice might you offer her to safeguard her position?

9 How does Henry’s love of pageantry guide his reign and his marriages? Is he, to some extent, merely playing the role of the virtuous king? Do you think Katharine is right when she believes he is still thinks like a pleasure-loving boy? If not, when does this mentality end? By the end of the book, is Henry deluded and misguided, as Katharine often considers him, or is he a fully cognizant tyrant? Is there a middle ground?

10 Discuss Henry’s relationship with Ferdinand and Maximilian, the two elder rulers who were able to outmaneuver and deceive him. How did Henry’s interactions with them help educate him as a ruler? How does this education at the hands of Maximilian and Ferdinand affect his dealings with the next generation of rulers, Charles and François? In what ways do Henry’s natural qualities help or hinder his standing with the European monarchs?

11 What kind of a pope would Wolsey have been? Discuss how his election to the Vatican would have affected his hidden family and his relationship with Henry. Would his loyalty to the English King have led him to work for England’s interests, or would he have abandoned his former friend and benefactor to establish his own power as pope?

12 How would you describe Henry’s priorities as King? Can you identify one or more guiding principles to his reign? What do his words and actions with the pregnant Katharine when he is on his way to battle in France—and again on his return, after her miscarriage and defense of England—say about how his many goals relate to each other? Does this relationship remain more or less consistent through his reign?

13 What might Cardinal Wolsey have done to secure his position with the King? Is there any way that he and Anne Boleyn could have peacefully coexisted? Discuss what factors you consider most significant in Wolsey’s downfall.

14 Discuss Katharine’s relationship with the women of her household, which included Wolsey’s spies and noble beauties to attract the king as well as loyal Spanish friends. Were they more a danger to her or a comfort? How were they most useful to her? How were they most harmful? In what ways did Katharine learn to choose whom to trust, and whom merely to tolerate? Do you think she made the right decisions?

15 What, if anything, would have satisfied Henry? Can you imagine a wife who could have answered all his needs—or an arrangement allowing his needs to be met by others—that might have kept peace in the palace? A military victory that would have given him the triumph he longed for? Were any of his goals truly attainable, or was he destined to always want more?

MURDER MOST ROYAL

JEAN PLAIDY

A NOVEL

Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

The King’s Pleasure

The King’s Secret Matter

Happiest of Women

No Other Will Than His

A Reader’s Group Guide

Defiled is my name, full sore

Through cruel spite and false report,

That I may say for evermore,

Farewell to joy, adieu comfort.

For wrongfully ye judge of me;

Unto my fame a mortal wound,

Say what ye list, it may not be,

Ye seek for that shall not be found.

Written by ANNE BOLEYN in the Tower of London

The King’s Pleasure

IN THE SEWING-ROOM at Hever, Simonette bent over her work and, as she sat there, her back to the mullioned window through which streamed the hot afternoon sunshine—for it was the month of August and the sewing-room was in the front of the castle, overlooking the moat—a little girl of some seven years peeped round the door, smiled and advanced towards her. This was a very lovely little girl, tall for her age, beautifully proportioned and slender; her hair was dark, long and silky smooth, her skin warm and olive, her most arresting feature her large, long-lashed eyes. She was a precocious little girl, the most brilliant little girl it had ever been Simonette’s good fortune to teach; she spoke Simonette’s language almost as well as Simonette herself; she sang prettily and played most excellently those magical instruments which her father would have her taught.

Perhaps, Simonette had often thought, on first consideration it might appear that there was something altogether too perfect about this child. But no, no! There was never one less perfect than little Anne. See her stamp her foot when she wanted something really badly and was determined at all costs to get it; see her playing shuttlecock with the little Wyatt girl! She would play to win; she would have her will. Quick to anger, she was ever ready to speak her mind, reckless of punishment; she was strong-willed as a boy, adventurous as a boy, as ready to explore those dark dungeons that lay below the castle as her brother George or young Tom Wyatt. No, no one could say she was perfect; she was just herself, and of all the Boleyn children Simonette loved her best.

From whom, Simonette wondered, do these little Boleyns acquire their charm? From Sir Thomas, their father, who with the inheritance from his merchant ancestors had bought Blickling in Norfolk and Hever in Kent, as well as an aristocratic wife to go with them? But no! One could not say it came from Sir Thomas; for he was a mean man, a grasping man, a man who was determined to make a place for himself no matter at what cost to others. There was no warmth in his heart, and these young Boleyns were what Simonette would call warm little people. Reckless they might be; ambitious one could well believe they would be; but every one of them—Mary, George and Anne—were loving people; one could touch their hearts easily; they gave love, and so received it. And that, thought Simonette, is perhaps the secret of charm. Perhaps then from their lady mother? Well…perhaps a little. Though her ladyship had been a very pretty woman her charm was a fragile thing compared with that of her three children. Mary, the eldest, was very pretty, but one as French as Simonette must tremble more for Mary than for George and Anne. Mary at eleven was a woman already; vivacious and shallow as a pleasant little brook that babbled incessantly because it liked people to pause and say: “How pretty!” Unwise and lightsome, that was Mary. One trembled to think of the little baggage already installed in a foreign court where the morals—if one could believe all one heard—left much to be desired by a prim French governess. And handsome George, who had always a clever retort on his lips, and wrote amusing poetry about himself and his sisters—and doubtless rude poetry about Simonette—he had his share of the Boleyn charm. Brilliant were the two youngest; they recognized each other’s brilliance and loved each other well. How often had Simonette seen them, both here at Hever and at Blickling, heads close together, whispering, sharing a secret! And their cousins, the Wyatt children, were often with them, for the Wyatts were neighbors here in Kent as they were in Norfolk. Thomas, George and Anne; they were the three friends. Margaret and Mary Wyatt with Mary Boleyn were outside that friendship; not that they cared greatly, Mary Boleyn at any rate, for she could always amuse herself planning what she would do when she was old enough to go to court.

Anne came forward now and stood before her governess, her demure pose—hands behind her back—belying the sparkle in her lovely eyes. The pose was graceful as well as demure, for grace was as natural to Anne as breathing. She was unconsciously graceful, and this habit of standing thus had grown out of a desire to hide her hands, for on the little finger of her left one there grew the beginning of a sixth nail. It was not unsightly; it would scarcely be noticed if the glance were cursory; but she was a dainty child, and this difference in her—it could hardly be called a deformity—was most distasteful to her. Being herself, she had infused into this habit a charm which was apparent when she stood with others of her age; one thought then how awkwardly they stood, their hands hanging at their sides.

“Simonette,” she said in Simonette’s native French, “I have wonderful news! It is a letter from my father. I am to go to France.”

The sewing-room seemed suddenly unbearably quiet to Simonette; outside she heard the breeze stir the willows that dripped into the moat; the tapestry slipped from her fingers. Anne picked it up and put it on the governess’s lap. Sensitive and imaginative, she knew that she had broken the news too rashly; she was at once contrite, and flung her arms round Simonette’s brown neck.

“Simonette! Simonette! To leave you will be the one thing to spoil this news for me.”

There were real tears in her eyes, but they were for the hurt she had given Simonette, not for the inevitable parting; for she could not hide the excitement shining through her tears. Hever was dull without George and Thomas, who were both away continuing their education. Simonette was a darling; Mother was a darling; but it is possible for people to be darlings and at the same time be very, very dull; and Anne could not endure dullness.

“Simonette!” she said. “Perhaps it will be for a very short time.” She added, as though this should prove some consolation to the stricken Simonette, “I am to go with the King’s sister!”

Seven is so young! Even a precocious seven. This little one at the court of France! Sir Thomas was indeed an ambitious man. What did he care for these tender young things who, because they were of an unusual brilliance, needed special care! This is the end, thought Simonette. Ah, well! And who am I to undertake the education of Sir Thomas Boleyn’s daughter for more than the very early years of her life!

“My father has written, Simonette…. He said I must prepare at once…”

How her eyes sparkled! She who had always loved the stories of kings and queens was now to take part in one herself; a very small part, it was true, for surely the youngest attendant of the princess must be a very small part; Simonette did not doubt that she would play it with zest. No longer would she come to Simonette with her eager questions, no longer listen to the story of the King’s romance with the Spanish princess. Simonette had told that story often enough. “She came over to England, the poor little princess, and she married Prince Arthur and he died, and she married his brother, Prince Henry…King Henry.” “Simonette, have you ever seen the King?” “I saw him at the time of his marriage. Ah, there was a time! Big and handsome, and fair of skin, rosy like a girl, red of hair and red of beard; the handsomest prince you could find if you searched the whole world.” “And the Spanish princess, Simonette?” Simonette would wrinkle her brows; as a good Frenchwoman she did not love the Spaniards. “She was well enough. She sat in a litter of cloth of gold, borne by two white horses. Her hair fell almost to her feet.” Simonette added grudgingly: “It was beautiful hair. But he was a boy prince; she was six years older.” Simonette’s mouth would come close to Anne’s ear: “There are those who say it is not well that a man should marry the wife of his brother.” “But this is not a man, Simonette. This is a king!”

Two years ago George and Thomas would sit in the window seats and talk like men about the war with France. Simonette did not speak of it; greatly she had feared that she, for the sins of her country, might be turned from the castle. And the following year there had been more war, this time with the treacherous Scots; of this Anne loved to talk, for at the battle of Flodden Field it was her grandfather the Duke of Norfolk and her two uncles, Thomas and Edmund, who had saved England for the King. The two wars were now satisfactorily concluded, but wars have reverberating consequences; they shake even the lives of those who believe themselves remote. The echoes extended from Paris and Greenwich to the quiet of a Kentish castle.

“I am to go in the train of the King’s sister who is to marry the King of France, Simonette. They say he is very, very old and…” Anne shivered. “I should not care to marry a very old man.”

“Nonsense!” said Simonette, rising and throwing aside her tapestry. “If he is an old man, he is also a king. Think of that!”

Anne thought of it, her eyes glistening, her hands clasped behind her back. What a mistake it is, thought Simonette, if one is a governess, to love too well those who come within one’s care.

“Come now,” she said. “We must write a letter to your father. We must express our pleasure in this great honor.”

Anne was running towards the door in her eagerness to speed up events, to bring about more quickly the exciting journey. Then she thought sadly once more of Simonette…dear, good, kind, but so dull Simonette. So she halted and went back and slipped one hand into that of her governess.

In their apartments at Dover Castle the maids of honor giggled and whispered together. The youngest of them, whom they patronized shamefully—more because of her youth than because she lacked their noble lineage—listened eagerly to everything that was said.

How gorgeous they were, these young ladies, and how different in their own apartments from the sedate creatures they became when they attended state functions! Anne had thought them too lovely to be real, when she had stood with them at the formal solemnization of the royal marriage at Greenwich, where the Duke of Longueville had acted as proxy for the King of France. Then her feet had grown weary with so much standing, and her eyes had ached with the dazzle, and in spite of all the excitement she had thought longingly of Simonette’s strong arms picking her up and carrying her to bed. Here in the apartment the ladies threw aside their brilliant clothes and walked about without any, discussing each other and the lords and esquires with a frankness astonishing—but at the same time very interesting—to a little girl of seven.

The King was at Dover, for he had accompanied his favorite sister to the coast; and here in the castle they had tarried a whole month, for outside the waves rose high against the cliffs, and the wind shrieked about the castle walls, rattling its windows and doors and bellowing down the great chimneys as if it mocked the plans of kings. Challengingly the wind and the waves tossed up the broken parts of ships along that coast, to show what happened to those who would ignore the sea’s angry mood. There was nothing to be done but wait; and in the castle the time was whiled away with masques, balls and banquets, for the King must be amused.

Anne had had several glimpses of him—a mountain of a man with fair, glowing skin and bright hair; when he spoke, his voice, which matched his frame, bellowed forth, and his laughter shook him; his jewel-trimmed clothes were part of his dazzling personality; men went in fear of him, for his anger came sudden as his laughter; and his little mouth, ready enough to smile at a jest which pleased him, could as readily become the most cruel in the world.

Here in the apartment the ladies talked constantly of the King, of his Queen, and—to them all just now the most fascinating of the royal family group—of Mary Tudor, whom they were accompanying across the Channel to Louis of France.

“Would it not be strange,” said Lady Anne Grey, “if my lady ran off with Suffolk!”

“Strange indeed!” answered her sister Elizabeth. “I would not care to be in her shoes, nor in my Lord Suffolk’s, if she were to do that. Imagine the King’s anger!”

Little Anne shivered, imagining it. She might be young, but she was old enough to sense the uneasy atmosphere that filled the castle. The waiting had been too long, and Mary Tudor—the loveliest creature, thought Anne, she had ever set eyes on—was wild as the storm that raged outside, and about as dependable as the English climate. Eighteen she was, and greatly loved by the King; she possessed the same auburn-colored hair, fair skin, blue eyes; the same zest for living. The resemblance between them was remarkable, and the King, it was said, was moved to great tenderness by her. Willful and passionate, there were two ingredients in her nature which mixed together to make an inflammable brew; one was her ambition, which made her eager to share the throne of France; the other was her passionate love for handsome Charles Brandon; and as her moods were as inconstant as April weather, there was danger in the air. To be queen to a senile king, or duchess to a handsome duke? Mary could not make up her mind which she wanted, and with her maids she discussed her feelings with passion, fretful uncertainty and Tudor frankness.

“It is well,” she had said to little Anne, for the child’s grace and precocity amused her, “that I do not have to make up my mind myself, for I trow I should not know which way to turn.” And she would deck herself with a gift of jewels from the King of France and demand that Anne should admire her radiant beauty. “Shall I not make a beautiful Queen of France, little Boleyn?” Then she would wipe her eyes. “You cannot know…how could you, how handsome he is, my Charles! You are but a child; you know nothing of the love of men. Oh, that I had him here beside me! I swear I would force him to take me here and now, and then perhaps the old King of France would not be so eager for me, eh, Anne?” She wept and laughed alternately; a difficult mistress.

How different the castle of Dover from that of Hever! How one realized, listening to this talk, of which one understood but half, that one was a child in worldly matters. What matter if one did speak French as well as the Ladies Anne and Elizabeth Grey! What was a knowledge of French when one was in almost complete ignorance of the ways of the world? One must learn by listening.

“The King, my dear, was mightily affected by the lady in scarlet. Did you not see?”

“And who was she?”

Lady Elizabeth put her fingers to her lips and laughed cunningly.

“What of the Queen?” asked little Anne Boleyn; which set the ladies laughing.

“The Queen, my child, is an old woman. She is twenty-nine years old.”

“Twenty-nine!” cried Anne, and tried to picture herself at that great age, but she found this impossible. “She is indeed an old woman.”

“And looks older than she is.”

“The King—he too is old,” said Anne.

“You are very young, Anne Boleyn, and you know nothing…nothing at all. The King is twenty-three years old, and that is a very good age for a man to be.”

“It seems a very great age,” said little Anne, and set them mocking her. She hated to be mocked, and reproved herself for not holding her tongue; she must be silent and listen; that was the way to learn. The ladies twittered together, whispering secrets which Anne must not hear. “Hush! She is but a child! She knows nothing…” But after awhile they grew tired of whispering.

“They say he has long since grown tired of her…”

“No son yet…no child of the marriage!”

“I have heard it whispered that she, having been the wife of his brother…”

“Hush! Do you want your head off your shoulders?”

It was interesting, every minute of it. The little girl was silent, missing nothing.

As she lay in her bed, sleeping quietly, a figure bent over her, shaking her roughly. She opened startled eyes to find Lady Elizabeth Grey bending over her.

“Wake up, Anne Boleyn! Wake up!”

Anne fought away sleep which was reluctant to leave her.

“The weather has changed,” said Lady Elizabeth, her teeth chattering with cold and excitement. “The weather has changed; we are leaving for France at once.”

It had been comforting to know her father was with her. Her grandfather was there also—her mother’s father, that was, the Duke of Norfolk—and with them sailed too her uncle, Surrey.

It was just getting light when they set off, being not quite four o’clock in the morning. The sea was calmer than Anne had seen it since her arrival at Dover. Mary was gay, fresh from the fond farewell kiss of her brother.

“I will have the little Boleyn to sit near me,” she had said. “Her quaintness amuses me.”

The boat rocked, and Anne shivered and thought, my father is sailing with us…and my uncle and my grandfather. But she was glad she was with Mary Tudor and not with any of these men, for she knew them little, and what time would such important people have to bestow on a seven-year-old girl, the least important in the entire retinue!

“How would you feel, Anne,” asked Mary, “if you were setting out to a husband you had never seen in the flesh?”

“I think I should be very frightened,” said Anne, “but I should like to be a queen.”

“Marry and you would! You are a bright little girl, are you not? You would like to be a queen! Do you think the old man will dote on me?”

“I think he will not be able to help himself.”

Mary kissed her.

“They say the French ladies are very beautiful. We shall see. Oh, Charles, Charles, if you were only King of France! But what am I, little Anne? Nothing but a clause in a treaty, a pawn in the game which His Grace, my brother, and the French King, my husband, play together…. How the boat rocks!”

“The wind is rising again,” said Anne.

“My faith! You are right, and I like it not.”

Anne was frightened. Never had she known the like of this. The ship rocked and rolled as though it was out of control; the waves broke over it and crashed down on it. Anne lay below, wrapped in a cloak, fearing death and longing for it.

But when the sickness passed a little, and the sea still roared and it seemed that this inadequate craft would be overturned and all its crew and passengers sucked down to the bottom of the ocean, Anne began to cry because she now no longer wished to die. It is sad to die when one is but seven and the world is proving to be a colourful pageant in which one is destined to play a part, however insignificant. She thought longingly of the quiet of Hever, of the great avenues at Blickling, murmuring: “I shall never see them again. My poor mother will be filled with sorrow…George too; my father perhaps…if he survives, and Mary will hear of this and cry for me. Poor Simonette will weep for me and be even more unhappy than she was when she said goodbye.” Then Anne was afraid for her wickedness. “I lied to Simonette about the piece of tapestry. It did not hurt anyone that I should lie? But it was a lie, and I did not confess it. It was wrong to pull up the trap-door in the ballroom and show Margaret the dungeons, for Margaret was frightened; it was wrong to take her there and pretend to leave her…. Oh, dear, if I need not die now, I will be so good. I fear I have been very wicked and shall burn in hell.”

Death was certain; she heard voices whispering that they had lost the rest of the convoy. Oh, to be so young, to be so full of sin, and to die!

But later, when the sickness had passed completely, her spirits revived, for she was by nature adventurous. It was something to have lived through this; even when the boat was run aground in Boulogne harbor, and Anne and the ladies were taken off into small waiting boats, her exhilaration persisted. The wind caught at her long black hair and flung it round her face, as though it were angry that the sea had not taken her and kept her forever; the salt spray dashed against her cheeks. She was exhausted and weary.

But a few days later, dressed in crimson velvet, she rode in the procession, on a white palfrey, towards Abbeville.

“How crimson becomes the little Boleyn!” whispered the ladies one to another; and were faintly jealous even though she were but a child.

When Anne came to the French court, it had not yet become the most scintillating and the gayest court in Europe; which reputation it was to acquire under Francois. Louis, the reigning king, was noted for his meanness; he would rather be called mean, he had said, than burden his people with taxes. He indulged in few excesses; he drank in moderation; he ate in moderation; he had a quiet and unimaginative mind; there was nothing brilliant about Louis; he was the essence of mediocrity. His motto was France first and France above all. His court still retained a good deal of that austerity, so alien to the temperament of its people, which had been forced on it during the life of his late queen; and his daughters, the little crippled Claude and young Renee were like their mother. It was small wonder that the court was all eagerness to fall under the spell of gorgeous Francois, the heir apparent. Francois traced his descent to the Duke of Orleans as did Louis, and though Francois was in the direct line of succession, he would only attain the throne if Louis had no son to follow him; and with his mother and sister, Francois impatiently and with exasperation awaited the death of the King who, in their opinion, had lived too long. Imagine their consternation at this marriage with a young girl! Their impatience turned to anger, their exasperation to fear.

Louise of Savoy, the mother of Francois, was a dark, swarthy woman, energetic in her ambition for her son—her Caesar, as she called him—passionate in her devotion to his interests. They were a strange family, this mother and her son and daughter; their devotion to each other had something of a frenzy in it; they stood together, a trinity of passionate devotion. Louise consulted the stars, seeking good omens for her son; Marguerite, Duchess of Alencon, one of the most intellectual women of her day, trembled at the threat to her brother’s accession to the throne; Francois himself, the youngest of the trio, twenty years old, swarthy of skin with his hooked nose and sensuous mouth, already a rake, taking, as it was said, his sex as he took his meals, was as devoted a member of the trinity as the other two. At fifteen years of age he had begun his amorous adventures; he was lavishly generous, of ready wit, a poet of some ability, an intellectual, and never a hypocrite. With him one love affair followed another, and he liked to see those around him indulging in similar pleasures. “Toujours l’amour!” cried Francois. “Hands off love!” Only fools were not happy, and what happiness was there to compare with the delight of satisfied love? Only the foolish did not use this gift which the kindliest gods had bestowed on mankind. Only blockheads prided themselves on their virtue. Another name for virginity was stupidity!

Louise looked on with admiration at her Caesar; Marguerite of Alencon said of her stupid husband: “Oh, why is he not like my brother!” And the court of France, tired of the niggardly Louis and the influence of the Queen whom they had called “the vestal,” awaited eagerly that day when Francois should ascend the throne.

And now the old King had married a young wife who looked as if she could bear many children; Louise of Savoy raged against the Kings of France and England. Marguerite grew pale, fearing that her beloved brother would be cheated of his inheritance. Francois said: “Oh, but how she is charming, this little Mary Tudor!” and he looked with distaste on his affianced bride, the little limping Claude.

Anne Boleyn was very sorry for Claude. How sad it was to be ill-favored, to look on while he who was to be your husband flitted from one beautiful lady to another like a gorgeous dragonfly in a garden of flowers! How important it was to be beautiful! She went on learning, by listening, her eyes wide to miss nothing.

Mary, the new French Queen, was wild as a young colt, and much more beautiful. Indiscreetly she talked to her attendants, mostly French now, for almost her entire retinue of English ladies had been sent home. The King had dismissed them; they made a fence about her, he said, and if she wanted advice, to whom should she go but to her husband? She had kept little Anne Boleyn, though. The King had turned his sallow face, on which death was already beginning to set its cold fingers, towards the little girl and shrugged his shoulders. A little girl of such tender years could not worry him. So Anne had stayed.

“He is old,” Mary murmured, “and he is all impatience for me. Oh, it can be amusing…he can scarcely wait…” And she went off into peals of laughter, reconstructing with actions her own coy reluctance and the King’s impatience.

“Look at the little Boleyn! What long ears she has! Wait till you are grown up, my child…then you will not have to learn by listening when you think you are not observed. I trow those beautiful black eyes will gain for you an opportunity to experience the strange ways of men for yourself.”

And Anne asked herself: “Will it happen so? Shall I be affianced and married?” And she was a little afraid, and then glad to be only seven, for when you are seven marriage is a long way off.

“Monsieur mon beau-fils, he is very handsome, is he not?” demanded Mary. And she laughed, with secrets in her eyes.

Yes, indeed, thought Anne, Francois was handsome. He was elegant and charming, and he quoted poetry to the ladies as he walked in the gardens of the palace. Once he met Anne herself in the gardens, and he stopped her and she was afraid; and he, besides being elegant and charming, was very clever, so that he understood her fear which, she was wise enough to see, amused him vastly. He picked her up and held her close to him, so that she could see the dark, coarse hair on his face and the bags already visible beneath his dark, flashing eyes; and she trembled for fear he should do to her that which it was whispered he would do to any who pleased him for a passing moment.

He laughed his deep and tender laugh, and as he laughed the young Queen came along the path, and Francois put Anne down that he might bow to the Queen.

“Monsieur mon beau-fils…” she said, laughing.

“Madame…la reine…”

Their eyes flashed sparks of merriment one to the other; and little Anne Boleyn, having no part in this sport that amused them so deeply, could slip away.

I am indeed fortunate to learn so much, thought Anne. She had grown a long way from that child who had played at Hever and stitched at a piece of tapestry with Simonette. She knew much; she learned to interpret the smiles of people, to understand what they meant, not so much from the words they used as from their inflection. She knew that Mary was trying to force Francois into a love affair with her, and that Francois, realizing the folly of this, was yet unable to resist it. Mary was a particularly enticing flower full of golden pollen, but around her was a great spider’s web, and he hovered, longing for her, yet fearing to be caught. Louise and her daughter watched Mary for the dreaded signs of pregnancy, which for them would mean the death of hope for Caesar.

“Ah, little Boleyn,” said Mary, “if I could but have a child! If I could come to you and say ‘I am enceinte,’ I would dance for joy; I would snap my fingers at that grim old Louise, I would laugh in the face of that clever Marguerite. But what is the good! That old man, what can he do for me! He tries though…he tries very hard…and so do I!”

She laughed at the thought of their efforts. There was always laughter round Mary Tudor. All around the court those words were whispered—“Enceinte! Is the Queen enceinte? If only…the Queen is enceinte!”

Louise questioned the ladies around the Queen; she even questioned little Anne. The angry, frustrated woman buried her head in her hands and raged; she visited her astrologer; she studied her charts. “The stars have said my son will sit on the throne of France. That old man…he is too old, and too cold…”

“He behaves like a young and hot one,” said Marguerite.

“He is a dying fire…”

“A dying fire has its last flicker of warmth, my mother!”

Mary loved to tease them, feigning sickness. “I declare I cannot get up this morning. I do not know what it can be, except that I may have eaten too heartily last evening…” Her wicked eyes sparkling; her sensuous lips pouting.

“The Queen is sick this morning…she looked blooming last night. Can it be…?”

Mary threw off her clothes and pranced before her mirror.

“Anne, tell me, am I not fattening? Here…and here. Anne, I shall slap you unless you say I am!” And she would laugh hysterically and then cry a little. “Anne Boleyn, did you never see my Lord of Suffolk? How my body yearns for that man!” Ambition was strong in Mary. “I would be mother to a king of France, Anne. Ah, if only my beautiful beau-fils were King of France! Do you doubt, little Boleyn, that he would have had me with child ere this? What do I want from life? I do not know, Anne…. Now, if I had never known Charles…” And she grew soft, thinking of Charles Brandon, and the King would come and see her softness, and it would amuse her maliciously to pretend the softness was for him. The poor old King was completely infatuated by the giddy creature; he would give her presents, beautiful jewels one at a time, so that she could express her gratitude for each one. The court tittered, laughing at the old man. “That one will have his money’s worth!” It was a situation to set a French court, coming faster and faster under the influence of Francois, rocking with laughter.

Wildly, Mary coquetted with the willing Francois. If she cannot get a child from the King, whispered the court, why not from Francois? She would not lose from such a bargain; only poor Francois would do that. What satisfaction could there be in seeing yourself robbed of a throne by your own offspring? Very little, for the child could not be acknowledged as his. Oh, it was very amusing, and the French were fond of those who amused them. And that it should be Mary Tudor from that gloomy island across the Channel, made it more amusing still. Ah, these English, they were unaccountable. Imagine it! An English princess to give them the best farce in history! Francois was cautious; Francois was reckless. His ardor cooled; his passion flared. There was none, he was sure, whom he could enjoy as heartily as the saucy, hot-blooded little Tudor. There were those who felt it their duty to warn him. “Do you not see the web stretched out to catch you?” Francois saw, and reluctantly gave up the chase.

On the first day of January, as Anne was coming from the Queen’s apartment, she met Louise—a distraught Louise, her black hair disordered, her eyes wild.

Anne hesitated, and was roughly thrust aside.

“Out of my way, child! Have you not heard the news? The King is dead.”

Now the excitement of the court was tuned to a lower key, though it had increased rather than abated. Louise and her daughter were overjoyed at the death of the King, but their happiness in the event was overshadowed by their fear. What of the Queen’s condition? They could scarcely wait to know; they trembled; they were suspicious. What did this one know? What had that one overheard? Intrigue…and, at the heart of it, mischievous Mary Tudor.

The period of mourning set in, and the Queen’s young body was seen to broaden with the passing of the days. Louise endured agonies; Francois lost his gaiety. Only the Queen, demure and seductive, enjoyed herself. In her apartments Louise pored over charts; more and more men, learned in the study of the stars, came to her. Is the Queen enceinte? She begged, she implored to be told this was not so, for how could she bear it if it were! During those days of suspense she brooded on the past; her brief married life, her widowhood; the birth of her clever Marguerite, and then that day at Cognac nearly twenty-one years ago when she had come straight from the agony of childbirth to find her Caesar in her arms. She thought of her husband, the profligate philanderer who had died when Francois was not quite two years old, and whom she had mourned wholeheartedly and then had given over her life to her children, superintending the education of both of them herself, delighting in their capacity for learning, their intellectual powers which surely set them apart from all others; they were both of them so worthy of greatness—a brilliant pair, her world, or at least Caesar was; and where that king of men was concerned, was not Marguerite in complete accord with her mother? He should be King of France, for he was meant to be King of France since there was never one who deserved the honor more than he, the most handsome, the most courteous, the most virile, the most learned Francois. And now this fear! This cheating of her beautiful son by a baggage from England! A Tudor! Who were the Tudors? They did not care to look far back into their history, one supposed!

“My Caesar shall be King!” determined Louise. And, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she went along to the Queen’s apartments and, making many artful enquiries as to her health, she perceived that Her Majesty was not quite as large about the middle as she had been yesterday. So she—for, after all, she was Louise of Savoy, a power in France even in the days of her old enemy and rival, Anne of Brittany—shook the naughty Queen until the padding fell from the creature’s clothes. And…oh, joy! Oh, blessed astrologers who had assured her that her son would have the throne! There was the wicked girl as straight and slender as a virgin.

So Mary left the court of France, and in Paris, secretly and in great haste, she married her Charles Brandon; and the court of France tittered indulgently until it began to laugh immoderately, for it was whispered that Brandon, not daring to tell his King of his unsanctioned marriage with the Queen of France and the sister of the King of England, had written his apologia to Wolsey, begging the great Cardinal to break the news gently to the King.

Francois triumphantly mounted the throne and married Claude, while Louise basked in the exquisite pleasure of ambition fulfilled; she was now Madame of the French court.

Little Anne stayed on to serve with Claude. The Duchesse d’Alencon had taken quite a fancy to the child, for her beauty and grace and for her intelligence; she was not yet eight years old, but she had much worldly wisdom; she knew that crippled Claude was submissive, ignored by her husband, and that it was the King’s sister who was virtually Queen of France. Anne would see brother and sister wandering in the palace grounds, their arms about each other, talking of affairs of state; for Marguerite was outstanding in a court where intellect was given the respect it deserved, and she could advise and help her brother; or Marguerite would read her latest writing to the King, and the King would show a poem he had written; he called her his pet, his darling, ma mignonne. She wanted nothing but to be his slave; she had declared she would be willing to follow her brother as his washer-woman, and for him she would cast to the wind her ashes and her bones.

The shadow of Anne of Brittany was banished from the court, and the King amused himself, and the court grew truly Gallic, and gayer than any in Europe. It was elegant; it was distinctive; its gallantry was of the highest order; its wit flowed readily. It was the most scintillating of courts, the most intellectual of courts, and Marguerite of Alencon, the passionately devoted slave and sister to the King, was queen of it.

It was in this court that Anne Boleyn cast off her childishness and came to premature womanhood, and with the passing of the years and the nourishing of that friendship which she enjoyed with the strange and fascinating Marguerite, she herself became one of the brightest of its brilliant lights.

Between the towns of Guisnes and Ardres was laid a brilliant pageant. A warm June sun showed the palace of Guisnes in all its glittering glory. A fairy-tale castle this, though a temporary one; and one on which many men had worked since February, to the great expense of the English people. It was meant to symbolize the power and riches of Henry of England. At its gates and windows had been set up sham men-at-arms, their faces made formidable enough to terrify those who looked too close; they represented the armed might of the little island across the Channel, not perhaps particularly significant in the eyes of Europe until the crafty statesman, that wily Wolsey, had got his hands on the helm of its ship of state. The hangings of cloth of gold, the gold images, the chairs decorated with pommels of gold, all the furnishings and hangings ornamented wherever possible with the crimson Tudor rose—these represented the wealth of England. The great fountain in the courtyard, from which flowed wine—claret, white wine, red wine—and over which presided the great stone Bacchus round whose head was written in Tudor gold, “Faietes bonne chere qui vouldra”—this was to signify Tudor hospitality.

The people of England, who would never see this lavish display and who had contributed quite a large amount of money towards it, might murmur; those lords who had been commanded by their King to set out on this most opulent and most expensive expedition in history might think uneasily of return to their estates, impoverished by the need to pay for their participation in it; but the King thought of none of these things. He was going to meet his rival, Francis; he was going to prove to Francis that he was the better king, which was a matter of opinion; he was going to show himself to be a better man, which some might think doubtful; he was going to show he was a richer king, which, thanks to his cautious father, was a fact; and that he was a power in Europe, of which there could no longer be a doubt. He could smile expansively at this glittering palace which he had erected as fitting to be the temporary resting place of his august self; he could smile complacently because in spite of its size it could not accommodate his entire retinue, so that all around the palace were the brightly colored tents of his less noble followers. He could congratulate himself that Francis’s lodging at Ardres was less magnificent than his; and these matters filled the King of England with a satisfaction which was immense.

In the pavilion which was the French King’s lodging, Queen Claude prepared herself for her meeting with Queen Katharine. Her ladies, too, prepared themselves; and among these was one whose beauty set her aside from all others. She was now in her fourteenth year, a lovely, slender girl who wore her dark hair in silken ringlets, and on whose head was an aureole made of plaited gauze, the color of gold. The blue of her garments was wonderfully becoming to her dark beauty; her vest was of blue velvet spattered with silver stars; her surcoat of watered silk was lined with miniver and the sleeves of the surcoat were of her own designing; they were wide and long, and hung below her hands, hiding them, for she was more sensitive about her hands than she had been at Blickling and Hever. Over this costume she wore a blue velvet cape trimmed with points, and from the end of each of these points hung little golden bells; her shoes were covered in the same blue velvet as her vest, and diamond stars twinkled on her insteps. She was one of the very fashionable ladies in the smart court of France, and even now the ladies of the court were striving to copy those long hanging sleeves, so that what had been a ruse to hide a deformity was becoming a fashion. She was the gayest of the young ladies. Who would not be gay, sought after as she was? She was quick of speech, ready of wit; in the dance she excelled all others; her voice was a delight; she played the virginals competently; she composed a little. She was worldly wise, and yet there was about her a certain youthful innocence.

Francois himself had cast covetous eyes upon her, but Anne was no fool. She laughed scornfully at those women who were content to hold the King’s attention for a day. Marguerite was her friend, and Marguerite had imbued her with a new, advanced way of thinking, the kernel of which was equality of the sexes. “We are equal with men,” Marguerite had said, “when we allow ourselves to be.” And Anne determined to allow herself to be. So cleverly and with astonishing diplomacy she held off Francois, and he, amused and without a trace of malice, gracefully accepted defeat.

Now Anne was in her element; there was nothing she enjoyed more than a round of gaiety, and here was gaiety such as even she had never encountered before. She was proud of her English birth, and eagerly she drank in the news of English splendor. “My lord Cardinal seemed as a king,” she heard, and there followed an account of his retinue, the gorgeousness of his apparel, the display of his wealth. “And he is but the servant of his master! The splendor of the King of England it would be difficult to describe.” Anne saw him now and then—the great red King; he had changed a good deal since she had last seen him, at Dover. He was more corpulent, coarser; perhaps without his dazzling garments he would not be such a handsome man. His face was ruddier, his cheeks more pouchy; his voice, though, bellowed as before. What a contrast he presented with the dark and subtle Francois! And Anne was not the only one who guessed that these two had little love for each other in spite of the gushing outward displays of affection.

During the days that followed the meeting of the Kings, Anne danced and ate and flirted with the rest. Today the French court were guests of the English; pageants, sports, jousting, a masked ball and a banquet. Tomorrow the French court would entertain the English. Everything must be lavish; the French court must outshine the English, and then again the English must be grander still. Never mind the cost to nations groaning under taxations; never mind if the two Kings, beneath the show of jovial good fellowship, are sworn enemies! Never mind! This is the most brilliant and lavish display in history; and if it is also the most vulgar, the most recklessly stupid, what of that! The Kings must amuse themselves.

Mary Boleyn had come to attend Queen Katharine at Guisnes. She was eighteen then—a pretty, plumpish voluptuous creature. It was years since she had seen her young sister, and it was therefore interesting to meet her in the pavilion at Ardres. Mary had returned to England from the Continent with her reputation in shreds; and her face, her manner, her eager little body suggested that rumour had not been without some foundation. She looked what she was—a lightly loving little animal, full of desire, sensuous, ready for adventure, helpless to avert it, saying with her eyes, “This is good; why fret about tomorrow?”

Anne read these things in her sister’s face, and was disturbed by them, for it hurt Anne’s dignity to have to acknowledge this wanton as her sister. The Boleyns were no noble family; they were not a particularly wealthy family. Anne was half French in outlook; impulsive, by nature she was also practical. The sisters were as unlike as two sisters could be. Anne set a high price upon herself; Mary, no price at all. The French court opened one’s eyes to worldly matters when one was very young; the French shrugged philosophical shoulders; l’amour was charming—indeed what was there more charming? But the French court taught one elegance and dignity too. And here was Mary, Anne’s sister, with her dress cut too low and her bosom pressed upwards provocatively; and in her open mouth and her soft doe’s eyes there was the plea of the female animal, begging to be taken. Mary was pretty; Anne was beautiful. Anne was clever, and Mary was a fool.

How she fluttered about the ladies’ apartments, examining her sister’s belongings, her little blue velvet brodiquins, her clothes! Those wonderful sleeves! Trust Anne to turn a disadvantage into an asset! I will have those sleeves on my new gown, thought Mary; they give an added grace to the figure—but is that because grace comes naturally to her? Mary could not but admire her. Simple Anne Boleyn looked elegant as a duchess, proud as a queen.

“I should not have known you!” cried Mary.

“Nor I you.”

Anne was avid for news of England.

“Tell me of the court of England.”

Mary grimaced. “The Queen…oh, the Queen is very dull. You are indeed fortunate not to be with Queen Katharine. We must sit and stitch, and there is mass eight times a day. We kneel so much, I declare my knees are worn out with it!”

“Is the King so devoted to virtue?”

“Not as the Queen, the saints be praised! He is devoted to other matters. But for the King, I would rather be home at Hever than be at court; but where the King is there is always good sport. He is heartily sick of her, and deeply enamoured of Elizabeth Blount; there was a son born to them some little while since. The King is delighted…and furious.”

“Delighted with the son and furious with the Queen because it is not hers?” inquired Anne.

“That is surely the case. One daughter has the Queen to show for all those years of marriage; and when he gets a son, it is from Elizabeth Blount. The Queen is disappointed; she turns more and more to her devotions. Pity us…who are not so devoted and must pray with her and listen to the most mournful music that was ever made. The King is such a beautiful prince, and she such a plain princess.”

Anne thought of Claude then—submissive and uncomplaining—not a young woman enjoying being alive, but just a machine for turning out children. I would not be Claude, she thought, even for the throne of France. I would not be Katharine, ugly and unwanted Katharine of the many miscarriages. No! I would be as myself…or Marguerite.

“What news of our family?” asked Anne.

“Little but what you must surely know. Life is not unpleasant for us. I heard a sorry story, though, of our uncle, Edmund Howard, who is very, very poor and is having a family very rapidly; all he has is his house at Lambeth, and in that he breeds children to go hungry with him and his lady.”

“His reward for helping to save England at Flodden!” said Anne.

“There is talk that he would wish to go on a voyage of discovery, and so doing earn a little money for his family.”

“Is it not depressing to hear such news of members of our family!”

Mary looked askance at her sister; the haughtiness had given place to compassion; anger filled the dark eyes because of the ingratitude of a king and a country towards a hero of Flodden Field.

“You hold your head like a queen,” said Mary. “Grand ideas have been put into your head since you have been living at the French court.”

“I would rather carry it like a queen than a harlot!” flashed Anne.

“Marry and you would! But who said you should carry it like a harlot?”

“No one says it. It is I who say I would prefer not to.”

“The Queen,” said Mary, “is against this pageantry. She does not love the French. She remonstrated with the King; I wonder she dared, knowing his temper.”

Mary prattled lightly; she took to examining the apartment still further, testing the material of her sister’s gown; she asked questions about the French court, but did not listen to the answers. It was late when she left her sister. She would be reprimanded perhaps; it would not be the first time Mary had been reprimanded for staying out late.

But for a sister! thought Mary, amused by her recollections.

In a corridor of the gorgeous palace at Guisnes, Mary came suddenly upon a most brilliantly clad personage, and hurrying as she was, she had almost run full tilt into him before she could pull herself up. She saw the coat of russet velvet trimmed with triangles of pearls; the buttons of the coat were diamonds. Mary’s eyes opened wide in dismay as confusedly she dropped onto her knee.

He paused to look at her. His small bright eyes peered out from the puffy red flesh around them.

“How now! How now!” he said, and then “Get up!” His voice was coarse and deep, and it was that perhaps and his brusque manner of speech which had earned him the adjective “bluff.”

The little eyes traveled hastily all over Mary Boleyn, then rested on the provocative bosom, exposed rather more than fashion demanded, on the parted lips and the soft, sweet eyes.

“I have seen you at Greenwich…Boleyn’s girl! Is that so?”

“Yes…if it please Your Grace.”

“It pleases me,” he said. The girl was trembling. He liked his subjects to tremble, and if her lips were a little dumb, her eyes paid him the homage he liked best to receive from pretty subjects in quiet corridors where, for once in a while, he found himself unattended.

“You’re a pretty wench,” he said.

“Your Majesty is gracious…”

“Ah!” he said, laughing and rumbling beneath the russet velvet. “And ready to be more gracious still when it’s a pretty wench like yourself.”

There was no delicacy about Henry; if anything he was less elegant, more coarse, during this stay in France. Was he going to ape these prancing French gallants! He thought not. He liked a girl, and a girl liked him; no finesse necessary. He put a fat hand, sparkling with rings, on her shoulder. Any reluctance Mary might have felt—but, being Mary, she would of course have felt little—melted at his touch. Her admiration for him was in her eyes; her face had the strained set look of a desire that is rising and will overwhelm all else. To her he was the perfect man, because, being the King, he possessed the strongest ingredient of sexual domination—power. He was the most powerful man in England, perhaps the most powerful in France as well. He was the most handsome prince in Christendom, or perhaps his clothes were more handsome than those worn by any others, and Mary’s lust for him, as his for her, was too potent and too obvious to be veiled.

Henry said, “Why, girl…” And his voice slurred and faded out as he kissed her, and his hands touched the soft bosom which so clearly asked to be touched. Mary’s lips clung to his flesh, and her hands clung to his russet velvet. Henry kissed her neck and her breasts, and his hands felt her thighs beneath the velvet of her gown. This attraction, instantaneous and mutual, was honey-sweet to them both. A king such as he was could take when and where he would in the ordinary course of events; but this coarse, crude man was a complex man, a man who did not fully know himself; a deeply sentimental man. He had great power, but because of this power of his which he loved to wield, he wanted constant reassurance. When a man’s head can be taken off his shoulders for a whim, and when a woman’s life can hang on one’s word, one has to accept the uncertainty that goes with this power; one is surrounded by sycophants and those who feign love because they dare show nothing else. And in the life of a king such as Henry there could only be rare moments when he might feel himself a man first, a king second; he treasured such moments. There was that in Mary Boleyn which told him she desired him—Henry the man, divested of his diamond-spattered clothes; and that man she wanted urgently. He had seen her often enough sitting with his pious Queen, her eyes downcast, stitching away at some woman’s work. He had liked her mildly; she was a pretty piece enough; he had let his eyes dwell lightly on her and thought of her, naked in bed, as he thought of them all; nothing more than that. He liked her family; Thomas was a good servant; George a bright boy; and Mary…well, Mary was just what he needed at this moment.

Yesterday the King of France had thrown him in a wrestling match, being more skilled than he in a game which demanded quickness of action rather than bullock strength such as his. He had smarted from the indignity. And again, while he had breakfasted, the King of France had walked unheralded into his apartment and sat awhile informally; they had laughed and joked together, and Francis had called him Brother, and something else besides. Even now while the sex call sounded insistently in his ears, it rankled sorely, for Francis had called him “My prisoner!” It was meant to be a term of friendship, a little joke between two good friends. And so taken aback had Henry been that he had no answer ready; the more he thought of it, the more ominous it sounded; it was no remark for one king to make to another, when they both knew that under their displays of friendship they were enemies. He needed homage after that; he always got it when he wanted it; but this which Mary Boleyn offered him was different; homage to himself, not to his crown. Francis disconcerted him and he wanted to assure himself that he was as good a man as the French King. Francis shocked him; Francis had no shame; he glorified love, worshipped it shamelessly. Henry’s affairs were never entirely blatant; he regarded them as sins to be confessed and forgiven; he was a pious man. He shied away from the thought of confession; one did not think of it before the act. And here was little Mary Boleyn ready to tell him that he was the perfect man as well as the perfect king. She was as pretty a girl as he would find in the two courts. French women! Prancing, tittering, elegant ladies! Not for him! Give him a good English bedfellow! And here was one ready enough. She was weak at the knees for him; her little hands fluttering for him, pretending to hold him off, while what they meant really was “Please…now…no waiting.”

He bit her ear, and whispered into it: “You like me then, sweetheart?”

She was pale with desire now. She was what he wanted. In an excess of pleasure, the King slapped her buttocks jovially and drew her towards his privy chamber.

This was the way, the way to wash the taste of this scented French gallantry out of his mouth! There was a couch in this chamber. Here! Now! No matter the hour, no matter the place.

She opened her eyes, stared at the couch in feigned surprise, tried to simulate fear; which made him slap his thigh with mirth. They all wanted to be forced…every one of them. Well, let them; it was a feminine trait that didn’t displease him. She murmured: “If it please Your Grace, I am late and…”

“It does please Our Grace. It pleases us mightily. Come hither to me, little Mary. I would know if the rest of you tastes as sweet as your lips.”

She was laughing and eager, no longer feigning feminine modesty when she could not be anything but natural. The King was amused and delighted; not since he had set foot on this hated soil had he been so delighted.

He laughed and was refreshed and eased of his humiliation. He’d take this girl the English way—no French fripperies for him! He would say what he meant, and she could too.

He said: “Why, Mary, you’re sweet all over. And where did you hide yourself, Mary? I’m not sure you have not earned a punishment, Mary, for keeping this from your King so long; we might say it was treason, that we might!”

He laughed, mightily pleased, as he always was, with his own pleasantries; and she was overawed and passive, then responsive and pretending to be afraid she had been over-presumptuous to have so enjoyed the King. This was what he wanted, and he was grateful enough to those of his subjects who pleased him. In an exuberance of good spirits he slapped her buttocks—no velvet to cover them now—and she laughed, and her saucy eyes promised much for other times to come.

“You please me, Mary,” he said, and in a rush of crude tenderness added: “You shall not suffer for this day.”

When he left her and when she was scrambling into her clothes, she still trembled from the violence of the experience.

In the Queen’s apartment she was scolded for her lateness; demurely, with eyes cast down, she accepted the reprimand.

Coming from Mary Boleyn, the King met the Cardinal.

Ah, thought the Cardinal, noting the flushed face of his royal master, and guessing something of what had happened, who now?

The King laid his hand on the Cardinal’s shoulder, and they walked together along the corridor, talking of the entertainment they would give the French tonight, for matters of state could not be discussed in the palace of Guisnes; these affairs must wait for Greenwich or York House; impossible to talk of important matters, surrounded by enemies.

This exuberance, thought the Cardinal, means one thing—success in sport. And as sport the Cardinal would include the gratification of the royal senses. Good! said the Cardinal to himself; this has put that disastrous matter of the wrestling from his thoughts.

The Cardinal was on the whole a contented man—as contented, that is, as a man of ambition can ever be. He was proud of his sumptuous houses, his rich possessions; it was a good deal to be, next to the King, the richest man in England. But that which he loved more than riches, he also had; and to those who have known obscurity, power is a more intoxicating draught than riches. Men might secretly call him “Butcher’s cur,” but they trembled before his might, for he was greater than the King. He led the King, and if he managed this only because the King did not know he was led, that was of little account. Very pleasant it was to reflect that his genius for statecraft, his diplomacy, had put the kingdom into the exalted position it held today. This King was a good king, because the goodness of a king depends upon his choice of ministers. There could be no doubt that Henry was a good king, for he had chosen Thomas Wolsey.

It pleased the statesman therefore to see the King happy with a woman, doubtless about to launch himself on yet another absorbing love affair, for then the fat, bejeweled hands, occupied in caressing a woman’s body, could be kept from seeking a place on the helm of the ship of state. The King must be amused; the King must be humored; when he would organize this most ridiculous pageant, this greatest farce in history, there was none that dare deny him his pleasures. Buckingham, the fool, had tried; and Buckingham should tread carefully, for, being so closely related to the King, his head was scarcely safe on his shoulders, be he the most docile of subjects. Francis was not to be trusted. He would make treaties one week, and discard them the next. But how could one snatch the helm from those podgy hands, once the King had decided they must have a place on it? How indeed! Diplomacy forever! thought the Cardinal. Keep the King amused. It was good to see the King finding pleasure in a woman, for well the Cardinal knew that Elizabeth Blount, who had served her purpose most excellently, was beginning to tire His Majesty.

They parted affectionately at the King’s apartments, both smiling, well pleased with life and with each other.

The Queen was retiring. She had dismissed her women when the King came in. Her still beautiful auburn hair hung about her shoulders; her face was pale, thin and much lined, and there were deep shadows under her eyes.

The King looked at her distastefully. With Mary Boleyn still in his thoughts, he recalled the cold submissiveness to duty of this Spanish woman through the years of their marriage. She had been a good wife, people would say; but she would have been as good a wife to his brother Arthur had he lived. Being a good wife was just another of the virtues that irritated him. And what had his marriage with her been but years of hope that never brought him his desires? The Queen is with child; prepare to sing a Te Deum. Prepare to let the bells of London ring. And then…miscarriage after miscarriage; five of them in four years. A stillborn daughter, a son who lived but two months, a stillborn son, one who died at birth and another prematurely born. And then…a daughter!

He had begun to be afraid. Rumors spread quickly through a country, and it is not always possible to prevent their reaching the kingly ear. Why cannot the King have a son? murmured his people. The King grew fearful. I am a very religious man, he thought. The fault cannot be mine. Six times I hear mass each day, and in times of pestilence or war or bad harvest, eight times a day. I confess my sins with regularity; the fault cannot be mine.

But he was superstitious. He had married his brother’s widow. It had been sworn that the marriage had never been consummated. Had it though? The fault could not be his. How could God deny the dearest wish of such a religious man as Henry VIII of England! The King looked round for a scapegoat, and because her body was shapeless with much fruitless child-bearing, and because he never had liked her pious Spanish ways for more than a week or two, because he was beginning to dislike her heartily, he blamed the Queen. Resentfully he thought of those nights when he had lain with her. When he prayed for male issue he reminded his God of this. There were women in his court who had beckoned him with their charms, who had aroused his ready desire; and for duty’s sake he had lain with the Queen, and only during her pregnancies had he gone where he would. What virtue…to go unrewarded! God was just; therefore there was some reason why he had been denied a son. There it was…in that woman on whom he had squandered his manhood without reward.

He knew, when Elizabeth Blount bore his son, that the fault could not lie with him. He had been in an ecstacy of delight when that boy had been born. His virility vindicated, the guilt of Katharine assured, his dislike had become tinged with hatred on that day.

But on this evening his dislike for the Queen was mellowed by the pleasure he had had in Mary Boleyn; he smiled that remote smile which long experience had taught the Queen was born of satisfied lust. His gorgeous clothing was just a little disarranged; the veins stood out more than usual on the great forehead.

He had thrown himself into a chair, and was sitting, his knees wide apart, the glazed smile on his face, making plans which included Mary Boleyn.

The Queen would say a special prayer for him tonight. Meanwhile she asked herself that question which had been in the Cardinal’s mind—“Who now?”

“Venus etait blonde, l’on m’a dit.

L’on voit bien qu’elle est brunette.”

So sang Francois to the lady who excited him most in his wife’s retinue of ladies. Unfortunately for Francois, she was the cleverest as well as the most desirable.

“Ah!” said Francois. “You are the wise one, Mademoiselle Bouillain. You have learned that the fruit which hangs just out of reach is the most desired.”

“Your Majesty well knows my mind,” explained Anne. “What should I be? A king’s mistress. The days of glory for such are very short; we have evidence of that all around us.”

“Might it not depend on the mistress, Mademoiselle Bouillain?”

She shrugged her shoulders in the way which was so much more charming than the gesture of the French ladies, because it was only half French.

“I do not care to take the risk,” she said.

Then he laughed and sang to her, and asked that she should sing to him. This she did gladly, for her voice was good and she was susceptible to admiration and eager to draw it to herself at every opportunity. Contact with the Duchesse d’Alencon had made her value herself highly, and though she was as fond of amorous adventures as any, she knew exactly at what moment to retire. She was enjoying every moment of her life at the court of France. There was so much to amuse her that life could never be dull. Lighthearted flirtations, listening to the scandal of the court, reading with Marguerite, and getting a glimmer of the new religion that had begun to spring up in Europe, since a German monk named Martin Luther had nailed a set of theses on a church door at Wittenberg. Yes, life was colorful and amusing, stimulating mind and body. Though the news that came from England was not so good; disaster had set in after the return from the palace of Guisnes. Poverty had swept over the country; the harvest was bad, and people were dying of the plague in the streets of London. The King was less popular than he had been before his love of vulgar show and pageantry had led him to that folly which men in England now called “The Field of the Cloth of Gold.”

There was not very exhilarating news from her family. Uncle Edmund Howard had yet another child, and that a daughter. Catherine, they called her. Anne’s ready sympathy went out to poor little Catherine Howard, born into the poverty of that rambling old house at Lambeth. Then Mary had married—hardly brilliantly—a certain William Carey. Anne would have liked to hear of a better match for her sister; but both she and George, right from Hever days, had known Mary was a fool.

And now war clouds were looming up afresh, and this time there was fear of a conflict between France and England. At the same time there was talk of a marriage for Anne which was being arranged in England to settle some dispute one branch of her family was having with another.

So Anne left France most reluctantly, and sailed for England. At home they said she was most Frenchified; she was imperious, witty, lovely to look at, and her clothes caused comment from all who beheld them.

She was just sixteen years old.

Anne’s grandfather, the old Duke of Norfolk, was not at home when Anne, in the company of her mother, visited the Norfolk’s house at Lambeth. The Duchess was a somewhat lazy, empty-headed woman who enjoyed listening to the ambitious adventures of the younger members of her family, and she had learned that her granddaughter, Anne, had returned from France a charming creature. Nothing therefore would satisfy the Duchess but that this visit should be paid, and during it she found an especial delight in sitting in the grounds of her lovely home on the river’s edge, dozing and indulging in light conversation with the girl whom she herself would now be ready to admit was the most interesting member of the family. And, thought the vain old lady, the chit has a look of me about her; moreover, I declare at her age I looked very like her. What honors, she wondered, were in store for Anne Boleyn, for the marriage with the Butlers was not being brought at any great speed to a satisfactory conclusion; and how sad if this bright child must bury herself in the wilds of that dreary, troublesome, uncivilized Ireland! But—and the Duchess sighed deeply—what were women but petty counters to be bartered by men in the settlement of their problems? Thomas Boleyn was too ambitious. Marry! An the girl were mine, to court she should go, and a plague on the Butlers.

She watched Anne feeding the peacocks; a figure of grace in scarlet and grey, she was not one whit less gorgeous than those arrogant, elegant birds. She’s Howard, mused the Duchess with pride. All Howard! Not a trace of Boleyn there.

“Come and sit beside me, my dear,” she said. “I would talk to you.”

Anne came and sat on the wooden seat which overlooked the river; she gazed along its bank at the stately gabled houses whose beautiful gardens sloped down to the water, placing their owners within comfortable distance of the quickest and least dangerous means of transport. Her gaze went quickly towards those domes and spires that seemed to pierce the blue and smokeless sky. She could see the heavy arches of London Bridge and the ramparts of the Tower of London—that great, impressive fortress whose towers, strong and formidable, stood like sentinels guarding the city.

Agnes, Duchess of Norfolk, saw the girl’s eager expression, and guessed her thoughts. She tapped her arm.

“Tell me of the court of France, my child. I’ll warrant you found much to amuse you there.”

As Anne talked, the Duchess lay back, listening, now and then stifling a yawn, for she had eaten a big dinner and, interested as she was, she was overcome by drowsiness.

“Why, bless us!” she said. “When you went away, your father was of little import; now you return to find him a gentleman of much consequence—Treasurer of the Household now, if you please!”

“It does please,” laughed Anne.

“They tell me,” said Agnes, “that the office is worth a thousand pounds a year! And what else? Steward of Tonbridge….” She began enumerating the titles on her fingers. “Master of the Hunt. Constable of the Castle. Chamberlain of Tonbridge. Receiver and Bailiff of Bradsted, and the Keeper of the Manor of Penshurst. And now it is whispered that he is to be appointed Keeper of the Parks at Thundersley, to say nothing of Essex and Westwood. Never was so much honor done a man in so short a time!”

“My father,” said Anne, “is a man of much ability.”

“And good fortune,” said Agnes slyly, eyeing the girl mischievously, thinking—Can it be that she does not know why these honors are heaped on her father, and she fresh from the wicked court of France? “And your father is lucky in his children,” commented Agnes mischievously.

The girl turned puzzled eyes on her grandmother. The old lady chuckled, thinking—She makes a pretty pose of ignorance, I’ll swear!

Anne said, her expression changing: “I would it were as well with every member of our family.” And her eyes went towards a house less than half a mile away along the river’s bank.

“Ah!” sighed the Duchess. “There is a man who served his country well, and yet…” She shrugged her shoulders. “His children are too young to be of any use to him.”

“I hear there is a new baby,” said Anne. “Do they not visit you?”

“My dear, Lord Edmund is afraid to leave his house for fear he should be arrested. He has many debts, poor man, and he’s as proud as Lucifer. Ah, yes…a new baby. Why, little Catherine is but a baby yet.”

“Grandmother, I should like to see the baby.”

The Duchess yawned. It had ever been her habit to push unpleasant thoughts aside, and the branch of her family which they were now discussing distressed her. What she enjoyed hearing was of the success of Sir Thomas and the adventures of his flighty daughter. She could nod over them, simper over them, remember her own youth and relive it as she drowsed in her pleasant seat overlooking the river. Still, she would like the Edmund Howards to see this lovely girl in her pretty clothes. The Duchess had a mischievous turn of mind. The little Howards had a distinguished soldier for a father, and they might starve; the Boleyn children had a father who might be a clever enough diplomatist, but, having descended from merchants, was no proud Howard; still, he had a most attractive daughter. There were never two men less alike than Lord Edmund Howard and Sir Thomas Boleyn. And to His Majesty, thought the Duchess, smiling into a lace handkerchief, a sword grown rusty is of less use than a lovely, willing girl.

“Run to the house and get cloaks,” she said. “We will step along to see them. A walk will do me good and mayhap throw off this flatulence which, I declare, attacks me after every meal these days.”

“You eat too heartily, Grandmother.”

“Off with you, impudent child!”

Anne ran off. It does me good to look at her, thought her grandmother. And what when the King claps eyes on her, eh, Thomas Boleyn? Though it occurs to me that she might not be to his taste. I declare were I a man I’d want to spank the haughtiness out of her before I took her to bed. And the King would not be one to brook such ways. Ah, if you go to court, Anne Boleyn, you will have to lose your French dignity—if you hope to do as well as your saucy sister. Though you’ll not go to court; you’ll go to Ireland. The Ormond title and the Ormond wealth must be kept in the family to satisfy grasping Thomas, and he was ever a man to throw his family to the wolves.

The Duchess rose, and Anne, who had come running up, put a cloak about her shoulders; they walked slowly through the gardens and along the river’s edge.

The Lambeth house of the Edmund Howards was a roomy place, cold and drafty. Lady Edmund was a delicate creature on whom too frequent child-bearing and her husband’s poverty were having a dire effect. She and her husband received their visitors in the great panelled hall, and wine was brought for them to drink. Lord Edmund’s dignity was great, and it touched Anne deeply to see his efforts to hide his poverty.

“My dear Jocosa,” said the Duchess to her daughter-in-law, “I have brought my granddaughter along to see you. She has recently returned from France, as you know. Tell your aunt and uncle all about it, child.”

“Uncle Edmund would doubtless find my adventuring tame telling,” said Anne.

“Ah!” said Lord Edmund. “I remember you well, niece. Dover Castle, eh? And the crossing! Marry, I thought I should never see your face again when your ship was missed by the rest of us. I remember saying to Surrey: ‘Why, our niece is there, and she but a baby!’”

Anne sipped her wine, chatting awhile with Lord Edmund of the court of France, of old Louis, of gay Francois, and of Mary Tudor who had longed to be Queen of France and Duchess of Suffolk, and had achieved both ambitions.

The old Duchess tapped her stick imperiously, not caring to be left to Jocosa and her domesticity. “Anne was interested in the children,” she said. “I trow she will be disappointed if she is not allowed to catch a glimpse of them.”

“You must come to the nursery,” said Jocosa. “Though I doubt that the older ones will be there at this hour. The babies love visitors.”

In the nursery at the top of the house, there was more evidence of the poverty of this branch of the Howard family. Little Catherine was shabbily dressed; Mary, the baby, was wrapped in a piece of darned flannel. There was an old nurse who, Anne guessed, doubtless worked without her wages for very love of the family. Her face shone with pride in the children, with affection for her mistress; but she was inclined to be resentful towards Anne and her grandmother. Had I known, thought Anne, I could have put on a simpler gown.

“Here is the new baby, Madam,” said the nurse, and put the flannel bundle into Anne’s arms. Its little face was puckered and red; a very ugly little baby, but it was amusing and affecting to see the nurse hovering over it as though it were very, very precious.

A little hand was stroking the silk of Anne’s surcoat. Anne looked down and saw a large-eyed, very pretty little girl who could not have been very much more than a year old.

“This is the next youngest,” said Jocosa.

“Little Catherine!” said the Duchess, and stooping picked her up. “Now, Catherine Howard, what have you to say to Anne Boleyn?”

Catherine could say nothing; she could only stare at the lovely lady in the gorgeous, bright clothes. The jewels at her throat and on her fingers dazzled Catherine. She wriggled in the Duchess’s arms in an effort to get closer to Anne, who, always susceptible to admiration, even from babies, handed the flannel bundle back to the nurse.

“Would you like me to hold you, cousin Catherine?” she asked, and Catherine smiled delightedly.

“She does not speak,” said the Duchess.

“I fear she is not as advanced as the others,” said Catherine’s mother.

“Indeed not!” said the Duchess severely. “I remember well this girl here as a baby. I never knew one so bright—except perhaps her brother George. Now, Mary…she was more like Catherine here.”

At the mention of Mary’s name Jocosa stiffened, but the old Duchess went on, her eyes sparkling: “Mary was a taking little creature, though she might be backward with her talk. She knew though how to ask for what she wanted, without words…and I’ll warrant she still does!”

Anne and Catherine smiled at each other.

“There!” said the Duchess. “She is wishing she had a child of her own. Confess it, Anne!”

“One such as this, yes!” laughed Anne.

Catherine tried to pluck out the beautiful eyes.

“She admires you vastly!” said Jocosa.

Anne went to a chair and sat down, holding Catherine on her lap, while her grandmother drew Jocosa into a corner and chatted with her of the proposed match for Anne, of the advancement of Sir Thomas and George Boleyn, of Mary and the King.

Catherine’s little hands explored the lovely dress, the glittering jewels; and the child laughed happily as she did so.

“They make a pretty picture,” said the Duchess. “I think I am proud of my granddaughters, Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. They are such pretty creatures, both of them.”

Catherine’s fingers had curled about a jeweled tablet which hung by a silken cord from Anne’s waist; it was a valuable trinket.

“Would you like to have it for your own, little Catherine?” whispered Anne, and detached it. They can doubtless sell it, she thought. It is not much, but it is something. I can see it would be useless to offer help openly to Uncle Edmund.

When they said farewell, Catherine shed tears.

“Why, look what the child has!” cried the Duchess. “It is yours, is it not, Anne? Catherine Howard, Catherine Howard, are you a little thief then?”

“It is a gift,” said Anne hastily. “She liked it, and I have another.”

It was pleasant to be back at Hever after such a long absence. How quiet were the Kentish woods, how solitary the green meadows! She had hoped to see the Wyatts, but they were not in residence at Allington Castle just now; and it was a quiet life she led, reading, sewing, playing and singing with her mother. She was content to enjoy these lazy days, for she had little desire to marry the young man whom it had been ordained she should. She accepted the marriage as a matter of course, as she had known from childhood that when she reached a certain age a match would be made for her. This was it; but how pleasant to pass these days at quiet Hever, wandering through the grounds which she would always love because of those childhood memories they held for her.

Mary paid a visit to Hever; splendidly dressed—Anne considered her over-dressed—she was very gay and lively. Her laughter rang through the castle, shattering its peace. Mary admired her sister, and was too good-natured not to admit it wholeheartedly. “You should do well at court, sister Anne,” she told her. “You would create much excitement, I trow. And those clothes! I have never seen the like; and who but you could wear them with effect!”

They lay under the old apple trees in the orchard together; Mary, lazy and plump, carefully placing a kerchief over her bosom to prevent the sun from spoiling its whiteness.

“I think now and then,” said Mary, “of my visit to you…Do you remember Ardres?”

“Yes,” said Anne, “I remember perfectly.”

“And how you disapproved of me then? Did you not? Confess it.”

“Did I show it then?”

“Indeed you did, Madam! You looked down your haughty nose at me and disapproved right heartily. You cannot say you disapprove now, I trow.”

“I think you have changed very little,” said Anne.

Mary giggled. “You may have disapproved that night, Anne, but there was one who did not!”

“The tastes of all are naturally not alike.”

“There was one who approved most heartily—and he of no small import either!”

“I perceive,” said Anne, laughing, “that you yearn to tell me of your love affairs.”

“And you are not interested?”

“Not very. I am sure you have had many, and that they are all monotonously similar.”

“Indeed! And what if I were to tell His Majesty of that!”

“Do you then pour your girlish confidences into the royal ear?”

“I do now and then, Anne, when I think they may amuse His Grace.”

“What is this?” said Anne, raising herself to look more closely at her sister.

“I was about to tell you. Did I not say that though you might disapprove of me, there was one who does not? Listen, sister. The night I left you to return to the Guisnes Palace I met him; he spoke to me, and we found we liked each other.”

Anne’s face flushed, then paled; she was understanding many things—the chatter of her grandmother, the glances of her Aunt Jocosa, the nurse’s rather self-righteous indignation. One of the heroes of Flodden may starve, but the family of Boleyn shall flourish, for the King likes well one of its daughters.

“How long?” asked Anne shortly.

“From then to now. He is eager for me still. There never was such a man! Anne, I could tell you…”

“I beg that you will not.”

Mary shrugged her shoulders and rolled over on the grass like an amorous cat.

“And William, your husband?” said Anne

“Poor William! I am very fond of him.”

“I understand. The marriage was arranged, and he was given a place at court so that you might be always there awaiting the King’s pleasure, and to place a very flimsy cover of propriety over your immorality.”

Mary was almost choked with laughter.

“Your expressions amuse me, Anne. I declare, I shall tell the King; he will be vastly amused. And you fresh from the court of France!”

“I am beginning to wish I were still there. And our father…”

“Is mightily pleased with the arrangements. A fool he would be otherwise, and none could say our father is a fool.”

“So all these honors that have been heaped upon him…”

“…are due to the fact that your wicked sister has pleased the King!”

“It makes me sick.”

“You have a poor stomach, sister. But you are indeed young, for all your air of worldly wisdom and for all your elegance and grace. Why, bless you, Anne, life is not all the wearing of fine clothes.”

“No? Indeed it would seem that for you it is more a matter of putting them off!”

“You have a witty tongue, Anne. I cannot compete with it. You would do well at court, would you but put aside your prudery. Prudery the King cannot endure; he has enough of that from his Queen.”

“She knows of you and…”

“It is impossible to keep secrets at court, Anne.”

“Poor lady!”

“But were it not I, ’twould be another, the King being as he is.”

“The King being a lecher!” said Anne fiercely.

“That is treason!” cried Mary in mock horror. “Ah! It is easy for you to talk. As for me, I could never say no to such a man.”

“You could never say no to any man!”

“Despise me if you will. The King does not, and our father is mightily pleased with his daughter Mary.”

Now the secret was out; now she understood the sly glances of servants, her father’s looks of approbation as his eyes rested on his elder daughter. There was no one to whom Anne could speak of her perturbation until George came home.

He was eighteen years old, a delight to the eye, very like Anne in appearance, full of exuberant animal spirits; a poet and coming diplomat, and he already had the air of both. His eyes burned with his enthusiasm for life; and Anne was happy when he took her hands, for she had been afraid that the years of separation might divide them and that she would lose forever the beloved brother of her childhood. But in a few short hours those fears were set aside; he was the same George, she the same Anne. Their friendship, she knew, could not lose from the years, only gain from them. Their minds were of similar caliber; alert, intellectual, they were quick to be amused, quick to anger, reckless of themselves. They had therefore a perfect understanding of each other, and, being troubled, it was natural that she should go to him.

She said as they walked together through the Kentish lanes, for she had felt the need to leave the castle so that she might have no fear of being overheard: “I have learned of Mary and the King.”

“That does not surprise me,” said George. “It is common knowledge.”

“It shocked me deeply, George.”

He smiled at her. “It should not.”

“But our sister! It is degrading.”

“She would degrade herself sooner or later, so why should it not be in that quarter from which the greatest advantages may accrue?”

“Our father delights in this situation, George, and our mother is complaisant.”

“My sweet sister, you are but sixteen. Ah, you look wonderfully worldly wise, but you are not yet grown up. You are very like the little girl who sat in the window seats at Blickling, and dreamed of knightly deeds. Life is not romantic, Anne, and men are not frequently honorable knights. Life is a battle or a game which each of us fights or plays with all the skill at his command. Do not condemn Mary because her way would not be yours.”

“The King will tire of her.”

“Assuredly.”

“And cast her off!”

“It is Mary’s nature to be happy, Anne. Do not fear. She will find other lovers when she is ejected from the royal bed. She has poor Will Carey, and she has been in favor for the best part of three years and her family have not suffered for it yet. Know, my sweet sister, that to be mistress of the King is an honor; it is only the mistress of a poor man who degrades herself.”

His handsome face was momentarily set in melancholy lines, but almost immediately he was laughing merrily.

“George,” she said, “I cannot like it.”

“What! Not like to see your father become a power in the land! Not like to see your brother make his way at court!”

“I would rather they had done these things by their own considerable abilities.”

“Bless you!” said George. “There are more favors won this way than by the sweat of the brow. Dismiss the matter from your mind. The Boleyns’ fortunes are in the ascendant. Who knows whither the King’s favor may lead—and all due to our own plump little Mary! Who would have believed it possible!”

“I like it not,” she repeated.

Then he took her hands and kissed them lightly, wishing to soothe her troubled mind.

“Fear not, little sister.”

Now he had her smiling with him—laughing at the incongruity of this situation. Mary—the one who was not as bright as the rest—was leading the Boleyns to fame and fortune.

It seemed almost unbearably quiet after Mary and George had gone. Anne could not speak of Mary’s relationship with the King to her mother, and it irked her frank nature perpetually to have to steer the conversation away from a delicate topic. She was glad when her father returned to the court, for his obvious delight in his good fortune angered Anne. Her father thought her a sullen girl, for she was not one, feeling displeased, to care about hiding her displeasure. Mary was his favorite daughter; Mary was a sensible girl; and Anne could not help feeling that he would be relieved when the arrangements for the Butler marriage were completed. She spent the days with her mother, or wandered often alone in the lanes and gardens.

Sir Thomas returned to Hever in a frenzy of excitement. The King would be passing through Kent, and it was probable that he would spend a night at Hever. Sir Thomas very quickly roused the household to his pitch of excitement. He went to the kitchen and gave orders himself; he had flowers set in the ballroom and replaced by fresh ones twice a day; he grumbled incessantly about the inconvenience of an old castle like Hever, and wished fervently that he had a modern house in which to entertain the King.

“The house is surely of little importance,” said Anne caustically, “as long as Mary remains attractive to the King!”

“Be silent, girl!” thundered Sir Thomas. “Do you realize that this is the greatest of honors?”

“Surely not the greatest!” murmured Anne, and was silenced by a pleading look from her mother, who greatly feared discord; and, loving her mother while deploring her attitude in the case of Mary and the King, Anne desisted.

The King’s having given no date for his visit, Sir Thomas fumed and fretted for several days, scarcely leaving the castle for fear he should not be on the spot to welcome his royal master.

One afternoon Anne took a basket to the rose garden that she might cut some of the best blooms for her mother. It was a hot afternoon, and she was informally dressed in her favorite scarlet; as the day was so warm she had taken off the caul from her head and shaken out her long, silky ringlets. She had sat on a seat in the rose garden for an hour or more, half dozing, when she decided it was time she gathered the flowers and returned to the house; and as she stood by a tree of red roses she was aware of a footfall close by, and turning saw what she immediately thought of as “a Personage” coming through the gap in the conifers which was the entrance to this garden. She felt the blood rush to her face, for she knew him at once. The jewels in his clothes were caught and held by the sun, so that it seemed as if he were on fire; his face was ruddy, his beard seemed golden, and his presence seemed to fill the garden. She could not but think of Mary’s meeting with him in the palace of Guisnes, and her resentment towards him flared up within her, even as she realized it would be sheer folly to show him that resentment. She sought therefore to compose her features and, with admirable calm—for she had decided now that her safest plan was to feign ignorance of his identity—she went on snipping the roses.

Henry was close. She turned as though in surprise to find herself not alone, gave him the conventional bow of acknowledgment which she would have given to one of her father’s ordinary acquaintances, and said boldly: “Good day, sir.”

The King was taken aback. Then inwardly he chuckled, thinking—She has no notion who I am! He studied her with the utmost appreciation. Her informal dress was more becoming, he thought, than those elaborate creations worn by some ladies at a court function. Her beautiful hair was like a black silk cloak about her shoulders. He took in each detail of her appearance and thought that he had never seen one whose beauty delighted him more.

She turned her head and snipped off a rose.

“My father is expecting the King to ride this way. I presume you to be one of his gentlemen!”

Masquerade had ever greatly appealed to Henry. There was nothing he enjoyed as much as to appear disguised at some ball or banquet, and after much badinage with his subjects and at exactly the appropriate moment, to make the dramatic announcement—“I am your King!” And how could this game be more delightfully played out than in a rose garden on a summer’s afternoon with, surely, the loveliest maiden in his kingdom!

He took a step closer to her.

“Had I known,” he said, “that I should come face to face with such beauty, depend upon it, I should have whipped up my horse.”

“Would you not have had to await the King’s pleasure?”

“Aye!” He slapped his gorgeous thigh. “That I should!”

She, who knew so well how to play the coquette, now did so with a will, for in this role she could appease that resentment in herself which threatened to make her very angry as she contemplated this lover of her sister Mary. Let him come close, and she—in assumed ignorance of his rank—would freeze him with a look. She snipped off a rose and gave it to him.

“You may have it if you care to.”

He said: “I do care. I shall keep it forever.”

“Bah!” she answered him contemptuously. “Mere court gallantry!”

“You like not our court gallants?”

Her mocking eyes swept his padded, jeweled figure.

“They are somewhat clumsy when compared with those of the French court.”

“You are lately come from France?”

“I am. A match has been arranged for me with my cousin.”

“Would to God I were the cousin! Tell me…” He came yet closer, noting the smooth skin, the silky lashes, the proud tilt of the head and its graceful carriage on the tiny neck. “Was that less clumsy?”

“Nay!” she said, showing white teeth. “Not so! It was completely without subtlety; I saw it coming.”

Henry found that, somewhat disconcerting as this was, he was enjoying it. The girl had a merry wit, and he liked it; she was stimulating as a glass of champagne. And I swear I never clapped eyes on a lovelier wench! he told himself. The airs she gives herself! It would seem I were the subject—she the Queen!

She said: “The garden is pretty, is it not? To me this is one of the most pleasant spots at Hever.”

They walked around it; she showed him the flowers, picked a branch of lavender and held it to her nose; then she rolled it in her hands and smelled its pleasant fragrance there.

Henry said: “You tell me you have recently come from the court of France. How did you like it there?”

“It was indeed pleasant.”

“And you are sorry to return?”

“I think that may be, for so long have I been there that it seems as home to me.”

“I like not to hear that.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “They say I am as French as I am English.”

“The French,” he said, the red of his face suddenly tinged with purple that matched his coat, “are a perfidious set of rascals.”

“Sir!” she said reproachfully and, drawing her skirts about her, she walked from him and sat on the wooden seat near the pond. She looked at him coldly as he hurried towards her.

“How now!” he said, thinking he had had enough of the game.

He sat down beside her, pressing his thigh against hers, which caused her immediate withdrawal from him. “Perfidious!” she said slowly. “Rascals! And when I have said I am half French!”

“Ah!” he said. “I should not use such words to you. You have the face of an angel!”

She was off the seat, as though distrusting his proximity. She threw herself onto the grass near the pond and looked into still waters at her own reflection, a graceful feminine Narcissus, her hair touching the water.

“No!” she said imperiously, as he would have risen: “You stay there, and mayhap I will tarry awhile and talk to you.”

He did not understand himself. The joke should have been done with ere this. It was time to explain, to have her on her knees craving forgiveness for her forwardness. He would raise her and say: “We cannot forgive such disrespectful treatment of your sovereign. We demand a kiss in payment for your sins!” But he was unsure; there was that in her which he had never before discovered in a woman. She looked haughty enough to refuse a kiss to a king. No, no! he thought. Play this little game awhile.

She said: “The French are an interesting people. I was fortunate there. My friend was Madame la Duchesse D’Alencon, and I count myself indeed happy to have such a friend.”

“I have heard tales of her,” he said.

“Her fame travels. Tell me, have you read Boccaccio?”

The King leaned forward. Had he read Boccaccio! Indeed he had, and vastly had the fellow’s writing pleased him.

“And you?” he asked.

She nodded, and they smiled at each other in the understanding of a pleasure shared.

“We would read it together, the Duchess and I. Tell me, which of the stories did you prefer?”

Finding himself plunged deep into a discussion of the literature of his day, Henry forgot he was a king, and an amorous king at that. There was in this man, in addition to the coarse, crude, insatiable sensualist, a scholar of some attainment. Usually the sensualist was the stronger, ever ready to stifle the other, but there was about this girl sitting by the pond a purity that commanded his respect, and he found he could sit back in his seat and delight in her as he would in a beautiful picture or piece of statuary, while he could marvel at her unwomanly intellect. Literature, music and art could have held a strong position in his life, had he not in his youth been such a healthy animal. Had he but let his enthusiasm for them grow in proportion to that which he bestowed on tennis, on jousting, on the hunting of game and of women, his mind would assuredly have developed as nobly as his body. An elastic mind would have served him better than his strong muscles; but the jungle animal in him had been strong, and urgent desires tempered by a narrow religious outlook had done much to suppress the finer man, and from the mating of the animal and the zealot was born that monster of cruelty, his conscience. But that was to come; the monster was as yet in its infancy, and pleasant it was to talk of things of the mind with an enchanting companion. She was full of wit, and Marguerite of Alencon talked through her young lips. She had been allowed to peep into the Heptameron—that odd book which, under the influence of Boccaccio, Marguerite was writing.

From literature she passed to the pastimes of the French court. She told of the masques, less splendid perhaps than those he indulged in with such pleasure, but more subtle and amusing. Wit was to the French court what bright colors and sparkling jewels were to the English. She told of a play which she had helped Marguerite to write, quoting lines from it which set him laughing with appreciative merriment. He was moved to tell her of his own compositions, reciting some verses of his. She listened, her head on one side, critical.

She shook her head: “The last line is not so good. Now this would have been better…” And so would it! Momentarily he was angered, for those at court had declared there never were such verses written as those penned by his hand. From long practice he could pretend, even to himself, that his anger came from a different cause than that from which it really sprang. Now it grew—he assured himself—not from her slighting remarks on his poetry, but from the righteous indignation he must feel when he considered that this girl, though scarcely out of her childhood, had been exposed to the wickedness of the French court. Where he himself was concerned he had no sense of the ridiculous; he could, in all seriousness, put aside the knowledge that even at this moment he was planning her seduction, and burn with indignation that others—rakes and libertines with fancy French manners—might have had similar intentions. Such a girl, he told himself, smarting under the slights which she, reared in that foreign court, had been able to deliver so aptly, should never have been sent to France.

He said with dignity: “It grieves me to think of the dangers to which you have been exposed at that licentious court presided over by a monarch who…” His voice failed him, for he pictured a dark, clever face, a sly smile and lips which had referred to him as “My prisoner.”

She laughed lightly. “The King of France is truly of an amorous nature, but never would I be a king’s mistress!”

It seemed to him that this clever girl then answered a question which he had yet to ask. He felt worsted, and angry to be so.

He said severely: “There are some who would not think it an indignity to be a king’s mistress, but an honor.”

“Doubtless there are those who sell themselves cheaply.”

“Cheaply!” he all but roared. “Come! It is not kingly to be niggardly with those that please.”

“I do not mean in worldly goods. To sell one’s dignity and honor for momentary power and perhaps riches—that is to sell cheaply those things which are beyond price. Now I must go into the house.” She stood up, throwing back her hair. He stood too, feeling deflated and unkingly.

Silently he walked with her from the rose garden. Now was the time to disclose his identity, for it could not much longer be kept secret.

“You have not asked my name,” he said.

“Nor you mine.”

“You are the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn, I have gathered.”

“Indeed, that was clever of you!” she mocked. “I am Anne Boleyn.”

“You still do not ask my name. Have you no curiosity to know it?”

“I shall doubtless learn in good time.”

“My name is Henry.”

“It is a good English name.”

“And have you noticed nothing yet?”

She turned innocent eyes upon him. “What is there that I should have noticed?”

“It is the same as the King’s.” He saw the mockery in her eyes now. He blurted out: “By God! You knew all the time!”

“Having once seen the King’s Grace, how could one of his subjects ever forget him?”

He was uncertain now whether to be amused or angry; in vain did he try to remember all she had said to him and he to her. “Methinks you are a saucy wench!” he said.

“I hope my sauciness has pleased my mighty King.”

He looked at her sternly, for though her words were respectful, her manner was not.

“Too much sauce,” he said, “is apt to spoil a dish.”

“And too little, to destroy it!” she said, casting down her eyes. “I had thought that Your Majesty, being a famous epicure, would have preferred a well-flavored one.”

He gave a snort of laughter and put out a hand which he would have laid on her shoulders, but without giving him a glance she moved daintily away, so that he could not know whether by accident or design.

He said: “We shall look to see you at court with your sister.”

He was unprepared for the effect of those words; her cheeks were scarlet as her dress, and her eyes lost all their merriment. Her father was coming across the lawn towards them; she bowed low and turning from him ran across the grass and into the castle.

“You have a beautiful daughter there, Thomas!” exclaimed the King. And Thomas, obsequious, smiling, humbly conducted Henry into Hever Castle.

The sight of the table in the great dining-hall brought a glister of pride into Sir Thomas’s eyes. On it were laid out in most lavish array great joints of beef, mutton and venison, hare and seasoned peacocks; there were vegetables and fruit, and great pies and pastries. Sir Thomas’s harrying of his cooks and scullions had been well worthwhile, and he felt that the great kitchens of Hever had done him justice. The King eyed this display with an approval which might have been more marked, had not his thoughts been inclined to dwell more upon Sir Thomas’s daughter than on his table.

They took their seats, the King in the place of honor at the right hand of his host, the small company he had brought with him ranged about the table. There was one face for which the King looked in vain; Sir Thomas, ever eager to anticipate the smallest wish of his sovereign, saw the King’s searching look and understood it; he called a serving-maid to him and whispered sharply to her to go at once to his daughter and bid her to the table without a second’s delay. The maid returned with the disconcerting message that Sir Thomas’s daughter suffered from a headache and would not come to the table that day. The King, watching this little by-play with the greatest interest, heard every word.

“Go back at once,” said Sir Thomas, “and tell the lady I command her presence here at once!”

“Stay!” interceded Henry, his voice startling Sir Thomas by its unusual softness. “Allow me to deal with the matter, good Thomas. Come hither, girl.”

The poor little serving-maid dropped a frightened curtsey and feared she would not be able to understand the King’s commands, so overawed was she by his notice.

“Tell the lady from us,” said Henry, “that we are indeed sorry for the headache. Tell her it doubtless comes from lingering too daringly in the rays of the sun. Tell her we excuse her and wish her good speed in her recovery.”

He did not see Anne again, for she kept to her room. Next morning he left Hever. He looked up at its windows, wondering which might be hers, telling himself that no girl, however haughty, however self-possessed, would be able to prevent herself from taking one glimpse at her King. But there was no sign of a face at any window. Disconsolate, bemused, the King rode away from Hever.

The great Cardinal, he who was Lord Chancellor of the realm, rode through the crowds. Before him and behind went his gentlemen attendants, for the great man never rode abroad but that he must impress the people with his greatness. He sat his mule with a dignity which would have become a king. What though his body were weak, his digestion poor, that he was very far from robust and suffered many ailments! His mind was the keenest, the most able, the most profound in the kingdom; and thus, first through the King’s father, and more effectively through his gracious son, had Thomas Wolsey come to his high office. His success, he knew well, lay with his understanding of the King—that fine robustious animal—and when he was but almoner to his gracious lord he had used that knowledge and so distinguished himself. There had been those counsellors who might urge the King to leave his pleasure and devote more time to affairs of state. Not so Thomas Wolsey! Let the King leave tiresome matters to his most dutiful servant. Let the King pursue his pleasures. Leave the wearisome matters to his most obedient—and what was all-important—to his most able Wolsey! How well the King loved those who did his will! This King, this immense man—in whom all emotions matched his huge body—hated fiercely and could love well. And he had loved Wolsey, in whose hands he could so safely place those matters that were important to his kingdom but so monotonously dull to his royal mind. And never was a man more content than Wolsey that this should be so. He, arrogant, imperious as his master, had had the indignity to be born the son of a poor man of Ipswich, and by his own fine brain had replaced indignity with honor. The Ipswich merchant’s son was the best loved friend of the English King, and how doubly dear were those luxuries and those extravagances with which he, who had once suffered from obscurity, now surrounded himself! If he were over-lavish, he forgave himself; he had to wash the taste of Ipswich from his mouth.

As he rode on his ceremonious way, the people watched him. To his nose he held what might appear to be an orange, and what was really a guard against disease; for all the natural matter had been taken from the orange and in its place was stuffed part of a sponge containing vinegar and such concoctions as would preserve a great man from the pestilence which floated in the London air. Perhaps the people murmured against him; there were those who gave him sullen looks. Is this a man of God? they asked each other. This Wolsey—no higher born than you or I—who surrounds himself with elegance and luxury at the expense of the hard-pressed people! This gourmet, who must get special dispensation from the Pope that he need not follow the Lenten observances! They say he never forgives a slight. They say his hands are as red as his robes. What of brave Buckingham! A marvel it is that the headless ghost of the Duke does not haunt his murderer!

If Wolsey could have spoken to them of Buckingham, he could have told them that a man, who will at any cost hold the King’s favor, must often steep his hands in blood. Buckingham had been a fool. Buckingham had insulted Wolsey, and Wolsey had brought a charge against him of treasonable sorcery. Buckingham went to the block, not for his treasonable sorcery; he died because he had committed the unforgivable sin of being too nearly related to the King. He stood too close to the throne, and the Tudors had not been in possession of it long enough to be able to regard such an offense lightly. Thus it was one kept the favor of kings; by learning their unuttered desires and anticipating their wishes; thus one remained the power behind the throne, one’s eyes alert, one’s ears trained to catch the faintest inflection of the royal voice, fearful lest the mighty puppet might become the master.

In the presence-chamber Wolsey awaited audience of the King. He came, fresh from his Kentish journey, flushed with health, his eyes beaming with pleasure as they rested on his best-loved statesman.

“I would speak with Your Majesty on one or two matters,” said the Chancellor-Cardinal when he had congratulated the King on his healthy appearance.

“Matters of state! Matters of state, eh? Let us look into these matters, good Thomas.”

Wolsey spread papers on the table, and the royal signature was appended to them. The King listened, though his manner was a little absent.

“You are a good man, Thomas,” he said, “and we love you well.”

“Your Majesty’s regard is my most treasured possession.”

The King laughed heartily, but his voice was a trifle acid when he spoke. “Then the King is pleased, for to be the most treasured of all your possessions, my rich friend, is indeed to be of great price!”

Wolsey felt the faintest twinge of uneasiness, until he saw in his sovereign’s face a look he knew well. There was a glaze over the bright little eyes, the cruel mouth had softened, and when the King spoke, his voice was gentle.

“Wolsey, I have been discoursing with a young lady who has the wit of an angel, and is worthy to wear a crown.”

Wolsey, alert, suppressed his smile with the desire to rub his hands together in his glee.

“It is sufficient if Your Majesty finds her worthy of your love,” he whispered.

The King pulled at his beard.

“Nay, Thomas, I fear she would never condescend that way.”

“Sire, great princes, if they choose to play the lover, have that in their power to mollify a heart of steel.”

The King shook his great head in melancholy fashion, seeing her bending over the pond, seeing her proud young head on the small neck, hearing her sweet voice: “I would never be a king’s mistress!”

“Your Majesty has been saddened by this lady,” said Wolsey solicitously.

“I fear so, Wolsey.”

“This must not be!” Wolsey’s heart was merry. There was nothing he desired so much at this time as to see his master immersed in a passionate love affair. It was necessary at this moment to keep the fat, jeweled finger out of the French pie.

“Nay, my master, my dear lord, your chancellor forbids such sadness.” He put his head closer to the flushed face. “Could we not bring the lady to court, and find a place for her among the Queen’s ladies?”

The King placed an affectionate arm about Wolsey’s shoulders.

“If Your Majesty will but whisper the name of the lady…”

“It is Boleyn’s daughter…Anne.”

Now Wolsey had great difficulty in restraining his mirth. Boleyn’s daughter! Anne! Off with the elder daughter! On with the younger!

“My lord King, she shall come to the court. I shall give a banquet at Hampton Court—a masque it shall be! I shall ask my Gracious Liege to honor me with his mighty presence. The lady shall be there!”

The King smiled, well pleased. A prince, had said this wise man, has that power to mollify a heart of steel. Good Wolsey! Dear Thomas! Dear friend and most able statesman!

“Methinks, Thomas,” said the King with tears in his eyes, “that I love thee well.”

Wolsey fell on his knees and kissed the ruby on the forefinger of the fat hand. And I do love this man, thought the King; for he was one to whom it was not necessary to state crude facts. The lady would be brought to court, and it would appear that she came not through the King’s wish. That was what he wanted, and not a word had he said of it; yet Wolsey had known. And well knew the King that Wolsey would arrange this matter with expedience and tact.

Life at the English court offered amusement in plenty, and the coming of one as vivacious and striking as Anne Boleyn could not pass unnoticed. The ladies received her with some interest and much envy, the gentlemen with marked appreciation. There were two ways of life at court; on the one hand there was the gay merry-making of the King’s faction, on the other the piety of the Queen. As Queen’s attendant, Anne’s actions were restricted; but at the jousts and balls, where the Queen’s side must mingle with the King’s, she attracted a good deal of attention for none excelled her at the dance, and whether it was harpsichord, virginals or flute she played there were always those to crowd about her; when she sang, men grew sentimental, for there was that in her rich young voice to move men to tears.

The King was acutely aware of her while feigning not to notice her. He would have her believe that he had been not entirely pleased by her disrespectful manners at Hever, and that he still remembered the levity of her conversation with pained displeasure.

Anne laughed to herself, thinking—Well he likes a masquerade, when he arranges it; well he likes a joke against others! Is he angry at my appointment to attend the Queen? How I hope he does not banish me to Hever!

Life had become so interesting. As lady-in-waiting to the Queen, she was allowed a woman attendant and a spaniel of her own; she was pleased with the woman and delighted with the spaniel. The three of them shared a breakfast of beef and bread, which they washed down with a gallon of ale between them. Other meals were taken with the rest of the ladies in the great chamber, and at all these meals ale and wine were served in plenty; meat was usually the fare—beef, mutton, poultry, rabbits, peacocks, hares, pigeons—except on fast days when, in place of the meats, there would be a goodly supply of salmon or flounders, salted eels, whiting, or plaice and gurnet. But it was not the abundance of food that delighted Anne; it was the gaiety of the company. And if she had feared to be dismissed from the court in those first days, no sooner had she set eyes on Henry, Lord Percy, eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland, than she was terrified of that happening.

These two young people met about the court, though not as often as they could have wished, for whilst Anne, as maid of honor to Queen Katharine, was attached to the court, Percy was a protégé of the Cardinal. It pleased Wolsey to have in his retinue of attendants various high-born young men, and so great was his place in the kingdom that this honor was sought by the noblest families in the realm. Young Percy must therefore attend the Cardinal daily, accompany him to court, and consider himself greatly honored by the patronage of this low-born man.

Lord Percy was a handsome young man of delicate features and of courteous manners; and as soon as he saw the Queen’s newest lady-in-waiting he was captivated by her personal charms. And Anne, seeing this handsome boy, was filled with such a tenderness towards him, which she had experienced for none hitherto, that whenever she knew the Cardinal to be in audience with the King she would look for the young nobleman. Whenever he came to the palace he was alert for a glimpse of her. They were both young; he was very shy; and so, oddly enough, was she, where he was concerned.

One day she was sitting at a window overlooking a courtyard when into this courtyard there came my lord Cardinal and his attendants; and among these latter was Henry, Lord Percy. His eyes flew to the window, saw Anne, and emboldened by the distance which separated them, flashed her a message which she construed as “Wait there, and while the Cardinal is closeted with the King I will return. I have so long yearned to hold speech with you!”

She waited, her heart beating fast as she pretended to stitch a piece of tapestry; waiting, waiting, feeling a sick fear within her lest the King might not wish to see the Cardinal, and the young man might thus be unable to escape.

He came running across the courtyard, and she knew by his haste and his enraptured expression that his fear had been as hers.

“I feared to find you gone!” he said breathlessly.

“I feared you would not come,” she answered.

“I look for you always.”

“I for you.”

They smiled, beautiful both of them in the joyful discovery of loving and being loved.

Anne was thinking that were he to ask her, she, who had laughed at Mary for marrying Will Carey, would gladly marry him though he might be nothing more than the Cardinal’s Fool.

“I know not your name,” said Percy, “but your face is the fairest I ever saw.”

“It is Anne Boleyn.”

“You are daughter to Sir Thomas?”

She nodded, blushing, thinking Mary would be in his mind, and a fear came to her that her sister’s disgrace might discredit herself in his eyes. But he was too far gone in love to find her anything but perfect.

“I am recently come to court,” she said.

“That I know! You could not have been here a day but that I should have found you.”

She said: “What would your master say an he found you lingering beneath this window?”

“I know not, nor care I!”

“Were you caught, might there not be those who would prevent you from coming again? Already you may have been missed.”

He was alarmed. To be prevented from enjoying the further bliss of such meetings was intolerable.

“I go now,” he said. “Tomorrow…you will be here at this hour?”

“You will find me here.”

“Tomorrow,” he said, and they smiled at each other.

Next day she saw him, and the next. There were many meetings, and for each of those two young lovers the day was good when they met, and bad when they did not. She learned of his exalted rank, and she could say with honesty that this mattered to her not at all, except of course that her ambitious father could raise no objection to a match with the house of Northumberland.

One day her lover came to her and pleasure was written large on his face.

“The Cardinal is to give a ball at this house at Hampton. All the ladies of the court will be invited!”

“You will be there?”

“You too!” he replied.

“We shall be masked.”

“I shall find you.”

“And then…?” she said.

His eyes held the answer to that question.

Anne had dreamed of such happiness, though of late her observation of those about her had led her to conclude that it was rarely known. But to her it had come; she would treasure it, preserve it, keep it forever. She could scarcely wait for that day when Thomas Wolsey would entertain the court at his great house at Hampton on the Thames.

The King was uneasy. The Cardinal had thought to help him when he had had Anne appointed a maid of honor to the Queen; but had he? Never, for the sake of a woman, had the King been so perplexed. He must see her every day, for how could he deny his eyes a sight of the most charming creature they had ever rested on! Yet he dared not speak with her. And why? For this reason; no sooner had the girl set foot in the Queen’s apartments than that old enemy, his conscience, must rear its ugly head to leer at him.

“Henry,” said the conscience, “this girl’s sister, Mary Boleyn, has shared your bed full many a night, and well you know the edict of the Pope. Well you know that association with one sister gives you an affinity with the other. Therein lies sin!”

“That I know well,” answered Henry the King. “But as there was no marriage….”

Such reasoning could not satisfy the conscience; it was the same—marriage ceremony or no marriage ceremony—and well he knew it.

“But there was never one like this girl; never was I so drawn to a woman; never before have I felt myself weak as I would be with her. Were she my mistress, I verily believe I should be willing to dispense with all others, and would not that be a good thing, for in the eyes of the Holy Church, is it not better for a man to have one mistress than many? Then, would not the Queen be happier? One mistress is forgivable; her distress comes from there being so many.”

He was a man of many superstitions, of deep religious convictions. The God of his belief was a king like himself, though a more powerful being since, in place of the axe, he was able to wield a more terrifying weapon whose blade was supernatural phenomena. Vindictive was the King’s god, susceptible to flattery, violent in love, more violent in hate—a jealous god, a god who spied, who recorded slights and insults, and whose mind worked in the same simple way as that of Henry of England. Before this god Henry trembled as men trembled before Henry. Hence the conscience, the uneasiness, his jealous watchfulness of Anne Boleyn, and his reluctance to make his preference known.

In vain he tried to soothe his senses. All women are much alike in darkness. Mary is very like her sister. Mary is sweet and willing; and there are others as willing.

He tried to placate his conscience. “I shall not look at the girl; I will remember there is an affinity between us.”

So those days, which were a blissful heaven to Anne and another Henry, were purgatory to Henry the King, racked alternately by conscience and desire.

She was clad in scarlet, and her vest was cloth of gold. She wore what had become known at court as the Boleyn sleeves, but they did not divulge her identity, for many wore the Boleyn sleeves since she had shown the charm of this particular fashion. Her hair was hidden by her gold cap, and only the beautiful eyes showing through her mask might proclaim her as Anne Boleyn.

He found her effortlessly, because she had described to him in detail the costume she would wear.

“I should have known you though you had not told me. I should always know you.”

“Then, sir,” she answered pertly, “I would I had put you to the test!”

“I heard the music on the barges as they came along the river,” he said, “and I do not think I have ever been so happy in my life.”

He was a slender figure in a coat of purple velvet embroidered in gold thread and pearls. Anne thought there was no one more handsome in this great ballroom, though the King, in his scarlet coat on which emeralds flashed, and in his bonnet dazzling rich with rubies and diamonds, was a truly magnificent sight.

The lovers clasped hands, and from a recess watched the gay company.

“There goes the King!”

“Who thinks,” said Anne, laughing, “to disguise himself with a mask!”

“None dare disillusion him, or ’twould spoil the fun. It seems as though he searches for someone.”

“His latest sweetheart, doubtless!” said Anne scornfully.

Percy laid his hand on her lips.

“You speak too freely, Anne.”

“That was ever a fault of mine. But do you doubt that is the case?”

“I doubt it not—and you have no faults! Let us steal away from these crowds. I know a room where we can be alone. There is much I would say to you.”

“Take me there then. Though I should be most severely reprimanded if the Queen should hear that one of her ladies hides herself in lonely apartments in the house.”

“You can trust me. I would die rather than allow any hurt to come to you.”

“That I know well. I like not these crowds, and would hear what it is that you have to say to me.”

They went up a staircase and along a corridor. There were three small steps leading into a little antechamber; its one window showed the river glistening in moonlight.

Anne went to that window and looked across the gardens to the water.

“There was surely never such a perfect night!” she exclaimed.

He put his arms about her, and they looked at each other, marveling at what they saw.

“Anne! Make it the most perfect night there ever was, by promising to marry me.”

“If it takes that to make this night perfect,” she answered softly, “then now it is so.”

He took her hands and kissed them, too young and mild of nature to trust entirely the violence of his emotion.

“You are the most beautiful of all the court ladies, Anne.”

“You think that because you love me.”

“I think it because it is so.”

“Then I am happy to be so for you.”

“Did you ever dream of such happiness, Anne?”

“Yes, often…but scarce dared hope it would be mine.”

“Think of those people below us, Anne. How one pities them! For what can they know of happiness like this!”

She laughed suddenly, thinking of the King, pacing the floor, trying to disguise the fact that he was the King, looking about him for his newest sweetheart. Her thoughts went swiftly to Mary.

“My sister…” she began.

“What of your sister! Of what moment could she be to us!”

“None!” she cried, and taking his hand, kissed it. “None, do we but refuse to let her.”

“Then we refuse, Anne.”

“How I love you!” she told him. “And to think I might have let them marry me to my cousin of Ormond!”

“They would marry me to Shrewsbury’s daughter!”

A faint fear stirred her then. She remembered that he was the heir of the Earl of Northumberland; it was meet that he should marry into the Shrewsbury family, not humble Anne Boleyn.

“Oh, Henry,” she said, “what if they should try to marry you to the Lady Mary?”

“They shall marry me to none but Anne Boleyn!”

It was not difficult, up here in the little moonlight chamber, to defy the world; but they dare not tarry too long. All the company must be present when the masks were removed, or absent themselves on pain of the King’s displeasure.

In the ballroom the festive air was tinged with melancholy. The Cardinal was perturbed, for the King clearly showed his annoyance. A masked ball was not such a good idea as it had at first seemed, for the King had been unable to find her whom he sought.

The masks were removed; the ball over, and the royal party lodged in the two hundred and forty gorgeous bedrooms which it was the Cardinal’s delight to keep ready for his guests.

The news might seem a rumor just at first, but before many days had passed the fact was established that Henry, Lord Percy, eldest son and heir to the noble Earl of Northumberland, was so far gone in love with sparkling Anne Boleyn that he had determined to marry her.

And so the news came to the ear of the King.

The King was purple with fury. He sent for him to whom he always turned in time of trouble. The Cardinal came hastily, knowing that to rely on the favor of a king is to build one’s hopes on a quiet but not extinct volcano. Over the Cardinal flowed the molten lava of Henry’s anger.

“By Christ!” cried the King. “Here is a merry state of affairs! I would take the fool and burn him at the stake, were he not such a young fool. How dare he think to contract himself without our consent!”

“Your Majesty, I fear I am in ignorance…”

“Young Percy!” roared His Majesty. “Fool! Dolt that he is! He has, an it please you, decided he will marry Anne Boleyn!”

Inwardly the Cardinal could smile. This was a mere outbreak of royal jealousy. I will deal with this, thought the Cardinal, and deplored that his wit, his diplomacy must be squandered to mend a lover’s troubles.

“Impertinent young fool!” soothed the Cardinal. “As he is one of my young men, Your Majesty must allow me to deal with him. I will castigate him. I will make him aware of his youthful…nay, criminal folly, since he has offended Your Majesty. He is indeed a dolt to think Northumberland can mate with the daughter of a knight!”

Through the King’s anger beamed his gratitude to Wolsey. Dear Thomas, who made the way easy! That was the reason, he told his conscience—Northumberland cannot mate with a mere knight’s daughter!

“’Twere an affront to us!” growled mollified Henry. “We gave our consent to the match with Shrewsbury’s girl.”

“And a fitting match indeed!” murmured the Cardinal.

“A deal more fitting than that he should marry Boleyn’s girl. My dear Wolsey, I should hold myself responsible to Shrewsbury and his poor child if anything went amiss….”

“Your Grace was ever full of conscience. You must not blame your royal self for the follies of your subjects.”

“I do, Thomas…I do! After all, ’twas I who brought the wench to court.”

Wolsey murmured: “Your Majesty…? Why, I thought ’twas I who talked to Boleyn of his younger daughter….”

“No matter!” said the King, his eyes beaming with affection. “I thought I mentioned the girl to you. No matter!”

“I spoke to Boleyn, Your Grace, I remember well.”

The King’s hand patted the red-clad shoulder.

“I know this matter can be trusted to you.”

“Your Majesty knows well that I shall settle it most expeditiously.”

“They shall both be banished from the court. I will not be flouted by these young people!”

Wolsey bowed.

“The Shrewsbury marriage can be hastened,” said the King.

Greatly daring, Wolsey asked: “And the girl, Your Majesty? There was talk of a marriage…the Ormond estates were the issue…Perhaps Your Majesty does not remember.”

The brows contracted; the little eyes seemed swallowed up in puffy flesh. The King’s voice cracked out impatiently: “That matter is not settled. I like not these Irish. Suffice it that we banish the girl.”

“Your Majesty may trust me to deal with the matter in accordance with your royal wishes.”

“And, Thomas…let the rebuke come from you. I would not have these young people know that I have their welfare so much at heart; methinks they already have too high a conceit of themselves.”

After Wolsey retired, the King continued to pace up and down. Let her return to Hever. She should be punished for daring to fall in love with that paltry boy. How was she in love? Tender? It was difficult to imagine that. Eager? Ah! Eager with a wretched boy! Haughty enough she had been with her lord the King! To test that eagerness he would have given the brightest jewel in his crown, but she would refuse her favors like a queen. And in a brief acquaintance, she had twice offended him; let her see that even she could not do that with impunity!

So she should be exiled to Hever, whither he would ride one day. She should be humble; he would be stern…just at first.

He threw himself into a chair, legs apart, hands on knees, thinking of a reconciliation in the rose garden at Hever.

His anger had passed away.

Immediately on his return to his house at Westminster, Wolsey sent for Lord Percy.

The young man came promptly, and there in the presence of several of his higher servants Wolsey began to upbraid him, marveling, he said, at his folly in thinking he might enter into an engagement with a foolish girl at the court. Did the young fool not realize that on his father’s death he would inherit and enjoy one of the noblest earldoms in the kingdom? How then could he marry without the consent of his father? Did Percy think, he thundered, that either his father or the King would consent to his matching himself with such a one? Moreover, continued the Cardinal, working himself up to a fine frenzy of indignation such as struck terror into the heart of the boy, he would have Percy know that the King had at great trouble prepared a suitable match for Anne Boleyn. Would he flout the King’s pleasure!

Lord Percy was no more timid than most, but he knew the ways of the court well enough to quail before the meaning he read into Wolsey’s words. Men had been committed to the Tower for refusing to obey the King’s command, and Wolsey clearly had the King behind him in this matter. Committed to the Tower! Though the dread Cardinal did not speak the words, Percy knew they were there ready to be pronounced at any moment. Men went to the Tower and were heard of no more. Dread happenings there were in the underground chambers of the Tower of London. Men were incarcerated, and never heard of again. And Percy had offended the King!

“Sir,” he said, trembling, “I knew not the King’s pleasure, and am sorry for it. I consider I am of good years, and thought myself able to provide me a convenient wife as my fancy should please me, not doubting that my lord and father would have been well content. Though she be but a simple maid and her father a knight, yet she is descended of noble parentage, for her mother is of high Norfolk blood and her father descended from the Earl of Ormond. I most humbly beseech Your Grace’s favor therein, and also to entreat the King’s Majesty on my behalf for his princely favor in this matter which I cannot forsake.”

The Cardinal turned to his servants, appealing to them to observe the willful folly of this boy. Sadly he reproached Percy for knowing the King’s pleasure and not readily submitting to it.

“I have gone too far in this matter,” said Percy.

“Dost think,” cried Wolsey, “that the King and I know not what we have to do in weighty matters such as this!”

He left the boy, remarking as he went that he should not seek out the girl, or he would have to face the wrath of the King.

The Earl arrived, coming in haste from the north since the command was the King’s, and hastened to Wolsey’s house. A cold man with an eye to his own advantage, the Earl listened gravely, touched his neck uneasily as though he felt the sharp blade of an axe there—for heads had been severed for less than this—hardened his face, and said that he would set the matter to rights.

He went to his son and railed at him, cursing his pride, his licentiousness, but chiefly the fact that he had incurred the King’s displeasure. So he would bring his father to the block and forfeit the family estate, would he! He was a waster, useless, idle…. He would return to his home immediately and proceed with the marriage to the Lady Mary Talbot, to which he was committed.

Percy, threatened by his father, dreading the wrath of the King, greatly fearing the mighty Cardinal, and not being possessed of the same reckless courage as his partner in romance, was overpowered by this storm he and Anne had aroused. He could not stand out against them. Wretchedly, brokenheartedly he gave in, and left the court with his father.

He was, however, able to leave a message for Anne with a kinsman of hers, in which he begged that she would remember her promise from which none but God could loose her.

And the Cardinal, passing through the palace courtyard with his retinue, saw a dark-eyed girl with a pale, tragic face at one of the windows.

Ah! thought the Cardinal, turning his mind from matters of state. The cause of all the trouble!

The black eyes blazed into sudden hatred as they rested on him, for there had been those who had overheard Wolsey’s slighting remarks about herself and hastened to inform her. Wolsey she blamed, and Wolsey only, for the ruin of her life.

Insolently she stared at him, her lips moving as though she cursed him.

The Cardinal smiled. Does she think to frighten me? A foolish girl! And I the first man in the kingdom! I would reprove her, but for the indignity of noting one so lacking in significance!

The next time he passed through the courtyard, he did not see Anne Boleyn. She had been banished to Hever.

At home in Hever Castle, a fierce anger took possession of her. She had waited for a further message from her lover. There was no message. He will come, she had told herself. They would ride away together, mayhap disguised as country folk, and they would care nothing for the anger of the Cardinal.

She would awake in the night, thinking she heard a tap on her window; walking in the grounds, she would feel her heart hammering at the sound of crackling bracken. She longed for him, thinking constantly of that night in the little chamber at Hampton Court, which they had said should be a perfect night and which by promising each other marriage they had made so; she thought of how sorry they had been for those who were dancing below, knowing nothing of the enchantment they were experiencing.

She would be ready when he came for her. Where would they go? Anywhere! For what did place matter! Life should be a glorious adventure. Taking her own courage for granted, why should she doubt his?

He did not come, and she brooded. She grew bitter, wondering why he did not come. She thought angrily of the wicked Cardinal whose spite had ruined her chances of happiness. Fiercely she hated him. “This foolish girl…” he had said. “This Anne Boleyn, who is but the daughter of a knight, to wed with one of the noblest families in the kingdom!”

She would show my lord Cardinal whether she was a foolish girl or not! Oh, the hypocrite! The man of God! He who kept house as a king and was vindictive as a devil and hated by the people!

When she and Percy went off together, the Cardinal should see whether she was a foolish girl!

And still her lover did not come.

“I cannot bear this long separation!” cried the passionate girl. “Perhaps he thinks to wait awhile until his father is dead, for they say he is a sick man. But I do not wish to wait!”

She was melancholy, for the summer was passing and it was sad to see the leaves fluttering down.

The King rode out to Hever. In her room she heard the bustle his presence in the castle must inevitably cause. She locked her door and refused to go down. If Wolsey had ruined her happiness, the King—doubtless at the wicked man’s instigation—had humiliated her by banishing her from the court. Unhappy as she was, she cared for nothing—neither her father’s anger nor the King’s.

Her mother came and stood outside the door to plead with her.

“The King has asked for you, Anne. You must come…quickly.”

“I will not! I will not!” cried Anne. “I was banished, was I not? Had he wished to see me, he should not have sent me from the court.”

“I dare not go back and say you refuse to come.”

“I care not!” sobbed Anne, throwing herself on her bed and laughing and weeping simultaneously, for she was beside herself with a grief that she found herself unable to control.

Her father came to her door, but his threats were as vain as her mother’s pleas.

“Would you bring disgrace on us!” stormed Sir Thomas. “Have you not done enough!”

“Disgrace!” she cried furiously. “Yes, if it is a disgrace to love and wish to marry, I have disgraced you. It is an honor to be mistress of the King. Mary has brought you honor! An I would not come for my mother, assuredly I will not come for you!”

“The King commands your presence!”

“You may do what you will,” she said stubbornly. “He may do what he will. I care for nothing…now.” And she burst into fresh weeping.

Sir Thomas—diplomatic over a family crisis as on a foreign mission—explained that his daughter was sadly indisposed; and the King, marveling at his feelings for this willful girl, replied, “Disturb her not then.”

The King left Hever, and Anne returned to that life which had no meaning—waiting, longing, hoping, fearing.

One cold day, when the first touch of winter was in the air and a fresh wind was bringing down the last of the leaves from the trees in the park, Sir Thomas brought home the news.

He looked at Anne expressionlessly and said: “Lord Percy has married the Lady Mary Talbot. This is an end of your affair.”

She went to her room and stayed there all that day. She did not eat; she did not sleep; she spoke to none; and on the second day she fell into a fit of weeping, upbraiding the Cardinal, and with him her lover. “They could have done what they would with me,” she told herself bitterly. “I would never have given in!”

Drearily the days passed. She grew pale and listless, so that her mother feared for her life and communicated her fears to her husband.

Sir Thomas hinted that if she would return to court, such action would not be frowned on.

“That assuredly I will not do!” she said, and so ill was she that none dared reason with her.

She called to mind then the happiness of her life in France, and it seemed to her that her only hope of tearing her misery from her heart lay in getting away from England. She thought of one whom she would ever admire—the witty, sparkling, Duchess of Alencon; was there some hope, with that spritely lady, of renewing her interest in life?

Love she had experienced, and found it bitter; she wanted no more such experience.

“With Marguerite I could forget,” she said; and, fearing for her health, Sir Thomas decided to humor her wishes; so once more Anne left Hever for the court of France.

The King’s Secret Matter

THE HOUSE AT LAMBETH was wrapped in deepest gloom. In the great bed which Jocosa had shared with Lord Edmund Howard since the night of her marriage, she now lay dying. She was very tired, poor lady, for her married life had been a wearying business. It seemed that no sooner had one small Howard left her womb than another was growing there; and poverty, in such circumstances, had been humiliating.

Death softened bitter feelings. What did it matter now, that her distinguished husband had been so neglected! Why, she wondered vaguely, were people afraid of death? It was so easy to die, so difficult to live.

“Hush! Hush!” said a voice. “You must not disturb your mother now. Do you not see she is sleeping peacefully?”

Then came to Jocosa’s ears the sound of a little girl’s sobbing. Jocosa tried to move the coverlet to attract attention. That was little Catherine crying, because, young as she was, she was old enough to understand the meaning of hushed voices, the air of gloom, old enough to smell the odor of death.

Jocosa knew suddenly why people were afraid of death. The fear was for those they left behind.

“My children…” she murmured, and tried to start up from her bed.

“Hush, my lady,” said a voice. “You must rest, my dear.”

“My children,” she breathed, but her lips were parched, too stiff for the words to come through.

She thought of Catherine, the prettiest of her daughters, yet somehow the most helpless. Gentle, loving little Catherine, so eager to please that she let others override her. Some extra sense told the mother that her daughter Catherine would sorely miss a mother’s care.

With a mighty effort she spoke. “Catherine…. Daughter…”

“She said my name!” cried Catherine. “She is asking for me.”

“C…Catherine…”

“I am here,” said Catherine.

Jocosa lifted the baby fingers to her parched lips. Perhaps, she thought, she will acquire a stepmother. Stepmothers are not always kind; they have their own children whom they would advance beyond those of the woman they have replaced, and a living wife has power a dead one lacks. Perhaps her Aunt Norfolk would take this little Catherine; perhaps her Grandmother Norfolk. No, not the Norfolks, a hard race! Catherine, who was soft and young and tender, should not go to them. Jocosa thought of her own childhood at Hollingbourne, in the lovely old house of her father, Sir Richard Culpepper. Now her brother John was installed there; he had a son of his own who would be playing in her nursery. She remembered happy days spent there, and in her death-drugged thoughts it was Catherine who seemed to be there, not herself. It was soothing to the dying mother to see her daughter Catherine in her own nursery, but the pleasure passed and she was again conscious of the big, bare room at Lambeth:

“Edmund…” she said.

Catherine turned her tearful eyes to the nurse.

“She speaks my father’s name.”

“Yes, my lady?” asked the nurse, bending over the bed.

“Edmund…”

“Go to your father and tell him your mother would speak to him.”

He stood by the bedside—poor, kind, bitter Edmund, whose life with her had been blighted by that pest, poverty. Now he was sorry for the sharp words he had spoken to her, for poverty had ever haunted him, waylaid him, leered at him, goaded him, warping his natural kindness, wrecking that peace he longed to share with his family.

“Jocosa…” There was such tenderness in his voice when he said her name that she thought momentarily that this was their wedding night, and he her lover; but she heard then the rattle in her throat and was conscious of her body’s burning heat, and thus remembered that this was not the prologue but the epilogue to her life with Edmund, and that Catherine—gentlest of her children—was in some danger, which she sensed but did not comprehend.

“Edmund…Catherine…”

He lifted the child in his arms and held her nearer the bed.

“Jocosa, here is Catherine.”

“My lord…let her go…let Catherine go…”

His head bent closer, and with a great effort the words came out.

“My brother John…at Hollingbourne…in Kent. Let Catherine…go to my brother John.”

Lord Edmund said: “Rest peacefully, Jocosa. It shall be as you wish.”

She sank back, smiling, for it was to be, since none dared disregard a promise made to a dying woman.

The effort had tired her; she knew not where she lay, but she believed it must be at Hollingbourne in Kent, so peaceful was she. The weary beating of her heart was slowing down. “Catherine is safe,” it said. “Catherine is…safe.”

At Hollingbourne, whither Catherine had been brought at her father’s command, life was different from that lived in the house at Lambeth. The first thing that struck Catherine was the plenteous supply of good plain country fare. There was a simplicity at Hollingbourne which had been entirely lacking at Lambeth; and Sir John, in his country retreat, was lord of the neighborhood, whereas Lord Edmund, living his impecunious life among those of equally noble birth, had seemed of little importance. Catherine looked upon her big Uncle John as something like a god.

The nurseries were composed of several airy rooms at the top of the house, and from these it was possible to look over the pleasant Kentish country undisturbed by the somber grandeur of the great city on whose outskirts the Lambeth house had sat. Catherine had often looked at the forts of the great Tower of London, and there was that in them to frighten the little girl. Servants were not over-careful; and though there were some who had nothing but adulation to give to Lord Edmund and his wife, poverty proved to be a leveler, and there were others who had but little respect for one who feared to be arrested at any moment for debt, even though he be a noble lord; and these servants were careless of what was said before the little Howards. There was a certain Doll Tappit who had for lover one who was a warder at the Tower, and fine stories he could tell her of the bloodcurdling shrieks which came from the torture chambers, of the noble gentlemen who had displeased the King and who were left to starve in the rat-infested dungeons. Therefore Catherine was glad to see green and pleasant hills against the skyline, and leafy woods in place of the great stone towers.

There was comfort at Hollingbourne, such as there had never been at Lambeth.

She was taken to the nurseries, and there put into the charge of an old nurse who had known her mother; and there she was introduced to her cousin Thomas and his tutor.

Shyly she studied Thomas. He, with his charming face in which his bold and lively eyes flashed and danced with merriment, was her senior by a year or so, and she was much in awe of him; but, finding the cousin who was to share his nursery to be but a girl—and such a little girl—he was inclined to be contemptuous.

She was lonely that first day. It was true she was given food; and the nurse went through her scanty wardrobe, clicking her tongue over this worn garment and that one, which should have been handed to a servant long ago.

“Tut-tut!” exclaimed the nurse. “And how have you been brought up, I should wonder!” Blaming little Catherine Howard for her father’s poverty; wondering what the world was coming to, when such beggars must be received in the noble house of Culpepper.

Catherine was by nature easygoing, gay and optimistic; never saying—This is bad; always—This might be worse. She had lost her mother whom she had loved beyond all else in the world, and she was heartbroken; but she could not but enjoy the milk that was given her to drink; she could not but be glad that she was removed from Lambeth. Her sisters and brothers she missed, but being one of the younger ones, in games always the unimportant and unpleasant roles were given to her; and if there were not enough parts to go round, it was Catherine who was left out. The afternoon of her first day at Hollingbourne was spent with the nurse who, tutting and clicking her tongue, cut up garments discarded by my lady, to make clothes for Catherine Howard. She stood still and was fitted; was pushed and made to turn about; and she thought the clothes that would soon be hers were splendid indeed.

Through the window she saw Thomas ride by on his chestnut mare, and she ran to the window and knelt on the window seat to watch him; and he, looking up, for he suspected she might be there, waved to her graciously, which filled Catherine with delight, for she had decided, as soon as he had looked down his haughty nose at her, that he was the most handsome person she had ever seen.

She had a bedroom to herself—a little paneled room with latticed windows which adjoined the main nursery. At Lambeth she had shared her room with several members of her family.

Even on that first day she loved Hollingbourne, but at that time it was chiefly because her mother had talked to her of it so affectionately.

But on the first night, when she lay in the little room all by herself, with the moon shining through the window and throwing ghostly shadows, she began to sense the solitude all about her and her quick love for Hollingbourne was replaced by fear. There was no sound from barges going down the river to Greenwich or up it to Richmond and Hampton Court; there was only silence broken now and then by the weird hooting of an owl. The strange room seemed menacing in this half-light, and suddenly she longed for the room at Lambeth with the noisy brothers and sisters; she thought of her mother, for Catherine Howard had had that sweet companionship which so many in her station might never know, since there was no court life to take Jocosa from her family, and her preoccupations were not with the cut of a pair of sleeves but with her children; that, poverty had given Catherine, but cruel life had let it be appreciated only to snatch it away. So in her quiet room at Hollingbourne, Catherine shed bitter tears into her pillow, longing for her mother’s soft caress and the sound of her gentle voice.

“You have no mother now,” they had said, “so you must be a brave girl.”

But I’m not brave, thought Catherine, and immediately remembered how her eldest brother had jeered at her because she, who was so afraid of ghosts, would listen to and even encourage Doll Tappit to tell tales of them.

Doll Tappit’s lover, Walter the warder, had once seen a ghost. Doll Tappit told the story to Nurse as she sat feeding the baby; Catherine had sat, round-eyed, listening.

“Now you know well how ’tis Walter’s task to walk the Tower twice a night. Now Walter, as you know, is nigh on six foot tall, near as tall as His Majesty the King, and not a man to be easily affrighted. It was a moonlit night. Walter said the clouds kept hurrying across the moon as though there was terrible sights they wanted to hide from her. There is terrible sights, Nurse, in the Tower of London! Walter, he’s heard some terrible groaning there, he’s heard chains clanking, he’s heard scream and shrieking. But afore this night he never see anything…And there he was on the green, right there by the scaffold, when…clear as I see you now, Nurse…the Duke stood before him; his head was lying in a pool of blood on the ground beside him, and the blood ran down all over his Grace’s fine clothes!”

“What then?” asked Nurse, inclined to be skeptical. “What would my lord Duke of Buckingham have to say to Walter the warder?”

“He said nothing. He was just there…just for a minute he was there. Then he was gone.”

“They say,” said Nurse, “that the pantler there is very hospitable with a glass of metheglin…”

“Walter never takes it!”

“I’ll warrant he did that night.”

“And when the ghost had gone, Walter stooped down where it was…”

“Where what was?”

“The head…all dripping blood. And though the head was gone, the blood was still there. Walter touched it; he showed me the stain on his coat.”

Nurse might snort her contempt, but Catherine shivered; and there were occasions when she would dream of the headless duke, coming towards her, and his head making stains on the nursery floor.

And here at Hollingbourne there were no brothers and sisters to help her disbelief in ghosts. Ghosts came when people were alone, for all the stories Catherine had ever heard of ghosts were of people who were alone when they saw them. Ghosts had an aversion to crowds of human beings, so that, all through her life, being surrounded by brothers and sisters, Catherine had felt safe; but not since she had come to Hollingbourne.

As these thoughts set Catherine shivering, outside her window she heard a faint noise, a gentle rustling of the creeper; it was as though hands pulled at it. She listened fearfully, and then it came again.

She was sitting up in bed, staring at the window. Again there came that rustle; and with it she could hear the deep gasps of one who struggles for breath.

She shut her eyes; she covered her head with the clothes; then, peeping out and seeing a face at her window, she screamed. A voice said: “Hush!” very sternly, and Catherine thought she would die from relief, for the voice was the voice of her handsome young cousin, Thomas Culpepper.

He scrambled through the window.

“Why, ’tis Catherine Howard! I trust I did not startle you, Cousin?”

“I…thought you…to be a…ghost!”

That made him rock with merriment.

“I had forgotten this was your room, Cousin,” he lied, for well he had known it and had climbed in this way in order to impress her with his daring. “I have been out on wild adventures.” He grimaced at a jagged tear in his breeches.

“Wild adventures…!”

“I do bold things by night, Cousin.”

Her big eyes were round with wonder, admiring him, and Thomas Culpepper, basking in such admiration that he could find nowhere but in this simple girl cousin, felt mightily pleased that Catherine Howard had come to Hollingbourne.

“Tell me of them,” she said.

He put his fingers to his lips.

“It is better not to speak so loudly, Cousin. In this house they believe me to be but a boy. When I am out, I am a man.”

“Is it witchcraft?” asked Catherine eagerly, for often had she heard Doll Tappit speak of witchcraft.

He was silent on that point, silent and mysterious; but before he would talk to her, he would have her get off her bed to see the height of the wall which he had climbed with naught to help him but the creeper.

She got out, and naked tiptoed to the window. She was greatly impressed.

“It was a wonderful thing to do, Cousin Thomas,” she said.

He smiled, well pleased, thinking her prettier in her very white skin than in the ugly clothes she had worn on her arrival.

“I do many wonderful things,” he told her. “You will be cold, naked thus,” he said. “Get back into your bed.”

“Yes,” she said, shivering, half with cold and half with excitement. “I am cold.”

She leapt gracefully into bed, and pulled the clothes up to her chin. He sat on the bed, admiring the mud on his shoes and the unkempt appearance of his clothes.

“Do tell me,” she said, her knees at her chin, her eyes sparkling.

“I fear it is not for little girls’ ears.”

“I am not such a little girl. It is only because you are big that it seems so.”

“Ah!” he mused, well pleased to consider it in that way. “That may well be so; perhaps you are not so small. I have been having adventures, Cousin; I have been out trapping hares and shooting game!”

Her mouth was a round O of wonder.

“Did you catch many?”

“Hundreds, Cousin! More than a little girl like you could count.”

“I could count hundreds!” she protested.

“It would have taken you days to count these. Do you know that, had I been caught, I could have been hanged at Tyburn?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, who could have told him more gruesome stories of Tyburn than he could tell her, for he had never known Doll Tappit.

“But,” said Thomas, “I expect Sir John, my father, would not have allowed that to happen. And then again ’twas scarcely poaching, as it happened on my father’s land which will be one day mine, so now, Cousin Catherine, you see what adventures I have!”

“You are very brave,” said Catherine.

“Perhaps a little. I have been helping a man whose acquaintance I made. He is a very interesting man, Cousin; a poacher. So I for fun, and he for profit, poach on my father’s land.”

“Were he caught, he would hang by the neck.”

“I should intercede for him with my father.”

“I would that I were brave as you are!”

“Bah! You are just a girl…and frightened that you might see a ghost.”

“I am not now. It is only when I am alone.”

“Will you be afraid when I have gone?”

“Very much afraid,” she said.

He surveyed her in kingly fashion. She was such a little girl, and she paid such pleasant tribute to his masculine superiority. Yes, assuredly he was glad his cousin had come to Hollingbourne.

“I shall be here to protect you,” he said.

“Oh, will you? Cousin Thomas, I know not how to thank you.”

“You surely do not think I could be afraid of a ghost!”

“I know it to be impossible.”

“Then you are safe, Catherine.”

“But if, when I am alone…”

“Listen!” He put his head close to hers conspiratorially. “There”—he pointed over his shoulder—“is my room. Only one wall dividing me from you, little Cousin. I am ever alert for danger, and very lightly do I sleep. Now listen very attentively, Catherine. Should a ghost come, all you must do is tap on this wall, and depend upon it you will have me here before you can bat an eyelid. I shall sleep with my sword close at hand.”

“Oh, Thomas! You have a sword too?”

“It is my father’s, but as good as mine because one day it will be so.”

“Oh, Thomas!” Sweet was her adulation to the little braggart.

“None dare harm you when I am by,” he assured her. “Dead or living will have to deal with me.”

“You would make yourself my knight then, Thomas,” she said softly.

“You could not have a braver…”

“Oh, I know it. I do not think I shall cry very much now.”

“Why should you cry?”

“For my mother, who is dead.”

“No, Catherine, you need not cry; for in place of your mother you have your brave cousin, Thomas Culpepper.”

“Shall I then tap on the wall if…?”

He wrinkled his brows. “For tonight, yes. Tomorrow we shall find a stick for you…a good, stout stick I think; that will make a good banging on the wall, and you could, in an emergency, hit the ghost should it be necessary before I arrive.”

“Oh, no, I could not! I should die of fear. Besides, might a ghost not do terrible things to one who made so bold as to hit it?”

“That may be so. The safest plan, my cousin, is to wait for me.”

“I do not know how to thank you.”

“Thank me by putting your trust in me.”

He stood back from the bed, bowing deeply.

“Good night, Cousin.”

“Good night, dear, brave Thomas.”

He went, and she hugged her pillow in an ecstasy of delight. Never had one of her own age been so kind to her; never had she felt of such consequence.

As for ghosts, what of them! What harm could they do to Catherine Howard, with Thomas Culpepper only the other side of her bedroom wall, ready to fly to her rescue!

There was delight in the hours spent at Hollingbourne. Far away in a hazy and unhappy past were the Lambeth days; and the sweetest thing she had known was the ripening of her friendship with her cousin Thomas. Catherine, whose nature was an excessively affectionate one, asked nothing more than that she should be allowed to love him. Her affection he most graciously accepted, and returned it in some smaller measure. It was a happy friendship, and he grew more fond of her than his dignity would allow him to make known; she, so sweet already, though so young, so clingingly feminine, touched something in his manhood. He found great pleasure in protecting her, and thus love grew between them. He taught her to ride, to climb trees, to share his adventures, though he never took her out at night; nor did he himself adventure much this way after her coming, wishing to be at hand lest in the lonely hours of evening she might need his help.

Her education was neglected. Sir John did not believe overmuch in the education of girls; and who was she but a dependant, though the child of his sister! She was a girl, and doubtless a match would be made for her; and bearing such a name as Howard, that match could be made without the unnecessary adornment of a good education. Consider the case of his kinsman, Thomas Boleyn. He had been, so Sir John had heard, at great pains to educate his two younger children who, in the family, had acquired the reputation of possessing some brilliance. Even the girl had been educated, and what had education done for her? There was some talk of a disaster at court; the girl had aspired to marry herself to a very highly born nobleman—doubtless due to her education. And had her education helped her? Not at all! Banishment and disgrace had been her lot. Let girls remain docile; let them cultivate charming manners; let them learn how to dress themselves prettily and submit to their husbands. That was all a girl needed from life. And did she want to construe Latin verse to do these things; did she want to give voice to her frivolous thoughts in six different languages! No, the education of young Catherine Howard was well taken care of.

Thomas tried to teach his cousin a little, but he quickly gave up the idea. She had no aptitude for it; rather she preferred to listen to the tales of his imaginary adventures, to sing and dance and play musical instruments. She was a frivolous little creature, and having been born into poverty, well pleased to have stepped out of it, happy to have for her friend surely the most handsome and the dearest cousin in the world. What more could she want?

And so the days passed pleasantly—riding with Thomas, listening to Thomas’s stories, admiring him, playing games in which he took the glorious part of knight and rescuer, she the role of helpless lady and rescued; now and then taking a lesson at the virginals, which was not like a lesson at all because she had been born with a love of music; she had singing lessons too which she loved, for her voice was pretty and promised to be good. But life could not go on in this even tenor for ever. A young man such as Thomas Culpepper could not be left to the care of a private tutor indefinitely.

He came to the music room one day while Catherine sat over the virginals with her teacher, and threw himself into a window seat and watched her as she played. Her auburn hair fell about her flushed face; she was very young, but there was always in Catherine Howard, even when a baby, a certain womanliness. Now she was aware of Thomas there, she was playing with especial pains to please him. That, thought Thomas, was so typical of her; she would always care deeply about pleasing those she loved. He was going to miss her very much; he found that watching her brought a foolish lump into his throat, and he contemplated running from the room for fear his sentimental tears should betray him. It was really but a short time ago that she had come to Hollingbourne, and yet she had made a marked difference to his life. Strange it was that that should be so; she was meek and self-effacing, and yet her very wish to please made her important to him; and he, who had longed for this childish stage of his education to be completed, was now sorry that it was over.

The teacher had stood up; the lesson was ended.

Catherine turned a flushed face to her cousin.

“Thomas, do you think I have improved?”

“Indeed yes,” he said, realizing that he had hardly heard what she had played. “Catherine,” he said quickly, “let us ride together. There is something I would say to you.”

They galloped round the paddock, he leading, she trying to catch up but never succeeding—which made her so enchanting. She was the perfect female, forever stressing her subservience to the male, soft and helpless, meek, her eyes ever ready to fill with tears at a rebuke.

He pulled up his horse, but did not dismount; he dared not, because he felt so ridiculously near tears himself. He must therefore be ready to whip up his horse if this inclination became a real danger.

“Catherine,” he said, his voice hardly steady, “I have bad news….”

He glanced at her face, at the hazel eyes wide now with fear, at the little round mouth which quivered.

“Oh, sweet little Cousin,” he said, “it is not so bad. I shall come back; I shall come back very soon.”

“You are going away then, Thomas?”

The world was suddenly dark; tears came to her eyes and brimmed over. He looked away, and sought refuge in hardening his voice.

“Come, Catherine, do not be so foolish. You surely did not imagine that my father’s son could spend all his days tucked away here in the country!”

“No…no.”

“Well then! Dry your eyes. No handkerchief? How like you, Catherine!” He threw her his. “You may keep that,” he said, “and think of me when I am gone.”

She took the handkerchief as though already it were a sacred thing.

He went on, his voice shaking: “And you must give me one of yours, Catherine, that I may keep it.”

She wiped her eyes.

He said tenderly: “It is only for a little while, Catherine.”

Now she was smiling.

“I should have known,” she said. “Of course you will go away.”

“When I return we shall have very many pleasant days together, Catherine.”

“Yes, Thomas.” Being Catherine, she could think of the reunion rather than the parting, even now.

He slipped off his horse, and she immediately did likewise; he held out his hands, and she put hers into them.

“Catherine, do you ever think of when we are grown up…really grown up, not just pretending to be?”

“I do not know, Thomas. I think perhaps I may have.”

“When we are grown up, Catherine, we shall marry…both of us. Catherine. I may marry you when I am of age.”

“Thomas! Would you?”

“I might,” he said.

She was pretty, with the smile breaking through her tears.

“Yes,” he said, “I think mayhap I will. And now, Catherine, you will not mind so much that I must go away, for you must know, we are both young in actual fact. Were we not, I would marry you now and take you with me.”

They were still holding hands, smiling at each other; he, flushed with pleasure at his beneficence in offering her such a glorious prospect as marriage with him; she, overwhelmed by the honor he did her.

He said: “When people are affianced, Catherine, they kiss. I am going to kiss you now.”

He kissed her on either cheek and then her soft baby mouth. Catherine wished he would go on kissing her, but he did not, not over-much liking the operation and considering it a necessary but rather humiliating formality; besides, he feared that there might be those to witness this and do what he dreaded most that people would do, laugh at him.

“That,” he said, “is settled. Let us ride.”

Catherine had been so long at Hollingbourne that she came to regard it as her home. Thomas came home occasionally, and there was nothing he liked better than to talk of the wild adventures he had had; and never had he known a better audience than his young cousin. She was so credulous, so ready to admire. They both looked forward to these reunions, and although they spoke not of their marriage which they had long ago in the paddock decided should one day take place, they neither of them forgot nor wished to repudiate the promises. Thomas was not the type of boy to think over-much of girls except when they could be fitted into an adventure where, by their very helplessness and physical inferiority, they could help to glorify the resourcefulness and strength of the male. Thomas was a normal, healthy boy whose thoughts had turned but fleetingly to sex; Catherine, though younger, was conscious of sex, and had been since she was a baby; she enjoyed Thomas’s company most when he held her hand or lifted her over a brook or rescued her from some imaginary evil fate. When the game was a pretense of stealing jewels, and she must pretend to be a man, the adventure lost its complete joy for her. She remembered still the quick, shamefaced kisses he had given her in the paddock, and she would have loved to have made plans for their marriage, to kiss now and then. She dared not tell Thomas this, and little did he guess that she was all but a woman while he was yet a child.

So passed the pleasant days until that sad afternoon when a serving-maid came to her, as she sat in the wide window seat of the main nursery, to tell her that her uncle and aunt would have speech with her, and she was to go at once to her uncle’s chamber.

As soon as Catherine reached that room she knew that something was amiss, for both her uncle and her aunt looked very grave.

“My dear niece,” said Sir John, who frequently spoke for both, “come hither to me. I have news for you.”

Catherine went to him and stood before him, her knees trembling, while she prayed: “Please, God, let Thomas be safe and well.”

“Now that your grandfather, Lord Thomas the Duke, is no more,” said Sir John in the solemn voice he used when speaking of the dead, “your grandmother feels that she would like much to have you with her. You know your father has married again….” His face stiffened. He was a righteous man; there was nothing soft in his nature; it seemed to him perfectly reasonable that, his sister’s husband having married a new wife, his own responsibility for his sister’s child should automatically cease.

“Go…from here…?” stammered Catherine.

“To your grandmother in Norfolk.”

“Oh…but I…do not wish…Here, I have been…so happy….”

Her aunt put an arm about her shoulders and kissed her cheek.

“You must understand, Catherine, your staying here is not in our hands. Your father has married again…he wishes that you should go to your grandmother.”

Catherine looked from one to the other, her eyes bright with tears which overflowed, for she could never control her emotion.

Her aunt and uncle waited for her to dry her eyes and listen to them.

Then Sir John said: “You must prepare yourself for a long journey, so that you will be ready when your grandmother sends for you. Now you may go.”

Catherine stumbled from the room, thinking, When he comes next time, I shall not be here! And how shall I ever see him…he in Kent and I in Norfolk?

In the nursery the news was received with great interest.

“Well may you cry!” she was told. “Why, when you are at your grandmother’s house you will feel very haughty towards us poor folk. I have heard from one who served the Duchess that she keeps great state both at Horsham and Lambeth. The next we shall hear of you is that you are going to court!”

“I do not care to go to court!” cried Catherine.

“Ah!” she was told. “All you care for is your cousin Thomas!”

Then Catherine thought, is it so far from here to Norfolk? Not so far but that he could come to me. He will come; and then in a few years we shall be married. The time will pass quickly….

She remembered her grandmother—plumpish, inclined to poke her with a stick, lazy Grandmother who sat about and laughed to herself and made remarks which set her wheezing and chuckling, such as “You have pretty eyes, Catherine Howard. Keep them; they will serve you well!” Grandmother, with sly eyes and chins that wobbled, and an inside that gurgled since she took such delight in the table.

Catherine waited for the arrival of those who would take her to her grandmother, and with the passage of the days her fears diminished; she lived in a pleasant dream in which Thomas came to Horsham and spent his holidays there instead of at Hollingbourne; and Catherine, being the granddaughter of such a fine lady as the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, wore beautiful clothes and jewels in her hair. Thomas said: “You are more beautiful in Norfolk than you were in Kent!” And he kissed her, and Catherine kissed him; there was much kissing and embracing at Horsham. “Let us elope,” said Thomas. Thus pleasantly passed the last days at Hollingbourne, and when the time came for her departure to Norfolk, she did not greatly mind, for she had planned such a happy future for herself and Thomas.

The house at Horsham was indeed grand. It was built round the great hall; it had its ballroom, its many bedrooms, numerous small chambers and unpredictable corridors; from its mullioned windows there were views of gracious parklands; there was comfort in its padded window seats; there was luxury in its elegant furniture. One could lose oneself with ease in this house, and so many servants and attendants waited on her grandmother that in the first weeks she spent there, Catherine was constantly meeting strangers.

On her arrival she was taken to her grandmother, whom she found in her bed, not yet having risen though the afternoon was advancing.

“Ah!” said the Dowager Duchess. “So here you are, little Catherine Howard! Let me look at you. Have you fulfilled the promise of your babyhood that you would be a very pretty girl?”

Catherine must climb onto the bed and kiss one of the plump hands, and be inspected.

“Marry!” said the Duchess. “You are a big girl for your years! Well, well, there is time yet before we must find a husband for you.” Catherine would have told her of her contract with Thomas Culpepper, but the Duchess was not listening. “How neat you look! That is my Lady Culpepper, I’ll swear. Catherine Howard and such neatness appear to me as though they do not belong one to the other. Give me a kiss, child, and you must go away. Jenny!” she called, and a maid appeared suddenly from a closet. “Call Mistress Isabel to me. I would talk with her of my granddaughter.” She turned to Catherine. “Now, Granddaughter, tell me, what did you learn at Hollingbourne?”

“I learned to play the virginals and to sing.”

“Ah! That is well. We must look to your education. I will not have you forget that, though your father is a poor man, you are a Howard. Ah! Here is Mistress Isabel.”

A tall, pale young woman came into the room. She had small eyes and a thin mouth; her eyes darted at once to Catherine Howard, sitting on the bed.

“This is my little granddaughter, Isabel. You knew of her coming.”

“Your Grace mentioned it to me.”

“Well, the child has arrived. Take her, Isabel…and see that she lacks nothing.”

Isabel curtseyed, and the Duchess gave Catherine a little push to indicate that she was to get off the bed and follow Isabel. Together they left the Duchess’s apartment.

Isabel led the way upstairs and along corridors, occasionally turning, as though to make sure that Catherine followed. Catherine began to feel afraid, for this old house was full of shadows, and in unexpected places were doors and sudden passages; all her old fear of ghosts came back to her, and her longing for Thomas brought tears to her eyes. What if they should put her in a bedroom by herself, remote from other rooms! If Hollingbourne might have contained a ghost, this house assuredly would! Isabel, looking over her shoulder at her, alone stopped her from bursting into tears, for there was something about Isabel which frightened Catherine more than she cared to admit to herself.

Isabel had thrown open a door, and they were in a large room which contained many beds; this dormitory was richly furnished, as was every room in this house, but it was an untidy room; across its chairs and beds were flung various garments; shoes and hose littered the floor. There was perfume in the air.

“This room,” said Isabel, “is where Her Grace’s ladies sleep; she has told me that temporarily you are to share it with us.”

Relief flooded Catherine’s heart; there was now nothing to fear; her pale face became animated, flushed with pleasure.

“That pleases you?” asked Isabel.

Catherine said it did, adding: “I like not solitude.”

Another girl had come into the room, big bosomed, wide hipped and saucy of eye.

“Isabel…”

Isabel held up a warning hand.

“Her Grace’s granddaughter has arrived.”

“Oh…the little girl?”

The girl came forward, saw Catherine, and bowed.

“Her Grace has said,” began Isabel, “that she is to share our room.”

The girl sat down upon a bed, drew her skirts up to her knees, and lifted her eyes to the ornate ceiling.

“It delights her, does it not…Catherine?”

“Yes,” said Catherine.

The girl, whose name it seemed was Nan, threw a troubled glance at Isabel, which Catherine intercepted but did not understand.

Nan said: “You are very pretty, Catherine.”

Catherine smiled.

“But very young,” said Isabel.

“Marry!” said Nan, crossing shapely legs and looking down at them in an excess of admiration. “We must all be young at some time, must we not?”

Catherine smiled again, liking Nan’s friendly ways better than the quiet ones of Isabel.

“And you will soon grow up,” said Nan.

“I hope to,” said Catherine.

“Indeed you do!” Nan giggled, and rose from the bed. From a cabinet she took a box of sweetmeats, ate one herself and gave one to Isabel and one to Catherine.

Isabel examined Catherine’s clothes, lifting her skirts and feeling the material between thumb and finger.

“She has lately come from her uncle, Sir John Culpepper of Hollingbourne in Kent.”

“Did they keep grand style in Kent?” asked Nan, munching.

“Not such as in this house.”

“Then you are right glad to be here where you will find life amusing?”

“Life was very good at Hollingbourne.”

“Isabel,” laughed Nan, “the child looks full of knowledge…. I believe you had a lover there, Catherine Howard!”

Catherine blushed scarlet.

“She did! She did! I swear she did!”

Isabel dropped Catherine’s skirt, and exchanged a glance with Nan. Questions trembled on their lips, but these questions went unasked, for at that moment the door opened and a young man put his head round the door.

“Nan!” he said.

Nan waved her hand to dismiss him, but he ignored the signal, and came into the room.

Catherine considered this a peculiar state of affairs, for at Hollingbourne gentlemen did not enter the private apartments of ladies thus unceremoniously.

“A new arrival!” said the young man.

“Get you gone!” said Isabel. “She is not for you. She is Catherine Howard, Her Grace’s own granddaughter.”

The young man was handsomely dressed. He bowed low to Catherine, and would have taken her hand to kiss it, had not Isabel snatched her up and put her from him. Nan pouted on the bed, and the young man said: “How is my fair Nan this day?” But Nan turned her face to the wall and would not speak to him; then the young man sat on the bed and put his arms round Nan, so that his left hand was on her right breast, and his right hand on her left breast; and he kissed her neck hard, so that there was a red mark there. Then she arose and slapped him lightly on the face, laughing the while, and she leaped across the bed, he after her and so gave chase, till Isabel shooed him from the room.

Catherine witnessed this scene with much astonishment, thinking Isabel to be very angry indeed, expecting her to castigate the laughing Nan; but she did nothing but smile, when, after the young man had left, Nan threw herself onto the bed laughing.

Nan sat up suddenly and, now that the youth was no longer there to claim her interest, once more bestowed it on Catherine Howard.

“You had a lover at Hollingbourne, Catherine Howard! Did you not see how her cheeks were on fire, Isabel, and still are, I’ll warrant! I believe you to be a sly wench, Catherine Howard.”

Isabel put her hands on Catherine’s shoulders.

“Tell us about him, Catherine.”

Catherine said: “It was my cousin, Thomas Culpepper.”

“He who is son of Sir John?”

Catherine nodded. “We shall marry when that is possible.”

“Tell us of Thomas Culpepper, Catherine. Is he tall? Is he handsome?”

“He is both tall and handsome.”

“Tell me, did he kiss you well and heartily?”

“But once,” said Catherine. “And that in the paddock when he talked of marriage.”

“And he kissed you,” said Nan. “What else?”

“Hush!” said Isabel. “What if she should tell Her Grace of the way you have talked!”

“Her Grace is too lazy to care what her ladies may say or do.”

“You will be dismissed the house one day,” said Isabel. “Caution!”

“So your cousin kissed you, Catherine, and promised he would marry you. Dost not know that when a man talks of marriage it is the time to be wary?”

Catherine did not understand; she was aware of a certain fear, and yet a vivid interest in this unusual conversation.

“Enough of this,” said Isabel, and Nan went to her bed and lay down, reaching for the sweetmeats.

“Your bed,” said Isabel, “shall be this one. Are you a good sleeper?”

“Yes,” said Catherine; for indeed the only occasions when she could not sleep were those when she was afraid of ghosts, and if she were to sleep in a room so full of beds, each of which would contain a young lady, she need have no fear of gruesome company, and she could say with truth that she would sleep well.

Isabel looked at her clothes, asked many questions about Lambeth and Hollingbourne; and while Catherine was answering her, several ladies came in, and some gave her sweetmeats, some kissed her. Catherine thought them all pretty young ladies; their clothes were bright, and they wore gay ribands in their hair; and many times during that afternoon and evening a young man would put his head round the door and be waved away with the words “The Duchess’s granddaughter, Catherine Howard, is come to share our apartment.” The young men bowed and were as kind to Catherine as the ladies were; and often one of the ladies would go outside and speak with them, and Catherine would hear muffled laughter. It was very gay and pleasant, and even Isabel, who at first had appeared to be a little stern, seemed to change and laugh with the rest.

Catherine had food and drink with the ladies and their kindness persisted through the evening. At length she went to bed, Isabel escorting her and drawing the curtains around her bed. She was very soon asleep for the excitement of the day had tired her.

She awoke startled and wondered where she was. She remembered and was immediately aware of whispering voices. She lay listening for some time, thinking the ladies must just be retiring, but the voices went on and Catherine, in astonishment, recognized some of them as belonging to men. She stood up and peeped through the curtains. There was no light in the room but sufficient moonlight to show her the most unexpected sight.

The room seemed to be full of young men and women; some sitting on the beds, some reclining on them, but all of them in affectionate poses. They were eating and drinking, and stroking and kissing each other. They smacked their lips over the dainties, and now and then one of the girls would make an exclamation of surprise and feigned indignation, or another would laugh softly; they spoke in whispers. The clouds, hurrying across the face of the moon which looked in at the windows, made the scene alternately light and darker; and the wind which was driving the clouds whined now and then, mingling its voice with those of the girls and young men.

Catherine watched, wide-eyed and sleepless for some time. She saw the youth who had aroused Nan’s displeasure now kissing her bare shoulders, taking down the straps of her dress and burying his face in her bosom. Catherine watched and wondered until her eyes grew weary and her lids pressed down on them. She lay down and slept.

She awakened to find it was daylight and Isabel was drawing her bed curtains. The room was now occupied by girls only, who ran about naked and chattering, looking for their clothes which seemed to be scattered about the floor.

Isabel was looking down at Catherine slyly.

“I trust you slept well?” she asked.

Catherine said she had.

“But not through the entire night?”

Catherine could not meet Isabel’s piercing eyes, for she was afraid that the girl should know she had looked on that scene, since something told her it was not meant that she should.

Isabel sat down heavily on the bed, and caught Catherine’s shoulder.

“You were awake part of last night,” she said. “Dost think I did not see thee, spying through the curtains, listening, taking all in?”

“I did not mean to spy,” said Catherine. “I was awakened, and the moon showed me things.”

“What things, Catherine Howard?”

“Young gentlemen, sitting about the room with the ladies.”

“What else?”

Isabel looked wicked now. Catherine began to shiver, thinking perhaps it would have been better had she spent the night in a lonely chamber. For it was daylight now, and it was only at night that Catherine had great fear of ghosts.

“What else?” repeated Isabel. “What else, Catherine Howard?”

“I saw that they did eat…”

The grip on Catherine’s shoulder increased.

“What else?”

“Well…I know, not what else, but that they did kiss and seem affectionate.”

“What shall you do, Catherine Howard?”

“What shall I do? But I know not what you mean, Mistress Isabel. What would you desire me to do?”

“Shall you then tell aught of what you have seen…to Her Grace, your grandmother?”

Catherine’s teeth chattered, for what they did must surely be wrong since it was done at her grandmother’s displeasure.

Isabel released Catherine’s shoulder and called to the others. There was silence while she spoke.

“Catherine Howard,” she said spitefully, “while feigning sleep last night, was wide awake, watching what was done in this chamber. She will go to Her Grace the Duchess and tell her of our little entertainment.”

There was a crowd of girls round the bed, who looked down on Catherine, while fear and anger were displayed in every face.

“There was naught I did that was wrong,” said one girl, almost in tears.

“Be silent!” commanded Isabel. “Should what happens here of nights get to Her Grace’s ears, you will all be sent home in dire disgrace.”

Nan knelt down by the bed, her pretty face pleading. “Thou dost not look like a teller of tales.”

“Indeed I am not!” cried Catherine. “I but awakened, and being awake what could I do but see…”

“She will, I am sure, hold her counsel. Wilt thou not, little Catherine?” whispered Nan.

“If she does not,” said Isabel, “it will be the worse for her. What if we should tell Her Grace of what you did, Catherine Howard, in the paddock with your cousin, Thomas Culpepper!”

“What…I…did!” gasped Catherine. “But I did nothing wrong. Thomas would not. He is noble…he would do no wrong.”

“He kissed her and he promised her marriage,” said Isabel.

All the ladies put their mouths into round O’s, and looked terribly shocked.

“She calls that naught! The little wanton!”

Catherine thought: Did we sin then? Was that why Thomas was ashamed and never kissed me again?

Isabel jerked off the clothes, so that she lay naked before them; she stooped and slapped Catherine’s thigh.

“Thou darest not talk!” said Nan, laughing. “Why ’twould go harder with thee than with us. A Howard! Her Grace’s own granddaughter! Doubtless he would be hanged, drawn and quartered for what he did to you!”

“Oh, no!” cried Catherine, sitting up. “We did no wrong.”

The girls were all laughing and chattering like magpies.

Isabel put her face close to Catherine’s: “You have heard! Say nothing of what you have seen or may see in this chamber, and your lover will be safe.”

Nan said: “’Tis simple, darling. Say naught of our sins, and we say naught of thine!”

Catherine was weeping with relief.

“I swear I shall say nothing.”

“Then that is well,” said Isabel.

Nan brought a sweetmeat to her, and popped it into her mouth.

“There! Is not that good? They were given to me last night by a very charming gentleman. Mayhap one day some fine gentleman will bring sweetmeats to you, Catherine Howard!”

Nan put her arms about the little girl, and gave her two hearty kisses, and Catherine, munching, wondered why she had been so frightened. There was nothing to fear; all that was necessary was to say nothing.

The days passed as speedily as they had at Hollingbourne, and a good deal more excitingly. There were no lessons at Horsham. There was nothing to do during the long, lazy days but enjoy them. Catherine would carry notes from ladies to gentlemen; she was popular with them all, but especially with the young gentlemen. Once one said to her: “I have awaited this, and ’tis double sweet to me when brought by pretty Catherine!” They gave her sweetmeats too and other dainties. She played a little, played the flute and the virginals; she sang; they liked well to hear her sing, for her voice was indeed pretty. Occasionally the old Duchess would send for her to have a talk with her, and would murmur: “What a little tomboy you are, Catherine Howard! I declare you are an untidy chit; I would you had the grace of your cousin, Anne Boleyn…. Though much good her grace did her!”

Catherine loved to hear of her cousin, for she remembered seeing her now and then at Lambeth before she went to Hollingbourne. When she heard her name she thought of beauty and color, and sparkling jewels and sweet smiles; she hoped that one day she would meet her cousin again. The Duchess often talked of her, and Catherine knew by the softening of her voice that she liked her well, even though, when she spoke of her disgrace and banishment from court, her eyes would glint slyly as though she enjoyed contemplating her granddaughter’s downfall.

“A Boleyn not good enough for a Percy, eh! Marry, and there’s something in that! But Anne is part Howard, and a Howard is a match for a Percy at any hour of the day or night! And I would be the first to tell Northumberland so, were I to come face to face with him. As for the young man, a plague on him! They tell me his Lady Mary hates him and he hates her; so much good that marriage did to either of them! Aye! I’ll warrant he does not find it so easy to forget my granddaughter. Ah, Catherine Howard, there was a girl. I vow I never saw such beauty…such grace. And what did it do for her? There she goes…To France! And what has become of the Ormond marriage? She will be growing on into her teens now…I hope she will come back soon. Catherine Howard, Catherine Howard, your hair is in need of attention. And your dress, my child! I tell you, you will never have the grace of Anne Boleyn.”

It was not possible to tell the Duchess that one could not hope to have the grace of one’s cousin who had been educated most carefully and had learned the ways of life at the French court; who had been plenteously supplied with the clothes she might need in order that Sir Thomas Boleyn’s daughter might do her father credit in whatever circles she moved. One could not explain that the brilliant Anne had a natural gift for choosing the most becoming clothes, and knew how to wear them. The Duchess should have known these things.

But she rocked in her chair and dozed, and was hardly aware of Catherine’s standing there before her. “Marry! And the dangers that girl was exposed to! The French court! There were adventures for her, I’ll warrant, but she keeps her secrets well. Ah! How fortunate it is, Catherine, that I have taken you under my wing!”

And while the Duchess snored in her bedroom, her ladies held many midnight feasts in their apartments. Catherine was one of them now, they assured themselves. Catherine could be trusted. It was no matter whether she slept or not; she was little but a baby and there were those times when she would fall asleep suddenly. She was popular; they would throw sweetmeats onto her bed. Sometimes she was kissed and fondled.

“Is she not a pretty little girl!”

“She is indeed, and you will keep your eyes off her, young sir, or I shall be most dismayed.”

Laughter, slapping, teasing…. It was fun, they said; and with them Catherine said: “It is fun!”

Sometimes they lay on the tops of the beds with their arms about each other; sometimes they lay under the clothes, with the curtains drawn.

Catherine was accustomed to this strange behavior by now, and hardly noticed it. They were all very kind to her, even Isabel. She was happier with them than she was when attending her grandmother, sitting at her feet or rubbing her back where it itched. Sometimes she must massage the old lady’s legs, for she had strange pains in them and massage helped to soothe the pain. The old lady would wheeze and rattle, and say something must be done about Catherine’s education, since her granddaughter, a Howard, could not be allowed to run wild all the day through. The Duchess would talk of members of her family; her stepsons and her numerous stepdaughters who had married wealthy knights because the Howard fortunes needed bolstering up. “So Howards married with Wyatts and Bryans and Boleyns,” mused the Duchess. “And mark you, Catherine Howard, the children of these marriages are goodly and wise. Tom Wyatt is a lovely boy…” The Duchess smiled kindly, having a special liking for lovely boys. “And so is George Boleyn…and Mary and Anne are pleasant creatures….”

“Ah!” said the Duchess one day. “I hear your cousin, Anne, is back in England and at court.”

“I should like well to see her,” said Catherine.

“Rub harder, child! There! Clumsy chit! You scratched me. Ah! Back at court, and a beauty more lovely than when she went away…” The Duchess wheezed, and was so overcome with laughter that Catherine feared she would choke. “They say the King is deeply affected by her,” said the Duchess happily. “They say too that she is leading him a merry dance!”

When the Duchess had said that the King was deeply affected by Anne Boleyn, she had spoken the truth. Anne had left the court of France and returned to that of England, and no sooner had she made her spectacular appearance than once more she caught the King’s eye. The few years that had elapsed had made a great change in Anne; she was not one whit less beautiful than she had been when Henry had seen her in the garden at Hever; indeed she was more so; she had developed a poise which before would have sat oddly on one so young. If she had been bright then, now she was brilliant; her beauty had matured and gained in maturity; the black eyes still sparkled and flashed; her tongue was more ready with its wit, she herself more accomplished. She had been engaged in helping Marguerite to fete Francois, so recently released from captivity, a Francois who had left his youth behind in a Madrid prison in which he had nearly died and would have done so but for his sister’s loving haste across France and into Spain to nurse him. But Francois had made his peace treaty with his old enemy, Charles V, although he did repudiate it immediately, and it was the loving delight of his sister and his mother to compensate him for the months of hardship. Anne Boleyn had been a useful addition to the court; she could sing and dance, write lyrics, poetry, music; could always be relied upon to entertain and amuse. But her father, on the Continent with an embassy, had occasion to return to England, and doubtless feeling that a girl of nineteen must not fritter away her years indefinitely, had brought her back to the court of her native land. So Anne had returned to find the entire family settled at the palace. George, now Viscount Rochford, was married, and his wife, who had been Jane Parker and granddaughter to Lord Morley and Monteagle, was still one of the Queen’s ladies. Meeting George’s wife had been one of the less pleasant surprises on Anne’s return, since she saw that George was not very happy in this marriage with a wife who was frivolous and stupid and was not accepted into the brilliant set of poets and intellectuals—most of them cousins of the Boleyns—in which George naturally took a prominent place. This was depressing. Anne, still smarting from the Percy affair—though none might guess it—would have wished for her brother that married happiness which she herself had missed. Mary, strangely enough, seemed happy with William Carey; they had one boy—who, it was whispered, was the King’s—and none would guess that their union was not everything that might be desired. Anne wondered then if she and George asked too much of life.

There was no sign of melancholy about Anne. She could not but feel a certain glee—though she reproached herself for this—when she heard that Percy and his Mary were the most wretched couple in the country. She blamed Percy for his weakness; it was whispered that the Lady Mary was a shrew, who never forgave him, being contracted to her, for daring to fall in love with Anne Boleyn and make a scandal of the affair. Very well, thought Anne, let Percy suffer as she had! How many times during the last years had she in her thoughts reproached him for his infidelity! Perhaps he realized now that the easy way is not always the best way. She held her head higher, calling her lost lover weak, wishing fervently that he had been more like Thomas Wyatt who had pursued her ever since her return to court, wondering if she were not a little in love—or ready to fall in love—with her cousin Thomas, surely the most handsome, the most reckless, the most passionate man about the court. There was no doubt as to his feelings for her; it was both in his eyes and in his verses; and he was reckless enough not to care who knew it.

There was one other who watched her as she went about the court; Anne knew this, though others might not, for though he was by no means a subtle man, he had managed so far to keep this passion, which he felt for one of his wife’s ladies-in-waiting, very secret.

Anne did not care to think too much of this man. She did not care to feel those little eyes upon her. His manner was correct enough, yet now there were those who were beginning to notice something. She had seen people whispering together, smiling slyly. Now the King is done with the elder sister, is it to be the younger? What is it about these Boleyns? Thomas is advanced as rapidly as my lord Cardinal ever was; George has posts that should have gone to a grey-haired man; Mary…of course we understand how it was with Mary; and now, is it to be the same story with Anne?

No! Anne told herself fiercely. Never!

If Thomas Wyatt had not a wife already, she thought, how pleasant it would be to listen to his excellent verses, which were chiefly about herself. She could picture the great hall at Allington Castle decked out for the Christmas festivities, herself and Thomas taking chief parts in some entertainment they had written for the amusement of their friends. But that could not be.

Her position at court had become complicated. She was thinking of a conversation she had had with the King, when he, who doubtless had seen her walking in the palace grounds, had come down to her unattended and had said, his eyes burning in his heated face, that he would have speech with her.

He had asked her to walk with him to a little summer-house he knew of where they could be secret. She had felt limp with terror, had steeled herself, had realized full well that in the coming interview she would have need of all her wits; she must flatter him and refuse him; she must soothe him, pacify him, and pray that he might turn his desirous eyes upon someone more willing.

She had entered the summer-house, feeling the color in her cheeks, but her fear made her hold her head the higher; her very determination helped to calm her. He had stood looking at her as he leaned against the doors, a mighty man, his padded clothes, glittering and colorful, adding to his great stature. He would have her accept a costly gift of jewels; he told her that he had favored her from the moment he had seen her in her father’s garden, that never had he set eyes on one who pleased him more; in truth he loved her. He spoke with confidence, for at that time he had believed it was but necessary to explain his feelings towards her to effect her most willing surrender. Thus it had been on other occasions; why should this be different?

She had knelt before him, and he would have raised her, saying lightly and gallantly: No, she must not kneel; it was he who should kneel to her, for by God, he was never more sure of his feelings towards any in his life before.

She had replied: “I think, most noble and worthy King, that Your Majesty speaks these words in mirth to prove me, without intent of degrading your noble self. Therefore, to ease you of the labor of asking me any such question hereafter, I beseech Your Highness most earnestly to desist and take this my answer, which I speak from the depth of my soul, in good part. Most noble King! I will rather lose my life than my virtue, which will be the greatest and best part of the dowry I shall bring my husband.”

It was bold; it was clever; it was characteristic of Anne. She had known full well that something of this nature would happen, and she had therefore prepared herself with what she would say when it did. She was no Percy to be browbeaten, she was a subject and Henry was King, well she knew that; but this matter of love was not a matter for a king and subject—it was for a man and woman; and Anne was not one to forget her rights as a woman, tactful and cautious as the subject in her might feel it necessary to be.

The King was taken aback, but not seriously; she was so beautiful, kneeling before him, that he was ready to forgive her for putting off her surrender. She wanted to hold him off; very well, he was ever a hunter who liked a run before the kill. He bade her cease to kneel, and said, his eyes devouring her since already in his mind he was possessing her, that he would continue to hope.

But her head shot up at that, the color flaming in her cheeks.

“I understand not, most mighty King, how you should retain such hope,” she said. “Your wife I cannot be, both in respect of mine own unworthiness and also because you have a Queen already.” And then there came the most disturbing sentence of all: “Your mistress I will not be!”

Henry left her; he paced his room. He had desired her deeply when she had been a girl of sixteen, but his conscience had got between him and desire; he had made no protest when she had wrenched open the cage door and flown away. Now here she was back again, more desirable, a lovely woman where there had been a delightful girl. This time, he had thought, she shall not escape. He believed he had but to say so and it would be so. He had stifled the warnings of his conscience and now he had to face the refusal of the woman. It could not be; in a long and amorous life it had never been so. He was the King; she the humblest of his Queen’s ladies. No, no! This was coquetry; she wished to keep him waiting, that he might burn the fiercer. If he could believe that was all, how happy he would be!

For his desire for Anne Boleyn astonished him. Desire he knew well; how speedily it came, how quickly it could be gratified. One’s passion flamed for one particular person; there was a sweet interlude when passion was slaked and still asked to be slaked; then…the end. It was the inevitable pattern. And here was one who said with a ring of determination in her voice: “Your mistress I will not be!” He was angry with her; had she forgotten he was the King? She had spoken to him as though he were a gentleman of the court…any gentleman. Thus had she spoken to him in her father’s garden at Hever. The King grew purple with fury against her; then he softened, for it was useless to rail against that which enslaved him; it was her pride, it was her dignity which would make the surrender more sweet.

The King saw himself in his mirror. A fine figure of a man…if the size of him was considered. The suit he was wearing had cost three thousand pounds, and that not counting all the jewels that adorned it. But she was not the one to say yes to a suit of clothes; it would be the man inside it. He would smile at himself; he could slap his thigh; he was sure enough of eventual success with her.

He too had changed since those days when he allowed his conscience to come between him and this Anne Boleyn. The change was subtle, but definite enough. The conscience was still the dominating feature in his life. There it was, more than life size. The change was this: The conscience no longer ruled him; he ruled the conscience. He soothed it and placated it, and put his own construction on events before he let the conscience get at them. There was Mary Boleyn; he had done with Mary; he had decided that when Anne returned. He would cease to think of Mary. Oh, yes, yes, he knew there were those who might say there was an affinity between him and Anne, but in the course of many years of amorous adventures had this never happened before? Was there no man at court who had loved two sisters, perhaps unwittingly? Mayhap he himself had! For—and on this point Henry could be very stern—court morals being as they were, who could be sure who was closely related to whom? Suppose these sisters had had a different father! There! Was not the affinity reduced by one half? One could never know the secret of families. What if even the one mother did not give birth to the two daughters! One could never be sure; there had been strange stories of changeling children. This matter was not really worth wasting another moment’s thought on. What if he were to eschew Anne on account of this edict, and make a match for her, only to discover then that she was not Mary’s sister after all! Would it not be more sinful to take another man’s wife? And this desire of his for this unusual girl could but be slaked one way, well he knew. Better to take her on chance that she might be Mary Boleyn’s sister. He would forget such folly!

There was another matter too, about which his conscience perturbed him deeply and had done so for some time, in effect ever since he had heard that Katharine could bear no more children. Very deeply was he perturbed on this matter; so deeply that he had spoken of it to his most trusted friends. For all the years he had been married to Katharine there was but one daughter of the union. What could this mean? Why was it that Katharine’s sons died one after the other? Why was it that only one of their offspring—and this a girl—had been allowed to live? There was some deep meaning in this, and Henry thought he had found it. There was assuredly some blight upon his union with Katharine, and what had he done, in the eyes of a righteous God, to deserve this? He knew not…except it be by marrying his brother’s wife. Was it not written in the book of Leviticus that should a man marry his brother’s wife their union should be childless? He had broken off all marital relations with Katharine when the doctors had told him she would never have any more children. Ah! Well he remembered that day; pacing up and down his room in a cold fury. No son for Henry Tudor! A daughter! And why? Why? Then his mind had worked fast and furiously on this matter of a divorce. Exciting possibility it had seemed. Divorces—forbidden by Holy Church on principle—could be obtained for political reasons from the Pope, who was ever ready to please those in high places. I must have an heir! Henry told his conscience. What would happen, should I die and not leave an heir? There is mine and Katharine’s daughter, Mary; but a woman on the throne of England! No! I must have a male heir! Women are not made to rule great countries; posterity will reproach me, an I leave not an heir.

There in his mirror looked back the great man. He saw the huge head, the powerful, glittering shoulders; and this man could not produce a son for England! A short while ago he had had his son by Elizabeth Blount brought to him, and had created him Duke of Richmond, a title which he himself had carried in his youth; that he had done in order to discomfort Katharine. I could have a son, he implied. See! Here is my son. It is you who have failed! And all the tears she shed in secret, and all her prayers, availed her little. She had nothing to give him but a daughter, for—and when he thought of this, the purple veins stood out on Henry’s forehead—she had lied; she had sworn that her marriage with Arthur had never been consummated; she had tricked him, deceived him; this pale, passionless Spanish woman had tricked him into marriage, had placed in jeopardy the Tudor dynasty. Henry was filled with self-righteous anger, for he wanted a divorce and he wanted it for the noblest of reasons…not for himself, but for the house of Tudor; not to establish his manhood and virility in the eyes of his people, not to banish an aging, unattractive wife…not for these things, but because he, who had previously not hesitated to plunge his people into useless war, feared civil war for them; because he lived in sin with one who had never been his wife, having already lived with his brother. This, his conscience—now so beautifully controlled—told Henry. And all these noble thoughts were tinged rose-color by a beautiful girl who was obstinately haughty, whose cruel lips, said, “I will never be your mistress!” But it was not necessary for his conscience to dwell upon that matter as yet, for a king does not raise a humble lady-in-waiting to be his queen, however desirable she may be. No, no! No thought of that had entered his head…not seriously, of course. The girl was there, and it pleased him to think of her in his arms, for such reflections were but natural and manly; and how she was to be got into that position was of small consequence, being a purely personal matter, whereas this great question of divorce was surely an affair of state.

So was his mind active in these matters, and so did he view the reluctance of her whom he desired above all others with a kindly tolerance, like a good hunter contented to stalk awhile, and though the stalking might be arduous, that would be of little account when the great achievement would be his.

Thus was there some truth in the remarks of the Duchess of Norfolk when she had said to her granddaughter, Catherine Howard, that Anne Boleyn was leading the King a merry dance.

In their apartments at the palace Jane Boleyn was quarreling with her husband. He sat there in the window seat, handsome enough to plague her, indifferent enough to infuriate her. He was writing on a scrap of paper, and he was smiling as he composed the lyrics that doubtless his clever sister would set to music, that they might be sung before the King.

“Be silent, Jane,” he said lightly, and it was his very lightness that maddened her, for well she knew that he did not care sufficiently for her even to lose his temper. He was tapping with his foot, smiling, well pleased with his work.

“What matters it,” she demanded bitterly, “whether I speak or am silent? You do not heed which I do.”

“As ever,” said George, “you speak without thought. Were that so, why should I beg you for silence?”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

“Words! Words! You would always have them at your disposal. I hate you. I wish I had never married you!”

“Sentiments, my dear Jane, which it may interest you to know are reciprocated by your most unwilling husband.”

She went over to him, and sat on the window seat.

“George…” she began tearfully.

He sighed. “Since your feelings towards me are so violent, my dear, would it not be wiser if you removed yourself from this seat, or better still from this room? Should you prefer it, of course, I will be the one to go. But you know full well that you followed me hither.”

As he spoke his voice became weary; the pen in his hand moved as though it were bidding him stop this stupid bickering and get on with what was of real moment to him. His foot began to tap.

Angrily she took the quill from him and threw it to the floor.

He sat very still, looking at it, not at her. If she could have roused him to anger, she would have been less angry with him; it was his indifference—it always had been—that galled her.

“I hate you!” she said again.

“Repetition detracts from, rather than adds to vehemence,” he said in his most lightsome tone. “Venom is best expressed briefly; over-statement was ever suspect, dear Jane.”

“Dear Jane!” she panted. “When have I ever been dear to you?”

“There you ask a question which gallantry might bid me answer one way, truth another.”

He was cruel, and he meant to be cruel; he knew how to hurt her most; he had discovered her to be jealous, possessive and vindictive, and having no love for her he cared nothing for the jealousy, while the possessiveness irked him, and her vindictiveness left him cold; he was careless of himself and reckless as to what harm might come to him.

Her parents had thought it advantageous to link their daughter’s fortunes with those of the Boleyns, which were rising rapidly under the warming rays of royal favor; so she had married, and once married had fallen victim to the Boleyn charm, to that ease of manner, to that dignity, to that cleverness. But what hope had Jane of gaining George’s love? What did she know of the things for which he cared so deeply? He thought her stupid, colorless, illiterate. Why, she wondered, could he not be content to make merry, to laugh at the frivolous matters which pleased her; why could he not enjoy a happy married life with her, have children? But he did not want her, and foolishly she thought that by quarreling, by forcing him to notice her, she might attract him; instead of which she alienated him, wearied him, bored him. They were strange people, thought Jane, these two younger Boleyns; amazingly alike, both possessing in a large degree the power of attracting not only those who were of the same genre as themselves, but those who were completely opposite. Jane believed them both to be cold people; she hated Anne; indeed she had never been so wretched in her life until the return of her sister-in-law; she hated her, not because Anne had been unpleasant to her, for indeed Jane must admit that Anne had in the first instance made efforts to be most sisterly; but she hated Anne because of the influence she had over her brother, because he could give her who was merely his young sister much affection and admiration, while for Jane, his wife who adored him, he had nothing but contempt.

So now she tried to goad him, longed for him to take her by the shoulders and shake her, that he might lay hands on her if only in anger. Perhaps he knew this, for he was diabolically clever and understood most uncomfortably the workings of minds less clever than his own. Therefore he sat, arms folded; looking at the pen stuck in the polished floor, bored by Jane, weary of the many scenes she created, and heartlessly careless of her feelings.

“George….”

He raised weary eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“I…I am so unhappy!”

He said, with the faintest hint of softness in his voice: “I am sorry for that.”

She moved closer; he remained impassive.

“George, what are you writing?”

“Just an airy trifle,” he said.

“Are you very annoyed that I interrupted?”

“I am not annoyed,” he replied.

“That pleases me, George. I do not mean to interrupt. Shall I get your pen?”

He laughed and, getting up, fetched it himself with a smile at her. Any sign of quiet reason on her part always pleased him; she struggled with her tears, trying to keep the momentary approval she had won.

“I am sorry, George.”

“It is of no matter,” he said. “I’ll warrant also that I should be the one to be sorry.”

“No, George, it is I who am unreasonable. Tell me, is that for the King’s masque?”

“It is,” he said, and turned to her, wanting to explain what he, with Wyatt, Surrey and Anne, was doing. But he knew that to be useless; she would pretend to be interested; she would try very hard to concentrate, then she would say something that was maddeningly stupid, and he would realize that she had not been considering what he was saying, and was merely trying to lure him to an amorous interlude. He had little amorous inclination towards her; he found her singularly unattractive and never more so than when she tried to attract him.

She came closer still, leaning her head forward to look at the paper. She began to read.

“It is very clever, George.”

“Nonsense!” said George. “It is very bad and needs a deal of polishing.”

“Will it be sung?”

“Yes, Anne will write the music.”

Anne! The very mention of that name destroyed her good resolutions.

“Anne, of course!” she said with a sneer.

She saw his eyes flash; she wanted to control herself, but she had heard the tender inflection of his voice when he said his sister’s name.

“Why not Anne?” he asked.

“Why not Anne?” she mimicked. “I’ll warrant the greatest musician in the kingdom would never write music such as Anne’s…in your eyes!”

He did not answer that.

“The King’s own music,” she said, “you would doubtless consider inferior to Anne’s!”

That made him laugh.

“Jane, you little fool, one would indeed be a poor musician if one was not more talented in that direction than His Majesty!”

“Such things as you say, George Boleyn, were enough to take a man’s head off his shoulders.”

“Reported in the right quarter, doubtless. What do you propose, sweet wife? To report in the appropriate quarter?”

“I swear I will one day!”

He laughed again. “That would not surprise me, Jane. You are a little fool, and I think out of your vindictive jealousy might conceivably send your husband to the scaffold.”

“And he would richly deserve it!”

“Doubtless! Doubtless! Do not all men who go to the scaffold deserve their fate? They have spoken their minds, expressed an opinion, or have been too nearly related to the King…all treasonable matters, my dear Jane.”

For this recklessness she loved him. How she would have liked to be as he was, to have snapped her fingers at life and enjoyed it as he did!

“You are a fool, George. It is well for you that you have a wife such as I!”

“Well indeed, Jane!”

“Mayhap,” she cried, “you would rather I looked like your sister Anne, dressed like your sister Anne, wrote as she wrote…. Then I might find approval in your sight!”

“You never could look like Anne.”

She flashed back: “It is not given to all of us to be perfect!”

“Anne is far from that.”

“What! Sacrilege! In your eyes she is perfect, if ever any woman was in man’s eyes.”

“My dear Jane, Anne is charming, rather because of her imperfections than because of her good qualities.”

“I’ll warrant you rage against Fate that you could not marry your sister!”

“I never was engaged in such a foolish discussion in all my life.”

She began to cry.

“Jane,” he said, and put a hand on her shoulder. She threw herself against him, forcing the tears into her eyes, for they alone seemed to have the power to move him. And as they sat thus, there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor, and these footsteps were followed by a knock on the door.

George sat up, putting Jane from him.

“Enter!” he called.

They trooped in, laughing and noisy.

Handsome Thomas Wyatt was a little ahead of the others, singing a ballad. Jane disliked Thomas Wyatt; indeed she loathed them all. They were all of the same caliber, the most important set at court these days, favorites of the King every one of them, and all connected by the skein of kinship. Brilliant of course they were; the songsters of the court. One-eyed Francis Bryan, Thomas Wyatt, George Boleyn, all of them recently returned from France and Italy, and eager now to transform the somewhat heavy atmosphere of the English court into a more brilliant copy of other courts they had known. These gay young men were anxious to oust the duller element, the old set. No soldiers nor grim counselors to the King these; they were the poets of their generation; they wished to entertain the King, to make him laugh, to give him pleasure. There was nothing the King asked more; and as this gay crowd circulated round none other than the lady who interested him so deeply, they were greatly favored by His Majesty.

Jane’s scowl deepened, for with these young men was Anne herself.

Anne threw a careless smile at Jane, and went to her brother.

“Let us see what thou hast done,” she said, and snatched the paper from him and began reading aloud; and then suddenly she stopped reading and set a tune to the words, singing them, while the others stood round her. Her feet tapped, as her brother’s had done, and Wyatt, who was bold as well as handsome, sat down between her and George on the window seat, and his eyes stayed on Anne’s face as though they could not tear themselves away.

Jane moved away from them, but that was of no account for they had all forgotten Jane’s presence. She was outside the magic circle; she was not one of them. Angrily she watched them, but chiefly she watched Anne. Anne, with the hanging sleeves to hide the sixth nail; Anne, with a special ornament at her throat to hide what she considered to be an unbecoming mole on her neck. And now all the ladies at the court were wearing such ornaments. Jane put her hand to her throat and touched her own. Why, why was life made easy for Anne? Why did everyone applaud what she did? Why did George love her better than he loved his wife? Why was clever, brilliant and handsome Thomas Wyatt in love with her?

Jane went on asking herself these questions as she had done over and over again; bitter jealousy ate deeper and deeper into her heart.

Wyatt saw her sitting by the pond in the enclosed garden, a piece of embroidery in her hands. He went to her swiftly. He was deeply and passionately in love.

She lifted her face to smile at him, liking well his handsome face, his quick wit.

“Why, Thomas…”

“Why, Anne…”

He threw himself down beside her.

“Anne, do you not find it good to escape from the weary ceremony of the court now and then?”

“Indeed I do.”

Her eyes were wistful, catching his mood. They were both thinking of Hever and Allington in quiet Kent.

“I would I were there,” he said, for such was the accord between them that they sometimes read the other’s thoughts.

“The gardens at Hever will be beautiful now.”

“And at Allington, Anne.”

“Yes,” she said, “at Allington also.”

He moved closer.

“Anne, what if we were to leave the court…together? What if we were to go to Allington and stay there…?”

“You to talk thus,” she said, “and you married to a wife!”

“Ah!” His voice was melancholy. “Anne, dost remember childhood days at Hever?”

“Well,” she answered. “You locked me in the dungeons once, and I declare I all but died of fright. A cruel boy you were, Thomas.”

“I! Cruel…and to you! Never! I swear I was ever tender. Anne, why did we not know then that happiness for you and me lay in the one place?”

“I suppose, Thomas, that when we are young we are so unwise. It is experience that teaches us the great lessons of life. How sad that, in gaining experience, we so often lose what we would most cherish!”

He would have taken her hand, but she held him off.

“Methinks, we should return,” she said.

“Now…when we are beginning to understand each other!”

“You, having married a wife…” she began.

“And therein being most unhappy,” he interrupted; but she would have none of his interruptions.

“You are in no position to speak in this wise, Thomas.”

“Anne, must we then say a long farewell to happiness?”

“If happiness would lie in marriage between us two, then we must.”

“You would condemn me to a life of melancholy.”

“You condemned yourself to that, not I!”

“I was very young.”

“You were, I mind well, a most precocious boy.”

He smiled back sadly over his youth. A boy of great precocity, they had sent him to Cambridge when he was twelve, and at seventeen had married him to Elizabeth Brooke, who was considered a good match for him, being daughter of Lord Cobham.

“Why,” he said, “do our parents, thinking to do well for us, marry us to their choice which may well not be our own? Why is the right sort of marriage so often the unhappy one?”

Anne said: “You are spineless, all of you!” And her eyes flashed as her thoughts went to Percy. Percy she had loved and lost, for Percy was but a leaf wafted by the winds. The wicked Cardinal whom she hated now as she had ever done, had said, “It shall not be!” And meekly Percy had acquiesced. Now he would complain that life had denied him happiness, forgetting he had not made any great effort to attain it. And Wyatt, whom she could so easily love, complained in much the same manner. They obeyed their parents; they married, not where they listed, but entered into any match that was found for them; then they bitterly complained!

“I would never be forced!” she said. “I would choose my way, and, God help me, whatever I might encounter I would not complain.”

“Ah! Why did I not know then that my happiness was with Anne Boleyn!”

She softened. “But how should you know it…and you but seventeen, and I even less?”

“And,” he said, “most willing to engage yourself to Percy!”

“That!” She flushed, remembering afresh the insults of the Cardinal. “That…Ah! That failed just as your marriage has failed, Thomas, though differently. Perchance I am glad it failed, for I never could abide a chicken-livered man!”

Now he was suddenly gay, throwing aside his melancholy; he would read to her some verses he had written, for they were of her and for her, and it was meet that she should hear them first.

So she closed her eyes and listened and thrilled to his poetry, and was sad thinking of how she might have loved him. And there in the pond garden it occurred to her that life had shown her little kindness in her love for men. Percy she had lost after a brief glimpse into a happy future they were to have shared; Wyatt she had lost before ever she could hope to have him.

What did the future hold for her? she wondered. Was she going on in this melancholy way, loving but living alone? It was unsatisfactory.

Thomas finished reading and put the poem into his pocket, his face flushed with appreciation for his work. He has his poetry, she mused, and what have I? Yes, the rest of us write a little; it is to us a pleasant recreation, it means not to us what it does to Wyatt. He has that, and it is much. But what have I?

Wyatt leaned forward; he said earnestly: “I shall remember this day forever, for in it you all but said you loved me!”

“There are times,” she said, “when I fear that love is not for me.”

“Ah, Anne! You are gloomy today. Whom should love be for, if not for those who are most worthy to receive it! Be of good cheer, Anne! Life is not all sadness. Who knows but that one day you and I may be together!”

She shook her head. “I have a melancholy feeling, Thomas.”

“Bah! You and melancholy mate not well together.” He leaped to his feet and held out his hands to her; she put hers in his, and he helped her to rise. He refused to release her hands; his lips were close to hers. She felt herself drawn towards him, but it seemed to her that her sister was between them…Mary, lightsome, wanton, laughing, leering. She drew away coldly. He released her hands at once, and they fell to her side; but his had touched a jeweled tablet she wore and which hung from her pocket on a golden chain. He took it and held it up, laughing. “A memento, Anne, of this afternoon when you all but said you loved me!”

“Give it back!” she demanded.

“Not I! I shall keep it forever, and when I feel most melancholy I shall take it out and look at it, and remember that on the afternoon I stole it you all but said you loved me.”

“This is foolishness,” she said. “I do not wish to lose that tablet.”

“Alas then, Anne! For lost it you have. It is a pleasing trinket—it fills me with hope. When I feel most sad I shall look at it, for then I shall tell myself I have something to live for.”

“Thomas, I beg of you…”

She would have snatched it, but he had stepped backwards and now was laughing.

“Never will I give it up, Anne. You would have to steal it back.”

She moved towards him. He ran, she after him; and running across the enclosed pond garden, trying to retrieve that which he had stolen, was poignantly reminiscent of happy childhood days at Allington and Hever.

The Cardinal rode through the crowds, passing ceremoniously over London Bridge and out of the capital on his way to France, whither he had been bidden to go by the King. Great numbers of his attendants went before him and followed after him; there were gentlemen in black velvet with gold chains about their necks, and with them their servants in their tawny livery. The Cardinal himself rode on a mule whose trappings were of crimson velvet, and his stirrups were of copper and gold. Before him were borne his two crosses of silver, two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England, his Cardinal’s hat.

The people regarded him sullenly, for it was now whispered, even beyond the court, of that which had come to be known as the King’s Secret Matter; and the people blamed the Cardinal, whispering that he had put these ideas into the King’s head. Whither went he now, but to France? Mayhap he would find a new wife to replace the King’s lawful one, their own beloved Queen Katharine. They found new loyalty towards their quiet Queen, for they pictured her as a poor, wronged woman, and the London crowd was a sentimental crowd ever ready to support the wronged.

In the crowd was whispered the little ditty which malicious Skelton had written, and which the public had taken up, liking its simple implication, liking its cutting allusions to a Cardinal who kept state like a king.

“Why come ye not to court?

To which court?

To the King’s court

Or to Hampton Court!”

He was well hated, as only the successful man can be hated by the unsuccessful. That he had risen from humble circumstances made the hatred stronger. “We are as good as this man!” “With his luck, there might I have gone!” So whispered the people, and the Cardinal knew of their whisperings and was grieved; for indeed many things grieved this man as he passed through London on his way to Sir Richard Wiltshire’s house in Dartford wherein he would spend the first night of his journey to the coast.

The Cardinal was brooding on the secret matter of the King’s. It was for him to smooth the way for his master, to get him what he desired at the earliest possible moment; and he who had piloted his state ship past many dangerous rocks was now dismayed. Well he could agree with His Majesty that the marriages of kings and queens depend for their success on the male issue, and what had his King and Queen to show for years of marriage but one daughter! The Cardinal’s true religion was statecraft; thus most frequently he chose to forget that as Cardinal he owed allegiance to the Church. When he had first been aware of the King’s passion for Mistress Anne Boleyn, many fetes had he given at his great houses, that the King and this lady might meet. Adultery was a sin in the eyes of Holy Church; not so in the liberal mind of Thomas Wolsey. The adultery of the King was as necessary as the jousts and tourneys he himself arranged for His Majesty’s diversion. And though he was ever ready to give the King opportunities for meeting this lady, he gave but slight thought to the amorous adventures of His Majesty. This affair seemed to him but one of many; to absorb, to offer satiety; that was inevitable. And then…the next. So when this idea of divorce had been passed to him by the King, glorious possibilities of advancing England’s interests through an advantageous marriage began to take hold of the Cardinal’s mind.

Should England decide to ally herself with France against the Emperor Charles, what better foundation for such an alliance could there be than marriage! Already he had put out feelers for Francis’s widowed sister, Marguerite of Alencon, but her brother, uncertain of Henry who still had an undivorced wife—and she none other than the aunt of the Emperor Charles himself—had dallied over negotiations, and married his sister to the King of Navarre. There was, however, Renee of France, sister to the late Queen Claude, and Wolsey’s heart glowed at the prospect of such a marriage. Had not Claude borne Francis many children? Why, therefore, should Renee not bear Henry many sons? And to make the bargain complete, why not contract the King’s daughter Mary to Francis’s son, the Duke of Orleans? Of these matters had Wolsey spoken to the King, and craftily the King appeared to consider them, and whilst considering them he was thinking of none but Anne Boleyn, so did he yearn towards her; and so had her reluctance inflamed his passion that already he was toying with the idea of throwing away Wolsey’s plans for a marriage which would be good for England; he was planning to defy his subjects’ disapproval, to throw tradition to the wind, to satisfy his desires only and marry Anne Boleyn. He knew his Chancellor; wily, crafty, diplomatic; let Wolsey consider this divorce to be a state affair, and all his genius for statecraft would go into bringing it about; let him think it was but to satisfy his master’s overwhelming desire for a humble gentlewoman of his court—who persistently and obstinately refused to become his mistress—and could Wolsey’s genius then be counted on to work as well? The King thought not; so he listened to Wolsey’s plans with feigned interest and approval, but unknown to the Cardinal, he dispatched his own secretary as messenger to the Pope, for he wished to appease his conscience regarding a certain matter which worried him a little. This was his love affair with Mary Boleyn, which he feared must create an affinity between himself and Anne, though he had determined it should be of small consequence should his secretary fail to obtain the Pope’s consent to remove the impediment.

Riding on to Dartford, the Cardinal was busily thinking. There was within him a deep apprehension, for he was aware that this matter of the divorce was to be a delicate one and one less suited to his genius, which loved best to involve itself in the intricacies of diplomacy and was perhaps less qualified to deal with petty domesticities. Of Anne Boleyn he thought little. To him the King’s affair with this foolish girl was a matter quite separate from the divorce, and unworthy of much thought. It appeared to him that Anne was a light o’ love, a younger version of her sister Mary, a comely creature much prone to giving herself airs. He smiled on her, for, while not attaching over-much importance to the King’s favorites whose influence had ever been transient, it was well not to anger them. Vaguely he remembered some affair with Percy; the Cardinal smiled faintly at that. Could it be then that the King had remained faithful so long?

He fixed his eyes on his Cardinal’s hat being borne before him, and that symbol of his power, the Great Seal of England; and his mind was busy and much disturbed, recent events having complicated the matter of divorce. He thought of the three men of consequence in Europe—Henry, Charles and Francis. Francis—even enfeebled as he was just now—had the enviable role of looker-on, sly and secret, waiting to see advantage and leap on it; Henry and Charles must take more active parts in the drama, for Henry’s wife was Charles’s aunt, and it was unlikely that Charles would stand calmly by to see Henry humiliate Spain through such a near relation. Between these two the Pope, a vacillating man, was most sorely perplexed; he dared not offend Henry; he dared not offend Charles. He had granted a divorce to Henry’s sister Margaret on the flimsiest of grounds, but that had proved simple; there was no mighty potentate to be offended by such a divorce. Henry, ranting, fuming, urgently wanting what, it seemed to him, others conspired to keep from him, was a dangerous man; and to whom should he look to gratify his whims but Wolsey? And on whom would he vent his wrath, were his desires frustrated?

This sorry situation had been vastly aggravated by a recent event in Europe; the most unexpected, horrible and sacriligious event the Cardinal could conceive, and the most disastrous to the divorce. This was the sack of Rome by the Duke of Bourbon’s forces in the name of the Empire.

Over the last few years Wolsey had juggled dexterously in Europe; and now, riding on to Dartford, he must wonder whether out of his cunning had not grown this most difficult situation. For long Wolsey had known of the discord which existed between Francis and one of the most powerful nobles of France, the mighty Duke of Bourbon. This nobleman, to safeguard his life, had fled his country, and being a very proud and high-spirited gentleman was little inclined to rest in exile all his life; indeed for years before his flight he had been in treasonable communication with the Emperor Charles, France’s hereditary enemy, and when he left his country he went to Charles with plans for making war on the French King.

Now it had occurred to Wolsey that if the Duke could be supplied secretly with money he could raise an army from his numerous supporters and thus be, as it were, a general under the King of England while none need know that the King of England had a hand in this war. Therefore would England be in secret alliance with Spain against France. Henry had felt the conception of such an idea to be sheer genius, for the weakening of France and the reconquering of that country had ever been a dream of his. A secret ambassador had been sent to Emperor Charles, and the King and Wolsey with their council laughed complacently at their own astuteness. Francis, however, discovered this and sent a secret messenger to make terms with England, with the result that Bourbon’s small army—desperate and exhausted—awaited in vain the promised help from England. Wolsey had calculated without the daring of the Duke and the laxity of the French forces, without Francis’s poor generalship which alternately hesitated and then was overbold. At Pavia the French King’s forces were beaten, and the King taken prisoner; and among his documents was found the secret treaty under the Great Seal of England. Thus was Francis a prisoner in the hands of the Emperor, and thus was English double-dealing exposed. Francis was to languish and come near to death in a Madrid prison; and Charles would not be overeager to link himself with England again. So that the master-stroke which was to have put England in the enviable position of being on the winning side—whichever it was to be—had failed.

That had happened two years ago; yet it was still unpleasant to contemplate, as was Wolsey’s failure, in spite of bribery, to be elected Pope. And now had come the greatest blow; Bourbon had turned his attentions to the city of Rome itself. True, this had cost the hasty Duke his life, but his men went on with his devilish scheme, and the city was ransacked, laid waste by fire and pillage, its priests desecrated, its virgins raped; and the sacred city was the scene of one of the most terrible massacres in history. But most shocking of all was, the fact that the Pope, who was to grant Henry’s divorce, was a prisoner at Castle Angell—prisoner of the Emperor Charles, the nephew of that lady who was to be most deeply wronged by the divorce.

Small wonder that the Cardinal’s head ached, but even as it ached it buzzed with plans, for it had ever been this man’s genius to turn every position in which he found himself to his own advantage; and now an idea had come to him that should make him more famous, make his master love him more. A short while ago it had seemed to him that a vast cloud was beginning to veil the sun of his glory, as yet so vaporish that the sun was but slightly obscured and blazed hotly through. He trusted in the sun’s fierce rays to disperse that cloud; and so it should be. The Pope was a prisoner; why not set up a Deputy-Pope while he was thus imprisoned? And who more fitted for the office than Cardinal Wolsey? And would not such a deputy feel kindly disposed towards his master’s plea for a divorce?

On rode the Cardinal, renewed and refreshed, until he came to Canterbury; and there he was the leader of a mighty procession that went into the Abbey; and, gorgeously attired, wearing his Cardinal’s hat, he prayed for the captive Pope and wept for him, while his mind was busy with the plans for reigning in Clement’s stead, granting the divorce, and marrying his master to a French princess.

And so passed the Cardinal on to France where he was received royally by the Regent, Louise of Savoy—who reigned during the absence of her son Francois—and by the King’s gifted sister, Marguerite of Navarre. He assured them of his master’s friendship with their country; he arranged the marriage of the King’s daughter to the Duke of Orleans; and he hinted at the King’s divorce and his marriage with Renee. He was entertained lavishly, well assured of French friendship.

But among the people of France the Cardinal was no more popular than he was in England; and although he came with offers of friendship, and though he brought English gold with him, the humble people of France did not trust him and made his journey through their land an uncomfortable one. He was robbed in many places where he rested, and one morning when he arose from his bed, he went to his window and there saw that on the leaning stone some mischievous person had engraved a Cardinal’s hat, and over it a gallows.

The whole court whispered of nothing else but the King’s Secret Matter. Anne heard it; Katharine heard it. The Queen was afraid. Great pains she took with her toilet, hoping thereby to please the King, that there might yet be a hope of defying the doctors and producing an heir. Katharine was melancholy; she prayed more fervently; she fretted.

Anne heard it and was sorry for the Queen, for though she was as different from Anne as one woman could be from another, a gloomy woman, rarely heard to laugh, yet had Anne a deep respect for such piety as her mistress’s while feeling herself unable to emulate it.

But Anne was busy with thoughts of her own affairs. Wyatt was plaguing her, making wild and impossible suggestions; and she feared she thought too much and too often of Wyatt. There came to her little scraps of paper with his handwriting, and in the poems inscribed on these he expressed his passion for her, the unhappiness of his marriage, the hope he might have, would she but give it, of the future. There had been those who had said that Anne was half French; in character this was so. She was frivolous, sentimental, excessively fond of admiration; but mingling with these attributes was something essentially practical. Had Wyatt been unmarried, ready would she have been to listen to him; and now, admitting this to herself—at the same time giving him no hope that his plans would ever reach fruition—she found it impossible to refuse his attentions entirely. She looked for him; she was ever ready to dally with him. With her cousin, Surrey, and her brother to ensure the proprieties, she was often to be found with Wyatt. They were the gayest and most brilliant quartet at the court; their cousinship was a bond between them. Life was pleasant for Anne with such friends as these, and she was enjoying it as a butterfly flutters in the sunshine even when the first cool of evening is setting in.

Preparing herself for the banquet which was to be given at the palace of Greenwich in honor of the departing French ambassadors, Anne thought of Wyatt. This banquet was to be the most gorgeous of its kind as a gesture of friendship towards the new allies. At Hampton these gentlemen had been entertained most lavishly by my lord Cardinal, who had recently returned from France, and so magnificent a feast had the Cardinal prepared for them that the King, jealous that one of his subjects could provide such a feast fit only for a king’s palace, would have Wolsey’s hospitality paled to insignificance by his own.

George, Anne, Surrey, Bryan and Wyatt had organized a most lavish carnival for the entertainment of these French gentlemen. They were delighted with their work, sure of the King’s pleasure. Such events were ever a delight to Anne; she reveled in them, for she knew that, with her own special gifts she excelled every other woman present, and this was intoxicating to Anne, dispersing that melancholy which she had experienced periodically since she had lost Percy and which was returning more frequently, perhaps on account of Wyatt.

Anne’s dress was of scarlet and cloth of gold; there were diamonds at her throat and on her vest. She discarded her head-dress, deciding it made her look too much like the others; she would wear her beautiful hair flowing and informal.

She was, as she had grown accustomed to be, the shining light of the court. Men’s eyes turned to watch her; there was Henry Norris, the groom of the stole, Thomas Wyatt, smouldering and passionate, the King, his eyes glittering. To Norris she was indifferent; of Thomas Wyatt she was deeply aware; the King she feared a little; but admiration, no matter whence it came, was sweet. George smiled at her with approval; Jane watched her with envy, but there was little to disturb in that, as all the women were envious; though perhaps with Jane the envy was tinged with hatred. But what did Anne care for her brother’s foolish wife! Poor George! she thought. Better to be alone than linked with such a one. It could be good to be alone, to feel so many eyes upon her, watching, admiring, desiring; to feel that power over these watching men which their need of her must give her.

About her, at the banquet, the laughter was louder, the fun more riotous. The King would join the group which surrounded her, because he liked to be with gay young people; and all the time his eyes burned to contemplate her who was the center of this laughing group.

The Queen sat, pale and almost ugly. She was a sad and frightened woman who could not help thinking continually of the suggested divorce; and this feast in itself was a humiliation to her, since she, a Spaniard, could find little joy in friendship with the French!

The King’s distaste for his Queen was apparent; and those courtiers who were young and loved gaiety, scarcely paid her the homage due to her; they preferred to gather round Anne Boleyn, because to be there was to be near the King, joining in his fun and laughter.

Now, from his place at the head of the table, the King was watching Wyatt. Wine had made the poet over-bold and he would not move from Anne’s side though he was fully aware of Henry’s watching eyes. There was hardly anyone at the table who was ignorant of the King’s passion, and there was an atmosphere of tension in the hall, while everyone waited for the King to act.

Then the King spoke. There was a song he wished the company to hear. It was of his own composing. All assumed great eagerness to hear the song.

The musicians were called. With them came one of the finest singers in the court. There was a moment’s complete silence, for no one dared move while the King’s song was about to be sung. The King sat forward and his eyes never left Anne’s face until the song was finished and the applause broke out.

“The eagle’s force subdues each bird that flies:

What metal can resist the flaming fire?

Doth not the sun dazzle the clearest eyes

And melt the ice, and make the frost retire?

The hardest stones are pierced through with tools,

The wisest are with princes made but fools.”

There could be no doubt of the meaning of these arrogant words; there could be no doubt for whom they were written. Anne was freshly aware of the splendor of this palace of Greenwich, of the power it represented. The words kept ringing in her ears. He was telling her that he was weary of waiting; princes, such as he was, did not wait over-long.

This evening had lost its joy for her now; she was afraid. Wyatt had heard those words and realized their implication; George had heard them, and his eyes smiled into hers reassuringly. She wanted to run to her brother, she wanted to say: “Let us go home; let us go back to being children. I am afraid of the glitter of this court. His eyes watch me now. Brother, help me! Take me home!” George knew her thoughts. She saw the reckless tilt of his head, and imitated it, feeling better, returning his smile. George was reassuring. “Never fear, Anne!” he seemed to convey. “We are the Boleyns!”

The company was applauding. Great poetry, was the verdict. Anne looked to him who, some said, was the literary genius of the court, Sir Thomas More; his Utopia she had just read with much pleasure. Sir Thomas was gazing at his large and rather ugly hands; he did not, she noticed, join in the effusive praise of the others. Was it the poetry or the sentiments, of which Sir Thomas did not approve?

The King’s song was the prelude of the evening’s entertainment, and Anne with her friends would have a big part in this. She thrust aside her fears; she played that night with a fervor she had rarely expressed before in any of these masquerades and plays which the quartet contrived. Into her fear of the King there crept an element which she could not have defined. What was it? The desire to make him admire her more? The company were over-courteous to her; even her old enemy, Wolsey, whom she had never ceased to hate, had a very friendly smile! The King’s favorites were to be favored by all, and when you had known yourself to be slighted on account of your humble birth…when such a man as Wolsey had humiliated you…yes, there was pleasure mingling with the fear of this night.

She was like a brilliant flame in her scarlet and gold. All eyes were upon her. For months to come they would talk of this night, on which Anne had been the moon to all these pale stars.

The evening was to end with a dance, and in this each gentleman would choose his partner. The King should take the Queen’s hand and lead the dance, whilst the others fell in behind them. The Queen sat heavy in her chair, brooding and disconsolate. The King did not give her a look. There was a moment of breathless silence while he strode over to Anne Boleyn, and thus, choosing her, made public his preference.

His hand held hers firmly; his was warm and strong; she felt he would crush her fingers.

They danced. His eyes burned bright as the jewels on his clothes. Different this from the passion of Wyatt; fiercer, prouder, not sad but angry passion.

He would have speech with her away from these people, he said. She replied that she feared the Queen’s disapproval should she leave the ballroom.

He said: “Do you not fear mine if you stay!”

“Sir,” she said, “the Queen is my mistress.”

“And a hard one, eh?”

“A very kind one, Sir, and one whose displeasure I should not care to incur.”

He said angrily: “Mistress, you try our patience sorely. Did you like our song?”

“It rhymed well,” she said, for now she sat with him she could see that his anger was not to be feared; he would not hurt her, since mingling with his passion there was a tenderness, and this tenderness, which she observed, while it subdued her fear, filled her with a strange and exalted feeling.

“What mean you?” he cried, and he leaned closer, and though he would know himself to be observed he could not keep away.

“Your Majesty’s rhyme I liked well; the sentiments expressed, not so well.”

“Enough of this folly!” he said. “You know I love you well.”

“I beg your Majesty…”

“You may beg anything you wish an you say you love me.”

She repeated the old argument. “Your Majesty, there can be no question of love between us…I would never be your mistress.”

“Anne,” he said earnestly, pleadingly, “should you but give yourself to me body and soul there should be no other in my heart I swear. I would cast off all others that are in competition with you, for there is none that ever have delighted me as you do.”

She stood up, trembling; she could see he would refuse to go on taking no for an answer, and she was afraid.

She said: “The Queen watches us, Your Majesty. I fear her anger.”

He arose, and they joined the dancers.

“Think not,” he said, “that this matter can rest here.”

“I crave Your Majesty’s indulgences. I see no way that it can end that will satisfy us both.”

“Tell me,” he said, “do you like me?”

“I hope I am a loving subject to Your Majesty…”

“I doubt not that you could be a very loving one, Anne, if you gave your mind to it; and I pray you will give your mind to it. For long have I loved you, and for long have I had little satisfaction in others for my thoughts of you.”

“I am unworthy of Your Majesty’s regard.”

She thought: Words! These tiresome words! I am frightened. Oh, Percy, why did you leave me! Thomas, if you loved me when you were a child, why did you let them marry you to a wife!

The King towered over her, massive and glittering in his power. He breathed heavily; his face was scarlet; desire in his eyes, desire in his mouth.

She thought: Tomorrow I shall return secretly to Hever.

The Queen was sulky. She dismissed her maids and went into that chamber wherein was the huge royal bed which she still shared with Henry, but the sharing of which was a mere formality. She lay at one extreme edge; he at the other.

She said: “It is useless to pretend you sleep.”

He said: “I had no intention of pretending, Madam.”

“It would seem to be your greatest pleasure to humiliate me.”

“How so?” he said.

“It is invariably someone; tonight it was the girl Boleyn. It was your kingly duty to have chosen me.”

“Chosen you, Madam!” he snorted. “That would I never have done; not now, nor years ago, an the choice were mine!”

She began to weep and to murmur prayers; she prayed for self-control for herself and for him. She prayed that he might soften towards her, and that she might defy the doctors who had prophesied that he would never get a male heir from her.

He lay listening to her but paying little attention, being much accustomed to her prayers, thinking of a girl’s slender body in scarlet and gold, a girl with flowing hair and a clever, pointed face, and the loveliest dark eyes in the court. Anne, he thought, you witch! I vow you hold off to provoke me…. Pleasant thoughts. She was holding off to plague him. But enough, girl. How many years since I saw you in your father’s garden, and wanted you then! What do you want, girl? Ask for it; you shall have it, but love me, love me, for indeed I love you truly.

The Queen had stopped praying.

“They give themselves such airs, these women you elevate with your desires.”

“Come,” he said, gratified, for did not she give herself airs, and was it then because of his preference for her? “It is natural, is it not, that those noticed by the King should give themselves airs?”

“There are so many,” she said faintly.

Ah! he thought, there would be but one, Anne, and you that one!

The Queen repeated: “I would fain Your Majesty controlled himself.”

Oh, her incessant chatter wearied him. He wished to be left alone with his dream of her whose presence enchanted him.

He said cruelly: “Madam, you yourself are little inducement to a man to forsake his mistresses.”

She quivered; he felt that, though the width of the vast bed separated them.

“I am no longer young,” she said. “Am I to blame because our children died?” He was silent; she was trembling violently now. “I have heard the whispering that goes on in the court. I have heard of this they call The King’s Secret Matter.”

Now she had dragged his mind from the sensuous dream which soothed his body. So the whispering had reached her ears, had it! Well, assuredly it must reach them some time; but he would rather the matter had been put before her in a more dignified manner.

She said appealingly: “Henry, you do not deny it?”

He heaved his great body up in the bed. “Katharine,” he said, “you know well that for myself I would not replace you; but a king’s life does not belong to him but to his kingdom. And Katharine, serious doubts have arisen in my mind, not lately but for some time past; and well would I have suppressed them had my conscience let me. I would have you know, Katharine, that when our daughter’s marriage with the Duke of Orleans was proposed, the French ambassador raised the question of her legitimacy.”

“Legitimacy!” cried Katharine, raising herself. “What meant he? My lord, I hope you reproved him most sternly!”

“Ah! That I did! And sorely grieved was I.” The King felt happier now; he was no longer the erring husband being reproved by his too faithful wife; he was the King, who put his country first, before all personal claims; and in this matter, he could tell himself, the man must take second place to the King. He could, lying in this bed with a woman whose pious ways, whose shapeless body had long since ceased to move him except with repugnance, assure himself that the need to remain married to her was removed.

He had married Katharine because there had been England’s need to form a deep friendship with Spain, because England had then been weak, and across a narrow strip of channel lay mighty France, a perennial enemy. In those days of early marriage it had been a hope of Henry’s to conquer France once more; with Calais still in English hands, this had not seemed an impossibility; he had hoped that with the Emperor’s help this might be effected, but since the undignified affair at Pavia, Charles was hardly likely to link himself with English allies; thus was the need for friendship with Spain removed; Wolsey’s schemes had been called to a halt; the new allies were the French. Therefore, what could be better for England than to dissolve the Spanish marriage! And in its place…But no matter, dissolve the Spanish marriage since it could no longer help England.

These were minor matters compared with the great issue which disturbed his conscience. God bless the Bishop of Tarbes, that ambassador who had the tact at this moment to question the legitimacy of the Princess Mary.

“’Twere a matter to make a war with France,” said Katharine hotly. “My daughter a bastard! Your daughter…”

“These matters are not for women’s wits,” said the King. “Wars are not made on such flimsy pretexts.”

“Flimsy!” she cried, her voice sharp with fear. Katharine was no fool; to the suppers given in her apartments there came the most learned of men, the more serious courtiers, men such as Sir Thomas More; she was more fastidious than the English ladies, and she had never tried to learn the English ways. She did not enjoy the blood sports so beloved by her husband. At first he had protested when she had told him that Spanish ladies did not follow the hawk and hound. But that was years ago; he thought it well now that she did not attend sporting displays, since he had no wish for her company. But there was that in her which must make him respect her, her calm dignity, her religious faith; and even now, when this great catastrophe threatened her, she had not shown publicly—apart from her melancholy, which was natural to her—that she knew what was afoot. But she was tenacious; she would fight, he knew, if not for herself for her daughter. Her piety would tell her that she fought for Henry as well as for herself, that divorce was wrong in the eyes of the Church, and she would fight with all her quiet persistence against it.

“Katharine,” said the King, “dost thou remember thy Bible?” He began to quote a passage from Leviticus wherein it was said that for a man to take his brother’s wife was an unclean thing, for thus had he uncovered his brother’s nakedness, they should therefore be childless. He repeated the last sentence.

“Thou knowest I was never truly thy brother’s wife.”

“It is a matter which perplexes me greatly.”

“You would say you believe me not?”

“I know not what to say. Your hopes of an heir have been blighted; it looks like Providence. Is it natural that our sons should die one after the other? Is it natural that our efforts should be frustrated?”

“Not all,” she said plaintively.

“A daughter!” he retorted contemptuously.

“She is a worthy girl….”

“Bah! A girl! What good are women on the throne of England! She is no answer to our prayers, Katharine. Sons have been denied to us. The fault does not lie in me…”

Tears were in the Queen’s eyes. She would hate this man if most of her natural instincts had not been suppressed by piety; she knew not now whether she hated or loved; she only knew she must do what was right according to her religion. She must not hate the King; she must not hate her husband; for therein was mortal sin. So all through the years when he had slighted her, humiliated her, shown utter carelessness of the hurt his lack of faith might cause her, she had assured herself that she loved him. Small wonder that he found her colorless; small wonder that now he compared this woman of forty-one with a laughing, willful girl of nineteen years! He was thirty-five; surely a good age for a man—his prime. But he must be watchful of the years, being a king who had so far failed to give his kingdom an heir.

A short while ago he had brought his illegitimate son to court, and heaped honors upon him to the deep humiliation of the Queen, whose fears were then chiefly for her daughter. This huge man cared nothing for her, little for her daughter; he only cared that he should get what he wanted, and that the world should think that in procuring his own needs he did it not for his own, but for duty’s sake.

When he said that the fault was not with him, he meant she had lied when she declared herself a virgin; he meant that she had lived with his brother as his wife. She began to weep as she prayed for strength to fight this powerful man and his evil intentions to displace her daughter from the throne with a bastard he might beget through one whom he would call his wife.

“Search your soul!” he said now, his voice trembling with righteousness. “Search your soul, Katharine, for the truth. Does the blame for this disaster to our kingdom lie with you or with me? I have a clear conscience. Ah, Katharine, can you say you have the same?”

“That I can,” she said, “and will!”

He could have struck her, but he calmed himself and said in melancholy fashion: “Nothing would have made me take this step, but that my conscience troubled me.”

She lay down and was silent; he lay down too; and in a very short while he had forgotten Katharine and was thinking of her who, he had determined, should be his.

Anne arrived at Hever with the words of the King’s song still in her thoughts. She found it difficult to analyze her feelings, for to be the object of so much attention from one as powerful as the King was to reflect that power; and to Anne, bold and eager for life, power, though perhaps not the most cherished gift life could bestow, was not to be despised.

She wondered what he would say when the news of her departure reached him. Would he be angry? Would he decide that it was beneath his dignity to pursue such an unappreciative female? Would he banish her from court? She fervently hoped not that, for she needed gaiety as she never had before. She could suppress her melancholy in feverish plans for the joust, and moreover her friends were at court—George and Thomas, Surrey and Francis Bryan; with them she could laugh and frivol; and indeed talk most seriously too, for they were all—perhaps with the exception of Surrey—interested in the new religion of which she had learned a good deal from Marguerite, now the Queen of Navarre. They leaned towards that religion, all of them, perhaps because they were young and eager to try anything that was different from the old way, liking it by virtue of its very novelty.

She had not been at Hever more than a day, when the King arrived. If she had any doubt of his intense feeling for her, she need have no doubt any longer. He was inclined to be angry, but at the sight of her his anger melted; he was humble, which was somehow touching in one in whom humility was such a rare virtue; he was eager and passionate, anxious that she should have no doubt of the nature of his feelings for her.

They walked in that garden which had been the scene of their first encounter; and that was at his wish, for he was a sentimental man when it pleased him to be so.

“I have seriously thought of this matter of love between us,” he told her. “I would have you know that I understand your feelings. I must know—so stricken am I in my love for you—what your feelings to me are, and what they would be if I no longer had a wife.”

She was startled. Dazzling possibilities had presented themselves. Herself a Queen! The intoxicating glory of power! The joy of snapping her fingers at the Cardinal! Queen of England…!

“My lord…” she stammered. “I fear I am stupid. I understand not…”

He put a hand on her arm, and she felt his fingers burning there; they crept up to her forearm, and she faced him, saw the intensity of his desire for her, and thrilled to it because, though he might not be a man she loved, he was King of England, and she felt his power, and she felt his need of her, and while he was in such urgent need it was she who held the power, for the King of England would be soft in her hands.

She cast down her eyes, fearful lest he should read her thoughts. He said she was fairer than any lady he had ever seen, and that he yearned to possess her, body and soul.

“Body and soul!” he repeated, his voice soft and humble, his eyes on her small neck, her slender body; and his voice slurred suddenly with desire as, in his mind, he took her, just as he had when he had lain beside the Queen and conjured up pictures of her so vividly that it had seemed she was there with him.

She was thinking of Percy and of Wyatt, and it seemed to her that these two mingled together and were one, representing love; and before her beckoned this strong, powerful, bejeweled man who represented ambition.

He was kissing her hand with swift, devouring kisses; there was a ring on her forefinger which she wore always; he kissed this ring, and asked that he might have it as a token, but she clenched her hands and shook her head. There was a large diamond on his finger that he would give to her, he said; and these two rings would be symbols of the love between them.

“For now I shall soon be free,” he said, “to take a wife.”

She lifted her eyes incredulously to his face. “Your Majesty cannot mean he would take me!”

He said passionately: “I will take none other!”

Then it was true; he was offering her marriage. He would lift her up to that lofty eminence on which now sat Queen Katharine, the daughter of a King and Queen. She, humble Anne Boleyn, was to be placed there…and higher, for Katharine might be Queen, but she had never had the King’s regard. It was too brilliant to be contemplated. It dazzled. It gave her a headache. She could not think clearly, and it seemed as though she saw Wyatt smiling at her, now mocking, now melancholy. It was too big a problem for a girl who was but nineteen and who, longing to be loved, had been grievously disappointed in her lovers.

“Come, Anne!” he said. “I swear you like me.”

“It is too much for me to contemplate…. I need…”

“You need me to make up your mind for you!” he said, and there and then he had her in his arms, his lips hard and hot against her own. She felt his impatience, and sought to keep her wits. Already she knew something of this man; a man of deep needs ever impatient of their immediate gratification; now he was saying to her: “I’ve promised marriage. Why wait longer? Here! Now! Show your gratitude to your King and your trust in him, and believe that he will keep his promise!”

The Secret Matter…would it be granted? And if so…what would her old enemy, Wolsey, have to say of such a marriage? There would be powerful people at court who would exert all their might to prevent it. No, she might be falling in love with the thought of herself as Queen, but she was not in love with the King.

She said, with that haughty dignity which while it exasperated him never failed to subdue him: “Sire, the honor you do me is so great that I would fain…”

With a rough edge to his voice he interrupted: “Enough of such talk, sweetheart! Let us not talk as King and subject, but as man and woman.” One hand was at her throat. She felt his body hot against her own. With both hands she held him off.

“As yet,” she said coldly, “I am unsure.”

The veins stood out on his forehead.

“Unsure!” he roared. “Your King has said he loves you…aye, and will marry you, and you are unsure!”

“Your Majesty suggested we should talk as man and woman, not as King and subject.”

She had freed herself and was running towards the hedge of fir trees which enclosed this garden; he ran after her, and she allowed herself to be caught at the hedge. He held both her hands tightly in his.

“Anne!” he said. “Anne! Dost seek to plague me?”

She answered earnestly: “I never felt less like plaguing anyone, and why should I plague Your Majesty who has done me this great honor! You have offered me your love, which is to me the greatest honor, you being my King and I but a humble girl; but it was Your Majesty’s command that I should cease to think of you as King…”

He interrupted: “You twist my words, Anne. You clever little minx, you do!” And, forcing her against the hedge, he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lips; then those hands sought to pull apart her dress.

She wriggled free.

He said sternly: “I would have you regard me now as your King. I would have you be my obedient, loving little subject.”

She was breathless with fear. She said, greatly daring: “You could never win my love that way! I beg of you, release me.”

He did so, and she stood apart from him, her eyes flashing, her heart beating madly; for she greatly feared that he would force on her that which till now she had so cleverly avoided. But suddenly she saw her advantage, for there he stood before her, not an angry King but a humble man who, besides desiring her, loved her; and thus she knew that it was not for him to say what should be, but for herself to decide. Such knowledge was sweet; it calmed her sorely troubled mind, and calm she was indeed mistress of the situation. Here he was, this great bull of a man, for the first time in his life in love, and therefore inexperienced in this great emotion which swept over him, governing his actions, forcing him to take orders instead of giving them; forcing him to supplicate instead of demanding.

“Sweetheart…” he began hoarsely; but she lifted a hand.

“Your rough treatment has grieved me.”

“But my love for you…”

She looked at the red marks his hands had made on her shoulder, where he had torn the neck of her gown.

“It frightens me,” she said, looking not the least frightened, but mistress of herself and of him. “It makes me uncertain….”

“Have no uncertainty of me, darling! When I first met you I went back and said to Wolsey: ‘I have been discoursing with one who is worthy to wear a crown!’”

“And what said my lord Cardinal? He laughed in your face I dare swear!”

“Dost think he would dare!”

“There are many things my lord Cardinal might dare that others would not. He is an arrogant, ill-bred creature!”

“You wrong him, sweetheart…nor do we wish to speak of him. I beg of you, consider this matter in all seriousness, for I swear there is none that can make me happy but yourself.”

“But Your Majesty could not make me your Queen! I have said your mistress I would never be.”

Now he was eager, for his mind, which had weighed this point since she began to torment him, was now firmly made up.

“I swear,” he said, “I would never take another queen but that she was Anne Boleyn. Give me the ring, sweetheart, and take you this so that I may have peace in my mind.”

These were sweet words to her, but still she wavered. Love first; power second. Ah, she thought, could I but love this man!

“Your Grace must understand my need to think this matter over well.”

“Think it over, Anne? I ask you to be my Queen!”

“We do not discuss kings and queens,” she reproved him, and the reproof enchanted him. “This is a matter between a man and a woman. Would you then wish me to be your Queen and not to be wholly sure that I loved you more than a subject loves a king?”

This was disarming. Where was there a woman who could hesitate over such a matter! Where was one like her! In wit, in beauty, he had known she had no equal; but in virtue too she stood alone. She was priceless, for nothing he could give would buy her. He must win her love.

He was enchanted. This was delightful—for how could he doubt that she would love him! There was none who excelled as he did at the jousts; always he won—or almost always. His songs were admired more than Wyatt’s or Surrey’s even; and had he not earned the title of Defender of the Faith by his book against Luther! Could More have written such a book? No! He was a king among men in all senses of the words. Take away the throne tomorrow and he would still be king. In love…ah! He had but to look at a woman and she was ripe for him. So it had always been…except with Anne Boleyn. But she stood apart from others; she was different; that was why she should be his Queen.

“I would have time to think on this matter,” she said, and her words rang with sincerity, for this man’s kisses had aroused in her a desire for those of another man, and she was torn between love and ambition. If Wyatt had not had a wife, if it was a dignified love he could have given her, she would not have hesitated; but it was the King who offered dignity, and he offered power and state; nor was Wyatt such a humble lover as this man, for all his power, could be; and, lacking humility herself, she liked it in others.

“I stay here till I have your answer,” said the King. “I swear I will not leave Hever till I wear your ring on my finger and you mine on yours.”

“Give me till tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Thus shall it be, sweetheart. Deal kindly with me in your thoughts.”

“How could I do aught else, when from you I and mine have had naught but kindness!”

He was pleased at that. What had he not done for these Boleyns! Aye, and would do more still. He would make old Thomas’s daughter a queen. Then he wondered, did she mean to refer to Mary? Quick of speech was his love; sharp of wits; was she perhaps a little jealous of her sister Mary?

He said soberly: “There shall be none in competition with you, sweetheart.”

And she answered disconcertingly: “There would need to be none, for I could not believe in the love of a man who amused himself with mistresses.” Then she was all smiles and sweetness. “Sire, forgive my forwardness. Since you tell me you are a man who loves me, I forget you are the King.”

He was enraptured; she would come to him not for what the coming would mean to her in honor; she would come to him as the man.

That evening was a pleasant one. After the meal in the great dining hall she played to him and sang a little.

He kissed her hands fervently on retiring.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “I must have that ring.”

“Tomorrow,” she answered, “you shall know whether or not you shall have it.”

He said, his eyes on her lips: “Dost think of me under this roof knowing you so near and refusing me?”

“Perhaps it will not always be so,” she said.

“I will dream you are already Queen of England. I will dream that you are in my arms.”

She was afraid of such talk; she bade him a hasty good night, repeating her promise that he should hear her decision in the morning. She went to her chamber and locked her door.

Anne passed a night that was tortured with doubts. To be Queen of England! The thought haunted her, dominated her. Love, she had lost—the love she had dreamed of. Ambition beckoned. Surely she was meant to be a queen, she on whom the Fates had bestowed great gifts. She saw her ladies about her, robing her in the garments of state; she saw herself stately and gracious, imperious. Ah! she thought, there are so many people I can help. And her thoughts went to a house in Lambeth and a little girl tugging at her skirts. That would be indeed gratifying, to lift her poor friends and members of her family out of poverty; to know that they spoke of her lovingly and with respect…. We owe this to the Queen—the Queen, but a humble girl whose most unusual gifts, whose wit and beauty so enslaved the King that he would make her his Queen. And then…there were some who had laughed at her, her enemies who had said: “Ah! There goes Anne Boleyn; there she goes, the way of her sister!” How pleasant to snap the fingers at them, to make them bow to her!

Her eyes glittered with excitement. The soft girl who had loved Percy, who was inclined to love Wyatt, had disappeared, and in her place was a calculating woman. Ambition was wrestling desperately with love; and ambition was winning.

I do not dislike the King, she thought—for how could one dislike a man who had the good taste to admire one so wholeheartedly.

And the Queen? Ah! Something else to join the fight against ambition. The poor Queen, who was gentle enough, though melancholy, she a queen to be wronged. Oh, but the glitter of queenship! And Anne Boleyn was more fit to occupy a throne than Katharine of Aragon, for queenship is innate; it is not to be bestowed on those who have nothing but their relationship to other kings and queens.

Thomas, Thomas! Why are you not a king, to arrange a divorce, to take a new queen!

Would you be faithful, Thomas? Are any men? And if not, is love the great possession to be prized above all else? Thomas and his wife! George and Jane! The King and the Queen! Look around the court; where has love lasted? Is it not overrated? And ambition…Wolsey! How high he had come! From a butcher’s shop, some said, to Westminster Hall. From tutor’s cold attic to Hampton Court! Ambition beckoned. Cardinals may be knocked down from their proud perches, but it would need a queen to knock them down; and who could displace a queen of the King’s choice!

A queen! A queen! Queen Anne!

While Henry, restless, dreamed of her taking off those elegant clothes, of caressing the shapely limbs, she, wakeful, pictured herself riding in a litter of cloth of gold, while on either side crowds of people bared their heads to the Queen of England.

The next day Henry, after extracting a promise from her that she would return to court at once, rode away from Hever wearing her ring on his finger.

The Cardinal wept; the Cardinal implored; all his rare gifts were used in order to dissuade the King. But Henry was more determined on this than he had ever been on any matter. As wax in the hands of the crafty Wolsey he had been malleable indeed; but Wolsey had to learn that he had been so because, being clever enough to recognize the powers of Wolsey, he had been pleased to let him have his way. Now he desired the divorce, he desired marriage with Anne Boleyn as he had never desired anything except the throne, and he would fight for these with all the tenacity of the obstinate man he was; and being able to assure himself that he was in the right he could do so with unbounded energy. The divorce was right, for dynastic reasons; Anne was right for him, for she was young and healthy and would bear him many sons. An English Queen for the English throne! That was all he asked.

In vain did Wolsey point out what the reaction in France must surely be. Had he not almost affianced Henry to Renee? And the people of England? Had His Grace, the King, considered their feelings in the matter? There was murmuring against the divorce throughout the capital. Henry did what he ever did when crossed; he lost his temper, and in his mind were sown the first seeds of suspicion towards his old friend and counselor. Wolsey had no illusions; well he knew his royal master. He must now work with all his zest and genius for the divorce; he must use all his energies to put on the throne one whom he knew to be his enemy, whom he had discovered to be more than a feckless woman seeking admiration and gaiety, whom he knew to be interested in the new religion, to be involved in a powerful party comprising her uncle of Norfolk, her father, her brother, Wyatt and the rest; this he must do, or displease the King. He could see no reward for himself in this. To please the King he must put Anne Boleyn on the throne, and to put Anne Boleyn on the throne was to advance one who would assuredly have the King under her influence, and who was undoubtedly—if not eager to destroy him—eager to remove him from that high place to which years of work had brought him.

But he was Wolsey the diplomat, so he wrote to the Pope extolling the virtues of Anne Boleyn.

Anne herself had returned to court a changed person. Now she must accept the adulation of all; there were those who, disliking her hitherto, now eagerly sought her favor; she was made to feel that she was the most important person at court, for even the King treated her with deference.

She was nineteen—a girl, in spite of an aura of sophistication. Power was sweet, and if she was a little imperious it was because of remembered slights when she had been considered not good enough for Percy—she who was to be Queen of England. If she was a little hard, it was because life had been unkind to her, first with Percy, then with Wyatt. If she were inclined to be overfond of admiration and seek it where it was unwise to do so, was not her great beauty responsible? She was accomplished and talented, and it was but human that she should wish to use these gifts. Very noble it might seem for Queen Katharine to dress herself in sober attire; she was aging and shapeless, and never, even in her youth, had she been beautiful. Anne’s body was perfectly proportioned, her face animated and charming; it was as natural for her to adorn herself as it was for Wyatt to write verses, or for the King in his youth to tire out many horses in one day at the hunt. People care about doing things which they do well, and had Katharine possessed the face and figure of Anne, doubtless she would have spent more time at her mirror and a little less with her chaplain. And if Anne offended some a little at this point, she was but nineteen, which is not very old; and she was gay by nature and eager to live an exciting, exhilarating and stimulating life.

Her pity for the Queen was diminished when that lady, professing friendship for her, would have her play cards every evening to keep her from the King, and that playing she might show that slight deformity on her left hand. Ah! These pious ones! thought Anne. Are they as good as they would seem? How often do they use their piety to hurt a sinner like myself!

She was over-generous perhaps, eager to share her good fortune with others, and one of the keenest joys she derived from her newly won power was the delight of being able to help the needy. Nor did she forget her uncle, Edmund Howard, but besought the King that something might be done for him. The King, becoming more devoted with each day and caring not who should know it, promised to give the Comptrollership of Calais to her uncle. This was pleasant news to her; and she enjoyed many similar pleasures.

But she, seeming over-gay, not for one moment relaxed in the cautious game she must continue to play with the King; for the divorce was long in coming, and the King’s desire was hard to check; forever must she be on her guard with him, since it was a difficult game with a dangerous opponent.

Nor did she forget it, for with her quickness of mind very speedily did she come to know her royal lover; and there were times in this gay and outwardly butterfly existence when fears beset her.

Wyatt, reckless and bold, hovered about her, and though she knew it was unwise to allow his constant attendance, she was very loth to dismiss him from her companionship. Well she had kept her secret, and Wyatt did not yet know of the talk of marriage which had taken place between her and the King. Wyatt himself was similar to Anne in character, so that the relationship between them often seemed closer than that of first cousin. He was reckoned the handsomest man at court; he was certainly the most charming. Impulsive as Anne herself, he would slip unthinking into a dangerous situation.

There was such an occasion when he was playing bowls with the King. The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Francis Bryan completed the quartet. There was a dispute over the game, which any but Wyatt would have let pass; not so Wyatt; he played to win, as did the King, and he would not allow even Henry to take what was not his. Henry was sure he had beaten Wyatt in casting the bowl. Wyatt immediately replied: “Sire, by your leave, it is not so.”

The King turned his gaze upon this young man whom he could not help but like for his charm, his gaiety and his wit; his little eyes traveled over Wyatt’s slim body, and he remembered that he had seen him but that morning hovering about Anne. Wyatt was handsome, there was no denying that. Wyatt wrote excellent verses. The King also wrote verses. He was a little piqued by Wyatt’s fluency. And Anne? He had heard it whispered, before it was known that such whispers would madden him, that Wyatt was in love with Anne.

He was suddenly angry with Wyatt. He had dared to raise a dispute over a game. He had dared write better verses than Henry. He had dared to cast his eyes on Anne Boleyn, and was young enough, handsome enough, plausible enough to turn any girl’s head.

Significantly, and speaking in the parables he so loved to use, Henry made a great show of pointing with his little finger on which was the ring Anne had given him. Wyatt saw the ring, recognized it and was nonplussed; and that again added fuel to Henry’s anger. How dared Wyatt know so well a ring which had been Anne’s! How often, wondered Henry, had he lifted her hand to his lips!

“Wyatt!” said the King; and smiling complacently and significantly: “I tell thee it is mine!”

Wyatt, debonair, careless of consequences, looked for a moment at the ring and with a nonchalant air brought from his pocket the chain on which hung the tablet he had taken from Anne. He said with equal significance to that used by the King: “And if it may please Your Majesty to give me leave to measure the cast with this, I have good hopes yet it will be mine!”

Gracefully he stooped to measure, while Henry, bursting with jealous fury, stood by.

“Ah!” cried Wyatt boldly. “Your Majesty will see that I am right. The game is mine!”

Henry, his face purple with fury, shouted at Wyatt: “It may be so, but then I am deceived!” He left the players staring after him.

“Wyatt,” said Bryan, “you were ever a reckless fool! Why did you make such a pother about a paltry game?”

But Wyatt’s eyes had lost their look of triumph; he shrugged his shoulders. He knew that he had lost, and guessed the ring Anne had given the King to be a symbol.

Henry stormed into the room where Anne was sitting with some of the ladies. The ladies rose at his entrance, curtseyed timidly, and were quick to obey the signal he gave for their departure.

“Your Majesty is angry,” said Anne, alarmed.

“Mistress Anne Boleyn,” said the King, “I would know what there is betwixt thee and Wyatt.”

“I understand not,” she said haughtily. “What should there be?”

“That to make him boast of his success with you.”

“Then he boasts emptily.”

He said: “I would have proof of that.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “You mean that you doubt my words.”

She was as quick to anger as he was, and she had great power over him because, though he was deeply in love with her, she was but in love with the power he could give her, and she was as yet uncertain that this honor was what she asked of life. That was the secret of her power over him. She wavered, swaying away from him, and he, bewitched and enflamed with the strong sexual passion which colored his whole existence, was completely at her mercy.

He said: “Anne, I know well that you would speak the truth. But tell me now with good speed, sweetheart, that there is naught between you and Wyatt.”

“You would blame me,” she said haughtily, “since he writes his verse to me?”

“Nay, sweetheart. I would blame you for nothing. Tell me now that I have naught to fear from this man, and restore my happiness.”

“You have naught to fear from him.”

“He had a jeweled tablet of yours.”

“I remember it. He took it one day; he would not return it, and I, valuing it but little, did not press the matter.”

He sat heavily beside her on the window seat, and put an arm about her.

“You have greatly pleased me, sweetheart. You must excuse my jealousy.”

“I do excuse it,” she said.

“Then all is well.” He kissed her hand hungrily, his eyes asking for much that his lips dared not. He had angered her; he could not risk doing so again, for he sensed the uncertainty in her. Thus he marveled at his infatuation for this girl; as did the court. He had never loved like this; nay, he had never loved before. He was thirty-six, an old thirty-six in some ways, for he lived heartily; this was the last flare-up of youth, and the glow lighted everything about him in fantastic colors. He was the middle-aged man in love with youth; he felt inexpressibly tender towards her; he was obsessed by her; he chafed against the delay of the divorce.

After this affair of the bowls, Anne knew she was committed. Wyatt’s glance was sardonic now; Wyatt was resigned. She had chosen the power and the glory; his rival had tempted her with the bait of marriage.

“And wilt thou leave me thus

That hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among:

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?”

Her heart must be strong; she must cultivate ambition; she must tread warily, since in that court of glittering men and women she now began to find her enemies, and if their malice was cloaked in soft words, they were nonetheless against her. The Cardinal, watchful and wary; the Duke of Suffolk and his wife—that Mary with whom she had gone to France—who now saw her throwing a shadow over the prospects of their descendants’ claim to the throne; Chapuys, the Spaniard who was more of a spy for his master, the Emperor Charles, than his ambassador; Katharine, the Queen whom she would displace; Mary, the princess who would be branded as illegitimate. All these there were in high places to fight against her. There was a more dangerous enemy still—the people of London. Discontent was rampant in the city; the harvest had been a poor one, and the sober merchants felt that an alliance with France was folly, since it merely changed old friends for new ones who had previously shown they were not to be trusted. There was famine throughout the country, and though the King might lend to the city corn from his own granaries, still the people murmured. The cloth merchants fretted, for the trouble with Spain meant losing the great Flanders market. The County of Kent petitioned the King, in view of their poverty, to repay a loan made to him two years before. The Archbishop of Canterbury did what he could to soothe these people, but they remained restive.

For these troubles did the people of England blame Wolsey. During the prosperous years the King received the homage of his subjects; he had been taken to their hearts during the period of his coronation when he, a magnificent figure of an Englishman, fair and tall and skilled in sport, had ridden among them—such a contrast to his ugly, mean old father. During the dark years, however, they blamed Wolsey; for Wolsey had committed the sin of being of the people and rising above them. The whispers went round: “Which court? Hampton Court or the King’s court?” This was the twilight hour of Wolsey’s brilliant day. And the starving and wretched gazed at a bright and beautiful girl, reclining in her barge or riding out with friends from court; more gaily dressed than the other ladies, she sparkled with rich jewels, presents from the King—a sight to raise the wrath of a starving people. “We’ll have none of Nan Bullen!” they murmured together. “The King’s whore shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”

From the choked gutters there arose evil smells; decaying matter lay about for weeks; rats, tame as cats, walked the cobbles; overhanging gables, almost touching across narrow streets, shut out the sun and air, held in the vileness. And in those filthy streets men and women were taken suddenly sick; many died in the streets, the sweat pouring from their bodies; and all men knew that the dreaded sweating sickness had returned to England. Thus did the most sorely afflicted people of London wonder at this evil which had fallen upon them; thus did they murmur against her who by her witch’s fascination had turned the King from his pious ways. The sick and suffering of London whispered her name; the rebellious people of Kent talked of her; in the weaving counties her name was spoken with distaste. Everywhere there was murmuring against the devil’s instrument, Wolsey, and her who had led the King into evil ways and brought down the justice of heaven upon their country. Even at Horsham, where the news of the sweating sickness had not yet reached, they talked of Anne Boleyn. The old Duchess chuckled in great enjoyment of the matter.

“Come here, Catherine Howard. Rub my back. I declare I must be full of lice or suffering from the itch! Rub harder, child. Ah! Fine doings at the court, I hear. The King is bewitched, it seems, by your cousin, Anne Boleyn, and I am not greatly surprised to hear it. I said, when she came visiting me at Lambeth: ‘Ah! There is a girl the King would like!’ though I will say I added that he might feel inclined to spank the haughtiness out of her before carrying her off to bed. Don’t scratch, child! Gently…gently. Now I wonder if…” The Duchess giggled. “You must not look so interested, child, and I should not talk to you of such matters. Why, of course…As if he would not…From what I know of His Majesty…Though there are those that say…It is never wise to give in…and yet what can a poor girl do…and look how Mary kept him dancing attendance all those years! There is something about the Boleyns, and of course it comes from the Howards…though I swear I see little of it in you, child. Why, look at your gown! Is that a rent? You should make Isabel look after you better. And what do you do of nights when you should be sleeping? I declare I heard such a noise from your apartment that I was of good mind to come and lay about the lot of you…”

It was merely the Duchess’s talk; she would never stir from her bed. But Catherine decided she must tell the others.

“And your cousin, I hear, is to do something for your father, Catherine Howard. Oh, what it is to have friends at court! Why, you are dreaming there…Rub harder! Or leave that…you may do my legs now.”

Catherine was dreaming of the beautiful cousin who had come to the house at Lambeth. She knew what it meant to be a king’s favorite, for Catherine had a mixed knowledge; she knew of the attraction between men and women, and the methods in which such attraction was shown; of books she knew little, as the Duchess, always meaning to have her taught, was somehow ever forgetful of this necessity. The cousin had given her a jewelled tablet, and she had it still; she treasured it.

“One day,” said the Duchess, “I shall go to Lambeth that I may be near my granddaughter who is almost a queen.”

“She is not really your granddaughter,” said Catherine. “You were her grandfather’s second wife.”

The Duchess cuffed the girl’s ears for that. “What! And you would deny my relationship to the queen-to-be! She who is all but Queen has never shown me such disrespect. Now do my legs, child, and no more impertinence!”

Catherine thought—Nor are you my real grandmother either! And she was glad, for it seemed sacrilege that this somewhat frowsy old woman—Duchess of Norfolk though she might be—should be too closely connected with glorious Anne.

When Catherine was in the room which she still shared with the ladies-in-waiting, she took out the jeweled tablet and looked at it. It was impossible in the dormitory to have secrets, and several of them wanted to know what she had.

“It is nothing,” said Catherine.

“Ah!” said Nan. “I know! It is a gift from your lover.”

“It is not!” declared Catherine. “And I have no lover.”

“You should say so with shame! A fine big girl like you!” said a tall, lewd-looking girl, even bolder than the rest.

“I’ll swear it is from her lover,” said Nan. “Why, look! It has an initial on it—A. Now who is A? Think hard, all of you.”

Catherine could not bear their guessings, and she blurted out: “I will tell you then. I have had it since I was a very little baby. It was given to me by my cousin, Anne Boleyn.”

“Anne Boleyn!” screamed Nan. “Why, of course, our Catherine is first cousin to the King’s mistress!” Nan leaped off the bed and made a mock bow to Catherine. The others followed her example, and Catherine thrust away the tablet, wishing she had not shown it.

Now they were all talking of the King and her cousin Anne, and what they said made Catherine’s cheeks flush scarlet. She could not bear that they should talk of her cousin in this way, as though she were one of them.

The incorrigible Nan and the lewd-faced girl were shouting at each other.

“We will stage a little play…for tonight…You may take the part of the King. I shall be Anne Boleyn!”

They were rocking with laughter. “I shall do this. You shall do that…I’ll warrant we’ll bring Her Grace up with our laughter…”

“We must be careful…”

“If she discovered…”

“Bah! What would she do?”

“She would send us home in disgrace.”

“She is too lazy…”

“What else? What else?”

“Little Catherine Howard shall be lady of the bed-chamber!”

“Ha! That is good. She being first cousin to the lady…Well, Catherine Howard, we have brought you up in the right way, have we not? We have trained you to wait on your lady cousin, even in the most delicate circumstances, with understanding and…”

“Tact!” screamed Nan. “And discretion!”

“She’ll probably get a place at court!”

“And Catherine Howard, unless you take us with you, we shall tell all we know about you and…”

“I have done nothing!” said Catherine hastily. “There is nothing you could say against me.”

“Ah! Have you forgotten Thomas Culpepper so soon then?”

“I tell you there was nothing…”

“Catherine Howard! Have you forgotten the paddock and what he did there…”

“It was nothing…nothing!”

Nan said firmly: “Those who excuse themselves, accuse themselves. Did you know that, Catherine?”

“I swear…” cried Catherine. And then, in an excess of boldness: “If you do not stop saying these things about Thomas, I will go and tell my grandmother what happens in this room at night.”

Isabel, who had been silent amidst the noise of the others, caught her by her wrist.

“You would not dare…”

“Don’t forget,” cried Nan, “we should have something to say of you!”

“There is nothing you could say. I have done nothing but look on…”

“And enjoyed looking on! Now, Catherine Howard, I saw a young gentleman kiss you last evening.”

“It was not my wish, and that I told him.”

“Oh, well,” said Nan, “it was not my wish that such and such happened to me, and I told him; but it happened all the same.”

Catherine moved to the door. Isabel was beside her.

“Catherine, take no heed of these foolish girls.”

There were tears in Catherine’s eyes.

“I will not hear them say such things of my cousin.”

“Heed them not, the foolish ones! They mean it not.”

“I will not endure it.”

“And you think to stop it by telling your grandmother?”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “for if she knew what happened here, she would dismiss them all.”

“I should not tell, Catherine. You have been here many nights yourself; she might not hold you guiltless. Catherine, listen to me. They shall say nothing of your cousin again; I will stop them. But first you must promise me that you will not let a word of what happens here get to your grandmother’s ears through you.”

“It is wrong of them to taunt me.”

“Indeed it is wrong,” said Isabel, “and it must not be. Trust me to deal with them. They are foolish girls. Now promise you will not tell your grandmother.”

“I will not tell unless they taunt me to it.”

“Then rest assured they shall not.”

Catherine ran from the room, and Isabel turned to the girls who had listened open-eyed to this dialogue.

“You fools!” said Isabel. “You ask for trouble. It is well enough to be reckless when there is amusement to be had, but just to taunt a baby…What do you achieve but the fear of discovery?”

“She would not dare to tell,” said Nan.

“Would she not! She has been turning over in her baby mind whether she ought not to tell ever since she came here. Doubtless the saintly Thomas warned her it was wrong to tell tales.”

“She dared not tell,” insisted another girl.

“Why not, you fool? She is innocent. What has she done but be a looker-on? We should be ruined, all of us, were this known to Her Grace.”

“Her Grace cares nothing but for eating, sleeping, drinking, scratching and gossip!”

“There are others who would care. And while she is innocent, there is danger of her telling. Now if she were involved…”

“We shall have to find a lover for her,” said Nan.

“A fine big girl such as she is!” said the lewd-faced girl who had promised to take the part of Henry.

The girls screamed together lightheartedly. Only Isabel, aloof from their foolish chatter, considered this.

The King sat alone and disconsolate in his private apartments. He was filled with apprehension. Through the southeastern corner of England raged that dread disease, the sweating sickness. In the streets of London men took it whilst walking; many died within a few hours. People looked suspiciously one at the other. Why does this come upon us to add to our miseries! Poverty we have; famine; and now the sweat! Eyes were turned to the palaces, threatening eyes; voices murmured: “Our King has turned his lawful wife from his bed, that he might put there a witch. Our King has quarreled with the holy Pope….”

Wolsey had warned him, as had others of his council: “It would be well to send Mistress Anne Boleyn back to her father’s castle until the sickness passes, for the people are murmuring against her. It might be well if Your Majesty appeared in public with the Queen.”

Angry as the King had been, he realized there was wisdom in their words.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “the people are murmuring against us. This matter of divorce, which they cannot understand, is at the heart of it. You must go to Hever for awhile.”

She, with the recklessness of youth, would have snapped her fingers at the people. “Ridiculous,” she said, “to associate this sickness with the divorce! I do not want to leave the court. It is humiliating to be sent away in this discourteous manner.”

Was ever a man so plagued, and he a king! To his face she had laughed at his fears, despising his weakness in bowing to his ministers and his conscience. She would have defied the devil, he knew. He had forced himself to be firm, begging her to see that it was because he longed for her so desperately that he wished this matter of the divorce concluded with the minimum of trouble. Ever since she had gone he had been writing letters to her, passionate letters in which he bared his soul, in which he clearly told her more than it was wise to tell her. “Oh,” he wrote, “Oh, that you were in my arms!” He was not subtle with the pen; he wrote from the heart. He loved her; he wanted her with him. He told her these things, and so did he, the King of England, place himself at the mercy of a girl of nineteen.

He believed, with his people, that the sweat was a visitation from Heaven. It had come on other occasions; there had been one epidemic just before his accession to the throne. Ominous this! Was God saying he was not pleased that the Tudors should be the heirs of England? Again it had come in 1517, at about the time when Martin Luther was denouncing Rome. Was it God’s intention to support the German, and did He thus show disapproval of those who followed Rome? He had heard his father’s speaking of its breaking out after Bosworth…and now, here it was again when Henry was thinking of divorce. Assuredly it was alarming to contemplate these things!

So he prayed a good deal; he heard mass many times a day. He prayed aloud and in his thoughts. “Thou knowest it was not for my carnal desires that I would make Anne my wife. There is none I would have for wife but Katharine, were I sure that she was my wife, that I was not sinning in continuing to let her share my bed. Thou knowest that!” he pleaded. “Thou hast taken William Carey, O Lord. Ah! He was a complaisant husband to Mary, and mayhap this is his punishment. For myself, I have sinned in this matter and in others, as Thou knowest, but always I have confessed. I have repented…And if I took William’s wife, I gave him a place at court beyond his deserts, for, as Thou knowest, he was a man of small ability.”

All his prayers and all his thoughts were tinged with his desire for Anne. “There is a woman who will give sons to me and to England! That is why I would elevate her to the throne.” It was reassuring to be able to say “England needs my sons!” rather than “I want Anne.”

Henry was working on his treatise, in which he was pointing out the illegality of his marriage, and which he would dispatch to the Pope. He was proud of it; for its profound and wise arguments; its clarity; its plausibility; its literary worth. He had shown what he had done to Sir Thomas More; had eagerly awaited the man’s compliments; but More had merely said that he could not judge it since he knew so little of such matters. Ah! thought Henry. Professional jealousy, eh! And he had scowled at More, feeling suddenly a ridiculous envy of the man, for there was in More an agreeable humor, deep learning, wit, charm and a serenity of mind which showed in his countenance. Henry had been entertained at More’s riverside house; had walked in the pleasant garden and watched More’s children feed his peacocks; had seen this man in the heart of his family, deeply loved and reverenced by them; he had watched his friendship with men like the learned Erasmus, the impecunious Hans Holbein who, poor as he might be, knew well how to wield a brush. And being there, he the King—though he could not complain that they gave him not his rightful homage—had been outside that magic family circle, though Erasmus and Holbein had obviously been welcomed into it.

A wild jealousy had filled his heart for this man More who was known for his boldness in stating his opinions, for his readiness to crack a joke, for his love of literature and art, and for his practical virtue. Henry could have hated this man, had the man allowed him to, but ever susceptible to charm in men as well as women, he had fallen a victim to the charm of Sir Thomas More; and so he found, struggling in his breast, a love for this man, and even when More refused to praise his treatise, and even though he knew More was amongst those who did not approve of the divorce, he must continue to respect the man and seek his friendship. How many of his people, like More, did not approve of the divorce! Henry grew hot with righteous indigation and the desire to make them see this matter in the true light.

He had written a moralizing letter to his sister Margaret of Scotland, accusing her of immorality in divorcing her husband on the plea that her marriage had not been legal, thus making her daughter illegitimate. He burned with indignation at his niece’s plight while he—at that very time—was planning to place his daughter Mary in a similar position. He did this in all seriousness, for his thoughts were governed by his muddled moral principles. He saw himself as noble, the perfect king; when the people murmured against Anne, it was because they did not understand! He was ready to sacrifice himself to his country. He did not see himself as he was, but as he wished himself to be; and, surrounded by those who continually sought his favor, he could not know that others did not see him as he wished to be seen.

One night during this most unsatisfactory state of affairs occasioned by Anne’s absence, an express messenger brought disquieting news.

“From Hever!” roared the King. “What from Hever?”

And he hoped for a letter, for she had not answered his in spite of his entreaties, a letter in which she was more humble, in which she expressed a more submissive mood of sweet reasonableness. It was not however a letter, but the alarming news that Anne and her father had taken the sickness, though mildly. The King was filled with panic. The most precious body in his kingdom was in danger. Carey had died. Not Anne! he prayed. Not Anne!

He grew practical; grieving that his first physician was not at hand, he immediately dispatched his second, Doctor Butts, to Hever. Desperately anxious, he awaited news.

He paced his room, forgetting his superstitious fears, forgetting to remind God that it was just because she was healthy and could give England sons that he proposed marrying her; he thought only of the empty life without her.

He sat down, and poured out his heart to her in his direct and simple manner.

“The most displeasing news that could occur came to me suddenly at night. On three accounts I must lament it. One, to hear of the illness of my mistress whom I esteem more than all the world, and whose health I desire as I do mine own; I would willingly bear half of what you suffer to cure you. The second, from the fear that I shall have to endure thy wearisome absence much longer, which has hitherto given me all the vexation that was possible. The third, because my physician (in whom I have most confidence) is absent at the very time when he could have given me the greatest pleasure. But I hope, by him and his means, to obtain one of my chief joys on earth; that is the cure of my mistress. Yet from the want of him I send you my second (Doctor Butts) and hope he will soon make you well. I shall then love him more than ever. I beseech you to be guided by his advice in your illness. By your doing this, I hope soon to see you again. Which will be to me a greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

“Written by the hand of that secretary who is, and forever will be, your loyal and most assured servant. H.R.”

And having written and dispatched this, he must pace his apartment in such anxiety as he had never known, and marvel that there could be such a thing as love, all joy and sorrow, to assail even the hearts of princes.

The Queen was jubilant. Was this God’s way of answering her prayers? She rejoiced with her daughter, because Anne Boleyn lay ill of the sweating sickness at Hever.

“Oh,” cried the Queen to her young daughter, “this is the vengeance of the Lord. This is a judgment on the girl’s wickedness.”

Twelve-year-old Mary listened wide-eyed, thinking her mother a saint.

“My father…” said the girl, “loves he this woman?”

Her mother stroked her hair. Loving her dearly, she had until now superintended her education, kept her with her, imbued her with her own ideas of life.

“He thinks to do so, daughter. He is a lusty man, and thus it is with men. It is no true fault of his; she is to blame.”

“I have seen her about the court,” said Mary, her eyes narrowed, picturing Anne as she had seen her. That was how witches looked, thought Mary; they had flowing hair and huge dark eyes, and willowy bodies which they loved to swath in scarlet; witches looked like Anne Boleyn!

“She should be burned at the stake, Mother!” said Mary.

“Hush!” said her mother. “It is not meet to talk thus. Pray for her, Mary. Pity her, for mayhap at this moment she burns in hell.”

Mary’s eyes were glistening; she hoped so. She had a vivid picture of flames the color of the witch’s gown licking her white limbs; in her imagination she could hear the most melodious voice at court, imploring in vain to be freed from hideous torment.

Mary understood much. This woman would marry her father; through her it would be said that Mary’s mother was no wife, and that she, Mary, was a bastard. Mary knew the meaning of that; she would no longer be the Princess Mary; she would no longer receive the homage of her father’s subjects; she would never be Queen of England.

Mary prayed each night that her father would tire of Anne, that he would banish her from the court, that he would grow to hate her, commit her to the Tower where she would be put in a dark dungeon to be starved and eaten by rats, that she might be put in chains, that her body might be grievously racked for every tear she had caused to fall from the eyes of Mary’s saintly mother.

Mary had something of her father in her as well as of her mother; her mother’s fanaticism perhaps, but her father’s cruelty and determination.

Once her mother had said: “Mary, what if your father should make her his Queen?”

Mary had answered proudly: “There could be but one Queen of England, Mother.”

Katharine’s heart had rejoiced, for deeply, tenderly, she loved her daughter. While they were together there could not be complete despair. But all their wishes, all their prayers, were without effect.

When the news came to Henry that Anne had recovered, he embraced the messenger, called for wine to refresh him, fell on his knees and thanked God.

“Ha!” said he to Wolsey. “This is a sign! I am right to marry the lady; she will give me many lusty sons.”

Poor Katharine! She could but weep silently; and then her bitterness was lost in fear, for her daughter had taken the sickness.

Anne convalesced at Hever. At court she was spoken of continually. Du Bellay, the witty French ambassador, joked in his light way. He wagered the sickness of the lady had spoiled her beauty in some measure; he was certain that during her absence some other one would find a way to the King’s susceptible heart. Chapuys, the Spanish ambassador, laughed with him, and gleefully wrote to his master of the “concubine’s” sickness. Blithely he prophesied an end of this—in Spain’s eyes—monstrous matter of the divorce.

But Henry did not wait for her convalescence to end. How could he wait much longer! He had waited enough already. Privately he would ride from Greenwich or from Eltham to Hever Castle, and Anne, from the castle grounds, hearing his bugle call on a nearby hill, would go out to meet him. They would walk the gallery together, or sit in the oak-paneled chamber while he told her how the matter of the divorce progressed; he would talk of his love, would demand in fierce anger—or meek supplication—why now she could not make him the happiest of men.

And when the pestilence had passed over and she returned to court, Du Bellay reported to his government: “I believe the King to be so infatuated with her that God alone can abate his madness.”

Thomas Wolsey, knowing sickness of heart, feigned sickness of body. He knew his master; sentimental as a girl, and soft as wax in the fiery hands of Anne Boleyn.

Wolsey saw his decline, now, as clearly as he had so often seen the sun set; for him, though, there would be no rising again after the coming of night.

He did not complain; he was too wise for that. Well he knew that he had made his mistake, and where. He had humiliated her who had now the King’s ear. And she was no soft, weak woman; she was strong and fierce, a good friend and a bad enemy. Oh! he thought, there is a night crow that possesses the royal ear and misrepresents all my actions.

He must not complain. He remembered the days of his own youth. He could look back to the humble life when he was tutor to the sons of Lord Marquess Dorset. Then there had been a certain knight, one Sir Amyas Pawlet, who had dared to humiliate young Wolsey; and had young Wolsey forgotten? He had not! Sir Amyas Pawlet grew to wish he had considered awhile before heaping indignities upon a humble tutor. So it was with Mistress Anne Boleyn and Thomas Wolsey. He could go to her; he could say: “I would explain to you. It was not I who wished to hurt you. It was not I who would have prevented your marriage with Percy. It was my lord King. I was but his servant in this matter.” It might well be that she, who was noted for her generous impulses, would forgive him; it might be that she would not continue to plan against him. It might be…but she was not his only enemy. Her uncle, Norfolk, was with her in this matter; the Duke of Suffolk, also; and that Percy of Northumberland who had loved her and still brooded on his loss. These powerful men had had enough of Wolsey’s rule.

He was very weary; defeated by this divorce, feigning sickness that he might appeal to the sentiment of the King, that he might make him sorry for his old friend; hiding himself away until Campeggio whom the Pope was sending from Rome was due to arrive. This was Wolsey in decline.

Foolishly he had acted over this matter of Eleanor Carey. He was in disgrace with the King over that matter, and he had received such a rebuke as he had never had before, and one which told him clearly that the King was no longer his to command. The night crow and her band of vultures watched him, waiting for his death. Yet stupidly and proudly he had acted over the Eleanor Carey affair; she was the sister-in-law of Anne, and with characteristic generosity, when the woman had asked Anne to make her Abbess of Wilton—which place had fallen vacant—Anne had promised she should have her wish. And he, Wolsey, had arrogantly refused Eleanor Carey and given the place to another. Thus was Mistress Anne’s anger once more raised against him; how bitterly had she complained of his action to the King! Wolsey had explained that Eleanor was unfit for the post, having had two illegitimate children by a priest. Knowing that, Henry, whose attitude towards others was rigorously moral, must see the point of this refusal. Gently and with many apologies for the humiliation she had suffered in the matter, the King explained this to Anne. “I would not,” wrote Henry to his sweetheart, “for all the gold in the world clog your conscience and mine to make her a ruler of a house…”

Anne, who was by nature honest, had no great respect for her lover’s conscience; she was impatient, and showed it; she insisted that Wolsey’s arrogance should not be allowed to pass. And Henry, fearing to lose her, ready to give her anything she wished, wrote sternly to Wolsey; and that letter showed Wolsey more clearly than anything that had gone before that he was slipping dangerously, and he knew no way of gaining a more steady foothold on the road of royal favor.

Now at last he understood that she who had the King’s ear was indeed a rival to be feared. And he was caught between Rome and Henry; he had no plans; he could see only disaster coming out of this affair. So he feigned sickness to give himself time to prepare a plan, and sick at heart, he felt defeat closing in on him.

The legate had arrived from Rome, and old gouty Campeggio was ready to try the case of the King and Queen. Crowds collected in the streets; when Queen Katharine rode out, she was loudly cheered, and so likewise was her daughter Mary. Katharine, pale and wan from worry, Mary, pale from her illness, were martyrs in the eyes of the people of London; and the King begged Anne not to go abroad for fear the mob might do her some injury.

Anne was wretched, longing now to turn from this thorny road of ambition; not a moment’s real peace had she known since she had started to tread it. The King was continually trying to force her surrender, and she was weary with the fight she must put up against him. And when Henry told her she must once more go back to Hever, as the trial was about to begin, she was filled with anger.

Henry said humbly: “Sweetheart, your absence will be hard to bear, but my one thought is to win our case. With you here…”

Her lips curled scornfully, for did she not know that he would plead his lack of interest in a woman other than his wife? Did she not know that he would tell the Cardinals of his most scrupulous conscience?

She was willful and cared not; she was foolish, she knew, for did she not want the divorce? She was hysterical with fear sometimes, wishing fervently that she was to marry someone who was more agreeable to her, seeing pitfalls yawning at the feet of a queen.

“An I go back,” she said unreasonably, “I shall not return. I will not be sent back and forth like a shuttlecock!”

He pleaded with her. “Darling, be reasonable! Dost not wish this business done with? Only when the divorce is complete can I make you my Queen.”

She went back to Hever, having grown suddenly sick of the palace, since from her window she saw the angry knots of people and heard their sullen murmurs. “Nan Bullen! The King’s whore…We want no Nan Bullen!”

Oh, it was shameful, shameful! “Oh, Percy!” she cried. “Why did you let them do this to us?” And she hated the Cardinal afresh, having convinced herself that it was he who, in his subtle, clever way, had turned the people against her. At Hever her father treated her with great respect—more respect than he had shown to Mary; Anne was not to be the King’s mistress, but his wife, his Queen. Lord Rochford could not believe in all that good fortune; he would advise her, but scornfully she rejected his advice.

Two months passed, during which letters came from the King reproaching her for not writing to him, assuring her that she was his entirely beloved; and at length telling her it would now be safe for her to return to court.

The King entreated her; she repeated her refusals to all the King’s entreaties.

Her father came to her. “Your folly is beyond my understanding!” said Lord Rochford. “The King asks that you will return to court! And you will not!”

“I have said I will not be rushed back and forth in this uncourtly way.”

“You talk like a fool, girl! Dost not realize what issues are at stake?”

“I am tired of it all. When I consented to marry the King, I thought ’twould be but a simple matter.”

“When you consented…!” Lord Rochford could scarcely believe his ears. She spoke as though she were conferring a favor on His Majesty. Lord Rochford was perturbed. What if the King should grow weary at this arrogance of his foolish daughter!

“I command you to go!” he roared; which made her laugh at him. Oh, how much simpler to manage had been his daughter Mary! He would have sent Anne to her room, would have said she was to be locked in there, but how could one behave so to the future Queen of England!

Lord Rochford knew a little of this daughter. Willful and unpredictable, stubborn, reckless of punishment, she had been from babyhood; he knew she wavered even yet. Ere long she would be telling the King she no longer wished to marry him.

“I command you go!” he cried.

“You may command all you care to!” And at random she added, “I shall not go until a very fine lodging is found for me.”

Lord Rochford told the King, and Henry, with that pertinacity of purpose which he ever displayed when he wanted something urgently, called in Wolsey; and Wolsey, seeking to reinstate himself, suggested Suffolk House in place of Durham House, which the King had previously placed at her disposal.

“For, my lord King, my own York House is next to Suffolk House, and would it not be a matter of great convenience to you, if, while the lady is at Suffolk House, Your Highness lived at York House?”

“Thomas, it is a plan worthy of you!” The fat hand rested on the red-clad shoulder. The small eyes smiled into those of his Cardinal; the King was remembering that he had ever loved this man.

Anne came to Suffolk House. Its grandeur overawed even her, for it was the setting for a queen. There would be her ladies-in-waiting, her trainbearer, her chaplain; she would hold levees, and dispense patronage to church and state.

“It is as if I were a queen!” she told Henry, who was there to greet her.

“You are a queen,” he answered passionately.

Now she understood. The fight was over. He who had waited so long had decided to wait no longer.

They would eat together informally at Suffolk House, he told her. Dear old Wolsey had lent him York House, next door, that he might be close and could visit her unceremoniously. Did she not think she had judged the poor old fellow too harshly?

There was about the King an air of excitement this day. She understood it, and he knew she understood it.

“Mayhap we judge him too hardly,” she agreed.

“Darling, I would have you know that you must lack nothing. Everything that you would have as my Queen—which I trust soon to make you—shall be yours.” He put burning hands on her shoulders. “You have but to ask for what you desire, sweetheart.”

“That I know,” she said.

Alone in her room, she looked at herself in her mirror. Her heart was beating fast. “And what have you to fear, Anne Boleyn?” she whispered to her reflection. “Is it because after tonight there can be no turnback, that you tremble? Why should you fear? You are beautiful. There may be ladies at court with more perfect features, but there is none so intoxicatingly lovely, so ravishingly attractive as Anne Boleyn! What have you to fear from this? Nothing! What have you to gain? You have made up your mind that you will be Queen of England. There is nothing to fear.”

Her eyes burned in her pale face; her beautiful lips were firm. She put on a gown of black velvet, and her flesh glowed as lustrous as the pearls that decorated it.

She went out to him, and he received her with breathless wonder. She was animated now, warmed by his admiration, his passionate devotion.

He led her to a table where they were waited upon discreetly; and this tête-à-tête meal, which he had planned with much thought, was to him complete happiness. Gone was her willfulness now; she was softer; he was sure of her surrender; he had waited so long, he had lived through this so often in his dreams; but nothing he had imagined, he was sure, could be as wonderful as the reality.

He tried to explain his feelings for her, tried to tell her of how she had changed him, how he longed for her, how she was different from any other woman, how thoughts of her colored his life; how, until she came, he had never known love. Nor had he, and Henry in love was an attractive person; humility was an ill-fitting garment that sat oddly on those great shoulders, but not less charming because it did not fit. He was tender instead of coarse, modest instead of arrogant; and she warmed towards him. She drank more freely than was her custom: she had confidence in herself and the future.

Henry said, when they rose from the table: “Tonight I think I am to be the happiest man on Earth!” Apprehensively he waited for her answer, but she gave no answer, and when he would have spoken again he found his voice was lost to him; he had no voice, he had no pride; he had nothing but his great need of her.

She lay naked in her bed, and seeing her thus he was speechless, nerveless, fearful of his own emotion; until his passion rushed forth and he kissed her white body in something approaching a frenzy.

She thought: I have nothing to fear. If he was eager before, he will be doubly eager now. And, as she lay crushed by his great weight, feeling his joy, his ecstasy, she laughed inwardly and gladly, because now she knew there was to be no more wavering and she, being herself, would pursue this thing to the end.

His words were incoherent, but they were of love, of great love and desire and passion and pleasure.

“There was never one such as thee, my Anne! Never, never I swear…Anne Queen Anne…My Queen…”

He lay beside her, this great man, his face serene and completely happy, so she knew how he must have looked when a very small boy; his face was purged of all that coarseness against which her fastidiousness had turned in disgust; and she felt she must begin to love him, that she almost did love him, so that on impulse she leaned over to him and kissed him. He seized her then, laughing, and told her again that she was beautiful, that she excelled his thoughts of her.

“And many times have I taken you, my Queen, in my thoughts. Dost remember the garden at Hever? Dost remember thy haughtiness? Why, Anne! Why I did not take thee there and then I do not know. Never have I wanted any as I wanted thee, Anne, my Queen, my little white Queen!”

She could laugh, thinking—Soon he will be free, and I shall be truly Queen…and after this he will never be able to do without me.

“Aye, and I wonder I was so soft with you, my entirely beloved, save that I loved you, save that I could not hurt you. Now you love me truly not as your King, you said, but as a man…. You love me as I love you, and you find pleasure in this, as I do….”

And so he would work himself to a fresh frenzy of passion; so he would stroke and caress her, lips on her body, his hands at her hair and her throat and her breasts.

“There was never love like this!” said Henry of England to Anne Boleyn.

Happiest of Women

AT HORSHAM there was preparation for the Christmas festivities; excitement was high in the ladies’ dormitory. There should be a special Yuletide feast, they said, a good deal more exciting than that one which would be held in the great hall to be enjoyed by all; the ladies were busy getting together gifts for their lovers, speculating as to what they would receive.

“Poor little Catherine Howard!” they said, laughing. “She has no lover!”

“What of the gallant Thomas? Alas, Catherine! He soon forgot thee.”

Catherine thought guiltily that, though she would never forget him, she had thought of him less during the last months; she wondered if he ever thought of her; if he did, he evidently did not think it necessary to let her know.

“It is unwise,” said Isabel, “to think of those who think not of us.”

In the Duchess’s rooms, where Catherine often sat with her grandmother, the old lady fretted about the monotony of life in the country.

“I would we were at Lambeth. Fine doings I hear there are at court.”

“Yes,” answered Catherine, rubbing her grandmother’s back. “My cousin is a most important lady now.”

“That I swear she is! Ah! I wonder what Lord Henry Algernon Percy…I beg his pardon, the Earl of Northumberland…has to say now! He was too high and mighty to marry her, was he? ‘Very well,’ says Anne, ‘I’ll take the King instead.’ Ha! Ha! And I declare nothing delights me more than to hear the haughty young man is being made wretched by his wife; for so does anyone deserve who thinks himself too fine for my granddaughter.”

“The granddaughter of your husband,” Catherine reminded her once more; and, was cuffed for her words.

“How I should like to see her at Suffolk House! I hear that she holds daily levees, as though she is already Queen. She dispenses charity, which is the Queen’s task. There are those who storm against her, for, Catherine, my child, there will always be the jealous ones. Ah! How I should love to see my granddaughter reigning, at Greenwich! I hear the Queen was most discomfited, and that last Christmas Anne held her revels apart from those of Katharine—which either shocked or delighted all. Imagine her revels! Imagine poor Katharine’s! Herself, my granddaughter, the center of attraction, with George and Wyatt and Surrey and Bryan with her; and who could stand up against them, eh? And the King so far gone in love, dear man, that everything she asks must be hers. Ah! How I should love to be there to see it! And Wolsey, that old schemer, trembling in his shoes, I dare swear. And so he should…trying to keep our sovereign lord from marrying her who should be his Queen—for if ever woman was born to be a queen, that woman was my granddaughter Anne!”

“I should love to see her too,” said Catherine wistfully. “Grandmother, when will you go to court?”

“Very soon. I make my plans now. Why, I have only to let her know my desires, and she would send for me. She was ever my favorite granddaughter, and it has always seemed to me that I was a favorite of hers. Bless her! God bless Queen Anne Boleyn!”

“God bless her!” said Catherine.

Her grandmother regarded the girl through narrowed eyes.

“I declare I never saw one so lacking in dignity. I would hear you play to me awhile, Catherine. Music is the only thing for which you seem to have the least aptitude. Go over and play me a tune.”

Catherine eagerly went to the virginals; she hated the ministrations to her grandmother, and regretted that they must be an accompaniment to her racy conversation, which she always enjoyed.

The Duchess, her foot tapping, was only half listening, for her thoughts were far away, at Greenwich, at Eltham, at Windsor, at Suffolk House, at York House. She saw her beautiful granddaughter, queening it in all these places; she saw the King, humble in his love; the color, the music, the gorgeous clothes, the masques; the terror of that man Wolsey whom she had ever hated; and Anne, the loveliest woman in the kingdom, queen of the court.

To be there! To be favored of her who was most favored of the King! “My granddaughter, the Queen.” To see her now and then, lovely, vital; to think of her, loved passionately by the King; mayhap to be on the best of terms oneself with His Majesty, for he would be kind to those beloved of his beloved; and Anne had always had a regard for her scandal-loving, lazy old grandmother—even if she were only the wife of her grandfather!

“I shall go to Lambeth!” said the Duchess. And little Catherine there should have a place at court, she thought…Attendant to her cousin, the Queen? Why not? As soon as this wearisome divorce was done with, she would go to Lambeth. And surely it would not be long now; it had been dragging on for more than two years; and now that the King’s eyes were being opened to that Wolsey’s wickedness, surely it could not be long.

Yes, little Catherine should have a place at court. But how very unfitted she was for that high honor! Anne, my child, you were at the French court at her age, a little lady delighting all who beheld you, I swear, with your grace and your charm and your delicious clothes and the way you wore them. Ah, Catherine Howard! You will never be an Anne Boleyn; one could not hope for that. Look at the child! Sitting humped over the virginals.

And yet she was not unattractive; she already had the air of a woman; her little body had that budding look which meant that Catherine might well flower early. But she had about her a neglected look, and it was that which made the Duchess angry. What right had Catherine Howard to look neglected! She lived in the great establishment of the Duchess; she was in the charge of the Duchess’s ladies. Something should be done about the child, thought the Duchess, and knowing herself to blame—had she not often taken herself to task about the girl’s education, promised herself that it should be attended to and then forgotten all about it?—she felt suddenly angry with Catherine, and rising from her chair, went over and slapped the girl at the side of her head.

Catherine stopped playing and looked up in surprise; she was not greatly disturbed by the blow, as the Duchess often cuffed her and there was no great strength in her flabby muscles.

“Disgraceful!” stormed the old lady.

Catherine did not understand. Playing musical instruments was one of the few things she did really well; she did not know that the Duchess, her thoughts far away at Suffolk House where another granddaughter was a queen in all but name, had not heard what she played; she thought that her playing was at fault, for how should she realize that the Duchess was comparing her with Anne and wondering how this child could possibly go to court uneducated as she was.

“Catherine Howard,” said the Duchess, trying to convince herself that she was in no way to blame for the years of neglect, “you are a disgrace to this house! What do you think Queen Anne would say if I asked for a place at court for you—which she of course would find, since I asked it—and then I presented you to her…her cousin? Look at your hair! You are bursting forth from your clothes, and your manners are a disgrace! I declare I will give you such a beating as you never had, you untidy, ignorant little chit! And worse, it seems to me that were you less lazy, you might be quite a pretty girl. Now we shall begin your education in earnest; we are done with this dreaming away of the days. You will work, Catherine Howard, and if you do not, you shall answer to me. Did you hear that?”

“I did hear, Grandmother.”

The Duchess rang a bell, and a serving maid appeared.

“Go bring to me at once young Henry Manox.”

The maid complied, and in a very short time a young man with hair growing low upon his brow but a certain handsome swagger in his walk and an elegance about his person, combined with a pair of very bold black eyes to make him an attractive creature, appeared and bowed low before the Duchess.

“Manox, here is my granddaughter. I fear she needs much tuition. Now I would you sat down at the virginals and played awhile.”

He flashed a smile at Catherine which seemed to suggest that they were going to be friends. Catherine, ever ready to respond to friendship, returned the smile, and he sat down and played most excellently, so that Catherine, loving music as she did, was delighted and clapped her hands when he ended.

“There, child!” said the Duchess. “That is how I would have you play. Manox, you shall teach my granddaughter. You may give her a lesson now.”

Manox stood up and bowed. He came to Catherine, bowed again, took her hand and led her to the virginals.

The Duchess watched them; she liked to watch young people; there was something, she decided, so delightful about them; their movements were graceful. Particularly she liked young men, having always had a fondness for them from the cradle. She remembered her own youth; there had been a delightful music master. Nothing wrong about that of course; she had been aware of her dignity at a very early age. Still it had been pleasant to be taught by one who had charm; and he had grown quite fond of her, although always she had kept him at a distance.

There they sat, those two children—for after all he was little more than a child compared with her old age—and they seemed more attractive than they had separately. If Catherine were not so young, thought the Duchess, I should have to watch Manox; I believe he has quite a naughty reputation and is fond of adventuring with the young ladies.

Watching her granddaughter take a lesson, the Duchess thought—From now on I shall superintend the child’s education myself. After all, to be cousin to the Queen means a good deal. When her opportunity comes, she must be ready to take it.

Then, feeling virtuous, grandmotherly devotion rising within her, she told herself that even though Catherine was such a child, she would not allow her to be alone with one of Manox’s reputation; the lessons should always take place in this room and she herself would be there.

For the thousandth time the Duchess assured herself that it was fortunate indeed that little Catherine Howard should have come under her care; after all, the cousin of a Queen needs to be very tenderly nurtured, for who can say what honors may await her?

Anne was being dressed for the banquet. Her ladies fluttered about her, flattering her. Was she happy? she asked herself, as her thoughts went back over the past year which had seen her rise to the height of glory, and which yet had been full of misgivings and apprehensions, even fears.

She had changed; none knew this better than herself; she had grown hard, calculating; she was not the same girl who had loved Percy so deeply and defiantly; she was less ready with sympathy, finding hatreds springing up in her, and with them a new, surprising quality which had not been there before—vindictiveness.

She laughed when she saw Percy. He was changed from that rather delicate, beautiful young man whom she had loved; he was still delicate, suffering from some undefined disease; and such unhappiness was apparent in his face that should have made her weep for him. But she did not weep; instead she was filled with bitter laughter, thinking: You fool! You brought this on yourself. You spoiled your life—and mine with it—and now you must suffer for your folly, and I shall benefit from it!

But did she benefit? She was beginning to understand her royal lover well; she could command him; her beauty and her wit, being unsurpassed in his court, must make him their slave. But how long does a man, who is more polygamous than most, remain faithful? That was a question that would perplex her now and then. Already there was a change in his attitude towards her. Oh, he was deeply in love, eager to please, anxious that every little wish she expressed should be granted. But who was it now who must curse the delay, Anne or Henry? Henry desired the divorce; he wanted very much to remove Katharine from the throne and put Anne on it, but he was less eager than Anne. Anne was his mistress; he could wait to make her his wife. It was Anne who must rail against delay, who must fret, who must deplore her lost virtue, who must ask herself, Will the Pope ever agree to the divorce?

Sometimes her thoughts would make her frantic. She had yielded in spite of her protestations that she would never yield. She had yielded on the King’s promise to make her Queen; her sister Mary had exacted no promise. Where was the difference between Anne and Mary, since Mary had yielded for lust, and Anne for a crown! Anne had a picture of herself returning home to Hever defeated, or perhaps married to one as ineffectual as the late William Carey.

Henry had given Thomas Wyatt the post of High Marshal of Calais, which would take him out of England a good deal. Anne liked to dwell on that facet of Henry’s character; he loved some of his friends, and Wyatt was one of them. He did not commit Wyatt to the Tower—which would have been easy enough—but sent him away…Oh, yes, Henry could feel sentimental where one he had really loved was concerned, and Henry did love Thomas. Who could help loving Thomas? asked Anne, and wept a little.

Anne tried now to think clearly and honestly of that last year. Had it been a good year? It had—of course it had! How could she say that she had not enjoyed it—she had enjoyed it vastly! Proud, haughty, as she was, how pleasant it must be to have such deference shown to her. Aware of her beauty, how could she help but wish to adorn it! Such as Queen Katharine might call that vanity; is pride in a most unusual possession, then, vanity? Must she not enjoy the revels when she herself was acclaimed the shining light, the star, the most beautiful, the most accomplished of women, greatly loved by the King?

She had her enemies, the Cardinal the chief among them. Her Uncle Norfolk was outwardly her friend, but she could never like and trust him, and she believed him now to be annoyed because the King had not chosen to favor his daughter, the Lady Mary Howard, who was of so much nobler birth than Anne Boleyn. Suffolk! There was another enemy, and Suffolk was a dangerous, cruel man. Her thoughts went back to windy days and nights in Dover Castle, when Mary Tudor talked of the magnificence of a certain Charles Brandon. And this was he, this florid, cruel-eyed, relentless and ambitious man! An astute man, he had married the King’s sister and placed himself very near the throne, and because a strange fate had placed Anne even nearer, he had become her enemy. These thoughts were frightening.

How happy she had been, dancing with the King at Greenwich last Christmas, laughing in the faces of those who would criticize her for holding her revels at Greenwich in defiance of the Queen; hating the Queen, who so obstinately refused to go into a nunnery and to admit she had consummated her marriage with Arthur! She had danced wildly, had made brilliantly witty remarks about the Queen and the Princess, had flaunted her supremacy over them—and afterwards hated herself for this, though admitting the hatred to none but the bright-eyed reflection which looked back at her so reproachfully from the mirror.

The Princess hated her and took no pains to hide the fact; and had not hesitated to whisper to those who had been ready to carry such talk to the ears of Anne, of what she would do to Anne Boleyn, were she Queen.

“I would commit her to the Tower, where I would torture her; we should see if she would be so beautiful after the tormentors had done with her! I should turn the rack myself. We should see if she could make such witty remarks to the rats who came to The Pit to gnaw her bones and bite her to death. But I would not leave her to die that way; I would burn her alive. She is all but a witch, and I hear that she has those about her who are of the new faith. Aye! I would pile the faggots at her feet and watch her burn, and before she had burnt, I would remove her that she might burn and burn again, tasting on Earth that which she will assuredly meet in hell.”

The eyes of the Princess, already burning with fanatical fervor, rested on Anne with loathing, and Anne laughed in the face of the foolish girl and feigned indifference to her, but those eyes haunted her when she was awake and when she slept. But even as she professed scorn and hatred for the girl, Anne well understood what her coming must have meant to Mary, who had enjoyed the privileges of being her father’s daughter, Princess Mary and heiress of England. Now the King sought to make her but a bastard, of less importance than the Duke of Richmond, who was at least a boy.

As she lay in the King’s arms, Anne would talk of the Princess.

“I will not be treated thus by her! I swear it. There is not room for both of us at court.”

Henry soothed her while he put up a fight for Mary. His sentimental streak was evident when he thought of his daughter; he was not without affection for her and, while longing for a son, he had become—before the prospect of displacing Katharine had come to him, and Anne declared she would never be his mistress—reconciled to her.

Anne said: “I shall go back to Hever. I will not stay to be insulted thus.”

“I shall not allow you to go to Hever, sweetheart. Your place is here with me.”

“Nevertheless,” said Anne coldly, “to Hever I shall go!”

The fear that she would leave him was a constant threat to Henry, and he could not bear that she should be out of his sight; she could command him by threatening to leave him.

When Mary fell into disgrace with her father, there were those who, sorry for the young girl, accused Anne of acute vindictiveness. It was the same with Wolsey. It was true that she did not forget the slights she had received from him, and that she pursued him relentlessly, determined that he should fall from that high place on which he had lodged himself. Perhaps it was forgotten by those who accused her that Anne was fighting a desperate battle. Behind all the riches and power, all the admiration and kingly affection which was showered upon her, Anne was aware of that low murmur of the people, of the malicious schemes of her enemies who even now were seeking to ruin her. Prominent among these enemies were Wolsey and Princess Mary. What therefore could Anne do but fight these people, and if she at this time held the most effective weapons, she merely used them as both Wolsey and Mary would have done, had they the luck to hold them.

But her triumphs were bitter to her. She loved admiration; she loved approval, and she wanted no enemies. Wolsey and she, though they flattered each other and feigned friendship, knew that both could not hold the high positions they aspired to; one must go. Anne fought as tenaciously as Wolsey had ever fought, and because Wolsey’s star was setting and Anne’s was rising, she was winning. There were many little pointers to indicate this strife between them, and perhaps one of the most significant—Anne was thinking—was the confiscation of a book of hers which had found its way into the possession of her equerry, young George Zouch. Anne, it was beginning to be known—and this knowledge could not please the Cardinal—was interested in the new religion which was becoming a matter of some importance on the Continent, and one of the reformers had presented her with Tindal’s translation of the holy scriptures.

Anne had read it, discussed it with her brother and some of her friends, found it of great interest and passed it on to one of the favorite ladies of her retinue, for Mistress Gaynsford was an intelligent girl, and Anne thought the book might be of interest to her. However, Mistress Gaynsford was loved by George Zouch who, one day when he had come upon her quietly reading, to tease her snatched the book and refused to return it; instead he took it with him, to the King’s chapel, where, during the service, he opened the book and becoming absorbed in its contents attracted the attention of the dean who, demanding to see it and finding it to be a prohibited one, lost no time in conveying it to Cardinal Wolsey. Mistress Gaynsford was terrified at the course of events, and went trembling to Anne, who, ever ready to complain against the Cardinal, told the King that he had confiscated her book and demanded its immediate return. The book was brought back to Anne at once.

“What book is this that causes so much pother?” Henry wanted to know.

“You must read it,” Anne answered and added: “I insist!”

Henry promised and did; the Cardinal was disconcerted to learn that His Majesty was as interested as young George Zouch had been. This was a deeply significant defeat for Wolsey.

This year, reflected Anne as the coif was fixed upon her hair and her reflection looked back at her, had been a sorry one for the Cardinal. The trial had gone wrong. Shall we ever get this divorce, wondered Anne. The Pope was adamant; the people murmured: “Nan Bullen shall not be our Queen!”

Henry would say little of what had happened at Blackfriars Hall, but Anne knew something of that fiasco; of Katharine’s coming into the court and kneeling at the feet of the King, asking for justice. Anne could picture it—the solemn state, the May sunshine filtering through the windows, the King impatient with the whole proceedings, gray-faced Wolsey praying that the King might turn from the folly of his desire to marry Anne Boleyn, gouty old Campeggio procrastinating, having no intention of giving a verdict. The King had made a long speech about his scrupulous conscience and how—Anne’s lips curled with scorn—he did not ask for the divorce out of his carnal desires, how the Queen pleased him as much as any woman, but his conscience…his conscience…his most scrupulous conscience…

And the trial had dragged on through the summer months, until Henry, urged on by herself, demanded a decision. Then had Campeggio been forced to make a statement, then had he been forced to show his intention—which was, of course, not to grant the divorce at all. He must, he had said—to Henry’s extreme wrath—consult with his master, the Pope. Then had Suffolk decided to declare open war on the Cardinal, for he had stood up and shouted: “It was never merry in England whilst we had cardinals among us!” And the King strode forth from the court in an access of rage, cursing the Pope, cursing the delay, cursing Campeggio and with him Wolsey, whom he was almost ready to regard as Campeggio’s confederate. Anne’s thoughts went to two men who, though obscure before, had this year leaped into prominence—the two Thomases, Cromwell and Cranmer. Anne thought warmly of them both, for from these two did she and Henry hope for much. Cranmer had distinguished himself because of his novel views, particularly on this subject of the divorce. He was tactful and discreet, clever and intellectual. As don, tutor, priest and Cambridge man, he was interested in Lutherism. He had suggested that Henry should appeal to the English ecclesiastical courts instead of to Rome on this matter of the divorce; he voiced this opinion constantly, until it had been brought to Henry’s notice.

Henry, eager to escape from the meshes of Rome, was ready to welcome anyone who could wield a knife to cut him free. He liked what he heard of Cranmer. “By God!” he cried. “That man hath the right sow by the ear!”

Cranmer was sent for. Henry was crafty, clever enough when he gave his mind to a matter; and never had he given as much thought to anything as he had to this matter of the divorce. Wolsey, he knew, was attached to Rome, for Rome had its sticky threads about the Cardinal as a spider has about the fly in its web. The King was crying out for new men to take the place of Wolsey. There could never be another Wolsey; of that he was sure; but might there not be many who together could carry the great burdens which Wolsey had carried alone? When Cranmer had talked with Henry a few times, Henry saw great possibilities in the man. He was obedient, he was docile, he was a loyal; he was going to be of inestimable value to a Henry who had lost his Wolsey to the Roman web.

Anne’s thoughts went to that other Thomas—Cromwell. Cromwell was of the people, just as Wolsey had been, but with a difference. Cromwell bore the marks of his origins and could not escape from them; Wolsey, the intellectual, had escaped, though there were those who said that he showed the marks of his upbringing in his great love of splendor, in his vulgar displays of wealth. (But, thought Anne, laughing to herself, had not the King even greater delight in flamboyant display!) Cromwell, however—thick-set, impervious to insult, with his fish-like eyes and his ugly hands—could not hide his origins and made but little attempt to do so. He was serving Wolsey well, deploring the lack of fight he was showing. Cromwell was not over-nice; Henry knew this and, while seeing in him enormous possibilities, had never taken to him. “I love not that man!” said Henry to Anne. “By God! He has a touch of the sewer about him. He sickens me! He is a knave!”

There was a peculiar side to Henry’s nature which grew out of an almost childish love and admiration for certain people, which made him seek to defend them even while he planned their destruction. He had had that affection for Wolsey, Wolsey the wit, in his gorgeous homes, in his fine clothes; he had liked Wolsey as a man. This man Cromwell he could never like, useful as he was; more useful as he promised to be. Cromwell was blind to humiliation; he worked hard and took insults; he was clever; he helped Wolsey, advised him to favor Anne’s friends, placated Norfolk, and so secured a seat in parliament. Would there always be those to spring up and replace others when the King needed them? What if she herself lost the King’s favor! It was simpler to replace a mistress than a Wolsey…

Pretty Anne Saville, Anne’s favorite attendant, whispered that she was preoccupied tonight. Anne answered that indeed she was, and had been thinking back over the past year.

Anne Saville patted Anne’s beautiful hair lovingly.

“It has been a great and glorious year for your ladyship.”

“Has it?” said Anne, her face so serious that the other Anne looked at her in sudden alarm.

“Assuredly,” said the girl. “Many honors have come your ladyship’s way, and the King grows more in love with you with the passing of each day.”

Anne took her namesake’s hand and pressed it for awhile, for she was very fond of this girl.

“And you grow more beautiful with each day,” said Anne Saville earnestly. “There is no lady in the court who would not give ten years of her life to change places with you.”

In the mirror the coif glittered like a golden crown. Anne trembled a little; in the great hall she would be gayer than any, but up here away from the throng she often trembled, contemplating the night before her, and afraid to think further than that.

Anne was ready; she would go down. She would take one last look at herself—The Lady Anne Rochford now, for recently her father had been made Earl of Wiltshire, George became Lord Rochford, and she herself was no longer plain Anne Boleyn. The Boleyns had come far, she thought, and was reminded of George, laughing-eyed and only sad when one caught him in repose.

When she thought of George she would feel recklessness stealing over her, and the determination to live dangerously rather than live without adventure.

Thoughts of George were pleasant. She realized with a pang that of all her friends who now, with the King at their head, swore they would die for her, there was only one she could really trust. There was her father, her Uncle Norfolk, the man who would be her husband…but on those occasions when Fear came and stood menacingly before her, it was of her brother she must think. “There is really none but George!”

“Thank God for George!” she said to herself, and dismissed gloomy thoughts.

In the great hall the King was waiting to greet her. He was magnificent in his favorite russet, padded and sparkling, larger than any man there, ruddy from the day’s hunting, flushed already and flushing more as his eyes rested on Anne.

He said: “It seems long since I kissed you!”

“’Tis several hours, I’ll swear!” she answered.

“There is none like you, Anne.”

He would show his great love for her tonight, for of late she had complained bitterly of the lack of courtesy shown her by the Queen and Princess.

He had said: “By God! I’ll put an end to their obstinacy. They shall bow the knee to you, sweetheart, or learn our displeasure!” The Princess should be separated from her mother, and they should both be banished from court; he had said last night that he was weary of them both; weary of the pious obstinacy of the Queen, who stuck to her lies and refused to make matters easy by going into a nunnery; weary of the rebellious daughter who refused to behave herself and think herself fortunate—she, who was no more than a bastard, though a royal one—in receiving her father’s affection. “I tell thee, Anne,” he had said, his lips on her hair, “I am weary of these women.”

She had answered: “Need I say I am too?” And she had thought, they would see me burn in hell; nor do I blame them for that, for what good have I done them! But what I cannot endure is their attitude of righteousness. They burn with desire for revenge, and they pray that justice shall be dealt me; they pray to God to put me in torment. Hearty sinful vengeance I can forgive; but when it is hidden under a cloak of piety and called justice…never! Never! And so will I fight against these two, and will not do a thing to make their lot easier. I am a sinner; and so are they; nor do sins become whiter when cloaked in piety.

But this she did not tell her lover, for was he not inclined to use that very cloak of piety to cover his sins? When he confessed what he had done this night, last night, would he not say: “It is for England; I must have a son!” Little eyes, greedy with lust; hot straying hands; the urgent desire to possess her again and again. And this, not that she might give the King pleasure, but that she should give England a son!

Was it surprising that sometimes in the early hours of the morning, when he lay beside her breathing heavily in sleep, his hand laid lightly on her body smiling as he slept the smile of remembrance, murmuring her name in his sleep—was it surprising that then she would think of her brother’s handsome face, and murmur to herself: “Oh, George, take me home! Take me to Blickling, not to Hever, for at Hever I should see the rose garden and think of him. But take me to Blickling where we were together when we were very young…and where I never dreamed of being Queen of England.”

But she could not go back now. She must go, on and on. I want to go on! I want to go on! What is love? It is ethereal, so that you cannot hold it; it is transient, so that you cannot keep it. But a queen is always a queen. Her sons are kings. I want to be a queen; of course I want to be a queen! It is only in moments of deepest depression that I am afraid.

Nor was she afraid this night as he, regardless of all these watching ladies and gentlemen, pressed his great body close to hers and showed that he was impatient for the night.

Tonight he wished to show her how greatly he loved her; that he wished all these people to pay homage to his beautiful girl who had pleased him, who continued to please him, and whom, because of an evil Fate in the shape of a weak Pope, an obstinate Queen, and a pair of scheming Cardinals, he could not yet make his Queen.

He would have her take precedence over the two most noble ladies present, the Duchess of Norfolk and his own sister of Suffolk.

These ladies resented this, Anne knew, and suddenly a mood of recklessness came over her. What did she care! What mattered it, indeed. She had the King’s love and none of her enemies dared oppose her openly.

The King’s sister? She was aging now; different indeed from the giddy girl who had led poor Louis such a dance, who had alternated between her desire to bear a king of France and marry Brandon; there was nothing left to her but ambition; and ambition for what? Her daughter Frances Brandon? Mary of Suffolk wanted her daughter on the throne. And now here was Anne Boleyn, young and full of life, only waiting for the divorce to bear the King many sons and so set a greater distance between Frances Brandon and the throne of England.

And the Duchess of Norfolk? She was jealous, as was her husband, on account of the King’s having chosen Anne instead of their daughter the Lady Mary Howard. She was angry because of Anne’s friendship with the old Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.

What do I care? What have I to fear!

Nothing! For the King was looking at her with deep longing; nor could he bear that she should not be with him. She only had to threaten to leave him, and she could have both of these arrogant ladies banished from court.

So she was bold and defiant, and flaunted her supremacy in the faces of all those who resented her. Lady Anne Rochford, beloved of the King, leader of the revels, now taking precedence over the highest in the land as though she were already Queen.

She had seen the Countess Chateau-briant and the Duchess D’Estampes treated as princesses by poor little Claude at the court of Francis. So should she be treated by these haughty Duchesses of Norfolk and Suffolk; yes, and by Katharine of Aragon and her daughter Mary!

But of course there was a great difference between the French ladies and the Lady Anne Rochford. They were merely the mistresses of the King of France; the Lady Anne Rochford was to be Queen of England!

In her chair the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk dozed; her foot tapped automatically, but she was not watching the pair at the virginals. She was thinking of the court and the King’s passion for that gorgeous lady, her dear granddaughter. Ah! And scheming Thomas now has his Earldom and all that goes with it; and well pleased he is, I’ll swear, for money means more to Thomas than aught else. And she is the Lady Anne Rochford, if you please, and George on very pleasant terms with the King…though not with his own sly little wife! Poor George! A pity there can’t be a divorce. Why not a princess wife for your brother, eh, Queen Anne? Eh? Of course you are Queen! But she’ll look after George…those two would stick together no matter what befell. Ah, how I wish she would send for me! I trow she would if she knew how eager I am to be gone…What if I sent a messenger…Ah! The court, the masques…though indeed I am a little old for such pleasures. Charming, if she came to visit me at Lambeth…We would sit in the gardens, and I would make her talk to me of the King…My granddaughter, the Queen of England! My granddaughter…Queen Anne…

She was asleep, and Henry Manox, sensing this, threw a sly glance over his shoulder at her.

“There!” said Catherine. “Was that better?”

He said, moving nearer to Catherine: “That was perfect!”

She flushed with pleasure, and he noticed the delicate skin and the long, fair lashes, and the charming strand of auburn hair that fell across her brow. Her youth was very appealing; he had never made love to one so young before; and yet, in spite of her youth, already she showed signs of an early ripening.

“Never,” he whispered, “have I enjoyed teaching anyone as I have enjoyed our lessons!”

The Duchess snored softly.

Catherine laughed, and he joined in the laugh; he leaned forward suddenly and kissed the tip of her nose. Catherine felt a pleasurable thrill; it was exciting because it had to be done while the Duchess slept; and he was handsome, she thought, with his dark, bold eyes; and it was flattering to be admired by one so much older than herself; it was gratifying to be treated as though one were charming, after the reproaches her grandmother had showered upon her.

“I am glad I am a good pupil.”

“You are a very good pupil!” he said. “Right glad I am that it is my happy lot to teach you.”

“Her Grace, my grandmother, thinks me very stupid.”

“Then it is Her Grace, your grandmother, who is stupid!”

Catherine hunched her shoulders, laughing.

“I take it, sir, that you do not then think me stupid.”

“Indeed not; but young, very young, and there is much you have to learn yet.”

The Duchess awoke with a start, and Catherine began to play.

“That was better,” said the Duchess, “was it not, Manox?”

“Indeed, Your Grace, it was!”

“And you think your pupil is improving?”

“Vastly, Madam!”

“So thought I. Now you may go, Catherine. Manox, you may stay awhile and talk with me.”

Catherine went, and he stayed and talked awhile; they talked of music, for they had nothing in common but music. But the Duchess did not mind of what her young men talked as long as they talked and entertained her. It was their youth she liked it was their flattery. And as Manox talked to her, she drifted back to the days of her own youth, and then forward again to the court as it was today, ruled by her loveliest of granddaughters.

“Methinks I shall go to Lambeth,” she announced, and dismissed Manox.

Catherine went to the apartment, where she found Isabel.

“How went the lesson?” asked Isabel.

“Very well.”

“How you love your music!” said Isabel. “You look as if you had just left a lover, not a lesson.”

Their talk was continually of lovers; Catherine did not notice this, as it seemed natural enough to her. To have lovers was not only natural but the most exciting possibility; it was all part of the glorious business of growing up, and now Catherine longed to be grownup.

She still thought of Thomas Culpepper, but she could only with difficulty remember what he looked like. She still dreamed that he rode out to Horsham and told her they were to elope together, but his face, which for so long had been blurred in her mind, now began to take on the shape of Henry Manox. She looked forward to her lessons; the most exciting moment of her days was when she went down to the Duchess’s room and found him there; she was always terrified that he would not be there, that her grandmother had decided to find her a new teacher; she looked forward with gleeful anticipation to those spasmodic snores of the Duchess which set both her and Manox giggling, and made his eyes become more bold.

As he sat very close to her, his long musician’s fingers would come to rest on her knee, tapping tightly that she might keep in time. The Duchess nodded; her head shook; then she would awake startled and look round her defiantly, as though to deny the obvious fact that she had dozed.

There was one day, some weeks after the first lesson, which was a perfect day, with spring in the sunshine filtering through the window, in the songs of the birds in the trees outside it, in Catherine’s heart and in Manox’s eyes.

He whispered: “Catherine! I think of you constantly.”

“Have I improved so much then?”

“Not of your music, but of you, Catherine…of you.”

“I wonder why you should think constantly of me.”

“Because you are very sweet.”

“Am I?” said Catherine.

“And not such a child as you would seem!”

“No,” said Catherine. “Sometimes I think I am very grown-up.”

He laid his delicate hands on the faint outline of her breasts.

“Yes, Catherine, I think so too. It is very sweet to be grown-up, Catherine. When you are a woman you will wonder how you could ever have borne your childhood.”

“Yes,” said Catherine, “I believe that. I have had some unhappy times in my childhood; my mother died, and then I went to Hollingbourne, and just when I was beginning to love my life there, that was over.”

“Do not look so sad, sweet Catherine! Tell me, you are not sad, are you?”

“Not now,” she said.

He kissed her cheek.

He said: “I would like to kiss your lips.”

He did this, and she was astonished by the kiss, which was different from those Thomas had given her. Catherine was stirred; she kissed him.

“I have never been so happy!” he said.

They were both too absorbed in each other to listen for the Duchess’s snores and heavy breathing; she awoke suddenly, and hearing no music, looked towards them.

“Chatter, chatter, chatter!” she said. “I declare! Is this a music lesson!”

Catherine began to play, stumbling badly.

The Duchess yawned; her foot began to tap; in five minutes she was asleep again.

“Do you think she saw us kiss?” whispered Catherine.

“Indeed I do not!” said Manox, and he meant that, for he well knew that if she had he would have been immediately turned out, possibly dismissed from the house; and Mistress Catherine would have received a sound beating.

Catherine shivered ecstatically.

“I am terrified that she might, and will stop the lessons.”

“You would care greatly about that?”

Catherine turned candid eyes upon him. “I should care very much!” she said. She was vulnerable because her mind was that of a child, though her body was becoming that of a woman; and the one being so advanced, the other somewhat backward, it was her body which was in command of Catherine. She liked the proximity of this man; she liked his kisses. She told him so in many ways; and he, being without scruples, found the situation too novel and too exciting not to be exploited.

He was rash in his excitement, taking her in his arms before the sleeping Duchess and kissing her lips. Catherine lifted her face eagerly, as a flower will turn towards the sun.

The Duchess was sleeping, when there was a faint tap on the door and Isabel entered. The lesson had extended beyond its appointed time, and she, eager to see the teacher and pupil together, had an excuse ready for intruding. Isabel stood on the threshold, taking in the scene—the sleeping Duchess, the young man, his face very pale, his eyes very bright; Catherine, hair in some disorder, her eyes wide, her lips parted, and with a red mark on her chin. Where he has kissed her, the knave! thought Isabel.

The Duchess awoke with a start.

“Come in! Come in!” she called, seeing Isabel at the door.

Isabel approached and spoke to the Duchess. Catherine rose, and so did Manox.

“You may go, Catherine,” said the Duchess. “Manox! Stay awhile. I would speak to you.”

Catherine went, eager to be alone, to remember everything he had said, how he had looked; to wonder how she was going to live through the hours until the next lesson on the morrow.

When Isabel was dismissed, she waited for Manox to come out.

He bowed low, smiling when he saw her, thinking that he had made an impression on her, for his surface charm and his reputation had made him irresistible to quite a number of ladies. He smiled at Isabel’s pale face and compared it with Catherine’s round childish one. He was more excited by Catherine than he had been since his first affair; for this adventuring with the little girl was a new experience, and though it was bound to be slow, and needed tact and patience, he found it more intriguing than any normal affair could be.

Isabel said: “I have never seen you at our entertainments.”

He smiled and said that he had heard of the young ladies’ revels, and it was a matter of great regret that he had never attended one.

She said: “You must come…I will tell you when. You know it is a secret!”

“Never fear that I should drop a hint to Her Grace.”

“It is innocent entertainment,” said Isabel anxiously.

“I could not doubt it!”

“We frolic a little; we feast; there is nothing wrong. It is just amusing.”

“That I have heard.”

“I will let you know then.”

“You are the kindest of ladies.”

He bowed courteously, and went on his way, thinking of Catherine.

Through the gardens at Hampton Court Anne walked with Henry. He was excited, his head teeming with plans, for the Cardinal’s palace was now his. He had demanded of a humiliated Wolsey wherefore a subject should have such a palace; and with a return of that wit which had been the very planks on which he had built his mighty career, the Cardinal, knowing himself lost and hoping by gifts to reinstate himself a little in the heart of the King, replied that a subject might build such a palace only to show what a noble gift a subject might make to his King.

Henry had been delighted by that reply; he had all but embraced his old friend, and his eyes had glistened to think of Hampton Court. Henry had inherited his father’s acquisitive nature, and the thought of riches must ever make him lick his lips with pleasure.

“Darling,” he said to Anne, “we must to Hampton Court, for there are many alterations I would make. I will make a palace of Hampton Court, and you shall help in this.”

The royal barge had carried them up the river; there was no ceremony on this occasion. Perhaps the King was not eager for it; perhaps he felt a little shame in accepting this magnificent gift from his old friend. All the way up the river he laughed with Anne at the incongruity of a subject’s daring to possess such a place.

“He was another king…or would be!” said Anne. “You were most lenient with him.”

“’Twas ever a fault of mine, sweetheart, to be over-lenient with those I love.”

She raised her beautifully arched eyebrows, and surveyed him mockingly.

“I fancy it is so with myself.”

He slapped his thigh—a habit of his—and laughed at her; she delighted him now as ever. He grew sentimental, contemplating her. He had loved her long, nor did his passion for her abate. To be in love was a pleasant thing; he glowed with self-sacrifice, thinking: She shall have the grandest apartments that can be built! I myself will plan them.

He told her of his ideas for the alterations.

“Work shall be started for my Queen’s apartments before aught else. The hangings shall be of tissue of gold, sweetheart. I myself will design the walls.” He thought of great lovers’ knots with the initials H and A entwined. He told her of this; sentimental and soft, his voice was slurred with affection. “Entwined, darling! As our lives shall be and have been ever since we met. For I would have the world know that naught shall come between us two.”

Unceremoniously they left the barge. The gardens were beautiful—but a cardinal’s gardens, said Henry, not a king’s!

“Dost know I have a special fondness for gardens?” he asked. “And dost know why?”

She thought it strange and oddly perturbing that he could remind her of his faithfulness to her here in this domain which he had taken—for the gift was enforced—from one to whom he owed greater loyalty. But how like Henry! Here in the shadow of Wolsey’s cherished Hampton Court, he must tell himself that he was a loyal friend, because he had been disloyal to its owner.

“Red and white roses,” said the King, and be touched her cheek. “We will have this like your father’s garden at Hever, eh? We will have a pond, and you shall sit on its edge and talk to me, and watch your own reflection. I’ll warrant you will be somewhat kinder to me than you were at Hever, eh?”

“It would not surprise me,” she laughed.

He talked with enthusiasm of his plans. He visualized beds of roses—red and white to symbolize the union of the houses of York and Lancaster, to remind all who beheld them that the Tudors represented peace; he would enclose those beds with wooden railings painted in his livery colors of white and green; he would set up posts and pillars which should be decorated with heraldic designs. There would be about the place a constant reminder to all, including himself, that he was a faithful man; that when he loved, he loved deeply and long. H and A! Those initials should be displayed in every possible spot.

“Come along in, sweetheart,” he said. “I would choose your apartments. They shall be the most lavish that were ever seen.”

They went up the staircase, across a large room. It was Anne who turned to the right and descended a few steps into the paneled rooms which had been Wolsey’s own. Henry had not wished to go into those rooms, but when he saw their splendid furnishings, their rich hangings, the magnificent plate, the window seats padded with red window carpets, the twisted gold work on the ceilings, he was loath to leave them. He had seen this splendor many times before; but then it had been Wolsey’s, now it was his.

Anne pointed to the damask carpets which lay about the floors, and reminded the King of how, it was whispered, Wolsey had come by these.

Henry was less ready to defend his old favorite than usual. He recounted the story of the Venetian bribe, and his mouth was a thin line, though previously he had laughed at it, condoned it.

They went through the lavishly furnished bedrooms, admired the counterpanes of satin and damask, the cushions of velvet and satin and cloth of gold.

“Good sweetheart,” said Henry, “I think your apartment shall be here, for I declare it to be the finest part of Hampton Court. The rooms shall be enlarged; I will have new ceilings; everything here shall be of the best. It shall be accomplished as soon as possible.”

“It will take many years,” said Anne, and added: “So therefore it is just possible that the divorce may be done with by then, if it ever is!”

He put an arm about her shoulders.

“How now, darling! We have waited long, and are impatient, but methinks we shall not wait much longer. Cranmer is a man of ideas…and that knave, Cromwell, too! My plans for your apartments may take a year or two completely to carry out, but never fear, long ere their accomplishment you shall be Queen of England!”

They sat awhile on the window seat, for the day was warm. He talked enthusiastically of the changes he would make. She listened but listlessly; Hampton Court held memories of a certain moonlit night, when she and Percy had looked from one of those windows and talked of the happiness they would make for each other.

She wondered if she would ever occupy these rooms which he planned for her. Wolsey had once made plans in this house.

“Our initials entwined, sweetheart,” said the King. “Come! You shiver. Let us on.”

In his house at Westminster, Wolsey awaited the arrival of Norfolk and Suffolk. His day was over, and Wolsey knew it; this was the end of his brightness; he would live the rest of his life in the darkness of obscurity, if he were lucky; but was it not a proven fact that when great men fell from favor their heads were not long in coming to the block? Those who lived gloriously must often die violently. Wolsey was sick, of mind and body; there was a pain in his solar plexus, a pain in his throat; and this was what men called heartbreak. And the most heartbreaking moment of his career was when he had arrived at Grafton with Campeggio, to find that there was no place for him at the court. For his fellow cardinal there were lodgings prepared in accordance with his state, but for Thomas Wolsey, once beloved of the King, there was no bed on which to rest his weary body. Then did he know to what depths of disfavor he had sunk. But for young Henry Norris, he knew not what he would have done; already had he suffered enough humiliation to break the heart of a proud man.

Norris, groom of the stole, a young handsome person with compassion in his pleasant eyes, had offered his own apartment to the travel-stained old man; such moments were pleasant in a wretched day. And yet, next day when he and Campeggio had had audience with the King, had not His Majesty softened to him, his little eyes troubled, his little mouth pursed with remembrance? Henry would never hate his old friend when he stood face to face with him; there were too many memories they shared; between them they had given birth to too many successful schemes for all to be forgotten. It is the careless, watching, speculating eyes which hurt a fallen man. He knew those callous courtiers laid wagers on the King’s conduct towards his old favorite. Wolsey had seen the disappointment in their faces when Henry let his old affection triumph; and Lady Anne’s dark eyes had glittered angrily, for she believed that the resuscitation of Wolsey’s dying influence meant the strangulation of her own. Her beautiful face had hardened, though she had smiled graciously enough on the Cardinal; and Wolsey, returning her smile, had felt fear grip his heart once more, for what hope had he with such an enemy!

It had come to his ears, by way of those who had waited on her and the King when they dined, that she had been deeply offended by Henry’s show of affection for the Cardinal; and she, bold and confident in her power over the King, did not hesitate to reprove him. “Is it not a marvelous thing,” so he had heard she said, “to consider what debt and danger the Cardinal hath brought you in with your subjects?” The King was puzzled. “How so, sweetheart?” Then she referred to that loan which the Cardinal had raised from his subjects for the King’s use. And she laughed and added: “If my lord Norfolk, my lord Suffolk, my lord my father, or any other noble person within your realm had done much less than he, they should have lost their heads ere this.” To which the King answered: “I perceive ye are not the Cardinal’s friend.” “I have no cause!” she retorted. “Nor more any other that love Your Grace, if ye consider well his doings!”

No more had been heard at the table, but Wolsey knew full well how gratifying it would be for the King to imagine her hatred for the Cardinal had grown out of her love for the King. She was an adversary to beware of. He had no chance of seeing the King again, for the Lady Anne had gone off riding with him next morning, and had so contrived it that His Majesty did not return until the cardinals had left. What poison did this woman pour into his master’s ears by day and night? But being Wolsey he must know it was himself whom he must blame; he it was who had taken that false step. He was too astute not to realize that had he been in Lady Anne’s place he would have acted as she did now. Imagination had helped to lift him, therefore it was easy to see himself in her position. He could even pity her, for her road was a more dangerous one than his, and those who depend for prosperity upon a prince’s favor—and such a prince—must consider each step before they take it, if they wish to survive. He had failed with the divorce, and looking back, that seemed inevitable, for as Cardinal he owed allegiance to Rome, and the King was straining to break those chains which bound him to the Holy See. He, who was shrewd, diplomatic, had failed. She was haughty, imperious, impulsive; what fate awaited her? Where she was concerned he had been foolish; he had lacked imagination. A man does not blame himself when enemies are made by his greatness; it is only when they are made by his folly that he does this. Perhaps humiliation was easier to bear, knowing he had brought it on himself.

His usher, Cavendish, came in to tell him that the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk had arrived. The Cardinal received them ceremoniously—the cold-eyed Norfolk, the cruel-eyed Suffolk, both rejoicing in his downfall.

“It is the King’s pleasure,” said Suffolk, “that you should hand over the Great Seal into our hands, and that you depart simply unto Esher.”

Esher! To a house near splendid Hampton Court which was his through the Bishopric of Winchester. He summoned all his dignity.

“And what commission have you, my lords, to give me such commandment?”

They said they came from the King, that they had received the commission from his royal mouth.

“Then that is not sufficient,” said Wolsey, “for the Great Seal of England was delivered me by the King’s own person, to enjoy during my life. I have the King’s letters to show it.”

The Dukes were angered by this reply, but seeing the King’s letters, all they could do was return to Henry.

Wolsey knew he but put off the evil day. The Great Seal, the symbol of his greatness, remained in his hands for but one more day; on the morrow the Dukes returned from Windsor with letters from the King, and there was nothing more that Wolsey could do but deliver up the seal.

The ex-chancellor was filled with deep foreboding and set his servants to make inventories of all the rich possessions in his house; these goods he would give to the King, for if his master could not be touched by affection it might well be that he could by rich gifts; many times had Wolsey noted that the little eyes glinted with envy when they rested on these things. When a man is in danger of drowning, thought Wolsey, he throws off all his fine apparel that he may swim more easily. What are possessions, compared with life itself!

He took his barge at his privy stairs, having ordered horses to be awaiting him at Putney; and the river, he saw, was crowded with craft, for news had traveled quickly and there were those who find the spectacle of a fallen man pleasurable indeed. He saw their grins; he heard their jeers; he sensed the speculation, the disappointment that he was not going straightway to the Tower.

Riding through Putney town, he saw Norris coming towards him, and his heart was lightened, since he had come to look upon Norris as a friend. And so it proved, for the King’s peace of mind had been profoundly disturbed by the story which Norfolk and Suffolk had told him of the giving up of the seal. The King could not forget that he had once loved Wolsey; he was haunted by a pale, sick face under a cardinal’s hat; and he remembered how this man had been his friend and counsellor; and though he knew that he had done with Wolsey, he wanted to reassure his conscience that it was not he who had destroyed his old friend, but others. Therefore, to appease that conscience, he sent Norris to Putney with a gold ring which Wolsey would recognize by the rich stone it contained, as they had previously used this ring for a token. He was to be of good cheer, Norris told him, for he stood as high as ever in the King’s favor.

Wolsey’s spirits soared; his body gained strength; the old fighting spirit came back to him. He was not defeated. He embraced Norris, feeling great affection for this young man, and took a little chain of gold from his neck to give to him; on this chain there hung a tiny cross. “I desire you to take this small reward from my hand,” he said, and Norris was deeply moved.

Then did the Cardinal look about his retinue; and saw one who had been close to him, and in whom he delighted, for the man’s wit and humor were of the subtlest, and many times had he brought mirth into the Cardinal’s heaviest hours.

“Take my Fool, Norris,” he said. “Take him to my lord the King, for well I know His Majesty will like well the gift. Fool!” he called. “Here, Fool!”

The man came, his eyes wide with fear and with love for his master; and seeing this, the Cardinal leaned forward and said almost tenderly: “Thou shalt have a place at court, Fool.”

But the Fool knelt down in the mire and wept bitterly. Wolsey was much moved that his servant should show such love, since to be Fool to the King, instead of to a man who is sinking in disgrace, was surely a great step forward.

“Thou art indeed a fool!” said Wolsey. “Dost not know what I am offering thee?”

All foolery was gone from those droll features; only tears were in the humorous eyes now.

“I will not leave you, master.”

“Didst not hear I have given thee to His Majesty?”

“I will not serve His Majesty. My lord, I have but one master.”

With tears in his eyes the Cardinal called six yeomen to remove the man; and struggling, full of rage and sorrow, went the Fool. Then on rode Wolsey, and when he reached his destination to find himself in that barren house in which there were not even beds nor dishes, plates nor cups, his heart was warmed that in this world there were those to love a man who is fallen from his greatness.

Lady Anne Rochford sat in her apartment, turning the leaves of a book. She had found this book in her chamber, and even as she picked it up she knew that someone had put it there that she might find it. As she looked at this book, the color rose from her neck to her forehead, and she was filled with anger. She sat for a long time, staring at the open page, wondering who had put it there, how many of her attendants had seen it.

The book was a book of prophecies; there were many in the country, she knew, who would regard such prophecies as miraculous; it was alarming therefore to find herself appearing very prominently in them.

She called Anne Saville to her, adopting a haughty mien, which was never difficult with her.

“Nan!” she called. “Come here! Come here at once!”

Anne Saville came and, seeing the book in her mistress’s hand, grew immediately pale.

“You have seen this book?” asked Anne.

“I should have removed it ere your ladyship set eyes on it.”

Anne laughed.

“You should have done no such thing, for this book makes me laugh so much that it cannot fail to give me pleasure.”

She turned the pages, smiling, her fingers steady.

“Look, Nan! This figure represents me…and here is the King. And here is Katharine. This must be so, since our initials are on them. Nan, tell me, I do not look like that! Look, Nan, do not turn away. Here I am with my head cut off!”

Anne Saville was seized with violent trembling.

“If I thought that true, I would not have him were he an emperor!” she said.

Anne snapped her fingers scornfully, “I am resolved to have him, Nan.”

Anne Saville could not take her eyes from the headless figure on the page.

“The book is a foolish book, a bauble. I am resolved that my issue shall be royal, Nan…” She added: “…whatever may become of me!”

“Then your ladyship is very brave.”

“Nan! Nan! What a little fool you are! To believe a foolish book!”

If Anne Saville was very quiet all that day as though her thoughts troubled her, Lady Anne Rochford was especially gay, though she did not regard the book as lightly as she would have those about her suppose. She did not wish to give her enemies the satisfaction of knowing that she was disturbed. For one thing was certain in her mind—she was surrounded by her enemies who would undermine her security in every possible way; and this little matter of the book was but one of those ways. An enemy had put the book where she might see it, hoping thereby to sow fear in her mind. What a hideous idea! To cut off her head!

She was nervous; her dreams were disturbed by that picture in the book. She watched those about her suspiciously, seeking her enemies. The Queen, the Princess, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, the Cardinal…all of the most important in the land. Who else? Who had brought the book into her chamber?

Those about her would be watching everything she did; listening to everything she said. She felt very frightened. Once she awoke trembling in a cold sweat; she had dreamed that Wolsey was standing before her, holding an axe, and the blade was turned towards her. The King lay beside her, and terrified, she awoke him.

“I had an evil dream…”

“Dreams are nothing, sweetheart.”

She would not let him dismiss her dream so. She would insist that he put his arms about her, assure her of his undying love for her.

“For without your love, I should die,” she told him. He kissed her tenderly and soothed her.

“As I should, without yours.”

“Nothing could hurt you,” she said.

“Nothing could hurt you, sweetheart, since I am here to take care of you.”

“There are many who are jealous of your love for me, who seek to destroy me.” She blurted out the story of her finding the book.

“The knave who printed it shall hang, darling. We’ll have his head on London Bridge. Thus shall people see what happens to those who would frighten my sweetheart.”

“This you say, but will you do it, when you suffer those who hate me, to enjoy your favor?”

“Never should any who hated you receive my favor!”

“I know of one.”

“Oh, darling, he is an old, sick man. He wishes you no ill….”

“No!” she cried fiercely. “Has he not fought against us consistently! Has he not spoken against us to the Pope! I know of those who will confirm this.”

She was trembling in his arms, for she felt his reluctance to discuss the Cardinal.

“I fear for us both,” she said. “How can I help but fear for you too, when I love you! I have heard much of his wickedness. There is his Venetian physician, who has been to me….”

“What!” cried the King.

“But no more! You think so highly of him that you will see him my enemy, and leave him to go unpunished. He is in York, you say. Let him rest there! He is banished from Westminster; that is enough. So in York he may pursue his wickedness and set the people against me, since he is of more importance to you than I am.”

“Anne, Anne, thou talkest wildly. Who could be of more importance to me than thou?”

“Your late chancellor, my lord Cardinal Wolsey!” she retorted. She was seized with a wild frenzy, and drew his face close to hers and kissed him, and spoke to him incoherently of her love and devotion, which touched him deeply; and out of his tenderness for her grew passion such as he had rarely experienced before, and he longed to give her all that she asked, to prove his love for her and to keep her loving him thus.

He said: “Sweetheart, you talk with wildness!”

“Yes,” she said, “I talk with wildness; it is only your beloved Cardinal who talks with good sense. I can see that I must not stay here. I will go away. I have lost those assets which were dearer to me than aught else—my virtue, my honor. I shall leave you. This is the last night I shall lie in your arms, for I see that I am ruined, that you cannot love me.”

Henry could always be moved to terror when she talked of leaving him; before he had given her Suffolk House, she had so often gone back and forth to Hever. The thought of losing her was more than he could endure; he was ready to offer her Wolsey if that was the price she asked.

He said: “Dost think I should allow thee to leave me, Anne?”

She laughed softly. “You might force me to stay; you could force me to share your bed!” Again she laughed. “You are big and strong, and I am but weak. You are a king and I am a poor woman who from love of you has given you her honor and her virtue…. Yes, doubtless you could force me to stay, but though you should do this, you would but keep my body; my love, though it has destroyed me, would be lost to you.”

“You shall not talk thus! I have never known happiness such as I have enjoyed with you. Your virtue…your honor! My God, you talk foolishly, darling! Shall you not be my Queen?”

“You have said so these many years. I grow weary of waiting. You surround yourself with those who hinder you rather than help. I have proof that the Cardinal is one of these.”

“What proof?” he demanded.

“Did I not tell you of the physician? He knows that Wolsey wrote to the Pope, asking him to excommunicate you, an you did not dismiss me and take back Katharine.”

“By God! And I will not believe it.”

She put her arms about his neck, and with one hand stroked his hair.

“Darling, see the physician, discover for yourself…”

“That will I do!” he assured her.

Then she slept more peacefully, but in the morning her fears were as strong as ever. When the physician confirmed Wolsey’s perfidy, when her cousin, Francis Bryan, brought her papers which proved that Wolsey had been in communication with the Pope, had asked for the divorce to be delayed; when she took these in triumph to the King and saw the veins stand out on his forehead with anger against the Cardinal, still she found peace of mind elusive. She remembered the softness of the King towards this man; she remembered how, when he had lain ill at Esher, he had sent Butts, his physician—the man he had sent to her at Hever—to attend his old friend. She remembered how he had summoned Butts, recently returned from Esher, and had asked after Wolsey’s health; and when Butts had said he feared the old man would die unless he received some token of the King’s regard, then had the King sent him a ruby ring, and—greater humiliation—he had turned to her and bidden her send a token too. Such was the King’s regard for this man; such was his reluctance to destroy him.

But she would not let her enemy live; and in this she had behind her many noblemen, at whose head were the powerful Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, men such as would let the grass grow under their feet in the matter. George had talked with her of Wolsey. “There will be no peace for us, Anne, while that man lives. For, if ever you had an enemy, that man is he!” She trusted George completely. He had said: “You can do this, Anne. You have but to command the King. Hesitate not, for well you know that had Wolsey the power to destroy you, he would not hesitate.”

“That I do know,” she answered, and was suddenly sad. “George,” she went on, “would it not be wonderful if we could go home and live quietly, hated by none!”

“I would not wish to live quietly, sister,” said George. “Nor would you. Come! Could you turn back now, would you?” She searched her mind and knew that he was right. “You were meant to be Queen of England, Anne. You have all the attributes.”

“I feel that, but I could wish there were not so much hating to be done!”

But she went on hating furiously; this was a battle between herself and Wolsey, and it was one she was determined to win. Norfolk watched; Suffolk watched; they were waiting for their opportunity.

There was a new charge against the Cardinal. He had been guilty of asserting and maintaining papal jurisdiction in England. Henry must accept the evidence; he must appease Anne; he must satisfy his ministers. Wolsey was to be arrested at Cawood Castle in York, whither he had retired these last months.

“The Earl of Northumberland should be sent to arrest him,” said Anne, her eyes gleaming, This was to be. She went to her apartment, dismissed her ladies, and flung herself upon her bed overcome by paroxysms of laughter and tears. She felt herself to be, not the woman who aspired to the throne of England, but a girl in love who through this man had lost her lover.

Now he would see! Now he should know! “That foolish girl!” he had said. “Her father but a knight, and yours one of the noblest houses in the land…”

Her father was an earl now; and she all but Queen of England.

Oh, you wise Cardinal! How I should love to see your face when Percy comes for you! You will know then that you were not so wise in seeking to destroy Anne Boleyn.

As the Cardinal sat at dinner in the dining-hall at Cawood Castle, his gentleman usher came to him and said: “My lord, His Grace, the Earl of Northumberland is in the castle!”

Wolsey was astounded.

“This cannot be. Were I to have the honor of a visit from such a nobleman, he would surely have warned me. Show him in to me that I may greet him.”

The Earl was brought into the dining-hall. He had changed a good deal since Wolsey had last seen him, and Wolsey scarcely recognized him as the delicate, handsome boy whom he had had occasion to reprimand at the King’s command because he had dared to fall in love with the King’s favorite.

Wolsey reproached Northumberland: “My lord Earl, you should have let me know, that I might have done you the honor due to you!”

Northumberland was quiet; he had come to receive no honor, he said. His eyes burned oddly in his pallid face. Wolsey remembered stories he had heard of his unhappy marriage with Shrewsbury’s daughter. A man should not allow a marriage to affect him so strongly; there were other things in life. A man in Northumberland’s position had much; was he not reigning lord of one of the noblest houses in the land! Bah! thought Wolsey enviously, an I were earl…

He had an affection for this young man, remembering him well when he had served under him. A docile boy, a charming boy. He had been grieved when he had to send him away.

“It is well to meet again,” said Wolsey. “For old times’ sake.”

“For old times’ sake!” said Northumberland, and he spoke as a man speaks in his sleep.

“I mind thee well,” said Wolsey. “Thou wert a bright, impetuous boy.”

“I mind thee well,” said Northumberland.

With malice in his heart, he surveyed the broken old man. So were the mighty fallen from their high places! This man had done that for which he would never forgive him, for he had taken from him Anne Boleyn whom in six long years of wretched marriage he had never forgotten; nor had he any intention of forgiving Wolsey. Anne should have been his, and he Anne’s. They had loved; they had made vows; and this man, who dared now to remind him of the old times, had been the cause of all his misery. And now that he was old and broken, now that his ambition had destroyed him, Wolsey would be kind and full of tender reminiscence. But Percy also remembered!

“I have often thought of you,” he said, and that was true. When he had quarreled with Mary, his wife, whom he hated and who hated him, he thought of the Cardinal’s face and the stern words that he had used. “Thou foolish boy…” Would he never forget the bitter humiliation? No, he never would; and because he would never cease to reproach himself for his own misery, knowing full well that had he shown sufficient courage he might have made a fight for his happiness, he hated this man with a violent hatred. He stood before him, trembling with rage, for well he knew that she had contrived this, and that she would expect him to show now that courage he had failed to show seven years ago.

Northumberland laid his hand on Wolsey’s arm. “My lord, I arrest you of High Treason!”

The Earl was smiling courteously, but with malice; the Cardinal began to tremble.

Revenge was a satisfying emotion, thought the Earl. He who had made others to suffer, must now himself suffer.

“We shall travel towards London at the earliest possible moment,” he said.

This they did; and, trembling with his desire for vengeance, the Earl caused the Cardinal’s legs to be bound to the stirrups of his mule; thus did he proclaim to the world: “This man, who was once great, is now naught but a common malefactor!”

About Cawood the people saw the Cardinal go; they wept; they called curses on his enemies. He left Cawood with their cries ringing in his ears. “God save Your Grace! The foul evil take them that have taken you from us! We pray God that a very vengeance may light upon them!”

The Cardinal smiled sadly. Of late weeks, here in York, he had led that life which it would have become him as a churchman to have led before. Alms had he given to the people at his gates; his table had been over-flowing with food and wine, and at Cawood Castle had he entertained the beggars and the needy to whom he had given scarcely a thought at Hampton Court and York House; for Wolsey, who had once sought to placate his sense of inferiority, to establish his social standing, now sought a place in Heaven by his good deeds. He smiled at himself as he rode down to Leicester; his body was sick, and he doubted whether it would—indeed be prayed that it would not—last the journey to London. But he smiled, for he saw himself a man who has climbed high and has fallen low. Pride was my enemy, he said, as bitter an enemy as ever was the Lady Anne.

The rejoicing of the Boleyn faction at the death of Wolsey was shameless. None would have believed a year before that the greatest man in England could be brought so low. Wolsey, it was said, had died of a flux, but all knew he had died of a broken heart, for melancholy was as sure a disease as any other; and having lost all that he cared to live for, why should the Cardinal live? He to be taken to the Tower! He, who had loved his master, to be tried for High Treason!

Here was triumph for Anne. People sought her more than ever, flattered her, feted her. To be favored by Anne was to be favored by the King. She enjoyed her triumph and gave special revels to commemorate the defeat of her enemy. She was led into the bad taste of having a play enacted which treated the great Cardinal as a figure of fun.

George was as recklessly glad about Wolsey’s fall as she was. “While that man lived, I trembled for you,” he said. He laughed shortly. “I hear that near his end he told Kingston that had he served God as diligently as he had served the King, he would not have been given over in his gray hairs. I would say that had he served his God as diligently as he served himself, he would have gone to the scaffold long ere this!” People hearing this remark took it up and laughed over it.

The King did not attend these revels of the Boleyns. Having given the order for the arrest of Wolsey, he wished to shut the matter from his mind. He was torn between remorse and gladness. Wolsey had left much wealth, and into whose hands should this fall but the King’s!

Henry prayed: “O Lord, thou knowest I loved that man. I would I had seen him. I would I had not let his enemies keep him from me. Did I not send him tokens of my regard? Did I not say I would not lose the fellow for twenty thousand pounds?”

But he could not stop his thoughts straying to the Cardinal’s possessions. There was more yet that he must get his hands upon. Hampton Court was his; York House was his, for he had never given it back after Anne went to Suffolk House, liking it too well.

But he wept for the old days of friendship; he wept for Wolsey; and he was able to deplore his death whilst considering how much more there was in gold to come to him.

Soon after this there were two matters which caused Anne some misgiving. The first came in the form of a letter which the Countess of Northumberland had written to her father, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Shrewsbury had thought it wise to show this letter to the Duke of Norfolk, who had brought it to his niece with all speed.

Anne read the letter. There was no doubt of its meaning. Mary of Northumberland was leaving her husband; she told her father that in one of their more violent quarrels her husband had told her that he was not really married to her, being previously contracted to Anne Boleyn.

Anne’s heart beat fast. Here was yet another plot to discredit her in the eyes of the King. She had been his mistress for nearly two years, and it seemed to her that she was no nearer becoming Queen than she had been on that first night in Suffolk House. She was becoming anxious, wondering how long she could expect to keep the King her obedient slave. For a long time she had watched for some lessening of his affection; she had found none; she studied herself carefully for some deterioration of her beauty; if she were older, a little drawn, there were many more gorgeous clothes and priceless jewels to set against that. But she was worried, and though she told herself that she longed for a peaceful life and would have been happy had she married Percy or Wyatt she knew that the spark of ambition inside her had been fanned into a great consuming fire; and when she had said to Anne Saville that she would marry the King, no matter what happened to herself, she meant that. She was quite sure that, once she was Queen, she would give the King sons, that not only could she delight him as his mistress, but as mother of the future Tudor King of England. Having tasted power, how could she ever relinquish it! And this was at the root of her fear. The delay of the divorce, the awareness of powerful enemies all about her—this was what had made her nervous, imperious, hysterical, haughty, frightened.

Therefore she trembled when she read this letter.

“Give it to me,” she commanded.

“What will you do with it?” asked her uncle. She was unsure. He said: “You should show it to the King.”

She studied him curiously. Cold, hard, completely without sentiment, he despised these families which had sprung up, allied to his own house simply because the Norfolk fortunes were in decline at Henry the Seventh’s accession on account of the mistake his family had made in backing Richard the Third. She weighed his words. He was no friend of hers; yet was he an enemy? It would be more advantageous to see his niece on the throne of England than another’s niece.

She went to the King.

He was sitting in a window seat, playing a harp and singing a song he had written.

“Ah! Sweetheart, I was thinking of you. Sit with me, and I will sing to you my song…Why, what ails you? You are pale and trembling.”

She said: “I am afraid. There are those who would poison your mind against me.”

“Bah!” he said, feeling in a merry mood, for Wolsey had left riches such as even Henry had not dreamed of, and he had convinced himself that the Cardinal’s death was none of his doing. He had died of a flux, and a flux will attack a man, be he chancellor or beggar. “What now, Anne? Have I not told you that naught could ever poison my mind against you!”

“You would not remember, but when I was very young and first came to court, Percy of Northumberland wished to marry me.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. Well he remembered. He had got Wolsey to banish the boy from court, and he had banished Anne too. For years he had let her escape him. She was a bud of a girl then, scarce awake at all, but very lovely. They had missed years together.

Anne went on: “It was no contract. He was sent from the court, being pre-contracted to my Lord Shrewsbury’s daughter. Now they have quarreled, and he says he will leave her, and she says he tells her he was never really married to her, being pre-contracted to me.”

The King let out an exclamation, and put aside his harp.

“This were not true?” he said.

“Indeed not!”

“Then we must put a stop to such idle talk. Leave this to me, sweetheart. I’ll have him brought up before the Archbishop of Canterbury. I’ll have him recant this, or ’twill be the worse for him!”

The King paced the floor, his face anxious.

“Dost know, sweetheart,” he said, “I fear I have dolts about me. Were Wolsey here…”

She did not speak, for she knew it was unnecessary to rail against the Cardinal now; he was done with. She had new enemies with whom to cope. She knew that Henry was casting a slur on the new ministry of Norfolk and More; that he was reminding her that though Wolsey had died, he had had nothing to do with his death. She wished then that she did not know this man so well; she wished that she could have been as lightheartedly gay as people thought her, living for the day, thinking not of the morrow. She had set her skirts daintily about her, aware of her grace and charm, knowing that they drew men irresistibly to her, wondering what would happen to her when she was old, as her grandmother Norfolk. Then I suppose, she thought, I will doze in a chair and recall my adventurous youth, and poke my granddaughters with an ebony stick. I would like my grandmother to come and see me; she is a foolish old woman assuredly, but at least she would be a friend.

“Sweetheart,” said the King, “I shall go now and settle this matter, for there will be no peace of mind until Northumberland admits this to be a lie.”

He kissed her lips; she returned his kiss, knowing well how to enchant him, being often sparing with her caresses so that when he received them he must be more grateful than if they had been lavished on him. He was the hunter; although he talked continually of longing for peace of mind, she knew that that would never satisfy him. He must never be satisfied, but always be looking for satisfaction. For two years she had kept him thus in difficult circumstances. She must go on keeping him thus, for her future depended on her ability to do so.

Fain would he have stayed, but she bid him go. “For,” she said, “although I know this matter to be a lie, until my lord of Northumberland admits it I am under a cloud. I could not marry you unless we had his full confession that there is no grain of truth in this claim.”

She surveyed him through narrowed eyes; she saw return to him that dread fear of losing her. He was easy to read, simple in his desires, ready enough to accept her own valuation of herself. What folly it would have been to have wept, to have told him that Northumberland lied, to have caused him to believe that her being Queen of England was to her advantage, not to his. While he believed she was ready to return to Hever, while he believed that she wished to be his wife chiefly because she had given way to his desires and sacrificed her honor and virtue, he would fight for her. She had to make him believe that the joy she could give him was worth more than any honors he could heap on her.

And he did believe this. He went storming out of the room; he had Northumberland brought before the Archbishops; he had him swear there had never been a contract with Anne Boleyn. It was made perfectly clear that Northumberland was married to Shrewsbury’s daughter, and Anne Boleyn free to marry the King.

Anne knew that her handling of that little matter had been successful.

It was different with the trouble over Suffolk.

Suffolk, jealous, ambitious, seeking to prevent her marriage to the King, was ready to go to any lengths to discredit Anne, provided he could keep his head on his shoulders.

He started a rumor that Anne had had an affair with Thomas Wyatt even while the King was showing his preference for her. There was real danger in this sort of rumor, as there was no one at court who had not witnessed Thomas’s loving attitude towards Anne; they had been seen by all, spending much time together, and it was possible that she had shown how she preferred the poet.

Anne, recklessly deciding that one rumor was as good as another, repeated something completely damaging to Suffolk. He had, she had heard, and she did not hesitate to say it in quarters where it would be quickly carried to Suffolk’s ears, more than a fatherly affection for his daughter, Frances Brandon, and his love for her was nothing less than incestuous. Suffolk was furious at the accusation; he confronted Anne; they quarreled; and the result of this quarrel was that Anne insisted he should absent himself from the court for a while.

This was open warfare with one who—with perhaps the exception of Norfolk—was the most powerful noble in the land, and the King’s brother-in-law to boot. Suffolk retired in smoldering anger; he would not, Anne knew, let such an accusation go unpaid for, and she had always been afraid of Suffolk.

She shut herself in her room, feeling depressed; she wept a little and told Anne Saville that whoever asked for her was not to be admitted, even should it be the King himself.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, seeing Suffolk’s angry eyes wherever she looked; she pictured his talking over with his friends the arrogance of her who, momentarily, had the King’s ear. Momentarily! It was a hideous word. The influence of all failed sooner or later. Oh, my God, were I but Queen! she thought. Were I but Queen, how happy I should feel! It is this perpetual waiting, this delay. The Pope will never give in; he is afraid of the Emperor Charles! And how can I be Queen of England while Katharine lives!

There was a tap on the door, and Anne Saville’s head appeared.

“I told you I would see no one!” cried Anne impatiently. “I told you—no one! No one at all! Not the King himself…”

“It is not the King,” said Anne Saville, “but my Lord Rochford. I told him you might see him…”

“Bring him to me,” said Anne.

George came in, his handsome face set in a smile, but she knew him well enough to be able to see the worried look behind the smile.

“I had the devil’s own job to get them to tell you I was here, Anne.”

“I had said I would see no one.”

He sat on the bed and looked at her.

“I have been hearing about Suffolk, Anne,” he said, and she shivered. “It is a sorry business.”

“I fear so.”

“He is the King’s brother-in-law.”

“Well, what if that is so? I am to be the King’s wife!”

“You make too many enemies, Anne.”

“I do not make them! I fear they make themselves.”

“The higher you rise, sister, the more there will be, ready to pull you down.”

“You cannot tell me more than I know about that, George.”

He leaned towards her.

“When I saw Suffolk, when I heard the talk…I was afraid. I would you had been more reasonable, Anne.”

“Did you hear what he said of me? He said Wyatt and I were, or had been, lovers!”

“I understand your need to punish him, but not your method.”

“I have said he shall be banished from the court, and so he is. I have but to say one shall be banished, and it is done.”

“The King loves you deeply, Anne, but it is best to be wise. A queen will have more need of friends than Anne Rochford, and Anne Rochford could never have too many.”

“Ah, my wise brother! I have been foolish…that I well know.”

“He will not let the matter rest here, Anne; he will seek to work you some wrong.”

“There will always be those who seek to do me wrong, George, no matter what I do!”

“It is so senseless to make enemies.”

“Sometimes I am very weary of the court, George.”

“So you tell yourself, Anne. Were you banished to Hever, you would die of boredom.”

“That I declare I would, George!”

“If you were asked what was your dearest wish, and spoke truthfully, you would say ‘I would I were settled firmly on the throne of England.’ Would you not?”

“You know me better than I know myself, George. It is a glorious adventure. I am flying high, and it is a wonderful, exhilarating, joyous flight; but when I look down I am sometimes giddy; then I am afraid.” She held out a hand and he took it. “Sometimes I say to myself ‘There is no one I trust but George.’”

He kissed her hand. “George you can always trust,” he said. “Others too, I’ll warrant; but always George.” Suddenly his reserve broke down, and he was talking as freely as she did. “Anne, Anne, sometimes I too am afraid. Whither are we going, you and I? From simple folk we have become great folk; and yet…and yet…Dost remember how we scorned poor Mary? And yet…Anne, whither are we going, you and I? Are you happy? Am I? I am married to the most vindictive of women; you contemplate marrying the most dangerous of men. Anne, Anne, we have to tread warily, both of us.”

“You frighten me, George.”

“I did not come to frighten you, Anne.”

“You came to reprove me for my conduct towards Suffolk. And I have always hated the man.”

“When you hate, Anne, it is better to hide your hatred. It is only love that should be shown.”

“There is nothing to be done about Suffolk now, George. In future I shall remember your words. I shall remember you coming to my room with a worried frown looking out from behind your smiles.”

The door opened and Lady Rochford came in. Her eyes darted to the bed.

“I thought to find you here.”

“Where is Anne Saville?” said Anne coldly, for she hated to have this tête-à-tête disturbed; there was much yet that she wished to say to her brother.

“Do you want to reprove her for letting me in?” asked Jane maliciously. “Marry! I thought when my husband came into a lady’s chamber, there should I follow him!”

“How are you, Jane?” said Anne.

“Very well, I thank you. You do not look so, sister. This affair of Suffolk must have upset you. I hear he is raging. You accused him of incest, so I heard.”

Anne flushed hotly. There was that in her sister-in-law to anger her even when she felt most kindly towards the world; now, the woman was maddening.

Jane went on: “The King’s sister will be most put about. She retains her fiery temper…. And what Frances will say I cannot think!”

“One would not expect you to think about any matter!” said Anne cuttingly. “And I do not wish you to enter my apartment without announcement.”

“Indeed, Anne, I am sorry. I thought there would be no need to stand on ceremony with your brother’s wife.”

“Let us go, Jane,” said George wearily; and she was aware that he had not looked at her since that one first glance of distaste when she entered the room.

“Oh, very well. I am sure I know when I am not wanted; but do not let me disturb your pleasant conversation—I am sure it was most pleasant…and loving.”

“Farewell, Anne,” said George. He stood by the bed, smiling at her, his eyes flashing a message: “Be of good cheer. All will be well. The King adores you. Hast forgotten he would make you Queen? What of Suffolk! What of any, while the King loves you!”

She said: “You have done me so much good, George. You always do.”

He stooped and kissed her forehead. Jane watched jealously. When had he last kissed her—kissed her voluntarily, that was—a year ago, or more? I hate Anne, she thought, reclining there as though she were a queen already; her gowns beautifully furred—paid for by the King doubtless! Herself bejeweled as though for a state function, here in her private apartments. I hope she is never Queen! Katharine is Queen. Why should a man put away his wife because he is tired of her? Why should Anne Boleyn take the place of the true Queen, just because she is young and sparkling and vivacious and witty and beautifully dressed, and makes people believe she is more handsome than anyone at court? Everyone speaks of her; everywhere one goes one hears her name!

And he loves her…as he never loved me! And am I not his wife?

“Come, Jane!” he said, and his voice was different now that he spoke to her and not to his sister.

He led her out, and they walked silently through the corridors to their apartments in the palace.

She faced him and would not let him walk past her.

“You are as foolish about her as is the King!”

He sighed that weary sigh which always made her all but want to kill him, but not quite, because she loved him, and to kill him would be to kill her hopes of happiness.

“You will talk such nonsense, Jane!”

“Nonsense!” she cried shrilly, and then burst into weeping, covering her face with her hands; and waited for him to take her hands, plead with her to control herself. She wept noisily, but nothing happened; and taking down her hands, she saw that he had left her.

Then did she tremble with cold rage against him and against his sister.

“I would they were dead, both of them! They deserve to die; she for what she has done to the Queen; he for what he has done to me! One day…” She stopped, and ran to her mirror, saw her face blotched with tears and grief, thought of the cool, lovely face of the girl on the bed, and the long black hair which looked more beautiful in its disorder than it did when neatly tied. “One day,” she went on muttering to herself, “I believe I shall kill one of them…both of them, mayhap.”

They were foolish thoughts, which George might say were worthy of her, but nevertheless she found in them an outlet for her violent feelings, and they brought her an odd comfort.

A barge passed along the river. People on the banks turned to stare after it. In it sat the most beautiful lady of the King’s court. People saw how the fading sunlight caught her bejeweled person. Her hair was caught up in a gold coif that sat elegantly on her shapely head.

“Nan Bullen!” The words were like a rumble of thunder among the crowd.

“They say the poor Queen, the true Queen, is dying of a broken heart…”

“As is her daughter Mary.”

“They say Nan Bullen has bribed the Queen’s cook to administer poison unto Her Most Gracious Majesty…”

“They say she has threatened to poison the Princess Mary.”

“What of the King?”

“The King is the King. It is no fault of his. He is bewitched by this whore.”

“She is very lovely!”

“Bah! That is her witchery.”

“’Tis right. A witch may come in any guise…”

Women in tattered rags drew their garments about them and thought angrily of the satins and velvets and cloth of gold worn by the Lady Anne Rochford…who was really plain Nan Bullen.

“Her grandfather was but a merchant in London town. Why should we have a merchant’s daughter for our Queen?”

“There cannot be a second Queen while the first Queen lives.”

“I lost two sons of the sweat…”

They trampled through the muck of the gutter, rats scuttled from under their feet, made bold by their numbers and the lack of surprise and animosity their presence caused. In the fever-ridden stench of the cobbled streets, the people blamed Anne Boleyn.

Over London Bridge the heads of traitors stared out with glassy eyes; offal floated up the river; beggars with sore-encrusted limbs asked for alms; one-legged beggars, one-eyed beggars and beggars all but eaten away with some pox.

“’Tis a poor country we live in, since the King would send the rightful Queen from his bed!”

“I mind the poor lady at her coronation; beautiful she was then, with her lovely long hair flowing, and her in a litter of cloth of gold. Nothing too good for her then, poor lady.”

“Should a man, even if he be a king, cast off his wife because she is no longer young?”

It was the cry of fearful women, for all knew that it was the King who set examples. It was the cry of aging women against the younger members of their sex who would bewitch their husbands and steal them from them.

The murmurs grew to a roar. “We’ll have no Nan Bullen!”

There was one woman with deep cadaverous eyes and her front teeth missing. She raised her hands and jeered at the women who gathered about her.

“Ye’ll have no Nan Bullen, eh? And what’ll ye do about it, eh? You’ll be the first to shout ‘God save Your Majesty’ when the King makes his whore our Queen!”

“Not I!” cried one bold spirit, and the others took it up.

The fire of leadership was in the woman. She brandished a stick.

“We’ll take Nan Bullen! We’ll go to her and we’ll take her, and when we’ve done with her we’ll see if she is such a beauty, eh? Who’ll come? Who’ll come?”

Excitement was in the air. There were many who were ever ready to follow a procession, ever ready to espouse a cause; and what more worthy than this, for weary housewives who had little to eat and but rags to cover them, little to hope for and much to fear?

They had seen the Lady Anne Rochford in her barge, proud and imperious, so beautiful that she was more like a picture to them than a woman; her clothes looked too fine to be real…And she was not far off…her barge had stopped along the river.

Dusk was in the sky; it touched them with adventure, dangerous adventure. They were needy; they were hungry; and she was rich, and doubtless on her way to some noble friends’ house to supper. This was a noble cause; it was Queen Katharine’s cause; it was the cause of Princess Mary.

“Down with Nan Bullen!” they shouted.

She would have jewels about her, they remembered. Cupidity and righteousness filled their minds. “Shall we let the whore sit on the throne of England? They say she carries a fortune in jewels about her body!”

Once, it was said, in the days of the King’s youth when he feasted with his friends, the mob watched him; and so dazzled were they by his person, that they were unable to keep away from him; they seized their mighty King; they seized Bluff King Hal, and stripped him of his jewels. What did he do? He was a noble King, a lover of sport. What did he do? He did naught but smile and treat the matter as a joke. He was a bluff King! A great King! But momentarily he was in the hands of a witch. There were men who had picked up a fortune that night. Why should not a fortune be picked up from Nan Bullen? And she was no bluff, good king, but a scheming woman, a witch, a poisoner, a usurper of the throne of England! It was a righteous cause; it was a noble cause; it might also prove a profitable cause!

Someone had lighted a torch; another sprang up, and another. In the flickering glow from the flares the faces of the women looked like those of animals. Cupidity was in each face…cruelty, jealousy, envy….

“Ah! What will we do to Nan Bullen when we find her? I will tear her limbs apart…I will tear the jewels off her. Nan Bullen shall not be our Queen. Queen Katharine forever!”

They fell into some order, and marched. There were more flares; they made a bright glow in the sky.

They muttered, and each dreamed of the bright jewel she would snatch from the fair body. A fortune…a fortune to be made in a night, and in the righteous cause of Katharine the Queen.

“What means this?” asked newcomers.

“Nan Bullen!” chanted the crowd. “We’ll have no Nan Bullen! Queen Katharine forever!”

The crowd was swollen now; it bulged and sprawled, but it went forward, a grimly earnest, glowing procession.

Anne, at the riverside house where she had gone to take supper, saw the glow in the sky, heard the low chanting of voices.

“What is it they say?” she asked of those about her. “What is it? I think they come this way.”

Anne and her friends went out into the riverside garden, and listened. The voices seemed thousands strong.

“Nan Bullen…Nan Bullen…. We’ll not have the King’s whore…”

She felt sick with fear. She had heard that cry before, never at such close quarters, never so ominous.

“They have seen you come here,” whispered her hostess, and trembled, wondering what an ugly mob would do to the friends of Anne Boleyn.

“What do they want?”

“They say your name. Listen….”

They stood, straining their ears.

“We’ll have none of Nan Bullen. Queen Katharine forever!”

The guests were pale; they looked at each other, shuddering. Outwardly calm, inwardly full of misery, Anne said: “Methinks I had better leave you, good people. Mayhap when they find me not here they will go away.”

And with the dignity of a queen, unhurried, and taking Anne Saville with her, she walked down the riverside steps to her barge. Scarcely daring to breathe until it slipped away from the bank, she looked back and saw the torches clearly, saw the dark mass of people, and thought for a moment of what would have happened to her if she had fallen into their hands.

Silently moved the barge; down the river it went towards Greenwich. Anne Saville was white and trembling, sobbing, but Lady Anne Rochford appeared calm.

She could not forget the howls of rage, and she felt heavy with sadness. She had dreamed of herself a queen, riding through the streets of London, acclaimed on all sides. “Queen Anne. Good Queen Anne!” She wanted to be respected and admired.

“Nan Bullen, the whore! We’ll not have a whore on the throne…. Queen Katharine forever!”

“I will win their respect,” she told herself. “I must…I must! One day…one day they shall love me.”

Swiftly went the barge. She was exhausted when she reached the palace; her face was white and set, more haughty, more imperious, more queenly than when she had left to join the riverside party.

There was a special feast in the dormitory at Horsham. The girls had been giggling together all day.

“I hear,” said one to Catherine Howard, “that this is a special occasion for you. There is a treat in store for you!”

Catherine, wide-eyed, listened. What? she wondered. Isabel was smiling secretly; they were all in the secret but Catherine.

She had her lesson that day, and found Manox less adventurous than usual. The Duchess dozed, tapped her foot, admonished Catherine—for it was true she stumbled over her playing. Manox sat upright beside her—the teacher rather than the admiring and passionate friend. Catherine knew then how much she looked forward to the lessons.

She whispered to him: “I have offended you?”

“Offended me! Indeed not; you could never do aught but please me.”

“Methought you seemed aloof.”

“I am but your instructor in the virginals,” he whispered. “It has come to me that were the Duchess to discover we are friends, she would be offended; she might even stop the lessons. Would that make you very unhappy, Catherine?”

“Indeed it would!” she said guilelessly. “More than most things I love music.”

“And you do not dislike your teacher?”

“You know well that I do not.”

“Let us play. The Duchess is restive; she will hear our talking at any moment now.”

She played. The Duchess’s foot tapped in a spritely way; then it slowed down and stopped.

“I think of you continually,” said Manox. “But with fear.”

“Fear?”

“Fear that something might happen to stop these lessons.”

“Oh, nothing must happen!”

“And yet how easily it could! Her Grace has but to decide that she would prefer you to have another teacher.”

“I would beg her to let you stay.”

His eyes showed his alarm.

“You should not do that, Catherine!”

“But I should! I could not bear to have another teacher.”

“I have been turning over in my mind what I would say to you today. We must go cautiously, Catherine. Why, if Her Grace knew of our…our friendship…”

“Oh, we will be careful,” said Catherine.

“It is sad,” he said, “for only here do we meet, under the Duchess’s eyes.”

He would talk no more. When she would have spoken, he said: “Hush! Her Grace will awaken. In future, Catherine, I shall appear to be distant to you, but mistake me not, though I may seem merely your cold, hard master, my regard for you will be as deep as ever.”

Catherine felt unhappy; she thrived on caresses and demonstrations of affection, and so few came her way. When the Duchess dismissed her, she returned to the young ladies’ apartments feeling deflated and sad at heart. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains round it; she thought of Manox’s dark eyes and how on several occasions he had leaned close to her and kissed her swiftly.

In the dormitory she could hear the girls laughing together, preparing for tonight. She heard her own name mentioned amidst laughter.

“A surprise…”

“Why not…”

“Safer too…”

She did not care for their surprises; she cared only that Manox would kiss her no more. Then it occurred to her that he had merely liked her as a young and attractive man might like a little girl. It was not the same emotion as the older people felt for each other; that emotion of which Catherine thought a good deal, and longed to experience. She must live through the weary years of childhood before that could happen; the thought made her melancholy.

Through her curtains she listened to running footsteps. She heard a young man’s voice; he had brought sweetmeats and dainties for the party tonight, he said. There were exclamations of surprise and delight.

“But how lovely!”

“I declare I can scarce keep my hands off them.”

“Tonight is a special occasion, didst know? Catherine’s coming of age…”

What did they mean? They could laugh all they liked; she was not interested in their surprises.

Evening came. Isabel insisted on drawing back the curtains of Catherine’s bed.

“I am weary tonight,” said Catherine. “I wish to sleep.”

“Bah!” laughed Isabel. “I thought you would wish to join in the fun! Great pains have I taken to see that you should enjoy this night.”

“You are very kind, but really I would rather retire.”

“You know not what you say. Come, take a little wine.”

The guests began to arrive; they crept in, suppressing their laughter. The great room was filled with the erotic excitement which was always part of these entertainments. There were slapping and kisses and tickling and laughter; bed curtains pulled back and forth, entreaties for caution, entreaties for less noise.

“You’ll be the death of me, I declare!”

“Hush! Her Grace…”

“Her Grace is snoring most elegantly. I heard her.”

“People are often awakened by their snores!”

“The Duchess is. I’ve seen it happen.”

“So has Catherine, has she not, when she is having her lesson on the virginals with Henry Manox!”

That remark seemed to be the signal for great laughter, as though it were the most amusing thing possible.

Catherine said seriously: “That is so. Her snores do awaken her.”

The door opened. There was a moment’s silence. Catherine’s heart began to hammer with an odd mixture of fear and delight. Henry Manox came into the room.

“Welcome!” said Isabel. Then: “Catherine, here is your surprise!”

Catherine raised herself, and turned first red, then white. Manox went swiftly to her and sat on her bed.

“I had no notion…” began Catherine breathlessly.

“We decided it should be a secret…. You are not displeased to see me?”

“I…of course not!”

“Dare I hope that you are pleased?”

“Yes, I am pleased.”

His black eyes flashed. He said: “’Twas dangerous, little Catherine, to kiss you there before the Duchess. I did it because of my need to kiss you.”

She answered: “It is dangerous here.”

“Bah!” he said. “I would not fear the danger here…among so many. And I would have you know, Catherine, that no amount of danger would deter me.”

Isabel came over.

“Well, my children? You see how I think of your happiness!”

“This was your surprise, Isabel?” said Catherine.

“Indeed so. Are you not grateful, and is it not a pleasant one?”

“It is,” said Catherine.

One of the young gentlemen came over with a dish of sweetmeats, another with wine.

Catherine and Manox sat on the edge of Catherine’s bed, holding hands, and Catherine thought she had never been so excited nor so happy, for she knew that she had stepped right out of an irksome childhood into womanhood, where life was perpetually exciting and amusing.

Manox said: “We can be prim now before Her Grace, and what care I! I shall be cold and aloof, and all the time you will know that I long to kiss you.” Thereupon he kissed her and she kissed him. The wine was potent; the sweetmeats pleasant. Manox put an arm about Catherine’s waist.

Darkness came to the room, as on these occasions lights were never used for fear they should be detected in their revels.

Manox said: “Catherine, I would be alone with you completely…. Let us draw these curtains.” And so saying he drew the curtains, and they were shut in, away from the others.

October mists hung over Calais. Anne was reminded of long ago feasting at Ardres and Guisnes, for then, as now, Francis and Henry had met and expressed their friendship; then Queen Katharine had been his Queen; now the chief lady from England was the Marchioness of Pembroke, Anne herself. Anne felt more at ease than she had for four years. Never had she felt this same certainty that her ambition would be realized. The King was ardent as ever, impatient with the long delay; Thomas Cromwell had wily schemes to present to His Majesty; there was something ruthless about the man; he was the sort one would employ to do any deed, however dangerous, however murky—and, provided the reward was great enough, one felt the deed would be done.

So, at the highest peak of glory she had so far reached, she could enjoy the pomp and ceremony of this visit to France, which was being conducted as a visit of a king and his queen. The King was ready to commit to the Tower any who did not pay her full honor. When, a month ago, she had been created Marchioness of Pembroke she had acquired with this high honor the establishment of a queen. She must have her train-bearer, her ladies of the bedchamber, her maids of honor, her gentlemen-in-waiting, her officers, and at least thirty domestics for her own use. What Henry wished the world to know was that the only thing that kept the Marchioness from being Queen in name was the marriage ceremony. “By God!” said Henry to Anne. “That shall take place before you are much older, sweetheart!”

They had stayed four days at Boulogne, and there Anne had met with some slight rebuff, being unable to attend the festivities which the French arranged for Henry, as the French ladies had not come with Francis. It was understandable that Francis’s wife should not come, for on the death of Claude he had married Charles’s sister Eleanor, and Henry was known to have said, when the visit was being discussed, that he would rather see a devil than a lady in Spanish dress. The Queen of France therefore could not come. There remained Francis’s sister, the Queen of Navarre, but she had pleaded illness. Consequently there were no ladies of the French court to greet Henry and his Marchioness. Doubtless it was a slight, but such slights would be quickly remedied once Anne wore a crown.

Now they were back at Calais and very soon, with her ladies, Anne would go down to the great hall for the masked ball; she must however wait until supper was concluded, since the banquet was attended only by men. Contentedly she browsed, thinking of the past months, thinking of that state ceremony at Windsor, when the King had made her Marchioness of Pembroke—the first woman ever to be created a peer of the realm. What a triumph that had been! And how she, with her love of admiration and pomp, of which she was the center, had enjoyed every minute of it! Ladies of noble birth, who previously had thought themselves so far above her, had been forced to attend her in all humility; Lady Mary Howard to carry her state robes; the Countesses of Rutland and Sussex to conduct her to the King; my lords of Norfolk and Suffolk with the French ambassador to attend the King in the state apartments. And all this ceremony that they might do honor to Anne Boleyn. She pictured herself afresh, in her surcoat of crimson velvet that was lined with ermine, her lovely hair flowing; herself kneeling before the King while he very lovingly and tenderly placed the coronet on the brow of his much loved Marchioness.

And then to France, with Wyatt in their train, and her uncle Norfolk and, best of all, George. With George and Wyatt there, she had felt secure and happy. Wyatt loved her as he ever did, though now he dared not show his love. He poured it out in his poetry.

“Forget not! O, forget not this!—

How long ago hath been, and is,

The mind that never meant amiss—

Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved,

The which so long hath thee so loved,

Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:

Forget not this!”

She quoted those words as her ladies helped to dress her. Wyatt would never forget; he asked her not to. She smiled happily. No, she would not forget Wyatt; but she was happy tonight for she was assured of the King’s steadfastness in his intention to marry her. He had declared this, but actions speak so much louder than words; would he have created her Marchioness of Pembroke, would he have brought her to France if he were not even more determined to make her his Queen than he had been two years ago? She felt strong and full of power, able to bind him to her, able to keep him. How could she help but be happy, knowing herself so loved! George was her friend; Wyatt had said he would never forget. Poor Wyatt! And the King had met the disapproval of his people, even faced the possibility of a tottering throne, rather than relinquish her.

Courage made her eyes shine the brighter, made her cheeks to glow. Tonight she was dressed in masquing costume; her gown was of cloth of gold with crimson tinsel satin slashed across it in unusual fashion, puffed with cloth of silver and ornamented with gold laces. All the ladies were dressed in this fashion, and they would enter the hall masked, so that none should know who was who. And then, after the dancing, Henry himself would remove the masks, and the ladies would be exhibited with national pride, for they had been chosen for their beauty.

The Countess of Derby came in to tell her it was time they went down, and four ladies in crimson satin, who were to lead them into the hall, were summoned, and they descended the stairs.

There was an expectant hush as they entered the hall which at great cost Henry had furnished specially for this occasion. The hangings were of tissue of silver and gold; and the seams of these hangings had been decorated with silver, pearls and stones.

Each masked lady was to select her partner, and Anne chose the King of France.

Francis had changed a good deal since Anne had last seen him; his face was lined and debauched; she had heard alarming stories of him when she had been in France, and she remembered one of these was of the daughter of a mayor at whose house Francis had stayed during one of his campaigns. He had fancied the girl, and she, dreading his advances and knowing too well his reputation, had ruined her looks with acid.

Francis said he could think of no more delight to follow supper than the English King’s idea of a ball in which the ladies were masked.

“One is breathless with suspense, awaiting that moment when the masks are removed.” He tried to peer lasciviously beneath hers, but laughingly she replied that she was surprised he should be breathless. “It is the inexperienced, not the connoisseur, is it not, who is more likely to be reduced to such a state?”

“Even connoisseurs are deeply moved by masterpieces, Madam!”

“This is what our lord King would doubtless call French flattery.”

“’Tis French truth nevertheless.”

Henry watched her, jealous and alert, knowing well the French King’s reputation, distrusting him, disliking to see him in conversation with Anne.

Francis said: “It is indeed exciting to contemplate that we have the Lady Anne here with us tonight. I declare I long to see the face that so enchants my brother of England.”

“Your curiosity will be satisfied ere long,” she said.

“I knew the lady once,” he said, feigning not to know it was with none other that he now danced.

“That must have been very long ago.”

“A few years. But such a lady, Madam, one would never forget, you understand.”

She said: “Speak French, if you wish it. I know the language.”

He spoke French; he was happier in it. He told her she spoke it enchantingly. He told her that he would wager she was more fair than the Lady Anne herself, for he had never set eyes on such a lithesome figure, nor heard such a melodious voice; and he trusted she had the fairest face in England and France, for he would be disappointed if she had not!

Anne, feeling Henry’s eyes upon her, rejoiced in Henry. He was a king and a great king; she could not have endured Francis for all the kingdoms in the world.

Henry, impatient of watching, would now remove the masks; and did so, going first to Anne.

“Your Majesty has been dancing with the Marchioness of Pembroke,” he told Francis, who declared himself astonished and delighted.

Henry moved on, leaving Anne with Francis.

“And what did I say of my old friend, little Anne Boleyn?” he said.

Anne laughed. “Your Majesty was fully aware with whom he danced.”

“I should have known that one so full of grace, so pleasant to the eye and the ear, could be none other than she who will soon, I trust, be my sister of England. I congratulate myself that she chose to dance with me.”

“Ceremony, as Your Majesty will well understand, demanded it.”

“You were ever unkind, fair lady! That I well remember.”

“Tell me of your sister.”

They talked long together; Anne’s laughter rang out now and then, for they had many reminiscences to share of the French court, and each could bring back memories to the other.

Henry watched, half proud, half angry. He had ever been jealous of Francis; he wondered whether to join them or leave them together. He did not care to see Anne in such close conversation with the lecher Francis, and yet it must be so for he was the King of France, and honor shown to Anne was honor shown to Henry. Francis’s approval at Rome could mean a good deal, for though Charles was the most important man in Europe, might not Henry and Francis together carry more weight than Katharine’s nephew?

The dance broke up; the ladies retired. Henry talked with his royal guest. Francis suggested he should marry Anne without the Pope’s consent. Henry did not see how this could be, but enjoyed such talk; it was pleasant to think he had French support behind him.

He went to Anne’s chamber, and dismissed her ladies.

“You were indeed a queen tonight!” he said.

“I trust I did not disgrace my King.”

She was gay tonight, savoring the success of the evening; adorable in her costume of cloth of gold and crimson.

He went to her and put his arms about her.

“The dresses were the same, but you stood out among them all. Had one not known who you were, it would have been easily seen that you were she who should be Queen.”

“You are very gracious to me.”

“And you are glad I love you, eh?”

She was so very happy this night that she wanted to shower happiness all about her; and on whom should it fall but on her royal benefactor!

“I was never happier in my life!” she said.

Later, when she lay in his arms, he confessed to jealousy of the French King.

“You seemed to like him too well, sweetheart.”

“Would you have had me ungracious to him? If I seemed to like him, it was because he was your guest.”

“Methought you appeared to coquette with him a little.”

“I did only what I thought would please you.”

“’Twould never please me, Anne, to see your smiles given to another!”

“My smiles! Bah! If I smiled too warmly then ’twas because I compared him with you and was happy in the comparing.”

Henry was overjoyed.

“I declare he puts on years as one would put on state robes; he is weighed down with them. I never thought him handsome….”

“Debauchery is apparent in his face,” said Anne.

Henry’s prudish little mouth lifted into a smile.

“I would not care to own his reputation!”

Then she amused him with an imitation of the French King, recounting what he had said and what she had answered; and the King laughed and was very happy with her.

In the morning Francis sent Anne a jewel as a gift. Henry examined it, was delighted with its worth, and jealous that it had not come from himself.

He gave her more jewelery; he gave of his own and Katharine’s and even his sister’s, Mary of Suffolk. The King was more deeply in love than ever.

When it was time for them to leave Calais there was a high wind and it was unsafe to cross the Channel. Anne was reminded of that stay at Dover; but then she had been a seven-year-old girl of no importance whatever, trying to listen to those about her and learn something of life. Pleasant it was to think back, when one had come so far.

They beguiled the days with dice and cards, at which the King lost heavily and Anne almost always won; nor did it matter if she lost, for the King would pay her debts. One of the players was a handsome young man named Francis Weston for whom Anne conceived a genuine liking, and he for her. They played by day and danced at night; they were hilarious over the cards; there was much fun to be had at “Pope Julius,” the favorite game of the court, with its allusions to matrimony, intrigue and the Pope—they all found it so apt in view of the pending divorce. Thus passed the days, with Anne happier than she had been since deciding to occupy the throne, more secure, more content.

The old year was dying, and Christmas came. Still the Pope was adamant; still action hung fire. Four years ago Anne had become the King’s mistress, and now, at Christmas of the year 1532, still she waited to be his Queen.

She was pale and listless.

“Does aught ail thee, sweetheart?” the King asked her.

“Much ails me,” she told him.

The King was alarmed.

“Darling, tell me instantly. I would know what is wrong, and right it.”

She said very clearly: “I fear he who should follow Your Majesty as King of England will after all be but a bastard.”

Henry was beside himself with the importance of this news. Anne was pregnant! A son was what he wanted more than anything—next to Anne herself—on Earth. Anne, who should have been the Queen long ere this—and had they married she would have given him a son by now, for it had ever been her wish that no children should be born to them until she was Queen—Anne was with child. His child! His son! He who should be King of England!

“And by God,” said the King, “he shall be!” Now he was all tenderness, all loving care; that body which sheltered his son had become doubly precious. “Fret not, sweetheart. Be done with fretting for evermore. I declare I’ll endure this delay no longer. I’ll be cut free from that canting Pope, or, by God, much blood will flow!”

Anne could smile; this was the happiest thing that could have happened; this would decide him. She was determined that her son should be born in wedlock; and so was Henry.

Well he remembered how he had looked with something like fury on his son, the Duke of Richmond—that fine boy so like himself, who, had he been born of Katharine instead of Elizabeth Blount, would have spared him much heart-burning. No! There should be no repetition of that!

He called Cromwell to him; he would see Cranmer; he would leave nothing undone, no way out unexplored. Divorce he must have, and quickly, for Anne was pregnant with a son.

Henry’s determination was vital; it swept all opposition before it; none who valued his future, or his head, dared go against him, whilst those who worked with him and were blessed with success were sure of favor.

Warham had died in August, and who should replace him but Cranmer, the man who, when the idea of divorce was first being considered, had the right sow by the ear! The Archbishopric of Canterbury could therefore be placed in good hands. Then Cromwell: Cromwell’s daring scheme of separating England from Rome, which had on first hearing seemed too wild to be put into action, now presented itself as the only sure solution. Cromwell, unlike so many, suffered not at all from a superstitious dread of consequences; he was not by any means scrupulous; he could bring in evidence against Rome as fast as his master cared to receive it. What had Henry to lose by the separation? he demanded of his King. And see what he had to gain!

Henry’s eyes glistened, contemplating the dissolution of those storehouses of treasure, the monasteries…treasures which would naturally be thrown into the King’s chests. The state would be free of Rome; it would be strong, beholden to no one. Moreover, free from the Pope, why should Henry care for his verdict on the divorce? Henry, all-powerful, might make his own divorce! The Continent, in the grip of the reformation, had weakened the Church. Everywhere in Europe men were challenging the Pope’s authority; a new religion was springing up. It was simple; it merely meant that the headship was transferred from the Pope to Henry. Henry had hesitated, turning this truly delightful plan over and over in his mind. He had to consider his conscience, which troubled him incessantly. He was afraid of isolation. How would it affect him politically? Wolsey—the wisest man he had ever known—would have opposed Cromwell’s scheme; he did not like Cromwell, he considered him a knave. Was Cromwell right? Could Cromwell be trusted? Cromwell might be a knave, but was he a wise man?

Henry shilly-shallied. He had always considered his accession to be influenced by the Holy See, and through the Holy See, by God; but he was ever ready to support an idea he liked. He was superstitious to a great degree; he had looked upon the Pope as holy; it was not easy for a superstitious man with a conscience to overthrow a lifetime’s tradition. He was afraid of God’s wrath, although he did not fear the vacillating Clement. He had been proud of his title “Defender of the Faith.” Who was it who had written the most brilliant denouncement of Luther? Henry of England. How could he then overthrow that which he had so ardently defended!

Cromwell had talked slyly and persuasively for if he would keep in favor, this matter of the divorce must be settled, and he saw no way of settling it but this. He explained this was nothing to do with Lutherism; the religion of the country remained the same; it was merely the headship of the church that was involved. Was it not more seemly that a nation’s great good King should lead its Church?

Henry tried to justify this procedure morally. Once he had made a case for the breakaway, it would be done. Warham had died at the most convenient moment; that was a sign perhaps. Who better to head a country’s Church than its King! Anne was pregnant. This was a sign. He must have the divorce if he was to legitimize Anne’s child. The time was short. There was no longer occasion for conferences, for shilly-shallying. Sir Thomas More, a few months previously, had retired from the office of Chancellor. More had ever been one to discountenance Henry. He liked the man, he could not help it, but he had been rather shaken when More had said, on taking office, that he would “first look unto God and after God to his Prince,” for that was a most uncomfortable thing for a minister to say; but More was an uncomfortable man; he was beloved by the people, he was honest, religious in that true sense to which so few do, or even try to attain. He had calmly walked out and gone home to his family and friends; he begged to be allowed to do this on the plea of ill health, and Henry had to accept that plea; but he had always liked the man, and he knew his lack of ease was more mental than bodily. More could not reconcile himself to the divorce; that was why he had resigned and gone to the peace of his Chelsea home. The King had outwardly taken his resignation in good part; he had visited Chelsea; but at the same time he was disturbed on More’s account, since More was known as a good man, and the King would have preferred him to be less arbitrary.

Cromwell was whispering in the King’s ear. Cromwell was smart; Cromwell was cunning; any delicate job could be left to Cromwell.

Divorce! Why divorce? When a marriage has not been valid, what need of divorce? He had never been married to Katharine! She was his brother’s wife, and therefore the ceremony was illegal.

Henry dared delay no longer. Anne’s child must be legitimate. So, on a January day, he summoned one of his chaplains to a quiet attic of White Hall, and when the chaplain arrived, he found there—much to his astonishment, for he had been told he was merely to celebrate mass—the King attended by two grooms of the chamber, one of them being that Norris whose sympathy for Wolsey had lightened the Cardinal’s last hours. The chaplain had not been there more than a few minutes when who should arrive but the Marchioness of Pembroke accompanied by Anne Saville!

The King then took the chaplain aside, and told him he would be required to marry him to the Marchioness.

The chaplain began to tremble at this, looking fearfully about him, at which the King stamped impatiently. Greatly did the chaplain fear the King, but more so did he fear Rome. Henry, seeing himself in a quandary, hastily told the man that the Pope had granted the divorce, and he need fear nothing. The ceremony was over before the light of morning, and all the party went secretly away.

Henry was disturbed and not a little alarmed; he had done a bold thing, and not even Cranmer knew he had intended to do it in this way. For, by marrying Anne as he had, he had irrevocably broken with Rome and placed himself at the head of the English Church. The Council could do nothing but accept this state of affairs; Henry was their King. But what of the people, that growling mass of the populace who had come through pestilence and poverty, and were less inclined to bend the knee than his courtiers? In the streets they murmured against Anne. Some murmured against the King.

If the King trembled, Anne was triumphant. She was Queen after four years of waiting; Queen of England. Already she carried the King’s child within her. She was mentally exhausted by the long struggle, and only now did she realize what a struggle it had been, what nervous energy she had put into maintaining it, how she had feared she would never reach this pinnacle of power. She could now relax and remember that she was to be a mother. Love was not to be denied her then. She carried a child, and the child would inherit the throne of England. She slept peacefully, dreaming the child—a son—was already born, that her attendants laid it in her arms; and her heart was full of love for this unborn child. “September!” she said on waking. “But September is such a long way off!”

George Boleyn was preparing for a journey; he would leave the palace before dawn. Jane came gliding to him as he buttoned his coat.

“George…where are you going?”

“A secret mission,” he said.

“So early?”

“So early.”

“Could I not accompany you?”

He did not answer such folly.

“George, is it very secret? Tell me where you go.”

He contemplated her; he always felt more kindly towards her when he was going to leave her.

“It is a secret, so if I tell you, you must keep it entirely to yourself.”

She clasped her hands, feeling suddenly happy because he smiled in such a friendly way.

“I will, George! I swear I will! I can see it is good news.”

“The best!”

“Tell me quickly, George.”

“The King and Anne were married this morning. I go to carry the news to the King of France.”

“The King…married to Anne! But the Pope has not given the divorce, so how can that be possible?”

“With God—and the King—all things are possible.”

She was silent, not wishing to spoil this slight friendliness he was showing towards her.

“So you are the Queen’s brother now, George, and I am her sister-in-law.”

“That is so. I must away. I must leave the palace before the day begins.”

She watched him go, smiling pleasantly; then all her bitter jealousy burst forth. It was so unfair. So she was Queen of England, and she would be more arrogant than ever now. Why should a man displace his wife because he tired of her!

A marriage had been arranged for Isabel; she was leaving the Duchess’s retinue. Catherine was not really sorry, never having liked Isabel; and then she was too absorbed in Henry Manox to care much what happened to anyone else.

Manox had been to the dormitory on several occasions; he was recognized now as Catherine’s lover. There was much petting and caressing and whispering, and Catherine found this a delightful state of affairs. She was grown up at last, reveling in intrigue, receiving little gifts from Manox; she never wrote to him, since she had never been taught how to write properly; but oral messages were exchanged between her and Manox by way of their friends.

During the lessons they were very conventional in their behavior—which seemed to Catherine a great joke. The old Duchess might fall into a deep sleep, and all Manox and Catherine would do was exchange mischievous glances.

“I declare, Manox,” said the Duchess on one occasion, “you are too stern with the child. You do nothing but scold!”

They would laugh at that when she lay in his arms in her bed with the curtains drawn. Catherine, though a child in years, was highly sexed, precocious, a budding woman; over-excitable, generous, reckless, this affair with Manox seemed the high spot of her life. He said he had loved her ever since he had first set eyes on her; Catherine was sure she had loved him ever since her very first lesson. Love was the excuse for everything they did. He brought her sweetmeats and ribands for her hair; they laughed and joked and giggled with the rest.

It was the Duchess who told Catherine that she was engaging another woman in place of Isabel.

“She is from the village, and her name is Dorothy Barwicke. She will take Isabel’s place among the ladies. She is a serious young lady, as Isabel was, and I feel I can trust her to keep you young people in some sort of order. I’ll whisper something else to you, Catherine…We really are going to Lambeth ere the month is out! I declare I grow weary of the country, and now that my granddaughter is in truth the Queen…”

She never tired of talking of Anne, but Catherine who had loved to hear such talk was hardly interested now.

“Imagine poor old Katharine’s face when he took Anne to France! If ever a king proclaimed his queen, he did then! And I hear she was a great success. How I should have loved to see her dancing with the French King! Marchioness of Pembroke, if you please! I’ll warrant Thomas—I beg his pardon, the Earl of Wiltshire—is counting what this means in gold. Oh, Thomas, Earl of Wiltshire, who would not have beautiful daughters!”

“Grandmother, will you really go to Lambeth?”

“Don’t look so startled, child. Assuredly I shall go. Someone must assist at the dear Queen’s coronation. I feel sure I shall be invited, in view of my rank and my relationship to Her Majesty the Queen.”

“And…will you take the whole household?” asked Catherine, her voice trembling. But the Duchess was too absorbed by her thoughts and plans for the coronation to notice that.

“What foolish questions you ask, child! What matter…”

“You would take your musicians, would you not, Grandmother? You would take me?”

“Ah! So that is what you are thinking, is it? You fear to be left out of the excitement. Never fear, Catherine Howard, I doubt not the Queen your cousin will find a place at court for you when you are ready.”

There was no satisfaction to be gained from the Duchess; in any case she changed her plans every day.

“Isabel! Isabel!” said Catherine. “Do you think the whole household will remove to Lambeth?”

“Ah!” cried Isabel, who in view of her coming marriage was not interested in the Duchess’s household. “You are thinking of your lover!” She turned to Dorothy Barwicke, a dark woman with quick, curious eyes and a thin mouth. “You would think Catherine Howard but a child, would you not? But that is not so; she has a lover; he visits her in our bedroom of nights. He is a very bold young man, and they enjoy life; do you not, Catherine?”

Catherine flushed and, looking straight at Dorothy Barwicke, said: “I love Henry and he loves me.”

“Of course you do!” said Isabel. “And a very loving little girl she is, are you not, Catherine? She is very virtuous, and would not allow Manox in her bed an she did not love him!”

“And, loving him,” said Dorothy Barwicke, “I’ll warrant she finds it difficult to refuse his admittance.”

The two young women exchanged glances, and laughed.

“You will look after Catherine when I leave, will you not?” said Isabel.

“I do not need looking after.”

“Indeed you do not!” said Dorothy. “Any young lady not yet in her teens, who entertains gentlemen in her bed at night, is quite able to look after herself, I’d swear!”

“Not gentlemen,” said Isabel ambiguously. “It is only Manox.”

Catherine felt they were mocking her, but she always felt too unsure of all the ladies to accuse them of so doing.

“I shall expect you to look after Catherine when I have gone,” said Isabel.

“You may safely leave that to me.”

Catherine lived in agony of fear while the Duchess set the household bustling with preparations for her journey to Lambeth. She talked perpetually of “my granddaughter, the Queen,” and having already heard that she was to attend the coronation—fixed for May—was anxious to get to Lambeth in good time, for there would be her state robes to be put in order, and many other things to be seen to; and she hoped to have a few informal meetings with the Queen before the great event.

Catherine was wont to lie in bed on those nights when there were no visitors to the dormitory and ask herself what she would do were the Duchess to decide not to take Manox. Catherine loved Manox because she needed to love someone; there were two passions in Catherine’s life; one was music, and the other was loving. She had loved her mother and lost her; she had loved Thomas Culpepper, and lost him; now she loved Manox. And on all these people had she lavished unstintingly her capacity for loving, and that was great. Catherine must love; life for her was completely devoid of interest without love. She enjoyed the sensational excitement of physical love in spite of her youth; but her love for Manox was not entirely a physical emotion. She loved to give pleasure as well as to take it, and there was nothing she would not do for those she loved. All that she asked of life was to let her love; and she was afraid of life, for it seemed to her that her love was ill-fated; first her mother, then Thomas Culpepper, now Manox. She was terrified that she would have to go to Lambeth without Manox.

There came a day when she could no longer bear the suspense. She asked her grandmother outright.

“Grandmother, what of my lessons at Lambeth?”

“What of them, child?”

“Shall Henry Manox accompany us, that he may continue to instruct me?”

The Duchess’s reply sent a shiver down her spine.

“Dost think I would not find thee a teacher at Lambeth?”

“I doubt not that you would, but when one feels that one can do well with one teacher….”

“Bah! I know best who will make a good teacher. And why do you bother me with lessons and teachers? Dost not realize that this is to be the coronation of your own cousin Anne!”

Catherine could have wept with mortification, and her agony of mind continued.

Manox came often to the dormitory.

“Do you think I could ever leave you?” he asked. “Why, should you go to Lambeth without me I would follow.”

“And what would happen to you if you so disobeyed?”

“Whatever the punishment it would be worth it to be near you, if but for an hour!”

But no! Catherine would not hear of that. She remembered the tales Doll Tappit had gleaned of Walter the warder. She remembered then that, though she ran wild through the house and her clothes were so shabby as to be almost those of a beggar, she was Catherine Howard, daughter of a great and noble house, while he was plain Henry Manox, instructor at the virginals. Though he seemed so handsome and clever to her, there would be some—and her grandmother and her dreaded uncle the Duke among them—who would consider they had done great wrong in loving. What if they, both, should be committed to the Tower! It was for Manox she trembled, for Catherine’s love was complete. She could endure separation, but not to think of Manox’s body cramped in the Little Ease, or rotting, and the food of rats in the Pit. She cried and begged that he would do nothing rash; and he laughed and said did she not think he did something rash every night that he came to her thus, for what did she think would happen to him if her grandmother were to hear of their love?

Then was Catherine seized with fresh fears. Why must the world, which was full of so many delights, hold so much that was cruel! Why did there have to be stem grandmothers and terrifying uncles! Why could not everybody understand what a good thing it was to love and be loved in this most exciting and sensational way which she had recently discovered!

Then Catherine found the world was indeed a happy place, for when she left for Lambeth in her grandmother’s retinue, Manox was in it too.

Lambeth was beautiful in the spring, and Catherine felt she had never been so completely happy in her life. The fruit trees in the orchards which ran down to the river’s brink were in blossom; she spent whole days wandering through the beautiful gardens, watching the barges go down the river.

With Manox at Lambeth, they were often able to meet out of doors; the Duchess was even more lax than she had been at Horsham, so busy was she with preparations for the coronation. Anne visited her grandmother, and they sat together in the garden, the Duchess’s eyes sparkling to contemplate her lovely granddaughter. She could not resist telling Anne how gratified she was, how lucky was the King, and how, deep in her heart, she had ever known this must happen.

Catherine was brought to greet her cousin.

“Your Majesty remembers this one?” asked the Duchess. “She was doubtless but a baby when you last saw her.”

“I remember her well,” said Anne. “Come hither, Catherine, that I may see you more closely.”

Catherine came, and received a light kiss on her cheek. Catherine still thought her cousin the most beautiful person she had ever seen, but she was less likely to idealize, because all her devotion was for Manox.

“Curtsey, girl!” thundered the Duchess. “Do you not know that you stand before your Queen?”

Anne laughed. “Oh, come! No ceremony in the family…No, Catherine, please…”

Anne thought, Poor little thing! She is pretty enough, but how unkempt she looks!

“Perhaps Your Majesty will find a place for her at court…”

“Assuredly I will,” said Anne, “but she is young yet.”

“On your knees, girl, and show some gratitude!”

“Grandmother,” laughed the Queen, “I would have you remember this is but our family circle. I am weary of ceremony; let me drop it awhile. What do you like doing, Catherine? Are you fond of music?”

Catherine could glow when she talked of music. They remembered how they had once felt affection, which was spontaneous, for one another, and as they talked it came back to them.

After Catherine had been dismissed, Anne said: “She is a sweet child, but a little gauche. I will send her some clothes; they could be altered to fit her.”

“Ah! You would dress up Catherine Howard! She is a romp, that child. And what a sheltered life she has led! I have kept her away in the country, perhaps too long.”

A new woman joined the Duchess’s household while they were at Lambeth. Her name was Mary Lassells, and she was of lower birth than most of the Duchess’s attendants; she had been nurse to Lord William Howard’s first child, and on the death of his wife, the Duchess had agreed to take her in. During her first week in the Duchess’s establishment, Mary Lassells met a young man who was dark and handsome with bold roving eyes, and to whom she felt immediately drawn. She was sitting on an overturned tree-trunk in the Lambeth orchard, when he strolled by.

“Welcome, stranger!” he said. “Or am I wrong in calling you stranger? I declare I should recognize you, had I ever seen you before!”

And so saying he sat down beside her.

“You are right in supposing me to be a stranger. I have been in the Duchess’s establishment but a few days. You have been here long?”

“I made the journey up from Norfolk.”

His bold eyes surveyed her. She was well enough, but not worth risking trouble with little Catherine, who, with her naivete, her delight, her willingness, was giving him the most amusing and absorbing affair he had enjoyed for a long time.

“I rejoice to see you here,” he continued.

“Indeed, sir, you are very kind.”

“It is you who are kind, to sit thus beside me. Tell me, how do you like it here?”

She did not greatly like it, she told him; she found the behavior of some of the ladies shocking. She was rather bitter, acutely feeling herself to be low-born, inexperienced in the ways of etiquette, having been merely a nurse before she entered the Duchess’s household. She had been delighted when she was offered the position, and owing to the unconventional ways of the household Mary had been accepted into it without ceremony. But among these ladies she felt awkward—awkward in speech, awkward in manners; she fancied that they watched her, sneered at her behind her back. This was pure imagination on Mary’s part, for in actual fact the ladies were much too absorbed in their own affairs to give much attention to her; but she nursed her grievances, aired them to herself with great bitterness, until they grew out of all proportion to the truth. She occupied a bed in the dormitory with the rest, but there had been no feasting nor love-making in her presence yet, as at the Lambeth house the dormitory was not so conveniently situated. Still, she could not help but notice the levity of the ladies; young gentlemen had looked in on some of them during the day; she had seen many a kiss and indications of greater familiarity. Mary had thought bitterly: And these are those who would look down on a good woman such as I am!

She told him that she did not like what she had so far seen of the conduct of those who were called ladies.

He raised his eyebrows.

“There is much familiarity between them and the young men.”

Manox laughed inwardly, thinking it would be amusing to lead her on. He feigned shocked surprise.

Warming to the subject, she went on: “Gentlemen—or those who would call themselves gentlemen—look in at the dormitory at all hours of the day. I was never more startled in my life. There was one, who would doubtless call herself a lady, changing her dress, and a gentleman looked round the door and she pretended to hide herself by running behind a screen and was much delighted when he peeped over the top. I declare I wondered whether I should not go at once to Her Grace!”

Manox looked sharply at her. The severely practical headdress, the thin disapproving lips, the pale eyes—all these belonged to a bearer of tales. She was a virgin, he doubted not—a virgin of necessity! he thought cynically; and of such material were made the tale-bearers, the really dangerous women.

He laid a hand over hers. She started, and a flush spread over her face, beginning at her modest collar and running swiftly to her flat and simply-arranged hair. She was nearer to being pretty at that moment than she would ever be.

He said gently: “I understand…of course I understand. But would you take a word of advice?”

She turned her eyes upon him, smiling, thinking him the handsomest and most charming person she had met since entering the house.

“I am ever ready to take good advice,” she said.

“It would be most unwise to carry tales of this matter to Her Grace.”

“Why so?”

“You have told me that you were a nurse before you came here. I am but a musician. I instruct ladies at whichever musical instrument it is decreed they shall learn to play.” His voice became caressing. “You and I are but humble folk; do you think we should be believed? Nay! It is you who would be turned from the house, were you to tell Her Grace what you have seen!”

This was fuel to the bitterness in her; she had lived in noble houses, and had longed to be one of the nobility; she saw every situation from this angle. I am as good as they are…. Why should I have to serve them, just because I was born in a humble house, and they in castles!

“Well I can believe that the blame would be put on me, rather than on those delinquents.”

He leaned closer to her. “Depend upon it, it most assuredly would! That is the way of life. Be silent about what you see, fair lady.”

“I cannot tell you what it means to me to have met you,” she said. “Your sympathy warms me, gives me courage.”

“Then I am indeed glad that I walked this way.”

Mary Lassells was trembling with excitement. No young man had ever taken notice of her before. The eyes of this one were warm and friendly, one might say bold. Mary began to feel very happy, very glad that she had joined the Duchess’s retinue after all.

“Do you often walk this way?” she asked.

He kissed her hand. “We shall meet again ere long.”

She was anxious to make it definite. “I shall doubtless walk here tomorrow.”

“That is well to know,” he said.

They walked through the orchards down to the river’s edge. It was a lovely spring day, and she thought there had never been any scene more beautiful than that of the river gliding by the blossoming trees. The sun, she was sure, was warmer today, and the birds seemed to sing more joyously. Manox sang too; he sang pleasantly; music was his passion, the only one to which he could remain faithful through his life. Mary thought: He means he is happy too, to sing thus.

They went into the house. That encounter had changed Mary; everything to her looked different, and people looked at her and thought her less plain than they had imagined. She hummed the song which Manox had sung; she was pleasant and smiling, forgetting the social barriers between her and most of the others. She smiled in a kindly way on the Duchess’s little granddaughter. It is well, thought Mary, that I am not of noble birth; a musician would be a tolerable match for me.

In less than a week she was rudely awakened. She had seen Manox on several occasions, and on each he had continued to charm her. On this day she went to the dormitory in the middle of the morning, having been down to the orchards, having sat for a full hour on the overturned tree-trunk, waiting in vain. She opened the door of the dormitory; the curtains were drawn back from most of the beds, and on one in a corner—young Catherine Howard’s—sat the little girl, and with her Henry Manox. They sat side by side, their arms about each other; he was caressing the child, and Catherine was flushed and laughing. It was a great shock to Mary; she stood still, staring at them. Then Manox rose and said: “Ah! Here is Mistress Lassells!”

Mary stood, struggling with her emotions, thinking: How foolish of me! He likes children; he doubtless came here on some errand, saw the child, and made much of her. But what business could Henry Manox have in the ladies’ dormitory? And had he not known that this was the hour when she would be waiting to see him in the orchards!

Manox was plausible. In his numerous love affairs he had found himself in many a delicate situation; with grace he had ever managed to set matters right, if only temporarily.

He went swiftly to Mary and said to her: “I had a message to bring here; I am really but a servant; and when I came here, the little girl needed comforting.”

She accepted his explanation; because she felt Catherine to be but a child, it did not occur to her that they could possibly be lovers. She smiled again, quite happy. Manox thought, My God! She would be a vindictive woman! And he cursed himself for having light-heartedly indulged in this mild flirtation with her. She had been so prim, so seemingly virtuous, that he could not resist the temptation; he had wanted to show her that what she lacked was, not the desire to sin, but the opportunity.

He escaped, and the situation was saved; but this could not always be so, and he would not give up Catherine for Mary Lassells.

There came a night when Manox, unable to stay away longer, recklessly went to Catherine though he knew Mary would discover this. Mary pulled the curtains about her bed, and wept tears of bitter humiliation. If she had hated the world before she had met Manox, now she hated it a thousand times more; and her hatred was directed, not against Manox, but against Catherine Howard. The wanton! The slut! she thought. And she a great lady to be! A Howard! So much for the nobility—a cousin to the Queen! And who is the Queen? Another such as Catherine Howard. Why, in this wicked world does sin go unpunished and virtue unrewarded?

Her eyes were narrow with weeping. She would go to the Duchess at once, were it not that Manox would suffer. Catherine Howard would be beaten, possibly sent away, but they would hush the matter up so that scandal should not be brought to the house of Howard. It would be Manox who would suffer most, for he was low-born like herself, of no importance; it was such as they who suffered for the sins of the nobility.

Who knew that Manox might not come to his senses, that he might not learn to cherish virtue, that he might discard that vile slut, Catherine Howard, who was not yet in her teens and yet had sunk to the very depths of wickedness! Sexual immorality was surely the most violent form of sin; for such did one burn in hell. To steal and to murder were to commit evil crimes, it was true; but what crime could compare with the wickedness of Catherine Howard!

She would not tell though, for Manox’s sake; she would hope that one day he would see his folly, that he would repent…that before the blossom gave way to leaves on the trees in the orchard, he would come to her and tell her he had been a fool.

He did not, and there was mockery in his eyes. One day she met him by the river, and telling herself that she must save him from his folly, she went to him, and with burning eyes and lips that trembled demanded: “Man, what meanest thou to play the fool of this fashion! Knowest thou not that an my lady of Norfolk knew of the love between thee and Mistress Howard she will undo thee? She is of a noble house; and if thou should’st marry her, some of her blood will kill thee.”

Manox threw back his head and laughed, knowing full well what had caused her to utter such warning, mocking her, laughing at her. He said that she need have no fear for him, since his intentions were strictly of a dishonorable nature.

Angry and humiliated, Mary went into the house. If Manox would not accept her warning against the folly of pursuing this affair, perhaps Catherine would. She found Catherine stitching at a piece of tapestry in the sewing-room.

“I would have speech with you, Mistress Howard.”

Catherine looked up; she knew little of Mary Lassells, and had not greatly liked what she did know, agreeing with most of the others that the woman was prudish and dull.

“Yes?” said Catherine.

“I have come to warn you. You are very young, and I do not think you realize what you do. What you do with Manox is…criminal!”

“I understand you not,” said Catherine haughtily, and would have moved away, but Mary caught her arm.

“You must listen. Manox is amusing himself with you. He jokes about your willingness.”

“You lie!” said Catherine.

“I have just come from him,” said Mary with a virtuous air, “having wished—for indeed I feel it would be but Her Grace’s pleasure—to beg him to cease his attentions to yourself. I pointed out to him what reckless folly this was, and how, if he married you, one of your house would surely work his ruin. He boasted that his intentions were only dishonorable.”

Catherine flushed hotly, hating the pale prim face of Mary Lassells, suddenly afraid, suddenly seeing this beautiful love of hers in a different light. It was sordid now, not beautiful at all. She had been wrong to indulge in it. Manox despised her; many people would despise her; Heaven help her if what she had done should ever get to her grandmother’s ears! But chiefly she suffered from Manox’s words. His intentions were dishonorable! What a wicked thing for him to have said! Could it be that he was not the adoring, the faithful and gallant, the courteous lover she had believed him to be?

Catherine was hot with rage.

“Fie upon him!” she cried. “Where is he now? I will go to him, and you shall come with me. I will demand of him whether you have spoken the truth.”

There was nothing Mary could do but conduct Catherine to him there in the orchards, where the thick trees helped to shield those who wished to meet clandestinely. Mary had one thought—and that to break up this foolish affair of Manox’s with Catherine Howard. She visualized Manox’s repentance, her own great understanding; a marriage between them would be so suitable.

Manox looked startled to see them both; Catherine flushed and angry, Mary smiling secretly.

“I would have you know,” said Catherine in such a fine temper that she could not control it, “that I despise you, that I hate you, that I never wish to see you again!”

“Catherine!” gasped Manox. “What does this mean?”

“I know what you have said to this…woman, of me.”

He was shaken. There was something tremendously attractive about Catherine Howard; her complete enjoyment of physical contact made for his enjoyment; never had he known one so innocently abandoned and responsive; she was a lovely child; her youth was enchanting, and must add piquancy to the affair; he had never had such an experience. And he was not going to lose her if he could help it. He threw a venomous glance at Mary Lassells, which she saw, and which wounded her deeply.

“Catherine,” he said, and would have embraced her there in front of Mary Lassells, but she held off haughtily.

“Do not touch me! I would have you know that I shall never again allow you to do so.”

“I must make you understand,” said Manox, covering his face with his hands and forcing tears into his eyes. “I love you entirely, Catherine, I have said nothing that could offend. How could I, when my only thought is for your happiness!”

She repeated what Mary had told her. Mary burst out spitefully: “Thou canst not deny it, Manox, to my face!”

“I know not what I say,” said Manox, his voice shaking with anguish. “All I know is that my passion for you so transports me beyond the bounds of reason that I wist not what I say!”

Catherine could never bear to see anyone in distress; her heart softened at once.

“I am very displeased,” she said, and it was obvious that she was weakening.

Ignoring Mary Lassells, Manox slipped an arm about Catherine; Mary, in bitter defeat, turned and ran into the house.

Catherine walked in friendly fashion through the orchards, listening to his protestations of love, but although she said she forgave him, it not being in her nature to harbor ill-feeling for long, as she was always ready to believe the best of people and could not happily see anyone suffer, she was shaken, and badly shaken.

Mary Lassells had made her see this love affair in a different light. She never felt the same towards Manox again; and, being Catherine, in need of love, she must look about her for a more worthy object on which to lavish her affection.

Every citizen who could find a boat to hold him was on the Thames that May morning; along the banks of the river the crowd thronged. Beggars had come into the city to view the procession, and pickpockets hoped to ensure a profitable day’s work among the press of people. The taverns were full and over-flowing; at all points of vantage people stood, sat or knelt, mounted posts or one another’s shoulders to get a good view of the celebrations in honor of Queen Anne’s coronation.

From the river bank, Catherine watched with some of the ladies, among them Dorothy Barwicke and Mary Lassells. There was festivity and recklessness in the air today. All the ladies giggled and looked for someone with whom to flirt; they had decked themselves out in their gayest clothes in order to do honor to the new Queen. Most of the young people were ready to admire her; it was chiefly the old ones who continued to murmur against her, and even they were lethargic in their disapproval on this day. When she had been the King’s mistress it was one thing; now she was Queen it was another. The King had married her; the Pope had not sanctioned the divorce; Rome considered the marriage illegal; but what matter! England was no longer under the Pope; it owed allegiance to none but its own great King. Weighty matters these, which the people did not fully understand; they worshiped in the same way as before, and the same religious rites were observed, so what matter! And even those who pitied sad Katharine and reviled flaunting, wicked Anne, enjoyed a day’s pleasure. And this honor which the King would do to his newly made Queen was to be such a spectacle, so lavish in its display, as to outdo even Tudor splendor.

The Queen was to come from Greenwich to the Tower, and the coronation would take place at Westminster; there would be days of rejoicing, days of processions, and the citizens of London ever loved such occasions.

Mary Lassells would have liked to voice her opinions of the new Queen, but thought it wise to keep quiet. Here was another example of sin’s being lauded and feted; but she knew well enough the folly of talking too freely. The King was determined to have no opposition; already she had heard that the dungeons at the Tower of London were full of those who spoke rashly; well she knew that the instruments of torture were being over-worked. It was not for a humble person to run into danger.

Silly Catherine Howard was filled with childish glee, talking incessantly of her dear, beautiful cousin whom she loved devotedly. “I declare I shall die of pride…” babbled Catherine Howard. “I declare I can scarce wait for her royal barge…”

Mary Lassells talked with Dorothy Barwicke about the wickedness of Manox and Catherine. Dorothy listened and feigned disgust, not mentioning that she had carried many a message from Manox to Catherine, had helped to make their meetings easy, that she had taken over Isabel’s task of advancing Catherine’s love affair so that she, Catherine, might be involved in the practices which occurred in the ladies’ apartments and thereby be prevented from carrying stories to her grandmother. Not, thought Dorothy, that Isabel need have feared. Catherine was no tale-bearer, but the last person in the world to wish to make trouble for others. With Mary Lassells it was quite another matter; Dorothy knew she must go cautiously with Mary.

Catherine’s bright eyes had seen a little group of gentlemen along the riverbank. The gentlemen looked interested in the party of young ladies, recognizing them as of the Duchess’s retinue.

“I can tell you who they are,” whispered one laughing-eyed girl to Catherine. “They are your uncle the Duke’s young gentlemen.”

This was so, for the Duke of Norfolk kept in his household certain gentlemen of good birth and low fortune, most of whom could claim some connection—however distant—with himself. He called them his household troop; they were really pensioners; their only duty was to guard his interests wherever they might be, in time of war to follow him in the field, to back him in his quarrels, to be ever ready to defend him should the need arise. For this he paid them well, fed and clothed them, and gave them little to do—except when he should need them—but amuse themselves. The Earl of Northumberland had a similar retinue in his house; they had always had such, and found it difficult to discard this relic of the feudal system. The gentlemen, having nothing to do but amuse themselves, did this with gusto; they were a high-spirited group, reckless and daring, seeking adventure in any form.

It was a little band of these gentlemen who now found an opportunity of speaking to the ladies of the Duchess’s household whom they had seen often, for the Duke’s residence was close by his stepmother’s, and its gardens and orchards also ran down to the river.

“Look!” cried Dorothy Barwicke, and Catherine’s attention was taken from the young men to the river. Numerous barges, containing the chief citizens of London with their Lord Mayor, were passing by on their way to greet the Queen. The merchants presented a brilliant sight in their scarlet clothes and the great heavy chains about their necks. A band of musicians was playing in the city state barge.

Catherine began to sing, keeping time with the band; one of the young men on the river bank joined in. Catherine noticed that he was quite the handsomest of the group, and as she sang, she could not take her eyes from him. He pointed to a barge, calling her attention to what appeared to be a dragon which capered about the deck, shaking its great tail and spitting fire into the river, to the intense delight of all who beheld it. Catherine laughed gleefully, and the young man laughed; she believed he was urging his companions to get nearer to her and her friends. Catherine shrieked with excitement, watching the monsters who were helping the dragon to entertain the citizens. Catherine’s eyes filled with ready tears as a barge came into view containing a choir of young girls, singing softly. Catherine could hear the words they sang, which were of the beauty and virtue of Queen Anne.

There was a long wait before the return of the procession bringing with it the Queen. There was however plenty with which to beguile themselves, on such a day.

Sweetmeats were handed round; there was wine to drink and little cakes to nibble. It was all very pleasant, especially when Catherine found the handsome young man standing beside her, offering sweets.

“I watched you from the crowd,” he said.

“Indeed, sir, you need not tell me that, for I saw that you watched!”

She looked older than her years; she was flushed with pleasure; her experience with Manox had matured her. Francis Derham judged her to be about fifteen—a delightful age, he thought.

“I thought you might care to sample these sweetmeats.”

“Indeed I do care.” She munched them happily, childishly. “I long for the moment when the Queen comes by!”

“Have you ever seen Her Majesty? I hear she is wondrously beautiful.”

“Have I ever seen her! I would have you know, sir, that the Queen is first cousin to me.”

“Cousin to you! I know you are of my lady of Norfolk’s house. Tell me, are you then her granddaughter?”

“I am.”

He was surprised that Her Grace of Norfolk should allow her granddaughter—so young and so attractive—to run wild in this way, but he suppressed his surprise. He said in tones of excitement: “Then verily I believe you to be a kinswoman of mine!”

Catherine was delighted. They talked of their relations; he was right, there was a connection, though distant.

“Ah!” said Catherine. “I feel safe then with you!”

That was a pleasant reflection, for she was realizing that she could feel safe no longer with Manox, that she was beginning to fear his embraces, that she sought excuses not to be with him. His sordid words to Mary Lassells had shocked and frightened her, and though she did not wish to hurt him, she had no desire to see him. Moreover, now that she had met Francis Derham, she felt more estranged from Manox than before, for Francis was an entirely different type—a gentleman, a man of good manners, good breeding—and being with him, even in those first hours, and seeing that he was attracted by her as Manox had been, she could not help but compare the two; and every vestige of admiration she had had for the musician vanished.

Francis thought: Her grandmother is waiting on the Queen, and that accounts for her freedom; but she is young to be abroad alone. He made up his mind to protect her.

He stayed at her side; they wandered along the bank of the river, they saw the Queen in her royal barge from which issued sweet music; and there followed the Queen, the barges of her father, the Duke of Suffolk, and all the nobility.

“She goes to the Tower!” said Derham.

“The Tower!” Catherine shivered, and he laughed at her. “Why do you laugh?” she asked.

“Because you look afraid.”

Then she was telling him of her childhood, of Doll Tappit and Walter the warder, of the Little Ease and the Pit; and the screams the warder had heard coming from the torture chambers.

“I would,” said Catherine simply, “that my sweet cousin were not going to the Tower.”

He laughed at this simplicity. “Do you not know that all our sovereigns go to the Tower on their coronation? The state apartments there are very different from the dungeons and torture chambers, I’ll warrant you!”

“Still, I like it not.”

“You are a dear little girl.” He thought again: She should not be allowed to run free like this! And he was angry towards those who were in charge of her. He liked her company; she was so youthful, so innocent, and yet…womanly. She would attract men, he knew, perhaps too strongly for her safety. He said: “You and I should see the celebrations together, should we not? We could meet and go together.”

Catherine was ever eager for adventure, and she liked this young man because he inspired her with trust. She wanted someone to think of affectionately, so that she might no longer brood on Manox.

“You are very kind.”

“You would need to wear your plainest garments, for we should mingle with the crowds.”

“My plainest! They are all plain!”

“I mean you would cease to be Catherine Howard of Norfolk in a crowd of citizens; you would be plain Catherine Smith or some such. How like you this plan?”

“I like it vastly!” laughed Catherine.

And so they made their plans, and it was with him that Catherine saw the Queen’s procession after her sojourn at the Tower; it was with Derham that she watched the royal progress through the city. In Gracechurch Street, hung with crimson and scarlet, they mingled with the crowd; they marveled at the sight of the Chepe decorated with cloth and velvet. They saw the Lord Mayor receive the Queen at the Tower Gate; they saw the French ambassador, the judges, the knights who had been newly honored in celebration of the coronation; they saw the abbots and the bishops; they espied the florid Duke of Suffolk, who must bury his animosity this day, bearing the verge of silver which showed him to hold the office of High Constable of England.

Catherine looked at this man, and held Derham’s hand more firmly. Her companion looked down at her questioningly.

“What ails Catherine Smith?”

“I but thought of his wife, the King’s sister, who I have heard is dying. He shows no sorrow.”

“He shows nothing,” whispered Derham. “Not his antagonism to the Queen…. But let us not speak of such matters.”

Catherine shivered, then burst into sudden laughter.

“I think it more pleasant to wear a plain hood and be of the crowd, than to be a queen. I trow I’m as happy as my cousin!”

He pressed her hand; be had begun by feeling friendship, but friendship was deepening into warmer feelings. Catherine Howard was so sweet, such a loving and entrancing little creature!

Catherine gasped, for now came none but the Queen herself, breath-takingly lovely, borne by two white palfreys in white damask in an open litter covered with cloth of gold. Her beautiful hair was flowing in her favorite style, and on her head was a coif whose circlet was set with precious stones. Her surcoat was of silver tissue, and her mantle of the same material lined with ermine. Even those who had murmured against her must stop their murmurings, for never had they beheld such beauty, and while she was among them they must come under her spell.

Catherine was entirely fascinated by her; she had no eyes for those following; she did not see the crimson-clad ladies nor the chariots that followed, all covered in red cloth of gold, until Derham pointed out her grandmother in the first of these with the Marchioness of Dorset. Catherine smiled, wondering what the old lady would say, could she see her in this crowd. But the old Duchess would be thinking of nothing but the lovely woman in the litter, her granddaughter Queen of England, and that this was the proudest day of her long life.

Through the city the pageant continued. In Gracechurch Street they fought their way through the crowd clustered round a fountain from which spurted most lavishly good Rhenish wine. The pageant of the white falcon was enchanting, thought Catherine, for the white falcon represented Anne, and it sat uncrowned among the red and white roses; and then, as the Queen came close, there was a burst of sweet music and an angel flew down and placed a golden crown on the falcon’s head. In Cornhill the Queen must pause before a throne on which sat the Three Graces, and in front of which was a spring which ran continually with wine; and she rested there while a poet read a poem which declared that the Queen possessed the qualities represented by the three ladies on the throne. The conduits of Chepe Side ran at one end white wine, and at the other claret, during the whole of that afternoon.

All through this pageantry rode Anne, her eyes bright with triumph—this was the moment for which she had waited four long years—on to Westminster Hall to thank the Lord Mayor and those who had organized the pageantry. Weary and very happy, she ate, and changed from the state garments, staying there at Westminster with the King that night.

Next morning—the coronation day itself, the first of June and a glorious Sunday—Catherine and Derham were again together. They caught a glimpse of the Queen in her surcoat and mantle of purple velvet lined with ermine, with rubies glistening in her hair.

“There is my grandmother!” whispered Catherine. And so it was, for on this day it was the old Duchess’s delight and joy to hold the train of her granddaughter. Following the Dowager Duchess were the highest ladies in the land, clad splendidly in scarlet velvet, and the bars of ermine which decorated their stomachers denoted by their number the degree of nobility possessed by each; after these ladies came the knights’ wives and the Queen’s gentlewomen all clad in gay scarlet. Neither Catherine nor Derham went into the Abbey to see Cranmer set the crown on Anne’s head. Mingling with the crowd outside, they both thought they had never been so happy in their lives.

“This is a great adventure indeed for me!” said Derham. “And glad I am I saw thee!”

“Glad I am too!”

They looked at each other and laughed. Then he, drawing her into an alley, laid his lips against hers. He was surprised by the warmth with which she returned his kiss. He kissed her again and again.

Passersby saw them and smiled.

“The city is as full of lovers as pickpockets this day!” said one.

“Aye! All eager to follow the royal example doubtless!”

There was laughter, for who could but laugh at such a time, when these streets, in which but a few years before people had died of that plague called the sweating sickness, were now running with good wine!

There was one member of Anne’s family who did not attend the coronation. Jane Rochford’s jealousy had become uncontrollable, and in her mad rage against her sister-in-law she was even more indiscreet than was habitual with her.

She had said: “This marriage…it is no marriage. A man may not take a wife while he has another. Anne is still the King’s mistress, no matter what ceremonies there may be. There is only one Queen, and she is Queen Katharine.”

There were many in support of Queen Katharine, many who shook their heads sadly over the melancholy fate which had befallen the woman whom they had respected as Queen for over twenty years; indeed even those who supported Anne through love or fear could have little to say against Queen Katharine. She must be admired for that calm and queenly dignity which had never deserted her throughout her reign; she had suffered deeply; she had been submitted to mental torture by her unfaithful husband, even before he had brutally told her he would divorce her since she was of no more use to him; she had, by her tactful behavior, managed to endow the King with some of her own dignity, covering his blatant amours, saying and believing “This is but the way of kings!” She who suffered bitter humiliations at the hands of Henry the Seventh during those years which had elapsed between Arthur’s death and her marriage with Henry, bore few grudges; she was meek and submissive when she considered it her duty to be so; when she considered it her duty to be strong she could be as firm and tenacious as Henry himself. Duty was the keynote of her life. She would suffer the severest torture rather than deviate from what she considered right. She had been taught her religion by her mother, Isabella, who in her turn had been taught by that grim zealot, Torquemada.

In these great people—Katharine, Isabella, Torquemada—there burned fierce fires of fanaticism which purged them of fear. Their religion was the rock to which they clung; life on Earth was to them but a dream, compared with the reality to come. Katharine, bound irrevocably to Rome, believing there could be no divorce, was ready to go to the stake rather than give Henry what he demanded; for to her mind earthly torment was a small price to pay for that eternal bliss which was reserved only for those true servants of the Roman Catholic Faith. With all the strength she had possessed she had stood out against her blustering, furious husband, so nobly, so fearlessly, so assured of the right, that even in defeat she appeared to triumph, and there were none who could go into her presence and not treat her as a queen. There was her passionate devotion to her daughter to touch the hearts of all; to this daughter she had given all the affection her husband did not want; she lived for this daughter, and delighted in the belief that one day she would sit on the throne of England; she had superintended her education with the greatest care, had glowed with pleasure at Mary’s aptitude for learning, at her youthful charm, at her father’s affection for her.

The only earthly joy which had lighted Katharine’s somber life was in her daughter, the Princess Mary. Henry, raging against her, cursing her obstinacy, unable to believe she could not see what was so clear to his scrupulous conscience, cursing her because she would not admit having consummated her marriage with his brother, hating her because she could have solved the whole difficulty by going into a nunnery, had struck at her in the most effective way possible, when he had separated her from her daughter.

In doing this he had acted foolishly, for the sympathy of the great mass of people was ever ready to be given to the victim of injustice, and they were all for Katharine and Mary. Mothers wept for them and, with their own children beside them, though they might be humble fishwives, could well understand the sufferings of a queen.

Henry, whose nature demanded homage and admiration, was hurt and alarmed by the sympathy shown to Katharine. Previous to the time when the divorce was mooted, it was he who had strutted across the stage, he on whom all attention was focused—he, large and magnificent, the goodliest of princes, the most handsome of princes, the most sporting of princes, the most loved and admired prince in the world. Katharine had been beside him, but only as a satellite shining with the reflected brilliance from his blazing personality. And now in the hearts of the susceptible and sentimental people she was enshrined as a saint, while he was looked upon as a bully, a promiscuous husband, a brutal man. He could not bear it; it was so unfair. Had he not told them he had merely obeyed the promptings of his conscience? They judged him as a man, not as a king. Then he grew angry. He had explained patiently; he had bared his soul; he had suffered the humiliation of a trial at Westminster Hall; and they did not understand! He had done with patience. He would have all these sullen people know who was their absolute master! A word, a look, would be enough to send any one of them, however high, however low, to the Tower.

Jane’s motives were not of the highest, since it was her jealousy which overcame her prudence. She was a little hysterical. George was so often with the Queen; she had seen emotion in his face at a fancied slight to his sister; he was alert, anxious for her, admonishing her for her impulsiveness, and ridiculously, as people do when they love, loving her the more for it. My faults, thought Jane tearfully, are treated as such; hers are considered virtues.

People were looking furtively at her. When she railed against the Queen, they moved away from her, not wishing to be involved in such recklessness. Jane was too unhappy to care what she said, and gave herself up to the bitter satisfaction of reviling Anne.

Now in her apartment at the palace, she felt about her an ominous calm; those of her associates who had been wont to chat with her or sit with her, were not to be found. Her jealousy burned out, she had time to be frightened, and as she sat and brooded, longing for the return of George that she might tell him of her fears—feeling that he, seeing her in danger, might find her at least worthy of his pity—she heard on the staircase close to her door the sound of footsteps. She leaped up, for there was something in those footsteps of precision and authority; they stopped outside her door; there was a peremptory knocking.

Suppressing a desire to hide, Jane called in a trembling voice: “Come in!”

She knew him. His face was hard; he would have seen much suffering and grown accustomed to it; for he was Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower of London.

Jane’s fingers clutched the scarlet hangings. Her face was drained of color, her lips trembled.

“Lady Jane Rochford, I am to conduct you to the Tower of London on a charge of High Treason.”

Treason! That dreaded word. And she was guilty of it, for it was treason to speak against the King, and in speaking against Anne, this was what she had done.

She felt the room swing round her; one of Sir William’s attendants caught her. They held her head down until the blood rushed back, and they did this naturally, as though they expected it. The room righted itself, but there was a rushing sound in her ears, and the faces of the men were blurred.

She faltered: “There is some mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” Sir William told her. “Your ladyship is requested to leave immediately.”

“My husband…” she began. “My sister the Queen…”

“I have a warrant for your ladyship’s arrest,” she was told. “I must obey orders. And I must ask your ladyship to accompany us at once.”

Quietly she went out, across the courtyard to the waiting barge. Silently they went up the river. She looked back at the sprawling palace on the riverbank with its squat towers and its mullioned windows—the favorite palace of the King, for he was born there and he liked its situation, which gave him a perfect view of the rising and falling of the river. When, wondered Jane, would she see Greenwich again?

Past the riverside houses of the rich went the barge until it came to that great fortress which now looked sullen in the gray light, forbidding and ominous. How many had passed through the Traitor’s Gate and been swallowed up by that gray stone monster, and so lost to the world outside! It could not happen to me, thought Jane. Not to me! What have I done? Nothing…nothing. I did but voice an opinion.

Then she remembered some cynical remark of George’s about those who voiced their opinions and those who were too nearly related to the King, deserving to die.

The barge was made fast; up the stone stairs Jane was led. She felt stifled by the oppressive atmosphere of the place. She was taken through a postern, across a narrow stone bridge, and was brought to the entrance of a gray tower. Trembling, Jane entered the Tower of London and was led up narrow spiral staircases, along cold corridors, to the room she would have to occupy. The door was locked on her. She ran to the window and looked out; below her was the dark water of the Thames.

Jane threw herself onto the narrow bed and burst into hysterical tears. This was her own folly! What did she care for Queen Katharine! What did she care for the Princess Mary! She wished to be no martyr. Well did she know that, had she tried to be Anne’s friend, she could have been, for Anne did not look for enemies—she only fought those who stood against her. And how could poor little Jane Rochford stand against Queen Anne!

She was a fool. Looking back over her married life, she could see how foolish she had been. Oh, for another chance! She was humble, she was repentant, blaming herself. If she went to Anne, confessed her folly, asked for forgiveness, it would be granted, she knew well. She resolved that if she came out of the Tower she would overcome her jealousy of her brilliant sister-in-law; who knew, by so doing might she not gain a little of George’s affection?

She was soothed and calmed, and so remained for some time, until that day which marked the beginning of the celebrations. And then, gazing from her window, she saw the arrival at the Tower of Anne, dressed in cloth of gold and attended by many ladies; and at the sight of her, all Jane’s enmity returned, for the contrast between herself and her sister-in-law was too great to be endured stoically. She had arrived by way of the Traitor’s Gate, while Anne had come in triumph as the Queen. No! Jane could not endure it. Here in this very place was her sister-in-law, feted and honored, adored openly by that mighty and most feared man, Henry the Eighth. It was too much. Jane was overcome by fresh weeping.

“She has many enemies,” said Jane aloud. “There is the true Queen and her daughter; there is Suffolk, Chapuys…to name but a few, and all of them powerful people. But Anne Boleyn, though there are many who hate you,” she sobbed bitterly, “none does so as wholeheartedly as your despised Jane Rochford!”

The King was not happy. All through the hot month of June he had been aware of his dissatisfaction with life. He had thought that when Anne became his Queen he would know complete happiness; she had been that for five months, and instead of his happiness growing it had gradually diminished.

The King still desired Anne, but he was no longer in love with her; which meant that he had lost that tenderness for her which had dominated him for six years, which had softened him and mellowed his nature. Never had the King loved any but himself, for even his love for Anne was based on his need of her. She had appeared on his horizon, a gay, laughing girl; to him she represented delightful youth; she was unique in her refusal to surrender; she appeared to be unimpressed by his kingship, and had talked of the need to love the man before the king. In his emotions Henry was as simple as a jungle lion; he stalked his quarry, and at these times stalking was his main preoccupation. The stalking of Anne was finished; she had managed to make it arduous; she had made him believe that the end of the hunt was not her surrender, but her place beside him on the throne; together they had stalked a crown for Anne; now it was hers, and they were both exhausted with the effort.

The relationship of mistress and lover was more exciting to a man of Henry’s temperament than that of wife and husband; though his conscience would never allow him to admit this. The one was full of excitement, with clandestine meetings, with doubts and fears, and all the ingredients of romance; the other was prosaic, arranged, and—most objectionable of all—inescapable, or almost. Gradually the relationship had been changing ever since January. She could still arouse in him moments of wild passion; she would always do that, she would always be to him the most attractive woman in his life; but he was essentially polygamous, and he possessed a wonderful and elastic conscience to explain all his actions.

Anne was clever; she could have held him; she could have kept him believing he had achieved happiness. But she had always been reckless, and the fight had tired her far more than it had Henry; she had more to gain and more to lose; now she felt she had reached her goal and needed to rest. Moreover she was able now to see this man she had married, from a different angle. She was no longer the humble subject climbing up to the dizzy heights on which he stood secure as King; she was level with him now, not a humble knight’s daughter, but a Queen looking at a King—and the closer view was less flattering to him. His youthful looks had gone. He was in his forties, and he had lived too well; he had done most things to excess, and this was apparent; stripped of his glittering clothes he was by no means wholesome; he had suffered the inevitable consequences of a promiscuous life. His oblique gaze at facts irritated Anne beyond endurance. She rebelled against his conscience; she looked at him too closely, and he knew she did. He had seen her lips curl at certain remarks of his; he had seen her face harden at some display of coarseness. This would enrage him, for he would remind himself that he was the son of a king, and that it was entirely due to him that she had gained her high eminence.

They quarreled; they were both too easily roused to anger to avoid it; but so far the quarrels were little more than tiffs, for she could still enchant him, and moreover he did not forget that she carried the Tudor heir. Anne did not forget it either; in fact it absorbed her; she was experiencing the abandonment of the mother—all else was of small importance, set beside the life that moved within her. She was obsessed by it; she wished to be left alone that she might dream of this child, this son, for whom she must wait for three long dreary months.

This was all very right, thought Henry; the child was all-important, but there was no need for her to change so completely. He rejoiced to see her larger; it was a goodly sight. The boy was well and happy inside her, and God speed his coming! But…she should not forget the baby’s father, as she appeared to do. She was languid, expressing no delight in the attentions he paid to her, preferring to talk of babies with her ladies than to have him with her. Henry was disappointed. He missed too their passionate lovemaking. He was in the forties; he could not expect to enjoy his manly vigor for many more years. Sometimes he felt quite old; then he would say to himself: “What I have endured these last years for her has done this to me; brought me a few years nearer the grave, I trow!” Then he would be indignant with her, indignant that she, while carrying his child, must deny him those blissful moments which he could enjoy with none as he could with her. He would think back over his faithfulness to her. This was astonishing; it amazed him. Ah, well, a man must be faithful to a mistress if he wishes to keep her, but a wife is a different matter altogether!

The thought took hold of Henry, haunting his mind. He thought of the days before Anne had come to Suffolk House; they had a piquancy, a charm, since the excitement of adventure is in its unexpectedness. “It is more pleasing to pluck an apple from the branch which you have seized, than to take one up from a graven dish.” There was truth enough in that, he assured himself, thinking of sudden amorous adventures.

There came a day in July when the rain was teeming down and there was little to do. One played the harp, one sang…but the day flagged, for he was uneasy in his mind. Affairs of state weighed heavily upon him. In spite of his separation from Rome, he was eager that the Pope should sanction his marriage; he was disappointed of this, for instead of the sanction there came an announcement that Cranmer’s sentence on Henry’s former marriage was to be annulled; unless, he was threatened, he left Anne before September and returned to Katharine, both he and she he called his new Queen would be excommunicated.

This was disquieting news which set Henry trembling; Anne’s defiance of Rome, her lack of superstitious dread, angered him against her, for he did not care that she should show more courage than he; although his conscience explained that his feeling was not fear but eagerness to assure himself that he had acted with the will of God. Some priests, particularly in the North, were preaching against the new marriage. At Greenwich, Friar Peyto had even had the temerity to preach before Henry and Anne, hinting at the awful judgment that awaited them. Cardinal Pole, who had decided it would be well to live on the Continent owing to his close relationship to the King, wrote reproachful letters abusing Anne. Henry did not trust the Spanish ambassador; the man was sly and insolent and over-bold; he had dared to ask Henry if he could be sure of having children, making a reference to the state of the kingly body which was outwardly manifested by a malignant sore on the leg, which refused to heal.

Henry had reason to believe that Chapuys had reported to his master on the state of English defenses; and if this were so, might he not advise the Emperor to make an attack?

Would a conquest of England be difficult for such a skilled general as Charles? Henry knew that most of his nobles—with perhaps the exception of Norfolk—would be ready to support Katharine’s side; the Scots were ever eager to be troublesome. Why should not Charles, on the pretext of avenging an ill-treated aunt, do that which would be of inestimable advantage to himself—subdue England? There was one gleam of hope in this prospect; Charles was fully occupied in his scattered possessions, and he was too cautious to stretch his already overstrained resources in another cause. Henry raged and fumed and said he would send Chapuys home, but that was senseless, he knew well; better to have the spy whose evil ways were known to him than another sent in his place who might be possessed of even greater cunning. Henry bottled up his indignation temporarily, holding in his anger, but storing it, nourishing it. The only brightness on the political horizon was that Francis had sent congratulations to both himself and Anne; Henry had invited the French King to sponsor his son, which Francis had cordially agreed to do. Henry felt that, once his son was born, the mass of the people—the element he feared most—would be so overjoyed that it would be forgotten that various unorthodox methods had been followed in order to bring about such a joyous event. Astrologers and physicians had assured him that there could be no doubt of the sex of the child, so all Henry needed to do was to wait for September; but never had a month seemed so long in coming, and it was but July, and wet. The King therefore felt himself in need of diversion.

It came in the voluptuous form of one of the ladies attending Anne. This girl was in complete contrast to her mistress, round-faced, possessed of large baby blue eyes, plump and inviting. No haughtiness there; no dignity; Henry was ever attracted by change.

She glanced at him as she flitted about the chamber, and Anne, absorbed in maternity, did not at first notice what was going on. The girl curtseyed to him, glanced sideways at him; he smiled at her, forgetting Chapuys and astute Charles, and all those who preached against him.

He came upon her suddenly in the quiet of a corridor. She curtseyed, throwing at him that bold glance of admiration which he remembered so well from the days before his thoughts had been given entirely to Anne. He kissed the girl; she caught her breath; he remembered that too; as though they were overwhelmed by him! He felt a king again; pleasant indeed to bestow favors like a king, instead of having to beg for them like a dog.

He left her though, for Anne still largely occupied his thoughts. There was none to be compared with Anne, and he was afraid of her still, afraid of her reactions should she discover any infidelity. He could not forget how she had gone back to Hever; moreover she was to bear him a son. He felt sentimental towards her still; but a kiss was nothing.

The weather cleared, and he felt better. August came. Invitations to the christening of the prince were made ready. Anne, languid on her couch, watched the King obliquely, wondering what gave him that secret look, noting the sly glances of her attendant, noting a certain covert boldness in the girl’s manner towards herself. Anne could not believe that he who had been faithful for so many years in the most difficult circumstances had so quickly lapsed, and at such a time, when she was to give him a son. But the secretiveness of him, that irritability towards herself which a man of his type would feel towards someone he had wronged or was about to wrong made her feel sure of what was afoot.

Anne was no patient Griselda, no Katharine of Aragon. She was furious, and the more so because her fury must be tinged with fear. What if history were to repeat itself! What if that which had happened to Queen Katharine was about to happen to Queen Anne! Would she be asked to admit that her marriage was illegal? Would she be invited to go into a nunnery? She must remember that she had no powerful Emperor Charles behind her.

She watched the King; she watched the girl. Henry was over-wrought; he drank freely; the days seemed endless to him; he was nervous and irritable sometimes, at others over-exuberant. But this was understandable, for the birth of a son was of the utmost importance since not only would it ensure the Tudor dynasty, but to Henry it would come like a sign from heaven that he had been right to displace Katharine.

Anne lived uncomfortably through the hot days, longing for the birth of her child. She felt upon her the eyes of all; she felt them to be waiting for that all-deciding factor, the birth of a male child. Her friends prayed for a son; her enemies hoped for a daughter or a still-born child.

One day at the end of August it seemed to her that the girl whom she watched with such suspicion was looking more sly and a trifle arrogant. She saw Henry give her a look of smoldering desire.

“Shall I endure this before my very eyes?” Anne asked herself. “Am I not Queen?”

She waited until Henry was alone in the chamber with her; then she said, her eyes blazing: “If you must amuse yourself, I would prefer you did not do it under my eyes and with one of my own women!”

Henry’s eyes bulged with fury. He hated being caught; he had had this matter out with his conscience; it was nothing, this light little affair with a wench who had doubtless lost her virginity long ago; it was hardly worth confessing. It was a light and airy nothing, entered into after the drinking of too much wine, little more than a dream.

“Am I to be defied by one wife,” he asked himself, “dictated to by another?”

He had had enough of this; he was the King, he would have her know. It was not for her to keep up her arrogance to him now.

As he struggled for words to express his indignation, one of Anne’s attendants entered; that did not deter him. It should be known throughout the court that he was absolute King, and that the Queen enjoyed her power through him.

He shouted: “You close your eyes, as your betters did before you!”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet; she lifted herself in the bed; angry retorts rose to her lips, but something in the face of the King subdued her suddenly, so that her anger left her; she had no room for any other emotion than deadly fear. His face had lost its flushed appearance too; his eyes peered out from his quivering flesh, suddenly cold and very cruel.

Then he continued to speak, slowly and deliberately: “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I raised you up.”

He went from the room; she sank back, almost fainting. The attendant came to her hastily, ministering to her anxiously, knowing the deep humiliation that must have wounded one so proud. Had Anne been alone she would have retorted hotly; she would have flayed him with her tongue; but they were not alone—yet he had not cared for that! In the court her enemies would hear of this; they would talk of the beginning of the end of Anne Boleyn.

Her hands were cold and wet; she overcame a desire to burst into passionate tears. Then the child began to move inside her, reassuring her. Her son. Once he was born, she was safe, for Henry would never displace the mother of his son whatever the provocation.

Henry did not go near her again for several days. He found a fresh and feverish excitement in the knowledge that to be in lust was satisfying and more congenial to his nature than to be in love. The girl was a saucy wench, God knew, but ready enough, over-ready, to obey her King. To love was to beg and plead; to lust was but to demand satisfaction.

He thought of Anne often, sometimes when he was with the girl. His thoughts were so mixed he could not define them. Sometimes he thought, When the confinement’s over, she’ll be herself again. Then he thought of a lithesome girl leaning over a pond at Hever, a lovely woman entertaining him at Suffolk House. Anne, Anne…there is none on Earth as delightful as Anne! This is naught, Anne; this is forgotten once you are with me again.

Then at mass or confession his thoughts would be tinged with fear. Suppose the Almighty should show his displeasure by a daughter or a still-born child! Marriage with Katharine had been a succession of still-born children, because his marriage with Katharine had been no marriage. He himself had said that. What if his marriage with Anne should be no marriage either?

But God would show him, for God would always be ready to guide one who followed His laws and praised Him, as did Henry the Eighth of England.

Throughout the city the news was awaited. People in the barges that floated down the Thames called one to the other.

“Is the prince come yet then?”

There was scarcely a whisper against the new Queen; those who had been her most violent enemies thought of her now, not as the Queen, but as a mother.

“I heard her pains had started, poor lady…”

“They say his name will be Henry or Edward…”

Mothers remembered occasions when they had suffered as the Queen suffered now, and even those who cared nothing for motherhood were fond of pageantry. They remembered the coronation, when wine had flowed free from fountains. Pageants, feasting, rejoicing would mark the birth of a son to a king who had waited twenty-four years for it; it would be a greater event than a coronation.

“God save the little prince!” cried the people.

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk scarcely slept at all, so eager was she for the event. She was full of pride and misgivings, assuring herself that Anne was a healthy girl, that the delivery must be effected efficiently, pushing to the back of her mind those fears which came from her knowledge of the King. Poor Katharine had had miscarriage after miscarriage; they said she was diseased, and whence did she come by such diseases? Might it not have been through close contact with His Majesty? One did not speak such thoughts, for it were treason to do so, but how could the most loyal subjects help their coming to mind! But Anne was a healthy girl; this was her first child. She had come safely through the nine months of pregnancy, and everything must be well.

In the orchard, sheltered by the trees whose fruit was beginning to ripen, Catherine Howard and Francis Derham lay in each other’s arms with scarcely a thought for the momentous events which would shape the course of history.

Francis said: “Why should they not consent to our marriage? It is true I am poor, but my birth is good.”

“They will assuredly consent,” murmured Catherine. “They must consent!”

“And why should it not be soon? When the Duchess is recovered from this excitement, she will surely listen to me, Catherine. Do you think that I might approach her?”

“Yes,” said Catherine happily.

“Then we are betrothed!”

“Yes.”

“Then call me husband.”

“Husband,” said Catherine, and he kissed her.

“I would we were away from here, wife, that at we were in our own house. I get so little opportunity for seeing you.”

“So little,” she sighed.

“And I hear that the Duchess’s ladies are unprincipled in some ways, that they are over-bold with men. I like it not that you should be among them.”

“I am safe,” she said, “loving thee.”

They kissed again, Catherine drew him closer, feeling that excessive excitement which physical contact with one who attracted her must always give her.

Derham kissed her fervently, enchanted by her as Manox had been; but he was genuinely in love with her, and his feelings were governed by affection as well as the need to gratify his senses. She was very young, but she was ready for passion. He was a reckless young man, courageous and virile; and Catherine’s obvious longing to complete their intimacy was so alluring that he—while tenderly thinking of her age—must seek to arrange it.

He insisted they would marry. He could think of nothing more delightful. They were really married, he told her, because according to the law of the Church it was only necessary for two free people to agree to a contract and it was made. It soothed his fears that she was too young, when he called her wife; when she called him husband, he was transported with joy.

He meant to be tactful and kind. He knew nothing of her experience with Manox. Catherine did not tell him, not because she wished to hide it, but because Manox no longer interested her. She had asked her grandmother if she might have a new music teacher, and the old lady, too full of court matters to care what her granddaughter did, had nodded, and when Catherine had named an ascetic, middle-aged man, her grandmother had nodded again. In any case the Duchess no longer sat as chaperon during the music lessons. Manox had almost passed from Catherine’s thoughts, except on those unpleasant occasions when he would try to see her—for he was furious that she had ended the affair so abruptly, blaming Mary Lassells for this and making no secret of his hatred and contempt for the girl. Catherine wished of course that she had never known Manox, but she was too blissful to think of much else but the completion of her love with Francis Derham.

“I have a plan,” said Derham.

“Tell me of it.”

“What if I were to ask Her Grace to take me into her house?”

“Dost think she would?” Catherine was trembling at the thought.

“I think she might.” He smiled complacently, remembering how on one occasion Her Grace had singled him out—as a most personable young man—for her special attention. “I can but try. Then we shall be under the same roof; then I may speak for you. Oh, Catherine, Catherine, how I long for that day!”

Catherine longed for it with equal intensity.

He almost whispered to her that they need not wait; why should they, when they were husband and wife? Catherine was waiting for him to say that; but he did not…yet. They lay on the grass, looking up at the ripening fruit.

“I shall never forget the day you first called me husband,” he said. “I shall remember it when I die!”

Catherine laughed, for death seemed far away and a most absurd topic for two young people in love.

“I shall never forget it either,” she told him, and turned her face to his. They kissed; they trembled; they yearned for each other.

“Soon,” he said, “I shall be in the Duchess’s house. Then I shall see you often…often.”

Catherine nodded.

On the gorgeous bed, which had been part of a French Prince’s ransom. Anne lay racked with the agony of childbirth. The King paced up and down in an adjoining room. He could hear her groans. How he loved her! For her groaning set his heart beating with fear that she would die. He was that same lover to whom news of her illness had been brought during the pestilence. “I would willingly endure half of what you suffer to cure you.” Memories of her came and went in his mind; her laughter, her gaiety; Anne, the center of attraction at the jousts and masques; sitting beside him watching the jousts in the tiltyard, so beautiful, so apart from all others that he found it difficult to turn his attention from her to the jousting; he thought of her in his arms, his love and his Queen.

He was filled with remorse for that lapse, for the quarrel which had upset her, and—this made him break out into a clammy sweat—might have had some effect on the birth of his son.

He paced up and down, suffering with her. How long? How long? The veins stood out on his forehead. “By God! If anything happens to her, blood will flow—that I swear!”

The girl with whom he had dallied recently looked in at the door, smiling; she had been sent to soothe him. He looked at her without recognizing her.

Up and down he went, straining his ears and then putting his hands over them to shut out the sound of Anne’s pain. His fear was suddenly swept away, for distinctly he heard the cry of a child, and in a second he was at the bedside, trembling with eagerness. In the chamber there was a hushed silence. The attendants were afraid to look at him. Anne lay white and exhausted, aware neither of him, nor her room, nor perhaps herself.

“What is it?” he shouted.

They hesitated, one looking at another, hoping that some other would take on the delicate task of breaking unpleasant news.

His face was purple; his eyes blazing. He roared in his anguish.

“A daughter!” His voice was almost a sob; he was defeated; he was humiliated.

He stood, his hands clenched, words pouring from his mouth, abuse and rage; and his eyes were on Anne, lying still on the bed. This to happen to him! What had he done to deserve it? What had he ever done to deserve it? Had he not always sought to do right? Had he not spent hours of labor, studying theology; had he not written A Glasse of the Truth? Had he not delved deep into this matter before he had taken action? Had he not waited for the promptings of his conscience? And for whom had he worked and suffered? Not for himself, but for his people, to save them from the rigors of civil war which during the last century had distressed and ravaged the land. For this he had worked, sparing himself not at all, defying the wrath of his simple people who could not be expected to understand his high motives. And this was his reward…a daughter!

He saw tears roll from Anne’s closed eyes; her face was white as marble; she looked as though all life had gone from her; those tears alone showed him that she had heard. And then suddenly his disappointment was pushed aside. She too had suffered deeply; she was disappointed as he was. He knelt down and put his arms about her.

He said earnestly: “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you!”

When he had gone, she lay very still, exhausted by the effort of giving birth to her daughter, her mind unable to give her body the rest it needed. She had failed. She had borne a daughter, not a son! This then was how Katharine of Aragon had felt when Mary was born. The hope was over; the prophecies of the physicians and the soothsayers had proved to be meaningless. “It will be a boy,” they had assured her; and then…it was a girl!

Her heartbeats, which had been sluggish, quickened. What had he said? “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you!” Forsake you! Why should he have said that? He would surely only have said it if the thought of forsaking her had been in his mind! He had forsaken Katharine.

Her cheeks were wet; then she must have shed tears. I could never live in a nunnery, she thought, and she remembered how she had once believed that Katharine ought to have gone to such a place. How different the suggestion seemed when applied to oneself! She had never understood Katharine’s case until now.

Someone bent over her and whispered: “Your Majesty must try to sleep.”

She slept awhile and dreamed she was plain Anne Boleyn at Blickling; she was experiencing great happiness, and when she awoke she thought, Happiness then is a matter of comparison; I never knew such complete happiness, for my body was in agony and now I scarce know I have a body, and that in itself is enough.

Fully conscious, she remembered that she was no longer a girl at Blickling, but a queen who had failed in her duty of bearing a male heir. She remembered that throughout the palace—throughout the kingdom—they would now be talking of her future, speculating as to what effect it would have upon her relationship with the King. Her enemies would be rejoicing, her friends mourning. Chapuys would be writing gleefully to his master. Suffolk would be smiling, well content. Katharine would pray for her; Mary would gloat: She has failed! She has failed! What will the King do now?

The sleep had strengthened her; her weakness of spirit was passing. She had fought to gain her place, she would fight to keep it.

“My baby…” she said, and they brought the child and laid it in her arms.

The red, crumpled face looked beautiful to her, because the child was hers; she held it close, examining it, touching its face lightly with her fingers, murmuring, “Little baby…my little baby!”

It mattered little to her now that the child was a girl, for, having seen her, she was convinced that there never had been such a beautiful child—so how could she wish to change it! She held her close, loving her and yet feeling fearful for her, for was not the child a possible Queen of England? No, there would be sons to follow. The first child had been a girl; therefore she would never sit on the throne of England, because Anne would have sons, many sons. Still, the mother must tremble for her child, must wish now that she were not the daughter of a king and queen. Suppose this baby had been born in some other home than royal Greenwich, where her sex would not have been a matter of such great importance. How happy she would have been then! There would have been nothing to think of but tending the child.

They would have taken the baby from her, but she would not let her go. She wanted her with her, to hold her close, to protect her.

She thought of Mary Tudor’s fanatical eyes. How the birth of this child would add fuel to the fierce fires of Mary’s resentment! Another girl to take her place, when she had lost it merely by being a girl! Before, there had been many a skirmish with Mary Tudor; now there must be deciding warfare between her and Queen Anne. For what if there were no more children! What if the fate of Queen Anne was that of Queen Katharine? Then…when the King was no more, there would be a throne for this child, a throne which would be coveted most ardently by Mary Tudor; and might not the people of England think Mary had the greater claim? Some considered that Katharine was still Queen, and that this newly born child was the bastard, not Mary Tudor.

“Oh, baby,” murmured Anne, “what a troublesome world it is that you have been born into!” Fiercely she kissed the child. “But it shall be as happy for you as I can make it. I would kill Mary Tudor rather than that she should keep from you that which is your right!”

One of the women bent over the bed.

“Your Majesty needs to rest…”

Hands took the baby; reluctantly Anne let her go.

She said: “She shall be called Elizabeth, after my mother and the King’s.”

The court was tense with excitement. In lowered tones the birth of Elizabeth was discussed, in state apartments, in the kitchens; women weeding in the gardens whispered together. In the streets, the people said: “What now? This is God’s answer!” Chapuys was watchful, waiting; he sounded Cromwell. Cromwell was noncommittal, cool. He felt that the King was as yet too fond of the lady to desire any change in their relationship. He was unlike Wolsey; Wolsey shaped the King’s policy while he allowed the King to believe it was his own; Cromwell left the shaping to the King, placing himself completely at the royal disposal. Whatever the King needed, Thomas Cromwell would provide. If he wished to disinherit Mary, Cromwell would find the most expeditious way of doing it; if the King wished to discard Anne, Cromwell would work out a way in which this could be done. Cromwell’s motto was, “The King is always right.”

The King still desired Anne ardently, but though he could be the passionate lover, he wished her to realize that it was not hers to command but to obey. A mistress may command, a wife must be submissive. Yet he missed his mistress; he even felt a need to replace her. He could not look upon Anne—young, beautiful and desirable—as he had looked on Katharine. And yet it seemed to him that wives are always wives; one is shackled to them by the laws of holy church, and to be shackled is a most unpleasant condition. There was an element of spice in sin, which virtue lacked; and even though a man had a perfectly good answer to offer his conscience, the spice was there. Anne could no longer threaten to return home; this was her home, the home of which she was indubitably master. She had given him a daughter—a further proof that she was not all he had believed her to be when he had pursued her so fanatically.

And so, in spite of his still passionate desire for her, when this was satisfied he would quickly change from lover into that mighty figure, King and master.

This was apparent very soon after Elizabeth’s birth. Anne wanted to keep the child with her, to feed her herself, to have her constantly in her care. Apart from her maternal feelings which were strong, she feared ill might befall her daughter through those enemies whom the child would inherit from the mother.

Seeing his daughter’s cradle in the chamber which he shared with Anne, the King was startled.

“How now!” he growled. “What means this?”

“I would have her with me,” said Anne, used to command, continuing to do so.

“You would have her with you!” he repeated ominously.

“Yes. And I shall feed her myself, for I declare I shall trust no one else with this task.”

The King’s face was purple with rage.

He stamped to the door and called to a startled maid of honor. She came in, trembling.

“Take the child away!” he roared.

The girl looked from the King to the Queen; the Queen’s face was very pale, but she did not speak. She was trembling, remembering what he had said before the child’s birth; at that time he had not waited until they were alone. “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I raised you up!” And later, “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.” He cared not what he said before whom; he was so careless of her feelings that it mattered not to him if, in the court, people speculated as to whether her influence was waning. Therefore she watched the girl remove the baby, and said nothing.

“She would disturb our rest!” said the King.

When they were alone, Anne turned on him fiercely.

“I wished to keep her with me. I wished to feed her myself. What could it matter…”

He looked at her squarely. “Remember,” he said slowly, “that I lifted you up to be Queen of England. I ask that you do not behave as a commoner.”

His voice matched his eyes for coldness; she had never noticed how very cold they could be, how relentless and cruel was the small mouth.

Still trembling, she turned away from him, holding her head high, realizing that she, who a short while ago would have blazed at him demanding that her wishes be gratified, now dared do nothing but obey.

The King watched; her hair loose about her shoulders, she reminded him suddenly of the girl in the Hever rose garden. He went to her and laid a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Come, Anne!” he said, and turning her face to his kissed her. Hope soared in her heart then; she still had power to move him; she had accepted defeat too easily. She smiled.

“You were very determined about that!” she said, trying to infuse a careless note into her voice, for she was afraid to insist on keeping Elizabeth with her, and realized the folly of showing fear to one who was, naturally a bully.

“Come, sweetheart!” His voice was thick with the beginnings of passion; she knew him so well; she recognized his moods. “A queen does not suckle her babes. Enough of this!” He laughed. “We have a daughter; we must get ourselves a boy!”

She laughed with him. As he caressed her, her thoughts moved fast. She had believed that, with the birth of her child, her great fight would be over; she would sink back, refreshed by new homage, into a security which could not be shaken. But Fate had been unkind; she had given the King, not that son who would have placed her so securely on the throne, but a daughter. The fight was not over; it was just beginning; for what had gone before must be a skirmish compared with what must follow. She would need all her skill now, since the very weapons which had won for her her first victories were grown blunt; and it was now not only for herself that she must fight.

How she pitied Katharine of Aragon, who had gone through it all before her! Who was still going through it; a veteran whose weapons were endurance and tenacity. Anne would have need of equal endurance, equal tenacity, for she fought in the opposite camp. She was a mother now; she was a tigress who sees her cub in mortal danger. Katharine of Aragon she had thought of as a pitiable woman, Mary as a willful, outspoken girl; now they were her bitterest enemies, and they stood on their guard, waiting to dishonor her daughter.

She returned Henry’s kisses.

He said: “Anne, Anne, there’s no one like you Anne!”

And hot anger rose within her, for she sensed that he was comparing her with the woman whom he had dallied with before her delivery. Once she would have repulsed him, stormed at him, told him what she thought; now she must consider; she must lure him afresh, she must enchant him. It would be more difficult now, but she would do it, because it was imperative that she should.

As he lay beside her, she entwined her fingers in his.

“Henry,” she said.

He grunted.

Words trembled on her lips. What if she asked to have the baby in! No, that would be unwise; she could not make conditions now. She must tread carefully; she was only the King’s wife now. The Queen of England lacked the power of Anne Rochford and the Marchioness of Pembroke; but the Queen had all the cunning of those ladies, and she would laugh yet in the faces of her enemies who prophesied her destruction.

“Henry, now that we have a child, would it not be well to declare Mary illegitimate? We know well that she is, but it has never been so stated.”

He considered this. He was feeling a little hurt with Mary, who had applauded and supported her mother ever since the divorce had been thought of. Mary was an obstinate girl, an unloving daughter who had dared to flout her father, the King.

“By God!” he said. “I’ve been too lenient with that girl!”

“Indeed you have! And did I not always tell you so; you must announce her illegitimacy at once, and every man of note in the country must agree to it.”

“If they do not,” growled Henry, “’twill be the worse for them!”

She kissed his cheek; she had been foolish to worry. She still had the power to manage him.

He said: “We must go cautiously. I fear the people will not like it. They have made a martyr of Katharine, and of Mary too.”

She did not attach over-much importance to the will of the people. They had shouted: “We’ll have no Nan Bullen!” And here she was, on the throne in spite of them. The people gathered together and grumbled; sometimes they made disturbances; sometimes they marched together with flaming torches in their hands…. Still, they should not pay too much attention to the people.

“Mary is a stupid, wayward girl,” said Anne. And as the King nodded in agreement, she added: “She should be compelled to act as maid to Elizabeth. She should be made to understand who is the true Princess!”

Then she threw herself into his arms, laughing immoderately. He was pleased with her; he was sure that ere long they would have a healthy boy.

Sir Thomas More’s daughter, Margaret Roper, was full of fear, for peace had been slowly filched from her home. April was such a pleasant month at Chelsea; in the garden of her father’s house, where she had spent her happy childhood and continued to live with her husband Will Roper, the trees were blossoming; the water of the Thames lapped gently about the privy stairs; and how often had Margaret sat on the wooden seat with her father, listening to his reading to her and her brother and sisters, or watching him as he discoursed most wittily with his good friend Erasmus. Change had crept into the house like a winter fog, and Margaret’s heart was filled with a hatred alien to it; the hatred was for one whom she thought of as a brown girl, a girl with a sixth nail on her left hand and a disfiguring mark on her throat, a girl who had bewitched the King, who had cut off England from the Pope, and who had placed Margaret’s father in mortal danger.

When Anne Boleyn had gone to court from Hever Castle, the first shadow had been cast over the Chelsea house. Her father would reprove her for her hatred, but Margaret could not subdue it. She was no saint, she reasoned. She had talked of Anne Boleyn most bitterly to her sisters, Elizabeth and Cecily; and now, sitting in the garden watching the river, calm today, bringing with it the mingled smells of tar and seaweed and rotting wood and fish, with the willow trees abudding and drooping sadly over it, she felt fear in the very air. When her adopted sister, Mercy, came running out to sit with her awhile, she had started violently and begun to tremble, fearing Mercy had brought news of some disaster. When her stepsister, Alice, appeared beside her, she felt her knees shake, though Alice had merely come to ask if Margaret would care to help her feed the peacocks.

Margaret recalled this house a few years back; she remembered seeing her father in the heart of his family, reading to them in long summer evenings out of doors, saying prayers in the house; and so often with a joke on his lips. Her father was the center of his household; they all moved round him; were he removed, what then of the More family? ’Twould be like Earth without the sun, thought Margaret. She remembered writing letters to him when he was away from home on an embassy. He had been proud of her, showing her letters to the great scholar, Reginald Pole, who had complimented him on possessing such a daughter. He had told her this, for he knew well when a compliment might be passed to do the object good, and not to foster pride. He was a saint. And what so often was the end of saints? They became martyrs. Margaret wept softly, controlledly, for she dared not show the others she had wept; it would displease her father. Why must she now recall the memories of her childhood and all those sunny days in which her father moved, the center of her life, the best loved one? Fear made her do it; fear of what was coming swiftly towards him. What was waiting for this adored father, tomorrow or the next day, or the next? Gloom had settled in the house; it was in the eyes of her stepmother, usually not eager to entertain it, usually eager to push it away; but it had come too close to be pushed away. Her sisters…were they over-gay? Their husbands laughed a little louder than was their wont; and in the garden, or from the windows of the house, their eyes would go to the river as though they were watching, watching for a barge that might come from Westminster or the Tower, and stop at the privy steps of Sir Thomas More’s garden.

Her father was the calmest of the household; though often he would look at them all sadly and eagerly, as though he would remember the details of each face that he might recall them after he would be unable to see them. A great calm had settled upon him of late, as though he had grappled with a problem and found the solution. He was a great man, a good man; and yet he was full of fun. One would have expected a saint to be a little melancholy, not fond of partaking of pleasure nor seeing those about him doing so. He was not like that; he loved to laugh, to see his children laugh; he was full of kindly wit. Oh, there was never such a one as Father! sighed Margaret.

He was fifty-six years of age now, and since he had given up the chancellorship he had looked every year of it. As a boy he had been taken into the household of Cardinal Morton who was then Archbishop of Canterbury; from thence he had gone to Oxford, become a lawyer, gone into Parliament, had lectured on the subject of theology, and was soon recognized as a brilliant young man. There was in him the stuff of the martyr; at one time he had come very near to becoming a monk, but he decided to marry. “Did you ever regret that decision, Father?” Margaret once asked, and he laughed and pretended to consider; and she had been filled with happiness to know he did not. That was well, for if ever a man was meant to be a father, that man was Sir Thomas More. There was never such a family as ours, thought Margaret. We were happy…happy…before Anne Boleyn went to court. Wolsey had admired Sir Thomas, had made use of him; the King had met him, taken a liking to him, sought his help in denouncing the doctrines of Luther. Thus, when Wolsey was discarded, it was on this man that the King’s choice fell. “More shall be Chancellor. More shall have the Great Seal of England,” said the King. “For rarely liked I a man better!” And so he achieved that high office; but he was never meant to go to court. Had he not remarked that he would serve God first, the Prince second? He would ever say that which would lead to trouble, because honesty was second nature to him. He was a saint; please God he need never show the world that he could be a martyr too! Margaret had been frightened when he became Chancellor, knowing his views on the divorce.

“Anne Boleyn will never be Queen,” she had said often enough to her husband, Will. “How can she be, when the Pope will not sanction the divorce?”

“Indeed,” had answered Will, “you speak truth, Meg. How can that be! A man who has one wife may not marry another.”

She had been afraid for Will then, for he was interested in the new faith and would read of it secretly, being unsure in his mind; she trembled, for she could not have borne that her beloved father and her dear husband should not be in agreement on these matters. She had discussed Martin Luther and his doctrines with her father, for he was ever ready to talk with her on any serious subject, holding that though she was a woman she had the power to think and reason.

“Father,” she had said, “there have been times when I have heard you discourse against the ways of Rome.”

“That I have done, Meg. But this is how I see it, daughter. Rome’s ways are not always good, but I hold the things we value most in life may best be held to under Rome.”

She had not dared to tell him of Will’s flirting with the new faith. She did not understand it fully. She supposed that Will, being young, would prefer to try the new, and her father, being not so young, must like the old ways best. She had thought it a great tragedy when she discovered this tendency in Will; but what was that, compared with this which threatened!

The giving up of the Great Seal had been like the first clap of thunder that heralds an unexpected storm on a fine summer’s day. After that there was quiet, until that April day a year ago, when three bishops came to the house one morning to bring twenty pounds for his dress, that he might attend the coronation of her who was set up as Queen, and who could never be accepted as Queen in this household. He had refused that invitation. She shivered at the memory. A few days later that refusal brought forth its results; he was charged with bribery and corruption. A ridiculous charge against the most honest man in England; but nothing was too ridiculous to bring against one so prominent who failed to do honor to Anne Boleyn. And recently there had come a further and more alarming charge; a mad nun of Kent, named Elizabeth Barton, had been shocking Anne’s supporters and heartening those of Katharine with her lurid prophecies of the evil fates which would await the King and Anne, should they continue in their ungodly ways. The rightful Queen, declared the nun, was Katharine. She had seen visions; she went into trances and then gave voice to prophecies which she declared were put into her mouth by the Holy Ghost. As she had been in touch with Queen Katherine and the Emperor Charles, she was considered dangerous, but on her arrest and examination in the Star Chamber she had confessed she was an imposter. And Sir Thomas More was accused of having instigated this woman to pretend the future had been revealed to her, that she might frighten the King into taking back Katharine and abandoning Anne.

Margaret remembered how they had sat about the table, pretending to eat, pretending it would be well, telling each other that the innocence of the guiltless was their best defence. He had been taken before the Council; he had been questioned by the new Archbishop, by His Grace of Norfolk—whom she feared for his cold eyes and his hard, cruel mouth—before Thomas Cromwell, whose thick hands looked as though they would not hesitate to turn on one slow to answer his questions; his fish-like eyes held no warmth, only cunning. But he was clever as well as good, this most loved father; he had outwitted them, for his wit was sharper than theirs; and she had heard that there was none equal to him apart from Cranmer, and on this occasion Cranmer was on the wrong side, so right must prevail. They had dismissed him in exasperation, for they could not trip him; and it was his arguments, she was sure, that had dumbfounded them, not theirs him.

Will had traveled down with him, and told her about this afterwards. Will had said that he knew all must be well, and rejoiced to see him so merry.

Her father had replied that truly he was merry, and would Will know why? He had taken the first step and the first step was the hardest. He had gone so far with those lords that without great shame he could never turn back.

This then had been the cause of his merriment. The step was taken down that path which he believed to be the right one; but what a path, where danger lurked at every turn! And what was at the end of it? That had happened a year ago, and now he had come far along that path; and this gloom which hung over them now—did it mean that he was nearing its end?

Mercy was running out to the garden now.

“Meg!” she called. “Meg!” And Margaret dared not turn to look at her, so strong was her fear, so numbing the suspense.

Mercy’s pleasant face was hot with running.

“Dinner, Meg! Of what are you thinking…dreaming here? We are all waiting for you. Father sent to call you….”

She thought she had never heard more beautiful words than those, and their beauty was in their sweet normality. “Father sent to call you.” She went with Mercy into the house.

They sat round the large table, her stepmother Alice, Cecily and her husband Giles, Elizabeth and her husband, John and his wife, Mercy and Clement, Margaret and Will. And there at the head of the table he sat, his face more serene than any, as though he were unaware of the dark patches of sorrow that hung about his house. He was laughing, pretending to chide her for daydreaming, giving her a lecture on the evils of unpunctuality which was spattered with fun; and she laughed with the rest, but not daring to meet his eyes for fear he should see the tears there. He knew why she would not look at him, for they were closer than any in the household, and though he loved well his family, it was his daughter Meg who was closest to his heart. So the others laughed, for he was a sorcerer where laughter was concerned, conjuring it up out of nowhere, but not for her; she was too close to the magician, she knew his tricks, she saw the sleight of hand; she knew the merry eyes watched the window, listened for a sign.

It came with a loud knocking on the outer door.

Gillian, their little maid, came running in, her mouth open. There was one outside who must see Sir Thomas.

Sir Thomas arose, but the man was already in the room. He carried the scroll in his hands. He bowed most courteously. His face was sad, as though he did not greatly love his mission, which was a command that Sir Thomas must appear next day before the Commissioners in order to take the Oath of Supremacy.

There was silence round the table; Margaret stared at the dish before her, at the worn wood of the table which she remembered so well, since she had sat at this particular place for as long as she could recall. She wished the birds would not sing so loudly, showing they did not know this was a day of doom; she wished the sun would not shine so hotly on her neck for it made her feel she would be sick. She wanted perfect clarity of mind to remember forever each detail of that well loved face.

Her stepmother had turned deathly pale; she looked as if she would faint. The whole family might have been petrified; they did not move; they sat and waited.

Margaret looked at her father; his eyes had begun to twinkle. No, no! she thought. Not now! I cannot bear that you should turn this into a joke. Not even for them. Not now!

But he was smiling at her, imploring her. Margaret! You and I, we understand. We have to help one another.

Then she arose from the table and went to the messenger, and looking closely at his face, she said: “Why…Dick Halliwell! Mother…Everybody…’Tis only Dick!”

And they fell upon her father, chiding him, telling him he went too far with his jokes. And there he was, laughing among them, believing that it is well not to look at unhappiness until it is close upon you, having often said that once you have passed it, every day lends distance between it and yourself.

Margaret went to her nursery where she stayed with her small daughter, finding solace in the charm of the child and thinking of the child’s future when she would have children of her own, so that she might not think of this day and the days that would immediately follow it.

Later, hearing voices beneath her window, she looked out and saw her father walking below with the Duke of Norfolk who, she guessed, had come to have a word with him about the morrow. Margaret, her hand on her heart, as though she feared those below would hear its wild beating, listened to their voices which were wafted up to her.

“’Tis perilous striving with princes,” said His Grace. “I could wish you as a friend to incline to the King’s pleasure.”

Then she heard her father’s voice, and it seemed to her that it held little of sorrow. “There will be only this difference between Your Grace and me, that I shall die today and you tomorrow.”

That night, she could not sleep. Death seemed already to be hovering over the house. She recalled what she had heard of those committed to the Tower; she thought of that gloomy prison and compared it with this happy home. He would say: “All these years of happiness have I had; I should be grateful to have known them, not sorrowful that because I have loved them well, I now must grieve the more to lose them.”

She wept bitter tears, and took her child in her arms, seeking comfort from that small body. But there was no comfort for Margaret Roper. Death hung over the house, waiting to snatch its best loved member.

He left next day. She watched him go down the privy steps with Will, his head held high; already he looked a saint. He did not cast a look behind him; he would have them all believe that soon he would be returning to them.

Catherine Howard was in the orchard, looking through the trees at the river. She was plumper than she had been almost a year ago when she had first met Francis Derham at the coronation. Now she deplored the state of her clothes, longed for rich materials, for ribands and flowers to adorn her hair.

She was not yet thirteen years old and looked seventeen—a plump, ripe, seventeen; she was very pretty, very gay, fond of laughter; in love with Francis.

Life was beautiful, she thought, and promised to be more so. Francis was husband to her, she wife to him. One day—and that not far distant—they would be so in earnest.

As she stood gazing at the river, a pair of hands were placed over her eyes; she gave a little cry of pleasure, assured this was Francis. Often he came to her, and they met here in the orchards, for he was still of her uncle’s house.

“Guess who!” said the loved and familiar voice.

“Guess!” she cried shrilly. “I do not have to guess—I know!”

She pulled away his hands and swung round to face him; they kissed passionately.

He said: “Such good news I have today, Catherine! I can scarce wait to tell you.”

“Good news!”

“The best of news. I hope that you will agree that it is.”

“Tell me, tell me! You must tell me.”

He stood, surveying her, laughing, harboring his secret, longing so deeply for the moment of revelation that he must keep it back, savoring afresh the pleasure it would give him to tell her.

“Very well, I will tell you, Catherine. Her Grace is to have a new gentleman usher. What do you think his name is?”

“Francis…you!”

He nodded.

“Then you will be here…under this very roof! This is wonderful news, Francis.”

They embraced.

“It will be so much simpler to meet, Catherine.”

She was smiling. Yes, indeed, it would be much easier to meet. There would be many opportunities of which he did not as yet dream.

She was flushed with pleasure, bright-eyed, dreaming of them.

Some young ladies and gentlemen came upon them kissing there. Among them was Francis’s great friend Damport.

Francis and Catherine broke free on seeing them, and were greeted with laughter. One of the young men said in mock dismay: “You often kiss Mrs. Catherine Howard, Derham. Is it not very bold of you?”

Derham answered: “Who should hinder me from kissing my wife?”

“I trow this matter will come to pass!” said one of the ladies.

“What is that?” asked Derham.

“Marry! That Mr. Derham shall have Mrs. Catherine Howard.”

Derham laughed with pleasure. “By St. John!” he cried. “You may guess twice and guess worse!”

They were all laughing merrily, when Catherine broke up their mirth by pointing to a barge that went down the river.

“Look ye all!” she cried. “Is that not Sir Thomas More!”

They all fell silent, thinking of the man. They knew he had come near the block when the nun of Kent had burned for her heresies. What now? they wondered, and a gloom was cast over their merriment. They watched the barge pass along the river on its way to Westminster; and when it was out of sight, they sought to laugh again, but they found they had no mirth in them.

Jane Rochford’s brief sojourn in the Tower had frightened her considerably. There, in her prison, as she looked down on the river at the pomp of the coronation, she had realized that only her own folly had brought her to this pass, and that in future she must be wiser. She would always hate Anne, but that was no reason why she should shout the dangerous fact abroad. Her short incarceration had been in the nature of a warning to herself and others, but she came out chastened, determined to curb her hysterical jealousy. She apologized to Anne, who accepted her apology, her dislike for Jane being but mild, and she thinking her too colorless to feel much interest in her. So Jane came back to court as attendant to Anne, and though they were never even outwardly friends, there was a truce between them.

It was about a year after the coronation when Jane, who had a habit of discovering the secrets of those around her, made a great discovery.

There was among Anne’s attendants a young girl of some beauty, of modest, rather retiring demeanor, somewhat self-effacing; a member of what had come to be known as the anti-Boleyn faction—that set which had held out for Katherine, and were quiet now, though seeming to be watching and waiting for a turn in events.

Jane had intercepted a glance the King had given this girl, and she had felt a deep exultation. Could it be, wondered Jane, that the King was contemplating taking a mistress…that he had already been unfaithful to Anne? The thought made Jane laugh aloud when she was alone. How foolish she had been to murmur against Anne! What a poor sort of revenge, that merely put oneself into the Tower! Revenge should be taken subtly; she had learned that now.

How amusing to carry the news to Anne, to falter, to shed a tear, to murmur: “I am afraid I have some terrible news for you. I am not certain that I should tell…I am grieved that it should fall to my lot to bring you such news…”

She must watch; she must peep; she must go cautiously. She listened at doors; she hid behind curtains. She was really very bold, for well she knew what the wrath of the King could be like. But it was worth it; she discovered what she had hoped to discover.

She then must turn over in her mind how she would use this. She could go to Anne; she could have the story dragged from her seemingly reluctant lips; it would do her good to see the proud eyes flash, the anger burn in those cheeks, to see haughty Anne humiliated. On the other hand, what if she went to George with the news? She would have his complete attention; she would have his approval, as he would say she had done right in coming to him. She could not make up her mind what she wanted most, and she must do so quickly, for there were others in the court who pried and peeped, and would be only too glad to have the pleasure of doing that which she had worked for.

In the end she went to George.

“George, I have something to tell you. I am afraid. I hardly know what to do. Perhaps you can advise me.”

He was not very interested, she noticed with a sudden jealous rage; he thought it was her own affair. But wait until he learned it concerned his sister Anne!

“The King is indulging in a love affair with one of Anne’s ladies.”

George, who had been writing when she came in, hardly looked up from his work. He was perturbed by this news, but not greatly. Knowing the King, he considered such affairs inevitable; they were bound to come sooner or later. The main point was that Anne should realize this and not irritate the King further than he was already irritated by the birth of a daughter. If she remained calm, understanding, she could keep her hold on him; if she were jealous, demanding, she might find herself in a similar position to that of Katharine. He would warn her to treat this matter with the lightness it deserved.

“Well,” said Jane, “do you not think it was clever of me to have discovered this before most?”

He looked at her with distaste. She could not hide the triumph in her eyes. He pictured her, spying; he discovered early in their married life that she had a gift for spying. And now she was all excitement, happy—and showing it—because she had knowledge which was certain to hurt Anne.

“I am sure,” he said, “that you enjoyed making the discovery and were clever in doing so.”

“What mean you?” she demanded.

“Just what I say, Jane.”

He stood up, and would have walked past her; she stopped him, putting her hands on his coat.

“I thought to please you, George. I wish I had gone straight to Anne now.”

He was glad she had not done that. Anne was nervous; she was irritable; she was inclined to do the first rash thing that came into her head these days.

He forced himself to smile at Jane. He patted her hand.

“I am glad you told me first.”

She pouted.

“You seemed angry with me a moment ago. Why, George? Why? Why does everything I do anger you?”

He could feel blowing up, one of those scenes which he dreaded. He said: “Of course I was not angry. You imagine these things.”

“You were angry because you think she will be hurt. It does not matter that I risk my life…”

“To spy on the King!” he finished. He burst into sudden laughter. “By God, Jane, I should like to have seen His Majesty, had he come upon you peeping through a crack in the door!”

She stamped her foot; her face was white with rage.

“You find this comic!” she said.

“Well, in a measure. The King, taking his guilty pleasure, and you doing that for which you have a perfect genius…spying, congratulating yourself…”

“Congratulating myself!”

“Oh, come! I swear I never saw you so pleased with anything.”

Her lips trembled; tears came into her eyes.

“I know I’m not clever, but why should you laugh at everything I do!”

“Everything?” he said, laughing. “I assure you, Jane, that it is only on rare occasions that I can laugh at what you do.”

She turned on him angrily.

“Perhaps you will not find this such a laughing matter when I tell you who the lady is!”

He was startled now, and she had the joy of seeing that she had all his attention.

“I forget her name. She is so quiet, one scarcely notices her. She is a friend of Chapuys; she is of those who would very gladly see the Queen displaced from the throne…”

She saw now that he was deeply perturbed; this was not merely a king’s light love affair; this was high politics. It was very likely that the girl had been primed to do this by the enemies of Anne.

George began to pace up and down; Jane sat in a window seat, watching him. Quite suddenly he went towards the door, and without a glance at Jane strode from the room. Jane wanted to laugh; but there was no laughter in her; she covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

George went to Anne. She was in her room, reading quietly, making marks with her thumbnail at those passages which she meant Henry to read. She was interesting herself in theology, because the subject interested him. She was trying now to bind him to her in every way she knew; she was uneasy; she thought often of Katharine and what had happened to her; she now wondered why she had not previously been more sympathetic towards Henry’s first Queen. Bitterly she would laugh at herself; did she not understand the old Queen’s case because her own was becoming distressingly similar?

“You look alarmed, George,” she said, laying aside her book.

“I have alarming news.”

“Tell me quickly.” She gave a somewhat hysterical laugh. “I think I am prepared for anything.”

“The King is philandering.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

“I cannot say I am greatly surprised, George.”

“This is no ordinary philandering. It is important, when we consider who the girl is.”

“Who?”

“Jane does not remember her name.”

“Jane!”

They exchanged glances of understanding.

“Jane made it her affair to discover this matter,” said George. “This time I think Jane has done us a service. She described the girl as meek and mild as milk.”

“Ah!” cried Anne. “I can guess who she is!”

“She is of our enemies,” said George. “It may well be that she has been made to do this to work your ruin, Anne.”

Anne stood up, her cheeks flaming.

“She shall be banished from the court! I myself will see her. She shall come to me at once…I…”

He lifted a restraining hand.

“Anne, you terrify me. These sudden rages…”

“Sudden! Rages! Have I not good cause…”

“You have every cause in the world, Anne, to go carefully. You must do nothing rash; everything you do is watched; everything you say is listened to. The throne shakes under you! You must say nothing of this to the king; you must feign ignorance for a while. We must go secretly and in great quiet, for this is no ordinary light flirtation.”

“There are times,” she said, “when I feel I should like nothing better than to walk out of the palace and never set eyes on the King again.”

“Be of good cheer. We’ll think of something. There is one point you must not forget: Give no sign to the King that you know anything. We will, between us, think of a plan.”

“It is so…humiliating!” she cried. “By my faith! I have suffered more indignities since I have been the Queen than I ever did before.”

“One of the penalties of being Queen, Anne! Promise…promise you will go cautiously!”

“Of course, of course! Naturally I shall…”

“No,” he said, with a little grimace, “not naturally, Anne; most unnaturally! Remember Mary…”

“What of Mary?”

“You know well to what I refer. How could you have been so wild, so foolish, as to say that if the King went to France and you were Regent, you would find a reason for putting Mary out of the way!”

“This girl maddens me. She is foolish, obstinate…and…”

“That we well know, but the greater foolishness was yours, Anne, in making such unwise statements.”

“I know…I know. And you do well to warn me.”

“I warn you now. Remember previous follies, and keep in good temper with the King.”

“I had thought he seemed more tender of late,” she said, and began to laugh suddenly. “To think it was naught but his guilty conscience!”

“Ah!” said George. “He was ever a man of much conscience. But, Anne, he is simple; you and I know that, and together we can be frank. He has great pride in himself. His verses…If he thought we did not consider them the best ever written in his court, he would be ready to have our heads off our shoulders!”

“That he would! He has indeed great pride in himself and all his works. George…” She looked over her shoulder. “There is none other to whom I could say this.” She paused, biting her lips, her eyes searching his face. “Katharine had a daughter, and then…all those miscarriages! George, I wonder, might it not be that the King cannot breed sons?”

He stared at her.

“I understand not,” he said.

“Not one son,” she said, “but Richmond. And Richmond…have you noticed? There is a delicate air about him; I do not think he will live to a great age. He is the King’s only son. Then there is Mary who is normal, but Mary is a girl and they say that girls survive at birth more easily than boys. There is my own Elizabeth; she is also a girl…” She covered her face with her hands. “And all those still-born boys, and all those boys who lived to breathe for an hour or so before they died…George, was it due to any weakness in Katherine, think you, or was it…?”

He silenced her with a look. He read the terror behind her words.

She said in a whisper: “He is not wholly well…The place on his leg…” She closed her eyes and shivered. “One feels unclean…” She shivered again. “George, what if…he…cannot have sons?”

He clenched his hands, begging her with his eyes to cease such talk. He got up and strode to the door. Jane was in the corridor, coming towards the room. He wondered, had she heard that? Had she heard him rise from his seat and stride to the door? Had she retreated a few paces from the door, and then, just as it opened, commenced to walk leisurely towards it? He could not tell from her face; her eyes glistened; she had been weeping. It seemed to him that she was always weeping. He would have to be careful with her; he was sure she could be dangerous.

“Oh…Jane…I was just telling Anne…”

Anne threw a haughty glance at her sister-in-law, but Jane did not care, as George was smiling at her.

“Come inside,” said George.

Jane went in, and the three of them sat together; but Anne would not speak of this matter before Jane. She wondered at her brother’s show of friendship for his wife. Could it be that he was reconciling himself to his unhappy marriage, trying to make something out of it at last?

The King hummed a snatch of a song. Anne watched him. He sparkled with jewels; he looked enormous; he was getting corpulent, he was no longer the handsomest prince in Christendom; he was no longer the golden prince. He was a coarse man whose face was too red, whose eyes were bloodshot, and whose leg was a hideously unwholesome ulcer. His eyes were gleaming; he was the lover now, and she remembered the lover well. How often had she seen that look in his eyes! Always before, the look had been for her. Strange indeed to know his desires were fixed on someone else—strange and terrifying.

She said: “The song is charming. Your own?”

He smiled. She was reclining on the bed he had given her before her confinement. It was a beautiful bed, he thought. By God, she should think herself lucky to have such a fine bed! He doubted whether there was such another bed in the world. Its splendor suited her, he thought indulgently. Anne! There was no one like her, of course; not even little…Well, he had never thought she was, but she was sweet, and Anne was fractious and could be maddening—and a man needed a change, if but to prove his manhood. He felt tender towards Anne at moments like this, when she said: “The song is charming. Your own?” It was when those great black eyes of hers seemed to look right through him and see more of his mind than he cared for anyone to see, that he was angry with her. She was more clever than a woman ought to be! Learned foreigners delighted to talk to her of the new Lutheran theories, and did great homage to her because she could converse naturally and easily with them. He liked that not. Any glory that came to a queen should come through her king. Her beauty might be admired; the splendid clothes she wore, also; but her cleverness, her sharp retorts that might be construed as gibes…No, no; they angered him.

He would have her keep in mind that he had raised her up, that she owed all she now enjoyed to him. By God, there were moments when she would appear to forget this! She could please him still, could make him see that there never had been any like her, nor ever would be. That in itself irritated him; it bound him, and he did not like to be bound. He could think with increasing longing of the days before he had known Anne, before this accursed leg began to trouble him, when he was a golden-haired, golden-bearded giant of a man, excelling all others in any sport that could be named; riding hard, eating, drinking, loving, all in a grander manner than that of other men; with Wolsey—dear old Wolsey—to take over matters of state. She had killed Wolsey as surely as if she had slain him with her own hands, since but for her Wolsey would have been alive to this day.

More was in the Tower. And she had done this. And yet…there was none could satisfy him as she could; haughty, aloof, as she well knew how to be, always he must feel the longing to subdue her. Sometimes his feeling for her was difficult to explain; sudden anger and fury she aroused in him, and then as suddenly desire, blinding desire that demanded satisfaction at any price. Nay, there was no one like her, but she had cut him off from the days of his glowing manhood. He had met her and changed from that bright youth; during the years of his faithfulness he had been steadily undergoing a change; now he would never be the same man again.

But enough of introspection! He was trying hard to regain his youth. There was one—and she soon to be in his arms, looking up at him with sweet humility—who would assure him that he was the greatest of men as well as the mightiest of kings; who asked for nothing but the honor of being his mistress. Sweet balm to the scorching wounds the black-eyed witch on the bed had given him. But at the moment the witch was sweetly complimenting him, and he had ever found her irresistible in that mood. The other could wait awhile.

“My own, yes,” he said. “You shall hear me sing it, but not now.”

“I shall await the hearing with pleasure.”

He looked at her sharply. Did she mock? Did she like his songs? Did she compare them with her brother’s, with Wyatt’s, with Surrey’s? Did she think they suffered by comparison?

She was smiling very sweetly. Absently she twirled a lock of her hair. Her eyes were brilliant tonight, and there was a flush in her cheeks. He was taken aback at the contemplation of her beauty, even though he had come to know it too familiarly.

The little one would be awaiting him. Her homage was very sweet. He would sing his song to her, and have no doubts of her approval—but for that reason it was not as sweet as Anne’s. She thought him wonderful. She was not clever; a woman should not be clever; her mission in life was to please her lord. And yet…he was proud of his Queen. But what matter? It was but manly to love; there was little harm in a dash of light loving here and there; the ladies expected it, and a king should please his subjects.

“Henry…” she said. He paused, patting the diamond which was the centre button of his coat. “There is something I would say to you.”

“Can it not wait?”

“I think you would rather hear it now.”

“Then tell me quickly.”

She sat up on the bed and held out her hands to him, laughing.

“But it is news I would not care to hurry over.” She was watching his face eagerly.

“What!” said the King. “Anne…what meanest thou?”

He took her hands, and she raised herself to a kneeling position.

“Tell me,” she said, putting her face close to his, “what news would you rather I gave, what news would please you more than any?”

His heart was beating wildly. Could it be what he had longed to hear? Could it really be true? And why not? It was the most natural…it was what all expected, what all were waiting for.

“Anne!” he said.

She nodded.

He put his arms about her; she slid hers about his neck.

“I thought to please you,” she said.

“Please me!” He was hilarious as a schoolboy. “There could be naught to give me greater pleasure.”

“Then I am happy.”

“Anne, Anne, when…?”

“Not for eight long months. Still…”

“You are sure?”

She nodded, and he kissed her again.

“This pleases me more than all the jewels in the world,” he told her.

“It pleases me as much as it pleases you. There have been times of late…when I have felt…”

He stopped her words by kissing her.

“Bah! Then thou wert indeed a foolish girl, Anne!”

“Indeed I was. Tell me, were you about to go on an important mission? For I would fain talk of this…”

He laughed. “Important mission! By God! I would desert the most important of missions to hear this news!”

He had forgotten her already, thought Anne exultantly. Here was the tender lover returned. It had only needed this.

He did not leave her, not that night, nor the next. He had forgotten the demure little girl; he had merely been passing the time with her. Anne was with child. This time a son; certainly a son. Why not! All was well. He had done right to marry Anne. This was God’s answer!

Henry felt sure of his people’s joy, once his son was born. It would but need that to have done with the murmuring and grumbling. He forgot the girl with whom he had been pleasing himself; he was the loyal husband now; the father of a daughter, about to be the father of a son. He gave up the idea of going to France, and instead went on a tour through the midlands with Anne—belligerent and mighty. This is the Queen I have chosen. Be good subjects, and love her—or face my wrath!

Subjects en masse were disconcerting. A king might punish a few with severity, but what of that? The Dacres affair was proof that the people were not with Anne. Dacres was devoted wholeheartedly to the Catholic cause, and thus to Katharine; and for this reason, Northumberland—still a great admirer of Anne—had quarreled with the man and accused him of treason. To Cromwell and Cranmer it seemed a good moment to conduct Lord Dacres to the block, so they brought him to London, where he was tried by his peers. The Lords, with unexpected courage and with a defiance unheard of under Henry’s despotic rule, had acquitted Dacres. This would seem to Henry like treason on the part of the peers, but it was much more; it meant that these gentlemen knew they had public support behind them, and that was backed up by hatred of Anne—whether she was with child or not made no difference. It shook Henry; it shattered Anne and her supporters. It seemed that everyone was waiting now for the son she promised to produce; that of course would make all the difference; Henry could never displace the mother of his son. Once Anne gave birth to a boy, who showed some promise of becoming a man, she was safe; until then she was tottering.

Anne was very uneasy; more so than anyone, with perhaps the exception of George, could possibly guess. She would wander in the grounds around Greenwich, and brood on the future. She wished to be alone; sometimes when she was in the midst of a laughing crowd she would steal away. Anne was very frightened.

Each day she hoped and prayed for some sign that she might be pregnant; there was none. She had planned boldly, and it seemed as if her plan had failed. What will become of me? she wondered. She could not keep her secret much longer.

She had believed, when she told the King that she was with child, that soon she must be. Why was it that she was not? Something told her the fault lay with him, and this idea was supported by Katharine’s disastrous experiences and her own inability to produce another child. There was Elizabeth, but Elizabeth would not do. She murmured: “Oh, Elizabeth, my daughter, why wast thou not born a boy!”

She watched the clouds drifting across the summer sky; she looked at the green leaves on the trees and murmured: “Before they fall I shall have to tell him. A woman cannot go on for ever pretending she is pregnant!”

Perhaps by then…Yes, that had been the burden of her thoughts…Perhaps by then that which had been a fabrication of her tortured mind would be a reality. Perhaps by then there would be a real child in her womb, not an imaginary one.

The days passed. Already people were glancing at her oddly. Is the Queen well? How small she is! Can she really be with child? What think you? Is something wrong? Is this her punishment for the way she treated poor Queen Katharine?

She sat under the trees, praying for a child. How many women had sat under these trees, frightened because they were to bear a child! And now here was one who was terrified because she was not to bear one, because she, feeling herself in a desperate situation, had seen in such a lie a possible way out of her difficulties.

Her sister Mary came and sat beside her. Mary was plumper, more matronly, but still the same Mary although perhaps overripe now. Still unable to say no, I’ll warrant, thought Anne, and was suddenly filled with sharp envy.

“Anne,” said Mary, “I am in great trouble.”

Anne’s lips curled; she wondered what Mary’s trouble was, and how it would compare with her own.

“What trouble?” asked Anne, finding sudden relief as her thoughts necessarily shifted from herself to her sister.

“Anne, dost know Stafford?”

“What!” cried Anne. “Stafford the gentleman usher?”

“The very one,” said Mary. “Well…he and I…”

“A gentleman usher!” said Anne.

“All the world seemed to set so little by me, and he so much,” said Mary. “I thought I could take no better way out but to take him and forsake all other ways.”

“The King will never consent,” said Anne.

“Perhaps when he knows I am to have a child…”

Anne turned on her sister in horror. Mary had been a widow for five years. Naturally one would not expect her to live a nun’s life, but one did expect her to show a little care. Oh, thought Anne, how like Mary! How like her!

Mary hastened to explain. “He was young, and love overcame us. And I loved him as he did me….”

Anne was silent.

“Ah!” went on Mary, “I might have had a man of higher birth, but I could never have had one who could have loved me so well…nor a more honest man.”

Anne looked cold, and Mary could not bear coldness now; she did not know of her sister’s trials; she pictured her happy and secure, rejoicing in her queenly state. It seemed unkind to have from her no word for reassurance.

Mary stood up. “I had rather be with him than I were the greatest queen!” she cried, and began to run across the grass into the palace.

Anne watched her. Mary—a widow—was with child, and afraid because of it. Anne—a queen and a wife—was not, and far, far more afraid than Mary could understand, because of it! Anne threw back her head and laughed immoderately; and when she had done, she touched her checks and there were tears upon them.

When Anne told Henry there was not to be a child, he was furious.

“How could such a mistake occur!” he demanded suspiciously, his little eyes cold and cruel.

“Simply!” she flared back. “And it did, so why argue about it!”

“I have been tricked!” he cried. “It seems that God has decreed I shall never have a son.”

And he turned away, for there was a certain speculation in his eyes which he did not wish her to see. He went to the demure little lady-in-waiting.

“Ha!” he said. “It seems a long time since I kissed you, sweetheart!”

She was meek, without reproaches. How different from Anne! he thought, and remembered resentfully how she had commanded him during the days of his courtship, and how when she had become his mistress she continued to berate him.

By God, he thought, I’ll have none of that. Who brought her up, eh? Who could send her back whence she came? Women should be meek and submissive, as this one was.

Anne watched angrily, trying to follow her brother’s advice and finding herself unable to do so.

“Madge,” she said to her cousin, a lovely girl of whom she was very fond, “go to that girl and tell her I would see her this minute.”

Madge went, and awaiting the arrival of the girl, Anne paced up and down, trying to compose herself, trying to rehearse what she would say to her.

The girl came, eyes downcast, very frightened, for Anne’s eyes were blazing in spite of her efforts to remain calm.

“I would have you know,” said Anne, “that I have been hearing evil reports of my ladies. I am sending you back to your home. Be ready to start as soon as you hear from me that you are to do so.”

The girl scarcely looked at Anne; she blushed scarlet, and her lips quivered.

Sly creature! thought Anne angrily. And she the king’s mistress! What he can see in the girl I do not understand, except that she is a trifle pretty and very meek. Doubtless she tells him he is wonderful! Her lips twisted scornfully, and then suddenly she felt a need to burst into tears. Here was she, the Queen, and must resort to such methods to rid herself of her rivals! Was everyone in this court against her? Her father was anxious now, she knew, wondering how long she would retain her hold on the King; Norfolk no longer troubled to be courteous; they had quarrelled; he had stamped out of the room on the last occasion she had seen him, muttering that of her which she would prefer not to remember; Suffolk watched, sly, secretly smiling; the Princess Mary was openly defiant. And now this girl!

“Get you gone from my presence!” said Anne. “You are banished from court.”

The girl’s reply was to go straight to the King, who immediately countermanded the Queen’s order.

He left the girl and went to Anne.

“What means this?” he demanded.

“I will not have you parade your infidelities right under my nose!”

“Madam!” roared the King. “I would have you know I am master here!”

“Nevertheless,” she said, “you cannot expect me to smile on your mistresses and to treat them as though they were the most faithful of my attendants.”

He said coarsely: “If that is what I wish, you shall do it…as others did before you!”

“You mistake me,” she answered.

“I mistake you not. From where do you derive your authority if not from me! Consider from what I lifted you. I have but to lift my finger to send you back whence you came!”

“Why not lift it then?” she blazed. “Your pretty little mistress doubtless would grace the throne better than I. She is so brilliant! Her conversation is so witty! The people would acclaim her. But, Henry, do you not think she might put you a little in the shade…. Such wit…such brilliance!”

He looked at her with smoldering eyes; there were occasions when he could forget he was a king and put his hands about that little neck, and press and press until there was no breath left in her. But a king does not do murder; others do it for him. It was a quick thought that passed through his mind and was gone before he had time to realize it had been there.

He turned and strode out of the room.

Jane Rochford had overheard that quarrel. She was excited; it gave her a pleasurable thrill to know that Anne was having difficulties with her husband, just as she herself had with George, though with a difference.

Jane crept away and came back later, begging a word with the Queen. Could the ladies be dismissed? Jane whispered. What she had to say was for Anne’s ears alone.

She expressed her sympathy.

“Such a sly wench! I declare she deliberately sets out to trap the King. All that modesty and reluctance…” Jane glanced sideways at Anne; had her barb struck a vulnerable spot? Oh, how did it feel, where you have shown reluctance to a king and complete indifference to the feelings of his wife, to find your position suddenly reversed; yourself the neglected wife and another careless of your feelings? Jane was so excited she could scarcely talk; she wanted to laugh at this, because it seemed so very amusing.

“But I have not come to commiserate with you, dear sister. I want to help. I have a plan. Were I to let her people know that she is in danger of disgracing herself—oh, I need not mention His Majesty—it might be a friendly warning…. I would try. I trow that, were she removed from court, the King would be the most loyal of husbands; and how can a woman get children when her husband has no time for her, but only for other women!”

Jane spoke vehemently, but Anne was too sick at heart to notice it. Everywhere she looked, disaster was threatening. She was young and healthy, but her husband was neither so young nor so healthy; she could not get a child, when the most urgent matter she had ever known was that she should first get with child, and that the child should be a son. The King’s health was doubtless to blame, but the King never blamed himself; when he was in fault he blamed someone else. There was evidence of that all about him, and had been for years. Francis had made an alarming move; he had begun to talk once more of a match between his son and Mary. What could that mean, but one thing! Mary was a bastard; how could a bastard marry the son of the King of France?

There was only one answer: The King of France no longer regarded Mary as a bastard. Her hopes had soared when Clement died and Paul III took his place; Paul had seemed more inclined to listen to reason, but what did she know of these matters? Only what it was deemed wise to tell her! Francis, whom she had regarded as a friend to herself, who had shown decided friendship when they had met at Calais, had decided it was unsafe to quarrel with Charles and with Rome. France was entirely Catholic—that was the answer. Francis could not stand out against his people; his sympathy might be with Anne, but a king’s sympathy must be governed by diplomacy; Francis was showing a less friendly face to Anne. She saw now that the whole of Europe would be against the marriage; that would have meant nothing, had Henry been with her, had Henry been the devoted lover he had remained during the waiting years. But Henry was turning from her; this sly, meek, pretty girl from the opposite camp was proof of that. She was filled with terror, for she remembered the negotiations which had gone on before news of a possible divorce had reached Katharine. Everyone at court had known before Katharine; they had whispered of The King’s Secret Matter. Was the King now indulging once more in a secret matter? Terrified, she listened to Jane; she was ready to clutch at any straw. That was foolish—she might have known Jane was no diplomatist. Jane’s art was in listening at doors, slyly setting one person against another.

Henry discovered what Jane was about.

“What!” he shouted. “This is the work of Rochford’s wife. She shall be committed to the Tower by the Traitor’s Gate.” She wept and stormed, cursing herself for her folly. To think she had come to this by merely trying to help Anne! What would become of her now? she wondered. If ever she got out of the Tower alive, she would be clever, subtle…. Once before she had been careless; this time she had been equally foolish, but she had learned her lesson at last. George would bear her no gratitude for what she had done; he would say: “What a clumsy fool you are, Jane!” Or if he did not say it, he would think it.

All this she had done for George really…and he cared not, had no feeling for her at all. “Methinks I begin to hate him!” she murmured, and looked through her narrow windows onto the cobbles beneath.

George came to see his sister; he was secretly alarmed.

“Jane has been sent to the Tower!” he said. Anne told him what had happened. “This grows mightily dangerous, Anne.”

“You to tell me that! I assure you I know it but too well.”

“Anne, you must go very carefully.”

“You tell me that persistently,” she answered pettishly. “What must I do now? I have gone carefully, and I have been brought to this pass. What is happening to us? Mary in disgrace, our father quite often absenting himself from court, shamefaced, hardly looking at me! And Uncle Norfolk becoming more and more outspoken! You, alarmed that I will not be cautious, and I…”

“We have to go carefully, that is all. We have to stop this affair of the King’s with this girl; it must not be allowed to go on.”

“I care not! And it were not she, it would be another.”

“Anne, for God’s sake listen to reason! It matters not if it were another one; it only matters that it should be she!”

“You mean…there is more in this than a simple love affair?”

“Indeed I do.”

Madge Shelton looked in at the door.

“I beg your pardon. I had thought Your Majesty to be alone.” She and George exchanged cousinly greetings, and Madge retired.

“Our cousin is a beautiful girl,” said George.

Anne looked at him sharply.

He said: “You’ll hate what I am about to say, Anne. It is a desperate remedy, but I feel it would be effective. Madge is delightful, so young and charming. The other affair may well be beginning to pall.”

“George! I do not understand….”

“We cannot afford to be over-nice, Anne.”

“Oh, speak frankly. You mean—throw Madge to the King, that he may forget that other…”

“It is not a woman we have to fight, Anne. It is a party!”

“I would not do it,” she said. “Why, Madge…she is but a young girl, and he…You cannot know, George. The life he has lived….”

“I do know. Hast ever thought we are fighting for thy life?”

She tried to throw off her fears with flippancy. She laughed rather too loudly; he noticed uneasily that of late she had been given to immoderate laughter.

“Ever since I had thought to be Queen, there have been those ready to thrust prophecies under my eyes. I mind well one where I was depicted with my head cut off!” She put her hands about her throat. “Fret not, George. My husband, after the manner of most, amuses himself. He was all eagerness for me before our marriage; now?” She shrugged her shoulders and began to laugh again.

“Be silent,” said George. “What of Elizabeth?”

She stopped laughing.

“What of Elizabeth?”

“It has been decreed that Mary Tudor is a bastard, because the King tired of her mother and decided—as she could no longer hope to give him a son—that he was no longer married to her. Oh, we know of his conscience, we know of his treatise…we know too well the story. But, Anne, we are alone and we need not fear each other…. Ah! What a good thing it is to have in this world one person of whom you need not cherish the smallest fear! Anne, I begin to think we are not so unlucky, you and I.”

“Please stop,” she said. “You make me weep.”

“This is no time for tears. I said Mary has been decreed a bastard, though her mother is of Spain and related to the most powerful man in Europe. Anne, you are but the daughter of the Earl of Wiltshire—Sir Thomas Boleyn not long since—and he was only raised to his earldom to do honor to you; he could be stripped of that honor easily enough. He is no Emperor, Anne! Dost see what I mean? Mary was made a bastard; what of Elizabeth? Who need fear her most humble relations?”

“Yes,” said Anne breathlessly. “Yes!”

“If the King has no sons, Elizabeth will be Queen of England…or Mary will! Oh, Anne, you have to fight this, you have to hold your place for your daughter’s sake.”

“You are right,” she said. “I have my daughter.”

“Therefore…”

She nodded. “You are right, George. I think you are often right. I shall remember what you said about our being lucky. Yes, I think we are; for who else is there, but each other!”

The next day she sent Madge Shelton with a message to the King. From a window she watched the girl approach him, for he was in the palace grounds. Yes, he was appreciative; who could help being so, of Madge! Madge had beauty; Madge had wit. She had made the king laugh; he was suggesting they should take a turn round the rose garden.

Anne soothed her doubts with the reflection that Madge was a saucy wench, able to take care of herself, and had probably had love affairs before. Besides…there was Elizabeth!

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk was uneasy. Rumors came from the court, and one could not ignore them. All was not well with the Queen. She herself had quarreled with her stepson, the Duke, because he had spoken as she did not care to hear him speak, and it had been of the Queen. I never did like the man, she mused. Cruel, hard opportunist! One could tell which way the wind was blowing, by what he would have to say. Which way was the wind blowing? She liked not these rumors.

She was to be state governess to the Princess Elizabeth, a further sign of Anne’s friendship for her. “I do hope the dear child is well and happy. It is a terrible trial to be a queen, and to such a king!” she murmured to herself.

The Duchess was fractious in her own household. Those girls were noisy in their room at night, and she had heard it whispered that they were over-free with the young men.

She sent for Mary Lassells, whom she did not like overmuch. The girl was of humble birth, apt to look sullen; she was really a serving-maid, and should not be with the ladies. I must see to that one day, thought the duchess, and filed the matter away in that mental pigeon-hole which was crammed full of forgotten notes.

“Mary Lassells,” she said, when the girl came to her, “there is much noise in the ladies’ sleeping apartments at night. These ladies are under my care, and as since my granddaughter’s coronation I find myself with less and less leisure, I am going to take a few precautions to make sure of correct behavior on the part of these young people.”

The girl was smiling primly, as though to indicate that there was every reason for the Duchess to take precautions. This angered the Duchess; she did not wish to be reminded that she had been lax; she would have preferred the girl to look as though this were a quite unnecessary precaution being taken by an over-careful duenna.

“It will be your duty, Mary Lassells, every night when the ladies have retired, to see that the key of their apartment is placed in the lock outside the door. Then at a fixed hour I shall send someone to lock the door, and the key will be brought to me.”

The Duchess sat back in her chair, well pleased.

“I think that will be a very excellent plan, Your Grace,” said Mary Lassells unctuously.

“Your opinion was not asked, Mary Lassells,” said the Duchess haughtily. “That will do. Now remember please, and I will send someone for the key this very night.”

Mary said nothing. It was shocking to consider what went on in that room at night. Catherine Howard behaved quite shamelessly now with Francis Derham; he would bring fruit and wine for her, and they would sit on her bed and laugh and chatter, telling everyone that as they were really married there was no harm in what they were doing. Derham was very much in love with the child—that was obvious—and she with him; he salved his conscience by pretending they were married. It was very silly, thought Mary Lassells, and certainly time such wickedness was stopped.

They were planning for tonight. Let them plan! What a shock for them, when they were waiting to receive their lovers, to find the door locked, keeping them out! And so would it be every night. No more games, no more of such wicked folly.

Though Manox never came to the room now, she often thought of him. Some said he was sorely troubled because he had lost little Catherine Howard. And she not fourteen! Thirteen at the most. Was ever such crass wickedness allowed to go unpunished! She will go to hell and suffer eternal torment when she dies, I’ll swear! And Mary Lassells felt happier at the thought.

They were all laughing, chattering in their silly way, when Mary Lassells went to the door to obey the Duchess’s instructions. “Where go you?” asked one girl.

“Merely to act on Her Grace’s orders.” Mary put the key in the outer lock. Inside the room they heard her exchanging a few words with someone outside the door. Mary came back into the room, and the door was immediately locked on the outside.

There was a chorus of excitement. “What means this?” “Is it a joke?” “What said you, Mary Lassells?” “Why did you take the key?”

Mary Lassells faced them, her prim mouth working. “Her Grace the Duchess is much displeased. She has heard the laughing and chatter that goes on here of nights. She has taken me on one side and told me what she will do. Every night the door of this apartment is to be locked and the key taken to her.”

There were cries of rage.

“Mary Lassells! You have been bearing tales!”

“Indeed I have not!”

“What can one expect of a cook’s daughter!”

“I am not a cook’s daughter.”

“Oh, well…something such!”

“This is shameful. Her Grace merely asked me to put the key outside…. I suppose because she sees I am more virtuous than the rest of you.”

Dorothy Barwicke said: “Do you swear, Mary Lassells, that you have said nothing to Her Grace of what happens in this room?”

“I swear!”

“Then why…?”

“She has heard the noise in here. She says too that she has heard whispers of what goes on…. Doubtless the servants….”

“They may have heard the gentlemen creeping up the stairs!” said one girl with a giggle. “I declare Thomas made one devil of a row last time.”

“The truth remains,” said Mary Lassells, “that you are under suspicion. I only hope Her Grace does not think I have been a party to your follies!”

“Impossible!”

“You would find it difficult, Mary, to discover one who would be a partner.”

The girls were rocking on their beds, laughing immoderately.

“Poor Mary!” said Catherine. “I am sure Manox likes you very well.”

Everyone shrieked with laughter at that. Catherine was hurt; she had not meant to be unkind. She had seen Manox and Mary together before she had broken with him, and she had thought they seemed friendly. She would have liked Manox to find someone he could care for. Mary too. It seemed a satisfactory settlement, to Catherine.

Mary threw her a glance of hatred.

“Well,” said Dorothy Barwicke, “this is an end of our little frolics…unless…”

“Unless what?” cried several voices.

“There are some very rash and gallant gentlemen among our friends; who knows, one might find a way of stealing the keys!”

“Stealing the keys!” The adventures would have an additional spice if keys had first to be stolen.

The young ladies settled into their beds and talked for a long time. Mary Lassells lay in hers, trembling with rage against them all, and particularly against Catherine Howard.

In his prison in the Tower of London, Margaret Roper stood before her father. He was hollow-eyed, but he was smiling bravely, and she saw that he was more serene in his mind than he had been for a long time. Margaret flung herself at him, reproaches on her lips for those who had brought him to this, for her hatred of them she could not express in his presence, knowing it would disturb him.

They could only look at each other, drinking in each detail of the well-loved faces, knowing that only with the greatest good luck could they hope for another interview. He was braver than she was. Perhaps, she thought, it is easier to die than to be left. He could laugh; she could not. When she would have spoken, tears ran from her eyes.

He understood her feelings. Had he not always understood her?

“Let me look at thee, Meg! Thou hast been too long in the sun. There are freckles across thy nose. Look after the children, Meg. Let them be happy. Meg, thou and I may speak frankly together.”

She nodded. She knew that all pretense between them was at an end. He would not say to her, as he might have said to any of the others: “This will pass!” They were too close; they could hide nothing. He knew that it was but a matter of time before he must lay his head on the block.

“Take care of the children, Meg. Frighten them not with gloomy tales of death. Tell them of bright chariots and of beauty. Make them see death as a lovely thing. Do this for me, Meg. Grieve not that I must leave this gloomy prison. My spirit is enclosed in a shell. It longs for the hatching. It longs to be born. Oh, let that shell be cracked. What matter by whom, by the King or his mistress!”

“Speak not of her, Father…But for her…”

He must lay his hands on her lips, and say a word for the creature.

“Judge her not, Meg. For how do we know what she may be suffering at this moment?”

She burst out: “At the court there is sport and dances. What do they care that you—the noblest of men—shall die! They must amuse themselves; they must destroy those who would stand in the way of their pleasure. Father, do not ask me not to curse them—for I do, I do!”

“Poor Anne Boleyn!” he said sadly. “Alas, Meg, it pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs, but ’twill not be long ere her head will dance the like dance.”

He was saint indeed, thought Margaret, for he could defend her who was to cause his death; he could be sorry for her, could weep a little for her. He talked of the King more frankly than she had ever heard him spoken of. He said there was always cruelty in a man who cannot restrain his passions.

“Be not troubled, sweet daughter, even when you see my head on London Bridge. Remember it is I who will look down on thee and feel pity.”

He asked of family affairs, of the garden, of the house, of the peacocks. He could laugh; he could even jest. And sick at heart, yet comforted, she left him.

After his trial she saw him brought back to the Tower. He walked with his head erect; though she noticed his clothes were creased and looked shabby; well she remembered the gold chain ornamented with double roses, the dark green coat with its fur collar and big sleeves which he favored as his hands were of awkward shape; she looked at his hands, loving him afresh for his one vanity. Anger surged through her that they should have made him walk between the guards, their bills and halberts ready lest he should attempt an escape. Fools, to think he would try to escape! Did they not know he welcomed this, that he had said to Will: “I am joyful because the first step which is the worst and most difficult, is taken!” Had he not said that to stand out against the King was to lose one’s body, but to submit to him was to lose one’s soul!

She ran to him, breaking through the guards; she flung her arms about his neck. And the guards turned away that they might not see this which brought tears to their eyes.

“Meg!” he whispered. “For Christ’s sake don’t unman me!”

She remembered nothing more until she was lying on the ground while those about her chafed her hands and whispered words of comfort; she was conscious of nothing but the hateful sultry July heat, and the fact that she would never see him alive again.

From the Tower he wrote to her, using a piece of coal, to tell her which day he would be executed. He could not forbear to jest even then. “It will be St. Thomas’s Eve, a day very meet and convenient for me. And I never liked your manners better than when you kissed me last. For I like when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy.”

She was to go to his burial. The King had given written consent—and this was a privilege—providing that at his execution Sir Thomas would promise not to use many words.

So he died; and his head was impaled on London Bridge to show the people he was a traitor. But the people looked at it with anger; they murmured sullenly; for these people knew they looked at the head of one who was more saint than traitor.

Henry was uneasy; he was tired of women. Women should be a pleasant diversion; matters of state should be those affairs to claim the attention of a king.

The French King was trying to renew negotiations for a marriage with Mary. More was in prison awaiting execution; so was Fisher. He had postponed execution of these men, knowing of the popular feeling towards them. He had ever been afraid of popular feeling.

Anne colored all his thoughts; he was angry with her who had placed him in this position; angry with his desire for her, brief though it might be, without which his life would be incomplete. Anne had brought him to this pass; he could wish she had never entered his life, yet he could not imagine it without her. He hated her; he loved her. She was a disturbance, an irritation; he could never escape from her; he fancied he never would; worse still, he was not entirely sure that he wanted to. Obviously a most unfortunate state of affairs for a mighty king to find himself in. He had broken with Rome for Anne’s sake; the Pope’s name had been struck from the prayer books, and it was not mentioned at Divine Service; yet in the streets the people never ceased to talk of the Pope, and with reverence. Wolsey was gone, and with his going, the policy of England was changed. Wolsey it was who had believed that England must preserve the balance of power in Europe; Henry had pursued a new policy, he had cut off England from Europe. England stood alone.

Those matters, which had once been the concern of the Cardinal’s, were now the King’s. Cromwell was sly and cunning, but a servant, no leader; Cromwell did what he was told. Why should a man with so much on his shoulders be pestered by women! Madge Shelton was a bright wench, but he had had enough of her. Anne was Anne…none like her, but a witch—a nagging witch at that. Too clever, trying to dictate to England through him; advising rashness here, there, everywhere. This state of affairs was such as to make a man’s blood—which was ever ready to simmer—bubble and boil over.

He was going to be firm. Anne could not get children; he would be better without Anne; she disturbed him, distracted him from state matters. Women were for bedtime, not to sidle between a king and his country.

The people were dissatisfied. There were too many noble lords ready to support the Catholic cause, possibly conspiring with Chapuys. These were not dangerous at the moment, but there were inevitable perils in such a situation. He had his daughter Mary watched; he believed there was a plot afoot to smuggle her out of the country to the Emperor. What if that warrior thought to raise an army against the King, with the replacement of Katharine and Mary as its cause! How many nobles of England, who now did honor to its King, would slip over to the Emperor’s banner? Henry asked himself uneasily. His conscience told him that he had embarked on this matter of divorce that he might produce a son and save England from civil war, but he had produced no son, and his actions had put England nearer to civil war than she had been since the conflicts between the houses of York and Lancaster.

He sounded a few of his most trusted counsellors on a new line of action. What if he divorced Anne? It looked as if she could not have a son. Might not this be a sign from Almighty God that the union with Anne had not found favor in the sight of heaven? It was astonishing; a healthy girl to be so barren. One daughter! One pretended pregnancy! His lips curled. How she had fooled him! How she continued to fool him! How, when he was thinking he would be better without her, she would lure him and tempt him, so that instead of occupying his mind with plans to rid himself of her, he found himself making love to her.

His counsellors shook their heads at the suggestion of a second divorce. There were points beyond which even the most docile men could not go, and the most despotic of kings could not carry them with him. Perhaps these men were thinking of Sir Thomas More and John Fisher, awaiting death stoically in the Tower; perhaps they were thinking that the people were murmuring against the doings of the King.

Divorce Anne he might, his counsellors thought, but only on condition that he took Katharine back.

Katharine! That made the King roar like a wounded animal. Katharine back! Anne angered him, Anne plagued him, but at least she excited him. Let matters rest. Not for anything would he have Katharine back.

These matters all tended to arouse the wrath of the King. The new Pope aggravated him still further, by raising John Fisher—a man who was in prison for treason—to cardinal’s rank. When Henry heard the news, he foamed with rage.

“I’ll send the head to Rome for the cap!” he cried fiercely. He had had enough. Fisher was executed. Sir Thomas More was to follow. Nor were these the only traitors; those monks of the Charterhouse who had refused to acknowledge him Supreme Head of the Church were to be punished with the utmost severity. This should be a sign to the people that all those who would not do the will of Henry the Eighth of England should suffer thus. He would have the people heartily aware of this. There should be public executions; there should be hangings; there should be burnt flesh offerings to the supremacy of the King. Murder was in the King’s heart; he murdered now with a greater ferocity than when he had murdered men like Empson, Dudley, and Buckingham; the murders of these men were calculated, cold-blooded; now he murdered in revenge and anger. The instruments of torture in those gloomy dungeons of pain beneath the gray buildings of the Tower should be worked night and day. The King was intent on the complete subjugation of all who raised a voice against him.

A pall of smoke hung over London. The people huddled together, watching the mutilation, listening to the shrieks and groans of martyrs.

The Continent was aghast at the news of the death of Fisher and More; the Church infuriated by the murder of Fisher, the political world shocked beyond expression by that of More. The Vatican found its voice, and sent forth vituperation against the monster of England. The Emperor, astonished at the stupidity of a king who could rid himself of the ablest man in the country, said: “Had we been master of such a servant, we would rather have lost the fairest city in our dominion than such a counsellor.”

Europe mourned wise men, but London mourned its martyrs, and the King was shaken, afraid. But his blood was up; he was shrewd enough to know that any sign of weakness would not help him now; he had gone too far to retrace his steps. When More had said that a man who cannot restrain his passions is essentially cruel, he spoke the truth. The real Henry emerged from behind the fair, flushed, good-tempered hail-fellow-well-met personality which his people—as good Englishmen—had admired so long. The cold, cruel, implacable, relentless egoist was exposed.

But there was still the conscience, which could make him tremble. “What I have done,” he told it, “has been done for Anne.” He did not say “I am a great hater!” but “I am a great lover.”

They brought the news of Thomas More’s execution to him while he played at the tables with Anne; as he sat opposite her, he pictured beside her brilliant beauty the calm ascetic face of the man whose death he had just brought about.

He stood up. He had no stomach for the game now. He knew that he had murdered a great man, a good man; and he was afraid.

Then he saw Anne sitting there opposite him. The answer to his conscience was clear; he knew how to stifle that persistent voice inside him.

He said: “Thou art the cause of this man’s death!”

Then he left the table and shut himself in his private chamber in sudden fright which nothing would allay.

Crossing London Bridge, people could not look up without seeing the ghastly sights exhibited there. The heads of brave men dripped blood; to this pass had their bravery brought them, since it was unwise to be brave in the reign of bluff King Hal.

On the lips of all were the names of More and Fisher. These men were saints enshrined in the hearts of the people; there could be no open worship of such saints. Many of the monks of the Charterhouse preferred death to admitting that Henry was Supreme Head of the Church. A large number of them went to the Tower; some were tortured on the rack, that they might betray their friends; many found their way into the embrace of the Scavenger’s Daughter, that vile instrument recently invented by Thomas Skevington, which contracted the body in a manner exactly opposite to that of the rack, so that blood was forced from the nose and ears; some were hung from the ceilings of dungeons by their wrists, which were encased in gauntlets, until their hands were bleeding and paralyzed; some had their teeth forced out by the brakes; some were tortured with the thumbscrews or the bilboes. People whispered together of the dreadful things that befell these saintly men in the Tower of London. Some were chained in airless dungeons, and left to starve; some were paralyzed by continued confinement in one of those chambers called the Little Ease, the walls of which were so contrived that its inmate could neither walk, nor sit, nor lie full length; some were put into the Pit, a noisome deep cavern in which rats were as ferocious as wild beasts and lived on those human wrecks who, chained and helpless, standing knee deep in filthy water, must face them while being unable to defend themselves. Some of the more obstinate monks were given an execution which was public and shameful; taken to Tyburn, they were half-hanged, cut down, and while they were conscious their abdomens were ripped open and their bowels dragged forth from their mutilated bodies and burned. Even after death their bodies were further desecrated.

This, the King would have the people know, might be the fate of any who questioned his supremacy. The people of London heard the screams of the Anabaptists as the flames leaped from the faggots at their feet, scorching and frizzling their bodies. In Europe the people talked of the terror which had befallen England; they talked in hushed, shocked whispers. When Henry heard this he laughed savagely, calling to mind the Spaniards’ way of dealing with heretics and how, but a few months before, Francis and his family had marched through Paris chanting piously while Lutherans were burned before the doors of Notre Dame.

Henry knew how to suppress rebellion; he knew how to make the people knuckle under. “I will have this thing an it cost me my crown!” he had been known to say, and he meant it. He was strong and ruthless; all men trembled before him. He was no longer the young and lusty boy seeking pleasure while a cardinal ruled; he was master. He would force all to recognize that, however much blood should flow.

He had a plan now which intrigued him; it was to make Thomas Cromwell his Vicar-general, and as such let him visit all the churches and monasteries of England. The Supreme Head of the church would know the state of these monasteries; it worried his conscience that stories he had heard from time to time of the profligacy of the monks and nuns might have some truth in them! What if these monasteries were the bawdy houses he had often heard it whispered that they were! What if there were men living licentious lives, sheltered by their monks’ robes! Those nuns, wrapped up in the garments of piety—what of them? He remembered the case of Eleanor Carey, that relative of Anne’s who had had two illegitimate children by a priest. These things had come to light, and if there was one thing the Supreme Head of the Church of England would not tolerate in his land, it was immorality! He would suppress it, he would stamp it out! Once it had been no concern of his, but now by God’s will he was the head of the Church, and by God, he would put an end to all evil practices.

Thomas Cromwell should go to these places; he should bring back evidence of what he found—and Thomas Cromwell could always be relied upon to bring back the evidence that was expected of him—and if that evidence warranted the dissolution of these places, then dissolved they should be! A list of their valuables should Thomas bring back; it was said they had some fine treasures in their chests—jewels, works of art only suited to a king’s palace. This was a good plan; later he would talk with Cromwell.

From his palace he saw the smoke over London. This was done in the name of righteousness. The Anabaptists denied the divinity of Christ; they deserved to die.

In the courtyards of the palace men talked together in whispers. Something was afoot. The King was nervous today; there had been a time in the days of his youth when he had gone among his people unafraid, but now it was not so. If he stayed in a house, even for a night, he took a locksmith with him that new bolts might be put on the door of his sleeping apartment; he had the straw of his bed searched every night for hidden daggers.

“Now what?” he said, and leaning from his windows roared down to be told what fresh news was exciting them.

A little group of courtiers looked up at him in some alarm.

“There is some news. Hide it not!” he shouted.

“’Tis naught, Your Majesty, but that the head of Sir Thomas More is no longer on the bridge.”

“What!” cried the King, roaring, that none might guess his voice shook. “Who moved it then?”

There was no answer.

“Who moved it then?” he roared again.

“’Tis not known, Your Majesty…’Tis but known that it is gone.”

He shut the window. His knees trembled; the whole of his great body shook. The head of More the martyr had been removed from the bridge, where it should have remained with the heads of other traitors. What means this? What meant it? A miracle, was it? There had been One who had risen from the dead; what if this man, More, were such another!

He could see the shrewd, kind face, did he but close his eyes; he could recall the humor, the mocking kindliness. He remembered the man so well; often had he walked in the Chelsea garden, his arm about the fellow’s neck. He remembered when he had written his book denouncing Luther, who had worked with him, whose lucid style, whose perfect Latin knowledge had largely made the book. And because he had had need to show this man he could not disobey his master, he had murdered him. True he had not wielded the axe; true he had not been the one to place the head among the heads of traitors; but he was the murderer nevertheless. His old friend More—the brightest light in his realm! He remembered how the man had walked with him and Katharine on the terraces of the palace, and talked of the stars, pointing them out to the royal pair, for he and Katharine had been interested in astronomy then. Now he was dead, he who had never wanted to sun himself in the brilliance of court life; who would have preferred to live quietly in the heart of his family with his books. He was dead; and his head had disappeared. This might be a miracle, a sign!

Anne came in, saw that he was distressed, and was unusually soft and ready to comfort him.

“You have had some shock.”

He looked at her eagerly; she thought he had the air of a frightened boy who is afraid to be left in the dark.

“More’s head has gone from London Bridge!”

She was taken aback; she looked at him, wide-eyed; and they were drawn together in their fear.

“Anne,” he said groping for her hand, “what means this, thinkest thou?”

She took his hand and pressed it firmly; she forgot the miracle of the missing head, since the fear which had been with her night and day was evaporating. Henry needed her; at moments such as this, it was to her he turned; she had been too easily humiliated, too ready to show her humiliation. She had nothing to fear. She was the wife of a man who, having absolute power, would have his way, but a clever woman might manage him still. She could see her folly stretching right back to her coronation; she thought she saw why she had appeared to lose her power over him. Now here he was, trembling and afraid, superstitious in an age of superstition, lacking that courage which had made her the reckless creature she was.

She smiled at him.

“My lord, someone has removed the head.”

“But who would dare?”

“He was a man who had many friends, and one of these might be ready to take his head from where it belonged.”

“I see that, Anne.” He was feeling better already; he looked at her through softly sentimental eyes. She was very beautiful, and now she was gentle and very reassuring; she was clever too; the others paled quickly. When Anne reassured, there was a good deal that was truth in the reassurance; the others flattered; it was good to be with Anne. “That was where the head belonged,” he said fiercely. “He was a traitor, Anne.”

“As all who seek to disobey Your Majesty’s commands,” she said.

“Thou speakest truth. ’Twas a friend of his that took the head. By God, that in itself was a traitorous act, was it not!”

She stroked his hand.

“Indeed it was. There will be those simple people who ever look on traitors as saints. Mayhap it would be well to leave this matter. Why should it worry us? We know the man deserved to die.”

“By God, you’re right!” he cried. “’Tis a matter of small importance.”

He did not wish to leave her; she distracted his thoughts from the memory of that severed head with its kindly mocking eyes.

It was reconciliation. In the court it was said: “She has a power over him, which none other could exercise.”

Her enemies cursed her. If she but give him a son, they said, she is Queen of England till her death.

Chapuys wrote home to the Emperor, Charles, telling him that the King of England was over and over again unfaithful, but that the concubine was cunning and knew how to manage the King. It would be unwise to attach too much importance to his brief infatuations for court ladies.

Anne was preparing the most splendid banquet the court had yet seen. She was feverish with delight. She felt as though she had come through a nightmare of terror, and now here was the morning to prove that the shadows had been conjured up out of her imagination, that they had no existence in truth. How could she have been so foolish; how could she have believed that she who had held the King so well in check, could have lost control now! She was supreme; his need of her was passionate and lasting; now that—as her husband—he was conscious of the shackles that held him to her, all she need do was lengthen the tether. Her fault had been in trying to keep it as tight as a mistress might. All a wife needed was a little more subtlety, and it had taken her two years of doubts and nightmares to realize this. Let him wander away from her, let him dally with others—it would but be to compare them with his incomparable Queen.

She was gayer than she had ever been. She designed new costumes; she called to her the most brilliant courtiers to arrange an entertainment that should enchant the King; Witty Wyatt, subtle George, gentle Harry Norris, amusing Francis Bryan, Henry Howard, those gay courtiers Francis Weston and William Brereton; others too, all the brightest stars of the court clustered about her, and she the dazzling center as it used to be. The King was with her constantly; she planned and thrilled to her plans.

One day she found one of the youngest of the musicians sitting alone playing, and she paused to listen, delighting in his delicate touch, thinking, He is more than ordinarily good. She had Madge Shelton bring him to her. He was young and slender, a rather beautiful boy with long tapering fingers and dreamy, dark eyes.

“Her Majesty heard your music,” said Madge. “She thought it good.”

The boy was overcome with the honor of being noticed by the Queen, who smiled on him most graciously.

“I would have you play awhile,” she said. “I feel you could be of use to us in the revels, for it would seem to me that we have not so many musicians of your talent in the court that we can afford to leave out one who plays as you do.”

She was charming, because she at once saw that his admiration was not merely that which he would give to his Queen. Her long sleeves hung over the hand with its slight malformation; the other, with long, white, jewel-decked fingers, rested lightly on her chair. He could not take his wondering eyes from her, for he had never been so close to her before.

“What is his name?” she asked, when he had been dismissed.

“It is Smeaton, Your Majesty. Mark Smeaton.”

“He was poorly clad,” she said.

“He is one of the humbler musicians, Your Majesty.”

“See that he has money with which to procure himself clothes. He plays too well to be so shabbily attired. Tell him he may play before me; I will have a part for him to take at the entertainment.”

She dismissed him from her mind, and gave herself over to fresh plans. There was an air of lightheartedness among her friends; George seemed younger, excessively gay. The Queen herself was as sparkling as she had ever been when she was the King’s mistress. She was the center of the brilliant pageant, the pivot round which the wit and laughter revolved; she was the most lovely performer. The King watched the entertainment, his eyes for her alone. Anne! he thought, inwardly chuckling. By God, she was meant to be a Queen. She could amuse him, she could enchant him, she could divert him, she could cast unpleasant thoughts from his mind.

He had forgotten Fisher; More too almost, for the removal of his head from London Bridge had been no miracle but the bold action of his daughter, Margaret Roper, who had gone stealthily and by night. Anne had learned this, and brought him the news.

“By God!” he had cried. “’Tis a treasonable offense to go against the King’s command!” She had soothed him. “Let be! Let be! ’Twas a brave action. Doubtless the girl loved her father well. People are full of sentiment; they would not care that a girl should be punished because she loved her father well. Let us have done with this gruesome affair of a traitor’s head. To please me, I would ask Your Majesty not to pursue the matter.”

He had frowned and feigned to be considering it, knowing full well that his people would not care for interference with Margaret Roper; then she had wheedled, and kissed him, and he had patted her thighs and said: “Well then, sweetheart, since you ask it, it shall be done. But I like not treason…I like it not at all!” She had smiled, well pleased, and so had he. An unpleasant business was done with.

He watched her now—the loveliest woman in the court—and too many of these young profligates had their eyes upon her, ready to be over-bold an they dared. He liked to know that they fancied her, even while it filled him with this smoldering rage. He could laugh. None dared to give her more than covert looks, for it would be treason to cast over-desirous eyes on what belonged to the King; and well they knew this King’s method of dealing with traitors! He called to her, would have her sit by him, would let his hands caress her.

It was borne home to the Queen’s enemies that their hopes had been premature, and to her friends that they had feared too soon.

Catherine Howard was joyous as a lark; like the lively young grasshopper, she danced all through the summer months without a thought of winter. She was discovering that she was more than ordinarily pretty; she was the prettiest of all the ladies; she had, said some, a faint resemblance to her cousin the Queen. She developed a love of finery, and being kept short of decorative clothes or the money with which to provide herself with even the smallest addition to her wardrobe, she looked to her lover to provide these. Derham was only too delighted. He was enchanted by the lovely child, who was so very youthful at times, at others completely mature. He would provide her with many little luxuries besides—wines and sweetmeats, fruit and flowers. So when Catherine yearned to possess an ornament called the French Fennel, which was being worn by all the court ladies who would follow the latest fashion, Derham told her that he knew a little woman in London with a crooked back who was most skilled in the making of flowers of silk. Catherine begged him to get this done for her. “I will pay you when I have the means,” she told him, which set him smiling and begging her that it should be a present. And so it was, but when she had the precious ornament, she was afraid to wear it until she had let it be known that one of the ladies had given it to her, for the Duchess was more watchful than she had been at Horsham.

It was tiresome of the old lady to have taken the precaution of locking the chamber door each night. Derham was an adventurous young man; he was passionately in love. He was not going to let a key separate him from Catherine. A little planning, a little scheming, a little nodding and looking the other way by those who liked to see good sport, and it was not such a difficult matter to steal the key after it had been brought to the Duchess.

There was the additional spice of planning what should be done, should there be a sudden intrusion.

“You would have to hurry into the gallery and hide there!” said Catherine.

“That I could do with the greatest of ease!” said Derham.

He would come to the chamber at any hour of the night; it was a highly exciting adventure they were both enjoying.

The others watched, rather wistfully. Derham was such a handsome young man and so much in love with the child; there were some, such as Dorothy Barwicke and a newcomer, Jane Acworth, who whispered to each other that Catherine Howard was the sort who would always find men to love her. What use to warn her? She was too addicted to physical love to heed any warning. If she realized that the path she was treading might be dangerous, she might try to reform, but she would surely slip back. She was a lusty little animal, irresistible to men because she found them irresistible. Mary Lassells thought the Duchess should be told, in secret so that she could come up and catch them in the act, but the others were against this. They wanted no probings, nor inquiries. They pointed out that they would all be implicated—even Mary Lassells, since she had been months in the house and had not seen fit to warn Her Grace before.

The Duchess was less comfortable in her mind than she had been. Apart from the rumors she heard at court, she sensed the presence of intrigue in her own household. She watched Catherine, flaunting her new French Fennel. Heaven knew there were plenty of men all too eager to take advantage of a young girl. She saw something in Catherine’s face, something secret and knowledgeable, and the memory of it would recur in her uneasy thoughts. Her other granddaughter, she believed, was not happy; the Duchess preferred not to think of what might be happening at court; better to turn her attention to her own house. Were the young men too free with the girls? She would have to be arranging a marriage for young Catherine soon; when she next saw the Queen, she would have a word with her about this. In the meantime the greatest care must be exercised.

Sometimes the Duchess did not sleep very well; sometimes she would wake in the night and fancy she heard footsteps on the stairs, or a muffled burst of laughter overhead. She knew now that for some time she had been suspicious of what went on in the girls’ apartments; there were some over-bold wenches there, she believed. I must bestir myself; I must look into this. There is my little granddaughter, Catherine to be considered. That French Fennel…She had said she got it from Lady Brereton. Now did she? Would her ladyship give such a handsome gift? What if one of the young gentlemen was seeking Catherine’s favors by offering gifts! It was not a very pleasant reflection.

Forced by a sense of impending danger both at court and at Lambeth, she roused herself one night soon after twelve, and went to the place where the key of the ladies’ apartment should be. It was not there. Puffing and panting with the fear of what she would find if she went to the room, she nevertheless could make no excuse for not going. It had ever been her habit to avoid the unpleasant, but here was something for the avoidance of which it would be most difficult to find an adequate excuse.

She put on a robe and went out of her sleeping apartment to the corridor. Slowly she mounted the staircase. She was distressed, for she was sure she could hear muffled voices coming from that room; she paused outside the door. There was no sound inside the room now. She opened the door and stood on the threshold. All the ladies were in their beds, but there was in that room an atmosphere of such tenseness that she could not but be aware of it, and she was sure that, though they had their eyes shut, they but feigned sleep.

She went first to Catherine’s bed. She drew off the clothes and looked at the naked body of her granddaughter. Catherine feigned sleep too long for innocence.

The Duchess thought she heard the faintest creak of boards in the gallery which ran along one side of the room. She had an alarmed feeling that if she had that gallery searched, the search would not be fruitless. It would set tongues wagging though, and she dared not let that happen.

Her panic made her angry; she wished to blame someone for the negligence of which she knew herself to be guilty. Catherine was lying on her back; the Duchess rolled her over roughly and brought her hand across the girl’s buttocks. Catherine yelled; the girls sat up in bed, the curtains were drawn back.

“What has happened? What is this?”

Did their exclamations ring true? wondered the old lady.

Catherine was holding her bruised flesh, for the Duchess’s rings had cut into her.

“I would know,” said the Duchess sharply, “who it was who stole my keys and opened this door.”

“Stole Your Grace’s keys….”

“Opened the door…”

Oh, yes! The sly wenches…they knew well enough who it was. Thank God, she thought, I came in time!

Mary Lassells was trying to catch her eye, but she would not look at the sly creature. Didn’t the fool realize that what she just did not want to hear was the truth…providing of course that the truth was disturbing!

“Tomorrow,” said the Duchess, “I shall look into this matter. If any of you had aught to do with this matter of my keys, you shall be soundly whipped and sent home in disgrace. I shall make no secret of your sins, I warn you! I thought I heard noises here. Let me warn you that if I hear more noises it will be the worse for you.”

She went out and left them.

“There!” she said, as she settled down to sleep. “I have done my duty. I have warned them. After such a threat, none of them would dare to misbehave herself, and if any of them have already done so, they will take good care to keep quiet about it.”

In the morning she found her keys; they were not in their rightful place, which led her to hope and believe that they must have been there all the time, and that there had been an oversight, the doors having been left unlocked all that night.

Still, she was resolved to keep an eye on the young women, and particularly on Catherine.

There came a day when, entering what was known as the maids’ room, she saw Catherine and Derham together. The maids’ room was a long, pleasant, extremely light room in which the ladies sat to embroider, or to work tapestry, or to spin. Such a room was certainly forbidden to gentlemen.

The Duchess had come to the room, taking her usual labored steps, and had Derham and Catherine not been noisily engaged in a romp, they would assuredly have heard her approach.

Derham had come in to talk to Catherine, and she feigning greater interest in her piece of needlework than in him, had goaded him to snatch it from her; after which, Catherine immediately sought to retrieve it. They were not interested in the piece of needlework, except as an excuse for titillating their senses by apparent haphazard physical contacts. Derham ran round the room, flourishing the piece of needlework, and Catherine gave chase. Cornering him behind the spinning wheel, she snatched it from him, but he caught her round the waist and she slid to the floor, at which he did likewise. They rolled on the floor together, he with his arms about her, Catherine shrieking her delighted protests. And thus the Duchess found them.

She stood in the doorway, shouting at them for some seconds before they heard her angry voice.

Then she stalked over to them. They saw her and were immediately quiet, standing abashed before her.

She was trembling with rage and fury. Her granddaughter to be guilty of such impropriety! The girl’s gown was torn at the neck, noted Her Grace, and that doubtless on purpose! She narrowed her eyes.

“Leave us at once, Derham!” she said ominously. “You shall hear further of this.”

He threw Catherine a glance and went out.

The Duchess seized her frightened granddaughter by her sleeve and ripped her clothes off her shoulders.

“You slut!” she cried. “What means this behavior…after all my care!”

She lifted her ebony stick, and would have brought it down on Catherine’s head had she not dodged out of the way. The Duchess was growing a little calmer now, realizing it would not do to make too violent a scene.

She cornered Catherine, pushed her onto the couch and, bending over her, said: “How far has this gone?”

“It was nothing,” said Catherine, fearful for Derham as well as for herself. “It was just that he…stole my piece of needlework, and I…sought to retrieve it…and then…you came in.”

“His hands were on your neck!”

“It was to retrieve the needlework which I had snatched from him.”

The Duchess preferred to believe it was but a childish romp. She wanted no scandal. What if it came to the hardfaced Duke’s ears, of what went on in her house, what tricks and pranks those under her care got up to! He would not hesitate to whisper it abroad, the wicked man, and then would she be considered the rightful state governess for the Princess Elizabeth!

It must go no further than this room; but at the same time she must make Catherine understand that she must have no dangerous friendships with young men under her roof.

She said: “An I thought there was aught wrong in this romping between thee and Derham, I would have thee sent to the Tower; him too! As it is, I will content myself with giving you the biggest beating you have ever had in your life, Catherine Howard!”

She paused, horror-stricken; sitting in a comer, quietly trembling with fear, was one of her attendants, and she must have witnessed the whole scene.

The Duchess turned from Catherine and went over to her.

“Jane Acworth! You think to sit there and allow such behavior! What do you think your task is? To watch young men make free with Catherine Howard?” The girl, trembling, said: “Your Grace, it was naught…”

But a stinging blow at the side of her head silenced the girl. The Duchess continued to slap her for some seconds.

“Let me hear no more of this, girl, or you shall feel a whip across your shoulders. Catherine, go to my private chamber; you shall receive your punishment there!”

She went puffing from the room, very ill at ease. But having beaten Catherine, while Catherine writhed and shrieked, she felt she had done her duty.

She summoned one Margaret Morton, when she had done with Catherine.

“I would have speech with Francis Derham. Send him to me without delay!”

He came. She did not know how to punish him. She should banish him of course. But she had always liked him; he was quite the most charming young man of her household. If anything, he was over-bold, but there is something very attractive about over-boldness. He was a distant kinsman too…so perhaps it would be enough to warn him.

“I would have you know that you are without prospects. You could not marry my granddaughter. I would have you remember your position in this house, Francis Derham!”

“Your Grace, I must humbly apologize. It was but animal spirits….”

The animal spirits of youth, she thought. There was something delightful about them. Memories came back, softening her. Suppose she allowed him to stay this time! She had warned him; he would not dare to presume again. He was such a handsome, courtly, charming boy!

With the coming of the autumn, Anne’s spirits soared, for she discovered that at last she was pregnant. The King was overjoyed. He was sure that if he would but show the people a male heir, everything that had gone to the producing of it might be forgotten.

Anne, eager to be brought to bed of a healthy child, gave up her life of gaiety and spent a good deal of time reading and thinking of the past. She could not look back with much pride on the two years which had seen her Queen. It seemed to her that much of her time had been spent in worthless machinations and sordid subterfuge. The affair of Madge Shelton stood out from those years, filling her with shame. She herself was now with child again; should she be delivered of a son, her dearest wish would be granted; she would then ask nothing more of life.

She was thoughtfully sitting over her tapestry with her ladies, asking questions about the poor of London. She said: “Would it not be better if, instead of stitching this fine tapestry, we made shirts and suchlike garments for the poor?”

It was strange to see her who had been known to occupy herself at great length with the planning of her own gowns, to see her who had given orders how should be cut and made yards of black satin and gold arras, now stitching contentedly at garments for the poor. She had changed, and the change had a good deal to do with the terrible fear which had beset her and which had been removed, first by the King’s returning affection for her, and then by her pregnancy.

Hugh Latimer had been largely instrumental in her change of heart. She had been interested in the great reformer ever since she had heard of him, and when Stokesley, Bishop of London, had had him committed to the Tower, she used all her influence to get him released. The King, reluctant and yet unable in a fresh return of his passion to refuse what she asked, agreed on the release, and thus postponed Latimer’s martyrdom for twenty-five years. On his release, Anne had desired to hear him preach and forthwith did so, when, much to her astonishment, instead of receiving the gratitude she might have expected from the man, he delivered for her benefit a stormy lecture advising those who placed too much reliance on treasures upon Earth to turn from their folly and repent. Anne saw the man afterwards and characteristically asked him where he thought she had erred. He answered unflinchingly that she should by her morality and piety set an example to those under her command. Greatly impressed by his honesty—a virtue by which she set great store—she appointed him one of her chaplains and began to veer towards a more spiritual way of life. Always generous in the extreme, she delighted in looking into deserving cases about her, and helping those whom she considered would benefit by such help. She had always done this when cases were brought to her notice, but now she looked for them systematically.

Although less superstitious than the King, she was not entirely free from this weakness. As she stitched at garments for the poor, she asked herself if she were not doing this in return for a healthy boy. Was she placating the Powers above, as Henry did? Was she, she wondered, getting a little like him? She had her moments of fear. Was Henry capable of begetting a healthy boy? His body was diseased. What if this were the reason Katharine had failed, and she too, so far! Perhaps she was, in a way, placating Providence, making conditions.

She was worried about the Princess Mary. She was still afraid of the Princess and of Katharine. It had seemed to her that if these two were together they might plot something against her, and through her against Elizabeth. Chapuys she feared. She knew well there were many powerful nobles who deeply resented the break with Rome. They were all only waiting to rise up and destroy her. She must not allow her new favor with the King to blind her to this.

And as she stitched, she prayed for a son.

The King prayed too. He was pleased with the change in Anne. It was well to see her calmer, quieter; it was well to feel this peace stealing over him because at last their union was flavored with hope. He needed such hope; the people were being difficult once more. They were saying that it had not rained since More had died; they would always find a reason for a bad harvest, and the crops had failed once more. The Flanders trade was not good. In fact it looked as if the country was getting together a collection of grievances and irritations in order to make trouble.

The King needed distraction. It suddenly dawned on him that one of his wife’s attendants was—well, not so much an attractive girl as a different kind of girl. Perhaps he meant that she was quite different from Anne; she was so quiet, she moved about like a little mouse; she was very fair; she had a prim little mouth and quick, glancing eyes. She would never be leader of the revels, she would never shine, she would never outwit a man with her sharp tongue! She was as different from Anne as any woman could be. That was why he first noticed her.

If she caught his eyes upon her, she would drop hers quickly; a soft rose-pink blush would steal into her cheeks. She was very demure.

On one occasion he was sitting alone, thinking that it was a long time before his son could be born, and wondering if there was some holy relic the soothsayers could give him as protection against another girl child. He had some holy water, a tear which Christ had shed over Lazarus, and a vial of the sweat of St. Michael; all of which he had purchased at great cost during the sweating sickness. But in spite of these, Anne’s first child had been a girl, and he wondered whether he should buy something especially which might ensure the birth of a boy. As he considered this, the demure maid of honor came into the room and, seeing him, curtseyed in a frightened way and would have hurried off had he not detained her with a “Hi, there! What want you?”

“Her Grace, the Queen…” said the girl, so low that he could scarcely hear her.

“What of Her grace, the Queen?” He studied her from head to toe. Small where Anne was tall; slow of movement where Anne was quick; meek where Anne sparkled; slow of speech instead of bright; modest instead of coquettish; willing to listen humbly rather than disconcert a man with her wit.

“I had thought to find her…”

“Come hither!” said the King. “And are you very disturbed to come upon the King when you looked for the Queen?”

“Yes, Your Majesty…I mean no, Your Majesty….”

“Well,” said Henry pleasantly, “make up your mind.”

She would not come too close. He did not force her, liking suddenly her demureness, since there were so many of them who were too ready.

She could think of nothing to say, which pleased him and made him remember that Anne was over-ready with her retorts.

“Sit there awhile and I will play. You may listen. Bring my lute to me.”

She brought it, cautiously. He tried to touch her fingers over the lute, but she was quick; she had leaped back as though he had tried to sting her. He was not angry. His thoughts were chiefly of his son, and therefore with Anne. But he liked the girl; he was, he told himself, always touched by modesty; he liked and respected it in the young people about his court.

He commanded her to sit; she did so, modestly letting her hands fall into her lap; her mild eyes watched him, and then seemed full of admiration.

When he had finished he saw that her eyes were filled with tears, so moved was she by his music, and he realized that he had not felt so gratified for a long time.

He asked her name. She told him it was Jane Seymour.

He dismissed her then. “You may go. We shall meet again. I like you, Jane!”

It was not a quarrel with Anne, just a slight irritation. A petty argument, and she, in her overpowering way, had proved herself right. Jane Seymour would never be one to prove herself right. She’s all woman, thought Henry. And that’s how a woman should be. Women are women, and men are men. When the one will dabble with that which is solely within the province of the other, it is a sad thing.

He sent for Jane Seymour. She should have the honor of hearing his new song before he allowed anyone else to hear it. She sat listening, her feet scarce reaching the floor; which made her seem helpless. She was very meek.

He made inquiries about her. She was the daughter of Sir John Seymour of Wolf Hall in Wiltshire; he was by no means a powerful nobleman, but it was interesting to discover that there was a tiny root of royalty in his family tree, provided one dug deep enough to find it. Henry stored such knowledge. And as he played his lute, he thought about Jane; a quiet, mild bedfellow, he thought, pleasant enough, and white-skinned; unawakened and virginal. He grew sentimental; virtue had that effect on him. All women, he told himself, should be virtuous.

The court noticed his preoccupation with the maid of honor. Chapuys and the French ambassador laughed together. They were cynical. The King had been noted of late to extol virginity. “He refers to Jane Seymour!” said the French ambassador, to whom the Spanish ambassador replied that he greatly doubted Jane possessed that quality, having been some time at court. He added that the King might be pleased though that she did not, for then he could marry her on condition that she was a virgin, and when he needed a divorce he could then find many witnesses to the contrary.

But the King continued to view Jane through sentimental eyes. She had been primed by her father and her brothers, when dazzling possibilities had occurred to the minds of these very ambitious men who had the example of the Earl of Wiltshire and the young Lord Rochford before their eyes. They advised Jane: “Do this…” “On no account do that…” Jane herself was not without ambition. She had watched many a quarrel between the King and Queen, and she understood the King more than he would have thought from the demure eyes that met his with such seeming sincerity.

When he tried to kiss her, she was overcome with blushes; she ran away and hid herself, and the King, having become the champion of virtue, could not satisfy his conscience if he forced the girl to anything. His mind began to scheme with his conscience once again. What if this marriage with Anne had been wrong? What if God should show his disapproval over the child? The plans were not very well shaped as yet—they were misty shadows of thought, which allowed him to dally with Jane, while respecting her virtue.

He gave her a locket bearing his picture; she wore it on a chain round her throat, intending this to be a sign that were she not of such unbending virtue she would readily consider his advances, having the greatest admiration for his person. He wanted Jane; he could not have her; and this made her seem very desirable to him.

The story of Anne was to Jane a long object lesson: what to do before, what not to do after. But though Jane knew what she must do, she was not very intelligent, and she could not prevent a new haughtiness creeping into her manner, which Anne was quick to notice. She saw the locket which Jane was wearing, and asked mildly enough if she might see it.

Jane flushed guiltily, and put her hand over the locket; whereat Anne’s suspicions flared up. She took the locket, breaking its chain as she did so, and on snapping it open beheld the smiling face of the King crowned in a jeweled cap.

A year ago she would have raged against him; now she was silent and undecided. She saw in sly Jane Seymour, with her much-paraded virtue, a more deadly enemy than any other woman who had taken the King’s fancy.

She prayed urgently. A son! I must have a son!

At Kimbolton Castle, Katharine lay dying. She had lived wretchedly during her lingering illness, for money due to her was not paid. She was full of sorrow; not only had she been separated from her beloved daughter, but when she had asked that she might see the Princess before she died, even this request was denied her. She was deeply disturbed by the fate of her former confessor, Father Forrest, who though an old man had, through his allegiance to her, been cruelly treated at the hands of the King; he had been imprisoned and tortured in such a manner that she could not bear to contemplate; she longed to write and comfort him, but she feared that if a letter from her was intercepted, it might cause the old man’s execution, and though, in his case, death might be the happiest release from his misery, she could not bring it about. Abell, her other confessor, was treated with equal cruelty; it was unbearable that her friends should suffer thus.

Chapuys had got the King’s reluctant permission to visit her, and arrived on New Year’s Day. She was delighted to see one whom she knew to be her friend. She was very ill, and looked ten years older than her fifty years. He sat by her bed and she, while expressing genuine sorrow for all those who had suffered in her cause, said that she had never thought for one instant that she had been wrong in her struggle against the King.

To the man who had caused the chief miseries of her life she had no reproaches to offer. She was the daughter of a king and queen, and she believed in the divine right of royalty. The King would bastardize a princess, because he was bewitched; he would, she believed, emerge from that witchery and see the folly of his ways. It was her duty in the interests of royalty to uphold herself and her daughter—not for any personal reasons, but because they were Queen and Princess. Katharine was adamant now as ever, and would have suffered any torture rather than admit that her daughter was not the legitimate heir to the throne of England.

She talked with tears of Fisher, with regret of More; she talked of Abell and Forrest, mercifully knowing nothing of the more horrible deaths that awaited these two of her faithful adherents.

Chapuys, the cynic, thought, She is dying by his hand as surely as More and Fisher did. He thought of the years of misery this woman had endured, the mental torture that had been inflicted on her by her husband. Here was yet another victim of the murderer’s hand. What though the method was different!

Chapuys had no real comfort to give her. His master would not wish to be embroiled in a war with England for the sake of Katharine of Aragon and her daughter since he had his hands full elsewhere.

To comfort her though, he hinted at some action from outside on her behalf. She brightened. His visit did much to revive her; it was so rarely that the King allowed her to be visited by her friends.

After he left, another incident occurred which helped to lighten her grief in being denied the comfort of her daughter’s presence.

It was evening of a bitterly cold day, when through the castle there echoed the sound of loud knocking. Her maid came to tell her that it was a poor woman who, making a journey across country, had lost her way and begged to be allowed to spend the night at the castle for fear she and her attendant should freeze to death.

Katharine bade them bring in the poor souls and give them food.

She was dozing, when her bedroom door was opened and a woman came in. Katharine looked at the newcomer in astonishment for one moment, and then the tears began to flow from her eyes. She held out her arms, feeling that she was a girl again, riding the rough seas of the Bay of Biscay, thinking fearfully of the fate which awaited her in an unknown country where she was to marry a boy husband; she was young again, watching the land grow less blurred, as she sailed into Plymouth. With her there had been a band of beautiful Spanish girls, and there was one among them who, during the unhappy years which England had given her, had ever been her faithful friend. This girl had married Lord Willoughby; and they had been together until, by the King’s command, Katharine had been banished from the court and cut off from all those she loved. And here was Lady Willoughby coming by stealth, as a stranger lost in the snow, that she might be with Katharine during her last hours in England as she had been during her first.

This was wonderful; she was almost happy.

“If I could but have seen my little daughter…” she murmured.

But the coming of her friend had put her in high spirits, and she revived so much that she was well enough to sit up in her bed, though she was too far gone in sickness of body, which had grown out of sickness of mind, to make any real recovery. During the first week of January her condition grew worse. She had mass said in her room on the afternoon of the sixth, and then, ill as she was, asked for materials that she might write a last letter to the King. She did not blame him; she accepted her fate meekly; she only asked that he should be a good father to their daughter Mary, and that he should do right by her servants.

Henry was hilarious when he heard the news of Katharine’s death; there followed one moment of apprehension when in a blurred fashion he remembered her sad, pale face, heard her strong voice pleading for justice. He did then what he ever did when remorse touched him; he made the persecution of Katharine someone else’s burden, not his own; he assured himself that he had acted from the highest and most disinterested of motives.

“Praise be to God!” he cried. “We are delivered from all fear of war. The time has come for me to manage the French better than before, because in wondering whether I may now ally myself to the Emperor, they will do all I want.”

He would now show that he had never been married to Katharine. He dressed himself in yellow, having a white feather set in his cap, for why should a man go into mourning for one not his wife!

“Bring me my daughter!” he cried, and the nurses brought Elizabeth to him. Although little more than two years old, she was already a very bright and intelligent child who enjoyed being exhibited, and surveyed her great dazzling father with the utmost interest.

He called for all the musical instruments to play; the courtiers must dance. He went from one to the other, demanding they do homage to their little Princess. “For,” he exclaimed again and again, “we are now delivered from the evil threat of war!”

Anne rejoiced when she heard the news. It was a great relief. For the first time, she thought, I can feel myself to be really Queen; there is no shadowy Queen in the background to whom some could still look. I am Queen. There is no other Queen but me!

She was inordinately gay; she imitated the King’s action, and dressed in yellow.

She did not know that he had once discussed the question of divorcing her with his most trusted counsellors; she did not know that he had refrained from doing so because they said he might divorce her, but if he did, he would surely have to take back Katharine.

Now that Katharine was dead, and Anne felt more secure, she decided she could be less harsh to the Princess Mary, so she sent one of her ladies to the girl with a message. Would Mary come to court? Could they not be friends?

“Tell her,” said Anne, “that if she will be a good daughter to her father, she may come to court and count me her friend. Tell her she may walk beside me, and I shall not need her to hold my train.”

Mary, grief-stricken by the death of her mother, brokenhearted so that she cared not what became of her, sent back word that if being a good daughter to her father meant denying that for which martyrs’ blood had been shed, she could not accept Anne’s offer.

“The foolish girl!” said Anne. “What more can I do?”

Then she was angry, and at the root of her anger was the knowledge that she herself had helped to make this motherless girl’s unhappy lot harder than it need have been. She could not forget what she had heard of Katharine’s miserable death, and in her new and chastened mood she felt remorse as well as anger.

She tried again with Mary, but Mary was hard and stubborn, neither ready to forgive nor forget. Mary was fanatical; she would have all or nothing. She wanted recognition: Her mother to be recognized as the true Queen, Anne to be displaced, Elizabeth to be acknowledged a bastard. And on these terms only, would Mary come to court.

Anne shrugged impatient shoulders, really angry with the girl because she would not let her make amends. When my son is born, thought Anne, I shall be in such a strong position that she will do as I say. If I say she shall come to court, she shall come to court, and it will not be so easy for her to find favor with the King when she is forced to do that which she might have done more graciously.

The beginning of that year was disastrously eventful for Anne. The first disturbance was when Norfolk came hurrying into her chamber to tell that the King had taken such a toss from his horse that he feared he was killed. This upset Anne—not that the King, during their married life, had given her any reasons to love him—but in her condition she felt herself unable to cope adequately with the situation which must inevitably arise if he died. She had the interests of her daughter and the child as yet unborn to look to, and she was greatly disturbed. This however proved to be a minor accident; the King’s fall had done scarcely any harm, and he was too practiced a horseman to suffer much shock from such a fall.

After this escape, the King was in excellent spirits. He found Jane Seymour alone in one of the Queen’s apartments. People had a way of disappearing from Jane Seymour’s side when the King approached. Demure as she was, she had permitted certain liberties. He was somewhat enamored of the pretty, pale creature, and she was a pleasant diversion for a man who can scarcely wait to hear that his son is born.

“Come hither, Jane!” he said in the soft, slurred voice of a lover, made husky with good ale and wine. And she came to him most cautiously, until he, seizing her, pulled her on to his knee.

“Well, what did you think, Jane, when that fool Norfolk ran around telling the world I was done for, eh?”

Jane’s eyes filled with tears.

“There, there!” he said. “’Tis no matter for weeping. Here I am, hale and hearty as ever, except for a sore leg…”

He liked to talk of his leg; he spent a good deal of time thinking about it.

“Every physician in London has had a go at it, Jane! And to no avail. I’ve tried charms and potions…no avail…no avail.”

Jane was timidly sympathetic; he stroked her thighs caressingly.

He liked Jane; he could sit thus happily with her, feeling a mild pleasure in her, without that raging desire which must put a man in torment till it was slaked; it was just pleasant, stroking and patting and going so far and then drawing back.

The door opened, and Anne was watching them. All the fears which she had successfully pushed away came rushing back. She knew Jane Seymour…sly, waiting, watchful of her opportunities. Anne suddenly realized why they waited, why Henry could be content to wait. They were waiting to see whether she bore a son. If she did, then Jane Seymour would be the King’s mistress. If not…

Anne’s self-control broke. She began to storm and rage. She now said to the King all those things which had been in her mind and which, even in her most frank moments, she had never mentioned before. It was as though she dragged him away from that bright and pleasant picture he had made of himself, and held up her picture of him. She was laughing at his conscience, at his childish method of putting himself right. Did he not think she saw through that! Did he not think that the great men about him did not either!

She was maddened with rage and grief and terror, so that she knew not what she said.

Henry’s one idea was to calm her, for he must think of the son, whom she was so soon to bear.

“Be at peace, sweetheart,” he pleaded, “and all shall go well for thee.”

But Anne was not at peace. Jane Seymour ran and hid herself behind the hangings, covering her face with her hands and audibly murmuring: “Oh, what have I done!” while she rejoiced at what she had done.

For what could she have done to suit herself and her supporters more, since, after that sudden shock, prematurely Anne’s son was born dead!

Trembling, they brought the news to the King. He clenched his hands; his eyes seemed to sink into the flesh about them, while the veins stood out knotted on his forehead. In uncontrollable rage he strode into Anne’s room. He stood over her as she lay limp, exhausted and defeated. Words flowed from that cruel little mouth. She had done this! She had humiliated him! She had deceived him into thinking she would give him sons! She was a witch, a sorceress…

Enfeebled as she was by hours of agony, yet she answered with spirit: “There was none to blame but yourself. This is due to the distress of mind you caused me through your philanderings with that sly Seymour wench!”

Henry roared back wrathfully: “You shall have no more sons by me!” And then, cunning and pious: “I see well that God does not wish to give me male childen.”

But he did not really believe this, not seeing how he himself could possibly be at fault in this matter.

“When you are on your feet, I will speak to you,” he said coldly.

Then he went from the room, his thoughts with Jane Seymour. It might well be that this marriage was a mistake, he was thinking. By God, I was forced into it by sorcery! She was irresistible, with her long hair and her wicked little pointed face. It was beyond the power of man to say nay to her. Sorcery! This is why God does not permit me to have male children. Might it not be that I should make a new match?

Jane Seymour sat in her apartments at the palace, awaiting the King. These apartments which were splendid and hung with rich arras and cloth of gold, had a short while before belonged to Thomas Cromwell, but he had vacated them that Jane might use them, because adjoining those of the King they could most easily and secretly be reached by His Majesty.

Jane was rather frightened by the great happenings which had come about ever since that day when the King had glanced in her direction. Her brothers, Thomas and Edward, had planned ambitiously, and their plans, they told their sister, were all for her. Edward was clever, subtle and ambitious; Thomas was fascinating, dashing and also ambitious. Look what came to Anne Boleyn! said these two. Why not to Jane Seymour? True, Jane had not the obvious attractions of Anne Boleyn, but men were strange in their fancies, and was it Anne’s beauty and wit that had charmed the King as much as her reluctance? If Jane had not beauty and wit, she could be as reluctant as Anne, and in all probability with more effect, for shyness would seem more natural in Jane than it ever could be in Anne.

So Jane must bow to the wishes of her family. Chapuys and the imperialists were with Jane too, eager to support any who would bring disfavor on the partisans of Martin Luther.

So here was Jane, meek and mild, yet not being entirely without ambition, feeling that it would be somewhat pleasant to wear a crown, and that to discountenance the haughty Anne Boleyn would be most gratifying. She was therefore ready enough to step into her mistress’s shoes, yet a little frightened, for she could not but be aware that this role which was being forced upon her—even though she was not altogether reluctant to take it—was a very dangerous one. Anne was losing her place; Anne who had wit and beauty; Anne who had kept the King for five long years after she had become his mistress; and when she remembered this, Jane dared not think more than a month or two ahead. Her brothers had assured her that all she need do was obey their orders. She admired her brothers; they were clever, which Jane had never been; they were men, whereas Jane was just a weak woman. She was afraid of the King; when he put his face near hers and she smelled the wine on his breath, when she looked at the great face with its purple veins, when the little bloodshot eyes twinkled at her, she did not have to feign a desire to run. Jane, without pity, thought of the Queen who would have to be displaced if she were to sit on the throne; it was not that Jane was cruel or hard-hearted, but merely that she was without imagination. Children could move her a little; they were small and helpless like Jane herself, and she understood their doubts, their fear of their elders, their gropings for enlightenment. She had wept a little for the Princess Mary, for surely that child had suffered a very hard fate; if Jane were ever Queen, she would do her best to see that even little Elizabeth was treated fairly, for bastard though she was, she was at least a child, and a little child at that.

Jane’s thoughts went back to that important day when the King’s messenger had come to her with a letter and purse of gold from the King. Her brothers had been expecting some such approach from the King, and had primed her as to what she must do. Jane was ever obedient; her nature demanded that she should be; so she obeyed her brothers. She kissed the letter to show how greatly she esteemed the King’s person, how if he were but free to pay honorable courtship to her, she would so willingly have linked her fortune with his. The purse she refused.

“Kneel to His Grace the King,” said Jane, “beseeching him to consider that I am a gentlewoman of good and honorabIe family. I have no greater wealth than mine honor, and for a thousand deaths I would not sully it. If my lord the King desires to make me a present of money, I pray it shall be when God sends me a good offer of marriage.”

The King had evidently not been displeased with this response. Jane had made it tremblingly, doubting whether her brothers had not gone too far and might have displeased His Majesty. But no! Her brothers had been right; the King was enchanted by such modesty and virtue. He would have the world know that the virtue of the ladies of his court was their most admired possession in the eyes of their King. The Seymours were honored; they should have apartments in the palace near the King, for with Jane’s family and friends he was more at ease than with Anne and hers. He was never sure of Anne’s friends; they were too clever, too subtle. In future, give him good practical jokes; give him hearty humor that all could understand; he had done with mockery and smartness, and people who wrote and talked in a manner that he was not at all sure did not put him in the shade. No, he liked the company of the Seymours; they soothed him, and it was pleasant to contemplate a good and virtuous woman who appealed to him without arousing too insistent a passion.

He knew what the Seymours were after. Well, well, Anne could not have boys. A daughter from Katharine, a daughter from Anne! He wondered what he would get from Jane. With Anne he had scarcely thought of children at first, so greatly had he desired her, but he would not marry Jane on the chance that she might have a child; he would have to make sure that she was capable of doing so, before he committed himself again. This was a delicate situation for the Seymours, which while it was full of the most dazzling possibilities, was rampant with danger. Jane’s strength had been in her aloofness, and how could she remain aloof and at the same time prove to the King that she was capable of bearing his child? The Seymours had to act with extreme tact; they had to take a risk, and they took it boldly. Hence the apartments close to those of His Majesty; hence the secret visits of the King, when he found Edward Seymour and his wife discreetly absent, and Jane alone and not so demure, waiting to receive him.

His courtship of her was a sober matter when he compared it with his courtship of Anne Boleyn. There was something restful about Jane; he never forgot for a moment when he was with her that he was the King, and never did he lose sight of the real meaning of this love-making. If Jane was unlike Anne, she was also unlike the King; he looked at their reflections, side by side in the mirror; himself large and red, she small and white; he completely master of the situation, she shrinking, a little afraid. She did not shrink from his coarseness as Anne had often done; cleverly she feigned such innocence as not to understand it; if she made a false move, if she said anything to arouse his anger, she would be meekly apologetic. With Jane Seymour he was enjoying a period of domestic peace which he had not enjoyed since he had banished Katharine and taken Anne to live beside him. In the turbulent years he had longed for that peace which would be brought about by what he thought of as Anne’s sweet reasonableness; it had been a goal to which he, in his sentimental hours, had reached out with yearning hands, and never did he succeed in attaining it. Now here was Jane, offering it to him; he could lie back, close his eyes, enjoy it, say what he liked, and be sure of approbation.

The girl was a bit insipid though; he realized that, after the first few nights with her. She was too passive; neither eager nor repulsing him; just meek and submissive. All that a Queen should be to a King of course, but…Ah! he thought, I think of Anne. I gave too much of myself to that witch, for witch she is, with the devil’s own power over me, so that even when I lie with another I cannot forget her. There will be no peace for me, while Anne lives, for the power of a witch is far-reaching, and she can cast spells even when her victim is in a good woman’s arms.

Jane was not a little troubled by this most secret love affair between herself and the King; she was terrified of the Queen, whose rages could be awful; she had been maid of honor long enough to witness many a scene between their Majesties, and at these scenes the Queen had been known to outwit the King. The Queen was more physically attractive than any woman at court; it was impossible to be near her and not see the effect she could have on those about her. There were men who, conceiving passions for her ladies, would visit them, and on the coming of the Queen would be unable to take their eyes from her; she had but to throw a stray word in their direction, or a quick smile, and they were ready to do anything for her. She had that power. There might be those who said the King was tired of her; and so he was…at times. There might be those who would say that her only hope of holding the King was to give him a son; that was true in part, but not wholly. Jane had seen the many and conflicting moods that had come to the King as he watched this woman; anger and hatred had been there, strong enough to let in murder; but something else too, passionate hunger which Jane could not understand but vaguely feared. “What if through Your Majesty’s visits I should be with child?” she had asked. He had patted her thigh indulgently. “Then, my Jane, you would please me mightily; you would show yourself worthy to be my Queen.” “But how may I be your Queen when you have already a Queen?” His eyes glinted like tiny diamonds. “Let not thy head bother with matters too big for it, Jane!” A warning, that had been; do not meddle in state affairs, child. It is a dangerous thing for a woman to do.

All the same, Jane was uneasy. She would tell herself that the King was bewitched, the Queen had sorcery in her eyes; it was not necessary to be clever to see that. Those huge, black, flashing eyes had more witchery than was natural for a woman to have; and the Queen was careless of what she said, as though she had some hidden power to protect her; she could draw men to her with a speed and an ease that had magic in their roots. She would weave spells round the King who, having realized her wickedness and his folly in submitting to it, would now escape. She had brought evil into the court when she entered it. She had brought misery and great humiliation to the true Queen and her daughter Mary. Jane could weep to think of the child. And now her spells were less potent, for though she could weave them about men, she could bring no son to the King, since children were of heaven and Anne’s powers came from hell. This was how Jane saw it. When the King caressed her, she would close her eyes tightly and say to herself: “I must endure this, for in this way can I save our lord the King from a witch.” She prayed that her body might be fruitful, for she saw that thus could she fulfill her mission.

She thought continually of the Princess Mary. She had known her when she had been a maid to Katharine, before the coming of Anne Boleyn; she had ever deplored the King’s infatuation for Anne; she had secretly adhered to Katharine all through the dangerous years, and so had she won the approval of Chapuys and many of the nobles who condemned the break with Rome. Thus they had been pleased when the King’s fancy had lighted on her, and had sought to help and advise her.

She said to the King when he came to her: “I have been thinking of the Princess Mary.”

“What of her?” he asked indifferently.

“I but thought of the hardship of her life, and how sad it is that she should be banished from the court. I wondered if Your Majesty would most graciously allow her to be brought back; I fear she suffers deeply from the humiliation which has been heaped upon her.”

The King looked at Jane with narrowed eyes. He said with exasperation: “You are a fool! You ought to solicit the advancement of the children we shall have between us, and not others.”

When he left her Jane assured herself that her duty was to rescue the Supreme Head of the English Church from a wanton witch who would never release him in this life. And as Jane did not know how she could rescue him, except by bearing him a child, she knelt down by her bed and prayed that her union with the King might bring forth fruit.

The Queen was gay, recklessly so. Her eyes were enormous in her pale face; she was almost coquettish; she was lavish with the smiles she bestowed on those about her. The King was spending more and more time with the Seymours, and there was no doubt in Anne’s mind that Jane was his mistress; moreover she knew this to be no light affair; there was deep meaning behind it. Those two brothers of Jane’s were eager and apprehensive; they watched, they waited; indeed all the court was watching and waiting for something to happen. The loss of her boy, they whispered, had finished Anne. Cynical courtiers murmured together: “Is he trying out Jane? If the King is waiting to produce a child before divorcing Anne, he may wait a very long time!”

It would have been a humiliating position for anyone; for Anne it was agonizing. She thought, This happened to Katharine while we tried for the divorce; it happened to Wolsey when he awaited his downfall; this is how More and Fisher must have waited in their homes…waited for a doom they felt coming to them, but knew not from which direction it would come. She was not the sort to show her fear; if during the lonely nights she would awake startled, the sweat on her forehead, having dreamed some nightmare in which the doom was upon her; if she lay awake for hours staring into darkness, thinking of the King with Jane Seymour, wondering if he ever thought of her, she never showed this. After such nightmares, such nocturnal wondering, she would be gayer than ever. Her clothes were still the talk of the court; she would throw herself feverishly into the planning of a new gown; she could no longer sit silently stitching for the poor, though she did not forget them. She would gather round her the most brilliant of the young men and women. Just as there had been Katharine’s sober friends in the old days who had held aloof from that set over which she and the King ruled together, so now there was yet another set, and this time it was the Seymour party, but the King was of the Seymour party. Round Anne fluttered the poets and the wits, not seeming to care that they scorched their wings. Her revels were still the wittiest; the Seymours’ were heavy and clumsy in comparison, but the King could not be lured from them. Handsome Henry Norris, who was supposed to be in love with Madge Shelton, had eyes for none but the Queen; people smiled at this man who was supposed to be engaging himself to Madge but was forever postponing his marriage. “What good does that do poor Norris?” they asked. “Surely he cannot hope to marry the Queen!” Francis Weston and William Brereton, younger and more sophisticated, were equally enamored of her; Wyatt was faithful as ever. She encouraged their attentions, finding great solace in the love of these men, wounded when she discovered that the King preferred dull Jane Seymour. She was reckless; she accepted the homage of those who loved her; she would dance and laugh immoderately; she was wittier than ever, and the wildness of her looks gave her beauty a new strangeness that for some augmented it. It would seem that she wished to lure all to her side, that only when she was surrounded by those who admired her did she feel safe. She sought to build up a wall of friendship round her. She had with her, in addition to Madge Shelton, those two friends, Margaret Lee and her sister Mary Wyatt, in whom she placed the greatest trust. Her own sister Mary came to attend her, and it was good to contemplate the serene happiness of Mary who, happy in her love for Stafford whom she had married, was as comfortable to be near as a glowing fire in winter. Anne felt secure with these people. Even Mark Smeaton, whom she had raised to be one of her chief musicians, might show his passionate admiration of her, and go unreproved.

There were always those to watch her slyly. The black eyes of the Spanish ambassador would meet those of the King’s vicar-general, and the Spaniard would guess what thoughts went round and round in Cromwell’s ugly shaven head. Jane Rochford was now openly unsympathetic towards Anne, not caring if she did invite her husband’s disapproval.

As for George, he seemed to have caught his sister’s recklessness; he rarely warned Anne now; he was like a man who had been running from danger and, feeling suddenly there is no escape, turns to face it.

It was pleasant to sit with George and Mary, Margaret Lee, Mary and Thomas Wyatt, talking of childhood days before they had been scattered and lost touch with each other.

“Well I remember,” said Anne on one occasion, “how we all played together in Norfolk, and then again in Kent, how we all talked of our ambitions and what we would do.”

“Ambition,” laughed George, “is like the moon; it looks so close, so easy to grasp, but the nearer knowledge takes you to it, the more unattainable you realize it to be. Ambition is a pernicious thing!”

“You said you would be a great poet,” said Anne. “Wyatt too.”

“And he at least achieved his ambition,” said George.

“Much good did it do him!” said Wyatt, looking meaningly at Anne.

“We hoped for too much,” she said; “all of us except Margaret and my sister Mary and your sister Mary. They are the happiest ones.”

They could look at those three. Margaret who was happily married to Sir Henry Lee, Mary Wyatt who had no husband but a serene countenance, Mary Boleyn who had many lovers, not for gain but for pleasure. The ambition of these three was happiness; they had found it. For the other three it had been power, and in a measure they had realized it too. There they were—Wyatt whose joy was in his verses and yet, being never satisfied with them, they could not give him complete happiness; Anne who would be a queen and had achieved her ambition and now listened for some sign to herald in disaster, as she scanned people’s faces and tried to read behind their eyes; George who through the fortunes of his sisters had come to fame. Three of those children who had played together—the ordinary ones who were not clever or brilliant, or made for greatness—had succeeded; it was the clever ones who had asked for much—though in a measure they had found what they desired—to whom failure had come.

Anne said: “We chose the wrong things; they chose the right….” And none answered her, for this was a matter which it was unwise to discuss.

Mary would talk to her comfortingly.

“The King…ah! How well I knew him! Almost as well as you do, Anne.” Mary would smile at the memory. “He is wayward; none dare stand between him and his desires, but an a woman pleases she need fear naught.”

Ah, but Mary had known him as a mistress; Anne knew him as a wife.

The winter of that year passed into spring. Anne danced and sang as though she had not a care in the world; she would wander through the park at Greenwich, would watch the barges on the river, would sit under the trees; sometimes she would romp with the dogs, laughing gaily at their antics, throwing herself about in a frenzy of enjoyment, but her heart was sad and heavy; she would weep sometimes and mingle her tears with her laughter; this was a dangerous mood, for in it she cared nothing for what she said or what she did, and so laid herself open to attack from all her enemies. She would call Smeaton to her and bid him play, play something gay, something to which she could dance, something to make her gay and joyous; play music that told of love and laughter, not of sorrow. And the musician’s great dark eyes watched her passionately, and his long tapering fingers played for her, soothing her.

She gave him a fine ring, for his talent, she said, was great, and those with talent should not go unrewarded. She thought, He may sell it and buy himself clothes, poor man; he has little reward for his labors. But she knew he would never sell the ring, since she had worn it on her finger; and she laughed and was pleased that though the King appeared to be indifferent to her, a poor musician was deep in hopeless love for her.

“Come!” she would cry suddenly. “Let us have a masque. Let us do a witty play. Thomas, you and George shall put your heads together; I would be amused. Mark, you shall play for the dancing; you shall play for my singing. Let us dance and be merry…I am tired of melancholy.”

Cromwell had retired from court life for several days, on the plea of sickness. Cromwell needed solitude; he had to work out his next moves in this game of politics most carefully. He was no inspired genius; everything that had come to him had been the result of unflagging labor, of cautiously putting one foot forward and waiting until it was securely in its rightful place before lifting the other. He was fully aware that now he faced one of the crises of his career. His master commanded, and he obeyed, though the command of course was not given in so many words. Henry was too conscience-ridden to mention his more vile thoughts, so it was the duty of a good servant to discover his master’s wishes though not a word be spoken between them. Murder is a dangerous business, and Cromwell must consider whilst carrying out the King’s wishes, not what was good for the King and the country, but what was good for Cromwell. Cromwell had a very good head on a pair of sturdy shoulders, and he did not intend that those should part company. The farther one climbed, the more steep the road, the easier it was to slip; one false step now, and Cromwell would go slipping down to the dark valley where waited the block and the executioner’s axe.

It had seemed to Emperor Charles that, on the death of Katharine, new friendship with Henry might be sought, and for this reason Chapuys came to Greenwich for a special audience with the King. But how could Henry become the ally of Charles, when Henry had broken so definitely with Rome, and Charles supported Rome? Rome, it seemed, stood between the Emperor and Henry. Cranmer trembled; he got as near blazing forth his anger as Cranmer could get; he preached a reckless sermon. Cromwell did not feel so deeply. Cranmer made up his mind which course he would take, and was loyal to that course; Cromwell was ready to examine any course; he would use any members of any sect if necessary; he would support them one day, burn them at the stake the next. Cromwell could see that there was some advantage to accrue from a new bond of friendship with the Emperor; therefore he was ready to explore this course of action. Cromwell was at this time very busily engaged in ransacking the monasteries, but he could see that if the Emperor and Henry should cease to be enemies, this could easily be held up for a time. He was prepared for anything. Anne was furious; naturally she would be. A possible reconciliation with the Emperor was a direct insult to her; she had not been over-cautious in her treatment of Cromwell, never liking nor trusting him. Until now Cromwell had been meek enough, but he did not believe that he need now treat the Queen with over-much humility. The King had hinted that Jane Seymour was with child, and Cromwell must think of this matter very seriously. What if this were so? What if there was need for Henry to marry the girl quickly in order to legitimize a possible heir to the throne? Cromwell would be expected to bring this about, and if Cromwell failed to do it in the time at his disposal, what then? It was not so long ago when the King had desired a divorce most urgently, and Cromwell’s late master had blundered. Cromwell was ready to profit by the Cardinal’s mistakes, for he was resolved that he should not be caught as Wolsey had been. Cromwell would be ready. It was easy to see—and this applied particularly if Jane Seymour was really pregnant—that he need fear nothing from the wrath of Queen Anne. This secret matter of the King’s was conducted rather differently from that other secret matter. This was a series of hints and innuendoes: the lady was so demure, so shy, that the King must respect her reserve. She must not suffer—nor the King through her—the pain and scandal of divorce. How did one rid oneself of a wife one no longer wants, if not by divorce?

Cromwell knew a great deal about the peculiar burden of the King’s—his conscience. Cromwell knew that it was capable of unexpected twists and turns; Cromwell knew that it must always be placated, and how comparatively easy it was to placate it; how one turned a subject to show the side which the conscience might like and approve; how one carefully covered that which was unpleasant. The conscience was obliging; it could be both blind and deaf when the need arose; therefore, he did not propose to lose much sleep over that accommodating creature.

Cromwell decided to favor alliance with Spain. The Emperor was a better ally than Francis; alliance with the French had never brought gain to England. Henry had been very difficult at the meeting—which had seemed to Cromwell and to most of the counsellors deplorable. It showed cunning Cromwell one thing—the King was still under the influence of Anne. In spite of Jane Seymour, he would listen to Anne; in spite of her failure to give him an heir, he still hankered after her. It was an alarming state of affairs; Cromwell knew his master well enough to realize that if something was not soon done, he would have Henry throwing aside Jane Seymour, buying fresh holy relics, reconciling himself to his black-browed witch, in one more effort to get himself a son. Were the Queen secure again, what would happen to Thomas Cromwell? What had happened to Thomas Wolsey! It was not so long ago that one could forget.

There must be alliance with Spain, for it meant the downfall of Anne; how disconcerting therefore, when the King must abuse the Emperor before Chapuys himself, must recall all he had done to delay the divorce, must announce here and now that not for a hundred alliances would he give way to Rome! He had made himself head of the Church, and head of the Church he would stay. If there was any humility to be shown, then Emperor Charles must show it. He even went so far as to tell Chapuys that he believed Francis had first claim on Burgundy and Milan.

This seemed to Cromwell sheer folly. The King was not acting with that shrewdness a statesman must always display. Henry was smarting under insults which he had received from Clement and Paul and Charles. He was not thinking of the good of England; he could only think: “They want my friendship—these people who have been against me, who have worked against me, who have humiliated me for years!”

Anne had said: “Ah! So you would be friends with your enemies as soon as they whistle for you, would you! Have you forgotten the insults of Clement? And why did he insult us? Would Clement have dared, had he not been supported? And by whom was he supported? By whom but this Charles who now comes and asks for your friendship, and in a manner that is most haughty! Oh, make friends, accept your humble role, remember not the insults to your kingship, to your Queen!”

He had ever been afraid of her tongue; it could find his weakness. Well he knew that she feared alliance with Spain more than anything, for it would mean her personal defeat; they had humiliated him and her, and as he had made her Queen, insults to her were insults to him. They had doubly insulted him!

This he remembered as he paced the floor with Chapuys, as he talked to Cromwell and Audley—that chancellor who had followed More—both of whom were urging him to sink his grievances and snatch a good thing while he could. But no! It was the Emperor who must come humbly to him. The egoist was wounded; he needed the sweet balm of deference from one he feared to be more mighty than himself, to lay upon his wounds.

Cromwell, for the first time in a long obsequious association, lost his temper; his voice cracked as he would explain; Cromwell and the King shouted at each other.

“Danger, Cromwell! Danger!” said a small voice inside the man, and he had to excuse himself and move away that he might regain control of his temper. He was trembling from head to foot at his folly; he was sick with fear and anger. How simple to abandon his quarrel with Rome! What need to continue it now Katharine was dead. Only the gratification of Henry’s personal feelings came into this. Anne and her supporters were at the bottom of it; they would keep alive the King’s anger. Could it be that Anne’s falling into disfavor really was but a temporary thing? Such thoughts were fraught with great terror for Thomas Cromwell. For the first time in his career with the King, he must act alone; thus he feigned sickness that he might shut himself away from the King, that he might make a plan, study its effect, its reverberations, from all sides before daring to put it into practice.

He emerged from his isolation one mild April day, and asked for permission to see the King.

The King scowled at him, never liking him, liking him less remembering the man’s behavior when he had last seen him. He, who had ever been meek and accommodating, daring to shout at him, to tell him he was wrong! Was this secretary—whom he had made his vicar-general—was humble Thomas Cromwell a spy of Chapuys!

“Sir,” said Thomas Cromwell, “I am perplexed.”

His Majesty grunted, still retaining his expression of distaste.

“I would have Your Majesty’s permission to exceed the powers I now enjoy.”

Henry regarded his servant with some shrewdness. Why not? he wondered. He knew his Cromwell—cunning as a fox, stealthy as a cat; since he had attained to great power, he had his spies everywhere; if one wanted to know anything, the simplest way was to ask Cromwell; with speed and efficiency he would bring the answer. He was the most feared man at court. A good servant, thought Henry, though a maddening one; and there’ll come a day, was the royal mental comment, when he’ll anger me so much by his uncouth manners and his sly, cunning ways, that I’ll have his head off his shoulders…and doubtless be sorry afterwards, for though he creeps and crawls and is most wondrous sly, I declare he knows what he is about.

Cromwell should have his special powers. Cromwell bowed low and retired well pleased.

A few nights later, he asked Mark Smeaton to come up to dinner at his house at Stepney.

When Mark Smeaton received an invitation to dine at the house of the King’s secretary, he was delighted. Here was great honor indeed. The Queen had shown him favor, and now here was Master Secretary Thomas Cromwell himself seeking his company!

It must be, thought Mark, my exceptional skill at music—though he had not known that Master Cromwell was fond of music. He knew very little of Cromwell; he had seen him now and then at the court, his cold eyes darting everywhere, and he had shivered a little for he had heard it said that none was too insignificant to be of interest to that man. He would know a good deal of most people, and usually of matters they would prefer to keep secret; and every little piece of information he gathered, he would store, cherishing it until he might lay it beside another bit of information, and so make up a true picture of what was happening at court.

Mark had never been so happy as he had this last year or so. He had begun life most humbly in his father’s cottage; he had watched his father at work on his bench, mending chairs and such things as people brought to him to be mended. He had heard music in his father’s saw and plane; he had heard music in his mother’s spinning wheel. Mark had been born with two great gifts—beauty and a love of music. He had a small pointed face with great luminous dark eyes, and hair that hung in curls about his face; his hands were delicate, his fingers tapering; his skin was white. He had danced gracefully from the time he was a small boy, though he had never been taught to dance. He was noticed, and taken to the house of a neighboring knight where he had taught the knight’s daughter to play various musical instruments; and when she had married, his benefactor had found him a place at court—a very humble place, it was true—so that Mark thought himself singularly blessed, which indeed he was, to have gained it. He had seen poor beggars wander past his father’s door with never a bite to eat, and their feet sore and bleeding; no such fate for clever Mark! An opening at court; what next?

What next, indeed! He had never known how beautiful a thing life could be until one day when the Queen had passed so close to him that he had seen her long silken lashes lying against her smooth skin, and had heard her sing in the most exquisite voice he had ever heard, very softly to herself. Then she had caught sight of him, noticed his beauty of face, would have him play to her. He had wondered how he had been able to play, so deep had been his emotion.

Not only was she his idol, she was his benefactress. He was in his teens, at that age when it is possible to worship from afar some bright object, and to be completely happy in such worship, to be amply rewarded by a smile; and the Queen was generous with her smiles, especially to those who pleased her—and who could please her more readily than those who played excellently the music she loved!

Sometimes she would send for him and have him play to her when she was sad; he had seen her eyes fill with tears, had seen her hastily wipe them. Then he had yearned to throw himself at her feet, to say: “Let Your Majesty command me to die for you, and gladly will I do it!”

But that was foolish, for what good could his death do her? There were rumors in the court, and thinking he knew the cause of her unhappiness, he longed to comfort her. He could do so by his music, and he played to the Queen as he had never played before in his life. So pleased was she that she gave him a ring with a ruby in it, a most valuable ring which never, never would he remove from his finger.

That was some weeks ago, and it seemed to him as he considered this invitation to dine at Stepney, that events were moving so fast that he could not guess to what they pointed.

There were many about the Queen who loved her and made no great effort to hide their love; playing the virginals close by, he had heard their conversation with her. There was Sir Henry Norris whose eyes never left her, and whom she baited continually, pretending to scold him because he was a careless lover—since he was supposed to be in love with her cousin, Madge Shelton, yet was ever at the Queen’s side. There were Brereton and Weston too, whom she scolded happily enough as though the scolding was not meant to be taken seriously. There was Wyatt with whom she exchanged quips; they laughed together, those two, and yet there was such sadness in their eyes when they looked on each other, that Mark could not but be aware of it. As for Mark himself, he was but humbly born, unfit to be the companion of such noble lords and their Queen, but he could not help his emotions nor could he hide them completely, and those lovely black eyes must see his feelings and regard him with more indulgence because of them.

Two days before Mark had received the invitation, Brereton did not come to the presence chamber. He heard the nobles’ speculating on what had happened to him. He had been seen in his barge—going whither? None could be sure.

“On some gay adventure, I’ll warrant.” said the Queen. “We shall have to exact a confession from gay William, when he again presents himself!” And she was piqued, or feigned to be so; Mark was not sure; he could never be sure of the Queen; when she laughed most gaily, he sensed she was most near tears.

She found him sitting in the window seat, his lute idle in his hands.

She said softly: “Mark, you look sad! Tell me why.”

He could not tell her that he had been thinking he was but a foolish boy, a boy whose father was a carpenter, a boy who had come far because of his skill in music, and he at the height of his triumph must be melancholy because he loved a queen.

He said that it was of no importance that he was sad, for how could the sadness of her humblest musician affect so great a lady!

She said then that she thought he might be sad because she may have spoken to him as an inferior person, and he would wish her to speak to him as though he were a nobleman.

He bowed low and, overcome with embarrassment, murmured: “No, no, Madam. A look sufficeth me.”

That was disturbing, because she was perhaps telling him that she knew of his ridiculous passion. She was clever; she was endowed with wit and subtlety; how was it possible to keep such a mighty secret from her!

The next day he took a barge to Stepney. Cromwell’s house stood back from the river, which lapped its garden. Smeaton scrambled out and ascended the privy steps to the garden. A few years ago he would have been overawed by the splendor of the house he saw before him, but now he was accustomed to Greenwich and Windsor and Hampton Court; he noted it was just a comfortable riverside house.

He went through the gates and across the courtyard. He knocked, and a servant opened the door. Would he enter? He was expected. He was led through the great hall to a small chamber and asked to sit. He did so, taking a chair near the window, through which he gazed at the sunshine sparkling on the river, thinking what a pleasant spot this was.

The door must have been opened some time before he realized it, so silently was it done. In the doorway stood Thomas Cromwell. His face was very pale; his eyes were brilliant, as though they burned with some excitement. Surely he could not be excited by the visit of a humble court musician! But he was. This was decidedly flattering. In the court there were many who feared this man; when he entered a room, Mark had noticed, words died on people’s lips; they would lightly change a dangerous subject. Why had the great Thomas Cromwell sent for Mark Smeaton?

Mark was aware of a hushed silence throughout the house. For the first time since he had received the invitation, he began to wonder if it was not as a friend that Cromwell had asked him. He felt the palms of his hands were wet with sweat; he was trembling so much that he was sure that if he were asked to play some musical instrument he would be unable to do so.

Cromwell advanced into the room. He said: “It was good of you to come so promptly and so punctually.”

“I would have you know, my lord,” said Mark humbly, “that I am by no means insensible of the honor…”

Cromwell waved his thick and heavy hands, as though to say “Enough of that!” He was a crude man; he had never cultivated court graces, nor did he care that some might criticize his manners. The Queen might dislike him, turning her face from him fastidiously; he cared not a jot. The King might shout at him, call him rogue and knave to his face; still Thomas Cromwell cared not. Words would never hurt him. All he cared was that he might keep his head safely in the place where it was most natural for it to be.

He walked silently and he gave the impression of creeping, for he was a heavy man. Once again Mark was aware of the silence all about him, and he felt a mad desire to leap through the window, run across the gardens to the privy stairs and take a barge down the river…no, not back to court where he could never be safe from this man’s cold gaze, but back to his father’s cottage, where he might listen to the gentle sawing of wood and his mother’s spinning wheel.

He would have risen, but Cromwell motioned him to be seated, and came and stood beside him.

“You have pleasant looking hands, Master Smeaton. Would they not be called musician’s hands?” Cromwell’s own hands were clammy as fish skin; he lifted one of Mark’s and affected to study it closely. “And what a pleasant ring! A most valuable ring; a ruby, is it not? You are a very fortunate young man to come by such a ring.”

Smeaton looked at the ring on his finger, and felt that his face had flushed to the stone’s color; there was something so piercing in the cold eyes; he liked not to see them so close. The big, clumsy fingers touched the stone.

“A gift, was it, Master Smeaton?”

Mark nodded.

“I should be pleased to hear from whom.”

Mark tried to conceal the truth. He could not bear those cold hands to touch the ring; he could not bear to say to this crude man, “It was a gift from the Queen.” He was silent therefore, and Cromwell’s fingers pressed into his wrist.

“You do not answer. Tell me, who gave you that most valuable ring?”

“It was…from one of my patrons…one who liked my playing.”

“Might I ask if it was a man…or a lady?”

Mark slipped his hands beneath the table.

“A man,” he lied.

His arms were gripped so tightly that he let out a shriek for Cromwell’s hands were strong, and Mark was fragile as a girl.

“You lie!” said Cromwell, and his voice was quiet and soft as silk.

“I…no, I swear…I…”

“Will you tell me who gave you the ring?”

Mark stood up. “Sir, I came here on an invitation to dine with you. I had no idea that it was to answer your questions.”

“You came here to dine,” said Cromwell expressionlessly. “Well, when you dine, boy, will depend on how readily you answer my questions.”

“I know not by what authority…” stammered the poor boy, almost in tears.

“On the authority of the King, you fool! Now will you answer my questions?”

Sweat trickled down Smeaton’s nose. He had never before come face to face with violence. When the beggars had passed his father’s door, when he had seen men in the pillory or hanging from a gibbet, he had looked the other way. He could not bear to look on any distressing sight. He was an artist; when he saw misery, he turned from it and tried to conjure up music in his head that he might disperse his unhappy thoughts. And now, looking at Cromwell, he realized that he was face to face with something from which it was not possible to turn.

“Who gave you the ring?” said Cromwell.

“I…I told you….” Smeaton covered his face with his hands, for tears were starting to his eyes, and he could not bear to look longer into the cold and brutal face confronting him.

“Have done!” said Cromwell. “Now…ready?”

Mark uncovered his eyes and saw that he was no longer alone with Cromwell. On either side of him stood two big men dressed as servants; in the hands of one was a stick and a rope.

Cromwell nodded to these men. One seized Smeaton in a grip that paralyzed him. The other placed the rope about his head, making a loop in the rope through which was placed the stick.

“Tighten the rope as I say,” commanded Cromwell.

The boy’s eyes were staring in terror; they pleaded with Cromwell: Do not hurt me; I cannot bear it! I could not bear physical pain…I never could….

The eyes of Cromwell surveyed his victim, amused, cynical. One of the thick fingers pulled at his doublet.

“Indeed it is a fine doublet…a very fine doublet for a humble musician to wear. Tell me, whence came this fine doublet?”

“I…I…”

“Tighten the rope,” said Cromwell. It cut into the pale skin of Mark’s forehead. He felt as though his head was about to burst.

“The doublet…whence did it come?”

“I…I do not understand….”

“Tighter…tighter! I have not all the day to spend on such as he.”

Something was trickling down his face, something warm and thick. He could see it on his nose, just below his eyes.

“Who gave you the doublet? Tighten the rope, you fools!”

Mark screamed. His head was throbbing; black spots, like notes of music, danced before his eyes.

“Please…stop! I…will tell you…about the doublet…Her majesty…”

“Her Majesty!” said Cromwell, smiling suddenly.

“Loosen the rope. Bring him a little water. Her Majesty?” he prompted.

“Her Majesty thought I was ill-clad, and since I was to be her musician, she gave money for the doublet….”

“The Queen gave you money….” One large cold finger pointed to the ruby. “And the ring…?”

“I…”

“The rope, you fools! Tighten it! You were too soft before….”

“No!” screamed Mark. “You said…water…”

“Then who gave you the ring?”

“The Queen…”

“Give him water. The Queen then gave you the ruby ring.”

Mark drank; the room was swimming round and round; the ceiling dipped. He could see the river through the window—it looked faint and far away; he heard the sound of singing on a passing barge. Oh, were I but there! thought Mark.

“I would know why the Queen gave you the ruby.”

That was easy. “She was pleased with my playing…She is a most generous lady…”

“Over-generous with her favors, I’ll warrant!”

He felt sick. This was no way to speak of the Queen. He wanted to stand up, push aside that bland, smiling face, run out into the fresh air, run to the Queen.

“You were most friendly with the Queen?”

“She was most gracious…”

“Come, no evasions! You know full well my meaning. The Queen gave you money, clothes, and a ruby ring. Well, why not? She is young, and so are you. You are a handsome boy.”

“I understand not…”

“Subterfuge will not help you. You are here, on the King’s command, to answer questions. You are the Queen’s lover!”

The shock of those words set his head throbbing anew; he could still feel the tight pressure of the rope about his head, although in actual fact it was quite loose now; the torture had stopped for a while. He felt very ill; the blood was still trickling down his face from the cut which the rope had made. Oh, why had he accepted an invitation to dine with Thomas Cromwell! Now he knew what people meant when they talked with fear of Cromwell. Now he knew why they would suddenly stop talking when Cromwell appeared.

Cromwell rapped on the table with his knuckles.

“Tighten the rope.”

“No!” screamed Mark.

“Now. Speak the truth, or it will be worse for you. You are the Queen’s lover. You have committed adultery with the Queen. Answer! Answer yes!”

“No!” sobbed Mark.

He could not bear this. He was screaming with the pain; it seemed to him that his blood was pounding against the top of his head, threatening to burst it. It gushed from his nose. He alternately moaned and screamed.

Cromwell said: “You must tell the truth. You must admit this crime you and she have committed.”

“I have committed no crime! She…she…is a queen…No, no! Please…please…I cannot bear it…I cannot…”

One of the men was putting vinegar beneath his nose, and he realized that he had enjoyed a second or two of blessed unconsciousness.

Cromwell gripped his chin and jerked his head up violently, so that it seemed as if a hundred knives had been plunged into his head.

“This is nothing to what will follow, if you do not answer my questions. Admit that you have committed adultery with the Queen.”

“’Twould be but an untruth…”

Cromwell banged on the table; the noise was like hammer blows on his aching head.

“You committed adultery with the Queen…Tighten up…Tighter, you fools! Tighter…”

“No!” screamed Mark. And then the smell of vinegar, mingling with that of blood, told him he had lost consciousness again.

He sobbed: “I cannot…I cannot…”

“Listen,” snarled Cromwell, “you committed adultery with the Queen…” The great hand shot up and seized the stick from the hands of his servant. “There! There! You committed adultery with the Queen. You committed adultery with the Queen…Admit it! Admit it!”

Mark screamed. “Anything…anything…Please…I cannot…I cannot…endure…my head…”

“You admit it then?”

“I admit…”

“You committed adultery with the Queen…”

He was crying, and his tears mingled with the blood and sweat…and that hateful smell of vinegar would not let him sink into peace. He had longed to die for her, and he could not bear a little pain for her. A little pain! Oh, but it was such exquisite torture; his head was bursting, bleeding; he had never known there could be agony like this.

Cromwell said; “He admits adultery with the Queen. Take him away.”

They had to carry him, for when he stood up he could see nothing but a blur of paneled walls, and light from the window, and a medley of cruel faces. He could not stand; so they carried him to a dark chamber in which they left him, locked in. And as he sank to the floor, he lost consciousness once more.

He lay there, half fainting, not aware of the room nor even what had gone before. He knew nothing except that there was a pain that maddened him, and that it was in his head. In his mouth he tasted blood; the smell of vinegar clung to his clothes, devilishly not allowing him to rest in that dark world for which he longed.

He was semi-conscious, thinking he was in his father’s cottage, thinking he sat at the feet of the Queen, and that darkness for which he longed was her eyes, as black as night, as beautiful as forgetfulness.

But now someone was beating with a hammer on his head, and it was hurting him abominably. He awakened screaming, and knew suddenly that he was not in his father’s cottage, nor at the feet of the Queen; he was in a dark room in Thomas Cromwell’s house at Stepney, and he had been tortured…and what had he said? What had he said?

He had lied; he had lied about her for whom he would have died! Sobs shook his slender body. He would tell them…he would tell them he lied; he would explain. It hurt me so that I knew not what I said. She is a great, good lady. How could I have said that of her! How could I so demean her…and myself! But I could not bear the pain in my head; it was maddening. I could not endure it, Your Most Gracious Majesty! For that reason I lied.

He must pray for strength. He must do anything, but he must explain that he had lied. He could not let them believe…

He lay groaning in the dark, misery of body forgotten because he mourned so sincerely what he had done. Even though I assure them it is not so, I said it…I failed her.

He was almost glad when they came to him. That cruel man was with them.

Mark stammered: “I lied…It was not so. The pain was too much for me.”

“Can you stand?” asked Cromwell in a voice that was almost solicitous.

He could stand. He felt better. There was a terrible throbbing in his head, but the frightening giddiness had passed. He felt strengthened. No matter what they did to him, he would tell no more lies. He was ready to go to the scaffold for the Queen.

“This way,” said Cromwell.

The cool air fanned his burning face, setting his wounds to smart. He reeled, but there were those to support him. He was too dazed to wonder where he was going. They led him down the privy stairs to a barge.

He could feel the river breeze; he could smell the river, tar and sea salt mingling with blood and vinegar. He felt steady with purpose; he pictured himself going to the scaffold for her sake; but first though, he must make it clear that he had lied, that only such frightening, maddening torture could have made him lie about her.

The river was shot with darkness, for evening was advancing. The barge was being moored; he was prodded and told to get out. Above him loomed a dark, gray tower; he mounted the steps and went over the stone bridge. They were going to put him in the Tower! He was suddenly sick; the sight of the Tower had done that to him. What now? Why should they take him to the Tower? What had he done? He had accepted money, he had accepted a ring; they were gifts from a queen to one whose music had pleased her. He had committed no crime.

“This way,” said Cromwell. A door was unlocked; they passed through it. They were in a dark passage whose walls were slimy; and there was a noisome smell coming up from below the dismal spiral staircase which they were descending.

A man with a lantern appeared. Their shadows were grotesque on the walls.

“Come along,” said Cromwell, almost gently.

They were in one of the many passages which ran under the great fortress. The place was damp and slimy; little streams trickled across the earthen floor, and rats scuttled away at their approach.

“You are in the Tower of London, Smeaton.”

“That I have realized. For what reason have I been brought here?”

“You will know soon enough. Methought I would like to show you the place.”

“I would rather go back. I would have you know that when I said…when I said what I did…that I lied…”

Cromwell held up a thick finger.

“An interesting place, this Tower of London. I thought you would enjoy a tour of inspection before we continue with our cross-examination.”

“I…I understand not…”

“Listen! Ah! We are nearer the torture chambers. How that poor wretch groans! Doubtless ’tis the rack that stretches his body. These rogues! They should answer questions, and all would be well with them.”

Mark vomited suddenly. The smell of the place revolted him, his head was throbbing, he was in great pain, and he felt he could not breathe in this confined space.

“You will be better later,” said Cromwell. “This place has a decided effect on those who visit it for the first time…Here! Someone comes…”

He drew Mark to one side of the loathsome passage. Uncanny screams, like those of a madman, grew louder, and peering in the dim light, Mark saw that they issued from the bloody head of what appeared to be a man who was coming towards them; he walked between two strong men in the uniform of warders of the Tower, who both supported and restrained him. Mark gasped with horror; he could not take his eyes from that gory thing which should have been a head; blood dripped from it, splashing Mark’s clothes as the man reeled past, struggling in his agony to dash his head against the wall and so put an end to his misery.

Cromwell’s voice was silky in his ear.

“They have cut off his ears. Poor fool! I trow he thought it smart to repeat what he’d heard against the King’s Grace.”

Mark could not move; it seemed to him that his legs were rooted to this noisome spot; he put out a hand and touched the slimy wall.

“Come on!” said Cromwell, and pushed him.

They went on; Mark was dazed with what he had seen. I am dreaming this, he thought. This cannot be; there could never be such things as this!

The passages led past cells, and Cromwell would have the man shine his lantern into these, that Mark might see for himself what befell those who saw fit to displease the King. Mark looked; he saw men more dead than alive, their filthy rags heaving with the movement of vermin, their bones protruding through their skin. These men groaned and blinked, shutting their eyes from that feeble light, and their clanking chains seemed to groan with them. He saw what had been men, and were now mere bones in chains. He saw death, and smelled it. He saw the men cramped in the Little Ease, so paralyzed by this form of confinement that when Cromwell called to one of them to come out, the man, though his face lit up with a sudden hope of freedom, could not move.

The lantern was shone into the gloomy pits where rats swam and squeaked in a ferocious chorus as they fought one another over dying men. He saw men, bleeding and torn from the torture chambers; he heard their groans, saw their bleeding hands and feet, their mutilated fingers from which the nails had been pulled, their poor, shapeless, bleeding mouths from which their teeth had been brutally torn.

“These dungeons have grown lively during the reign of our most Christian King,” said Cromwell. “There will always be fools who know not when they are fortunate…Come, Master Smeaton, we are at our destination.”

They were in a dimly lighted chamber which seemed to Mark’s dazed eyes to be hung with grotesque shapes. He noticed first the table, for at this table sat a man, and set before him were writing materials. He smelled in this foul air the sudden odor of vinegar, and the immediate effect of this—so reminiscent of his pain—was to make him retch. In the center of this chamber was a heavy stone pillar from which was projected a long iron bar, and slung around this was a rope at the end of which was a hook. Mark stared at this with wonder, until Cromwell directed his gaze to that ponderous instrument of torture nicknamed the Scavenger’s Daughter; it was a simple construction, like a wide iron hoop, which by means of screws could be tightened about its victim’s body.

“Our Scavenger’s Daughter!” said Cromwell. “One would not care for that wench’s embrace. Very different, Smeaton, from the arms of her who is thought by many to be the fairest lady of the court!”

Mark stared at his tormentor, as a rabbit stares at a stoat. He was as if petrified, and while he longed to scream, to run to dash himself against the walls in an effort to kill himself—as that other poor wretch had done—he could do nothing but stand and stare at those instruments of torture which Cromwell pointed out to him.

“The gauntlets, Smeaton! A man will hang from these…Try them on? Very well. I was saying…they would be fixed on yonder hook which you see there, and a man would hang for days in such torture as you cannot…yet imagine. And all because he will not answer a few civil questions. The folly of men, Smeaton, is past all believing!”

Mark shuddered, and the sweat ran down his body.

“The thumbscrews, Smeaton. See, there is blood on them. The Spanish Collar…see these spikes! Not pleasant when pressed into the flesh. How would you like to be locked into such a collar and to stay there for days on end? But no, you would not be unwise, Smeaton. Methinks you are a cultured man; you are a musician; you have musician’s hands. Would it not be a pity were those beautiful hands fixed in yon gauntlets! They say men have been known to lose the use of their hands after hanging from that beam.”

Mark was trembling so that he could no longer stand.

“Sit here,” said Cromwell, and sat with him. Regaining his composure to some small extent, Mark looked about him. They were sitting on a wooden frame shaped like a trough, large enough to contain a human body. At each end of this frame were fixed windlasses on which rope was coiled.

Smeaton screamed aloud. “The rack!” he cried.

“Clever of you, Smeaton, to have guessed aright. But fear not. You are a wise young man; you will answer the questions I ask, and you will have no need of the rack nor her grim sister, the Scavenger’s Daughter.”

Mark’s mouth was dry, and his tongue was too big for it.

“I…I cannot…I lied…”

Cromwell lifted a hand. Two strong men appeared and, laying hands on the shivering boy, began stripping off his clothes.

Mark tried to picture the face of the Queen; he could see her clearly. He must keep that picture before him, no matter what they did to him. If he could but remember her face…if…

He was half fainting as they laid him in the frame and fastened the loops of the ropes to his wrists and ankles.

Cromwell’s face was close to his.

“Smeaton, I would not have them do this to you. Dost know what happens to men who are racked? Some lose their reason. There are some who never walk again. This is pain such as you cannot dream of, Smeaton. Just answer my questions.” He nodded to his attendants to be ready. “Smeaton, you have committed adultery with the Queen.”

“No!”

“You have admitted it. You admitted it at Stepney; you cannot go back on that.”

“I was tortured…The pain…it was too much…”

“So you admitted the truth. Did I not tell you that what you have known so far was naught? You are on the rack, Smeaton. One sign from me, and those men will begin to work it. Will you answer my questions?”

“I lied…I did not…”

He could see her face clearly, smiling at him; her eyes were great wells of blessed darkness; to lose oneself in that darkness would be to die, and death was the end of pain.

“Begin,” said Cromwell. The windlasses turned outwards…Smeaton felt his body was being torn apart; he screamed, and immediately lost consciousness.

Vinegar. That hateful smell that would not let a man rest.

“Come Smeaton! You committed adultery with the Queen.”

He could still see her face, but it was blurred now.

“You committed adultery with the Queen…”

There was nothing but pain, pain that was a thousand red hot needles pressing into the sockets of his arms and legs; he could feel his joints cracking; he felt they must be breaking. He began to groan.

“Yes, yes…yes…anything…But…”

“Enough!” said Cromwell, and the man at the table wrote.

Mark was sobbing. It seemed to him that they poured the accursed vinegar over his face. They sprinkled it on with the brush he had seen hanging on the wall, adding fresh smarts to his bleeding head; causing him to shrink, which in its turn made him scream afresh, for every movement was acute torture.

Cromwell’s voice came from a long way off.

“There were others, beside yourself, Smeaton.”

Others? He knew not what the man meant. He knew nothing but pain, pain, excruciating pain that shot all over his flesh; this was all the pain he had ever thought there could be; this was all the pain in the world. And more than pain of the body—pain of the mind. For he would have died for her, and he had betrayed her, he had lied; he had lied about her; he had said shameful things of her because…he…could not bear the pain.

“Their names?” said Cromwell.

“I know…no names.”

Not vinegar again! I cannot bear it…I cannot bear pain and vinegar…not both! He broke into deep sobs.

“You shall rest if you but tell us their names.”

How could he know of what the man was speaking? Names? What names? He thought he was a little boy at his mother’s spinning wheel. “Little Mark! He is a pretty boy. Here is a sweetmeat, Mark…And he sings prettily too. And he plays the virginals…Mark, how would you like a place at court? The King loves music mightily…”

“Begin again!” ordered Cromwell.

“No!” shrieked Mark.

“The names,” murmured Cromwell.

“I…I…know…not…”

It was coming again, the agony. There was never agony such as this. Burning pincers…the wrenching apart of his muscles…the wicked rack was tearing off his limbs. Vinegar. Accursed vinegar.

“Mark Smeaton, you have committed adultery with the Queen. Not you alone! You were not to blame, Mark; the Queen tempted you, and who were you, a humble musician, to say nay to the Queen! But you were not alone in this, Mark; there were others. There were noble gentlemen, Mark…Come now, you have had enough of this rack; men cannot be racked forever—you know that, Mark. It drives men mad. Just say their names, Mark. Come! Was it Wyatt?”

“There was none…I know not. I lied. Not I…I…”

No, not again. He was going mad. He could not endure more. Her face was becoming blurred. He must stop, stop. He was going mad. He would not say what they told him to. He must not say Wyatt’s name…

They were putting vinegar under his nose. They were going to turn the rack again.

He saw the court, as clearly as though he were there. She was smiling, and someone was standing beside her.

“Norris!” he screamed. “Norris!”

Cromwell’s voice was gentle, soothing.

“Norris, Mark. That is good. That is right. Who else, Mark? Just whisper…”

“Norris! Brereton! Weston!” screamed Mark.

He was unconscious as they unbound him and carried his tortured body away.

Cromwell watched them, smiling faintly. It had been a good day’s work.

The next day was the first of May. May Day was a favorite court festival which the King never failed to keep. At one time he had been the hero of the tiltyard, but now that his leg was troublesome, he must sit back and watch others take the glory of the day. The chief challenger on this day would be Lord Rochford, and the chief of the defenders, Henry Norris. It was not pleasant, when one had been more skillful than they, to realize age was creeping on, turning one into a spectator instead of a brilliant performer who had held the admiration of the entire court.

Cromwell came to see the King before he went to the tiltyard. Henry frowned on the man, not wishing to see him now, but for once Cromwell would not be waved aside; he had news, disturbing news, news which should not be withheld from His Majesty one second longer than necessary. Cromwell talked; the King listened. He listened in silence, while his eyes seemed to sink into his head and his face grew as purple as his coat.

Down in the tiltyard they were awaiting the arrival of the King. The Queen was already in her place, but obviously the jousts could not start without the King. He went to the yard, and took his place beside her. The tilt began.

He was aware of her beside him; he was trembling with jealous rage. He was thinking. This is the woman to whom I have given everything; the best years of my life, my love, my throne. For her I broke with Rome; for her I risked the displeasure of my people. And how does she reward me? She betrays me with any man that takes her fancy!

He did not know who tilted below; he did not care. Red mist swam before his eyes. He glanced sideways at her; she was more beautiful than she had ever seemed, and more remote than she had been in her father’s garden at Hever. She had tricked him; she had laughed at him; and he had loved her passionately and exclusively. He was a king, and he had loved her; she was a nobody, the daughter of a man who owed his advancement to the favor of his king…and she had flouted him. Never had she loved him; she had loved a throne and a crown, and she had reluctantly taken him because she could not have them without him. His throat was dry with the pain she had caused him; his heart beat wildly with anger. His eyes were murderous; he wanted her to suffer all the pain she had inflicted on him—not as he had suffered, but a thousand times more so. It galled him that even now she was not one half as jealous of Jane Seymour as he was of Norris down there in the yard.

He looked at Norris—one of his greatest and most intimate friends—handsome, not as young as those others, Weston, Brereton and Smeaton, but with a distinguished air, a charm of manner, a gracious, gentle, knightly air. He loathed Norris, of whom a short while ago he had been very fond. There was her brother, Rochford; he had liked that young man; he had been glad to raise him for his own sake as well as his sister’s; gay, amusing, devilishly witty and attractive…and now Cromwell had discovered that Rochford had said unforgivable, disloyal, treasonable things of his royal master; he had laughed at the King’s verses, laughed at the King’s clothes; he had most shamefully—and for this he deserved to die—disparaged the King’s manhood, had laughed at him and whispered that the reason why the King’s wives could not have children successfully was that the King himself was at fault.

Smeaton…that low-born creature who had nothing to recommend him but his pretty face and his music had pleased her more than he himself had. He, King of England, had begged her, had implored her, had bribed her with offers of greatness, and reluctantly she had accepted—not for love of him, but because she could not refuse a glittering crown.

He was mad with rage, mad with jealousy; furious with her that she could still hurt him thus, and that he was so vulnerable even now when he planned to cast her off. He could leap on her now…and if he had a knife in his hand he would plunge it into her heart; nothing would satisfy him, nothing…nothing but that her blood should flow; he would stab her himself, rejoicing to see her die, rejoicing that no one else should enjoy her.

The May sunshine was hot on his face; the sweat glistening across his nose. He did not see the jousts; he could see nothing but her making such voluptuous love with others as she had never given him. He had been jealous of her before; he had been ready to torture those who had glanced at her, but that had been complacent jealousy; now he could be jealous by reason of his knowledge, he could even fill in the forms of her lovers—Norris! Weston! Brereton! Wyatt? And that Smeaton! How dare she, she whom he had made a Queen! Even a humble boy could please her more than he could!

His attention was suddenly caught, for her handkerchief had fluttered from her hand; she was smiling, smiling at Norris; and Norris picked up the handkerchief, bowed, handed it to her on the point of his lance while they exchanged smiles that seemed like lovers’ smiles to Henry’s jealous eyes.

The joust continued. His tongue was thick, his throat was dry; he was filled with mad rage which he knew he could not continue to control. If he stayed here he would shout at her, he would take her by the beautiful hair which he had loved to twine about his fingers, and he would twist it about that small white neck, and tighten it and tighten it until there was no life left in the body he had loved too well.

She spoke to him. He did not hear what she said. He stood up; he was the King, and everything he did was of importance. How many of those people, who now turned startled eyes on him, had laughed at him for the complaisant husband he had appeared to be, had laughed at his blind devotion to this woman who had tricked him and deceived him with any man she fancied in his court!

It was the signal for the jousting to end. How could it go on, when the King no longer wished to see it? Anne was not so surprised, that she would attach too much importance to the strange behavior of the King; he had been curt with her often enough of late; she guessed he had left Greenwich for White Hall, as he often went to London to see Jane Seymour.

The King was on his way to White Hall. He had given orders that Rochford and Weston should be arrested as they were leaving the tiltyard. Norris he had commanded to ride back with him.

He could not take his eyes from that handsome profile; there was a certain nobility about Norris that angered the King; he was tall and straight, and his gentle character was apparent in the finely cut profile and the mobile mouth. He was a man to be jealous of. The King had heard that Norris was about to engage himself to Madge Shelton who at one time—and that not so long ago—had pleased the King himself. Henry had wished him well of Madge; she was a very attractive woman, lively and clever and good-looking. The King had tired of her quickly; the only woman he did not tire of quickly was Anne Boleyn. And she…The anger came surging up again. The wanton! The slut! To think that he, who had always admired virtue in women, should have been cursed with a wife who was known throughout his court for her wanton ways! It was too much. She had known that he admired virtue in those about him; and she had laughed at him, jeered at him…with her brother and Weston and Brereton and Norris…

He leaned forward in his saddle and said, his voice quivering with rage: “Norris, I know thee for what thou art, thou traitor!”

Norris almost fell from the saddle, so great was his surprise.

“Your Majesty…I know not…”

“You know not! I’ll warrant you know well enough. Ha! You start, do you! Think you not that I am a fool, a man to stand aside and let his inferiors amuse themselves with his wife. I accuse you of adultery with the Queen!”

“Sir…this is a joke…”

“This is no joke, Norris, and well you know it!”

“Then it is the biggest mistake that has ever been made.”

“You would dare to deny it?” foamed the King.

“I deny it utterly, Your Majesty.”

“Your lies and evasions will carry little weight with me, Norris.”

“I can only repeat, Sir, that I am guiltless of that of which you accuse me,” said Norris with dignity.

All the rich blood had left the King’s usually florid face, showing a network of veins against a skin grown pallid.

“’Twill be better if you do not lie to me, Norris. I am in no mood to brook such ways. You will confess to me here and now.”

“There is naught I can confess, my lord. I am guiltless of this charge you bring against me.”

“Come, come! You know, as all in the court know, how the Queen conducts herself.”

“I assure Your Most Gracious Majesty that I know naught against the Queen.”

“You have not heard rumors! Come, Norris, I warn you I am not in the mood for dalliance.”

“I have heard no rumors, Sir.”

“Norris, I offer you pardon, for you know that I have loved you well, if you will confess to your adultery.”

“I would rather die a thousand deaths, my lord, than accuse the Queen of that which I believe her, in my conscience, innocent.”

The King’s fury almost choked him. He said no more until they reached Westminster. Then, calling to him the burly bully Fitzwilliam, whom Cromwell had chosen to be his lieutenant, he bade the man arrest Norris and dispatch him to the Tower.

Anne, sitting down to supper in Greenwich Palace, felt the first breath of uneasiness.

She said to Madge Shelton: “Where is Mark? He does not seem to be in his accustomed place.”

“I do not know what has happened to Mark, Your Majesty,” answered Madge.

“If I remember aright, I did not notice him last night. I hope he is not sick.”

“I do not know, Madam,” said Madge, and Anne noticed that her cousin’s eyes did not meet hers; it was as though the girl was afraid.

Later she said: “I do not see Norris. Madge, is it not strange that they should both absent themselves? Where is Norris, Madge? You should know.”

“He has said nothing to me, Madam.”

“What! He is indeed a neglectful lover; I should not allow it, Madge.”

Her voice had an edge to it. She well knew, and Madge well knew that though Norris was supposed to be in love with Madge, it was the Queen who received his attention. Madge was charming; she could attract easily, but she could not hold men to her as her cousin did. Weston had been attracted to Madge once, until he had felt the deeper and irresistible attraction of the Queen.

“I know not what is holding him,” said Madge.

Anne said: “You know not who is holding him, you mean!” And when she laughed, her laughter was more than usually high-pitched.

It was a strange evening; people whispered together in the corridors of the palace.

“What means this?”

“Did you see the way His Majesty left the tiltyard?”

“They say Norris, Weston and Brereton are missing.”

“Where is Mark Smeaton? Surely they would not arrest little Mark!”

The Queen was aware of this strange stillness about her; she called for the musicians, and while they played to her, sat staring at Mark’s empty place. Where was Norris? Where was Weston? Why did Brereton continue to absent himself?

She spent a sleepless night, and in the early morning fell into a heavy doze from which she awakened late. All during the morning the palace abounded in rumor. Anne heard the whispering voices, noted the compassionate glances directed at her, and was increasingly uneasy.

She sat down to dinner, determined to hide the terrible apprehension that was stealing over her. When she did not dine with the King, His Majesty would send his waiter to her with the courteous message: “Much good may it do you!” On this day she waited in vain for the King’s messenger; and as soon as the meal was over and the surnap was removed, there came one to announce the arrival at Greenwich of certain members of the council, and with them, to her disgust, was her uncle the Duke of Norfolk.

Her uncle looked truculent and self-righteous, pleased with himself, as though that which he had prophesied had come to pass. He behaved, not as a courtier to a queen, but as a judge to a prisoner.

“What means this?” demanded Anne.

“Pray be seated,” said Norfolk.

She hesitated, wanting to demand of him why he thought he might give her orders when to sit and when to stand; but something in his eyes restrained her. She sat down, her head held high, her eyes imperious.

“I would know why you think fit to come to me at this hour and disturb me with your presence. I would know…”

“You shall know,” said Norfolk grimly. “Smeaton is in the Tower. He had confessed to having committed adultery with you.”

She grew very pale, and stood up, her eyes flashing.

“How dare you come to me with such vile accusations!”

“Tut, tut, tut!” said Norfolk, and shook his head at her. “Norris is also in the Tower.” He lied: “He also admits to adultery with you.”

“I will not believe that he could be guilty of such falsehood! I will not believe it of either. Please leave me at once. I declare you shall suffer for your insolence.”

“Forget not,” said Norfolk, “that we come by the King’s command to conduct you to the Tower, there to abide His Highness’s pleasure.”

“I must see the King,” said Anne. “My enemies have done this. These stories you would tell me would be tragic, were they not ridiculous….”

“It is not possible for you to see the King.”

“It is not possible for me to see the King. You forget who I am, do you not? I declare you will wish…”

“You must await the King’s pleasure, and he has said he does not wish to see you.”

She was really frightened now. The King had sent these men to arrest her and take her to the Tower; he had said he did not wish to see her. Lies were being told about her. Norris? Smeaton? Oh, no! Not those two! They had been her friends, and she would have sworn to their loyalty. What did this mean…. George, where was George? She needed his advice now as never before.

“If it be His Majesty’s pleasure,” she said calmly, “I am ready to obey.”

In the barge she felt very frightened. She was reminded of another journey to the Tower, of a white falcon which had been crowned by an angel, of the King, waiting to receive her there…eager that all the honor be could give her should be hers.

She turned to her uncle. “I am innocent of these foul charges. I swear it! I swear it! If you will but take me to the King, I know I can convince him of my innocence.”

She knew she could, if she could but see him…if she could but take his hands…. She had ever been able to do with him what she would…but she had been careless of late. She had never loved him; she had not much cared that he had strayed; she had thought that she had but to flatter him and amuse him, and he would be hers. She had never thought that this could happen to her, that she would be removed from him, not allowed to see him, a prisoner in the Tower.

Norfolk folded his arms and looked at her coldly. One would have thought he was her bitterest enemy rather than her kinsman.

“Your paramours have confessed,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “’Twould be better if you did likewise.”

“I have naught to confess. Have I not told you! What should I confess? I do not believe that these men have made confessions; you say so to trap me. You are my enemy; you always have been.”

“Calm yourself!” said Norfolk. “Such outbursts can avail you nothing.”

They made fast the barge; they led her up the steps; the great gate opened to admit her.

“Oh, Lord, help me,” she murmured, “as I am guiltless of that whereof I am accused.” Sir William Kingston came out to receive her, as he had on that other occasion. “Mr. Kingston,” she asked, “do I go into a dungeon?”

“No, Madam,” answered the constable, “to your own lodgings where you lay at your coronation.”

She burst into passionate weeping, and then she began to laugh hysterically; and her sobs, mingling with her laughter, were pitiful to hear. She was thinking of then and now—and that in but three short years. A queen coming to her coronation; a queen coming to her doom.

“It is too good for me!” she cried, laughing as the sobs shook her. “Jesus have mercy on me!”

Kingston watched her until her hysteria passed. He was a hard man but he could not but be moved to pity. He had seen some terrible sights in these gray, grim buildings, but he thought that this girl, laughing and crying before him, presented one of the most pathetic he had ever witnessed. He had received her on her first coming to the Tower, thought her very beautiful in her coronation robes with her hair flowing about her; he could not but compare her then with this poor weeping girl, and so was moved in spite of himself.

She wiped her eyes, controlled her laughter, and her dignity returned to her. She listened to a clock strike five, and such a familiar, homely sound reminded her of ordinary matters. Her family—what of them?

She turned to the members of the council, who were about to leave her in Kingston’s care.

“I entreat you to beseech the King in my behalf that he will be a good lord unto me,” she said; and when they had taken their leave, Kingston conducted her to her apartments.

She said: “I am the King’s true wedded wife.” Anne added: “Mr. Kingston, do you know wherefore I am here?”

“Nay!” he answered.

“When saw you the King?”

“I saw him not since I saw him in the tiltyard,” he said.

“Then Mr. Kingston, I pray you tell me where my lord father is.”

“I saw him in the court before dinner,” said Kingston.

She was silent awhile, but the question she had longed to ask, now refused to be kept back longer. “Oh, where is my sweet brother?”

He could not look at her; hard as he was he could not face the passionate entreaty in her eyes which pleaded with him to tell her that her brother was safe.

Kingston said evasively that he had last seen him at York Place.

She began to pace up and down, and as though talking to herself, she murmured: “I hear say that I shall be accused with three men, and I can say no more than ‘Nay!’” She began to weep softly, as if all the wildness had been drained out of her, and there was only sadness left. “Oh, Norris, hast thou accused me? Thou art in the Tower, and thou and I shall die together; and Mark, thou art here too? Oh, my mother, thou wilt die for sorrow.”

She sat brooding awhile, and then turning to him asked: “Mr. Kingston, shall I die without justice?”

He tried to comfort her. “The poorest subject the King hath, has that,” he assured her.

She looked at him a moment before she fell into prolonged and bitter laughter.

Silence hung over the palace; in the courtyards men and women stood about whispering together, glancing furtively over their shoulders, fearful of what would happen next. Wyatt was in the Tower; who next? No man in the Queen’s set felt safe. In the streets the people talked together; they knew that the Queen was a prisoner in the Tower; they knew she was to be tried on a charge of adultery. They remembered how the King had sought to rid himself of Katharine; did he seek to rid himself of Anne? Those who had shouted “Down with Nan Bullen!” now murmured “Poor lady! What will become of her?”

Jane Rochford, looking from her window, watched the courtiers and the ladies crossing the courtyard. She had expected trouble, but not such trouble. Anne in the Tower, where she herself had spent many an uneasy hour! George in the Tower! It was Jane’s turn to laugh now, for might it not be that her whispered slander had put Cromwell on the scent? Had she not seen grave Norris and gay Weston cast their longing glances at the Queen? Yes, and she had not hesitated to laugh at these matters, to point them out to others. “Ah! The Queen was born gay, and my husband tells me that the King…no matter, but what is a woman to do when she cannot got children….” Poor George was in the Tower now, though it was whispered that no harm could come to him. It was others, who had been her lovers, who would die.

Jane threw back her head, and for some moments she was weak with hysterical laughter. Poor little Jane! they had said. Silly little Jane! They had not bothered to explain their clever remarks to her; they had cut her out, considering her too stupid to understand. And yet she had had quite a big part to play in bringing about this event. Ah, Anne! she thought, when I was in the Tower you came thither in your cloth of silver and ermine, did you not! Anne the Queen, and Jane the fool whose folly had got her accused of treason. Now, who is the fool, eh, Anne? You, you and your lovers…dear sister! Not Jane, for Jane is free, free of you all…yes, even free of George, for now she does not cry and fret for him; she can laugh at him and say “I hate you, George!”

And he will be freed, for what has he done to deserve death! And he was ever a favorite with the King. It is only her lovers who will die the deaths of traitors…But he loved her as well as any.

Her eyes narrowed; her heart began to pound against her side, but her mind was very calm. She could see his face clearer in her mind’s eye—calm and cynical, ever courageous. If he could stand before her, his eyes would despise her, would say “Very well, Jane, do your worst! You were always a vindictive, cruel woman.” Vindictive! He had used that word to describe her. “I think you are the most vindictive woman in the world!” He had laughed at her fondness for listening at doors.

Her cheeks flamed; she ran down the staircase and out into the warm May sunshine.

People looked at her in a shamefaced way, as they looked at those whose loved ones were in danger. They should know that George Boleyn meant nothing to her; she could almost scream at the thought of him. “Nothing! Nothing! He means nothing to me, for if I loved him once, he taught me to hate him!” She was a partisan of the true Queen Katharine. Princess Mary was the rightful heir to the throne, not the bastard Elizabeth!

She joined a little group by a fountain.

“Has aught else happened?”

“You have heard about Wyatt….” said one.

“Poor Wyatt!” added another.

“Poor Wyatt!” Jane’s eyes flashed in anger. “He was guilty if ever one was!”

The man who had spoken moved away; he had been a fool to say “Poor Wyatt!” Such talk was folly.

“Ah! I fear they will all die,” said Jane. “Oh, do not look to be sorry for me. She was my sister-in-law, but I always knew. My husband is in the Tower, and he will be released because…because…” And she burst into wild laughter.

“It is the strain,” said one. “It is because George is in the Tower.”

“It is funny,” said Jane. “He will be released…and he…he is as guilty as any…”

They stared at her. She saw a man on the edge of that group, whom she knew to be Thomas Cromwell’s spy.

“What mean you?” he asked lightly, as though what she meant were of but little importance to him.

“He was her lover as well as any!” cried Jane. “He adored her. He could not keep his hands from her…he would kiss and fondle her…”

“George…?” said one, looking oddly at her. “But he is her brother….”

Jane’s eyes flashed. “What mattered that…to such…monsters! He was her lover. Dost think I, his wife, did not know these things? Dost think I never saw? Dost think I could shut my eyes to such obvious evidence? He was forever with her, forever shut away with her. Often I have surprised them…together. I have seen their lovers’ embrace. I have seen…”

Her voice was shrill as the jealousy of years conjured up pictures for her.

She closed her eyes, and went on shouting. “They were lovers I tell you, lovers! I, his wife, meant nothing to him; he loved his sister. They laughed together at the folly of those around them. I tell you I know. I have seen…I have seen…”

Someone said in a tone of disgust: “You had better go to your apartment, Lady Rochford. I fear recent happenings have been too much for you; you are overwrought.”

She was trembling from head to foot. She opened her eyes and saw that Cromwell’s spy had left the group.

The King could not stop thinking of Anne Boleyn. Cromwell had talked to him of her; Cromwell applied enthusiasm to this matter as to all others; he had closed his eyes, pressed his ugly lips together, had begged to be excused from telling the King of all the abominations and unmentionable things that his diligent probing had brought to light. The King dwelt on these matters which Cromwell had laid before him, because they were balm to his conscience. He hated Anne, for she had deceived him; if she had given him the happiest moments of his life, she had given him the most wretched also. He had, before Cromwell had forced the confession from Smeaton, thought of displacing Anne by Jane Seymour; and Jane was with child, so action must take place promptly. He knew what this meant; it could mean but one thing; he was embarking on no more divorces. There were two counts which he could bring forward to make his marriage with Anne null and void; the first was that pre-contract of hers with Northumberland; the second was his own affinity with Anne through his association with her sister Mary. Both of these were very delicate matters, since Northumberland had already sworn before the Archbishop of Canterbury that there had been no pre-contract, and this before he himself had married Anne; moreover he was in full knowledge of the matter. Could he now say that he believed her to have been pre-contracted to Northumberland when he had accepted her freedom and married her? Not very easily. And this affair with Mary; it would mean he must make public his association with Anne’s sister; and there was of course the ugly fact that he had chosen to forget about this when he had married Anne. It seemed to him that two opportunities of divorcing Anne were rendered useless by these very awkward circumstances; how could a man, who was setting himself up as a champion of chastity, use either? On the other hand how—unless he could prove his marriage to Anne illegal—could he marry Jane in time to make her issue legitimate?

There was one other way, and that was the way he wanted. He wanted it fiercely. While she lived he would continue to think of her enjoyed by and enjoying others; he could never bear that; she had meant too much to him, and still did. But their marriage had been a mistake; he had been completely happy with her before it, and he had never known a moment’s true peace since; and it was all her fault. She could not get a male child, which meant that heaven disapproved of their marriage. He could see no other way out of this but that that charming head should be cut from those elegant shoulders. His eyes glistened at the thought. Love and hatred, he knew, were closely allied. None other shall have her! was his main thought. She shall enjoy no more lovers; she shall laugh at me no more with her paramours! She shall die…die…die, for she is a black-browed witch, born to destroy men; therefore shall she be destroyed. She was guilty of adultery, and, worse still, incest; he must not forget that.

Ah, it grieved him that one he had once loved dearly should be too unworthy to live; but so it was…so it was. It was his painful duty to see justice done.

He said to Cranmer: “This is painful to me, Cranmer. I would such work as this had not fallen to my bitter lot!”

Cranmer was grieved too; he was terrified that this might turn back the King towards Rome. And then what of those who had urged the break? Cranmer imagined he could smell the pungent smell of burning faggots and feel the hot flames creeping up his legs.

He said that he was hurt and grieved as was His Majesty, for next to the King’s Grace he was most bound unto her of all creatures living. He would ask the King’s permission to pray for her; he had loved her for the love he had supposed her to bear to God and the gospel. He hastened to add that all who loved God must now hate her above all others, for there could never have been one who so slandered the gospel.

Poor chicken-hearted Cranmer went in fear and trembling for the next few weeks. He could wish his courage was as strong as his beliefs. What if he who had been helped by the Queen, whose duty really lay towards her now, were clapped into the Tower! Those who were high one day, were brought low the next. He thought of a girl he had loved and married in Nuremburg, whither he had gone to study Lutheran doctrines, and whom he had left in Nuremburg because he had been called home to become Archbishop of Canterbury. It had been heartbreaking to leave her behind; she was sweet and clinging; but Henry believed in the celibacy of priests, and what would he have said to a priest who had married a wife? He had left her for Henry; had left a bride for an archbishopric, had sacrificed love for a high place at court. What if he should fall from that high place to a dungeon in the Tower! From the Tower to the stake or the block was a short step indeed.

Henry found it comforting to talk with Cranmer; Cranmer was eager as he himself to do what was right.

“If she has done wrong,” said Cranmer, “then Your Grace will punish her through God.”

“Through God,” said Henry. “Though I trust she may yet prove her innocence. I would say to you, my lord, that I have no desire in the world to marry again unless constrained to do so by my subjects.”

“Amen!” said Cranmer, and tried not to show by his expression that he must think of Jane Seymour and those reports he had heard that she was already with child.

Henry patted the Archbishop’s shoulder, called him his good friend; and Cranmer begged that this sad matter should not cause the King to think less of the gospel.

“I but turn to it more, good Cranmer.”

Cranmer left happier, and the King was relieved by his visit.

He called to his son, the young Duke of Richmond, and would have him stand before him that he might embrace him.

“For I feel tender towards you this night, my son.”

He was thinking of Anne even as he spoke. How often had she discountenanced him! How often had she disturbed him! And she, laughing at him…in the arms of his courtiers…Norris…Weston…. Their faces leaped up in his mind, and were beside Anne’s, laughing at him.

Fiercely he embraced his son; tears of self-pity came into his eyes and brimmed over onto the boy’s head.

“Your Majesty is deeply disturbed,” said the young Duke.

Henry’s voice broke on a sob. He remembered a rumor that when he had thought of going to France and leaving Anne as Regent, she had talked wildly of getting rid of Mary; some had said she meant to poison her.

He held the boy against his chest.

“You and your sister Mary ought to thank God for escaping that cursed and venomous whore who tried to poison you both!” he declared.

Anne was desolate. The weary days were passing. There were with her two women, day and night, whom she hated and knew to be her enemies. These had been sent as her attendants by command of the King. They were a certain Mrs. Cosyns, a spy and a talebearer, and her aunt, Lady Boleyn, who was the wife of her uncle, Sir Edward. This aunt had always been jealous of her niece, right from the time when she was a precocious child considered in the family to be clever. These two, at Cromwell’s instigation, wore her down with their questions as they tried to trap her into admissions; they were sly-faced, ugly women, envious, jealous women who enjoyed their position and were made most gleeful by the distress of the Queen. Every chance remark that fell from her lips was repeated with some distortion to make it incriminating. This was just what Cromwell wanted, and he was therefore pleased with these two women. Those ladies whom she would have liked to have beside her, were not allowed to come to her. She longed to talk with Margaret Lee and Mary Wyatt, with her own sister, Mary, with Madge; but no, she must be followed, no matter where she went, by these two odious females or by Lady Kingston who was as cold as her husband and had little sympathy, having seen too much suffering in her capacity of wife of the Constable of the Tower to have much to spare for one who, before this evil fate had befallen her, had enjoyed in plenty the good things of life.

But news filtered through to Anne. Her brother had been arrested. On what charge? Incest! Oh, but this was grotesque! How could they say such things! It was a joke; George would laugh; they could not hurt George. What had George done to deserve this? “For myself,” she cried, “I have been foolish and careless and over-fond of flattery. I have been vain and stupid…. But oh, my sweet brother, what have you ever done but help me! I would die a thousand deaths rather than you should suffer so through me.”

The sly women nodded, carefully going over what she had said. By eliminating a word here, a sentence there, they could give a very good account of themselves to Thomas Cromwell.

“Wyatt here!” she exclaimed. “Here in the Tower?” And she wept for Wyatt, calling him Dear Thomas, and was over-wrought, recalling the happy days of childhood.

“Norris is here. Norris accused me…. Oh, I cannot believe it of Norris…. Oh, I cannot! He would never betray me.”

She could not believe that Norris would betray her! Then, argued Cromwell, if she cannot believe he would betray her, is not that an admission that there is something to betray?

When she was tired, they would pretend to soothe her, laying wily traps.

“What of the unhappy gentlemen in the Tower?” she wanted to know. “Will any make their beds?”

“No, I’ll warrant you; they’ll have none to make their beds!”

She showed great solicitude for the comfort of her paramours, they reported.

“Ballads will be made about me,” she said, smiling suddenly. “None can do that better than Wyatt.”

She spoke with great admiration and feeling of Thomas Wyatt, they then told Cromwell.

She wept bitterly for her baby. “What will become of her? Who will care for her now? I feel death close to me, because I know of her whom the King would set up in my place, but how can he set up a new queen when he has a queen already living? And what of my baby? She is not yet three. It is so very young, is it not? Could I not see her? Oh, plead for me please! Have you never thought how a mother might long for a last glimpse of her daughter! No, no. Bring her not to me. What would she think to see me thus! I should weep over her and frighten her, since the thought of her frightens me, for she is so very young to be left alone in a cruel world…. Say not that I wish to see my baby.”

Her eyes were round with fear. They would be so clever at thinking up fresh mental torture for her to bear. Not that though! Not Elizabeth!

“She will be playing in her nursery now. What will become of her? After all, is she not the King’s daughter?”

Then she began to laugh shrilly, and her laughter ended in violent weeping. For she thought, They will call her bastard now perhaps…and this is a judgment on me for my unkindness to Katharine’s daughter Mary. Oh, Katharine, forgive me. I knew not then what it meant to have a daughter. And what if the King…

But she could not think; she dared not. Oh, but she knew him, cold and relentless and calculating, and having need to rid himself of her. Already she was accused with five men, and one of them her own, and so innocently loved, brother. What if he said Elizabeth were not his child? What will he care for her, hating her mother? And if he married Jane Seymour…if she is Queen, will she be kind to my baby daughter…as I was to Mary? Jesus, forgive me. I was wicked. I was wrong…and now this is my punishment. It will happen to me as it happened to Katharine, and there will be none to care for my daughter, as there was none to care for Mary.

Such thoughts must set her weeping; then remembering that when she had become Henry’s Queen she had chosen as her device “Happiest of Women,” she laughed bitterly and long.

“How she weeps! How she laughs!” whispered the women. “How unstable she is…hysterical and afraid! Does not her behavior tend to show her guilt?”

She talked a good deal; she did not sleep; she lay staring into the darkness, thinking back over the past, trying to peer into the future. Despair enveloped her. The King is cruel and cold; he can always find a righteous answer when he wishes to do some particularly cruel deed. I am lost. There is naught can save me now! Hope came to her. But he loved me once; once there was nothing he would not do for me. Even to the last I could amuse him, and I tried hard enough…. I could delight him more than any an I gave myself up to it. He does this but to try me. He will come to me soon; all will be well.

But no! I am here in the Tower and they say evil things of me. My friends are here. George, my darling, my sweet brother, the only one I could truly trust in the whole world. And they know that! That is why they have sent you here, George; that is why they imprison you; so that I shall have none to help me now.

She asked for writing materials. She would write; she would try to forget his cruel eyes; she would try to forget him as he was now and remember him as he used to be when he had said the name of Anne Boleyn was the sweetest music to his ears.

The words flowed impulsively from her pen.

“Your Grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment are things so strange unto me, that what to write or what to excuse, I am altogether ignorant….”

She wrote hastily, hope coming back to her as her pen moved swiftly along.

“Never a prince had wife more loyal in all duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found in Anne Boleyn—with which name and place I could willingly have contented myself if God and your Grace’s pleasure had so been pleased. Neither did I at any time so far forget myself in my exaltation, or received queenship, but that I always looked for such alteration as I now found; for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foundation than your Grace’s fancy, the least alteration was fit and sufficient (I knew) to draw that fancy to some other subject.”

She paused. Was she over-bold? She felt death close to her and cared not.

“You have chosen me from low estate to be your Queen and companion, far beyond my desert or desire; if then you found me worthy of such honor, good your Grace, let not any light fancy or bad counsel of my enemies, withdraw your princely favor from me, neither let that stain—that unworthy stain—of a disloyal heart towards your good Grace, ever cast so foul a blot on me and on the infant Princess your daughter Elizabeth.

“Try me, good King, but let me have a lawful trial and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers and as my judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, for my truth shall fear no open shames; then shall you see either my innocency cleared, your suspicions and conscience satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that whatever God and you may determine of, your Grace may be freed from an open censure, and mine offence being so lawfully proved, your Grace may be at liberty, both before God and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me, as an unfaithful wife, but to follow your affection already settled on that party, for whose sake I am now as I am; whose name I could, some good while since, have pointed unto; your Grace being not ignorant of my suspicion therein.”

Her cheeks burned with anger as her pen flew on.

“But if you have already determined of me, and that not only my death, but an infamous slander, must bring you the joying of your desired happiness, then, I desire of God that he will pardon your great sin herein, and, likewise, my enemies, the instruments thereof, and that He will not call you to a strait account of your unprincely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear; and in whose just judgment I doubt not (whatsoever the world may think of me) mine innocency shall be openly known, and sufficiently cleared.”

She laid down her pen, a bitter smile about her lips. That would touch him as she knew so well how to touch him, and as she, among all those around him, alone had the courage to touch him. She was reckless of herself, and though she may have been foolish and vain she clung to her magnificent courage. If he ever read those words with their reference to the judgment of God he would tremble in his shoes, and no matter how he might present them to his conscience, they would disturb him to the end of his days. He would think of them when he lay with Jane Seymour; and she exulted in that power over him which she would wield from the grave. She was sure that he intended to murder her; in cold blood he planned this, as any commoner might plan to put away a wife of whom he had tired, by beating her to death or stabbing her with a knife or throwing her body into the dark river. She was terrified, experiencing all the alarm of a woman who knows herself to be followed in the dark by a footpad with murder in his heart. Such women, who were warned of an impending fate, might call for help; but there was none who could come to her aid, for her murderer would be the mightiest man in England whose anger none could curb, for whose crimes the archbishops themselves would find a righteous excuse.

She began to cry in very fear, and her thoughts went from her own troubles to those of the men who would be required to shed their blood with her, and she blamed herself, for was it not her love of flattery that had led them to express their feelings too openly? Was it not her desire to show the King that though he might prefer others, there were always men to prefer her, which had brought about this tragedy?

She took up her pen once more.

“My last and only request shall be, that myself may only bear the burden of your Grace’s displeasure, and that it may not touch the innocent souls of those poor gentlemen, who, as I understand, are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake.

“If ever I have found favor in your sight—if ever the name of Anne Boleyn have been pleasing in your ears—then let me obtain this request; and so I will leave to trouble your Grace any further: with mine earnest prayer to the Trinity to have your Grace in his good keeping, and to direct you in all your actions.

“From my doleful prison in the Tower, the 6th of May.

—Anne Boleyn.”

She felt better after having written that letter; she would keep the writing materials with her that she might write now and then. She was wretched though, wondering how her letter would reach the King. She pictured its falling into Cromwell’s hands, which was likely, for he had his spies all about her, and it could hardly be hoped that the letter would find its way through them to the King. If by good luck it did, he could not be unmoved by her words, she felt sure. He who had once upbraided her for not writing frequently enough, surely would read this last letter.

But she was afraid, sensing her doom, knowing her husband too well, knowing how he was placed, how he must find a way to marry Jane Seymour and appease his conscience; and thinking on these matters, hope, which had come to her through the writing of the letter, was swallowed up once more in deepest despondency.

Smeaton lay in his cell. He was no longer a beautiful boy; his dark curls were tangled and matted with blood and sweat; his delicate features were swollen with pain and grief. It seemed to him that there were but two emotions in the world—that of suffering pain and that of having no pain. One was agony; the other bliss.

He had scarcely been aware of the solemn atmosphere of the courtroom of the men who stood on trial with him; he had answered when he had been questioned, answered mechanically as they wanted him to answer, for he knew that not to do so would be to invite pain to come to him once more.

“Guilty!” he cried. “Guilty! Guilty!” And before his eyes he saw, not the judge and the jurymen, but the dark room with the smell of blood and death about it, mingling with the odor of vinegar; he saw the dim light, heard the sickening creak of rollers, felt again the excruciating pain of bones being torn from their sockets.

He could but walk slowly to the place assigned to him, every movement was agony; he would never stand up straight again; he would never walk with springy step; he would never let his fingers caress a musical instrument and draw magic from it.

A big bearded man came to him as he lay in his cell and would have speech with him. He held a paper in his hand. He said Mark must sign the paper.

“Dost know the just reward of low born traitors, Mark?” a voice whispered in his ear.

No! He did know know; he could not think; pain had robbed him of his power to use both his limbs and his mind.

Hung by the neck, but not to die. Disemboweled. Did Mark wish him to go on? Had not Mark seen how the monks of the Charterhouse had died? They had died traitors’ deaths, and Mark was a traitor as they had been.

Pain! He screamed at the thought of it; it was as though every nerve in his body cried out in protest. A prolongation of that torture he had suffered in that gloomy dungeon? No, no! Not that!

He was sobbing, and the great Fitzwilliam, leaning over him, whispered: “’Tis not necessary, Mark. ’Tis not necessary at all. Just pen your name to this paper, and it shall not happen to you. You shall have naught to fear.”

Paper? “Where is it?” asked Mark, not What is it? He dared not ask that, though he seemed to see the Queen’s beautiful black eyes reproaching him. He was not quite sure whether he was in the cell or in her presence chamber; he was trying to explain to her. Ah, Madam, you know not the pains of the torture chamber; it is more than human flesh can stand.

“Sign here, Mark. Come! Let me guide your hand.”

“What then? What then?” he cried. “No more…no more….”

“No more, Mark. All you need do is sign your name. Subscribe here, Mark, and you shall see what will come of it.”

His hand guided by Fitzwilliam, he put his name to the statement prepared for him.

Sir Francis Weston, the beautiful and very rich young man, whose wife and mother offered the King a very large ransom for his freedom, could face death more stoically. So it was with Sir William Brereton. Handsome, debonair, full of the spirit of adventure they had come to court; they had seen others go to the block on the flimsiest of excuses. They lived in an age of terror and had been prepared for the death sentence from the moment they entered the Tower. Guiltless they were, but what of that? Their jury was picked; so were the judges; the result was a foregone conclusion and the trial a farce; and they were knowledgeable enough to know this. They remembered Buckingham who had gone to the block ostensibly on a charge of treason, but actually because of his relationship to the King; now they, in their turn, would go to the block on a charge of treason, when the real reason for their going was the King’s desire to rid himself of his present Queen and take another before her child was born. It was brutal, but it was simple. Court law was jungle law, and the king of beasts was a roaring man-eating lion who spared none—man nor woman—from his lustful egoistical demands.

They remembered that they were gentlemen; they prayed that no matter what befell them, they might go on remembering it. Mark Smeaton had perjured his soul and sullied his honor; they trusted that whatever torment they were called upon to face, they would not sink so low. They took their cue from their older companion, Norris, who, grave and stoical, faced his judges.

“Not guilty!” said Norris.

“Not guilty!” echoed Weston, and Brereton.

It mattered not; they were found guilty, and sentenced to death, all four of them—the block for three of them and the hangman’s noose for Mark on account of his low birth.

The King was angry with these three men. How dared they stand up in the courtroom, looking such haughty heroes, and pronounce in ringing tones that they were not guilty! The people were sentimental, and he thanked God that Anne had ever been disliked and resented by them. They would not have a word to say in favor of her now; they would be glad to see the end of her, the witch, the would-be prisoner, the black-browed sorceress, the harlot. He thanked God there would be none ready to defend her. Her father? Oh, Thomas, Earl of Wiltshire, was not very much in evidence these days. He was sick and sorry, and ready to obey his King, fearful lest he should be brought in to face trial with his wicked daughter and son. Norfolk? There was none more pleased than Norfolk to see Anne brought low. They had been quarreling for years. Suffolk, her old enemy, was rubbing his hands in glee. Northumberland? A pox on Northumberland! Sick and ailing! A fine champion, he! He should be appointed one of her judges and he should see what would happen to him were he to oppose his King. He had been in trouble over Anne Boleyn before; doubtless he would be so again. There was none to fear. My Lord Rochford, that foul, unnatural monster, was safe under lock and key, and what had he with which to defend himself and his sister but a tongue of venom! Anne should see what price she would pay for laughing at the King, first bewitching him and then deceiving him. No one else, girl, he said viciously, shall kiss your pretty lips, unless they like to kiss them cold; nor would they find the head of you so lovely without the body that goes with it!

But a pox on these men, and all would-be martyrs! There they stood, side by side, on trial for their lives, and though Cromwell could be trusted to find evidence against them, though they were traitors, lechers, all of them, people would murmur: “So young to die! So handsome! So noble! Could such bravery belong to guilty men? And even if they are guilty, who has not loved recklessly in his life? Why, the King himself…”

Enough! He called Cromwell to him.

“Go to Norris!” he commanded. “I liked that man. Why, he was an intimate friend of mine. Tell him I know the provocation of the Queen. Tell him I know how she could, an she wished it, be wellnigh irresistible. Go to him and tell him I will be merciful. Offer him his life in exchange for a full confession of his guilt.”

Cromwell went, and returned.

“Ah, Your Most Clement Majesty, that there should be such ungrateful subjects in your realm!”

“What said he then?” asked Henry, and he was trembling for the answer. He wanted to show Norris’s confession to his court; he would have it read to his people.

“His reply is the same as that he made Your Majesty before. He would rather die a thousand deaths than accuse the Queen who is innocent.”

Henry lost control.

“Hang him up then!” he screamed. “Hang him up!”

He stamped out of the room and he seemed to see the bodyless head of More and there was a mocking smile about the mouth.

“A thousand curses on all martyrs!” muttered Henry.

The room in which Anne and her brother would be tried had been hastily erected within the great hall of the Tower. Courageously she entered it, and faced that row of peers who had been selected by the King to try her, and she saw at once that he had succeeded in confronting her with her most bitter enemies. Chief among them was the Duke of Suffolk, his hateful red face aglow with pleasure; there was also the young Duke of Richmond who was firmly against her, because he had had hopes of the throne, illegitimate though he might be; he was influenced by his father the King, and the Duke of Norfolk who had become his father-in-law when he had married the Lady Mary Howard, the Duke’s daughter.

Anne had schooled herself for the ordeal; she was determined that she would not break down before her enemies; but she almost lost control to see Percy among those whom the King had named Lord-Triers. He looked at her across the room, and it seemed to them both that the years were swept away and they were young and in love and from the happiness of a little room in Hampton Court were taking a terrified peep into a grim future. Percy, weak with his physical defects, turned deathly pale at the sight of her; but she lifted her head higher and smiled jauntily, shaming him with her readiness to face whatever life brought her. Percy was not of her caliber. He crumpled and fell to the floor in a faint. How could he condemn her whom he had never been able to forget? And yet, how could he not condemn her, when it was the King’s wish that she should be condemned? Percy could not face this, as years before he had not been able to face the wrath of Wolsey, his father and the King. He was genuinely ill at the prospect and had to be carried out of the courtroom.

Thank God, thought Anne, that her father was not among those who were to try her! She had feared he would be, for it would have been characteristic of Henry to have forced him to this and characteristic of her father that he would have obeyed his King and sent his daughter to her death. She had escaped the shame of seeing her father’s shame.

She listened to the list of crimes for which she was being tried. She had, they were saying, wronged the King with four persons and also her brother. She was said to have conspired with them against the King’s life. Cromwell’s ingenuity had even supplied the dates on which the acts had taken place; she could smile bitterly at these, for the first offense—supposed to have been committed with Norris—was fixed for an occasion when she, having just given birth to Elizabeth, had not left the lying-in chamber.

As she faced her accusers she seemed to see the doubts that beset them. There could not be any of these men who did not know that she was here because the King wished to replace her with Jane Seymour. Oh, justice! she thought. If I could but be sure of justice!

The decision of the peers was not required to be unanimous; a majority was all that was necessary to destroy her. But Suffolk’s hot eyes were surveying those about him as though to tell them he watched for any who would disobey the King’s desires.

Outside in the streets, where men and women stood about in groups, the atmosphere was stormy. If Anne could have seen these people her spirits would have been lightened. Many eyes wept for her, though once their owners had abused her. At the height of her power they had called her whore; now they could not believe that one who carried herself with such nobility and courage could be anything but innocent. Mothers remembered that she had a child scarcely three years old. A terrible, tragic fate overhung her, and she had it before her.

Suffolk knew what people were thinking; he knew what some of the Lord-Triers were thinking. This was a reign of terror. Bluff Hal had removed his mask and shown a monster who thought nothing of murder and of inhuman torture to herald it in. A man would be a fool to run his body into torment for the sake of Anne Boleyn. Suffolk won the day and they pronounced her guilty.

“Condemned to be burnt or beheaded, at the King’s pleasure!” said the Duke of Norfolk, savoring each word as though it held a flavor very sweet to his palate.

She did not change color; she did not flinch. She could look into the cruel eyes of her enemies and she could say, her voice firm, her head high, her eyes imperious: “God hath taught me how to die, and he will strengthen my faith.”

She smiled haughtily at the group of men. “I am willing to believe that you have sufficient reasons for what you have done, but then they must be other than those which have been produced in court.”

Even Suffolk must squirm at those words; even Norfolk must turn his head away in shame.

But her voice broke suddenly when she mentioned her brother.

“As for my brother and those others who are unjustly accused, I would willingly suffer many deaths to deliver them.”

The Lord Mayor was very shaken, knowing now for certain what he had before suspected, that they had found nothing against her, only that they had resolved to make an occasion to get rid of her.

Back in her room, Anne relived it over and over again; she thanked God for the strength which had been hers; she prayed that she might have sustained courage.

Lady Kingston unbent a little now that she had been condemned to die and Mary Wyatt was allowed to come to her.

“You cannot know what comfort it is to me to see you here, Mary,” she said.

“You cannot know what comfort it gives me to come,” answered Mary.

“Weep not, Mary. This was inevitable. Do you not see it now? From the first moments in the garden of Hever…. But my thoughts run on. You know not of that occasion; nor do I wish to recall it. Ah, Mary, had I been good and sweet and humble as you ever were, this would never have befallen me. I was ambitious, Mary. I wanted a crown upon my head. Yet, looking back, I know not where I could have turned to tread another road. You must not weep, dear Mary, for soon I shall be past all pain. I should not talk of myself. What of George, Mary? Oh, what news of my sweet brother?”

Mary did not answer, but the tears, which she could not restrain, were answer enough.

“He defended himself most nobly, that I do not need to be told,” said Anne. Her eyes sparkled suddenly. “I wonder he did not confound them. Mary, dost remember old days at Blickling and Hever! When he had done aught that merited punishment, could he not always most convincingly defend himself? But this time…what had he done? He had loved his sister. May not a brother love his sister, but there must be those to say evil of him? Ah, George, this time when you were truly innocent, you could not save youself. This was not Blickling, George! This was not Hever! This was the wicked court of Henry, my husband, who now seeks to murder me as he will murder you!”

“Be calm,” said Mary. “Anne, Anne, you were so brave before those men. You must be brave now.”

“I would rather be the victim of a murderer, Mary, than be a murderer. Tell me of George.”

“He was right noble in his defense. Even Suffolk could scarce accuse him. There was much speculation in court. It was said: ‘None could name this man guilty!’”

“And what said they of…me and George?”

“They said what you would have expected them to say! Jane was there…a witness against him.”

“Jane!” Anne threw back her head and laughed. “I would not be in Jane’s shoes for years of life. Liar and perjurer that she is. She…out of jealousy, to bear false witness against her husband! But what could she say of him and me? What could she say?”

“She said that on one occasion he did come to your chamber while you were abed. He came to make some request and he kissed you. There seemed little else. It was shameful. They had naught against him. They could not call him guilty, but he…”

“Tell me all, Mary. Hold nothing back from me. Know you not what this means to me to have you here with me at last, after my dreary captivity with them that hate me? Be frank with me, Mary. Hold nothing back, for frankness is for friends.”

“They handed him a paper, Anne, for on it was a question they dared not ask and he…”

“Yes? What did he?”

“He, knowing how it would sorely discountenance them, should he read aloud what was written, read it aloud, in his reckless and impulsive way.”

“Ah! I know him well. For so would I have done in an unguarded moment. He had nothing but contempt for that group of selected peers—selected by the King whose one object is to destroy us—and he showed it by reading aloud that which was meant to be kept secret. It was of the King?”

Mary nodded. “That the King was not able to have children; that there was no virtue or potency in him. He was asked if he had ever said such things. And he read that aloud. No man could be allowed to live after that. But he meant to show his contempt for them all; he meant to show that he knew he had been condemned to die before the trial began. He asked then to plead guilty, solely that he might prevent his property passing into the hands of the King. The King could have his life but he should not have his goods.”

“Oh, George!” cried Anne. “And you to scold me for reckless folly! Mary, I cannot but weep, not for myself but for my brother. I led the way; he followed. I should go to the block for my careless ambition, for my foolish vanity. But that I should take him with me! Oh, Mary, I cannot bear that, so I weep and am most miserable. Oh, Mary, sit by me. Talk to me of our childhood. Thomas! What of Thomas? I cannot bear to think on those I have loved and brought to disaster.”

“Grieve not for Thomas. He would not have it so. He would not have you shed one tear for him, for well you know he ever loved you dearly. We hope for Thomas. He was not tried with the rest. Perhaps he will just be a prisoner awhile, for it is strange that he should not be tried with the others.”

“Pray for him, Mary. Pray that this awful fate may not befall him. Mayhap they have forgotten Thomas. Oh, pray that they have forgotten Thomas.”

When Mary left her she lay on her bed. She felt happier. Rather my lot, she thought, than the King’s. Rather my lot, than Jane Rochford’s. I would rather mine were the hapless head that rolled in the straw, than mine the murderous hand that signs the death warrant.

She was preparing herself for a journey. A summons had been brought to her that she was to make ready to go to the Archbishop at Lambeth. She was to go quietly; this was the King’s order. He wanted no hysterical crowds on the river’s bank to cheer her barge. He himself had received a copy of the summons, but he would not go; he would send his old proctor, Doctor Sampson, to represent him. Come face to face with Anne Boleyn! Never! There were too many memories between them. What if she tried her witcheries on him once more!

He felt shaken and ill at ease. He was sleeping badly; he would wake startled from bad dreams, calling her name and, with the daze of sleep still on him, think she was there beside him. He had dispatched Jane Seymour to her father’s house, since that was the most seemly place for her to be in. He did not wish to have her with him during the critical days, as he had announced that he was deeply grieved at the falseness of his wife and would not take another unless his people wished it. Jane should therefore not attract much attention. Her condition—early in pregnancy though she was—must be considered. So Henry sat alone, awaiting news from Lambeth; whilst Anne, who would have liked to refuse to answer the summons, left the Tower and went quietly up the river.

She was conducted to the crypt of the Archbishop’s residence and awaiting her there were Cranmer, looking troubled but determined to do his duty; Cromwell, looking more sly and ugly than ever; Doctor Sampson, to represent the King; and two doctors, Wotton and Barbour, who, most farcically, were supposed to represent her.

She had not been there for more than a few moments when she realized their cunning purpose.

Cranmer’s voice was silky. There was no man who could present a case as he could. His voice almost caressed her, expressing sympathy for her most unhappy state.

She was under the sentence of death, he said, by beheading…or burning.

Did he mean to stress that last word, or did she imagine this? The way in which he said it made her hot with fear; she felt as though the flames were already scorching her flesh.

The King’s conscience, went on Cranmer, troubled him sorely. She had been pre-contracted to Northumberland! That, she would understand, would make her marriage with the King illegal.

She cried: “Northumberland was brought before you. You yourself accepted…”

Cranmer was quiet and calm, so capable of adjusting his opinion, so clever, so intellectual, so impossible to confound.

The King himself had been indiscreet. Yes, His Majesty was ready to admit it. An association with Anne’s sister. An affinity created.

Cranmer spread his hands as though to say, Now, you see how it is. You were never really married to the King!

She could hold her head high in the crypt at Lambeth as she had in that other court where they had condemned her. They would need her acknowledgment of this, would they not? Well, they should never get it.

Cranmer was pained and sad. He had loved her well, he said.

She thought, How I hate all hypocrites! Fool I may be but I am no hypocrite. How I hate you, Cranmer! I helped you to your present position. You too, Cromwell. But neither of you would think of helping me! But Cranmer I hate more than Cromwell for Cranmer is a hypocrite, and perhaps I hate this in men because I am married to the most shameless one that ever lived.

Cranmer was talking in his deep sonorous voice. He had a gift for making suggestions without expressing actual statements. She was thinking, I have my little daughter to consider. She shall never be called bastard.

Cranmer’s voice went droning on. He was hinting at her release. There was a pleasant convent at Antwerp. What of the young men whose fate she deplored and whose innocence she proclaimed? All the country knew how she esteemed her brother, and he her. Was he to go to the block? What of her daughter? The King would be more inclined to favor a child whose mother had impressed him with her good sense.

Anne’s mind was working quickly. It was painfully clear. She must make a choice. If her marriage to the King were proved null and void then that was all he need ask for. He could marry Jane Seymour immediately if his marriage with Anne Boleyn had been no marriage at all. The child Jane carried would be born in wedlock. And for this, Anne was offered a convent in Antwerp, the lives of her brother and those innocent men who were to die with him. And if not…Once more she was hot with the imaginary fire that licked her limbs. And what would her refusal mean in any case? If the King had decided to disinherit Elizabeth, he would surely do so. He had ever found excuses for what he wished to do.

She had something to gain and nothing to lose, for if she had not been married to the King, how could she have committed adultery? The affairs of Lady Anne Rochford and the Marchioness of Pembroke could not be called treason to the King.

Her hopes were soaring. She thought, Oh, George, my darling, I have saved you! You shall not die. Gladly I will throw away my crown to save you!

Cromwell went back to his master rubbing his ugly hands with pleasure. Once more he had succeeded. The King was free to take a new wife whenever he wished, for he had never been married to Anne Boleyn. She herself had agreed upon it.

It was over. They had tricked her. At the King’s command she had stood and watched them as they passed by her window on their way to Tower Hill. She had sacrificed her own and her daughter’s rights in vain. Although she was no queen, these men had died. It was not reasonable; it was not logical; it was simply murder.

She herself had yet another day to live through. Mary Wyatt came to tell her how nobly these men had died, following the example of George, how they had made their speeches, which etiquette demanded, on the scaffold, how they had met their deaths bravely.

“What of Smeaton?” she asked. She thought of him still as a soft-eyed boy, and she could not believe that he would not tell the truth on the scaffold. Mary was silent and Anne cried out: “Has he not cleared me of the public shame he hath done me!” She surveyed Mary’s silent face in horror. “Alas,” she said at length and in great sorrow, “I fear his soul will suffer from the false witness he hath borne.”

Her face lightened suddenly.

“Oh, Mary,” she cried, “It will not be long now. My brother and the rest are now, I doubt not, before the face of the greater King, and I shall follow tomorrow.”

When Mary left her her sadness returned. She wished they had not given her fresh hope in the Lambeth Crypt. She had resigned herself to death, and then they had promised her she should live, and life was so sweet. She was twenty-nine and beautiful; and though she had thought herself weary of living, when they had given her that peep into a possible future, how eagerly she had grasped at it!

She thought of her daughter, and trembled. Three is so very young. She would not understand what had happened to her mother. Oh, let them be kind to Elizabeth.

She asked that Lady Kingston might come to her, and when the woman came she locked the door and with tears running down her cheeks, asked that Lady Kingston would sit in her chair of state.

Lady Kingston herself was moved in face of such distress.

“It is my duty to stand in the presence of the Queen, Madam,” she said.

“That title is gone,” was the answer. “I am a condemned person, and, I have no estate left me in this life, but for the clearing of my conscience, I pray you sit down.”

She began to weep, and her talk was incoherent, and humbly she fell upon her knees and begged that Lady Kingston would go to Mary, the daughter of Katharine, and kneel before her and beg that she would forgive Anne Boleyn for the wrong she had done her.

“For, my Lady Kingston,” she said, “till this be accomplished, my conscience cannot be quiet.”

After that she was more at peace and did not need to thrust the thought of her daughter from her mind.

The news was brought to her that her death should not take place at the appointed hour; there had been a postponement. She had been most gay, and to learn that she was to have a few more hours on Earth was a disappointment to her.

“Mr. Kingston,” she said, “I hear I shall not die afore noon, and I am very sorry therefore, for I thought to be dead by this time and past my pain.”

“The pain will be little,” he told her gently, “it is so subtle.”

She answered; “I have heard say the executioner is very good, and I have a little neck.”

She embraced it with her hands and laughed; and when her laughter had subsided, a great peace came to her. She had another day to live and she had heard that the King wished the hour of her execution to be kept secret, and that it was not to take place on Tower Hill where any idle spectator might see her die, but on the enclosed green; for the King feared the reactions of the people.

The evening passed; she was gay and melancholy in turns; she joked about her end. “I shall be easily nicknamed—‘Queen Anne…sans tete.’”

She occupied herself in writing her own dirge.

“Oh death, rock me asleep,

Bring on my quiet rest,

Let pass my very guiltless ghost

Out of my careful breast.

Ring out the doleful knell

Let its sound my death tell;

For I must die,

There is no remedy,

For now I die…”

She dressed herself with such care that it might have been a state banquet to which she was going instead of to the scaffold. Her robe of gray damask was trimmed with fur and low cut; beneath this showed a kirtle of crimson. Her headdress was trimmed with pearls. She had never looked more beautiful; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant, and all the misery and fear of the last weeks seemed to have been lifted from her face.

Attended by four ladies, among them her beloved Mary Wyatt, with much dignity and grace she walked to the green before the church of St. Peter ad Vincula. Slowly and calmly she ascended the steps to that platform which was strewn with straw; and she could smile because there were so few people to witness her last moments, smile because the hour and place of her execution had had to be kept secret from the people.

Among those who had gathered about the scaffold she saw the Dukes of Suffolk and Richmond, but she could feel no enmity towards these two now. She saw Thomas Cromwell, whose eldest son was now married to Jane Seymour’s sister. Ah, thought Anne, when my head has rolled into the sawdust, he will feel an impediment lifted and his relationship to the King almost an accomplished fact.

She called to her one whom she knew to be of the King’s privy chamber, and said she would send a message by him to the King.

“Commend me to His Majesty,” she said, “and tell him that he hath ever been constant in his career of advancing me; from a private gentlewoman, he made me a marchioness, from a marchioness a queen, and now he hath left no higher degree of honor, he gives my innocency the crown of martyrdom.”

The messenger trembled for she was a woman about to die, and how could he dare carry such a message to the King!

Then she would, after the etiquette of the scaffold, make her dying speech.

“Good Christian people,” she said, “I am come hither to die, according to law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it…”

Her ladies were so overcome with weeping that she, hearing their sobs, was deeply moved.

“I come hither to accuse no man,” she continued, “nor to speak anything of that whereof I am accused, as I know full well that aught that I say in my defense doth not appertain to you…”

When she spoke of the King, her words were choked. Cromwell moved nearer to the scaffold. This was the moment he and the King had most feared. But with death so near she cared nothing for revenge. All the bitterness had gone out of her. Cromwell would arrange the words she spoke, not only as they should best please the King, but also that they should mislead the public into thinking she had died justly. The people must be told that at the end she had only praise for the King, that she spoke of him as a merciful prince and a gentle sovereign lord.

Her voice cleared and she went on: “If any person will meddle with my cause I require them to judge the best. Thus I take my leave of the world and of you, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me.”

It was time for her now to lay her head upon the block and there was not one of her attendants whose hands were steady enough to remove her headdress; they could only turn from her in blind misery. She smiled and did this herself; then she spoke to each of them gently, bidding them not to grieve and thanking them for their services to her. Mary she took aside and to her gave a little book of devotions as a parting gift and whispered into her ear a message of good cheer that she might give it to her brother in the Tower.

Then she was ready. She laid her head upon the block. Her lips were murmuring her own verses.

“Farewell my pleasures past,

Welcome my present pain,

I feel my torments so increase

That life cannot remain.

Sound now the passing bell,

Rung is my doleful knell,

For its sound my death doth tell.

Death doth draw nigh,

Sound the knell dolefully,

For now I die.”

She was waiting now, waiting for that swift stroke, that quick and subtle pain.

“Oh, Lord God have pity on my soul. Oh, Lord God…”

Her lips were still moving as her head lay on the straw.

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk was weeping bitterly as she went about the Lambeth House. Catherine Howard flung herself onto her bed and wept. Over the city of London hung silence. The Queen was dead.

At Richmond the King waited for the booming of the gun which would announce the end of Anne Boleyn. He waited in anxiety; he was terrified of what she might say to those watching crowds. He knew that the people who had never accepted her as their Queen were now ready to make of her a martyr.

His horse was restive, longing to be off; but not more so than he. Would he never hear the signal! What were they at, those fools? What if some had planned a rescue! He was hot at the thought. There had been men who loved her dearly and none knew better than he did, how easy it was to do that. She had changed his life when she came into it; what would she do when she went out of it?

He pictured her last moments; he knew she would show great courage; he knew she would show dignity; he knew she would be beautiful enough to stir up pity in the hearts of all who beheld her. It was well that but few were sure of hour and place.

Around him were hounds and huntsmen. This night the hunt would end at Wolf Hall whether the stag led them there or not. But the waiting was long, and try as he might he could not forget Anne Boleyn.

He spoke to his conscience, “Thank God I can now leave Mary without constant fear that she will meet a horrible end. Thank God I discovered the evil ways of this harlot.”

He had done right, he assured himself. Katharine had suffered through her; Mary had suffered. Thank God he had found out in time! Thank God he had turned his affections on a more worthy object!

What would the people say when they heard the gun booming from the Tower? What would they say of a man who went to a new bride before the body of his wife was cold?

Along the river came the dismal booming of the gun. He heard it; his mouth twisted into a line of mingling joy and apprehension.

“The deed is done!” he cried. “Uncouple the hounds and away!”

So he rode on, on to Wolf Hall, on to marriage with Jane Seymour.

No Other Will Than His

THE DOWAGER DUCHESS of Norfolk was in bed and very sad. A new queen reigned in the place of her granddaughter; a pale-faced creature with scarcely any eyebrows so that she looked forever surprised, a meek, insipid, vapid woman; and to put her on the throne had the King sent beautiful Anne to the block. The Duchess’s dreams were haunted by her granddaughter, and she would awaken out of them sweating and trembling. She had just had such a dream, and thought she had stood among those spectators who had watched Anne submit her lovely head to the Executioner’s sword.

She began to weep into her bedclothes, seeing again Anne at court, Anne at Lambeth; she remembered promised favors which would never now be hers. She could rail against the King in the privacy her bedchamber offered her. Fat! Coarse! Adulterer! And forty-five! While Anne at twenty-nine had lost her lovely head that that slut Seymour might sit beside him on the throne!

“Much good will she do him!” murmured the Duchess. “Give the King a son quickly, Mistress Seymour, or your head will not stay on your shoulders more than a year or two, I warrant you! And I’ll be there to see the deed done; I swear it!” She began to chuckle throatily, remembering that she had heard but a week or so after his marriage to Jane had been announced, the King, on meeting two very beautiful young women, had shown himself to be—and even mentioned this fact—sorry that he had not seen them before he married Jane. It had not been so with Anne. She had absorbed his attention, and it was only when she could not produce a son that her enemies had dared to plot against her. “Bound to Serve and Obey.” That was the device chosen by Jane. “You’ll serve, my dear!” muttered the Duchess. “But whether you produce a son or not remains to be seen, and if you do not, why then you must very meekly obey, by laying your head on the block. You’ll have your enemies just as my sweet Anne did!” The Duchess dried her eyes and set her lips firmly together as she thought of one of the greatest of those enemies, both to Anne and herself, and one with whom she must continually be on her guard—her own stepson and Anne’s uncle, the Duke of Norfolk.

Some of the Duchess’s ladies came in to help her dress. Stupid girls they were. She scolded them, for she thought their hands over-rough as they forced her bulk into clothes too small for it.

“Katharine Tylney! I declare you scratch me with those nails of yours. I declare you did it apurpose! Take that!”

Katharine Tylney scowled at the blow. The old Duchess’s temper had been very bad since the execution of the Queen, and the least thing sent it flaring up. Katharine Tylney shrugged her shoulders at Mistress Wilkes and Mistress Baskerville, the two who were also assisting with the Duchess’s toilet. When they were beyond the range of the Duchess’s ears they would curse the old woman, laughing at her obscenity and her ill-temper, laughing because she who was so fat and old and ugly was vain as a young girl, and would have just the right amount of embroidered kirtle showing beneath her skirt, and would deck herself in costly jewels even in the morning.

The Duchess wheezed and scolded while her thoughts ran on poor Anne and sly Jane and that absurd fancy of the King’s, which had made him change the one for the other; she brooded on the cunning of that low-born brute Cromwell, and the cruelty of Norfolk and Suffolk, until she herself felt as though she were standing almost as near the edge of that active volcano as Anne herself had stood.

She dismissed the women and went slowly into her presence chamber to receive the first of her morning callers. She was fond of ceremony and herself kept an establishment here at Lambeth—as she had at Norfolk—like a queen’s. As she entered the chamber, she saw a letter lying on a table, and going to it, read her own name. She frowned at it, picked it up, looked at the writing, did not recognize this, unfolded it and began to read; and as she read a dull anger set her limbs shaking. She re-read it.

“This is not true!” she said aloud, and she spoke to reassure herself, for had she not for some time suspected the possibility of such a calamity! “It is not true!” she repeated fiercely. “I’ll have the skin beaten off the writer of this letter. My granddaughter to behave in this way! Like some low creature in a tavern!”

Puffing with that breathlessness which the least exertion aroused in her, she once more read the letter with its sly suggestion that she should go quietly and unannounced to the ladies’ sleeping apartments and see for herself how Catherine Howard and Francis Derham, who called themselves wife and husband, behaved as such.

“Under my roof!” cried the Duchess. “Under my roof!” She trembled violently, thinking of this most sordid scandal’s reaching the ears of her stepson.

She paced up and down not knowing what it would be best for her to do. She recalled a certain night when the key of the ladies’ apartment had not been in its rightful place, and she had gone up to find the ladies alone, but seeming guilty; she remembered hearing suspicious creaking noises in the gallery. There had been another occasion when going to the maids’ room she had found Catherine and Derham romping on the floor.

She sent for Jane Acworth, for Jane had been present and had had her ears boxed in the maids’ room for looking on with indifference while Catherine and Derham behaved so improperly.

Jane’s eyes glinted with fear when she saw the wrath of the Duchess.

“You know this writing?”

Jane said she did not, and a slap on her cheek told her that she had better think again; but Jane Acworth, seeing Catherine’s and Derham’s names on that paper, was not going to commit herself. The writing, she said, was doubtless disguised, and she knew it not.

“Get you gone then!” said the Duchess; and left alone once more began her pacing up and down. What would this mean? Her granddaughter, Catherine Howard, had been seduced by a young man, who, though of good family, being a connection of the Howards, was but a member of an obscure branch of theirs. Catherine, for all her illiteracy, for all that she had been allowed to run wild during her childhood, was yet the daughter of Lord Edmund Howard; and she had been so reckless and foolish, that she had doubtless ruined her chances of making a good marriage.

“The little slut!” whispered the Duchess. “To have that young man in her bed! This will cost him his life! And her…and her…” The Duchess’s fingers twitched. “Let her wait till I lay hands on her. I’ll make her wish she had never been so free with Mr. Derham. I’ll make her wish she had never been born. After all my care of her…! I always told myself there was a harlot in Catherine Howard!”

Jane Acworth sought Catherine Howard and found her on the point of going to the orchard to meet Derham.

“A terrible thing has happened,” said Jane. “I would not care to be in your shoes!”

“What mean you, Jane?”

“Someone has written to Her Grace, telling her what you and Derham are about.”

Catherine turned pale.

“No!”

“Indeed yes! Her Grace is in a fury. She showed me the letter and asked if I knew the handwriting. I swore I did not, nor could I be sure, but to my mind…”

“Mary Lassells!” whispered Catherine.

“I could not swear, but methought. Let us not waste time. What do you think is going to happen to you and Derham and to us all?”

“I dare not think.”

“We shall all be brought into this. I doubt not but that this is the end of our pleasant days and nights. The Duchess cannot ignore this, much as she may wish to do. I would not be you, Catherine Howard; and most assuredly I would not be Derham.”

“What dost think they will do to him?”

“I could not say. I could only guess. They will say what he has done to you is criminal. Mayhap he will go to the Tower. Oh, no, it will not be the block for him, because then it would be known that he had seduced Catherine Howard. He would be taken to the dungeons and allowed to rot in his chains, or perhaps be tortured to death. The Howards are powerful, and I would not be in the shoes of one who had seduced a member of their house!”

“Please say no more. I must go!”

“Yes. Go and warn Derham. He must not stay here to be arrested and committed to the Tower.”

Fear made Catherine fleet; tears gushed from her eyes and her childish mouth was trembling; she could not shut from her mind terrible pictures of Francis in the Tower, groaning in his chains, dying a lingering death for her sake.

He was waiting in the orchard.

“Catherine!” he cried on seeing her. “What ails thee, Catherine?”

“You must fly,” she told him incoherently. “You must wait for nothing. Someone has written to Her Grace, and you will be sent to the Tower.”

He turned pale. “Catherine! Catherine! Where heard you this?”

“Jane Acworth has seen the letter. Her Grace sent for her that she might tell her who wrote it. It was there…all about us…and my grandmother is furious.”

Bold and reckless, very much in love with Catherine, he wished to thrust such unpleasantness aside. He could not fly, and leave Catherine?

“Dost think I would ever leave thee?”

“I could not bear that they should take thee to the Tower.”

“Bah!” he said. “What have we done? Are we not married—husband and wife?”

“They would not allow that to be.”

“And could they help it? We are! That is good enough for me.”

He put his arms about her and kissed her, and Catherine kissed him in such desire that was nonetheless urgent because danger threatened, but all the more insistent. She took his hand and ran with him into that part of the orchard where the trees grew thickest.

“I would put as far between us and my grandmother as possible,” she told him.

He said: “Catherine, thou hast let them frighten thee.”

She answered; “It is not without cause.” She took his face into her hand and kissed his lips. “I fear I shall not see thee for a long time, Francis.”

“What!” he cried, throwing himself onto the grass and pulling her down beside him. “Dost think aught could keep me from thee?”

“There is that in me that would send thee from me,” she sighed, “and that is my love for thee.”

She clung to him, burying her face in his jerkin. She was picturing his young healthy body in chains; he was seeing her taken from him to be given to some nobleman whom they would consider worthy to be her husband. Fear gave a new savor to their passion, and they did not care in those few moments of recklessness whether they were discovered or not. Catherine had ever been the slave of the moment; Derham was single-minded as a drone in his hymeneal flight; death was no deterrent to desire.

The moment passed, and Catherine opened her eyes to stare at the roof of branches, and her hand touched the cold grass which was her bed.

“Francis…I am so frightened.”

He stroked her auburn hair that was turning red because the sun was glinting through the leaves of the fruit tree onto it.

“Do not be, Catherine.”

“But they know, Francis. They know!”

Now he seemed to feel cold steel at his throat. What would the Norfolks do to one who had seduced a daughter of their house? Assuredly they would decide he was not worthy to live. One night at dusk, as he came into this very orchard, arms mayhap would seize him. There would be a blow on the head, followed by a second blow to make sure life was extinct, and then the soft sound of displaced water and the ripples would be visible on the surface of the river at the spot where his body had fallen into it. Or would it be a charge of treason? It was simple enough for the Norfolks to find a poor man guilty of treason. The Tower…the dreaded Tower! Confinement to one who was ever active! Living a life in one small cell when one’s spirit was adventurous; one’s limbs which were never happy unless active, in heavy chains.

“You must fly from here,” said Catherine.

“Thou wouldst have me leave thee?”

“I shall die of sorrow, but I would not have them hurt thee. I would not have thee remember this love between us with aught but the utmost delight.”

“I could never think on it but with delight.”

She sat up, listening. “Methought I heard…”

“Catherine! Catherine Howard!” It was the voice of Mistress Baskerville calling her.

“You must go at once!” cried Catherine in panic. “You must leave Lambeth. You must leave London.”

“And leave you! You know not what you ask!”

“Do I not! An you lose me, do I not lose you? But I would rather not keep you with me if it means that they will take you. Francis, terrible things happen to men in the Tower of London, and I fear for you.”

“Catherine!” called Mistress Baskerville. “Come here, Catherine!”

Her eyes entreated him to go, but he would not release her.

“I cannot leave you!” he insisted.

“I will come with you.”

“We should then be discovered at once.”

“An you took me,” she said sagely, “they would indeed find us. They would search for us and bring me back, and oh, Francis, what would they do to you?”

Mistress Baskerville was all but upon them.

“I will go to her,” said Catherine.

“And I will wait here until you come back to me.”

“Nay, nay! Go now, Francis. Do not wait. Something tells me each moment is precious.”

They embraced; they kissed long and brokenheartedly.

“I shall wait here awhile and hope that you will come back to me, Catherine,” he said. “I cannot go until we are certain this thing has come to pass.”

Catherine left him and ran to Mistress Baskerville.

“What is it?” asked Catherine.

“Her Grace wants you to go to her at once…you and Derham. She is wellnigh mad with rage. She has had a whip brought to her. Some of us have been questioned. I heard Jane Acworth crying in her room. I believe she has been whipped…and it is all about you and Derham.”

Catherine said: “What do you think they will do to Derham?”

“I know not. It is a matter of which one can only guess. They are saying he deserves to die.”

Catherine’s teeth began to chatter. “Please help me,” she pleaded. “Wait here one moment. Will you give me one last moment with him?”

The girl looked over her shoulder. “What if we are watched?”

“Please!” cried Catherine. “One moment…. Stay here…. Call my name. Pretend that you are still looking for me. I swear I will be with you after one short minute.”

She ran through the trees to Derham. “It is all true!” she cried. “They will kill thee, Francis. Please go…. Go now!”

He was thoroughly alarmed now, knowing that she did not speak idly. He kissed her again, played with the idea of taking her with him, knew the folly of that, guessing what hardships she would have to face. He must leave her; that was common sense; for if he disappeared they might not try very hard to find him, preferring to let the matter drop, since with him gone, it would be easier to hush up the affair. Besides, he might be able to keep in touch with Catherine yet.

“I will go,” said Francis, “but first promise me this shall not be the end.”

“Dost think I could bear it an it were?” she demanded tearfully.

“I shall write letters, and thou wilt answer them?”

She nodded. She could not wield a pen very happily, but that there would be those to help her in this matter she doubted not.

“Then I leave thee,” he said.

“Do not return to the house for aught, Francis. It would not be safe. Where shall you go?”

“That I cannot say. Mayhap I shall go to Ireland and turn pirate and win a fortune so that I may then come back and claim Catherine Howard as my wife. Never forget, Catherine, that thou art that.”

The tears were streaming down Catherine’s cheeks. She said with great emotion, “Thou wilt never live to say to me ‘Thou hast swerved!’”

One last kiss; one last embrace.

“Not farewell, Catherine. Never that. Au revoir, sweet Catherine. Forget not the promise thou hast made to me.”

She watched him disappear through the trees before she ran back to Mistress Baskerville. Fearfully they went into the house and to the Duchess’s rooms.

When the old woman saw Catherine, her eyes blazed with rage. She seized her by the hair and flung her against the wall, shouting at her, after first shutting the door, “You little harlot! At your age to allow such liberties! What dost think you have done! Do not look at me so boldly, wench!”

The whip came down on Catherine’s shoulders while she cowered against the wall, covering her face with her hands. Across her back, across her thighs, across her legs, the whip descended. There was not much strength behind the Duchess’s blows, but the whip cut into Catherine’s flesh, and she was crying, not from the infliction of those strokes, but for Derham, since she could know no pain that would equal the loss of him.

The Duchess flung away the whip and pushed Catherine onto a couch. She jerked the girl’s head up, and looked into her grief-swollen face.

“It was true then!” cried the Duchess in a fury. “Every word of it was true! He was in your bed most nights! And when you were disturbed he hid in the gallery!” She slapped Catherine’s face, first one side, then the other. “What sort of marriage do you expect after this? Tell me that! Who will want Catherine Howard who is known for a slut and a harlot!” She slapped Catherine’s face. “We shall marry you to a potman or a pantler!”

Catherine was hysterical with the pain of the blows and the mental anxiety she suffered concerning Derham’s fate.

“You would not care!” stormed the Duchess. “One man as good as another to you, eh? You low creature!”

The slapping began again. Catherine had wept so much that she had no more tears.

“And what do you think we shall do with your fine lover, eh? We will teach him to philander. We shall show him what happens to those who creep stealthily into the beds of their betters…or those who should be their betters….”

Down came the heavy ringed hands again. Catherine’s bodice was in tatters, her flesh red and bruised; and the whip had drawn blood from her shoulders.

The Duchess began to whisper of the terrible things that would be done to Francis Derham, were he caught. Did she think she had been severely punished? Well, that would be naught compared with what would be done to Francis Derham. When they had done with him, he would find himself unable to creep into young ladies’ beds of night, for lascivious wenches like Catherine Howard would find little use for him, when they had done with him…when they had done with him…!

Saliva dripped from Her Grace’s lips; her venom eased her fear. What if the Duke heard of this? Oh, yes, his own morals did not bear too close scrutiny and there were scandals enough in the Norfolk family and to spare. What of the washerwoman Bess Holland who was making a Duchess of Norfolk most peevish and very jealous! And the late Queen herself had had Howard blood in her veins and stood accused of incest. But oddly enough it was those who had little cause to judge others who most frequently and most loudly did. The King himself who was over-fond of wine and women was the first to condemn such excesses in others; and did not courtiers ever take their cue from a king! If the Duke heard of this he would laugh his sardonic laugh and doubtless say evil things of his old enemy his stepmother. She was afraid, for this would be traced to her neglect. The girl had been in her charge and she had allowed irreparable harm to be done. What of Catherine’s sisters? Such a scandal would impair their chances in the matrimonial field. Then, there must be no scandal, not only for Catherine’s sake, but for that of her sisters—and also for the sake of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. She quietened her voice and her blows slackened.

“Why,” she said slyly, “there are those who might think this thing had gone farther than it has. Why, there are those who will be ready to say there was complete intimacy between you and Francis Derham.” She looked earnestly into Catherine’s face, but Catherine scarcely heard what she said; much less did she gather the import of her words. “Derham shall suffer nevertheless!” went on the Duchess fiercely; and she went to the door and called to her Mary Lassells and Katharine Tylney. “Take my granddaughter to the apartment,” she told them, “and put her to bed. She will need to rest awhile.”

They took Catherine away. She winced as they removed her clothes. Katharine Tylney brought water to bathe her skin where the Duchess’s ring had broken it.

While Catherine cried softly, Mary Lassells surveyed with satisfaction the plump little body which had been so severely beaten. Her just desserts! thought Mary Lassells. It was a right and proper thing to have done, to have written to the Duchess. Now this immorality would be stopped. No more petting and stroking of those soft white limbs. Mary Lassells did not know how she had so long borne to contemplate such wickedness.

In her room the Duchess was still shaking with agitation. She must have advice, she decided, and she asked her son, Lord William Howard, to come to see her. When he arrived she showed him the letter and told him the story. He grumbled about mad wenches who could not be merry among themselves without falling out.

“Derham,” said Her Grace, “has disappeared.”

Lord William shrugged. Did his mother not attach too much importance to a trifling occurrence, he would know. Young men and women were lusty creatures and they would always frolic. It need not necessarily mean that although Derham had visited the girl’s sleeping apartment, there was anything to worry about.

“Forget it! Forget it!” said Lord William. “Give the girl a beating and a talking to. As for Derham, let him go. And pray keep all this from my lord Duke.”

It was sound advice. There was no harm done, said the Duchess to herself, and dozed almost serenely in her chair. But out of her dozes she would awake startled, worried by dreams of her two most attractive granddaughters, one dead, and the other so vitally alive.

Then the Duchess made a resolution, and this she determined to keep, for she felt that it did not only involve the future of Catherine Howard, but of her own. Catherine should be kept under surveillance; she should be coached in deportment so that she should cease to be a wild young hoyden and become a lady. And some of those women, whose sly ways the Duchess did not like over-much, should go.

On this occasion the Duchess carried out her resolutions. Most of the young ladies who had shared the main sleeping apartment with Catherine were sent to their homes. Jane Acworth was among those who remained, for a marriage was being arranged for her with Mr. Bulmer of York, and, thought the Duchess, she will soon be going in any case.

The Duchess decided to see more of Catherine, to school her herself, although, she admitted ruefully, it was hardly likely that Jane Seymour would find a place at court for Anne’s cousin. Never mind! The main thing was that Catherine’s unfortunate past must be speedily forgotten, and Catherine prepared to make the right sort of marriage.

It seemed to the Princess Mary that the happiest event that had taken place since the King had cast off her mother, was the death of Anne Boleyn. Mary was twenty years old, a very serious girl, with bitterness already in her face, and fanaticism peering out through her eyes. She was disappointed and frustrated, perpetually on the defensive and whole-heartedly devoted to Roman Catholicism. She was proud and the branding of illegitimacy did not make her less so. She had friends and supporters, but whereas, while Anne Boleyn lived, these did not wish to have their friendship known, they now were less secretive. The King had put it on record that not in any carnal concupiscence had he taken a wife, but only at the entreaty of his nobility, and he had chosen one whose age and form was deemed to be meet and apt for the procreation of children. His choice had been supported by the imperialists, for he had chosen Jane Seymour who was one who still clung to the old catholicism; moreover Jane was known to be kindly disposed towards Mary.

It was, as ever, necessary to tread very cautiously, for the King had changed since the death of Anne; he was less jovial; he had aged considerably and looked more than his forty-five years; he did not laugh so frequently, and there was a glitter in his eyes, which could send cold shivers down the spine of a man though he might have no knowledge of having displeased the King. His matrimonial adventures had been conspicuously unsuccessful, and though Jane had been reported to be pregnant before the death of Anne—well, Katharine of Aragon had been pregnant a good many times without much result; and Anne had had no success either. Young Richmond, on whom the King doted, as his only son, had ever since the death of Anne been spitting blood. “She has cast a spell on him,” said Mary. “She would murder him as she tried to murder me, for Richmond has death in his face if ever one had.” And what if Richmond died and Jane Seymour was without issue! Elizabeth was a bastard now, no less then Mary.

“It is time,” said her friends to Mary, “that you began to woo the King.”

“And defame my mother!” cried Mary.

“She who was responsible for your mother’s position is now herself cast off and done with. You should try to gain His Majesty’s friendship.”

“I do not believe he will listen to me.”

“There is a way of approaching him.”

“Which way is that?”

“Through Cromwell. It is not only the best, but the only possible way for you.”

The result was that Cromwell came to visit Mary at Hunsdon whither she had been banished. Cromwell came eagerly enough, seeing good reasons for having Mary taken back into favor. He knew that the King would never receive his daughter unless she agreed that her mother’s marriage had been unlawful and incestuous; and if Mary could be brought to such admission, she would cease to have the sympathy of the people. There were many nobles in the land who deplored the break with Rome; who were silently awaiting an opportunity to repair the link. If they were ever able to do this, what would happen to those who had worked for the break! And was not the greatest of them Thomas Cromwell! Cromwell could therefore see much good in the King’s reconciliation with his daughter.

Henry’s eyes were speculative regarding the prospect laid out before him by Cromwell. How he loathed that man! But what good work he was doing with the smaller abbeys, and what better work he would do with the larger ones! If there was to be a reconciliation with Mary, Cromwell was right in thinking this was the time to make it. Many people considered Mary had been badly treated; the common people were particularly ready to be incensed on her behalf. He had separated her from her mother, had not allowed her to see Katharine on her deathbed. He could not help feeling a stirring of his conscience over Mary. But if he effected a reconciliation at this moment, he himself would emerge from the dangerous matter, not as a monster but as a misguided man who had been under the influence of a witch and a scorceress. Anne, the harlot and would-be-prisoner, could be shown to have been entirely responsible for the King’s treatment of his daughter. “Why,” people would say, “as soon as the whore was sent to her well-deserved death, the King becomes reconciled to his daughter!” A well-deserved death! Henry liked that phrase. He had suffered many disturbed nights of late; he would awaken and think she lay beside him; he would find sleep impossible for hours at a time; and once he dreamed of her looking into a pool at Hever: and when he looked too, he saw her head with its black hair, and blood was streaming from it. A well-deserved death! thought Henry complacently, and he sent Norfolk to see his daughter at Hunsdon.

“Tell the girl,” he said, “that she is willful and disobedient, but that we are ever ready to take pity on those who repent.”

Mary saw that she was expected to deny all that she had previously upheld, and was frightened by the storm that she had aroused.

“My mother was the King’s true wife,” she insisted. “I can say naught but that!”

She was reminded ominously that many had lost their heads for saying what she had said. She was not easily frightened and she tried to assure herself that she would go to the block as readily as More and Fisher had done.

Mary could see now that she had been wrong in blaming Anne for her treatment. Norfolk was brusque with her, insulting even; she had never been so humiliated when Anne was living. It was Anne who had begged that they might bury their quarrel, that Mary should come to court, and had told her that she should walk beside her and need not carry her train. Lady Kingston had come to her with an account of Anne’s plea for forgiveness and Mary had shrugged her shoulders at that. Forgiveness! What good would that do Anne Boleyn! When Mary died she would look down on Anne, burning in hell, for burn in hell she assuredly would. She had carried out the old religious rites until her death, but she had listened to and even applauded the lies of Martin Luther and so earned eternal damnation. Mary was not cruel at heart; she knew only two ways, the right and the wrong, and the right way was through the Roman Catholic Church. No true Catholic burned in hell; but this was a fate which those who were not true Catholics could not possibly escape. But she saw that though Anne would assuredly burn in hell for her responsibility in the severance of England from Rome, she could not in all truth be entirely blamed for the King’s treatment of his elder daughter. Mary decided that although she could not forgive Anne, she would at least be as kind as she could to Anne’s daughter.

Henry was furious at the reports brought back to him. He swore that he could not trust Mary. He was an angry man. It was but a matter of days since he had married Jane Seymour and yet he was not happy. He could not forget Anne Boleyn; he was dissatisfied with Jane; and he was enraged against Mary. A man’s daughter to work against him! He would not have it! He called the council together. A man cannot trust those nearest to him! was his cry. There should be an inquiry. If he found his daughter guilty of conspiracy she should suffer the penalty of traitors.

“I’ll have no more disobedience!” foamed Henry. “There is one road traitors should tread, and by God, I’ll see that they tread it!”

There was tension in court circles. It was well known that, while Anne lived, Mary and her mother had had secret communications from Chapuys; and that the ambassador had had plans for—with the Emperor’s aid—setting Katharine or Mary on the throne.

The King, as was his custom, chose Cromwell to do the unpleasant work; he was to go secretly into the houses of suspected persons and search for evidence against the Princess.

The Queen came to the King.

“What ails thee?” growled the newly married husband. “Dost not see I am occupied with matters of state!”

“Most gracious lord,” said Jane, not realizing his dangerous mood, “I would have speech with you. The Princess Mary has ever been in my thoughts, and now that I know she repents and longs to be restored in your affections…”

Jane got no further.

“Be off!” roared the King. “And meddle not in my affairs!”

Jane wept, but Henry strode angrily from her, and in his mind’s eye, he seemed to see a pair of black eyes laughing at him, and although he was furious he was also wistful. He growled: “There is none I can trust. My nearest and those who should be my dearest are ready to betray me!”

Mary’s life was in danger. Chapuys wrote to her advising her to submit to the King’s demands, since it was unsafe for her not to do so. She must acknowledge her father Supreme Head of the Church; she must agree that her mother had never been truly married to the King. It was useless to think that as his daughter she was safe, since there was no safety for those who opposed Henry. Let her think, Chapuys advised her, of the King’s last concubine to whom he had been exclusively devoted over several years; he had not hesitated to send her to the block; nor would he hesitate in his present mood to send his own daughter.

But the shrewd man Henry had become knew that the unpopularity he had incurred, first by his marriage with Anne and then by his murder of her, would be further increased if he shed the blood of his daughter. The enmity of the people, ever a dark bogey in his life since he felt his dynasty to be unsafe, seemed as close as it had when he broke from the Church of Rome. He told Cromwell to write to her telling her that if she did not leave all her sinister councils she would lose her chance of gaining the King’s favor.

Mary was defeated, since even Chapuys was against her holding out; she gave in, acknowledged the King Supreme Head of the Church, admitted the Pope to be a pretender, and agreed that her mother’s marriage was incestuous and unlawful. She signed the papers she was required to sign and she retired to the privacy of her rooms where she wept bitterly, calling on her saintly mother to forgive her for what she had done. She thought of More and Fisher. “Ah! That I had been brave as they!” she sobbed.

Henry was well pleased; instead of a recalcitrant daughter, he had a dutiful one. Uneasy about the death of Anne, he wished to assure himself and the world that he had done right to rid himself of her. He was a family man; he loved his children. Anne had threatened to poison his daughter, his beloved Mary. Did his people not now see that Anne had met a just fate? Was not Mary once more his beloved daughter? It mattered not that she had been born out of wedlock. She was his daughter and she should come to court. With the death of the harlot who had tried to poison his daughter, everything was well between her and her father.

Jane was jubilant.

“You are the most gracious and clement of fathers,” she told Henry.

“You speak truth, sweetheart!” he said and warmed to Jane, liking afresh her white skin and pale eyelashes. He loved her truly, and if she gave him sons, he would love her all the more. He was a happy family man.

Mary sat at the royal table, next in importance to her stepmother, and she and Jane were the best of friends. Henry smiled at them benignly. There was peace in his home, for his obstinate daughter was obstinate no longer. He tried to look at her with love, but though he had an affection for her, it was scarcely strong enough to be called love.

When Jane asked that Elizabeth should also come to court, he said he thought this thing might be.

“An you wish it, sweetheart,” he said, making it a favor to Jane. But he liked to see the child. She was attractive and spirited, and there was already a touch of her mother in her.

“The King is very affectionate towards the young Elizabeth,” it was said.

When his son the Duke of Richmond died, Henry was filled with sorrow. Anne, he declared, had set a spell upon him, for it was but two months since Anne had gone to the block, and from the day she died, Richmond had begun to spit blood.

Such an event must set the King brooding once more on the succession. He was disturbed because young Thomas Howard, half brother to the Duke of Norfolk, had dared to betroth himself, without Henry’s permission, to Lady Margaret Douglas, daughter of Henry’s sister Margaret of Scotland. This was a black crime indeed. Henry knew the Howards—ambitious to a man. He was sure that Thomas Howard aspired to the throne through his proposed marriage with Henry’s niece and he was reminded afresh of what a slight hold the Tudors had upon the throne.

“Fling young Howard into the Tower!” cried Henry, and this was done.

He was displeased with the Duke also, and Norfolk was terrified, expecting that at any moment he might join his half brother.

If the Howards were disturbed so was Henry; he hated trouble at home more than trouble abroad. The Henry of this period was a different person from that younger man whose thoughts had been mainly occupied in games and the hunting of women and forest creatures. He had come into the world endowed with a magnificent physique and a shrewd brain; but as the former was magnificent and the latter merely shrewd, he had developed the one at the expense of the other. Excelling as he did in sport, he had passed over intellectual matters; loving his great body, he had decked it in dazzling jewels and fine velvets and cloth of gold; for the glory of his body he had subdued his mind. But at forty-five he was well past his active youth; the ulcer in his leg was bad enough to make him roar with pain at times; he was inclined to breathlessness, being a heavy man who had indulged too freely in all fleshly lusts. His body being not now the dominating feature in his life, he began to exercise his mind. He was chiefly concerned in the preservation and the glorification of himself, and as this must necessarily mean the preservation and the glorification of England, matters of state were of the utmost interest to him. Under him, the navy had grown to a formidable size; certain monies were set aside each year for the building of new ships and that those already built might be kept in good fighting order; he wished to shut England off from the Continent, making her secure; while he did not wish England to become involved in war, he wished to inflame Charles and Francis to make war on one another, for he feared these two men; but he feared them less when they warred together than when they were at peace. His main idea was to have all potential enemies fighting while England grew out of adolescence into that mighty Power which it was his great hope she would one day be. If this was to happen, he must first of all have peace at home, for he knew well that there was nothing to weaken a growing country like civil war. In severing the Church of England from that of Rome, he had done a bold thing, and England was still shaking from the shock. There were many of his people who deplored the break, who would ask nothing better than to be reunited with Rome. Cleverly and shrewdly, Henry had planned a new religious program. Not for one moment did he wish to deprive his people of those rites and ceremonies which were as much a part of their lives as they were of the Roman Catholic faith. But their acceptance of the King as Supreme Head of the Church must be a matter of life and death.

Peace at home and peace abroad therefore, was all he asked, so that England might grow in the best possible conditions to maturity. Wolsey had molded him into a political shape very like his own. Wolsey had believed that it was England’s task to keep the balance of power in Europe, but Wolsey had been less qualified to pursue this than Henry. Wolsey had been guilty of accepting bribes; he could never resist adding to his treasures; Henry was not so shortsighted as to jeopardize England’s position for a gift or two from foreign powers. He was every bit as acquisitive as Wolsey, but the preservation of himself through England was his greatest need. He had England’s treasures at his disposal, and at this moment he was finding the dissolution of the abbeys most fruitful. Wolsey never forgot his allegiance to Rome; Henry knew no such loyalty. With Wolsey it was Wolsey first, England second; with Henry, England and Henry meant the same thing. Cromwell believed that England should ally herself with Charles because Charles represented the strongest Power in Europe, but Henry would associate himself with neither Charles nor Francis, clinging to his policy of preserving the balance of power. Neither Wolsey nor Cromwell could be as strong as Henry, for there was ever present with these two the one great fear which must be their first consideration, and this was fear of Henry. Henry therefore was freer to act; he could take advantage of sudden action; he could do what he would, without having to think what excuse he should make if his action failed. It was a great advantage in the subtle game he played.

Looking back, Henry could see whither his laziness had led him. He had made wars which had given nothing to England, and he had drained her of her strength and riches, so that the wealth so cautiously and cleverly amassed by his thrifty father, had slowly dwindled away. There was the example of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, on which he could now look back through the eyes of a wiser and far more experienced man, and be shocked by his lack of statecraft at that time. Kings who squandered the treasure and the blood of their subjects also squandered their affections. He could see now that it was due to his father’s wealth that England had become a power in Europe, and that with the disappearance of that wealth went England’s power. By the middle of the twenties England was of scarcely any importance in Europe, and at home Ireland was being troublesome. When Henry had talked of divorcing his Queen, and was living openly with Anne Boleyn, his subjects had murmured against him, and that most feared of all calamities to a wise king—civil war—had threatened. At that time he had scarcely been a king at all, but when he had broken from Rome he had felt his strength, and that was the beginning of Henry VIII as a real ruler.

He would now continue to rule, and brute strength would be his method; never again should any other person than the King govern the country. He was watchful; men were watchful of him. They dreaded his anger, but Henry was wise enough to realize the wisdom of that remark of his Spanish ambassador’s: “Whom many fear, must fear many.” And Henry feared many, even if many feared him.

His great weakness had its roots in his conscience. He was what men called a religious man, which in his case meant he was a superstitious man. There was never a man less Christian; there was never one who made a greater show of piety. He was cruel; he was brutal; he was pitiless. This was his creed. He was an egoist, a megalomaniac; he saw himself not only as the center of England but of the world. In his own opinion, everything he did was right; he only needed time to see it in its right perspective, and he would prove it to be right. He took his strength from this belief in himself; and as his belief was strong, so was Henry.

One of the greatest weaknesses of his life was his feeling for Anne Boleyn. Even now, after she had died on his command, when his hands were stained with her innocent blood, when he had gloated over his thoughts of her once loved, now mutilated body, when he knew that could he have her back he would do the same again, he could not forget her. He had hated her so violently, only because he had loved her; he had killed her out of passionate jealousy, and she haunted him. Sometimes he knew that he could never hope to forget her. All his life he would seek a way of forgetting. He was now trying the obvious way, through women.

Jane! He was fond enough of Jane. What egoist is not fond of those who continually show him he is all that he would have people believe he is! Yes, he liked Jane well enough, but she maddened him; she irritated him because he always knew exactly what she would say; she submitted to his embraces mildly, and he felt that she did so because she considered it her duty; she annoyed him because she offered him that domestic peace which had ever been his goal, and now having reached it, he found it damnably insipid; she angered him because she was not Anne.

Moreover, now she had disappointed him. She had had her first miscarriage, and that very reason why he had been forced to get rid of Anne so speedily, to resort to all kinds of subterfuge to pacify his subjects, and to tell his people that it was his nobles who had begged him to marry Jane before Anne’s mutilated body was cold, had proved to be no worthwhile reason at all. He could have waited a few months; he could have allowed Cromwell and Norfolk to have persuaded him; he could have been led self-sacrificingly into marriage with Jane instead of scuffling into it in the undignified way he had done. It was irritating.

It was also uncanny. Why did all his wives miscarry? He thought of the old Duke of Norfolk’s brood, first with one wife, then with another. Why should the King be so cursed? First with Katharine, then with Anne. Katharine he had discarded; Anne he had beheaded; still, he was truly married to Jane, for neither of these two had been living when he married Jane; therefore he could have done no wrong. If he had displeased God in marrying Anne while Katharine was alive, he could understand that; but he had been a true widower when he had married Jane. No, he was worrying unduly; he would have children yet by Jane, for if he did not…why, why had he got rid of Anne?

In his chamber at Windsor, he was brooding on these matters when he was aware of a disturbance in the courtyard below his window; even as he looked out a messenger was at his door with the news that certain men had ridden with all speed to the King as they had alarming news for him.

When they were brought in they fell on their knees before him.

“Sir, we tremble to bring such news to Your Majesty. We come hot speed to tell you that trouble has started, so we hear, in Lincoln.”

“Trouble!” cried Henry. “What mean you by trouble?”

“My lord, it was when the men went into Lincoln to deal with the abbeys there. There was a rising, and two were killed. Beaten and roughly handled, please Your Majesty, unto death.”

Henry’s face was purple; his eyes blazed.

“What means this! Rebellion! Who dares rebel against the King!”

Henry was astounded. Had he steered the country away from civil war, only to find it breaking out at last when he had been congratulating himself on his strength? The people, particularly those in the north, had been bewildered by the break with Rome; but by the pillaging of the abbeys, they had been roused to action. Already bands of beggars were springing up all over the country; they who had been sure of food and shelter from the monks were now desolate, and there was but one sure way for a destitute man to keep himself fed in Tudor England, and that was to rob his fellow men. Over the countryside there roamed hordes of desperate starving men, and to their numbers were added the displaced monks and nuns. There was more boldness in the north than in the south because those far removed from his presence could fear Henry less. So they, smarting from the break with Rome, sympathizing with the monks, resenting the loss of the monasteries, decided that something should be done. They were joined by peasants who, owing to the enclosure acts, and the prevailing policy of turning arable into pasture land, had been rendered homeless. Lords Darcy and Hussey, two of the most powerful noblemen of the north, had always supported the old Catholic faith; the rebels therefore could feel they had these men behind them.

Henry was enraged and apprehensive. He felt this to be a major test. Should he emerge from it triumphant, he would have achieved a great victory; he would prove himself a great King. Two ways lay before him. He could return to Rome and assure peace in his realm; he could fight the rebels and remain not only head of the Church but truly head of the English people. He chose the second course. He would risk his crown to put down the rebels.

It meant reconciliation with Norfolk, for whenever there was a war to be fought, Norfolk must be treated with respect. He would send Suffolk to Lincoln. He stormed against those of his counsellors who advised him against opposing the rebels. Fiercely he reminded them that they were bound to serve him with their lives, lands and goods.

Jane was afraid. She was very superstitious and it seemed to her that this rising was a direct reproach from heaven because of Cromwell’s sacrilegious pillaging of the monasteries.

She came to the King and knelt before him, and had her head not been bent she would have seen her danger from his blazing eyes.

“My lord husband,” she said, “I have heard the most disquieting news. I fear it may be a judgment on us for ridding ourselves of the abbeys. Could not Your Most Gracious Majesty consider the restoring of them?”

For a few seconds he was speechless with rage; he saw Jane through the red haze in his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was a rumble of thunder.

“Get up!”

She lifted terrified eyes to his face and stood. He came closer to her, breathing heavily, his jowls quivering, his lower lip stuck out menacingly.

“Have I not told you never to meddle in my affairs!” he said very slowly and deliberately.

Tears came into Jane’s eyes; she was thinking of all those people who were wandering homeless about the country; she thought of little babies crying for milk. She had pictured herself saving the people from a terrible calamity; moreover, her friends who longed for the return of the old ways would rejoice in the restoration of the monasteries, and would be very pleased with Queen Jane. Therefore she felt it to be her duty to turn the King back to Rome, or at least away from that wickedness which had sprung up in the world since Martin Luther had made himself heard.

The King gripped her shoulder, and put his face to hers.

“Dost remember what happened to your predecessor?” he asked meaningfully.

She stared at him in horror. Anne had gone to the block because she was guilty of high treason. What could he mean?

His eyes were hot and cruel.

“Forget it not!” he said, and threw her from him.

The men of the north had followed the example of the men from Lincolnshire. This was no mob rising; into the ranks of the Pilgrimage of Grace went sober men of the provinces. The most inspiring of its leaders was a certain Robert Aske, and this man, whose integrity and honesty of purpose were well known, had a talent for organization; he was a born commander, and under him, the northern rebels were made into a formidable force.

Henry realized too well how very formidable. The winter was beginning; he had no standing army. He acted with foresight and cunning. He invited Aske to discuss the trouble with him.

It did not occur to Aske that one as genial as Henry appeared to him could possibly not be as honest as Aske himself. On the leader, Henry unloosed all his bluffness, all his honest down-to-earth friendliness. Did Aske wish to spread bloodshed over England? Aske certainly did not. He wanted only hardship removed from the suffering people. Henry patted the man affectionately. Why then, Aske and the King had the same interests at heart. Should they quarrel! Never! All they must do was to find a way agreeable to them both of doing what was right for England.

Aske went back to Yorkshire to tell of the King’s oral promises, and the insurgents were disbanded; there was a truce between the north and the King.

There were in the movement less level-headed men than such leaders as Aske and Constable, and in spite of Aske’s belief in the King’s promises he could not prevent a second rising. This gave Henry an excuse for what followed. He had decided on his action before he had seen Aske; his promises to the leader had meant that he wished to gain time, to gather his strength about him, to wait until the end of winter. He had never swerved from the policy he intended to adopt and which he would continue to follow to the end of his reign. It was brute strength and his own absolute and unquestioned rule.

He decided to make a bloody example and show his people what happened to those who opposed the King. Up to the north went Norfolk and the bloodletting began. Darcy was beheaded; Sir Thomas Percy was brought to Tyburn and hanged; honest men who had looked upon the Pilgrimage of Grace as a sacred movement were hanged, cut down alive, disembowelled, and their entrails burned while they still lived; then they were beheaded. Aske learned too late that he had accepted the promises of one to whom a promise was naught but a tool to be picked up and used for a moment when it might be useful and then to be laid aside and forgotten. In spite of his pardon, he was executed and hanged in chains on one of the towers of York that all might see what befell traitors. Constable was taken to Hull and hanged from the highest gate in the town, a grim warning to all who beheld him.

The King licked his lips over the accounts of cruelties done in his name. “Thus shall all traitors die!” he growled, and warned Cromwell against leniency, knowing well that he could leave bloody work in those ugly hands.

The Continent, hearing of his internal troubles, was on tiptoe waiting and watching. Henry’s open enemy Pope Paul could state publicly his satisfaction; Henry’s secret enemies, Charles and Francis, though discreetly silent, were nonetheless delighted.

The Pope, deeply resenting this King who had dared set an example which he feared others might follow, began to plan. What if the revolt against Henry were nourished outside England? Reginald Pole was on the Continent; he had left England for two reasons; he did not approve of the divorce and break with Rome; and he being the grandson of that Duke of Clarence who was brother to Edward IV, was too near the throne to make residence in England safe for him. He had written a book against Henry, and Henry feigning interest suggested Pole return to England that they might discuss the differences of opinion. Pole was no careless fly to walk into the spider’s web. He declined his sovereign’s offer and went to Rome instead where the Pope made him a Cardinal and discussed with him a plan for fanning the flames which were at this time bursting out in the North of England. If Pole succeeded in displacing Henry, why should he not marry the Princess Mary, restore England to the papacy and rule as her king?

Henry acted with cunning and boldness. He demanded from Francis Pole’s extradition, that he might be sent to England and stand his trial as a traitor. Francis, who did not wish to defy the Pope not to annoy Henry, ordered Pole to leave his domains. Pole went to Flanders, but Charles was as reluctant as Francis to displease the King of England. Pole had to disguise himself.

The attitude of the two great monarchs showed clearly that they were very respectful towards the island lying off the coast of Europe, for never had a papal legate been so humiliated before.

Henry could purr with pleasure. He was treated with respect and he had crushed a revolt which threatened his throne. The crown was safe for the Tudors, and England was saved from civil war. He knew how to rule his country. He had been strong and he had emerged triumphant from the most dangerous situation of his reign.

There was great news yet. The Queen was paler than usual; she had been sick; she had fancies for special foods.

Henry was joyful. He once more had hopes of getting a son.

While Henry was strutting with pleasure, Jane was beset with fear. There were many things to frighten Jane. Before her lay the ordeal of childbirth. What if it should prove unsuccessful? As she lay in those Hampton Court apartments which the King had lovingly planned for Anne Boleyn, she brooded on these matters. From her window she could see the initials entwined in stonework—J and H, and where the J was there had once been an A, and the A had had to be taken away very suddenly indeed.

The King was in high humor, certain that this time he would get a son. He went noisily about the place, eating and drinking with great heartiness; and hunting whenever his leg was not too painful to deter him. If Jane gave him a son, he told himself, he would at last have found happiness. He would know that he had been right in everything he had done, right to rid himself of Katharine who had never really been his wife, right to execute Anne who was a sorceress, right to marry Jane.

He jollied the poor pale creature, admonishing her to take good care of herself, threatening her that if she did not, he would want to know the reason why; and his loving care was not for her frail body but for the heir it held.

The hot summer passed. Jane heard of the executions and shuddered, and whenever she looked from her windows she saw those initials. The J seemed to turn into an A as she looked, and then into something else, blurred and indistinguishable.

Plague came to London, rising up from the fetid gutters and from the dirty wash left on the riverbanks with the fall of the tide. People died like flies in London. Death came close to Jane Seymour during those months.

She was wan and sickly and she felt very ill, though she dared not mention this for fear of angering the King; she was afraid for herself and the child she carried. She had qualms about the execution of Anne, and her dream became haunted with visions. She could not forget an occasion when Anne had come upon her and the King together. Then Anne must have felt this sickness, this heaviness, this fear, for she herself was carrying the King’s child at that time.

Jane could not forget the words the King had used to her more than once. “Remember what happened to your predecessor!” There was no need to ask Jane to remember what she would never be able to forget.

She became more observant of religious rites, and as her religion was of the old kind, both Cranmer and Cromwell were disturbed. But they dared not approach the King with complaints for they knew well what his answer would be. “Let the Queen eat fish on Fridays. Let her do what she will an she give me a son!”

All over the country, people waited to hear of the birth of a son. What would happen to Jane, it was asked, if she produced a stillborn child? What if she produced a girl?

Many were cynical over Henry’s matrimonial affairs, inclined to snigger behind their hands. Already there were Mary and Elizabeth—both proclaimed illegitimate. What if there was yet another girl? Perhaps it was better to be humble folk when it was considered what had happened to Katharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn.

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk waited eagerly for the news. Her mouth was grim. Would Jane Seymour do what her granddaughter had failed to do? That pale sickly creature succeed, where glowing, vital Anne had failed! She thought not!

Catherine Howard fervently hoped the King would get a son. She had wept bitterly at the death of her cousin, but unlike her grandmother she bore no resentment. Let poor Queen Jane be happy even if Queen Anne had not. Where was the good sense in harboring resentment? She scarcely listened to her grandmother’s grim prophecies.

Catherine had changed a good deal since that violent beating her grandmother had given her. Now she really looked like a daughter of the house of Howard. She was quieter; she had been badly frightened by the discovery. She had received lectures from Lord William who insisted on looking on the episode as a foolish girlish prank; she had received a very serious warning from her grandmother who, when they were alone, did not hide from her that she knew the worst. Catherine must put all that behind her, must forget it had happened, must never refer to it again, must deny what she had done if she were ever questioned by anyone. She had been criminally foolish; let her remember that. Catherine did remember; she was restrained.

She was growing very pretty and her gentle manners gave a new charm to her person. The Duchess was ready to forget unsavory incidents; she hoped Catherine was too. She did not know that Catherine was still receiving letters from Derham, that through the agency of Jane Acworth, whose pen was ever ready, the correspondence was being kept up.

Derham wrote: “Do not think that I forget thee. Do not forget that we are husband and wife, for I never shall. Do not forget you have said, ‘You shall never live to say I have swerved.’ For I do not, and I treasure the memory. One day I shall return for you….”

It appealed strongly to Catherine’s adventure-loving nature to receive love letters and to have her replies smuggled out of the house. She found it pleasant to be free from those women who had known about her love affair with Derham and who were forever making sly allusions to it. There were no amorous adventures these days, for the Duchess’s surveillance was strict. Catherine did not want them; she realized her folly and she was very much ashamed of the freedom she had allowed Manox. She still loved Francis, she insisted; she still loved receiving his letters; and one day he would return for her.

October came, and one morning, very early, Catherine was awakened by the ringing of bells and the sound of guns. Jane Seymour had borne the King a son.

Jane was too ill to feel her triumph. She was hardly aware of what was going on in her chamber. Shapes rose up and faded. There was a huge red-faced man, whose laughter was very loud, drawing her away from the peaceful sleep she sought. She heard whispering voices, loud voices, laughter.

The King would peer at his son anxiously. A poor puny little thing he was, and Henry was terrified that he would, as others of his breed before him, be snatched from his father before he reached maturity. Even Richmond had not survived, though he had been a bonny boy; this little Edward was small and white and weak.

Still, the King had a son and he was delighted. Courtiers moved about the sick room. They must kiss Jane’s hand; they must congratulate her. She was too tired? Nonsense! She must rejoice. Had she not done that which her predecessors had failed to do, given the King a son!

Fruit and meat were sent to her, gifts from the King. She must show her pleasure in His Majesty’s attentions. She ate without knowing what she ate.

The ceremony of the christening began in her chamber. They lifted her from her bed to the state pallet which was decorated with crowns and the arms of England in gold thread. She lay, propped on cushions of crimson damask, wrapped in a mantle of crimson velvet furred with ermine; but Jane’s face looked transparent against the rich redness of her robes. She was exhausted before they lifted her from the bed; her head throbbed and her hands were hot with fever. She longed to sleep, but she reminded herself over and over again that she must do her duty by attending the christening of her son. What would the King say, if he found the mother of his prince sleeping when she should be smiling with pleasure!

It was midnight as the ceremonial procession with Jane in its midst went through the drafty corridors of Hampton Court to the Chapel. Jane slipped into unconsciousness, recovered and smiled about her. She saw the Princess Mary present the newly born Prince at the font; she saw her own brother carrying the small Elizabeth, whose eyes were small with sleepiness and in whose fat little hands was Edward’s crysom; she saw Cranmer and Norfolk, who were the Prince’s sponsors; she saw the nurse and the midwife; and so vague was this scene to her that she thought it was but a dream, and that her son was not yet born and her pains about to begin.

Through the mist before her eyes she saw Sir Francis Bryan at the font, and she was reminded that he had been one of those who had not very long ago delighted in the wit of Anne Boleyn. Her eyes came to rest on the figure of a gray old man who carried a taper and bore a towel about his neck; she recognized him as Anne’s father. The Earl looked shamefaced, and had the unhappy air of a man who knows himself to be worthy of the contempt of his fellowmen. Was he thinking of his brilliant boy and his lovely girl who had been done to death for the sake of this little Prince to whom he did honor because he dared do nothing else?

Unable to follow the ceremony because of the fits of dizziness which kept overwhelming her, Jane longed for the quiet of her chamber. She wanted the comfort of her bed; she wanted darkness and quiet and rest.

“God, in His Almighty and infinite grace, grant good life and long, to the right high, right excellent, and noble Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, most dear and entirely beloved son of our most dread and gracious Lord Henry VIII.”

The words were like a rushing tide that swept over Jane and threatened to drown her; she gasped for breath. She was only hazily aware of the ceremonial journey back to her chamber.

A few days after the christening, Jane was dead.

“Ah!” said the people in the streets. “His Majesty is desolate. Poor dear man! At last he had found a queen he could love; at last he has his heart’s desire, a son to follow him; and now this dreadful catastrophe must overtake him.”

Certain rebels raised their heads, feeling the King to be too sunk in grief to notice them. The lion but feigned to sleep. When he lifted his head and roared, rebels learned what happened to those who dared raise a voice against the King. The torture chambers were filled with such. Ears were cut off; tongues were cut out; and the mutilated victims were whipped as they were driven naked through the streets.

Before Jane was buried, Henry was discussing with Cromwell whom he should next take for a wife.

Henry was looking for a wife. Politically he was at an advantage; he would be able to continue with his policy of keeping his two enemies guessing. He would send ambassadors to the French court; he would throw out hints to the Emperor; for both would greatly fear an alliance of the other with England.

Henry was becoming uneasy concerning continental affairs. The war between Charles and Francis had come to an end; and with these two not at each other’s throats, but in fact friends, and Pole persisting in his schemes to bring about civil war in England with the assistance of invasion from the Continent, he had cause for anxiety. To be able to offer himself in the marriage market was a great asset at such a time and Henry decided to exploit it to the full.

Although Henry was anxious to make a politically advantageous marriage, he could not help being excited by the prospect of a new wife. He visualized her. It was good to be a free man once more. He was but forty-seven and very ready to receive a wife. There was still in his mind the image of Anne Boleyn. He knew exactly what sort of wife he wanted; she must be beautiful, clever, vivacious; one who was high-spirited as Anne, meek as Jane. He reassured himself that although it was imperative that he should make the right marriage, he would not involve himself unless the person of his bride was pleasing.

He asked Chatillon, the French ambassador who had taken the place of du Bellay at the English court, that a selection of the most beautiful and accomplished ladies of the French court be sent to Calais; Henry would go there and inspect them.

“Pardie!” mused Henry. “How can I depend on any but myself! I must see them myself and see them sing!”

To this request, Francis retorted in such a way as to make Henry squirm, and he did not go to Calais to make a personal inspection of prospective wives.

There were among others the beautiful Christina of Milan who was a niece of Emperor Charles. She had married the Duke of Milan, who had died, leaving her a virgin widow of sixteen. Henry was interested in reports of her, and after the snub from Francis not averse to looking around the camp of the Emperor. He sent Holbein to make a picture of Christina and when the painter brought it back, Henry was attracted, but not sufficiently so to make him wish to clinch the bargain immediately. He was still keeping up negotiations with the French. It was reported that Christina had said that if she had had two heads one should be at the English King’s service, but having only one she was reluctant to come to England. She had heard that her great-aunt Katharine of Aragon had been poisoned; that Anne Boleyn had been put innocently to death; and that Jane Seymour had been lost for lack of keeping in childbirth. She was of course at Charles’s command, and these reports might well have sprung out of the reluctance of the Emperor for the match.

Henry’s uneasiness did not abate. He was terrified that the growing friendship between Charles and Francis might be a prelude to an attack on England. He knew that Pope Paul was trying to stir up the Scots to invade England from the North; Pole was moving slyly, from the Continent.

Henry’s first act was to descend with ferocity on the Pole family in England. He began by committing Pole’s young brother Geoffrey to the Tower and there the boy was tortured so violently that he said all Henry wished him to say. The result was that his brother Lord Montague and his cousin the Marquis of Exeter were seized. Even Pole’s mother, the aging Countess of Salisbury, who had been governess to the Princess Mary and one of the greatest friends of Katharine of Aragon, was not spared.

These people were the hope of those Catholics who longed for reunion with Rome, and Henry was watching his people closely to see what effect their arrest was having. He had had enough of troubles within his own domains, and with trouble threatening from outside he must tread very cautiously. At this time, he selected as his victim a scholar named Lambert whom he accused of leaning too far towards Lutheranism. The young man was said to have denied the body of God to be in the sacrament in corporal substance but only to be there spiritually. Lambert was tried and burned alive. This was merely Henry’s answer to the Catholics; he was telling them that he favored neither extreme sect. Montague and Exeter went to the block as traitors, not as Catholics. Catholic or Lutheran, it mattered not. No favoritism. No swaying from one sect to another. He only asked allegiance to the King.

Francis thought this would be a good moment to undermine English commerce which, while he and Charles had been wasting their people’s energy in war, Henry had been able to extend. Henry shrewdly saw what was about to happen and again acted quickly. He promised the Flemish merchants that for seven years Flemish goods should pay no more duty than those of the English. The merchants—a thrifty people—were overjoyed, seeing years of prosperous trading stretching before them. If their Emperor would make war on England he could hardly hope for much support from a nation benefiting from good trade with that country on whom Charles wished them to make war.

This was a good move, but Henry’s fears flared up afresh when the Emperor, visiting his domains, decided to travel through France to Germany, instead of going by sea or through Italy and Austria as was his custom. This seemed to Henry a gesture of great friendship. What plans would the two old enemies formulate when they met in France? Would England be involved in those plans?

Cromwell, to whose great interest it was to turn England from the Catholics and so make more secure his own position, seized this chance of urging on Henry the selection of a wife from one of the German Protestant houses. Cromwell outlined his plan. For years the old Duke of Cleves had wanted an alliance with England. His son had a claim to the Duchy of Guelders, which Duchy was in relation to the Emperor Charles very much what Scotland was to Henry, ever ready to be a cause of trouble. A marriage between England and the house of Cleves would therefore seriously threaten the Emperor’s hold on his Dutch dominions.

Unfortunately, Anne, sister of the young Duke, had already been promised to the Duke of Lorraine, but it was not difficult to waive this. Holbein was dispatched; he made a pretty picture of Anne, and Henry was pleasurably excited and the plans for the marriage went forward.

Henry was impatient. Anne! Her very name enchanted him. He pictured her, gentle and submissive and very very loving. She would have full awareness of her duty; she was no daughter of a humble knight; she had been bred that she might make a good marriage; she would know what was expected of her. He could scarcely wait for her arrival. At last he would find matrimonial happiness, and at the same time confound Charles and Francis.

“Anne!” he mused, and eagerly counted the days until her arrival.

Jane Acworth was preparing to leave.

“How I shall miss you!” sighed Catherine.

Jane smiled at her slyly. “It is not I whom you will miss but your secretary!”

“Poor Derham!” said Catherine. “I fear he will be most unhappy. For I declare it is indeed a mighty task for me to put pen to paper.”

Jane shrugged her shoulders; her thoughts were all for the new home she was to go to and Mr. Bulmer whom she was to marry.

“You will think of me often, Jane?” asked Catherine.

Jane laughed. “I shall think of your receiving your letters. He writes a pretty letter and I dare swear seems to love you truly.”

“Ah! That he does. Dear Francis! How faithful he had always been to me.”

“You will marry him one day?”

“We are married, Jane. You know it well. How else…”

“How else should you have lived the life you did together! Well, I have heard it whispered that you were very lavish with your favors where a certain Manox was concerned.”

“Oh, speak not of him! That is past and done with. My love for Francis goes on forever. I was foolish over Manox, but I regret nothing I have done with Francis, nor ever shall.”

“How lonely you will be without me!”

“Indeed, you speak truthfully.”

“And how different this life from that other! Why, scarce anything happens now, but sending letters to Derham and receiving his. What excitement we used to have!”

“You had better not speak of that to Mr. Bulmer!” warned Catherine; and they laughed.

It was well to laugh, and she was in truth very saddened by Jane’s departure; the receiving and dispatching of letters had provided a good deal of excitement in a dull existence.

With Jane’s going the days seemed long and monotonous. A letter came from Francis; she read it, tucked it into her bodice and was aware of it all day; but she could not read it very easily and it was not the same without Jane, for she, as well as being happy with a pen, was also a good reader. She must reply to Derham, but as the task lacked appeal, she put it off.

The Duchess talked to her of court matters.

“If the King would but take him a wife! I declare it is two years since Queen Jane died, and still no wife! I tell you, Catherine, that if this much-talked-of marriage with the Duchess of Cleves materializes, I shall look to a place at court for you.”

“How I wish I could go to court!” cried Catherine.

“You will have to mind your manners. Though I will say they have improved since…since…” The Duchess’s brows were dark with memory. “You would not do so badly now at court, I trow. We must see. We must see.”

Catherine pictured herself at court.

“I should need many new clothes.”

“Dost think Lord William would allow you to go to court in rags! Why even His Grace the Duke would not have that! Ha! I hear he is most angry at this proposed marriage. Master Cromwell has indeed put my noble stepson’s nose out of joint. Well, all this is not good for the Howards, and it is a mistake for a house to war within its walls. And so…it may not be so easy to find you a place at court. And I know that the King does not like the strife between my stepson and his wife. It is not meet that a Duke of noble house should feel so strongly for a washer in his wife’s nurseries that he will flaunt the slut in the face of his lady Duchess. The King was ever a moral man, as you must always remember. Ah! Pat my back, child, lest I choke. Where was I? Oh, yes, the Howards are not in favor while Master Cromwell is, and this Cleves marriage is Cromwell-made. Therefore, Catherine, it may not be easy to find you a place at court, for though I dislike my lord Duke with all my heart, he is my stepson, and if he is out of favor at court, depend upon it, we shall be too.”

On another occasion the Duchess sent for Catherine. Her old eyes, bright as a bird’s, peered out through her wrinkles.

“Get my cloak, child. I would walk in the gardens and have you accompany me.”

Catherine obeyed, and they stepped out of the house and strolled slowly through the orchards where Catherine had lain so many times with Derham. She had ever felt sad when she was in the orchards being unable to forget Derham, but now she scarcely thought of him, for she knew by the Duchess’s demeanor that she had news for her, and she was hoping it was news of a place at court.

“You are an attractive child,” wheezed the Duchess. “I declare you have a look of your poor tragic cousin. Oh…it is not obvious. Her hair was black and so were her eyes, and her face was pointed and unforgettable. You are auburn-haired and hazel-eyed and plump-faced. Oh, no, it is not in your face. In your sudden laughter? In your quick movements? She had an air of loving life, and so have you. There was a little bit of Howard in Anne that looked out from her eyes; there is a good deal of Howard in you; and there is the resemblance.”

Catherine wished her grandmother would not talk so frequently of her cousin, for such talk always made her sad.

“You had news for me?” she reminded her.

“Ah, news!” The Duchess purred. “Well, mayhap it is not yet news. It is a thought. And I will whisper this in your ear, child. I doubt not that the stony-hearted Duke would give his approval, for it is a good match.”

“A match!” cried Catherine.

“You do not remember your dear mother, Catherine?”

“Vaguely I do!” Catherine’s large eyes glistened with tears so that they looked like pieces of topaz.

“Your dear mother had a brother, and it is to his son, your cousin, whom we feel you might be betrothed. He is a dear boy, already at court. He is a most handsome creature. Thomas Culpepper, son of Sir John, your mother’s brother…”

“Thomas Culpepper!” whispered Catherine, her thoughts whirling back to a room at Hollingbourne, to a rustle of creeper, to a stalwart protector, to a kiss in the paddock. She repeated: “Thomas Culpepper!” She realized that something very unusual was about to happen. A childhood dream was about to come true. “And he…?” she asked eagerly.

“My dear Catherine, curb your excitement. This is a suggestion merely. The Duke will have to be consulted. The King’s consent will be necessary. It is an idea. I was not to tell you yet…but seeing you so attractive and marriageable, I could not resist it.”

“My cousin…” murmured Catherine. “Grandmother…when I was at Hollingbourne…we played together. We loved each other then.”

The Duchess put her finger to her lips.

“Hush, child! Be discreet. This matter must not be made open knowledge yet. Be calm.”

Catherine found that very difficult. She wanted to be alone to think this out. She tried to picture what Thomas would be like now. She had only a hazy picture of a little boy, telling her in a somewhat shamefaced way that he would marry her.

Derham’s letter scraped her skin. The thought of Thomas excited her so much that she had lost her burning desire to see Francis. She was wishing that all her life had been spent as she had passed the last months.

The Duchess was holding her wrists and the Duchess’s hands were hot.

“Catherine, I would speak to you very seriously. You will have need of great caution. The distressing things which have happened to you…”

Catherine wanted to weep. Oh, how right her grandmother was! If only she had listened even to Mary Lassells! If only she had not allowed herself to drift into that sensuous stream which at the time had been so sweet and cooling to her warm nature and which now was so repulsive to look back on. How she had regretted her affair with Manox when she had found Francis! Now she was beginning to regret her love for Francis as her grandmother talked of Thomas.

“You have been very wicked,” said her grandmother. “You deserve to die for what you have done. But I will do my best for you. Your wickedness must never get to the Duke’s ears.”

Catherine cried out in misery rather than in anger: “The Duke! What of him and Bess Holland!”

The Duchess was on her dignity. She might say what she would of her erring kinsman, not so Catherine.

“What if his wife’s washerwoman be his mistress! He is a man; you are a woman. There is all the difference in the world.”

Catherine was subdued; she began to cry.

“Dry your eyes, you foolish girl, and forget not for one instant that all your wickedness is done with, and it must be as though it never was.”

“Yes, grandmother,” said Catherine, and Derham’s letter pricked her skin.

Derham continued to write though he received no answers. Catherine had inherited some of her grandmother’s capacity for shifting her eyes from the unpleasant. She thought continually of her cousin Thomas and wondered if he remembered her, if he had heard of the proposed match and if so what he thought of it.

One day, wandering in the orchard, she heard the rustle of leaves behind her, and turning came face to face with Derham. He was smiling; he would have put his arms about her but she held him off.

“Catherine, I have longed to see thee.”

She was silent and frightened. He came closer and took her by the shoulders. “I had no answer to my letters,” he said.

She said hastily: “Jane has married and gone to York. You know I was never able to manage a pen.”

“Ah!” His face cleared. “That was all then? Thank God! I feared…” He kissed her on the mouth; Catherine trembled; she was unresponsive.

His face darkened. “Catherine! What ails thee?”

“Nothing ails me, Francis. It is…” But her heart melted to see him standing so forlorn before her, and she could not tell him that she no longer loved him. Let the break come gradually. “Your return is very sudden. Francis…”

“You have changed, Catherine. You are so solemn, so sedate.”

“I was a hoyden before. My grandmother said so.”

“Catherine, what did they do to thee?”

“They beat me with a whip. There never was such a beating. I was sick with the pain of it, and for weeks I could feel it. I was locked up, and ever since I have scarce been able to go out alone. They will be looking for me ere long, I doubt not.”

“Poor Catherine! And this you suffered for my sake! But never forget, Catherine, you are my wife.”

“Francis!” she said, and swallowed. “That cannot be. They will never consent, and what dost think they would do an you married me in actual fact?”

“We should go away to Ireland.”

“They would never let me go. We should die horrible deaths.”

“They would never catch us, Catherine.”

He was young and eager, fresh from a life of piracy off the coast of Ireland. He had money; he wished to take her away. She could not bear to tell him that they were talking of betrothing her to her cousin, Thomas Culpepper.

She said: “What dost think would happen to you if you showed yourself?”

“I know not. To hold you in my arms would suffice for anything they could do to me afterwards.”

Such talk frightened her. She escaped, promising to see him again.

She was disturbed. Now that she had seen Derham after his long absence, she knew for truth that which she had begun to suspect. She no longer loved him. She cried herself to sleep, feeling dishonored and guilty, feeling miserable because she would have to go to her cousin defiled and unclean. Why had she not stayed at Hollingbourne! Why had her mother died! What cruel fate had sent her to the Duchess where there were so many women eager to lead her into temptation! She was not yet eighteen and she had been wicked…and all so stupidly and so pointlessly.

She determined to break with Francis; there should be no more clandestine meetings. She would marry Thomas and be such a good wife to him, that when set against years and years of the perfect happiness she would bring him, the sinful years would seem like a tiny mistake on a beautifully written page.

Francis was hurt and angry. He had come back full of hope; he loved her and she was his wife, he reminded her. He had money from his spell of piracy; he was in any case related to the Howards.

She told him she had heard she was to go to court.

“I like that not!” he said.

“But I like it,” she told him.

“Dost know the wickedness of court life?” he demanded.

She shrugged her shoulders. She hated hurting people and being forced to hurt Francis who loved her so truly was a terrible sorrow to her; she found herself disliking him because she had to hurt him.

“You…to talk of wickedness…when you and I…”

He would have no misunderstanding about that.

“What we did, Catherine, is naught. Thou art my wife. Never forget it. Many people are married at an early age. We have done no wrong.”

“You know we are not husband and wife!” she retorted. “It was a fiction to say we are; it was but to make it easy. We have sinned, and I cannot bear it, I wish we had never met.”

Poor Derham was heartbroken. He had thought of no one else all the time he had been away. He begged her to remember how she had felt towards him before he went away. Then he heard the rumor of her proposed betrothal to Culpepper.

“This then,” he said angrily, “is the reason for your change of heart. You are going to marry this Culpepper?”

She demanded what right he had to ask such a question, adding: “For you know I will not have you, and if you have heard such report, you heard more than I do know!”

They quarreled then. She had deceived him, he said. How could she, in view of their contract, think of marrying another man? She must fly with him at once.

“Nay, nay!” cried Catherine, weeping bitterly. “Francis please be reasonable. How could I fly with you? Dost not see it would mean death to you? I have hurt you and you have hurt me. The only hope for a good life for us both is never to see each other again.”

Someone was calling her. She turned to him imploringly. “Go quickly. I dare not think what would happen to you were you found here.”

“They could not hurt me, an they put me on the rack, as you have hurt me.”

Such words pierced like knives into the soft heart of Catherine Howard. She could not be happy, knowing she had hurt him so deeply. Was there to be no peace for her, no happiness, because she had acted foolishly when she was but a child?

The serving-maid who had called her told her her grandmother would speak to her at once. The Duchess was excited.

“I think, my dear, that you are to go to court. As soon as the new queen arrives you will be one of her maids of honor. There! What do you think of that? We must see that you are well equipped. Fear not! You shall not disgrace us! And let me whisper a secret. While you are at court, you may get a chance to see Thomas Culpepper. Are you not excited?”

Catherine made a great effort to forget Francis Derham and think of the exciting life which was opening out before her. Court…and Thomas Culpepper.

Henry was on his way to Rochester to greet his new wife. He was greatly excited. Such a wise marriage this was! Ha! Charles! he thought. What do you think of this, eh? And you, Francis, who think yourself so clever? I doubt not, dear Emperor, that Guelders is going to be a thorn in your fleshy side for many a long day!

Anne! He could not help his memories. But this Anne would be different from that other. He thought of that exquisite miniature of Holbein’s; the box it had arrived in was in the form of a white rose, so beautifully executed, that in itself it was a fine work of art; the carved ivory top of the box had to be unscrewed to show the miniature at the bottom of it. He had been joyful ever since the receipt of it. Oh, he would enjoy himself with this Anne, thinking, all the time he caressed her, not only of the delights of her body, but of sardonic Francis and that Charles who believed himself to be astute.

He had a splendid gift of sables for his bride. He was going to creep in on her unceremoniously. He would dismiss her attendants, for this would be the call of a lover rather than the visit of a king. He chuckled. It was so agreeable to be making the right sort of marriage. Cromwell was a clever fellow; his agents had reported that the beauty of Anne of Cleves exceeded that of Christina of Milan as the sun doth the moon!

Henry was fast approaching fifty, but he felt twenty, so eager he was, as eager as a bridegroom with his first wife. Anne was about twenty-four; it seemed delightfully young when one was fifty. She could not speak very much English; he could not speak much German. That would add piquancy to his courtship. Such a practiced lover as himself did not need words to get what he wanted from a woman. He laughed in anticipation. Not since his marriage to Anne Boleyn, said those about him, had the King been in such high humor.

When he reached Rochester, accompanied by two of his attendants he went into Anne’s chamber. At the door he paused in horror. The woman who curtseyed before him was not at all like the bride of his imaginings. It was the same face he had seen in the miniature, and it was not the same. Her forehead was wide and high, her eyes dark, her lashes thick, her eyebrows black and definitely marked; her black hair was parted in the center and smoothed down at the sides of her face. Her dress was most unbecoming with its stiff high collar resembling a man’s coat. It was voluminous after the Flemish fashion and English fashions had been following the French ever since Anne Boleyn had introduced them at court. Henry started in dismay, for the face in the miniature had been delicately colored so that the skin had the appearance of rose petals; in reality Anne’s skin was brownish and most disfiguringly pock-marked. She seemed quite ugly to Henry, and as it did not occur to him that his person might have produced a similar shock to her, he was speechless with anger.

His one idea was to remove himself from her presence as quickly as possible; his little scheme, to “nourish love” as he had described it to Cromwell, had failed. He was too upset to give her the sables. She should have no such gift from his hands! He was mad with rage. His wise marriage had brought him a woman who delighted him not. Because her name was Anne, he had thought of another Anne, and his vision of his bride had been a blurred Anne Boleyn, as meek as Jane Seymour. And here he was, confronted by a creature whose accents jarred on him, whose face and figure repelled him. He had been misled. Holbein had misled him! Cromwell had misled him. Cromwell! He gnashed his teeth over that name. Yes, Cromwell had brought about this unhappy state of affairs. Cromwell had brought him Anne of Cleves.

“Alas!” he cried. “Whom shall men trust! I see no such thing as hath been shown me of her pictures and report. I am ashamed that men have praised her as they have done, and I love her not!”

But he was polite enough to Anne in public, so that the crowds of his subjects to whom pageantry was the flavoring in their dull dish of life, did not guess that the King was anything but satisfied. Anne in her cloth of gold and rich jewelry seemed beautiful enough to them; they did not know that in private the King was berating Cromwell, likening his new bride to a great Flanders mare, that his conscience was asking him if the lady’s contract with the Duke of Lorraine did not make a marriage between herself and the King illegal.

Poor Anne was deliberately delayed at Dartford whilst Henry tried to find some excuse for not continuing with the marriage. She was melancholy. The King had shown his dislike quite clearly; she had seen the great red face grow redder; she had seen the small eyes almost disappear into the puffy flesh; she had seen the quick distaste. She herself was disappointed, such accounts had she had of the once handsomest prince in Christendom; and in reality he was a puffed-out, unwieldy, fleshy man with great white hands overloaded with jewels, into whose dazzling garments two men could be wrapped with room to spare; on his face was the mark of internal disease; and bandages bulged about his leg; he had the wickedest mouth and cruelest eyes she had ever seen. She could but, waiting at Dartford, remember stories she had heard of this man. How had Katharine met her death? What had she suffered before she died? All the world knew the fate of tragic Anne Boleyn. And poor Jane Seymour? Was it true that after having given the King a son she had been so neglected that she had died?

She thought of the long and tiring journey from Dusseldorf to Calais, and the Channel crossing to her new home; she thought of the journey to Rochester; until then she had been reasonably happy. Then she had seen him, and seeing him it was not difficult to believe there was a good deal of truth in the stories she had heard concerning his treatment of his wives. And now she was to be one of them, or perhaps she would not, for, having seen the distaste in his face, she could guess at the meaning of this delay. She did not know whether she hoped he would marry her or whether she would prefer to suffer the humiliation of being sent home because her person was displeasing to him.

Meanwhile Henry was flying into such rages that all who must come into contact with him went in fear for their lives. Was there a previous contract? He was sure there was! Should he endanger the safety of England by producing another bastard? His conscience, his most scrupulous conscience, would not allow him to put his head into a halter until he was sure.

It was Cromwell who must make him act reasonably, Cromwell who would get a cuff for his pains.

“Your Most Gracious Majesty, the Emperor is being feted in Paris. An you marry not this woman you throw the Duke of Cleves into an alliance with Charles and Francis. We should stand alone.”

Cromwell was eloquent and convincing; after all he was pleading for Cromwell. If this marriage failed, Cromwell failed, and he knew his head to be resting very lightly on his shoulders, and that the King would be delighted to find a reason for striking it off. But Henry knew that in this matter, Cromwell spoke wisely. If Henry feared civil war more than anything, then next he feared friendship between Charles and Francis, and this was what had been accomplished. He dared not refuse to marry Anne of Cleves.

“If I had known so much before, she should not have come hither!” he said, looking menacingly at Cromwell, as though the meetings between Charles and Francis had been arranged by him. Henry’s voice broke on a tearful note. “But what remedy now! What remedy but to put my head in the yoke and marry this…” His cheeks puffed with anger and his eyes were murderous. “What remedy but to marry this great Flanders mare!”

There followed the ceremony of marriage with its gorgeously appareled men and women, its gilded barges and banners and streamers. Henry in a gown of cloth of gold raised with great silver flowers, with his coat of crimson satin decorated with great flashing diamonds, was a sullen bridegroom. Cromwell was terrified, for he knew not how this would end, and he had in his mind such examples of men who had displeased the King as would make a braver man than he was tremble. The Henry of ten years ago would never have entered into this marriage; but this Henry was more careful of his throne. He spoke truthfully when he had said a few hours before the ceremony that if it were not for the sake of his realm he would never have done this thing.

Cromwell did not give up hope. He knew the King well; it might be that any wife was better than no wife at all; and there were less pleasant looking females than Anne of Cleves. She was docile enough and the King liked docility in women; the last Queen had been married for that very quality.

The morning after the wedding day he sought audience with the King; he looked in vain for that expression of satiety in the King’s coarse red face.

“Well?” roared Henry, and Cromwell noticed with fresh terror that his master liked him no better this day than he had done on the previous one.

“Your Most Gracious Majesty,” murmured the trembling Cromwell, “I would know if you are any more pleased with your Queen.”

“Nay, my lord!” said the King viciously, and glared at Cromwell, laying the blame for this catastrophe entirely upon him. “Much worse! For by her breasts and belly she should be no maid; which, when I felt them, strake me so to the heart that I had neither will nor courage to prove the rest.”

Cromwell left his master, trembling for his future.

Catherine Howard could not sleep for excitement. At last she had come to court. Her grandmother had provided her with garments she would need, and Catherine had never felt so affluent in the whole of her eighteen years. How exciting it was to peep through the windows at personages who had been mere names to her! She saw Thomas Cromwell walking through the courtyards, cap in hand, with the King himself. Catherine shuddered at the sight of that man. “Beware of the blacksmith’s son!” her grandmother had said. “He is no friend of the Howards.” Always before Catherine had seen the King from a great distance; closer he seemed larger, more sparkling than ever, and very terrifying, so that she felt a greater urge to run from him than she did even from Thomas Cromwell. The King was loud in conversation, laughter and wrath, and his red face in anger was an alarming sight. Sometimes he would hobble across the courtyards with a stick, and she had seen his face go dark with the pain he suffered in his leg, and he would shout and cuff anyone who annoyed him. His cheeks were so puffed out and swollen that his eyes seemed lost between them and his forehead, and were more like the flash of bright stones than eyes. This King made Catherine shiver. Cranmer she saw too—quiet and calm in his archbishop’s robes. She saw her uncle and would have hidden herself, but his sharp eyes would pick her out and he would nod curtly.

Catherine was enjoying life, for Derham could not pester her at court as he had done at the Duchess’s house, and when she did not see him she could almost forget the sorrow that had come to her through him. She loved the Queen, and wept for her because she was so unhappy. The King did not love her; he was with her only in public. The ladies whispered together that when they went to the royal bechamber at night the King said good night to the Queen and that nothing passed between them until the morning when he said good morning. They giggled over the extraordinary relationship of the King and Queen; and Catherine was too inexperienced and too much in awe of them not to giggle with them, but she was really sorry for the sad-eyed Queen. But Catherine did refrain from laughing with them over the overcrowded and tasteless wardrobe of the Queen.

“Ah!” whispered the ladies. “You should have seen the other Queen Anne. What clothes she had, and how she knew the way to wear them! But this one! No wonder the King has no fancy for her. Ja, ja, ja! That is all she can say!”

Catherine said: “But she is very kind.”

“She is without spirit to be otherwise!”

But that was not true. Catherine, who had been often beaten by the hard-handed Duchess, was susceptible to kindness; she sat with the Queen and learned the Flemish style of embroidery, and was very happy to serve Anne of Cleves.

There was something else that made Catherine happy. Thomas Culpepper was at court. She had not yet seen him, but each day she hoped for their reunion. He was, she heard, a great favorite with the King himself and it was his duty to sleep in the royal apartment and superintend those who dressed the King’s leg. She wondered if he knew she was here, and if he were waiting for the reunion as eagerly as she was.

Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, gave a banquet one evening. Catherine was very excited about this, for she was going to sing, and it would be the first time she had ever sung alone before the King.

“You are a little beauty!” said one of the ladies. “What a charming gown!”

“My grandmother gave it to me,” said Catherine, smoothing the rich cloth with the pleasure of one who has always longed for beautiful clothes and has never before possessed them.

“If you sing as prettily as you look,” she was told, “you will be a successful young woman.”

Catherine danced all the way down to the barge; she sang as they went along the river; she danced into the Bishop’s house. Over her small head smiles were exchanged; she was infectiously gay and very young.

“Mind you do not forget your words.”

“Oh, what if I do! I feel sure I shall!”

“Committed to the Tower!” they teased her, and she laughed with them, her cheeks aglow, her auburn curls flying.

She sat at the great table with the humblest of the ladies. The King, at the head of the table, was in a noisy mood. He was eating and drinking with great heartiness as was his custom, congratulating the Bishop on his cook’s efforts, swilling great quantities of wine, belching happily.

Would His Most Gracious Majesty care for a little music? the Bishop would know.

The King was ever ready to be entertained, and there was nothing he liked better, when he was full of good food and wine, than to hear a little music. He felt pleasantly sleepy; he smiled with benevolent eyes on Gardiner. A good servant, a good servant. He was in a mellow mood; he would have smiled on Cromwell.

He looked along the table. A little girl was singing. She had a pretty voice; her flushed cheeks reminded him of June roses, her hair gleamed gold; she was tiny and plump and very pretty. There was something in her which startled him out of his drowsiness. It was not that she was the least bit like Anne. Anne’s hair had been black as had her eyes; Anne had been tall and slender. How could this little girl be like Anne? He did not know what could have suggested such a thought to him, and yet there it was…but elusive, so that he could not catch it, could not even define it. All he could say was that she reminded him. It was the tilt of her head, the gesture of the hands, that graceful back bent forward, and now the pretty head tossed back. He was excited, as for a long time he had wanted to be excited. He had not been so excited since the early days of marriage with Anne.

“Who is the girl now singing?” he asked Gardiner.

“That, Your Majesty, is Norfolk’s niece, Catherine Howard.”

The King tapped his knee reflectively. Now he had it. Anne had been Norfolk’s niece too. The elusive quality was explained by a family resemblance.

“Norfolk’s niece!” he said, and growled without anger, so that the growl came through his pouched lips like a purr. He watched the girl. He thought, By God, the more I see of her the more I like her!

He was comparing her with his pockmarked Queen. Give him English beauties, sweet-faced and sweet-voiced. He liked sonorous English on the tongue, not harsh German. Like a rose she was, flushed, laughing and happy.

“She seems little more than a child,” he said to Gardiner.

Norfolk was beside the King. Norfolk was cunning as a monkey, artful as a fox. He knew well how to interpret that soft look in the royal eyes; he knew the meaning of the slurring tones. Norfolk had been furious when the King had chosen Anne Boleyn instead of his own daughter, the Lady Mary Howard. Every family wanted boys, but girls, when they were as pleasant to the eye as Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, had their uses.

“We liked well your little niece’s playing,” said the King.

Norfolk was beside the King. Norfolk murmured that His Majesty was gracious, and that it gave him the utmost delight that a member of his family should give some small pleasure to her sovereign.

“She gives us much pleasure,” said the King. “We like her manners and we like her singing. Who is her father?”

“My brother Edmund, sir. Your Majesty doubtless remembers him. He did well at Flodden Field.”

The King nodded. “I remember well,” he said kindly. “A good servant!” He was ready to see through a haze of benevolence, every member of a family which could produce such a charming child as Catherine Howard.

“Doubtless Your Most Gracious Majesty would do my little niece the great honor of speaking to her. A royal compliment on her little talents would naturally mean more to the child than the costliest gems.”

“Right gladly I will speak to her. Let her be brought to me.”

“Your Majesty, I would humbly beg that you would be patient with her simplicity. She has led but a sheltered life until recently she came to court. I fear she may seem very shy and displease you with her gauchery. She is perhaps too modest.”

“Too modest!” the King all but shouted. “How is it possible, my lord, for maidens to be too modest!” He was all impatience to have her close to him, to study the fresh young skin, to pat her shoulders and let her know she had pleased her King. “Bring her to me without delay.”

Norfolk himself went to Catherine. She stopped playing and looked at him in fear. He always terrified her, but now his eyes glittered speculatively and in the friendliest manner.

Catherine stood up. “Have I done aught wrong?”

“Nay, nay!” said his Grace. “Your singing has pleased His Majesty and he would tell you how much. Speak up when he talks to you. Do not mumble, for he finds that most irritating. Be modest but not shy.”

The King was waiting impatiently. Catherine curtseyed low and a fat, white, jeweled hand patted her shoulder.

“Enough!” he said, not at all unkindly, and she rose and stood trembling before him.

He said: “We liked your singing. You have a pretty voice.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious….” she stammered and blushed sweetly. He watched the blood stain her delicate cheeks. By god, he thought, there never has been such a one since Anne. And his eyes filled with sudden self-pity to think how ill life had used him. He had loved Anne who had deceived him. He had loved Jane who had died. And now he was married to a great Flanders mare, when in his kingdom, standing before him so close that he had but to stretch out his hands and take her, was the fairest rose that ever grew in England.

“We are glad to be gracious to those who please us,” he said. “You are lately come to court? Come! You may sit here…close to us.”

“Yes, please Your Majesty. I…I have lately come…”

She was a bud just unfolding, he thought; she was the most perfect creature he had ever seen, for while Anne had been irresistible, she had also been haughty, vindictive and demanding, whereas this little Catherine Howard with her doe’s eyes and gentle frightened manner, had the beauty of Anne and the docility of Jane. Ah, he thought, how happy I should have been, if instead of that Flemish creature I had found this lovely girl at Rochester. How I should have enjoyed presenting her with costly sables; jewels too; there is naught I would not give to such a lovely child.

He leaned towards her; his breath, not too sweet, warmed her cheek, and she withdrew involuntarily; he thought this but natural modesty and was enchanted with her.

“Your uncle has been talking to me of you.”

Her uncle! She blushed again, feeling that the Duke would have said nothing good of her.

“He told me of your father. A good man, Lord Edmund. And your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess is a friend of ours.”

She was silent; she had not dreamed of such success; she had known her voice was moderately good, nothing more, certainly not good enough to attract the King.

“And how do you like the court?” he asked.

“I like it very much, please Your Majesty.”

“Then I am right glad that our court pleases you!” He laughed and she laughed too. He saw her pretty teeth, her little white throat, and he felt a desire to make her laugh some more.

“Now we have discovered you,” he said, “we shall make you sing to us often. How will you like that, eh?”

“I shall find it a great honor.”

She looked as if she meant this; he liked her air of candid youth.

He said, “Your name is Catherine, I know. Tell me, how old are you?”

“I am eighteen, sir.”

Eighteen! He repeated it, and felt sad. Eighteen, and he close to fifty. Getting old; short of breath; quick of temper; often dizzy; often after meals suffering from diverse disorders of the body; his leg getting worse instead of better; he could not sit his horse as once he had done. Fifty…and eighteen!

He watched her closely. “You shall play and sing to us again,” he said.

He wanted to watch her without talking; his thoughts were busy. She was a precious jewel. She had everything he would look for in a wife; she had beauty, modesty, virtue and charm. It hurt him to look at her and see behind her the shadow of his Queen. He wanted Catherine Howard as urgently as once he had wanted Anne Boleyn. His hunger for Catherine was more pathetic than that he had known for Anne, for when he had loved Anne he had been a comparatively young man. Catherine was precious because she was a beacon to light the dark days of his middle age with her youthful glow.

Sweetly she sang. He wanted to stretch out his hands and pet her and keep her by him. This was cold age’s need of warm youth. He thought, I would be a parent and a lover to her, for she is younger than my daughter Mary, and she is lovely enough to make any but the blind love her, and those she would enchant with her voice.

He watched her and she played again; then he would have her sit with him; nor did she stir from his side the evening through.

A ripple of excitement went through the court.

“Didst see the King with Mistress Catherine Howard last night?”

“I declare I never saw His Majesty so taken with a girl since Anne Boleyn.”

“Much good will it do her. His mistress? What else since he has a Queen?”

“The King has a way with queens, has he not?”

“Hush! Dost want to go to the Tower on a charge of treason?”

“Poor Queen Anne, she is so dull, so German! And Catherine Howard is the prettiest thing we have had at court for many years!”

“Poor Catherine Howard!”

“Poor, forsooth!”

“Would you change places with her? Remember…”

“Hush! They were unfortunate!”

Cromwell very quickly grasped the new complications brought about by the King’s infatuation for Catherine Howard, and it seemed to him that his end was in sight. Norfolk could be trusted to exploit this situation to the full. Catherine was a Catholic, a member of the most devout Catholic family in England. Continental events loomed up darkly for Cromwell. When the Emperor had passed through France there were signs that his friendship with Francis was not quite as cordial as it had been. Charles was no longer thinking of attacking England, and it was only when such plans interested him that he would be eager to take Francis as an ally. Trouble was springing up over Charles’s domains and he would have his hands tied very satisfactorily from Henry’s point of view if not from Cromwell’s. When the Duke of Cleves asked for help in securing the Duchy of Guelders, Henry showed that he was in no mood to give it.

Cromwell saw the position clearly. He had made no mistakes. He had merely gambled and lost. When the marriage with Anne of Cleves had been made it was necessary to the safety of England; now England had passed out of that particular danger and the marriage was no longer necessary, and the King would assuredly seize an excuse to rid himself of his most hated minister. Cromwell had known this all the time. He could not play a good game if he had not the cards. With Charles and Francis friendly, he had stood a chance of winning; when relations between these two were strained, Cromwell was unlucky. On Cromwell’s advice Henry had put a very irritating yoke about his neck. Now events had shown that it was no longer necessary that the yoke should remain. And there was Norfolk, making the most of Cromwell’s ill luck, cultivating his niece, arranging meetings between her and the King, offering up the young girl as a sacrifice from the House of Howard on that already bloodstained altar of the King’s lusts.

Henry’s mind was working rapidly. He must have Catherine Howard. He was happy; he was in love. Catherine was the sweetest creature in the world, and there was none but Catherine who could keep him happy. She was delightful; she was sweetly modest; and the more he knew her, the more she delighted him. Just to see her skipping about the Hampton Court gardens which he had planned with her cousin Anne, made him feel younger. She would be the perfect wife; he did not want her to be his mistress—she was too sweet and pure for that—he wanted her beside him on the throne, that he might live out his life with none other but her.

She was less shy with him now; she was full of laughter, but ready to weep for other people’s sorrows. Sweet Catherine! The sweetest of women! The rose without a thorn! Anne had perhaps been the most gorgeous rose that ever bloomed, but oh, the thorns! In his old age this sweet creature should be beside him. And he was not so old! He could laugh throatily, holding her hand in his, pressing the cool, plump fingers against his thigh. He was not so old. He had years of pleasant living in front of him. He did not want riotous living, he told himself. All he had ever wanted was married happiness with one woman, and he had not found her until now. He must marry Catherine; he must make her his Queen.

His conscience began to worry him. He realized that Anne’s contract with the Duke of Lorraine had ever been on his mind, and it was for this reason that he had never consummated the marriage. So cursed had he been in his matrimonial undertakings, that he went cautiously. He had never been Anne’s true husband because of his dread of presenting another bastard to the nation. Moreover the lady was distasteful to him and he suspected her virtue. Oh, he had said naught about it at the time, being over-merciful perhaps, being anxious not to accuse before he was sure. He had not been free when he entered into the marriage; only because he had felt England to be defenseless against the union of Charles and Francis had he allowed it to take place. England owed him a divorce, for had he not entered into this most unwelcome engagement for England’s sake? And he owed England children. He had one boy and two girls—both of these last illegitimate; and the boy did not enjoy the best of health. He had failed to make the throne secure for Tudors; he must have an opportunity of doing so. Something must be done.

The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk could scarcely believe her ears when she heard the news. The King and her granddaughter! What a wonderful day this was to bring her such news!

She would bring out her most costly jewels. “If Catherine could attract him in those simple things,” she babbled, “how much more so will she when I have dressed her!”

For once she and the Duke were in agreement. He visited her, and the visit was the most amiable they had ever shared. The Dowager Duchess had never thought she and the Duke would one day put their heads together over the hatching of a plot. But when the Duke had gone, the Duchess was overcome with fears, for it seemed to her that another granddaughter looked at her from out of the dark shadows of her room and would remind her of her own tragic fate. How beautiful and proud that Queen Anne had been on the day of her coronation! Never would the Duchess be able to forget the sight of her entering the Tower to be received by her royal lover. And then, only three years later….

The Duchess called for lights. “I declare the gloom of this house displeases me. Light up! Light up! What are you wenches thinking of to leave me in the dark!”

She felt easier when the room was lighted. It was stupid to imagine for a moment that the dead could return. “She cannot die for what was done before,” she muttered to herself; and she set about sorting out her most valuable jewels—some for Catherine in which to enchant the King; and some for herself when she should go to another coronation of yet another granddaughter.

The Earl of Essex, who had been such a short time before plain Thomas Cromwell, was awaiting death. He knew it was inevitable. He had been calculating and unscrupulous; he had been devilishly cruel; he had tortured men’s bodies and sacrificed their flesh to the flames; he had dissolved the monasteries, inflicting great hardship on their inmates, and he had invented crimes for these people to have committed, to justify his actions; with Sampson, Bishop of Chichester, he had worked out a case against Anne Boleyn, and had brought about her death through the only man who would talk against her, a poor delicate musician who had had to be violently tortured first; all these crimes—and many others—had he committed, but they had all been done at the command of his master. They were not Cromwell’s crimes; they were Henry’s crimes.

And now he awaited the fate which he had so many times prepared for others. It was ten years since the death of Wolsey, and they had been ten years of mounting power for Cromwell; and now here was the inevitable end. The King had rid himself of Wolsey—for whom he had had some affection—because of Anne Boleyn; now he would rid himself of Cromwell—whom, though he did not love him, he knew to be a faithful servant—for Catherine Howard. For though this young girl, whom the King would make his Queen, bore no malice to any, and would never ask to see even an enemy punished but rather beg that he should be forgiven, yet was it through her that Cromwell was falling; for cruel Norfolk and Gardiner had risen to fresh power since the King had shown his preference for Norfolk’s niece, and these two men, who represented Catholicism in all its old forms, would naturally wish to destroy one who, with staunch supporters like Thomas Wyatt, stood more strongly for the new religion than he would dare admit. Whilst he was despoiling the monasteries, he had been safe, and knowing this he had left one very wealthy institution untouched, so that in an emergency he might dangle its treasure before the King’s eyes and so earn a little respite. This he had done, and in throwing in this last prize he had earned the title of Earl of Essex.

It was a brief triumph, for Cromwell’s position was distressingly similar to that in which Wolsey had found himself. Had not Wolsey flung his own treasure to the King in a futile effort to save himself? Hampton Court and York House; his houses and plate and art treasures. Cromwell, as Wolsey before him, if it would please the King, must rid his master of a wife whom he, Cromwell, supported; but if he succeeded in doing this, he would put on the throne a member of the Howard family who had sworn to effect his destruction.

When the King realized that Cromwell was hesitating to choose between two evils, since he could not be certain as to which was the lesser, he lost patience, and declared that Cromwell had been working against his aims for a settlement of the religious problem, and this was, without a doubt, treason.

Now, awaiting his end, he recalled that gusty day when, as he traveled with the members of the privy council to the palace, a wind had blown his bonnet from his head. How significant had it been when they, discourteously, did not remove their bonnets, but had kept them on whilst he stood bareheaded! And their glances had been both eager and furtive. And then later he had come upon them sitting round the council chamber, talking together, insolently showing him that they would not wait for his coming; and as he would have sat down with them, Norfolk’s voice had rung out, triumphant, the voice of a man who at last knows an old enemy is defeated. “Cromwell! Traitors do not sit with gentlemen!”

He had been arrested then and taken to the Tower. He smiled bitterly, imagining the King’s agents making inventories of his treasures. How often had he been sent to do a similar errand in the King’s name! He had gambled and lost; there was a small grain of comfort in the knowledge that it was not due to lack of skill, but ill luck which had brought about his end.

A messenger was announced; he came from the King. Cromwell’s hopes soared. He had served the King well; surely His Majesty could not desert him now. Perhaps he could still be useful to the King. Yes! It seemed he could. The King needed Cromwell to effect his release from the marriage into which he had led him. Cromwell must do as he was bid. The reward? The King was ever generous, ever merciful, and Cromwell should be rewarded when he had freed the King. Cromwell was a traitor and there were two deaths accorded to traitors. One was the honorable and easy death by the axe. The other? Cromwell knew better than most. How many poor wretches had he condemned to die that way? The victim was hanged but not killed; he was disemboweled and his entrails were burned while the utmost care was taken to keep him alive; only then was he beheaded. This should be Cromwell’s reward for his last service to his master: In his gracious mercy, the most Christian King would let him choose which way he would die.

Cromwell made his choice. He would never fail to serve the King.

Anne had been sent to Richmond. It was significant that the King did not accompany her. She was terrified. This had happened before, with another poor lady in the role she now must play. What next? she wondered. She was alone in a strange land, among people whose language she could not speak, and she felt that death was very close to her. Her brother the Duke of Cleves was far away and he was but insignificant compared with this great personage who was her husband, and who thought little of murder and practiced it as lightly as some people eat, drink and sleep.

She had endured such mental anguish since her marriage that she felt limp and unequal to the struggle she would doubtless have to put up for her life. Her nights were sleepless; her days were so full of terror that a tap on a door would set her shivering as though she suffered from some ague.

She had been Queen of England for but a few months and she felt as though she had lived through years of torment. Her husband made no attempt to hide his distaste for her. She was surrounded by attendants who mimicked her because they were encouraged in this unkindness by the King, who was ready to do any cruel act to discredit her, and who found great satisfaction in hurting her—and inspiring others to hurt her—as he declared her unpleasant appearance hurt him. The Lady Rochford, one of her ladies, who had been the wife of another queen’s late brother, was an unpleasant creature, who listened at doors and spied upon her, and reported all that she said to the other ladies and tittered unkindly about her; they laughed at her clothes, which she was ready to admit were not as graceful as those worn in England. The King was hinting that she had led an immoral life before she came to England; this was so unjust and untrue that it distressed her more than anything else she had been called upon to endure, because she really believed Henry did doubt her virtue. She did not know him well enough to realize that this was characteristic of him, and that he accused others of his own failings because he drew moral strength from this attitude and deceived himself into thinking that he could not be guilty of that which he condemned fiercely in others. So poor Queen Anne was a most unhappy woman.

There was one little girl recently come to court, whom she could have loved; and how ironical it was that this child’s beauty and charm should have increased the King’s animosity towards herself. The King would rid himself of me, she thought, to put poor little Catherine Howard on the throne. This he may well do, and how I pity that poor child, for when I am removed, she will stand in my most unhappy shoes!

As she sat in the window seat a message was brought to her that my lords Suffolk and Southampton with Sir Thomas Wriothesley were without, and would speak with her.

The room began to swing round her. She clutched at the scarlet hangings to steady herself. She felt the blood drain away from her head. It had come. Her doom was upon her!

When Suffolk with Southampton and Wriothesley entered the room they found the Queen lying on the floor in a faint. They roused her and helped her to a chair. She opened her eyes and saw Suffolk’s florid face close to her own, and all but fainted again; but that nobleman began to talk to her in soothing tones and his words were reassuring.

What he said seemed to Anne the happiest news she had ever heard in her life. The King, out of his regard for her—which meant his regard for the house of Cleves, but what did that matter!—wished to adopt her as his sister, providing she would resign her title of Queen. The King wished her no ill, but she well knew that she had never been truly married to His Majesty because of that previous contract with the Duke of Lorraine. This was why His Most Cautious Majesty had never consummated the marriage. All she need do was to behave in a reasonable manner, and she should have precedence at court over every lady, excepting only the King’s daughters and her who would become his Queen. The English taxpayers would provide her with an income of three thousand pounds a year.

The King’s sister! Three thousand pounds a year! This was miraculous! This was happiness! That corpulent, perspiring, sullen, angry, spiteful, wicked monster of a man was no longer her husband! She need not live close to him! She could have her own establishment! She need not return to her own dull country, but she could live in this beautiful land which she had already begun to love in spite of its King! She was free.

She almost swooned again, for the reaction of complete joy after absolute misery was overwhelming.

Suffolk and Southampton exchanged glances with Wriothesley. The King need not have been so generous with his three thousand pounds. It had not occurred to him that Anne would be so eager to be rid of him. They would keep that from the King; better to let His August Majesty believe that their tact had persuaded the woman it would be well to accept.

Anne bade her visitors a gay farewell. Never had Henry succeeded in making one of his wives so happy.

Catherine was bewildered. Quite suddenly her position had changed. Instead of being the humblest newcomer, she was the most important person at court. Everyone paid deference to her; even her grim old uncle had a pleasant word for her, so that Catherine felt she had misjudged him. The Dowager Duchess, her grandmother, would deck her out in the most costly jewels, but these were poor indeed compared with those which came from the King. He called her “The Rose without a Thorn”; and this he had had inscribed on some of the jewels he had given her. He had chosen her device, which was “No other Will but His.”

Catherine was sorry for the poor Queen, and could not bear to think that she was displacing her; but when she heard that Anne appeared to be happier at Richmond than she had ever been at court, she began to enjoy her new power.

Gifts were sent to her, not only from the King, but from the courtiers. Her grandmother petted, scolded and warned at the same time. “Be careful! No word of what has happened with Derham must ever reach the King’s ears.”

“I would prefer to tell him all,” said Catherine uneasily.

“I never heard such folly!” Her Grace’s black eyes glinted. “Do you know where Derham is?” she asked. And Catherine assured her that she did not know.

“That is well,” said the Duchess. “I and Lord William have spoken to the King of your virtues and how you will make a most gracious and gentle queen.”

“But shall I?” asked Catherine.

“Indeed you shall. Now, no folly. Come let me try this ruby ring on your finger. I would have you know that the King, while liking well our talk, would have been most displeased with us had we done aught but sing your praises. Oh, what it is to be loved by a king! Catherine Howard, I declare you give yourself graces already!”

Catherine had thought that she would be terrified of the King, but this was not so. There was nothing for her to fear in this great soft man. His voice changed when he addressed her, and his hard mouth could express nothing but kindness for her. He would hold her hand and stroke her cheek and twine her hair about his fingers; and sometimes press his lips against the flesh on her plump shoulders. He told her that she would mean a good deal to him, that he wished above all things to make her his Queen, that he had been a most unhappy man until he had set eyes on her. Catherine looked in wonder at the little tear-filled eyes. Was this the man who had sent her beautiful cousin to her death? How could simple Catherine believe ill of him when she stood before him and saw real tears in his eyes?

He talked of Anne, for he saw that Anne was in Catherine’s thoughts; she was, after all, her own cousin, and the two had known and been fond of one another.

“Come and sit upon my knee, Catherine,” he said, and she sat there while he pressed her body against his and talked of Anne Boleyn. “Wert deceived as I was by all that charm and beauty, eh? Ah! but thou wert but a child and I am man. Didst know that she sought to take my life and poison my daughter Mary? Dost know that my son died through a spell she cast upon him?”

“It is hard to believe that. She was so kind to me. I have a jeweled tablet she gave me when I was but a baby.”

“Sweet Catherine, I too had gifts from her. I too could not believe…”

It was easier for Catherine to believe the King who was close to her, when Anne was but a memory.

It was at this time that she met Thomas Culpepper. He was one of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, and had great charm of manner and personal beauty which had pleased the King ever since he had set eyes upon him. Thomas’s intimate duties of superintending the carrying out of the doctor’s orders regarding the King’s leg kept him close to Henry, who had favored him considerably, and had given him several posts which, while they brought little work, brought good remuneration; he had even given him an abbey. He liked Culpepper; he was amused by Culpepper. In his native Kent, the boy had involved himself in a certain amount of scandal, for it seemed he was wild and not over-scrupulous, but the King was as ready to forgive the faults of those he wished to keep around him, as he was to find fault with those he wished removed.

The knowledge that his cousin was at court soon reached Thomas Culpepper, for since her elevation, everyone was discussing Catherine Howard. Seeing her in the pond garden one afternoon, he went out to her. She was standing by a rose tree, the sun shining on her auburn hair. Thomas immediately understood the King’s infatuation.

“You would not remember me,” he said. “I am your cousin, Thomas Culpepper.”

Her eyes opened very wide and she gave a little trill of pleasure; she held out both her hands.

“Thomas! I had hoped to see you.”

They stood holding hands; studying each other’s faces.

How handsome he is! thought Catherine. Even more handsome than he was as a boy!

How charming she is! thought Thomas. How lovable—and in view of what has happened to her during the last weeks, how dangerously lovable! But to Thomas nothing was ever very interesting unless it held an element of danger.

He said, greatly daring: “How beautiful you have grown, Catherine!”

She laughed delightedly. “That is what everyone says to me now! Do you remember the stick you gave me with which to tap on the wall?”

They were laughing over their memories.

“And the adventures you used to have…and how we used to ride in the paddock…and how you…”

“Said I would marry you!”

“You did, you know, Thomas, and then you never did anything about it!”

“I never forgot!” he lied. “But now…” He looked across the garden and over the hedge to the windows of the palace. Even now, he thought, little hot jealous eyes might have caught sight of him. Living close to the King he knew something of his rages. Dangerously sweet was this contact with Catherine.

“It is too late now,” she said soberly, and she looked very sad. She saw Thomas as the lover to whom she had been betrothed for many years; she forgot Manox and Derham and believed that she had loved Thomas always.

“Suppose that we had married when it was suggested a year or so ago,” said Thomas.

“How different our lives would have been then!”

“And now,” he said, “I risk my life to speak to you.”

Her eyes widened with terror. “Then we must not stay here.” She laughed suddenly. They did not know the King, these people who were afraid of him. His Majesty was all kindness, all eagerness to make people happy really. As if he would hurt her cousin if she asked him not to!

“Catherine,” said Thomas, “I shall risk my life again and again. It will be worth it.”

He took her hand and kissed it, and left her in the pond garden.

They could not resist meeting secretly. They met in dark corridors; they feared that if it reached the ears of the King that they were meeting thus, there would be no more such meetings. Sometimes he touched her fingers with his, but nothing more; and after the first few meetings they were in love with each other.

There was a similarity in their natures; both were passionate, reckless people; they were first cousins and they knew now that they wished to enjoy a closer relationship; and because, when they had been children, they had plighted their troth in the paddock of Hollingbourne, they felt life had been cruel to them to keep them apart and bring them together only when it was too late for them to be lovers.

Catherine had little fear for herself, but she feared for him. He, a reckless adventurer who had been involved in more than one dangerous escape, was afraid not for himself but for her.

They would touch hands and cry out to each other: “Oh, why, oh, why did it have to happen thus!”

She would say to him, “I shall be passing along the corridor that leads to the music room at three of the clock this afternoon.”

He would answer: “I will be there as if by accident.”

All their meetings were like that. They would long for them all day, and then when they reached the appointed spot, it might be that someone was there, and it was impossible for them to exchange more than a glance. But to them both this danger was very stimulating.

There was one occasion when he, grown more reckless by the passing of several days which did not bring even a glimpse of her, drew her from the corridor into an antechamber and shut the door on them.

“Catherine,” he said, “I can endure this no longer. Dost not realize that thou and I were meant one for the other from the first night I climbed into thy chamber? We were but children then, and the years have been cruel to us, but I have a plan. Thou and I will leave the palace together. We will hide ourselves and we will marry.”

She was pale with longing, ever ready to abandon herself to the passion of the moment, but it seemed to her that she heard her cousin’s voice warning her. Catherine would never know the true story of Anne Boleyn, but she had loved her and she knew her end had been terrible. Anne had been loved by the same huge man; those eyes had burned hotly for Anne; those warm, moist hands had caressed her. Anne had had no sad story of a cousin to warn her.

Culpepper was kissing her hands and her lips, Catherine’s healthy young body was suggesting surrender. Perhaps with Manox or Derham she would have surrendered; but not with Culpepper. She was no longer a lighthearted girl. Dark shadows came pursuing her out of the past. Doll Tappit’s high voice. “The cries of the torture chambers are terrible….”

Catherine knew how the monks of the Charterhouse had died; she could not bear to think of others suffering pain, but to contemplate one she loved being vilely hurt was sufficient to stem her desire. She remembered how Derham had run for his life; but then she had been plain Catherine Howard. What of him who dared to love her whom the King had chosen for his Queen!

“Nay, nay!” she cried, tears falling from her eyes. “It cannot be! Oh, that it could! I would give all my life for one year of happiness with you. But I dare not. I fear the King. I must stay here because I love you.”

She tore herself away; there must be no more such meetings.

“Tomorrow…” she agreed weakly. “Tomorrow.”

She ran to her apartment, where, since Anne had left for Richmond, she enjoyed the state of a queen. She was greeted by one of her attendants, Jane Rochford, widow of her late cousin George Boleyn. Lady Rochford looked excited. There was a letter for Catherine, she said.

“A letter?” cried Catherine. “From whom?”

Catherine did not receive many letters; she took this one and opened it; she frowned for she had never been able to read very easily.

Jane Rochford was at her side.

“Mayhap I could assist?”

Jane had been very eager to ingratiate herself with Catherine; she had not liked the last Queen; Jane had decided to adhere to the Catholic cause and support Catherine Howard against Anne of Cleves.

Catherine handed her the letter.

“It is from a Jane Bulmer,” said Jane, “and it comes from York.”

“I remember. It is from Jane Acworth who went to York to marry Mr. Bulmer. Tell me what she says.”

Jane Bulmer’s letter was carefully worded. She wished Catherine all honor, wealth and good fortune. Her motive in writing was to ask a favor of Catherine, and this was that she should be found a place at court. Jane was unhappy in the country; she was desolate. A command from the future Queen to Jane’s husband to bring his wife to court would make Jane Bulmer very happy, and she begged for Catherine’s help.

The threat was in the last sentence.

“I know the Queen of Britain will not forget her secretary….”

Her secretary! Jane Bulmer it was who had written those revealing, those intimate and passionate letters to Derham; Jane Bulmer knew everything that had happened.

Catherine sat very still as Jane Rochford read to her; her face was rosy with shame.

Jane Rochford was not one to let such signs pass unnoticed. She, as well as Catherine, read into those words a hint of blackmail.

On a hot July day Cromwell made the journey from the Tower to Tyburn. Tyburn it was because it was not forgotten that he was a man of lowly origins; he could smile at this, though a short while ago it would have angered him; but what does a man care when his head is to be cut off, whether it be done at Tower Hill or Tyburn?

He had obeyed his master to the last; he had been more than the King’s servant; he had been the King’s slave. But to his cry for mercy, had his most gracious Prince been deaf. He had done with Cromwell. He had not allowed Cromwell to speak in his own defense. Cromwell’s fall would help to bring back Henry’s popularity, for the people of England hated Cromwell.

His friends? Where were they? Cranmer? He could laugh at the thought of Cranmer’s being his friend. Only a fool would expect loyalty in the face of danger from weak-kneed Cranmer. He knew that the Archbishop had declared himself smitten with grief; he had told the King that he had loved Cromwell, and the more for the love he had believed him to bear His Grace the King; he had added that although he was glad Cromwell’s treason was discovered, he was very sorrowful, for whom should the King trust in future?

He had said almost the same words when Anne Boleyn had been taken to the Tower. Poor Cranmer! How fearful he was. He must have faced death a thousand times in his imagination. There was never a man quicker to dissociate himself from a fallen friend!

Crowds had gathered to see Cromwell’s last moments. He recognized many enemies. He thought of Wolsey, who would have faced this, had he lived long enough. He had walked in the shadow of Wolsey, had profited by his example, by his brilliance and his mistakes; he had followed the road to power and had found it led to Tyburn.

There was one in the crowd who shed a tear for him. It was Thomas Wyatt, who had been as eager as Cromwell himself that the Lutheran doctrines should be more widely understood. Their eyes met. Cromwell knew that Wyatt was trying to reassure him, to tell him that cruelties he had inflicted on so many had been done at Henry’s command and that Cromwell was not entirely responsible for them. This young man did not know of the part Cromwell had played in the destruction of Anne Boleyn. Cromwell hoped then that he never would. His heart warmed to Wyatt.

“Weep not, Wyatt,” he said, “for if I were not more guilty than thou wert when they took thee, I should not be in this pass.”

It was time for him to make his last speech, to lay his head upon the block. He thought of all the blood he had caused to be shed, and tried to pray, but he could think of nothing but blood, and the scream of men in agony and the creaking of the rack.

Onto his thick neck, the axe descended; his head rolled away from his body as four years before, had Anne Boleyn’s.

The King was enchanted with his bride. In the great hall at Hampton Court, he proclaimed her Queen. None had known the King in such humor for years; he was rejuvenated.

A few days after the proclamation, he took her from Hampton Court to Windsor, and astonished everyone by cutting himself off from the court that he might enjoy the company of his bride in private. Catherine seemed doubly pleasing in the King’s eyes, coming after Anne of Cleves; she was gentle yet ever ready to laugh; she had no disconcerting wit to confound him; her conversation held not a trace of cleverness, only kindness. She was a passionate creature, a little afraid of him, but not too much so; she was responsive and womanly; and never had the King felt such drowsy and delicious peace. If she had a fault it was her generosity, her kindness to others. She would give away her clothes and jewels, explaining, her head a little on one side, her dewy lips parted, “But it becomes her so, and she had so little….” Or, “She is poor, if we could but do something for her, how happy I should be!” She was irresistible and he could not bring himself to reprimand her for this overlavishness; he liked it; for he too came in for his share of her generosity. He would kiss her and stroke her and tickle her; and have her shrieking with laughter. Never had he dreamed of such blessedness.

Anne of Cleves was ordered to come to court to pay homage to the new Queen. There was a good deal of speculation in the court as to how the displaced queen would feel when kneeling to one who had but a short time ago been her maid of honor. It was expected that Catherine would demand great homage from Anne of Cleves to prove to herself and to the court that she was safely seated on the throne and had command of the King’s affection. But when Anne came and knelt before the new Queen, Catherine impulsively declared that there should be no ceremony.

“You must not kneel to me!” she cried, and the two Queens embraced each other with tears of affection in their eyes, and it was Anne of Cleves who was moved to pity, not Catherine Howard.

Catherine would do honor to her cousin’s daughter, Elizabeth, partly because she was her cousin’s daughter, and partly because, of all her step-children, she loved Elizabeth best.

Mary was disposed to be friendly, but only because Catherine came from a family which adhered to the old Catholic faith, and Mary’s friendship for people depended entirely on whether or not they were what she called true Catholics. Mary was six years older than her father’s wife, and she thought the girl over-frivolous. Catherine accepted Mary’s disapproval of her at first because she knew the Princess had suffered so much, but eventually she was goaded into complaining that Mary showed her little respect; she added that if only Mary would remember that although she was young she was the Queen, she would be ready to be friendly. This resulted in a sharp reprimand to Mary from the King; but friendship was not made that way, and how could poor, plain, frustrated Mary help feeling certain twinges of jealousy for sparkling Catherine whose influence over the King appeared to be unlimited. Mary was more Spanish than English; she would often sink into deepest melancholy; she would spend hours on her knees in devotion, brooding on her mother’s dreary tragedy and the break with Rome; preferring to do this rather than sing and dance and be gay. On her knees she would pray that the King might come back to the true faith in all its old forms, that he might follow the example of her mother’s country and earn the approval of heaven by setting up an Inquisition in this careless island and torturing and burning all those who deserved such a fate, since they were heretics. How could soft-hearted, frivolous Catherine ever bring the King to take this duty upon himself! No, there could be no real friendship between Catherine and Mary.

Little Edward was not quite two years old; pale of face; solemn-eyed, he was watched over by his devoted nurse, Mrs. Sibell Penn, who was terrified that some cold breath of air might touch him and end his frail life.

Of course it was Elizabeth whom Catherine must love most, for the child already had a look of Anne, for all that she had inherited her father’s coloring. She would have Elizabeth at the table with them, occupying the place of honor next to Mary. She begged privileges for Elizabeth.

“Ah!” said Henry indulgently. “It would seem that England has a new ruler, and that Queen Catherine!”

“Nay!” she replied. “For how could I, who am young and foolish, rule this great country? That is for one who is strong and clever to do.”

He could not show his love sufficiently. “Do what thou wilt, sweetheart,” he said, “for well thou knowest, I have heart to refuse thee naught.”

He liked to watch them together—his favorite child and his beloved Queen. Seeing them thus, he would feel a deep contentment creep into his mind. Anne’s child is happy with my new Queen, he would tell himself; and because it would seem to him that there might be a plea for forgiveness in that thought, he would hastily assure himself that there was nothing for Anne to forgive.

He and Catherine rode together in the park at Windsor. He had never wandered about so unattended before; and he enjoyed to the full each day he shared with this lovely laughing girl. It was pleasant to throw off the cares of kingship and be a lover. He wished he were not so weighty, though he never could abide lean men; still, to puff and pant when you were the lover of a spritely young girl was in itself a sad state of affairs. But Catherine feigned not to notice the puffing and looked to it that he need not exert himself too much in his pursuit of her. She was perfect; his rose without a single thorn.

He was almost glad that the low state of the treasury would not allow for ceremony just at this time, for this enabled him to enjoy peace with his young bride.

They made a happy little journey from Windsor to Grafton where they stayed until September, and it was while they were at Grafton that an alarming incident took place.

Cranmer noted and decided to make the utmost use of it, although, knowing the amorous nature of the King, he could hope for little from it yet. Cranmer was uneasy, and had been since the arrest of Cromwell, for they had walked too long side by side for the liquidation of one not to frighten the other seriously. Norfolk was in the ascendant, and he and Cranmer were bitterly engaged in the silent subtle warring of two opposing religious sects. Such as Catherine Howard were but counters to be moved this way and that by either side; and the fight was fierce and deadly. Cranmer, though a man of considerable intellectual power, was at heart a coward. His great aim was to keep his head from the block and his feet from the stake. He could not forget that he had lost his ally Cromwell and had to play this wily Norfolk singlehanded. Cranmer was as determined to get Catherine Howard off the throne as the Catholics had been to destroy Anne Boleyn. At this time, he bowed before the new Queen; he flattered her; he talked of her in delight to the King, murmuring that he trusted His Majesty had now the wife his great goodness deserved. And now, with this incident coming to light and the marriage not a month old, Cranmer prayed that he might be able to make the utmost use of it and bring Catherine Howard to ruin and so serve God in the way He most assuredly preferred to be served.

It had begun with a few words spoken by a priest at Windsor. He had talked slightingly of the Queen, saying that he had been told once, when she was quite a child, she had led a most immoral life. This priest was immediately taken prisoner and put into the keep of Windsor Castle, while Wriothesley, at the bidding of the Council, was sent to lay these matters before the King.

Catherine was in a little antechamber when this man arrived; she heard the King greet him loudly.

“What news?” cried Henry. “By God! You look glum enough!”

“Bad news, Your Majesty, and news it grieves me greatly to bring to Your Grace.”

“Speak up! Speak up!” said the King testily.

“I would ask Your Majesty to be patient with me, for this concerns Her Majesty the Queen.”

“The Queen!” Henry’s voice was a roar of fear. The sly manner and the feigned sorrow in the eyes of the visitor were familiar to him. He could not bear that anything should happen to disturb this love idyll he shared with Catherine.

“The dribblings of a dotard doubtless,” said Wriothesley. “But the Council felt it their duty to warn Your Majesty. A certain priest at Windsor has said that which was unbefitting concerning the Queen.”

Catherine clutched the hangings, and felt as though she were about to faint. She thought, I ought to have told him. Then he would not have married me. Then I might have married Thomas. What will become of me? What will become of me now?

“What’s this? What’s this?” growled the King.

“The foolish priest—doubtless a maniac—referred to the laxity of Her Majesty’s behavior when she was in the Dowager Duchess’s care at Lambeth.”

The King looked at Wriothesley in such a manner as to make that ambitious young man shudder. The King was thinking that if Catherine had been a saucy wench before he had set eyes on her, he was ready to forget it. He wanted no disturbance of this paradise. She was charming and good-tempered, a constant delight, a lovely companion, a most agreeable bedfellow; she was his fifth wife, and his fourth had robbed him of any desire to make a hasty change. He wanted Catherine as he had made her appear to himself. Woe betide any who tried to destroy that illusion!

“Look ye here!” he said sternly. “I should have thought you would have known better than to trouble me with any foolish tale of a drunken priest. You say this priest but repeated what he had heard. You did right to imprison him. Release him now, and warn him. Tell him what becomes of men who speak against the King…and by God, those who speak against the Queen speak against the King! Tongues have been ripped out for less. Tell him that, Wriothesley, tell him that. As for him who spoke these evil lies to the priest, let him be confined until I order his release.”

Wriothesley was glad to escape.

Catherine, trembling violently, thought: I must speak to my grandmother. I must explain to the King.

She half expected the King to order her immediate arrest, and that she would be taken to the Tower and have to lay her head on the block as her cousin had done. She was hysterical when she ran out to the King; she was flushed with fear; impulsively she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

He pressed her close to him. He might still be doubtful, but he was not going to lose this. By God, he thought, if anyone says a word against my Queen, he shall pay for it!

“Why, sweetheart?” he said, and turned her face to his, determined to read there what he wished to read. Such innocence! By God, those who talked against her deserved to have their heads on London Bridge—and should too! She was pure and innocent, just as Lord William and her grandmother had assured him. He was lucky—even though he were a King—to have such a jewel of womanhood.

The happy honeymoon continued.

The Dowager Duchess was closeted with the Queen.

“I declare,” said Catherine, “I was greatly affrighted. I heard every word, and I trembled so that I scarce dared go out to the King when the man had gone!”

“And the King, said he naught to you?”

“He said naught.”

“He has decided to ignore this, depend upon it.”

“I feel so miserable. I would prefer to tell him. You understand, with Derham, it was as though we were married…”

“Hush! Do not say such things. I am an old woman and an experienced one; you are young and unwise. Take my advice.”

“I will,” said Catherine. “Of course I will. It was yours I took when I did not tell the King before my marriage.”

“Pish!” said the Duchess, and then dropping her voice to a whisper: “I have heard from Derham.”

“From Derham!”

“I said from Derham. He is back in my house. He is such a charming boy and I could not find it in my heart to keep up my anger against him. He still speaks of you with indiscreet devotion, and he has asked for something which I cannot adivse you to refuse him. He says that he must see you now and then, that you have nothing to fear from him. He loves you too well to harm you.”

“What does he ask?”

“A place at court!”

“Oh, no!”

“Indeed yes; and I feel that you would be very unwise to refuse it. Do not look so frightened. Remember you are the Queen.”

Catherine said slowly: “I have Jane Bulmer here and Katharine Tylney as well as Margaret Morton. I would that I had refused them.”

“Refuse them! You speak without thought. Have you forgotten that these people were at Lambeth and actually witnessed what took place between you and Derham!”

“I had rather they were not here. They are inclined to insolence as though they know I dare not dismiss them.”

She did not tell the Duchess that Manox approached her too, that he had demanded a place at court. There was no need to disturb the Duchess further, and tell her that Manox, now one of the court musicians, had once been Catherine’s lover.

“Now,” said the Duchess, “you must listen to me. Derham must come to court. You cannot refuse him.”

“I see that you are right,” said Catherine wearily.

So came Derham.

The King’s delight in his Queen did not diminish with the passing of the months. They left Ampthill for More Park where they could enjoy an even more secluded life; Henry was impatient with any minister who dared disturb him, and gave special instructions that no one was to approach him; any matter which was urgent was to be set out in writing. He was happy, desperately warming himself by the fire of Catherine’s youth; he doted on her; he caressed her even in public, declaring that at last he had found conjugal happiness. He felt this to be a reward for a life of piety. There was one further blessing he asked, and that was children. So far, there was little success, but what matter? Catherine in herself was as much as any man could reasonably ask.

She was such a soft-hearted little thing and could bear to hurt no one. She hated to hear of the executions which were taking place every day; she would put her plump little fingers into her ears, and he would pet her and murmur, “There, there, sweetheart, wouldst have me fete these traitors?”

“I know traitors must be severely dealt with,” she said. “They must die, but let them die by the axe or the rope, not these lingering, cruel deaths.”

And he, forgetting how he had spurned Jane Seymour and threatened her when she would meddle, could deny his new Queen little.

Those Catholics who still hoped for reunion with Rome thought the moment ripe to strike at the men who had supported Cromwell, and Wyatt, among others, was sent to the Tower. He, bold as ever, had dared defend himself, and Catherine angered her uncle Norfolk by pleading for leniency towards Wyatt. She took warm clothes and food to the old Countess of Salisbury, who was still in the Tower.

The King remonstrated with her.

“It will not do, sweetheart, it will not do.”

“Would you have me leave such a poor old lady to starve?”

He took her onto his knee, and touched her cheek in a manner meant to reprove her, but she, with a characteristic gesture, seized his finger and bit it softly, which amused him, so that he found himself laughing instead of scolding.

He could not help it. She was irresistible. If she would take clothes and food to the old Countess, then she must. He would try pleading with her again concerning the greater indiscretion of asking pardon for Wyatt.

“Now listen to me,” he said. “Wyatt is a traitor.”

“He is no traitor. He is a brave man. He does not cringe nor show fear, and is not afraid to state his opinions.”

“Aye!” said the King slyly. “And he is the handsomest man in court, you are about to add!”

“He is assuredly, and I am certain he is a true friend to Your Majesty.”

“So you find him handsomer than your King, eh?”

“The handsomest man, you said. We did not speak of kings!” She took his great face in her hands and surveyed him saucily. “Nay,” she said, “I will say that Thomas Wyatt is the handsomest man in the court, but I would not include the King in that!” Which made him laugh and feel so gratified that he must kiss her and say to himself, A plague on Norfolk! Does he think to rule this realm! Wyatt is indeed a bold spirit and I was ever one to look for boldness in a man. If he is too anti-Catholic, he is at least honest. How does a King know when men will plot against him? Wyatt is too pleasant a man to die; his head is too handsome to be struck off his shoulders. Doubtless we can pardon Wyatt on some condition.

Norfolk was furious over the affair of Wyatt. He quarreled with his stepmother.

“What means the Queen? Wyatt is our enemy. Has she not sense enough to know that!”

“Speak not thus of the Queen in my presence!” said the Dowager Duchess. “Or ’twill go ill with thee, Thomas Howard.”

“You are an old fool. Who put the wench on the throne, I would ask you?”

“You may ask all you care to. I am willing to answer. The King put Catherine Howard on the throne because he loves her sweet face.”

“Bah! You will go to the block one day, old woman, and that wench with you.”

“This is treason!” cried Her Grace.

“Tut, tut,” said the Duke and left her.

The Duchess was so furious that she went straight to the Queen.

“He was but feigning friendship for us,” said Catherine. “I believe I ever knew it…”

“I fear him,” said the Duchess. “There is that in him to terrify a woman, particularly when…”

They looked at each other; then glanced over their shoulders. The past was something they must keep shut away.

“Tread warily with the Duke!” warned the Duchess.

But it was not in Catherine’s nature to tread warily. She showed her displeasure in her coolness to the Duke. The King noticed it and was amused. He liked to see proud Norfolk slighted by this vivacious Queen of his whose power flowed from himself.

Norfolk was filled with cold fury. This Catherine was every bit as unruly as his niece Anne Boleyn. If there was anything in that rumor which had risen up within a few weeks of her marriage, by God, he would not be the one to hold out a helping hand to Catherine Howard.

Sly Cranmer watched the trouble between Norfolk and his niece, and was pleased by it, for Norfolk was a worthy ally, and that they, enemies to one another, should be joined in common cause against Catherine Howard, was not an unsatisfactory state of affairs. But even if he had a case against Catherine, he would have to wait awhile, since it would be folly to present it to the King in his present amorous state. How much longer was the fat monarch going on cooing like a mating pigeon?

There was no sign of a change in the King’s attitude towards Catherine. All through spring and summer as they journeyed from place to place, he was her devoted husband. He preferred comparative retirement in the country to state balls and functions.

Henry was, however, jolted out of his complacency by news of a papist revolt in the north. This was headed by Sir John Neville and there was no doubt that it had been strongly influenced from the Continent by Cardinal Pole. Up rose Henry, roaring like a lion who has slumbered too long. He would restrain his wrath no longer. He had, in his newly found happiness, allowed himself to be over-lenient. How could he go on enjoying bliss with Catherine if his throne was imperiled and snatched from him by traitors!

The old Countess of Salisbury could no longer be allowed to live. Her execution had been delayed too long. Catherine had pleaded for her, had conjured up pitiful pictures of her freezing and starving in the Tower. Let her freeze! Let her starve! So perish all traitors! She was the mother of a traitor—one of the greatest and most feared Henry had ever known. Cardinal Pole might be safe on the Continent, but his mother should suffer in his stead.

“To the block with her!” shouted Henry, and all Catherine’s pleas could not deter him this time. He was gentle with her, soothing her. “Now now, sweetheart, let such matters rest. She is not the poor old lady you might think her to be. She is a traitor and she has bred traitors. Come, come, wouldst thou have thy King and husband tottering from his throne? Thrones have to be defended now and then with blood, sweetheart.”

So the old Countess was done to death in cruel fashion, for she, the last of the Plantagenets, kept her courage to the violent end. She refused to lay her head on the block, saying the sentence was unjust and she no traitor.

“So should traitors do,” she said, “but I am none, and if you will have my head, you must win it if you can.”

Of all murders men had committed at the King’s command this was the most horrible, for the Countess was dragged by her hair to the block, and since she would not then submit her head peaceably, the executioner hacked at her with his axe until she, bleeding from many wounds, sank in her death agony to the ground, where she was decapitated.

Such deaths aroused Henry’s wrath. The people loved to gloat over bloody details; they whispered together, ever fond of martyrs.

It had always been Henry’s plan, since the break with Rome, to play the Catholics off against the Lutherans, just as he played Charles against Francis. The last insurrection had put the Catholics out of favor, and his conscience now gave him several twinges about Cromwell. He replied to his conscience by mourning that, acting on false accusations which those about him had made, he had put to death the best servant he had ever had. Thus could he blame the Catholics for Cromwell’s death and exonerate himself. Norfolk was out of favor; Cranmer in the ascendant. Henry left the administration of his affairs in the hands of a few chosen anti-papists headed by Cranmer and Chancellor Audley, and proceeded North on a punitive expedition, accompanied by the Queen.

Henry was wholehearted in most things he undertook. When he set out to stamp the impression of his power on his subjects, he did so with vigor; and as his method was cruelty, Catherine could not help being revolted by that tour to the north.

Loving most romantically the handsome Culpepper, she must compare him with Henry; and while she had been prepared to do her best and please the indulgent man she had so far known, she was discovering that this was not the real man, and she was filled with horror. There was no kindness in him. She was forced to witness the groveling of those who had rebelled because they wished to follow what they believed to be true. As they went through county after county and she saw the cruelty inflicted, and worse still was forced to look on his delight in it, it seemed to her, that when he came to her, his hands dripped blood. She wished the King to be a loving monarch; she wished the people to do homage to him; but she wanted them to respect him without fearing him, as she herself was trying so desperately to do.

There had been many compensations which had come to her when she forsook Culpepper to marry Henry. Mary, Joyce and Isabel, her young sisters, had been lifted from their poverty; indeed, there was not one impecunious member of her family who had not felt her generosity. This did not only apply to her family but to her friends also. She wanted to feel happiness about her; she wanted to make the King happy; she wanted no one worried by poverty, inconvenienced by hardship, smitten with sorrow. She wanted a pleasant world for herself and everyone in it.

When they came to Hull and saw what was left of Constable, a prey to the flies, hanging on the highest gate where Norfolk had gleefully placed him full four years ago, she turned away sickened, for the King had laughingly pointed out this grim sight to her.

“There hangs a traitor…or what is left of him!”

She turned from the King, knowing that however she tried she would never love him.

“Thou art too gentle, sweetheart!” The King leaned towards her and patted her arm, showing that he liked her gentleness, even though it might make her shed a tear for his enemies.

Often she thought of Thomas Culpepper, who was in the retinue accompanying them. Often their eyes would meet, exchanging smiles. Jane Rochford noted this, and that peculiar twist of her character which had ever made her court danger though through doing so she could bring no gain to herself, made her say, “Your cousin Culpepper is a handsome young man. He loves you truly. I see it there in his eyes. And methinks Your Majesty is not indifferent to him, for who could be to such a handsome boy! You never meet him. You are over-cautious. It could be arranged….”

This was reminiscent of the old days of intrigue, and Catherine could not resist it. She felt that only could she endure Henry’s caresses if she saw Thomas now and then. She carried in her mind every detail of Thomas’s face so that when the King was with her, she could, in her imagination, put Thomas in his place, and so not show the repugnance to his caresses which she could not help but feel.

Derham came to her once or twice to write letters for her. He watched her with smoldering, passionate eyes, but she was not afraid of harm coming from Derham. He was devoted as ever, and though his jealousy was great, he would never do anything, if he could help it, to harm the Queen. Derham knew nothing of her love for Culpepper, and Catherine, not wishing to cause him pain, saw to it that he should not know, and now and then would throw him soft glances to show that she remembered all they had been to each other. In view of this Derham could not forbear to whisper to his friend Damport that he loved the Queen, and he was sure that if the King were dead he might marry her.

During that journey there were many meetings with Culpepper. Lady Rochford was in her element; she carried messages between the lovers; she listened at doors. “The King will be in council for two hours more. It is safe for Culpepper to come to the apartment….” Catherine did not know that her relations with Culpepper were becoming a sly joke throughout the court and were discussed behind hands with many a suppressed giggle.

When they were at Lincoln she all but surrendered to Culpepper. He would beg; she would hesitate; and then be firm in her refusals.

“I dare not!” wept Catherine.

“Ah! Why did you not fly with me when I asked it!”

“If only I had done so!”

“Shall we go on spoiling our lives, Catherine?”

“I cannot bear this sorrow, but never, never could I bear that harm should come to you through me.”

Thus it went on, but Catherine was firm. When she felt weak she would seem to feel the presence of Anne Boleyn begging her to take care, warning her to reflect on her poor cousin’s fate.

Because no one showed that the love between them was known, they did not believe it was known, and they grew more and more reckless. There was a time at Lincoln when they were alone until two in the morning, feeling themselves safe because Lady Rochford was keeping guard. They reveled in their secret meetings with ostrich-like folly. As long as they denied themselves the satisfaction their love demanded, they felt safe. No matter that people all around them were aware of their intrigue. No matter that Cranmer was but waiting an opportunity.

On this occasion at Lincoln, Katharine Tylney and Margaret Morton had been loitering on the stairs outside the Queen’s apartment in a fever of excitement lest the King should come unexpectedly, and they be involved.

“Jesus!” whispered Katharine Tylney as Margaret came gliding into the corridor, “is not the Queen abed yet?”

Margaret, who a moment before had seen Culpepper emerge, answered: “Yes, even now.” And the two exchanged glances of relief, shrugging their shoulders smiling over the Queen’s recklessness and frivolity, reminding each other of her behavior at Lambeth.

Many such dangerous meetings took place, with Lady Rochford always at hand, the Queen’s attendant, always ready with suggestions and hints. Catherine had been indiscreet enough to write to Culpepper before this journey began. This was an indication of the great anxiety she felt for him, because Catherine never did feel happy with a pen, and to write even a few lines was a great effort to her. She had written this letter before the beginning of the tour when she and the King were moving about close to London and Culpepper was not with them. It was folly to write; and greater folly on Culpepper’s part to keep the letter; but being in love and inspired by danger rather than deterred by it, they had done many foolish things and this was but one of them.

“I heartily recommend me unto you, praying you to send me word how that you do,” wrote Catherine. “I did fear you were sick and I never longed for anything so much as to see you. It makes my heart to die when I think that I cannot always be in your company. Come to me when Lady Rochford be here for then I shall be best at leisure to be at your commandment….”

And such like sentences all written out laboriously in Catherine’s untrained hand.

She lived through the days, waiting for a glimpse of Culpepper, recklessly, dangerously, while the foolish Lady Rochford sympathized and arranged meetings.

The King noticed nothing. He felt pleased; once more he was showing rebels what happened to those who went against their king. He could turn from the flattery of those who sought his good graces to the sweet, youthful charm of Catherine Howard.

“Never was man so happy in his wife!” he said; and he thought that when he returned he would have the nation sing a Te Deum, for at last the Almighty had seen fit to reward his servant with a perfect jewel of womanhood.

Cranmer was so excited he could scarcely make his plans. At last his chance had come. This was too much even for the King to ignore.

There was a man at court who was of little importance, but towards whom Cranmer had always had a kindly feeling. This man was a Protestant, stern and cold, a man who never laughed because he considered laughter sinful, a man who had the makings of a martyr, one who could find more joy in a hair-shirt than in a flagon of good wine. This man’s name was John Lassells, a protege of Cromwell’s who had remained faithful to him; he preached eternal damnation for all those who did not accept the teachings of Martin Luther.

This John Lassells came to Cranmer with a story which set Cranmer’s hopes soaring, that made him feel he could embrace the man.

“My lord,” said Lassells most humbly, “there is on my conscience that which troubles me sorely.”

Cranmer listened halfheartedly, feeling this was doubtless some religious point the man wished explained.

“I tremble for what this may mean,” said Lassells, “for it concerns Her Grace the Queen.”

Gone was Cranmer’s lethargy; there was a flicker of fire in his eyes.

“My lord Archbishop, I have a sister, Mary, and Mary being nurse to Lord William Howard’s first wife, was after her death taken into the service of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

“Where the Queen was brought up,” said Cranmer eagerly.

“I asked my sister Mary why she did not sue for service with the Queen, for I saw that many who had been in the Dowager Duchess’s household now held places at court. My sister’s answer was most disturbing. ‘I will not,’ she said: ‘But I am very sorry for the Queen.’ I asked why, and she answered, ‘Marry, for she is both light in living and behavior.’ I asked how so, and she did tell me a most alarming story.”

“Yes, yes?”

“There was one Francis Derham who had slept in bed with her for many nights, and another, Manox, had known her.”

“Derham!” cried Cranmer. “Manox! They are both in the Queen’s household.”

He questioned Lassells further, and when he had learned all the man had to tell, he dismissed him after telling him he had indeed done the King a great service.

Cranmer was busy, glad of the absence of the King to give him a free hand. He sent Southampton to question Mary Lassells. Manox was arrested and brought before him and Wriothesley. Derham went to the Tower. Cranmer was going to garner each grain he gleaned, and when they were laid side by side he doubted not he would have good harvest. He waited impatiently for the return of the royal pair.

Henry was filled with satisfaction when he returned to Hampton Court. He was full of plans which he would lay before his confessor. A public thanksgiving should be prepared that the whole country might know, and thank God, that he had been blessed with a loving, dutiful and virtuous wife.

But Henry’s satisfaction was shortlived. He was in the chapel at Hampton Court when Cranmer came to him; Cranmer’s eyes were averted and in his hand he carried a paper.

“Most Gracious King,” said Cranmer, “I fear to place this grave matter set out herein in your hands, and yet the matter being so grave I dare do naught else. I pray that Your Grace will read it when you are alone.”

Henry read the report on Catherine; his anger was terrible, but it was not directed against Catherine but those who had given evidence against her. He sent for Cranmer.

“This is forged!” he cried. “This is not truthful! I have conceived such a constant opinion of her honesty that I know this!”

He paced up and down so that Cranmer’s chicken heart was filled with fear. It was too soon. The King would not give up the Queen; rather he would destroy those who sought to destroy her.

“I do not believe this!” cried the King, but Cranmer had heard the quiver of doubt in his master’s voice and rejoiced. “But,” went on the King, “I shall not be satisfied until the certainty is known to me.” He glowered at Cranmer. “There must be an examination. And…no breath of scandal against the Queen.”

The King left Hampton Court, and Catherine was told to stay in her rooms. Her musicians were sent away and told that this was no time for music.

Over Hampton Court there fell a hush of horror like a dark curtain that shut away gaiety and laughter; thus it had been at Greenwich less than six years ago when Anne Boleyn had looked in vain for Brereton, Weston, Norris and Smeaton.

Catherine was chilled with horror; and when Cranmer with Norfolk, Audley, Sussex and Gardiner came to her, she knew that the awful doom she had feared ever since she had become the King’s wife was about to fall upon her.

Wriothesley questioned Francis Derham in his cell.

“You may as well tell the truth,” said Wriothesley, “for others have already confessed it for you. You have spent a hundred nights naked in the bed of the Queen.”

“Before she was Queen,” said Derham.

“Ah! Before she was Queen. We will come to that later. You admit that there were immoral relations between you and the Queen?”

“No,” said Derham.

“Come, come, we have ways of extracting the truth. There were immoral relations between you and the Queen.”

“They were not immoral. Catherine Howard and I regarded each other as husband and wife.”

Wriothesley nodded slowly.

“You called her ‘wife’ before others?”

“Yes.”

“And you exchanged love tokens?”

“We did.”

“And some of the household regarded you as husband and wife?”

“That is so.”

“The Dowager Duchess and Lord William Howard regarded you as husband and wife?”

“No; they were ignorant of it.”

“And yet it was no secret.”

“No, but…”

“The entire household knew, with the exception of the Dowager Duchess and Lord William?”

“It was known among those with whom it was our custom to mix.”

“You went to Ireland recently, did you not?”

“I did.”

“And there were engaged in piracy?”

“Yes.”

“For which you deserve to hang, but no matter now. Did you not leave rather abruptly for Ireland?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because Her Grace had discovered the relationship between Catherine and me.”

“Was there not another occasion when she discovered you with her granddaughter?”

“Yes.”

“It was in the maids’ room and she entered and found you romping together, in arms kissing?”

He nodded.

“And what were Her Grace’s reactions to that?”

“Catherine was beaten; I was warned.”

“That seems light punishment.”

“Her Grace believed it to be but a romp.”

“And you joined the Queen’s household soon after her marriage with the King? Mr. Derham, I suggest that you and the Queen continued to live immorally, in fact in adultery, after the Queen’s marriage with His Majesty.”

“That is not true.”

“Is it not strange that you should join the Queen’s household, and receive special favors, and remain in the role of Queen’s attendant only?”

“It does not seem strange.”

“You swear that no immoral act ever took place between you and the Queen after her marriage with the King?”

“I swear it.”

“Come, Mr. Derham. Be reasonable. Does it seem logical to you in view of what you once were to the Queen?”

“I care not what it may seem. I only know that no act of immorality ever took place between us since her marriage.”

Wriothesley sighed. “You try my patience sorely,” he said, and left him.

He returned in half an hour accompanied by two burly men.

“Mr. Derham,” said the King’s secretary softly, “I would ask you once more to confess to adultery with the Queen.”

“I cannot confess what is not so.”

“Then I must ask you to accompany us.”

Derham was no coward; he knew the meaning of that summons; they were going to torture him. He pressed his lips together, and silently prayed for the courage he would have need of. He had led an adventurous life of late; he had faced death more than once when he had fought on the rough sea for booty. He had taken his chances recklessly as the inevitable milestones on the road of adventure; but the cold-blooded horror of the torture chamber was different.

In the corridors of the Tower was the sickening smell of death; there was dried blood on the floor of the torture rooms. If he admitted adultery, what would they do to Catherine? They could not hurt her for what was done before. They could not call that treason, even though she had deceived the King into thinking her a virgin. They could not hurt Catherine if he refused to say what they wished. He would not swerve. He would face all the torture in the world rather than harm her with the lies they wished him to tell. She had not loved him since his return from Ireland; but he had continued to love her. He would not lie.

They were stripping him of his clothes. They were putting him on the rack. Wriothesley, one of the cruelest men in all England, was standing over him implacably.

“You are a fool, Derham. Why not confess and have done!”

“You would have me lie?” asked Derham.

“I would have you save yourself this torture.”

The ropes were about his wrists; the windlasses were turned. He tried to suppress his cries, for it was more cruel than his wildest imaginings. He had not known there could be such pain. He shrieked and they stopped.

“Come, Derham. You committed adultery with the Queen.”

“No, no.”

Wriothesley’s cruel lips were pressed together; he nodded to the tormentors. It began again. Derham fainted and they thrust the vinegar brush under his nose.

“Derham, you fool. Men cannot endure much of this.”

That was true; but there were men who would not lie to save themselves from death, even if it must be death on the rack; and Derham, the pirate, was one of them.

When it would have been death to continue with the torture they carried him away; he was fainting, maimed and broken; but he had told them nothing.

When the Dowager Duchess heard what had happened at Hampton Court she shut herself into her chamber and was sick with fear. The Queen under lock and key! Derham in the Tower! She remembered her sorrow when Anne was sent to the Tower; but now side by side with sorrow went fear, and out of these two was born panic.

She must not stay idle. She must act. Had she not assured His Majesty of Catherine’s purity and goodness! And yet had she not beaten Catherine for her lewdness! Had she not warned Derham first, and had he not, later, run away to escape her anger when it had been discovered that he and Catherine had been living as husband and wife in her house!

She paced up and down her room. What if they questioned her! Her teeth chattered. She pictured the terrible end of the Countess of Salisbury, and saw herself running from the headsman’s axe. She was rich; her house was chock-full of treasure. Was not the King always ready to dispatch those who were rich, that their goods might fall into his hands! She pictured the Duke’s sly eyes smiling at her. “That wench will go to the block!” he had said; and she had berated him, telling him he had better take care how he spoke of the Queen. Her stepson was her most deadly enemy and now he would have a chance of working openly against her.

She must waste no time. She must act. She went down to the great hall and called a confidential servant to her. She told him to go to Hampton Court, glean the latest news, and come back to her as fast as he could. She waited in mental anguish for his return, but when he came he could only tell her what she knew already. The Queen and Derham were accused of misconduct, and some of the Queen’s attendants were accused of being in on the guilty secret.

She thought of Derham’s friend Damport, who doubtless knew as much of Derham’s secrets as any. She had some hazy plan of bribing him to silence on all he knew.

“I hear Derham is taken,” she said plaintively, “and also the Queen; what is the matter?”

Damport said he thought Derham had spoken with indiscretion to a gentleman usher.

Her Grace’s lips quivered; she said that she greatly feared that in consequence of evil reports some harm should fall the Queen. She looked fearfully at Damport and said she would like to give him a little gift. Thereupon she presented him with ten pounds. It was stupid and clumsy, but she was too frightened to know what she did. She murmured something about his saying nothing of Catherine Howard’s friendship with Derham.

Her fear becoming hysterical, the Dowager Duchess paced from room to room. What if Catherine and Derham had exchanged letters when he had gone away to Ireland!

There were here in her house some trunks and coffers of Derham’s, for before he had gone to court she had taken him back into her house; several of the trunks were those which he had left behind when he fled. He had not removed them when he went to court, for his lodging there was not large enough to accommodate them. What if in Derham’s trunks and coffers there was some incriminating evidence?

Her legs shaking, her voice high with hysteria, she called to some of her most trusted servants. She told them that she feared a visit from the King’s ambassadors at any moment; the Queen was in danger; all Derham’s belongings must be searched for fear there might be something in them to incriminate the Queen; she implored her attendants to show their loyalty and help her.

There was a great bustling throughout the house; trunks were forced open; coffers were rifled. There were found some of those letters written by Jane Bulmer on Catherine’s behalf, and which had been preserved by Derham; of these there was made a bonfire; the Duchess even destroyed articles which she suspected had been gifts from Catherine to Derham.

When this work was done she retired to her chamber, feeling old and very weary. But there was no rest for her. A knocking on her door heralded the advent of fresh trouble, the worst possible trouble.

“His Grace the Duke is below,” said her frightened maid, “and he demands to see you immediately.”

Catherine, facing those five dreaded men, was numb with terror. Her limbs trembled so much, and her countenance was so wild, that they thought she would lose her reason. She had had a wild fit of laughing which had ended in weeping; she was more hysterical than had been her cousin, for Anne had not had a terrible example in her mind all the time.

There was one thing which terrified her beyond all others, and gave her great agony of mind. She could think of no way of warning Culpepper. She was almost mad with anxiety on his behalf.

Norfolk’s cold eyes mocked her, seeming to say—So you thought yourself so clever, did you! You are another such as your cousin Anne Boleyn. Oh, did ever a man have such a pair of nieces!

Her uncle was more terrifying than the other four.

“Compose yourself! Compose yourself!” said Norfolk. “Think not to drown your guilt in tears!”

Cranmer seemed much kinder; he was ever cautious, knowing well the King’s great tenderness for her; he was determined to go cautiously for fear he had to retrace his steps. It was to Cranmer whom she would talk if she talked at all.

In his soft voice he told her how grieved he was that this should have befallen her. Francis Derham had confessed to having lived with her as her husband. Manox had also known her. It would be better for her to tell the truth, for the King, heartbroken at her deception, was inclined towards leniency.

Her answers were scarcely audible. She caught her breath every time one of them spoke, terrified that she would hear Culpepper’s name. But when they did not speak of him, she came to the conclusion that they knew nothing of her love for him and his for her; and this so lightened her spirits that she seemed suddenly happy. She confessed readily to what she had done before her marriage to the King. Yes, Derham had called her wife; she had called him husband. Yes…yes….

Norfolk, with never a thought of his own adultery with Bess Holland, tut-tutted in horror at such wickedness; but in comparison with him, the others seemed almost kind, and her hysteria was passing. They knew nothing against Thomas. They could send her to the block as they had her cousin, but Thomas Culpepper should not suffer through his love for her.

The council of five left her, and Cranmer prepared a report of the examination that he might show it to the King.

Henry was awaiting the report in feverish impatience. He could not hide his agitation. He had changed since he had read the paper containing the news which Cranmer had declared he was too moved to give his master by word of mouth. His usually purple face had gone a shade of gray the color of parchment, and the veins, usually so full of rich red blood, now looked like brown lines drawn upon it.

Cranmer’s voice took on those pained tones he could always assume on certain occasions. He talked of the abominable, base, and carnal life of the Queen; voluptuous and vicious were the words he used to describe her; and this woman had led the King to love her, had arrogantly coupled herself in marriage with him.

Norfolk watched the King and Cranmer uneasily. After all the wanton wench was his niece, and it was he who had helped to recommend her to the King. Norfolk was worried. He was possessed of great worldly riches. When a queen was found guilty of treason, members of her family often found themselves in like trouble. He had spoken with disgust of his niece whenever he could; he had whispered slander about her; his great wish was to dissociate himself from her. He was grieved, he told all; his house was plunged into deepest mourning because it had produced two such wanton and abandoned women as Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard. He said he thought the only just fate that should be meted out to Catherine Howard was death by burning. He would be there to savor every one of her screams as she had a foretaste of the torment that would be eternally hers. His pity, he had announced, went to the King whom he loved and whom he hoped would not hold him in any way responsible for the vile creatures his house had produced to deceive his most loved monarch. He had quarreled with his stepmother, whom all knew had had the confidence of the Queen; all were aware that he had never been a friend of that old woman nor of her vile granddaughter.

The King could do nothing but sit leaden-eyed. His dream was over; reality faced him. He had been deceived in her. She was not his jewel of womanhood; she was not entirely his. Others had enjoyed her; he was tortured by thoughts of them. He had loved her; she was to have been his last wife; she was to have made all his miserable matrimonial engagements worthwhile. He could not bear it. He put his hands to his face and tears gushed from his eyes.

Chapuys summed up the King’s feelings when writing to his master. “This King,” he wrote, “has wonderfully felt the case of the Queen, his wife, and has certainly shown greater sorrow at her loss than at the faults, loss or divorce of his preceding wives. It is like the case of the woman who cried more bitterly at the loss of her tenth husband than at the deaths of all the others together, though they had all been good men, but it was because she had never buried one of them before, without being sure of the next; and as yet this King has formed no plan or preference.”

That was true. At the height of his jealousy of Anne, Jane had been waiting to comfort him; but in between Jane and Catherine he had had the disappointing experience of Anne of Cleves. He had lost Catherine and he felt cheated, since there was no beautiful and much desired young woman waiting to console him. And indeed he wanted consolation from no one but Catherine herself. He was no longer a bull; he was a staid domesticated animal who wished only to spend his last days in peace with the mate he loved.

So he wept bitterly and unashamedly before his council, and Cranmer quaked to see those tears, for it seemed to him that there was a possibility of the King’s trying to hush up this matter and take back the Queen. “The faults have been committed,” those tears seemed to be telling Cranmer. “Let be!”

But what of Cranmer if Catherine Howard regained her influence with the King? Cranmer knew of two ways to stop this. He could have the scandal bruited abroad. How would Henry feel if those foreign princes knew that Henry had kept a wife who had deceived him? Spread the news abroad then; make it hard for him to take her back. There was another and even more satisfactory alternative: discover that she had had a lover even as she had loved with and been loved by the King.

Damport was arrested. He had been the greatest friend of Derham’s; he had been in the Dowager Duchess’s household; he had recently received a sum of money from Her Grace.

Damport was sweating with fear.

“My lords, I know nothing…nothing….”

It is a terrible predicament for a man who knows nothing and yet must tell something. What could he tell them? Nothing! Nothing, but that which they knew already.

“Why did the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk give you money?”

“I know not! I know not!”

There was nothing they could extract from this young man but what they already knew, and Cranmer himself had given orders that they must get confessions.

“Come, Damport, you were the special friend of this man Derham.”

“Yes, yes, yes…”

“It will be much better for you if you talk.”

“But I swear I know nothing…nothing….”

They led him down to the torture chamber where Derham had gone before him, where Mark Smeaton had moaned in agony.

“Come, Damport. What is it to you? You have naught to lose. We do but ask for truth.”

Damport’s hair was wet on his forehead; sweat ran down his nose; he could but stare open-mouthed at those vile instruments; he could but retch from the stench of death.

“Why, Damport, that is a very fine set of teeth you have, and doubtless you are very proud of them!”

Damport looked about him as though seeking escape from such a situation, but the dark and slimy walls had no suggestion to offer; there was nothing to learn from them except that within them men had descended for many many years to the level of the lowest animals. It seemed to Damport that the evil shadows that hung about the dim chamber were the ghosts of those who, having died in agony, had returned to watch the anguish of those doomed to follow them. These cruel tormentors, these examiners, felt not the presence of those sad ghosts; cruelty was commonplace to them; they had learned indifference to the groans of tortured men; one had but to look into their brute faces to know this.

Damport whimpered, “An I knew aught, I would tell it.”

“We were saying those teeth were fine, Damport. Let us see whether they will look as fine when the brakes have done with them!”

It seemed that his head was being torn from his body; he felt a sickening crunch; his jerkin was wet and he felt its damp warmness on his chest; he smelled his own blood, and swooned. Words were like the beating of the blunt end of an axe on his head.

“Come, Damport, you know Derham committed adultery with the Queen.”

They had torn out most of his teeth and all he could remember was that Derham had said that if the King were dead he would marry Catherine Howard. He told them this, fearing further torture. They were disappointed, but the man was bleeding badly and he could not stand for the pain; and his mouth was so swollen that if he would, he could not speak.

They led him from the torture chamber. They would have to tell Cranmer that they could get nothing from Damport and believed he had nothing to tell. Cranmer would be filled with that cold fury that was more terrifying than the hot rage of some men.

From Manox they could get nothing of interest. There was not sufficient evidence against him; he had been one of the humblest musicians, and there was really nothing against him; he had not been in the Queen’s presence, even while her ladies were with her. As for his relations with her at Horsham and Lambeth he was ready enough to talk of these. He was such an obvious rogue that torture would be wasted on him.

But Cranmer was not angry. He was in fact delighted. The King of France had sent condolences to Henry, telling him how grieved he was to hear news of the faults of her, so recently his Queen. That was good; but there was better still.

Why, thought Cranmer, should the Queen wish to surround herself with those who had helped her in her wantonness before her marriage, if it was not to help her in the same capacity after marriage? He would examine thoroughly all those women at the court of the Queen who had been in the service of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. There were several of them—Katharine Tylney, Margaret Morton, Jane Bulmer, and two named Wilkes and Baskerville being the chief among them. It was from Katharine Tylney and Margaret Morton that Cranmer learned of a certain night at Lincoln; Thomas Culpepper’s name was mentioned. Lady Rochford had arranged interviews. There had been several meetings before the tour to the north and during it.

“Bring in Culpepper!” ordered Cranmer, and they brought in Culpepper.

He was a bold youth, fearless and courageous, such as Francis Derham.

A plague on courageous, gallant men! thought Cranmer, the coward. What trouble they give us!

Head held high, Culpepper admitted his love for the Queen, admitted that he would have married her if he could. No wrong, he said, had passed between them.

Cranmer laughed at that. He must admit that wrong had passed between them! How else could Cranmer be sure of enraging his lovesick King.

“Rack him until he confesses!” he ordered.

Derham had been a pirate; he had faced death more than once, and it held less horror for him than for a man like Cranmer who had never seen it come close to himself; it was with Culpepper as with Derham. Culpepper was a wild boy and had ever been a plague to his father; he was a rebellious, unruly boy with a taste for adventure and getting into trouble. There was one quality he had in common with Derham and that was bravery.

They put him on the rack. He endured that excruciating pain, that most exquisite of tortures, pressing his lips firmly together, and only now and then, and most shamefacedly, let out a groan of pain. He even smiled on the rack and tried to remember her face, anxious for him. “Oh, take care, Thomas. Take care lest thou shouldst suffer for love of me.”

He thought she was with him, talking to him now. In his thoughts he answered her. “Sweet Catherine, dost think I would do aught that might hurt thee? Thou shalt never suffer through me, Catherine. Let them do what they will.”

“Culpepper! Culpepper, you young fool! Will you speak?”

He gasped, for the pain was such as to make speech difficult.

“I have spoken.”

“Again! Again! Work faster, you fools! He has to confess!”

But he did not confess, and they carried his poor suffering body away most roughly, for they had worked themselves weary over him in vain.

The King’s rage was terrible, when he heard that Culpepper was involved. Rage, misery, jealousy, self-pity, humiliation maddened him. He wept; he shut himself up; he would see no one. This…to happen to the King of England.

His face was clothed in grief; his sick leg throbbed with pain; his youth was gone, taking with it his hope of happiness. He was an old sick man and Culpepper was a young and beautiful boy. He himself had loved to watch the grace of Culpepper; he had favored the lad; he had winked at his wickedness and had said that what happened in Kent need not be remembered at court. He had loved that boy—loved him for his wit and his beauty; and this same boy, fair of face and clean of limb, had looked frequently on the unsightly weeping sore on the royal leg, and doubtless had laughted that all the power and riches in England could not buy youth and health such as he enjoyed.

Mayhap, thought the King angrily, he is less beautiful now his graceful limbs have been tortured; the King laughed deep sobbing laughter. Culpepper should die the death of a traitor; he should die ignobly; indignities should be piled upon his traitor’s body; and when his head was on London Bridge, would she feel the same desire to kiss his lips? The King tormented himself with such thoughts of them together that could only come to a very sensual man, and the boiling blood in his head seemed as if it would burst it.

“She never had such delight in her lovers,” he said, “as she shall have torture in death!”

Catherine, in those apartments which had been planned for Anne Boleyn and used so briefly by Jane, and briefer still by Anne of Cleves, was in such a state of terror that those who guarded her feared for her reason. She would fling herself onto her bed, sobbing wildly; then she would arise and walk about her room, asking questions about her death; she would have those who had witnessed the death of her cousin come to her and tell her how Anne had died; she would weep with sorrow, and then her laughter would begin again for it seemed ironical that Anne’s fate should be hers. She was crazy with grief when she heard Culpepper was taken. She prayed incoherently. “Let them not harm him. Let me die, but let him be spared.”

If I could but see the King, she thought, surely I could make him listen to me. Surely he would spare Thomas, if I asked him.

“Could I have speech with His Majesty? Just one moment!” she begged.

“Speech with His Majesty!” They shook their heads. How could that be! His Majesty was incensed by her conduct; he would not see her. And what would Cranmer say, Cranmer who would not know real peace until Catherine Howard’s head was severed from her body!

She remembered the King as he had always been to her, indulgent and loving; even when he had reprimanded her for too much generosity, even when he, angered by the acts of traitors, had listened to her pleas for leniency, he had never shown a flicker of anger. Surely he would listen to her.

She made plans. If she could but get to the King, if she could but elude her jailors, she would know how to make herself irresistible.

She was calm now, watching for an opportunity. One quick movement of the hand to open the door, and then she would dash down the back stairs; she would watch and wait and pray for help.

The opportunity came when she knew him to be at mass in the chapel. She would run to him there, fling herself onto her knees, implore his compassion, promise him lifelong devotion if he would but spare Culpepper and Derham.

Those who were guarding her, pleased with her calmness, were sitting in a window seat, conversing among themselves of the strange happenings at court. She moved swiftly towards the door; she paused, threw a glance over her shoulder, saw that their suspicions had not been aroused, turned the handle, and was on the dark staircase before she heard the exclamation of dismay behind her.

Fleet with fear she ran. She came to the gallery; she could hear the singing in the chapel. The King was there. She would succeed because she must. Culpepper was innocent. He must not die.

Her attendants were close behind her, full of determination that her plan should not succeed, fully aware that no light punishment would be meted out to them should they let her reach the King. They caught her gown; they captured her just as she reached the chapel door. They dragged her back to the apartment. Through the gallery her screams rang out like those of a mad creature, mingling uncannily with the singing in the chapel.

A few days later she was taken from Hampton Court; she sailed down the river to a less grand prison at Sion House.

The Dowager Duchess lay in bed. She said to her attendants: “I cannot get up. I am too ill. I feel death approaching fast.”

She was sick and her disease was fear. She had heard that Culpepper and Derham had been found guilty of treason. She knew that they had had no true trial, for how could men be sentenced to death for what could not be proved, and for that which they would not admit under the vilest torture! But these two brave men had not convinced their torturers that they would not eventually respond to the persuasions of the rack, and even after their sentence, daily they were taken to the torture chambers to suffer fresh agonies. But not once did either of them swerve from their protestations of the Queen’s innocence since her marriage.

Never in the Dowager Duchess’s memory had men been tried like this before. For those accused with Anne Boleyn there had been a trial, farcical as it was. Culpepper and Derham had been taken to Guildhall before the Lord Mayor but on either side of the Lord Mayor had sat Suffolk and Audley. Sentence had been quickly pronounced, and the two were judged guilty and condemned to die the horrible lingering death assigned to traitors.

The Dowager Duchess thought of these matters as she lay abed, staring up in terror when she heard the least sound from below. She knew inventories had been made of her goods, and she knew they could not fail to arouse the covetousness of the King, for they were great in value.

What hope had she of escaping death? Even the Duke, old soldier that he was, had shown that he thought the only safe thing for a Howard to do was retreat. He had gone into voluntary retirement, hoping that the King would forget him awhile, until the fortunes of the Howard family were in a happier state.

And as she lay there, that which she dreaded came to pass. Wriothesley, accompanied by the Earl of Southampton, had come to see her.

Her face was yellow when they entered; they thought she was not malingering but really suffering from some terrible disease. They dared not approach too near the bed, the fear of plague being ever in their minds.

“We but called to see how Your Grace does,” said Wriothesley artfully, never taking his eyes from her face. “Do not distress yourself, this is but a visit; we would condole with you on the sad happenings which have befallen your family.”

The color returned slightly to her face. The men could see hope springing up. They exchanged glances. Their little ruse had succeeded, for she had always been a foolish woman ready to believe what she wished rather than what she should have known to be the truth; and she could not hide the wonderful feeling that after all she might be safe. The Dowager Duchess, these two men knew, suffered from no plague, but only from the qualms of a guilty conscience.

They questioned her. She wept and talked incoherently.

She knew nothing…nothing! she assured them. She had thought the attraction between Derham and her granddaughter but an affection between two who were united by the bonds of kinship. She had not thought to look for wickedness in that. But had she not found them together, in arms kissing? Had she thought that meet and proper in her whom the King had chosen to honor? Oh, but Catherine had been such a child, and there had been no harm…no harm that she had known of. But had she not been told of these things? Had she not beaten the girl, and had not Derham fled for his life?

“I knew it not! I knew it not!” she sobbed.

Wriothesley’s cunning eyes took in each rich detail of the room.

“Methinks,” he said, “Your Grace is well enough to be transported to the Tower.”

At Tyburn a crowd had gathered to see the death of the Queen’s lovers. Culpepper was first. How could the Queen have loved such a man? His face was emaciated; his lips drawn down; his skin like bad cheese; his eyes had sunk into black hollows. The people shuddered, knowing that they saw not the Queen’s lover, but what the tormentors had made of him. Lucky Culpepper, because he was of noble birth, and was to be but beheaded!

Derham could say Lucky Culpepper! He was of not such noble birth, and although he begged the King for mercy, which meant that he asked to die by the axe or the rope, the King was in no mood for mercy. He saw no reason why sentence should not be carried out as ordained by the judges.

Derham’s eyes were dazed with pain; he had suffered much since his arrest; he had not known there could be such cruelty in men; truly, he had known of those grim chambers below the fortress of the Tower of London, but to know by hearsay and to know by experience were two very different matters. He did not wish to live, for if he did he would never forget the gloomy dampness of gray stone walls, the terrible shrieks of agony, pain and the smell of blood and vinegar, and those awful great instruments, like monsters without thought, grimly obedient to the evil will of men.

This he had suffered and he had to suffer yet; he had been submerged in pain, but mayhap he had not yet tested its depth. Nature was more merciful than men, providing for those who suffered great pain such blessedness as fainting; but men were cruel and brought their victims out of faints that the pain might start again.

He clung to the glorious memory of unconsciousness which must inevitably follow an excess of pain. There was another joy he knew, and it was this: He had not betrayed Catherine. They might kill Catherine, but not a drop of her blood should stain his hands. He had loved her; his intentions towards her had been ever honest. In the depth of his passion he had been unable to resist her; but that was natural; that was no sin. He had called her wife and she had called him husband, and it had been the dearest wish of his life that he should marry her. Now, here at Tyburn with the most miserable ordeal yet before him, he could feel lightness of spirit, for his end could not be far off, however they would revive him that he might suffer more. These men, whose cruel eyes were indifferent to his suffering, these monsters who were but hirelings of that spiteful murderer who stood astride all England and subdued her with torture and death, were to be pitied, as was Henry himself. For one day they must die, and they would not die as Derham died; they would not know his agony of body, but neither would they know his peace of mind.

The noose was about his neck; he swung in midair. There was a brief jolting pain, and the next he knew was that he was lying on hard wood and he could not breathe; he was choking; but they were tending him solicitously, that he might return to life and suffer more pain.

Now he was sufficiently recovered to smell the Tyburn crowd, to hear a faint hum of voices, to feel a man’s hands on his body, to see a flash of steel, to be aware of agony. He felt the knife cold against his flesh. A searing hot pain ran through him. He writhed and screamed, but he seemed to hear a voice close to his ear murmur: “Soon now, Derham. Not long now, Derham. It cannot last. Remember they are helping you out of this wicked world.”

He could smell the smoke. “Oh, God!” he moaned, and twisted and groaned afresh in his agony. He could smell his burning entrails. A thousand white hot knives were surely being plunged into him. He tried to raise himself. He tried to sob out to them to have pity. He could not speak. He could do nothing but endure, but give his tortured body up to a million gnawing devils. He had touched pain’s depth, for there was never agony such as that endured by men who were hanged by the neck, and then revived that they might feel the knife that ripped their bodies, that they might feel the agony of their burning entrails.

Blessed blackness closed in on him, and the stroke of the axe which severed his head was like a gentle caress.

Jane Rochford was back in the Tower. She had been calm enough when they took her there, but now her eyes were wild, her hair hung loose about her face; she did not know why she was there; she talked to those who were not there.

“George! You here, George!” She went into shrieks of crazy laughter. “So we meet here, George. It is so just that we should…so just.”

She paused as though listening to the conversation of another; then she went into wild laughter that was followed by deep sobbing. Lady Rochford had gone mad.

She looked from her window and saw the Thames.

She said, “Why should you come in your pomp and I be here a prisoner? You have everything; I have nothing. The King loves you. George loves you. Oh, George, do not stand there in the shadows. Where is your head, George? Oh, yes, I remember. They took it off.”

There was none who dared stay with her. It was uncanny to hear her talking to those who were not there. It was eerie to watch her eyes as she looked into space.

“Is it the ghost of George Boleyn she talks to?” it was whispered. “Is he really there and we see him not? Is he haunting her because she sent him to his death?”

Her shrieks terrified all those who heard them, but after a while a calmness settled on her, though the madness was still in her eyes.

She said quietly, “He has come to mock me now. He says that all my wickedness has but led me to the block. He puts his hands to his head and lifts it off to show me that he is not really George but George’s ghost. He says the axe that killed him was wielded by me and it was called vindictiveness. And he says that the axe that will kill me will be wielded by me also and it is called folly. He says I am twice a murderess because I killed him and now I kill myself.”

She flung herself against the window seat, her hands held up in supplication to an empty space.

Her attendants watched her fearfully; they were frightened by the uncanny ways of the mad.

Out of Sion House and down the river to the Tower passed the Queen’s barge. She was composed now and looked very beautiful in her gown of black velvet. She thanked God that darkness had fallen and that she might not see the decomposing, fly-pestered heads of the men who had loved her. The suspense was over. Thomas was dead; Francis was dead; there but remained that Catherine should die. She thought with deep compassion of her poor old grandmother who was suffering imprisonment in the Tower. She thought of Manox and Damport and Lord William, who, with members of her family and her grandmother’s household, had come under suspicion through her. She had heard that Mary Lassells had been commended for her honesty in bringing the case against the Queen to light; she had heard that the King, whose grief and rage had been great, was now recovering, and that he was allowing himself to be amused with entertainments devised by the most beautiful ladies of the court.

Catherine felt calm now, resenting none except perhaps her uncle Norfolk, who now, to save himself, was boasting that it was due to him that the old Dowager Duchess had been brought to her present state. For him, Catherine could feel little but contempt; she remembered her grandmother’s telling her how cruel he had been to Anne Boleyn.

Lady Rochford was with Catherine; her madness had left her for a while though it would keep returning, and it was never known when she would think she saw visions. But there was some comfort for Catherine in having Jane Rochford with her, for she had been a witness of, and participator in, Anne’s tragedy. She would talk of that sad time which was but six years ago, and Catherine gained courage in hearing how Anne had nobly conducted herself even to the block.

Sir John Gage, who had taken the place of Sir William Kingston as Constable of the Tower, came to her on the second day in the fortress.

“I come to ask that you prepare yourself for death,” he told her solemnly.

She tried to be brave but she could not. She was not quite twenty years old, so young, so beautiful and in love with life; she was overtaken with hysteria, and wept continually and with such violence as was verging on madness.

In the streets people were murmuring against the King.

“What means this? Another Queen—and this time little more than a child to go to the block!”

“It is whispered that she has never done aught against even her enemies.”

“Is it not strange that a man should be so cursed in his wives?”

Gage returned to her and told her she would die the next day.

She said: “I am ready!” And she asked that they should bring the block to her that she might practice laying her head upon it.

“My cousin died most bravely I hear. I would follow her example. But she was a great lady and I fear I am not, nor ever were. What she could do naturally, I must practice.”

It was a strange request but he could not deny it, and the block was brought to her room, where she had them place it in the center thereof, and graciously she walked to it, looking so young and innocent that it was as though she played some child’s game of executions. She laid her head upon it, and kept it there a long time so that the wood was wet with her tears.

She said she was tired and would sleep awhile, and she fell into a deep, peaceful sleep almost as soon as she lay down. In sleep, her auburn hair fell into disorder, her brow was smooth and untroubled; her mouth smiling.

She dreamed she saw her cousin Anne who caressed her as she had done when she was a baby, and bid her be of good cheer for the death was easy. A sharp subtle pain and then peace. But Catherine could not be reassured, for it seemed to her that though she was innocent of adultery, she was in some measure to blame because of what had happened before her marriage. But her cousin continued to soothe her, saying: “Nay, I was more guilty than you, for I was ambitious and proud, and hurt many, while you never hurt any but yourself.”

She was comforted, and clung to her dream. She knew now that she, like Anne, was innocent of any crime deserving of death. Anne had been murdered; she was about to be. But the death was quick and there was nothing to fear.

In the early morning, when they aroused her, she said almost calmly: “I had forgotten what the day was. Now I know. Today I am to die.”

She walked with that slow dignity, which she had rehearsed last evening in her room, to the spot before the church where, six years before, Anne had died. She was dressed in black velvet, and was very pale. Her eyes were wide, and she tried to believe she saw her cousin, smiling at her from beyond the haze through which she herself must step. She thought as she walked, I must die like a queen, as Anne died.

She was accompanied by Jane Rochford, who was to die with her. Jane’s dignity was as complete as that of the Queen. Her eyes were calm, and all the madness had passed from her now; she could face death gladly, for it seemed to her that only by dying could she expiate the sin she had committed against her husband.

The early February air was cold and river-damp; the scene was ghostly. Catherine looked for her uncle’s face among those of the people who gathered there to see her die, and felt a rush of gratitude to know she would be spared seeing him there.

She muttered a little prayer for her grandmother. She would not pray for Thomas and Francis for they were now at peace. Had Anne felt this strange lightening of the heart when her death had been but a moment away; had she felt this queer feeling which had a touch of exultation in it?

She said she would speak a few words. Tears were in the eyes of many who beheld her, for she had none of that haughtiness which had characterized her tragic cousin. In her black velvet gown she looked what she was, a very young girl, innocent of any crime, whose tragedy was that she had had the misfortune to be desired by a ruthless man whose power was absolute. Some remembered that though Anne had been found guilty by a picked jury, she had had an opportunity of defending herself, and this she had done with a clarity, dignity and obvious truthfulness so that all unprejudiced posterity must believe in her innocence; but little Catherine Howard had had no such opportunity; contrary to English law she would be executed without an open trial, and there was but one word for such an execution, and that the ugly one of murder. Some must ask themselves what manner of man was this King of theirs, who twice in six years had sent a young wife to the block! They remembered that this Henry was the first King of England to shed women’s blood on the block and burn them at the stake. Was the King’s life so moral, they must ask themselves, that he dared express such horror at the frailty of this child?

But she was speaking, and her voice was so low that it was difficult to hear her, and as she spoke tears started from her eyes and ran down her smooth cheeks, for she was speaking of her lover Culpepper, the grisly spectacle of whose head all might see when crossing London Bridge.

She was trying to make these people understand her love for that young man, but she could not tell them how she had met and loved him when at Hollingbourne he had first come into her lonely life.

“I loved Culpepper,” she said, and she tried to tell them how he had urged her not to marry the King. “I would rather have him for husband than be mistress of the world…. And since the fault is mine, mine also is the suffering, and my great sorrow is that Culpepper should have to die through me.”

Her voice faltered; now her words grew fainter and the headsman looked about him, stricken with sorrow at what he must do, for she was so young, but a child, and hardened as he was, it moved him deeply that his should be the hand to strike off her head.

She turned her brimming eyes to him and begged he would not delay. She cried, “I die a queen, but I would rather die the wife of Culpepper. God have mercy on my soul. Good people…I beg you pray for me…”

She fell to her knees and laid her head on the block not so neatly as she had done it in her room, but in such a way as to make many turn away and wipe their eyes.

She was praying when the headsman, with a swift stroke, let fall the axe.

Her attendants, their eyes blinded with tears, rushed forward to cover the mutilated little body with a black cloth, and to carry it away where it might be buried in the chapel, close to that spot where lay Anne Boleyn.

There was none to feel much pity for Lady Rochford. This gaunt woman was a striking contrast to the lovely young Queen. Jane mounted the scaffold like a pilgrim who has, after much tribulation, reached the end of a journey.

She spoke to the watching crowd and said that she was guiltless of the crime for which she was paying this doleful penalty; but she deserved to die, and she believed she was dying as a punishment for having contributed to the death of her husband by her false accusation of Queen Anne Boleyn. Almost with exultation she laid her head on the block.

“She is mad,” said the watchers. “None but the insane could die so joyfully.”

Jane was smiling after the axe had fallen and her blood gushed forth to mingle with that of the murdered Queen.

In his palace at Greenwich, the King stood looking over the river. He felt himself to be alone and unloved. He had lost Catherine. Her mutilated body was now buried beside that of another woman whom he had loved and whom he had killed as he had now killed Catherine.

He was afraid. He would always be afraid. Ghosts would haunt his life…myriads of ghosts, all the men and women whose blood he had caused to be shed. There were so many that he could not remember them all, although among their number there were a few he would never forget. Buckingham. Wolsey. More. Fisher. Montague. Exeter and the old Countess of Salisbury. Cromwell. These, he could tell his conscience he had destroyed for England’s sake. But there were others he had tried harder to forget. Weston. Brereton. Norris. Smeaton. Derham. Culpepper. George Boleyn. Catherine…and Anne.

He thought of Anne, whom he had once loved so passionately; never had he loved one as he had her; nor ever would he; for his love for Catherine had been an old man’s selfish love, the love of a man who is done with roving; but his love for Anne had had all the excitement of the chase, all the urgency of passionate desire; all the tenderness, romance and dreams of an idyll.

A movement beside him startled him and the hair was damp on his forehead, for it seemed to him that Anne was standing beside him. A second glance told him that it was but an image conjured up by the guilty mind of a murderer, for it was not Anne who stood beside him, but Anne’s daughter. There were often times when she reminded him of her mother. Of all his children he loved her best because she was the most like him; she was also like her mother. There were times when she angered him; but then, her mother had angered him, and he had loved her. He loved Elizabeth, Elizabeth of the fiery hair and the spirited nature and the quick temper. She would never be the dark-browed beauty that her mother had been; she was tawny-red like her father. He felt sudden anger sweep over him. Why, oh, why had she not been born a boy!

She did not speak to him, but stood quite still beside him, her attention caught and held, for a great ship—his greatest ship—was sailing towards the mouth of the river, and she was watching it, her eyes round with appreciation. He glowed with pride and warmed further towards her because she so admired the ships he had caused to be built.

To contemplate that ship lifted his spirits. He needed to lift his spirits, for he had been troubled, and to think one sees a ghost is unnerving to a man of deep-rooted superstitions. He found himself wondering about this man who was Henry of England, who to him had always seemed such a mighty figure, so right in all that he did.

He was a great king; he had done much for England, for he was England. He was a murderer; he knew this now and then; he knew it as he stood looking over the river, Anne’s daughter beside him. He had murdered Anne whom he had loved best, and he had murdered Catherine whom he had also loved; but England he had begun to lift to greatness, because he and England were one.

He thought of this land which he loved, of April sunshine and soft, scented rain; of green fields and banks of wild flowers; and the river winding past his palaces to the sea. It was no longer just an island off the coast of Europe; it was a country becoming mighty, promising to be mightier yet; and through him had this begun to happen, for he would let nothing stand in the way of his aggrandizement, and he was England.

He thought backwards over bloodstained years. Wales subdued; but a few weeks ago he had assumed the title of King of Ireland; he planned to marry his son Edward to a Scottish princess. As he reached out for treasure so should England. He would unite these islands under England and then…

He wanted greatness for England. He wanted people, in years to come, when they looked back on his reign, not to think of the blood of martyrs but of England’s glory.

There were dreams in his eyes. He saw his fine ships. He had made that great navy into the finest ever known. He had thought of conquering France, but he had never done so. France was powerful, and too much of England’s best blood had been shed in France already. But there were new lands as yet undiscovered on the globe. Men sailed the seas from Spain and Portugal and found new lands. The Pope had drawn a line down the globe from pole to pole and declared that all lands discoverable on the east side of that line belonged to Portugal and west of it to Spain. But England had the finest ships in the world. Why not to England? War? He cared not for the shedding of England’s blood, for that would weaken her and weaken Henry, for never since Wolsey had left him to govern England did he forget that England was Henry.

No bloodshed for England, for that was not the way to greatness. What if in generations to come England took the place of Spain! He had ever hated Spain as heartily as he loved England. What if English ships carried trade to the new lands, instead of war and pillage, instead of fanaticism and the Inquisition! He had the ships…If Spain were weak…. What a future for England!

He thought of his pale, puny son, Jane’s son. No! It should have been Anne’s son who carried England through these hazy dreams of his to their reality. He looked at Anne’s girl—eager, vital, with so much of himself and so much of Anne in her.

Oh, Anne, why did you not give me a son! he thought. Oh, had this girl but been a boy!

What should scholarly Edward do for England? Would he be able to do what this girl might have done, had she been a boy? He looked at her flushed face, at her eyes sparkling as she watched the last of the ship, at her strong profile. A useless girl!

He was trembling with the magnitude of his thoughts, but his moment of clarity was gone. He was an old and peevish man; his leg pained him sorely, and he was very lonely, for he had just killed his wife whose youth and beauty were to have been the warm and glowing fire at which he would have warmed his old body.

He reminded his conscience—better preserved than his body—that Anne had been an adulteress, a traitress, that her death was not murder, only justice.

He scowled at Elizabeth; she was too haughty, too like her mother. He wished he could shut from his mind the sound of screaming, mingling with the chanting voices in the chapel. Catherine was a wanton, a traitress, and adulteress, no less than Anne.

The ship was passing out of sight, and he was no longer thinking of ships, but of women. He pictured one, beautiful and desirable as Anne, demure and obedient as Jane, young and vivacious as Catherine. His hot tongue licked his lips, and he was smiling.

He thought, I must look for a new wife…for the sake of England.

Murder Most Royal

A Novel

Jean Plaidy

A READER’S GROUP GUIDE

About the Book

The wives of Henry VIII are a famously unlucky bunch. From the long-suffering Katharine of Aragon, to the haughty and stunning Anne Boleyn, to the passionate coquette Catherine Howard, each enjoys favor in her turn according to Henry’s needs—and is as quickly discarded when the royal eye roves elsewhere. Henry’s deadly whims require a cadre of supporters whose considerable gifts as politicians are at times almost farcically absorbed by the king’s romantic needs, as the increasingly cruel monarch sacrifices one wife to the next in bloody succession. One of the most fascinating characters in Henry’s saga is Henry himself, whose once-popular image as a robust and jovial prince devolves into something much more sinister during his reign. His worsening physical infirmities are as frustrating to him as are his enemies abroad. Worse still, his wives cannot provide the healthy son who would secure his legacy. Angry at one of the few circumstances that seems entirely out of his control, Henry rails against his enemies, declaring himself submissive to the one thing he can and does meticulously control: his own conscience. Reassured of his own righteousness, Henry is able to wreak havoc on those he loves with a conscience not clean, but ever subservient to its king.

Questions for Discussion

1. Henry’s romance with Anne Boleyn is described as the first time he has truly been in love. Why do you think he was so easily led to condemn her?

2. Catherine Howard’s early romances and her flirtation with Culpepper provided ample grounds for Henry to find fault with her. Were it not for these transgressions, do you think Henry could have remained happily married to her, or would he have been able to find other faults? Should Catherine have admitted her affairs before marrying the king? What do you think would have happened if she had?

3. Who is the wisest of Henry’s wives and why?

4. In planning his divorce from Katharine and pursuit of Anne, Henry mused, “The girl was there, and it pleased him to think of her in his arms, for such reflections were but natural and manly; and how she was to be got into that position was of small consequence, being a purely personal matter, whereas this great question of divorce was surely an affair of state.” This separation of state and personal matters, while contrived, does make some effort to mediate the cruelty he is to inflict on his wife by casting the divorce as a purely political matter. How much does this division and decisive (if deluded) reasoning carry through in Henry’s future marriages? Does this way of thinking conflict with Henry’s later identification of himself with England as one and the same?

5. Plaidy writes of Wolsey, “The Cardinal’s true religion was statecraft.” Discuss Wolsey’s adherence to statecraft as opposed to his allegiance to the church of Rome. How does this “religion” work? What can he hope to achieve through it? What is his endgame?

6. Before she agrees to marry him, Anne tells Henry that she must have the chance to love him as a man as well as a king. She thinks: “Love first, power second. Ah, could I but love this man!” Do you think Anne has real hope that she could grow to love Henry, or is this merely a way of buying time before she is forced to succumb? Do you think she grows to love him? How would you describe their relationship as king and queen?

7. After More’s death, the powers of Europe mourn the execution of a great thinker and leader. The English people mourn a brave martyr. Henry’s reaction is to cast blame on Anne. The author paints More’s execution as the point at which Henry is revealed as a tyrant, a “cold, cruel, implacable, relentless egoist.” Why is this moment so significant?

8. Though Henry is often irrational and irascible, he does have certain predictable impulses and patterns of behavior that are observed and manipulated by his counselors and confidantes. What traits of Henry’s make this type of manipulation possible? What would you consider the most important things for his close counselors to understand about the king if they are to survive their posts?

9. Though Henry’s negative traits grow more menacing through his reign, his powers as statesman also increase as he grows to appreciate his father’s frugalness and shows an awareness of his duty to England as a European power. Do you see any significant signs that Henry is developing as a ruler? What experiences lead him to develop as he does?

10. Discuss the reaction of the “sentimental” and “superstitious” people to the serial dismissal of Henry’s wives. Do their loyalties appear fickle, or do you recognize any constants in their opinions?

11. A theme in the book is the willful delusion of one’s conscience to avoid responsibility. This is the case with Henry throughout his romantic adventures; with the dowager duchess as she allows Catherine Howard to be brought up with little or no discipline or education; with Catherine and Derham as they declare themselves married to enjoy an illicit romance. What drives these characters to behave as they do? Is this mere carelessness, or is there something more at play?

12. Who do you consider to be the heroes of the book? What makes a person heroic or even virtuous in this story?

13. Why does Jane Rochford spy and tattle as she does? In the case of Anne Boleyn, she is driven partly by jealousy and vindictiveness—but why would she continue this dangerous behavior with Catherine and others? At what point do you think Jane goes mad? Is George to blame?

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

With love to

Enid and John Leigh-Hunt

Acknowledgments

I WISH gratefully to acknowledge the guidance I have received from the undermentioned books:

History of England, William Hickman Smith Aubrey

Life of Sir Thomas More, William Roper

Thomas More, R. W Chambers

Life of Wolsey, Cavendish

Utopia, Sir Thomas More

A Dialogue of Comfort, Sir Thomas More

The Latin Epigrams of Thomas More, edited with Translations and Notes by Leicester Bradner and Charles Arthur Lynch

England in Tudor Times, L. F. Salzman, M.A., F.S.A.

British History, John Wade

Lives of the Queens of England, Agnes Strickland

Old and New London, Walter Thornbury

The Divorce of Catherine of Aragon, James Anthony Froude

Wolsey (Great Lives), Ashley Sampson

Early Tudor Drama, A. W Reed, M.A., D.Lit.

J.P.

1

AND WHO IS THIS MAN WHO DARES OPPOSE US?” DEMANDED the King. “Who is this Thomas More? Eh? Answer me that.”

The King was angry. He sat very straight in the royal chair, one slender hand lying on the purple velvet which covered the table, the other stroking the ermine which covered his mantle. He was battling to subdue his rage, to preserve his habitual calm; for he was a shrewd man and his life had taught him that unheated words were more effective than the sword.

He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat with him at the velvet-covered table where lay the documents which had absorbed their attention until the entrance of the man Tyler.

“You, Empson! You, Dudley! Tell me this: Who is this man More?”

“Methinks I have heard his name, Your Grace,” said Sir Edmund Dudley. “But I know him not.”

“We should be more careful whom we allow to be elected as our London burgesses.”

“Indeed yes, Your Grace,” agreed Sir Richard Empson.

The King’s fury was getting the better of him. He was glaring distastefully at Master Tyler, that gentleman of the Privy Chamber who had brought the news; and it was not this king’s habit to blame men for the news they brought. Tyler trembled; he was fervently wishing that he had allowed someone else to acquaint the King with the news that his Parliament—owing to the pithily-worded arguments of one of the youngest burgesses—had refused to grant him the sum of money for which he had asked.

There was one other in the room of the palace of Richmond, and he—a boy of thirteen—was staring idly out of the window watching a barge on the river, wishing he were the gallant who accompanied the fair young lady as they went gaily on to Hampton; he could see them well, for his eyesight was keen. The sun was shining on the water, which was almost the same color as the dress of the young lady. This Prince was already fond of ladies, and they were fond of him. Although young as yet, he was already as tall as many men and showed promise of shooting up to great stature. His skin was fair and his hair had a tinge of red in it so that it shone like the gold ornaments on his clothes.

Now he had forgotten the young lady; he wished to be playing tennis, beating any who challenged him, listening to the compliments they paid, pretending not to hear, while they pretended not to know he listened. For two years he had been aware of such adulation; and how could he, who so loved adulation, feel really sorry that his brother had died? He had loved Arthur; he had admired him as his elder brother; but it was as though he had lost a coarse frieze garment and, because of his loss, found himself the possessor of a doublet of velvet and cloth of gold.

He was conscious that he was a prince who would one day be a king.

And when I am, he told himself, I shall not sit in council with such mumping oafs as Master Dudley and Master Empson. I shall not worry my head with the hoarding of money, but the spending of it. I shall have merry men about me—fat spenders, not lean misers.

“And you, my son,” he heard his father say, “what of you? Have you heard aught of this fellow More?”

The boy rose and came to the table to stand in homage before the King.

My son! pondered the King. What a king he will make! What resemblance he bears to the hated House of York! I see his grandfather, Edward of York, in that proud carriage.

And the boy’s father was faintly worried, for he remembered Edward the Fourth in his latter years when the tertian fever had laid hold of him and, like a mischievous scribe, had added a smudge here, a line there, until an ugly mask had made a palimpsest of his once beautiful face. But not only the fever had done this; it had been aided by the life he led: too much good food, too much good wine; too many women—anyhow, anywhere, from serving wenches to duchesses. Such debauchery took toll of a man.

I must speak with this son of mine, thought the King. I must set his feet on the rightful path. I must teach him how to save money and keep it. Money is Power, and Power is a king’s heritage; and if that king be a Tudor king—a young tree, the prey of sly and subtle pests, in danger of being overcome by older shrubs who claimed that young tree’s territory—then that Tudor king must have wealth, for wealth buys soldiers and arms to support him; wealth buys security.

He was not displeased with his own acquisitions; but when he had filled one coffer, he was eager to fill another. Everything he touched did not turn to gold as easily as he would wish. The touch of Midas was in his shrewd brain, not in his fingers. Ah well, he would then thank God for that shrewd brain. War drained the coffers of other kings; it filled those of Henry Tudor. He used war; he did not allow war to use him. He could draw money from the people by telling them that they must do battle with their enemies the French and the Scots; and the people were ready to pay, for they believed that the bread of righteous anger thrown upon the waters of conquest would yield rich booty. But Henry the Seventh knew that war took all the treasure that was offered, demanded more, and in exchange for so much riches gave pestilence, hunger and poverty. So the King, having collected his money, would make a speedy peace; and that which was intended to bring war to the enemies of England, brought wealth to England’s king.

He was a king who had suffered from many insurrections; insecure, since he was a bastard branch of the royal tree, grafted on by an indiscreet widowed queen, there had been many to oppose him. Yet each year saw him more firmly seated on the throne. He did not demand the blood of those who planned to destroy him: he only asked for their lands and goods. Thus he grew richer every year.

He now looked at the boy who stood before him, not as a father might look at his son, but as a king regarding his successor.

Last year, the Queen had died in childbed, and the King was eager to get himself a new wife. This was the only son left to him; and the death of Arthur, so recently a bridegroom, had been a bitter blow. The loss of the Queen was not so important; there were many women in the world—royal women—who would not hesitate to become the wife of the King of England; and it was pleasurable to contemplate that wives brought dowries.

Secretly he was not sorry to see the end of Queen Elizabeth. She had been a good, meek wife; she had given him several children; but she was of the House of York, and reasonable as he was, he had found that hard to forget.

“Well, my son?”

“I have met the man More, Your Grace.”

“Then tell me what you know of him.”

“He is a lawyer, Sire, and it was when I was at Eltham with my sisters that I saw him. He came with Mountjoy and the scholar, Erasmus; for Erasmus was visiting Mountjoy whom he had once tutored.”

“Yes,” said the King, “and what manner of man was this More?”

“Of medium height, I should say, Sire. Of bright complexion. And he had merry eyes and a way of speech that provoked much laughter.”

“Methinks his way of speech provoked much parsimony in our Parliament. And that we will not have. Is that all you can tell us?”

“That is all, Sire.”

The King waved his hand, and the Prince, bowing, went back to his stool.

“He should be heavily fined,” declared the King.

“He is not a rich man, Your Grace,” murmured Empson. “A scholar, a writer, a lawyer…little could be extorted from him.”

The King could trust his henchmen, Empson and Dudley. They were of his own kind. They had their private greed; they enriched themselves while they enriched the King.

“He has a father, Sire,” said Dudley.

“Who,” added Empson, “might be good for a hundred pounds.”

“Put him in the Tower.”

“On the charge of possessing a disloyal son, Your Grace?”

“Nay. Nay. You know better than that. Look into his affairs, then bring some charge against him. See what goods he hath; then we will decide on the fine. And do so with all speed.”

The King wished to be alone with his son.

The boy, when he had stood before him, had aroused anxieties within him and temporarily they had swamped his anger at the failure to obtain as much money as he wished. This was because of the boy’s appearance; the proud set of the head on the shoulders, the dazzlingly fair skin, the vital hair that was almost the color of gold, the small sensual mouth, the bright blue eyes had reminded the King so vividly of the boy’s maternal grandfather; and he remembered the profligacy of that man.

He felt the need, therefore, to talk with his son immediately.

When they were alone he addressed him. “Henry.”

The boy rose at once, but his father went on, “Nay; stay where you are. No ceremony whilst we are alone. Now I would speak to you as father to son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“One day, my boy, you will be king of this realm.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Three years ago, we did not know that you were destined for such greatness. Then you were merely the King’s second son, who, your father had decided, should become Archbishop of Canterbury. Now your steps are turned from Church to Throne. My son, do you know that the cares of kingship outweigh the glory and the honor?”

The boy answered, “Yes, Father.”

But he did not believe this. So it might be with lean, pale men such as his father, whose thoughts were all of filling their coffers; but if a king were young and handsome and the eyes of ladies lightened as they rested upon him, and those of the young men were warm with envy and admiration, that was a different matter. The glory and the honor could outweigh the care; and if they did not do so in the case of Henry the Seventh, Henry the Eighth would see to it that they did so for him.

“Many temptations come to kings, my son. You would do well to study the history of those who have gone before.”

“That I do, Father. My Lord Mountjoy insisted that I did so when he tutored me.”

“There are times when a king is beset on all sides, when traitors rise and threaten him. Then he must act with speed and wisdom.”

“I know it, Sire.”

“You know then why I wish you to be present at our councils. I hope you do not spend your time staring idly through the windows, dreaming of sport and pleasure. I would have you learn from what you hear at these our meetings.”

“I do, Father.”

“There are some who would have sent that fellow More to the Tower and would have had his head on London Bridge for what he has done. But such acts are folly. Remember this: Let the people think that the Parliament guides the King; but let the members of the Parliament know that the King has a hundred ways of striking at them if they obey him not.”

“The people are not pleased,” said the boy boldly. “They like not taxes, and they say that there have been too many taxes. They murmur against Dudley and Empson.” He dared not say they murmured against the King, but he knew the people would never love his father as he believed they would love his father’s son. When he went into the streets they called his name. “God bless the Prince! God bless Prince Hal!” The sound of their cheers was sweeter than the music of his lute, and he loved his lute dearly. His father could not tell him how a king should behave.

“There must be those to do a king’s work,” said King Henry, “and if it be ugly work, then it is the duty of those to bear the reproaches of the people. My son, you will one day be not only a king, but a rich king. When I slew the traitor Crookback at Bosworth Field and took the crown, I found I had inherited a bankrupt kingdom.”

“A right noble act it was to slay the traitor!” said the boy.

“Yet coming to the throne as we have done is a dangerous way. Never forget it. Be watchful. Above all, learn from those who have gone before. Use the lessons of the past to overcome the dangers of the future. You remind me of your grandfather, great King Edward, for you have something of his lineaments and his stature. Ah, there was a man!”

Father and son smiled as they thought of the boy’s grandfather.

With his beauty and charm, thought the King, he lured taxes from his people’s pockets and he called them “Benevolences.” Oh, for such power!

He roamed the countryside as an ordinary gentleman, thought the Prince; and such was his charm and beauty that no woman could resist him. Oh, for such power!

The sun’s rays slanted through the windows of Richmond Palace and as the father began to talk to the son of the delights and dangers of kingship, they ceased to think of Thomas More.

MEANWHILE IN the grounds of a pleasant old mansion in the little village of Stepney, the object of the King’s wrath was walking arm in arm with one of his greatest friends, his confessor, Dr. John Colet, a man whose wit and learning delighted him almost as much as the affection they bore each other.

Colet, some ten years older than Thomas More, was listening gravely to his friend’s account of what had happened in the Parliament.

He shook his head. “’Twas a brave act, I’ll grant you; but there is a point in human nature where bravery may be called folly, and folly, bravery.”

“Is it better to be a brave fool or a wise coward? Tell me that, John. I love the wise; I love the brave; and I love not cowards nor fools. What a perverse thing is life when the wrong partners walk together!”

John Colet was in no mood for laughter. He was alarmed.

“Had it been anything but money, the King would have been the more ready to forgive you.”

“Had it been anything but money, would the King have been begging it from his Parliament? Nay, the King loves money. He loves the color of gold. He loves the sight of gold in his coffers…gold plate…gold coins. He rejoices in the knowledge that he is not only a king, but a rich king.”

“Friend Thomas, there is one thing you should take to heart. Now, I am an older man than you are….”

“I know it, thou graybeard.”

“Then know this also: If you wish to make an enemy of the King, get between him and the money he hopes to win. Thus—and more quickly than in any other way—can you rouse his wrath. And, Thomas, remember this now and for ever: It is a perilous thing to set yourself against a king.”

“It is an even more perilous thing to set oneself against one’s conscience, John. Tell me this: Should the King be allowed to impose such taxes on his people? You yourself have often said it should not be so. Come, admit it.”

“What we have said, we have said in the circle of our friends. It is another matter to say such things in Parliament.”

“I call to mind that there are those of my friends who have lectured in such manner as to attract multitudes. And this they have done in public places.” Thomas put his head on one side and lifted his shoulder in a manner which was characteristic of him. “I think of one friend, not so far from me at this moment, who has placed himself in high danger by too boldly expressing what are called ‘dangerous thoughts.’”

Colet said impatiently: “I talked of theology. You have talked of money. There was never a more avaricious king than ours. There was never one more vindictive when his darling money is kept from him. However, there is one thing that pleases me. You are a poor man, my friend. To rob you of your wordly goods would hardly be worth the time of the King’s henchmen.”

“Now there we see one of the great compensations in life. Poverty is my shield; it protects me from the onslaughts of mine enemies. But have done with this matter. It was of others that I came hither to talk to you.”

They walked through the orchards, where the fruit was beginning to ripen. “Ah, John,” said Thomas, “there’ll be a good harvest this year if the wasps and the birds allow it. Hast heard aught of our friend Erasmus of late? Now, John, do not scowl. I know it was a grave blow to you when he would not stay in Oxford and lecture there with you. But it was compulsion that moved him to return to Rotterdam and poverty.”

“He disappoints me,” said Colet. “He could have stayed in this country. There was work for him to do. Could he not have studied here as much as he wished?”

“Remember what he said to you, John. He said it was you who disappointed yourself. You made a picture of him—far too learned, he says, far too saintly. He has not disappointed you, for he has always been himself; it is you who have disappointed yourself by making a false image of him. He is right, John. And I too have disappointed him. I rejoice that he does not love gold as the King does. For you know I told him it was safe for him to bring his money into England, and that he could safely take it out when he wished. My knowledge of the law was at fault—and I call myself a lawyer! Because of it my friend was deceived, and so…he was not allowed to take his money home. If he loved his few pieces of gold as the King loves his full coffers, Erasmus would hate me even as does the King. Hath it occurred to you that money bringeth much trouble to me? Now, that is an odd thing, for it is the love of money that is the root of evil; yet I pay so little court to it that I win the King’s anger and, I fear, the scorn of my learned friend Erasmus, through my contempt of it.”

“It would seem,” said John Colet, “that my wise friends are fools. There is Erasmus who must return to poverty in order to perfect his Greek. There is you who must take great pains to provoke the King…like a boy with a stick bent on teasing a bull.”

“But such an insignificant boy…a boy who is not worth the tossing.”

“Believe it or not, even those whose passion is the accumulation of money can have other passions. Revenge, for one.”

“Enough, John. Let us speak of my affairs. I have made a decision which will alter the course of my life.”

John Colet turned to look at his friend. The blue eyes were twinkling, the usually pink cheeks were flushed a rosy red. May God preserve him, thought Dr. Colet, for his nature is the sweetest I ever knew, and there are times when I fear it will lead him to trouble.

“Come, let us sit on the seat here and watch the barges sail up the river to London. Then tell me of this decision.” They sat down and John went on: “You have decided to take your vows?”

Thomas was silent; he laid his hands on his knees and looked across the river to where the willows hung low in the water and the rose-tinted umbels of the flowering rush bloomed among the purple stars of loosestrife, the figwort, with its brown helmets standing guard over them.

Thomas was twenty-six years of age—an age, he had decided, when a man must make decisions. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, of fresh complexion; and it was the sweetness of expression which people remembered.

Looking at him now, John Colet thought of the friends he loved; there was the great and learned Erasmus, the intellectual Grocyn, the reliable William Lily, and the keen-witted, kindly Linacre; all these men were the great scholars of the day; yet none of them could charm and attract as did Thomas More. Thomas was younger than either Colet or Erasmus, yet both these men counted him as their intellectual equal. He had a first-class brain; he could assimilate knowledge with astonishing speed; he could converse learnedly with humor and a sense of fun, and in the sharpness of his wit he never stooped to wound. Yet it was not only for these qualities that he was loved; it was the sweet kindliness of the man, his courteous manner even toward the humblest; it was the frankness mingling with the courtesy; it was the never-absent sympathy, the understanding of the problems of others and the ever-present desire to help any in distress.

“Nay,” said Thomas. “’Tis not to take the vows.”

John turned to him and grasped his hands. “Then I am glad that you have at last come to this decision.”

“I am a greedy man,” said Thomas. “Ah yes, I am, John. I have discovered that one life is not enough for me. I want to live two lives…side by side. I would take my vows and be with my dear brothers of the Charterhouse. How that beckons me! The solitude of the cloisters, the sweetness of bells at vespers, the sonorous Latin chants…the gradual defeat of all fleshly desires. What victory, eh, John? When the hair shirt ceases to torment; when a wooden pillow has more comfort to offer than a downy feather bed. I can see great joy in such a life…. But, then, I would be a family man. To tell the truth, John, I find that beside this monk within me, there is another—a man who looks longingly at the fair faces of young maidens, who thinks of kissing and caressing them; this is a man who yearns for the married state, for the love of a woman and the laughter of children. I have had to make a choice.”

“I’m glad you have chosen, Thomas; and I am sure that you have chosen well.”

“Then I have not disappointed your hopes of me? I see you did not set me such a high standard as you did our friend from Rotterdam.”

“Nay; I think not of standards. I think how pleasant it will be when you are a family man and I visit you, and your good wife will greet me at your table….”

“And you will listen to my children, repeating their lessons, and you will tell them that you have never known children so skilled in the arts of learning. Ah, John, would it not be an excellent thing if we could live two lives and, when we have reached an age of wisdom, lightly step out of that which pleases us no longer into that one that gives us great pleasure.”

“You are a dreamer, my friend. Indeed, it would bring no satisfaction, for you would be as undecided at fifty as you are at thirty. Each road would have joy and sorrow to offer a man; of that I am sure.”

“There you are right, John.”

“But I’ll swear the life you have chosen will be a good one.”

“But is it the right one, John? Is it the right one for me, do you think?”

“It is only at the completion of a man’s life that such can be decided.”

“Then tomorrow I ride into Essex,” said Thomas, “to the house of Master Colt at New Hall. And I shall ask Master Colt for the hand of his eldest daughter in marriage.”

“The eldest! But methought it was one of the younger ones who had taken your fancy.”

Thomas frowned a little; then he smiled, and his smile was one of infinite charm.

“I changed my mind.”

“Oh…so you liked the looks of one of the younger girls first, and then…you fell in love with her sister. Methinks you are a fickle man.”

“It seems so, John, for first I fell in love with the Charterhouse and a life of retirement; and you see I could not be faithful to that love for long.”

“Ah, but that was not a true love. For all those years you lived with the monks; you fasted and did your penances; but did you take your vows? No. Always you postponed that ceremony. And in the meantime, to please your father, you continued with your law studies. The Charterhouse was never your true love. Then you saw young Mistress Colt, and you thought how fair she was; but you did not ask her father for her. It was only when you saw the eldest girl that you were successfully weaned from your desire to retire from the world. A long and fruitful married life to you, Thomas! May you have many sons and a few daughters…for daughters are useful in the house.”

“My daughters will be as important in my eyes as my sons. They shall be educated exactly as my sons will be.”

“Women educated as men! Nonsense!”

“John, what is the greatest gift the world has to offer? You will answer that as I would: Learning. Is it not what you plan to give to the world? How many times have you talked of what you will do with your fortune when it is yours? You worship in the temple of Learning with me. Now would you deny it to one child because its sex is not the same as another?”

“I can see that you wax argumentative. Well, that is what I expect of you. It grows a little chilly here by the river. Let us walk back to the house whilst we talk of this thing. There is not much time, since you say you must ride on toward Essex tomorrow.”

“Yes, I must set out at sunrise.”

“On a mission of love! I will pray for you this night. I will remember the younger daughter on whom your fancy dwelt, and I shall pray that the husband will be less fickle than the lover.”

They walked slowly toward the house, and by the time they reached it they were deep in further discussion.

JOHN COLT welcomed his guest. He considered the lawyer of London a worthy suitor for his eldest girl. As he said to his wife, to tell the truth he had almost despaired of the girl’s getting a husband.

Jane lacked something which her sisters possessed. It was not only that she was a little plain; she lacked also their vitality. She seemed to want nothing but to stay in the country, tending the gardens or working in the house; and she seemed to find the company of the servants preferable to that of her own family or their neighbors. It would be good to see her a wife before her sisters married.

“Welcome to New Hall, friend Thomas!” cried Master Colt, embracing the man he hoped would soon be his son-in-law. “There, groom! Take his honor’s horse. Now, come you into the house. You’ll be tired after your journey. We’ve put supper forward an hour, for we thought you’d be hungry. ’Twill be five of the clock this day. And Jane’s in the kitchen. Ah! Knowing you were coming, she must be there to see that the meat is done to a turn, and the pastry of such lightness as was never known. You know what girls are!”

He nudged Thomas and broke into hearty laughter. Thomas laughed with him.

“But,” said Thomas, “it was to do homage neither to the beef nor to the pastry that I came, Master Colt.”

Master Colt broke into more laughter. He was a man of bucolic manners. He could never look at Thomas More without a chuckle. All this learning! It amused him. What was it for? “God’s Body,” he often said to his wife, “I’d rather one of our boys was hanged than become a bookworm. Books! Learning! What does it do for a man? Ah, if our Jane were like her sisters, I’d not have her throw herself away on a lawyer from London, whose nose, I’ll swear, likes better the smell of parchment than good roast beef.”

Now he said: “Come, Master More, we’ll put some flesh on those bones before you leave us. We’ll show you that a veal pie has more nourishment to offer you than Latin verse. Don’t you agree? Don’t you agree?”

“Take the roast beef of old England to nourish the muscles of the body,” said Thomas. “And then digest the wisdom of Plato to develop the mind.”

“Your mind won’t build you a fine house to live in, Master More; it won’t raise a fine family. A man must live by the strength of his body.”

“Or by the agility of his wits as do the King’s ministers.”

“Bah! Who’d be one of them? Here today and gone tomorrow. My Lord this and that today, and tomorrow it’s ‘Off with his head!’ Nay, fight your own battles, not the King’s.”

“I see that you have gleaned much wisdom from your red roast beef.”

Master Colt slipped his arm through that of his visitor. Queer, he thought, he might be a bookworm, but he was a merry man, and in spite of his oddity, Master Colt could not help being fond of him.

He felt proud of his possessions as he took Thomas through the forecourt and into the house. In the hall which occupied the ground floor of the central block, the great table was already set for the meal. Master Colt had little time for new-fangled town manners, and all his household ate at the same table—those servants who were not waiting, below the salt. Thomas looked at the sunlight slanting through the horn windows, at the vaulted roof, at the two staircases and the gallery from which the doors led to the other wings; but he was not thinking of the house. He was wondering what he would say to Jane.

“Come to my winter parlor and drink a mug of wine with me. Can you smell the juniper and rosemary? That’s our Jane. She knows much of the herbs that grow in the fields, and she is forever burning them in pomanders to make the air sweet.”

Master Colt still thought he had to impress on Jane’s suitor the wifely qualities of the girl, as though Thomas needed to be impressed, as though he had not already made up his mind.

His host led the way to the winter parlor and called for wine to be brought.

The winter parlor was a cozy place; it contained hangings embroidered in rich colors by the girls, and there was a table about which were placed several stools; Master Colt was very proud of the polished metal mirror and the new clock.

They sat at the table and wine was brought, but Master Colt noticed that his guest merely touched his with his lips for the sake of politeness.

He sighed. Here was a man he did not understand, who did not care what he ate, and loved books better than wine. Yet any husband for Jane was better than no husband at all.

Then through the window he caught sight of Jane with her flower basket.

“Why,” said Jane’s father, “there is Jane. You have seen her. You’re thinking you’d rather have a word with her than drink wine with her father. Well then, slip out into the garden now. You can speak with her before supper is served.”

So Thomas went out of the house to Jane.

JANE KNEW he was coming. She was afraid. Her sisters laughed at her for her timidity. She should be grateful, they told her. At last she had a suitor. At last a man was thinking of marrying her. She had better be careful how she acted, for he was not caught yet.

I wish, thought Jane, that I could stay at home with my heartsease and snapdragons, my sweet williams and gilly-flowers. I want to stay and help salt the meat after the killing, and make the butter and cheese, and to see that the servants watch well the roasting meat, to make the bread and pies. I could stay at home and do these things.

But Jane knew that was not what was expected of a girl. She must marry. If she did not, she was scorned; her sisters would marry and shut her out of their confidences; they would laugh at her; they would pity her; even now they called her Poor Jane.

She was Poor Jane because, while she was afraid of marriage, she was even more afraid of not being married at all.

He was very old, this man who had selected her; he was twenty-six, and she was just turned sixteen. Still, it was better to have an old husband than no husband at all. He was very clever, so they said; and he knew much of what had been written in books. But her father did not think very highly of that sort of cleverness. As for June, it alarmed her greatly, for she could not understand half of what Thomas More said to her; and when he began to speak she would think, since he was fond of jesting, that she must surely smile; but she was never certain when the smile would come. Perhaps she would learn. She was sure there were many things which she would have to learn, and that was doubtless one of them.

Still, she continually repeated to herself, and she was sure of the wisdom of this: it was better to marry any man than not to marry at all.

When, in the kitchen, she had heard his horse, she had taken her flower basket and run into the gardens to hide herself. Today he had come to ask her to marry him. Her father had told her this would happen and that she must accept him and tell him that she would be very happy to become his wife.

Happy to become his wife…

Would her young sister have been happy to be his wife, and would he have been happy to wed her?

She wondered why he had suddenly turned from her sister to herself; her father had sent her sister away at that time, and again she wondered why.

Life was difficult to understand. If it were only as simple as tending the garden, how contented she would be!

Now she started, and her heart began to beat in real fear, for Thomas was coming toward her.

HE SAW her bending over the flowers, rosy color flooding her neck, for her head was bent so that he could not see her face.

I will make her happy, he swore. Poor, fragile little Jane.

“Why, Mistress Colt,” he said. “Why, Jane, I trust I find you well.”

She curtsied awkwardly, and the flowers fell from her basket.

“You tremble,” he said. “Jane, you must not be afraid of me.”

“I…I am not afraid.” She lifted her eyes to his face. They reminded him of her sisters and he felt a pang of regret. His feelings for the two girls were so different. The younger girl, whom her father had sent away, was a creature of charm and beauty; he had been fascinated by the smooth, clear skin, the childish line of the cheeks, a certain boldness in her eyes that proclaimed her aware of the fact that she was admired. There had been, in her face and form, a certain promise of carnal delight. It was she who had decided him, who had shown him clearly that he must not take his vows, that he must leave the Charterhouse and make a home with a wife.

Was that love? He thought of others who had attracted him. He was no monk; he was no priest. He was a sensual man, it seemed. God had made him thus; and he believed he would have to control such feelings during the course of his life. All his friends had taken orders: Colet, Linacre, Lily. And what were women to Erasmus? He could see that he himself was fashioned of different clay. He wanted to be a saint; but since women moved him, charmed him, he was right not to turn from them; for it was better to be a layman who knew his weakness and tried to make an ideal family life, than a priest who took his vows and afterward broke them.

He had loved young Mistress Colt until he had caught a look in Jane’s eyes which had moved him—in another manner, it was true—as deeply as his desire for her sister.

He remembered the day well. They had been at dinner; and dinner was a merry meal at New Hall. Master Colt paid the deepest respect to his food. Why, he had his servants doff their hats with respect when the meat was brought in; his table was covered with so many dishes that it was almost impossible to make room for the wooden platters the family used. They had been at dinner, and Thomas had looked at his loved one, merrily chatting, delighting him with the quickness of her retorts. She had not been an educated girl. What girls were? Ah, that was a great mistake, as he had argued many times both with Colet and Erasmus. If women had souls, they also had brains, and it was as wrong to neglect the latter as the former. No, she was not educated, but he had appreciated her quick mind, that little display of wit. He had pictured his married life. They would sit after supper and he would teach her Latin; he would read her some of his epigrams and later perhaps those he was translating with Lily from the Greek anthology into Latin—but that was looking ahead. Then, when he had educated her, he would astonish his friends; and she would talk with them and be one of them. Yes, she should not only make a home for him, and give him children, she should join him and his friends in discussing theology, the need for reforming some of the old tenets of the Church; they would analyse the works of Plato, Socrates and Euripides; they themselves would write verses and essays, which they would read to one another. He had looked forward to those days. He saw himself not only caressing her beautiful body, but feeding her mind. It had been an enchanting picture.

And then, as his glance strayed from her, he had been aware of Jane. Jane, the quiet one whom they all twitted because she was not so ready with her tongue, because she was the eldest and because no man had sought her in marriage.

Jane had been looking at her sister with admiration and envy. Not malicious envy. Jane was of too gentle a nature to experience unadulterated envy. It was merely that she became more insignificant than usual when her sister chattered; and as he watched her, Thomas More found his love for the younger girl infringed by his pity for the elder one.

He had tried to draw her into conversation, but she would keep aloof like a frightened doe. He found her alone in the gardens and he said to her: “You must not be afraid to speak, little Jane. Tell me, why are you afraid to speak?”

She had said: “I have nothing to say.”

“But,” he had protested, “there must be something behind those eyes…some thought. Tell me what it is.”

“It would sound silly if I said it. Everyone would laugh.”

“I should not laugh.”

Then she told him how she thought the scent of gilly-flowers was the best in the world, and when she smelt it, she would always—no matter where she was—imagine that she was in the walled garden at New Hall. And she told him she feared she was a coward, for when they killed the animals in November, she shut herself in her room, stopped up her ears and wept. And sometimes she wept during the salting.

“Those are kindly thoughts, Jane,” he had said. “And thoughts that should be told.”

“But they would laugh if I told them. They would say that I am even sillier than they believed me to be.”

“I should not laugh, Jane,” he had told her. “I should never laugh.”

Then she had answered: “But you would laugh more than anyone because you are cleverer than any.”

“Nay. Because I know more of what is in books than do your brothers and sisters, the more I understand. For is not understanding knowledge? When people laugh at others it is often because those others differ from themselves. Therefore the ignorant think them strange. But if you study the ways of men, you learn much; and as your knowledge grows there is little to surprise you. The man who travels the world, in time becomes no longer astonished by the looks and customs of men of other lands. Yet the man who lives in his village all his life, is amazed by the habits of the man dwelling but ten miles away.”

“I do not entirely understand your words,” Jane had told him. “But I understand your kindness.”

“Then, Jane, you are clever, for if more understood the intentions behind men’s words, the world would be a happier place, and it is those who achieve happiness and lead others to it who are the clever ones of this world.”

Then she had told him how astonished she was that he, who was so much cleverer than others, should not frighten her so much; and that he, who had friends among the most learned of men, should know more than others how to be kind to a simple maid.

After that she would give him her quiet smile, and he would see the pleasure in her face when he spoke to her.

Others had noticed his friendship with Jane; and one day, when he had arrived at New Hall, it was to find that young Mistress Colt had gone away, and, with a sudden shock, he realized that he was expected to marry Jane.

To marry Jane! But it was merely a tender pity that he felt for her. It was her gay, tantalizing sister who had shown him that a monk’s life was not for him.

His first impulse had been to ride away or explain his feelings to Master Colt.

Her father might have guessed his reluctance. He said: “Jane is a good girl. The best in the world. The man who married her would get a good wife.”

Master Colt was not a subtle man; but if Thomas More was not moved by the desire of a country gentleman to get his daughter off his hands, he was deeply touched by the mute appeal of Jane.

He saw at once what he had done. With his kindness he had sown seeds of hope. Jane had a new gown; Jane had won the respect of her family, for which she had always longed, because they believed that a man wished to make Jane his wife.

What could he do? Could he ride away and never return to New Hall? Could he still ask for the hand of the girl with whom he had fallen in love?

And what of Jane? Meek and mild she was; but it was those of her temperament who suffered most cruelly. And her sister—what of her? But she was a gay spirit and there would be so many to admire her. She was very young, and he doubted whether she had ever thought very seriously about one who would seem elderly to her.

If he hurt Jane, if he wounded her pride, if he was responsible for bringing upon her her family’s scorn, how could he forgive himself? He had meant to make her life easier. Could it be that in his blind folly, he had made it harder for her to bear?

Being the man he was, he saw only one course open to him. He must turn tenderness into love; he must marry Jane. He must turn her into a woman such as he wished to have for his wife. Why should it not be so? She had been a docile daughter; she would be a docile wife. So he removed the girl he loved from the picture of domestic bliss and set Jane there in her place. He saw pleasant evenings when they would sit over their books while he talked to her in the Latin tongue. And after Latin…Greek.

And so, as Thomas More came into the garden to speak to Jane, he was picturing the future…their happy home, their children and his learned friends…all merry together.

“Why, Jane,” he said, “we saw you through the window and your father bade me join you.”

“You are welcome,” she answered with her quiet smile.

And in the garden, with the hot sun upon him and the girl beside him, her eyes downcast, there came to him a reminder that he had not yet spoken those words which would make it impossible for him to turn back. Suddenly he thought of the quiet of the Charterhouse, of those years when he had lived with the Carthusian monks, and he longed to be back with them. He wanted another chance to think, to brood on this matter, to talk it over with his friends.

But because he was silent so long, she had lifted her eyes to his face; she had been looking at him for some seconds in anxious bewilderment before he realized this.

How young she was! How pathetic! How could he leave her to the mercy of her family? Dear Jane! He guessed what her life would be if he rode away now. Her sisters would taunt her; the whole family would let her see that she had failed; she would become Jane-of-no-account, in very truth.

Life was unfair to such women.

Pity colored all his thoughts. It was ever so. When he saw the poor in the streets he could never resist giving alms. His friends said: “The word goes round among the beggars: ‘Thomas More comes this way!’ And they uncover their sores, and some feign blindness. Make sure that in enriching the beggars you do not beggar yourself.” And he had answered: “There may be some who are not so poor as they would seem to be; there may be some who feign distress to win my pity and with it money from my pocket. But, my friends, I would rather be the victim of a rogue than that any man should be the victim of my indifference to his suffering.”

Pity. Sweet Pity. A nobler emotion that passion or desire. Here then, he thought, is what I most desire: A happy home. And cannot Jane give me that?

“Jane,” he said, “I want you to be my wife.”

She stared down at the flowers in her basket.

“What say you, Jane?” he asked tenderly.

“My father wishes it.”

“He does. And you?”

She smiled slowly. “I shall try to be a good wife to you.”

He kissed her tenderly; and she thought: There will be less to fear with him than with anyone else, for he is the kindest man in the world.

“Then come. Let us go into the house and tell your father that you have consented to become my wife.”

They went into the hall, where the servants were now carrying in the dishes. Thomas was amused by the ceremony which was paid to the food.

“I was about to ask you to salute a new son,” he said to his host, “but I see that he must keep his place until His Majesty the Ox hath been received.”

And only when the great side of beef was set on the table was Master Colt ready to embrace Thomas. Then, taking him to the head of the table, he proclaimed to those assembled there that his daughter Jane was betrothed to Thomas More.

JANE WAS sitting at the window of her new home, which was called The Barge, looking out along Bucklersbury, thinking that she must be the most unhappy woman in the world. But then, Jane’s knowledge of the world was slight.

The Barge! She hated it. It was a foolish name to give a gloomy old house. “The Barge,” Thomas had explained, “will be our home. Why ‘The Barge’? you may ask. It is because in the days before the Walbrook was covered, the barges came right to this spot. Oh, Jane, we will wander through the City and we will picture it as it was in days gone by. Then you will see what a wonderful old City it is, and you will love it as I do—more than any other place in the world.”

But Jane could not love it. She could love no place but New Hall. She longed for her garden, for the quiet fields of buttercups and marguerites; she hated this great City with its shops and crowds of noisy people. All through the day she could hear the shouts of traders in the Poultry and the Chepe; she could smell the meats being roasted in the cook shops, and the scents from the apothecaries’ of which there were so many in Bucklersbury; the scent of musk mingled with that of spices from the pepperers’ and grocers’ shops; and she was homesick…homesick for New Hall and the single life.

She wept a good deal. Often Thomas would look in dismay at her reddened eyelids; but when he asked what ailed her, she would shrink from him. She had not imagined that married life was like this, and she could not understand why so many people longed for it. Why did they think a girl had failed if she did not achieve it?

She had married a man whose heart was in books. In London he seemed older than he had in the country. Men came to the house; they were older even than her husband; and she would sit listening to their talk without understanding anything they said.

She was foolish, she knew. Her family had always said so. How tragic it was that she, the simplest of them all, should be married to one of the most learned men in England!

There was so much to learn. She had always believed that a wife had but to watch the servants and see that there was no waste in the kitchen. That had been her stepmother’s duty. But here at The Barge, much was expected of her.

“Jane,” he had said, “I will lay the whole world at your feet.” She had thought that was one of the most beautiful things a husband could say to his wife; but she had discovered that his way of laying the whole world at her feet was to attempt to teach her Latin and to make her repeat, by way of re-creation, the sermons they heard in St. Stephen’s Church in Walbrook.

“Poor little Jane,” he said, “they have neglected your education, but we will remedy that, my love. I said I would lay the whole world at your feet, did I not? Yes, Jane, I will give you the key to all the treasures in the world. Great literature—that is the world’s greatest treasure; and the key is understanding the languages in which it is written.”

She was a most unhappy bride. She felt bewildered and lost and wished she were dead.

Surely everything a normal woman needed was denied her. In a book he had written, entitled The Life of John Picus, there was a dedication to a woman. She had felt a faint stirring of jealousy, but she had discovered that the woman to whom the book was dedicated was a nun—a sister who lived with the Order of the Poor Clares just beyond the Minories. How could she be jealous of a nun? Even that was denied her. She knew that she had married no ordinary man, and she fervently wished that she had a husband whom she could understand—someone like her father or her brothers, even if there were occasions when he was angry with her and beat her. This harping on the value of learning, in spite of his kindness and gentleness, was sometimes more than she could bear.

He was trying to mold her, to make her into a companion as well as a wife. It was like asking an infant to converse with sages.

Dr. Lily came to the house, as did Dr. Linacre and Dr. Colet; they conversed with her husband, and they laughed frequently, for Thomas laughed a good deal; but a woman could not continue to smile when she had no idea of the cause of laughter.

Sometimes her husband took her walking through the City, pointed out with pride what he considered places of interest.

They would walk through Walbrook and Candlewick Street, through Tower Street to the Great Tower. Then Thomas would tell her stories of what had happened within those gloomy walls, but she found she could not remember which of the kings and queens had taken part in them; and she would be worried because she knew she could not remember. Then he would take her to Goodman’s Fields and pick daisies with her; they would make a chain together to hang about her neck; he would laugh and tease her because she was a country girl; but even then she would be afraid that he was making jokes which she did not recognize as such.

Sometimes they would walk along by the river or row over to Southwark, where the people were so poor. Then he would talk of the sufferings of the poor and how he visualised an ideal state where there was no such suffering. He loved to talk of this state which he built up in his imagination. She was rather glad when he did so, for he would not seem to notice that she was not listening, and she could let her mind enjoy memories of New Hall.

At other times they would walk through the Poultry to the Chepe and to Paul’s Cross to listen to the preachers. He would glance at her anxiously, hoping that her delight in the sermons equaled his own. He would often talk of Oxford and Cambridge, where so many of his friends had studied. “One day, Jane, I shall take you there,” he promised her. She dreaded that; she felt that such places would be even more oppressive than this City with its noisy crowds.

Once she watched a royal procession in the streets. She saw the King himself—-a disappointing figure, unkingly, she thought, solemn and austere, looking as though he considered such displays a waste of money and time. But with him had been the young Prince of Wales, who must surely be the most handsome Prince in the world. She had cheered with the crowd when he had ridden by on his gray horse, so noble, so beautiful in his purple velvet cloak, his hair gleaming like gold, his sweet face, as someone in the crowd said, as lovely as a girl’s, yet masculine withal. It seemed to Jane that the Prince, who was smiling and bowing to all, let his eyes linger for a moment on her. She felt herself blushing; and surely all the homage and admiration she wished to convey must have been there for him to see. Then it had seemed that the Prince had a special smile for Jane; and as she stood there, she was happy—happy to have left New Hall, because there she could never have had a smile from the boy who would one day be the King.

The Prince passed on, but something had happened to Jane; she no longer felt quite so stupid; and when Thomas told her of the coming of King Henry to the throne, she listened eagerly and she found that what he had to tell was of interest to her. Thomas was delighted with that interest, and when they reached The Barge he read her some notes which he had compiled when, as a boy, he had been sent to the household of Cardinal Morton, there to learn what he could. The notes were written in Latin, but he translated them into English for her, and she enjoyed the story of the coming of the Tudor King; she wept over the two little Princes who, Thomas told her, had been murdered in the Tower by the order of their wicked, crook-backed uncle, Richard. She could not weep for the death of Arthur, for, had Arthur lived, that beautiful Prince who had smiled at her would never be a King. So the death of Arthur, she was sure, could not be a tragedy but a blessing in disguise.

Thomas, delighted with her interest, gave her a lesson in Latin; and although she was slow to understand, she began to feel that she might learn a little.

She thought a good deal about the handsome Prince, but a conversation she overheard one day sent her thoughts fearfully to the Prince’s father, the flinty-faced King.

John More came to see his son and daughter-in-law. Like Thomas, he was a lawyer, a kindly faced man with shrewd eyes.

He patted Jane’s head, wished her happiness and asked her if she were with child. She blushed and said she was not.

Marriage, she heard him tell Thomas, was like putting the hand into a blind bag which was full of eels and snakes. There were seven snakes to every eel.

She did not understand whether that meant he was pleased with his son’s marriage or not; and what eels and snakes had to do with her and Thomas she could not imagine.

But there was something which she did understand.

John More said to his son: “So, your piece of folly in the Parliament has cost me a hundred pounds.”

“My piece of folly?”

“Now listen, son Thomas. I have been wrongfully imprisoned on a false charge, and my release was only won in payment of a hundred pounds. All London knows that I paid the fine for you. You were the culprit. You spoke with such fire against the grant the King was asking that it was all but halved by the Parliament. The King wishes his subjects to know that he’ll not brook such conduct. You have done a foolish thing. A pair of greedy royal eyes are turned upon us, and methinks they will never lose sight of us.”

“Father, as a burgess of London, I deemed it meet to oppose the King’s spending of his subjects’ money.”

“As a subject of the King, you have acted like a fool, even though as a burgess you may have acted like an honest man. You are a meddler, my son. You will never rise to the top of our profession unless you give your mind to the study of law, and to nothing else. I kept you short of money at Oxford….”

“Aye, that you did—so that I often went hungry and was unable to pay for the repair of my boots. I had to sing at the doors of rich men for alms, and to run up and down the quadrangles for half an hour before bedtime, or the coldness of my body would have kept me from sleep altogether.”

“And you bear me a grudge for that, eh, my son?”

“Nay, Father. For, having no money to spend on folly, I must give all my energies to learning; and knowledge is a greater prize than meat for supper—even if it is not always of the law!”

“Thomas, I understand you not. You are a good son, and yet you are a fool. Instead of giving yourself entirely to the study of the law, what do you do? When that fellow Erasmus came to England you spent much time…discoursing, I hear, prattling the hours away, studying Greek and Latin together…when I wished you to work at the law. And now that you are accounted a worthy and utter barrister, and you are made a burgess, what do you do? You…a humble subject of the King, must arouse the King’s wrath.”

“Father, one day, if I am a rich man, I will repay the hundred pounds.”

“Pah!” said John More. “If you are a rich man you will hear from the King, and I doubt you would remain a rich man long enough to pay your father that hundred pounds. For, my son…and let us speak low, for I would not have this go beyond us…the King will not forget you. You have escaped, you think. You have done your noble act and your father has paid his fine. Do not think that is an end of this matter.” He lowered his voice still more. “This King of ours is a cold-hearted man. Money is the love of his life; but one of his light o’ loves is revenge. You have thwarted his love; you have wounded her deeply. You…a young man, who have, with your writings, already attracted attention to yourself so that your name is known in Europe, and when scholars visit this country you are one of those with whom they seek to converse. You have set yourself up to enlighten the people, and you have done this in Parliament. What you have said is this: ‘The King’s coffers are full to bursting, good people, and you are poor. Therefore, as a burgess of your Parliament, I will work to remedy these matters.’ The King will not forget that. Depend upon it, he will seek an opportunity of letting you know that no subject of his—be he ever so learned, and whatever admiration scholars lay at his feet—shall insult the King and his beloved spouse, riches.”

“Then, Father, I am fortunate to be a poor man; and how many men can truly rejoice in their poverty?”

“You take these matters lightly, my son. But have a care. The King watches you. If you prosper he will have your treasure.”

“Then I pray, Father, that my treasures will be those which the King does not envy—my friends, my writing, my honor.”

“Tut!” said the shrewd lawyer. “This is fools’ talk. Learn wisdom with your Greek and Latin. It’ll stand you in better stead than either.”

Jane was frightened. That man with the cruel face hated her husband. She took her father-in-law’s warning to heart if Thomas did not.

Often she dreamed of the hard-faced King, and in her dreams his great coffers burst open while Thomas took out the gold and gave it to the beggars in Candlewick Street.

She knew she had a very strange and alarming husband; and often, when she wept a little during the silence of the night, she wondered whether it would have been much worse to have remained unmarried all her life than to have become the wife of Thomas More.

HER POSITION was not relieved by the coming of the man from Rotterdam.

Jane had heard much of him; and of all the learned friends who struck terror into her heart, this man frightened her more than any.

He settled in at The Barge and changed the way of life there.

Sometimes he looked at Jane with a mildly sarcastic smile, and there would be a faint twinkle in his half-closed blue eyes as though he were wondering how such a man as his friend Thomas More could have married the insignificant little wench.

She learned a good deal about him, but the things which interested her were, Thomas said, unimportant. He was the illegitimate son of a priest, and this seemed to Jane a shameful thing; nor could she understand why he was not ashamed of it. He had become an orphan when he was very young, and when those about him had realized his unusual powers he had been sent into a convent of canons regular, but, like Thomas, he could not bring himself to take the vows. He had studied in Paris, where he had given his life to literature; and although he had suffered greatly from abject poverty and had been forced to earn his bread by becoming tutor to gentlemen, so dazzling was his scholarship that he had drawn the attention of other scholars to himself and was recognized as the greatest of them all.

Jane, in her kitchen, giving orders to her maids, could hardly believe that she had this great man in her house and that it was her husband with whom he went walking through the streets of London.

To some extent she was glad of this man’s visit; it turned Thomas’s attention from herself. They were translating something—to which they referred as Lucian—from Latin into Greek, she believed; they would spend hours together doing this work, disagreeing on many points. It seemed to Jane that learned conversation involved a good deal of disagreement. And so it happened that as Thomas must engage himself in continual conversation with Erasmus, with his work as a lawyer and with his attendances at the Parliament, he had less time to give to the tutoring of his wife.

But she, since the smile she was sure she had received from the Prince of Wales, began to feel that perhaps she was not so foolish as she had believed herself to be. On looking back, it seemed that that smile of the Prince’s had held a certain appreciation. She was not so foolish that she did not realize that the Prince would look for other qualities in a woman than did Thomas; yet the approbation of such a Prince gave her new courage and confidence in herself.

She listened more carefully to the discourses that went on about her; and when they were in English she found that they were not so dreary as she had believed they must be.

Erasmus disliked the monks; Thomas defended them.

Erasmus declared his intention of one day laying bare to the world the iniquitous happenings which occurred in some of the monasteries of Europe.

He had stories to tell of the evil practices which went on in monasteries. Listening, Jane realized that there was much sin in the world.

In some religious houses, declared Erasmus, lewdness rather than religion was the order of the day. Abortion and child murder prevailed; for how, demanded Erasmus, can these holy nuns account for the children they bring into the world? They cannot. So they strangle them as soon as they are born and bury them in the grounds of the nunneries. There are lusts of an unnatural nature between the sexes….

Here the men became aware of Jane’s attention, and they lapsed into Latin.

Jane thought: The Prince thought me worth a glance. Perhaps I could learn a little Latin. Though I should never be a scholar I might learn a little, for if I can understand English, why not Latin?

Erasmus spoke in English of one monastery in which there was a statue of a boy saint, hollow and so light that it could be lifted by a child of five. Yet it was said that only those without sin could lift it. Many came to see the holy statue, and rich men found that they could only lift it when they had paid heavily for the monk’s intercession with the saints on their behalf. Only when they had given to the monastery as much money as they could be induced to part with were they able to lift the statue. A miracle? In a way. Worked by one of the monks who, remaining out of sight, removed at the right moment that peg which held the statue on the floor. Then there was the case of the phial of blood, reputed to be that of Christ. Only those who were holy enough could see the blood; and it was deemed a sign from Heaven that a man would only be received there if the blood appeared to him. And the blood? The blood of a duck, renewed at regular intervals. And the phial? It was opaque one side. It cost much money to have the phial turned so that the blood was visible to the devout dupe.

“These practices are wicked,” said Erasmus. “They bring much gain to the monasteries now, but they will eventually bring much loss. I am sure of it.”

“Is it fair,” asked Thomas, “to condemn all monasteries because of the evildoing of some?”

“It is well,” said Erasmus, “to put all under suspicion and let them clear themselves.”

“But should one be assumed guilty until he fails to prove his innocence?”

“You are too lenient, friend More. The greed of these monks will prove their undoing. One day I shall show their criminal follies to the world; I shall set it out that all may read. Then, my friend, they will wish that they had led the lives of holy men, which are more comfortable than the lives of the wandering beggars they will become. What say you, Mistress More? What say you?”

The mildly mocking eyes were turned upon her. Thomas came to her rescue. “Jane will doubtless agree with you.”

“Then I am glad of that,” said Erasmus. “And I hope one day to convince you also. For it is the duty of us men of letters to show the world’s wrongs to the world.”

“But we must be sure we have something good to offer in its place, before we destroy that which mayhap could be set to rights.”

“Ah, you and your ideal state! That is still on your mind, is it? You set too high a standard. You think the world is made up of potential saints and martyrs. Does your husband talk to you, Mistress More, day in, day out, of this wonder world of his?”

“He talks…a little,” stammered Jane. “But I am not clever. I am far from learned and there is much I do not know.”

Thomas smiled at her, his eyes telling her not to be nervous. He rose and put an arm about her shoulders.

“Jane is learning,” he said. “One day she will understand Latin even as you or I.”

“I fear not,” said Jane. “I am far too foolish.”

“Why,” said Erasmus, “so he would bother you with lessons, would he? You see, it is what I expect of him. The world is not to his liking, so he would build an ideal world. A woman is…a woman, and he would make a scholar of her!”

“There is no reason, my dear Erasmus, why women, if taught, should not became every bit as learned as men.”

“There is every reason.”

“And what are these?”

“Women are the weaker sex. Do you not know that? They are not meant to cudgel their brains. They are meant to look to the comfort of men.”

“Nay. I do not agree. I believe that we are mistaken in not giving our girls an education equal to that which we give our boys. If we did, we should find our women able to converse with us in Latin while they cooked the dinner.”

“And Mistress More…she is proving as apt a pupil as you once were…as I was?”

Thomas answered in Latin, because he was aware of Jane’s embarrassment. He was always acutely aware of the feelings of others, and suffered their hurt more deeply than he would his own.

And the two men, having found a subject for discussion, would go on happily until the one led to another.

It will not always be thus, thought Jane. One day Erasmus will go away; one day we shall visit New Hall; and one day, who knows, I may learn to converse in Latin!

But that day must be a long way ahead, and meanwhile she must go on trying not to hate her life at The Barge.

HAD HE been wrong to marry?

Thomas was unsure. Sometimes he walked alone through the streets of London and his steps invariably took him northward across the City; he would find himself walking up Charter Lane until he came to the great buildings in which he had spent those four years of indecision.

He would enter the quadrangle, then go to the chapel or the chapter house; and he would think, not without longing, of the life of solitude and meditation, life that was given up to study and contemplation, life that was unharassed by bodily needs, by the great events which were going on in the outside world.

He thought of the rigorous way of life of the Carthusians, each with his separate house of two rooms, closet, refectory and garden, living his solitary life, speaking to his fellow monks only on feast days, fasting at least once a week, never eating flesh of any sort and thus subduing the appetites of the body; he thought of wearing the hair shirt by night so that sleep did not come easily, until eventually it was possible to indulge in sleep for only an hour each night; using the wooden pillow, dressing in the coarsest clothes to detract from any good looks a man might possess and so subdue his vanity; he thought of shutting himself away from the world, and perhaps by his example helping to lead others to a holier way of life.

The life of retirement seemed very dear to him when he thought of his home in The Barge of Bucklersbury.

Was Erasmus right? Was it as difficult to create an ideal woman as an ideal world? Was he a fool to try to educate Jane to his intellectual standard? Was he making an unhappy woman of her as well as a fool of himself?

This was the state of the marriage of Jane and Thomas More when Jane found that she was going to have a child.

A CHILD! thought Jane. This would be wonderful. A boy whom his father would make a scholar? That would delight him; that would turn his attention from his poor, simple wife. If he had a boy to whom he could teach the Latin tongue, why should he bother to teach it to Jane? And must he not be grateful to the simple woman who could give him such a blessing in life?

But, thought Jane, if it is a girl, how happy I shall be, for then he will see that girls should not be made learned. She will teach him what I could not; and she and I will be together; she will love flowers and we will grow them together, and I shall take her to New Hall; and when I show my child to my family, then I shall know that the world was right when it said that the married state is the best state of all.

So the child could make Jane happy as Thomas never could.

THOMAS WAS gay.

A child! That was the meaning of married life. That was what he wanted. What was the life to be lived in Carthusian solitude when compared with the bringing up of a child? The best tutors in England should be procured for young Master More. They would be glad to come. Dr. Lily perhaps? There was the greatest teacher in England. Then there would be Thomas More himself to guide his son.

Those were happy days—awaiting the birth of the child. A son, of course. The firstborn should be a son. And after that, more sons and some daughters. And the daughters should be treated in the same way as the sons; no matter what Erasmus, Colet, Lily and the rest said, Thomas was convinced that women should not be denied education. His daughters should prove him to have been right.

But for the present he could dream of his son.

There was laughter in The Barge; and if Jane did not understand all the jokes, she laughed as though she did. She was happy and Thomas was happy to see her happy.

Married life was the best state of all.

HIS FRIENDS were often at the house. Jane did not care. She sat, her needle busy, making clothes for the child. Her body widened and her prestige grew. Who were these scholars? Who was Dr. Colet, with his talk of founding schools for children? It was true that he was no longer a mere vicar of Stepney but had been appointed Dean of St. Paul’s itself. But what did she care for him. Who was Dr. William Lily, who had learned Latin in Italy, had traveled widely, had opened a school in London and had, like Thomas, almost become a monk? Who was this Dr. Linacre who had taught Thomas Greek? Who was the great Erasmus himself? Clever they might be, but none of them could bear a child!

New dignity and confidence had come to Jane. She sang snatches of songs as she went about the house.

Married life was indeed good and Jane was very happy.

AND ONE summer’s day in the year 1505 Margaret came into the world.

2

MARGARET WAS FOUR YEARS OLD WHEN SHE FIRST KNEW the meaning of fear. Until then her world had been a merry place, ruled by the person she loved best: her father.

The only times when she was unhappy were when he was not at home. Then the old house with its dark staircases, its odd nooks and alcoves, seemed a different place. Margaret would sit in the window seat watching for his return, looking out on the shops of the apothecaries and grocers, thinking that they were not quite the same shops which she had passed, her hand in her fathers, while he explained to her the uses of spices and drugs, the scent of which filled the air. Nothing could be quite right in Margaret’s eyes unless her father was with her.

When she heard his laughter—and she almost always heard his laughter before she heard him speak—she would feel as though she had found the right answer to a problem which had bothered her in her lessons. She would run to him and stand before him, waiting for him to lift her up.

He would say: “And what has my Meg learned today?”

Eagerly she would tell him, and draw back to see the effect of her answer. Pleasing him was the most important thing in the world to her. She longed to be able to speak to him in Latin; that, she believed, would please him more than anything she could do.

“Meg,” he once said to her when an answer she had given him had especially pleased him, “to think that when you were born we hoped for a boy!”

“And you would rather have me than any boy, would you not, Father?”

“Rather my girls than any boys in the world.”

She believed that he meant: rather his Meg than any boys; but he would think of the others—Elizabeth who was three and Cecily who was two—and he would tell himself that it was not right for a father to love one child more than the others. And he was a man who must always do right; she knew that. She was a child and not good like he was; and she could love one member of her family so much that if all the affection she had for the others were rolled into one heap it would be as the moon to the great sun of her affection for him. But she would not ask him if he loved her best; she knew he did; and he knew of her love for him. That was their secret.

Sometimes she would go into that room in which he sat with his friends, and he would take her on his knee or sit her on the table. Then the old, solemn-faced men would look at her, and her father would say: “Margaret will prove to you that I am right. She is young yet, but you will see…you will see.”

Then he would ask her questions and she would answer him. They would say: “Can this be a maid so young?”

“A maid who will show you, my friend, that a woman’s brain is equal to a man’s.” Then he would bring his smiling face close to hers. “Meg, they do not believe that you can learn your lessons. They say that because you are a girl this headpiece of yours will not be equal to the task. Meg, you must prove them wrong. If you do not, they will say that I am right named. For Moros…that is Greek for fool, Meg; and it will seem that I shall be worthy of the name if I am wrong. Meg, thou wilt not let them laugh at thy father?”

“Nay, Father,” she said scowling at the men. “They shall not laugh at thee. We will show them who are the fools.”

They laughed and talked to her, and she answered as best she could, with her heart beating fast for fear she should behave like a very little girl instead of a learned young woman of nearly five years old. She was determined to save her father from the mockery of his friends.

So her lessons were more than a task to her; they were a dedication. She must master them.

“It is not natural to sit so long with your books,” said her mother. “Come…play with Bessy.”

But if she played with Bessy it was but to teach her; for, she thought, Father will like all his daughters to be clever. It will not do for one of us to be wise and the rest ignorant.

Yet she hoped that Elizabeth and Cecily would not be able to learn as easily as she could, for she wished to remain the cleverest of her father’s daughters.

Thus Margaret, even at the age of four, had become an unusually learned little girl.

One day her father brought home a girl of her own age—a shy sad little girl.

Margaret heard his voice and rushed down to meet him; she flung her arms about his knees; then she stood solemnly regarding the little girl who stood beside him, her hand in his.

Her father crouched down so that the three of them were all of a size. He put an arm about each of them.

“Margaret,” he said, “I have brought a playmate for you.”

Margaret wanted to say that she had no wish for a playmate. Her lessons absorbed her; and she had two sisters with whom she could play. If she wanted a new addition to their household it would have been a boy, so that she could have proved to those friends of her fathers how right he was when he said girls could learn as much as boys.

But she knew that she must not make the little girl feel unwanted, for that would surely displease her father.

“This,” he went on, “is another Margaret. Margaret is my favorite name.”

That made Margaret smile and look with new interest at the little girl who had the same name as herself.

“This Margaret is coming to live with us, Meg.”

“We cannot have two Margarets in one house,” Margaret pointed out. “If you called me she would think you called her.”

“My wise little daughter!” His laughter was merry but she knew that he had sensed her resentment, and she blushed because she knew it must displease him.

“One of us would have to be given a new name,” she said quickly.

“What other names are there for Margaret?” he asked. “There is Peg. There is Daisy. There is Meg and Marget. Ah, but we already have a Meg and Marget in our own Margaret. There is Mercy. One of you will have to change her name, will she not?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, her lips trembling slightly. She knew what he expected of her, and she knew that she could not bear to hear him call another Margaret. He knew it too; that was why he expected her to give her name to this girl.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Often he had told them that. He often said: “Ah, my Meg, if only men and women would realize that it is the unselfish acts that bring most pleasure, then the world would become full of unselfish people; and perhaps the very act of unselfishness would become a selfish one.”

She knew, with his eyes upon her, that she must make the sacrifice now.

“I…I will be Daisy or Mercy,” she said.

He kissed her then. “My Meg…my dearest Meg,” he said; and she thought that if that was the last time he called her by her name she would always remember his voice at that moment.

“Mercy is a beautiful name,” he said, “for mercy is one of the most beautiful of all qualities.”

“Do you like Mercy?” asked Margaret of the newcomer.

“Yes,” she answered. “I will be Mercy, because this is your house first, and you were the first Margaret in it.”

Then her father kissed them both and said: “So my Meg stays with me; and in addition I have brought Mercy into the house.”

Her name was Mercy Gigs and she had been left an orphan. She had no fortune, he explained to Margaret, but her own sweet nature. “So, Meg, we must take her into our house. I will be Father to her; your mother will be Mother; and you will be sister to her as you are to Elizabeth and Cecily.”

And so it was that she acquired a new sister, to learn with her and talk with her. She had the advantage of having started her lessons earlier, but she soon realized that Mercy Gigs was a rival, for she had given her devotion to the man who had taken her into his house and become her foster father, and, like Margaret, her one thought was to win his respect and approval.

She too worked hard at her lessons and tried to startle him with her ability to learn. Now when the friends came and asked how Margaret was progressing with her lessons, there would be two little girls to confront them; and Mercy Gigs, the orphan, could confound them even more than Margaret who was, after all, the daughter of a learned man.

“So Mercy will prove my point completely,” Thomas would say with glee. “Mercy is going to be as clever as my own children. Mercy shall be given the best tuition with my own children, and she will show you that most feminine minds are as capable of absorbing knowledge as a sponge absorbs water.”

Then Mercy would blush and smile and be very happy.

Later there came a period of anxiety. It began when, one day, her father took Margaret on his knee and told her that he was going away for a little while.

She put her arms about him and bit her lips to hold back her tears.

“But it will not be for long, Meg,” he said. “I am going into foreign lands. I am going to the universities of Paris and Louvain to see my friends who come to see me when they are here; and perhaps one day, Meg, I shall take you and your mother and your sisters there. How will you like that?”

“I would rather stay here and that you should stay too.”

“Well, Meg, that which we would rather have does not always come about. You will have to look after everybody in the house, will you not? And you will work hard at your lessons whilst I am gone?”

She nodded. “But why must you go? Why must you go?”

“I am going because quite soon I may want to take my family to France. But first I wish to go there alone, to make sure that it is the place my family would like to live in.”

“Of course we should like to live there if you were there. There is no need for you to go first without us.”

He kissed her and put her down.

Her fears had started then. Not only was this due to the fact that he left for France shortly afterward, but she knew from the looks of the servants, from the voices of the people who spoke with her mother, and from her mothers worried looks, that something frightening had happened.

He had not told her what it was; and she knew that could only be because she was too young to understand.

She talked of this matter with Mercy. Mercy was wise and quiet; she too had noticed that something was wrong; she too was afraid.

Once when her mother was baking bread in the kitchen, Margaret said: “Mother, when will my father come back?”

“Soon, my child. Soon.”

“Soon,” said Margaret, “can be a long time for something you greatly wish for. It can be quick for something you hate.”

Jane touched the small head and marveled at this daughter of hers. Margaret was far more like Thomas than like herself; she was more like Thomas than any of the others. Whenever she looked at the child she remembered those days soon after Margaret’s birth, when Thomas had walked up and down the room with her to soothe her cries; she remembered that Thomas could soothe her as no one else could. She remembered also how Thomas had talked of what he would do for this child, how she was to be a great and noble woman, how delighted he was with his daughter, how she had charmed him as no son ever could have done.

And it seemed that Thomas must have had preknowledge for Margaret was all that he had wished. Her cleverness astonished her mother; she had already, though not yet five, started on Latin and Greek, and seemed to find the same pleasure in it that most children would in a game of shuttlecock. Jane could feel satisfied when she surveyed her eldest daughter. Surely she had made his marriage a success when she had given him this quaint and solemn daughter.

“Well, my dearest,” said Jane, “your father will be away for a few weeks, and I’ll swear that that will seem long to all of us. But when he returns you will be all the more pleased to see him because you have missed him so much.”

“Nothing could please me more,” said Margaret, “than to see him every day.”

Then she went away and gravely did her lessons. Her one aspiration now was to astonish him when he came back.

And eventually he did come back. Margaret must be the first to greet him; and when she heard his voice calling to his family, she sped into the great hall; but Mercy was there beside her.

They stood side by side looking up at him.

He smiled at their grave little faces and lifted them in his arms. He kissed Mercy first; but Margaret knew, and Mercy knew, that that was because he was longing to kiss Margaret more than anyone, for Margaret was his own child and he could never love any as he loved her.

They sat at the big table—the whole household—and everyone was happy because he was home. All the servants, who sat at the table with the family, were happy; and so were those poor travelers who had called in, weary and footsore, because they knew that they could always be sure of a meal in the house of Thomas More.

After the meal, Thomas went first to the schoolroom, and there he marveled and delighted in the progress his daughters had made. Even two-year-old Cecily had started to learn; and he was, he said, mightily pleased. “Why,” he declared, “’twas worth being away, for the pleasure it gives me to come back to you.”

But a few days later he took Margaret walking in Goodman’s Fields, and made her sit beside him on the grass there; and as they sat, he told her that he had made plans to leave The Barge in Bucklersbury, to leave this City, and to take his family away with him to France.

Margaret cried: “But…Father, you say you love London, and that no other city could ever be home to you.”

“I know, my child. And you?”

“Yes, Father. I love it too.”

“And which would you have—a strange land with your father, or England…London…and no father?”

“I would rather be anywhere with you, Father, than anywhere without you.”

“Then, Margaret, it will be no hardship for you. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is…’, eh? And it will be a dinner of herbs, my dearest, for we shall not be rich.”

“We shall be happy,” said Margaret. “But why must we go?”

“Sometimes I wonder, my Margaret, whether I have made you grow up too quickly. I so long to see you bloom. I want you to be my little companion. I want to discuss all things with you. And I forget what a child you are. Well, I shall tell you this; but it is our secret. You will remember that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then listen. A long time ago, before you were born, before I married your mother, our King asked his Parliament for a sum of money. I was a Member—a very junior Member—of that Parliament, and I argued against the King’s wishes. Partly because of the words I spoke, Margaret, the King did not get all the money for which he was asking.”

Margaret nodded.

“When the King is given money by the Parliament, it is the people’s money raised by taxes. You do not know what these are, and one day I will explain. But, you see, money has to be taken from the people to give to the King…a little here…a little there…to make a large sum. The cost of food is increased so that some of the money which is paid for it may go to the King. The people had already paid too many of these taxes and the King wanted them to pay more and more. I thought it wrong that he should have the money for which he asked. I thought it wrong that the people should be made even poorer. And I said so.”

“It was wrong, Father.”

“Ah, little Meg, do you say that because you see why it was wrong, or because I say so?”

“Because you say so, Father.”

He kissed her. “Do not trust me too blindly, Meg. I am a mortal man you know. I will say this: I thought what I did was right. The King thought I was wrong. And kings, like little girls…little boys…and even babies, do not like people who prevent their doing those things which they wish to do. So…the King does not like me.”

“Everybody likes you, Father,” she said in disbelief.

“You do,” he said with a laugh. “But everyone—alas!—has not your kind discernment. No, the King does not like me, Meg, and when a king does not like a man, he seeks to harm him in some way.”

She stood up in alarm. She took his hand and tugged at it.

“Whither would you take me, Meg?”

“Let us run away now.”

“Whither shall we run?”

“To some foreign land where we can have a new king.”

“That is just what I propose to do, Meg. But there is no need for you to be frightened, and there is no need for such haste. We have to take the others wth us. That is why I went abroad…to spy out the land. Very soon you, I, your mother, the girls and some of our servants are going away. I have many kind friends, as you know. One of these is a gentleman you have seen because he has visited us. He is a very important gentleman—Bishop Foxe of Winchester. He has warned me of the King’s feelings against me, and he has told me that he can make the King my friend if I will admit my fault to the Parliament.”

“Then he will make the King your friend, Father?”

“Nay, Meg, for how can I say that I was wrong when I believe myself to have been right, when, should I be confronted with the same problem, I should do the same again?”

“If Bishop Foxe made the King your friend, you could stay at home.”

“That is true, Meg. I love this City. Look at it now. Let me lift you. There is no city in the world which would seem so beautiful to me as this one. When I am far from it, I shall think of it often. I shall mourn it as I should mourn the best loved of my friends. Look, Meg. Look at the great bastions of our Tower. What a mighty fortress! What miseries…what joys…have been experienced within those walls? You can see our river. How quietly, how peacefully it flows! But what did Satan say to Jesus when he showed Him the beauties of the world, Meg? That is what a small voice within me says, ‘All this can be yours,’ it says. ‘Just for a few little words.’ All I need say is that I was wrong and the King was right. All I need say is that it is right for the King to take his subjects’ money, to make them poor that he may be rich. Nay, Meg, it would be wrong to say those words. And there would be no peace in saying them. This City of mine would scorn me if I said them; so I cannot, Meg; I cannot.” Then he kissed her and went on: “I burden this little head with so much talk. Come, Meg, smile for me. You and I know how to be happy wherever we are. We know the secret, do we not? What is it?”

“Being together,” said Margaret.

He smiled and nodded, and hand in hand they walked home by the long route. Through Milk Street they went, that he might show her the house in which he was born, for he knew she never tired of looking at it and picturing him as a child no bigger than herself; they went past the poulterers’ shops in the Poultry, through Scalding Alley where the poulterers’ boys were running with the birds sold by their masters, that there in the Alley they might be plucked and scorched; the air was filled with the smell of burning feathers. And they went on into the Stocks Market with its shops filled with fish and flesh and its stalls of fruit and flowers, herbs and roots; and so home to Bucklersbury with its pleasant aromas of spices and unguents, which seemed to Margaret to have as inevitable a place in her life as the house itself.

It was as though he looked at all these places with loving concentration, so that he might remember every detail and be able to recall them when he became an exile from the City which he loved.

As they approached the house he said: “Meg, not a word to anyone. It would frighten the children. It would frighten your mother.”

She pressed his hand, proud to share their secret.

But she greatly feared that the mighty King would hurt her father before they could escape him.

THERE WAS great excitement in the streets; and there was relief mingling with that excitement, which was felt in the house in Bucklersbury.

The King was dead. And fear had died with him.

A new King had come to the throne—a boy not yet eighteen. He was quite different from his father; there was nothing parsimonious about him, and the people looked forward to a great and glorious reign. The household of Thomas More need not now consider uprooting itself.

All over the City the church bells were ringing. In the streets the people were dancing and singing. How could they regret the passing of a mean old King, when a young and handsome one was waiting to take the crown?

Men talked of the terrible taxation demanded by the late King through his agents, Empson and Dudley. Rumors ran through the town. The new King loved his people; he loved to jest and be merry. He was not like his father, who rode in a closed carriage whenever he could, because he did not wish the people to see his ugly face. No, this King loved to ride abroad, clad in cloth of gold and velvet, sparking with jewels; he liked to show his handsome face to his subjects and receive their homage.

“Father,” said Margaret, “what will happen now that we have a new King?”

“We shall pass into a new age,” he said. “The old King’s meanness curbed everything but the amassing of money by a few people. England will now be thrown open to scholars. Our friend Erasmus will be given a place here, and enough to keep him in comfort while he continues his studies. Avarice will be stamped out. The new King begins a new and glorious reign.”

“Will he give back the money his father took from the people?” asked Margaret.

Her father laid a hand on her head. “Ah, that I cannot tell you.”

“But how can he begin to please the people unless he begins by doing that?”

“Margaret, there are times when the working of your mind seems almost too great a strain for your years.”

But he kissed her to show that he was pleased with her; and she said: “Even if he does not, there is nothing to fear, is there, Father. Satan does not whisper to you anymore: ‘The cities of the world are yours.…’”

“You are right, Meg,” he told her joyfully.

Dr Colet came to the house, and even he, for a time, ceased to talk of literature and theology while he discussed the new King.

“There will be a marriage of the King and the Spanish Infanta, his brother’s widow,” he said. “I like that not. Nor, I gather, does my lord of Canterbury.”

Margaret listened to them; she was eager to learn everything, that she might afford her father great pleasure by her understanding when these matters were referred to.

“There will have to be dispensation from the Pope,” said Thomas. “But I doubt not that will be an easy matter.”

“Should it be granted?” asked Colet. “His brother’s widow! Moreover, did he not some years ago make a solemn protest against the betrothal?”

“He did—under duress. He protested on the grounds that she was five years his senior, and he quoted the Bible, I believe. No good could come of such a marriage, he said. But it was his father who forced the protest from him. Young Henry, it seems, always had a mild fancy for the Spanish lady; and his father was pleased that this should be so, for you’ll remember, only half of her magnificent dowry had fallen into his hands and he greatly longed to possess himself of the other half.”

“I know. I know. And when the old King decided he would marry Katharine’s sister Juana, he felt that, if father and son married sisters, the relationship would be a complicated and unpleasant one. I doubt not that he thought it better to secure Juana’s great riches than the remaining half of Katharine’s dowry.”

“That was so. Therefore young Henry, whatever his private desires, must protest against his betrothal to his brother’s widow.”

“Still, he made the protest,” said Colet.

“A boy of fifteen!”

“It was after the protest, so I hear, that he began to fall in love in earnest with his brother’s widow. The toy had been offered him; he thought little of it; it was only when there was an attempt to snatch it from him that he determined to hold it. And now he declares nothing will turn him from the match, for she is the woman of his fancy.”

“Well, she is a good Princess,” said Thomas, “and a comely one. She will provide England with a good Queen. That will suffice.”

“It will, my friend. It must. Do not forget it is the King’s wish. There is no law in this land but the King’s pleasure. And it will be well for us to remember that this King—be he ever so young and handsome—like his father, is a Tudor King.”

And Margaret, listening, wondered whether fear had entirely left her. This King—young and handsome though he was—might not give back to the people the money his father had taken from them; he wished to marry his brother’s widow mainly because his father had said he should not. Would he prove to be such a good King after all? Could she be happy? Could she be reassured that her father was safe?

ONE EVENT took place which seemed to the family as important as the accession of the new King to the throne.

Little Jack was born.

Jane was happy. A boy at last! She had always wanted a boy; and right from the first she saw that the boy was going to resemble the Colts.

He had her father’s nose already; he had Jane’s eyes; and she loved him dearly. But his birth had taken its toll of her health. She was ill for many weeks after Jack was born; and when she got up from her bed she felt far weaker than she had been after her previous confinements.

Still, she was happy. She would not have believed five years ago that she could have been so happy in this old City. London now meant home to her; she even enjoyed walking through the crowds to the Chepe, her maid following her, ordering from the tradespeople. She was not afraid of crowds now; nor was she afraid of Thomas. She had even learned a little Latin, and she could join in the children’s conversations with their father.

Sometimes she regretted the fact that not one of her children was a simple little soul such as she herself had been; for even baby Cecily was showing that she would be a little scholar. Yet, thought Jane, I am glad that they are clever. They will not suffer as I suffered; and how sad it would be for one of them to be a dullard in the midst of so many that are brilliant—like a sad piglet in a litter. I should not like that at all. No, let them all be clever; even though they do surpass their mother, even though they must, as they grow up, look upon her as a simpleton.

There was great excitement because the King and the Queen, whom he had married a few days before, were going to be crowned; and London was in Coronation mood. There was no talk but of the accession, the royal marriage, and the Coronation, and all the streets were now being decorated for the last ceremony. Cornhill, the richest street in London, was hung with cloth of gold, and was a sight to gladden any eye, so Jane was told; she had felt too weak to go and see it for herself, but she had promised the children that she would take them to watch the progress of the King and Queen, and nothing would induce her to disappoint them.

Thomas could not accompany them; he had his duties allotted to him as a burgess of the Parliament; and so, on that sunny June day, leaving the newly born baby in the care of a nurse, with Cecily clinging to one hand, Elizabeth to the other, and Margaret and Mercy hand in hand, the little party set out to watch the King with the Queen ride through the streets from the Tower to Westminster for the crowning.

Jane had decided that Cornhill would be the best place in which to see the procession, for accounts of the beauties of Cornhill had been spread through the City. Moreover, they had but to go through Walbrook, cross the Stocks Market to the corner where Lombard Street and Cornhill met.

But Jane had reckoned without the crowds. Everyone, it seemed, had decided that this would be the best place from which to see the procession.

Jane felt weak and tired and the heat was making her dizzy. There was nothing she would have liked better than to take her party home; but when she looked at the excited faces of the children, she found it impossible to disappoint them.

“Keep close to me,” she warned. “Margaret, you keep your eyes on Cecily. And Mercy…take Bess’s hand. Now…keep very close. How hot it is! And so many people!”

“Mother,” cried Elizabeth, “look at the beautiful cloth. Is it real gold? They are goldsmiths’ shops, are they not? So perhaps it is real gold.”

“Yes, yes; they are beautiful,” said Jane.

Cecily wanted one of the hot pies which were being sold nearby. Elizabeth said she would prefer gingerbread.

“Now, now,” said Jane. “You will miss the King if you do not watch.”

That made the children forget their hunger.

But there was a long time to wait for the procession. The sun seemed to grow hotter; Jane felt faint as the crowds pressed about her. She became very frightened, asking herself what would happen to the children in this press of people if she were to faint. Her very panic seemed to revive her.

She lost her purse before they had stood there for ten minutes. The thief must have been the young boy who had pressed against her and given her such an angelic smile of apology that she had thought how charming he was.

She should not have come. She should have told Thomas of her intention. Why had she not? Because, she supposed, there were times when she wished to assert her authority over her little family, to say to them: “I know I am not wise, but I am the mother, and there are times when I wish to make my own decisions. I wish to say that something shall be done and to see that you do it.”

How glad she was when the sound of trumpets and the tramp of horses’ hoofs heralded the approach of the procession. The people shouted; the children stood spellbound. And as the excitement grew Jane felt a little better. There had not been much in her purse, and this would be a lesson to her. She would quote Thomas and say: “Experience is generally worth the price, however dearly bought.”

Now came the knights and squires and the lords of the land—so handsome, some magnificent in their velvet and cloth of gold. But more handsome than any was the King himself. There he rode, so young, so eager for the approbation of his subjects, smiling, inclining his head, aglitter with jewels. It was worth a little discomfort, even the loss of her purse, to witness such glory.

And there was the Queen—a bride of a few days although she was a widow of some years’ standing. She was in her twenties—too old, some said, for such a hearty youth; but she was beautiful—there was no denying that. Her dark hair, which it was said, hung to her feet when she stood, now hung about her shoulders, a black, gleaming cloak; she was dressed in white satin, beautifully embroidered, and her headdress was glittering with multicolored jewels. Two white horses bore her litter, which was decorated; and cries of “God Save Queen Katharine” mingled with those of “God Bless the King.”

Now came the rest of the procession, and so close did the prancing horses come that the mass of people surged back to avoid being trodden on. Jane grasped her children and pulled them toward her, but the pressure increased. The faces of the people seemed to merge into the blue sky and the fanfares and the trumpeting seemed to come from a long way off. Jane fainted.

“Mother…Mother!” cried Margaret in alarm.

But Jane was slipping down and was in danger of being trampled underfoot.

“Stop…Stop…. I beg of you stop!” cried Margaret.

Cecily began to scream, Elizabeth to cry forlornly, while Mercy tried in vain to hold back the people with her little hands.

Then suddenly a strong voice cried: “Stand back! Stand back! Can you not see! A woman has fainted.”

It was a loud, authoritative feminine voice; and Margaret lifted fearful eyes to a plump woman who was holding a little girl by the hand. Her fat cheeks quivered, her mouth was tight with indignation, and her eyes snapped contempt at the crowd.

Miraculously she had cleared a space about Jane. She put an arm about the fainting woman and forced her head downward. After a few seconds, to Margaret’s delight, the color began to return to her mother’s face.

“The heat, that’s what it is,” said the woman. “I could have fainted myself. And would have done…if I had not had the will to stop myself.”

Margaret, grateful as she was, could not help sensing the reproof to her mother in those words. She said: “My mother is not strong yet. We have just had a baby brother.”

“Then more fool she to come out on such a day!” was the answer to that. “Where do you live?”

“At The Barge in Bucklersbury.”

“That’s not more than a stone’s throw from here. I’ll take you back. The crowds will be rougher ere long.”

“You are very good,” said Margaret.

“Tilly valley! What could I do? Leave a baby like you to look after a fainting woman in a crowd like this? Ah, mistress, I see you are looking about you. You fainted and I am looking after your children here. Can you stand? Here, lean on me. You two big girls take the little ones and keep a firm hold of their hands. Now, Ailie, you cling to my gown. I am going to force my way through the crowd. Come, mistress. Take my arm. Your children are here, and we’ll push them ahead so that they cannot stray from our sight. We’ll be in Bucklersbury in next to no time, and that’s where you should be before the mob starts roystering.”

“You are very good,” said Jane. “I…”

“Now keep your breath for walking. Come along now. Come along.”

Forcefully she pushed a way for them, calling sharply to any that stood in their path. “Can you not see? I have a sick woman here. Stand aside, you oafs. Make way there.”

And the odd thing was that none cared to disobey her, and under such strong guidance the family soon reached Bucklersbury.

The woman sniffed and looked with scorn about her. “What odors! What odors!” she declared. “I’m glad my late husband was not one of these apothecaries with their smells. There are no smells in a mercer’s shop but goodly smells. But this…poof! I like it not!”

“My husband,” said Jane, “is a lawyer.”

“A lawyer, eh! What the good year! Well, here you are, and if you will take my advice you’ll not go into crowds again in a hurry.”

“You will come in and take a little refreshment?”

The widow said she would, and followed them into the big hall, where she sat down.

Margaret saw that the little girl named Ailie was very pretty and more or less of an age with herself and Mercy. Her golden hair escaped from her cap, and her gown was of richer material than that worn by the little More girls.

“Tell me the names of your girls,” said the widow. “Nay…let them speak for themselves. I’ll warrant they have tongues in their heads.”

“We have,” said Margaret with dignity, for although she was grateful for the widow’s help in bringing them home, she did not like her overbearing manner. “I am Margaret. This is my foster sister called Mercy because her name is also Margaret, and…my sisters Elizabeth and Cecily.”

“And I am Mistress Alice Middleton, widow of Master John Middleton, mercer of the City and merchant of the Staple of Calais. Here is my daughter. Alice like myself, so like Mercy there, she is called by a name other than her own. Why, you and she are of an age. That should make you friends.”

The children continued to study each other, and Mistress Middleton turned to her hostess, complimented her on the mead she was offered and told her how she could improve it by using more honey in its making. Still, it was a goodly brew.

She went on: “Now rest yourself. Keep to the house, for there’ll be roystering this night…and so there should be, for it is a good day for the land, I’ll swear, with such a bonny King come to the throne.”

When she had drunk her mead and had a look at the house, commenting—not always favorably—on its furnishings, she left with her daughter.

“A talkative woman,” said Jane, “but capable, I’ll swear…and very kind.”

THIS WAS a happy day for Thomas More. The tyrant was dead and in his place was a monarch who promised great things for England.

When Thomas was happy, he liked to take up his pen, and it was natural that his writings should now be concerned with the new reign.

“If ever there was a day, England,” he wrote, “if ever there was a time for you to give thanks to Those above, this is that happy day, one to be marked with a pure white stone and put in your calendar. This day is the limit of our slavery, the beginning of freedom, the end of sadness, the source of joy….”

He went on to enumerate the virtues of the young King: “Among a thousand noble companions, does he not stand out taller than any? If only nature could permit that, like his body, the outstanding excellence of his mind could be visible! This Prince has inherited his father’s wisdom, his mother’s kindly strength, the scrupulous intelligence of his father’s mother, the noble heart of his mother’s father. What wonder if England rejoices in such a King as she has never had before!”

Thomas went on to sing the praises of the Queen; he wrote of her dignity and her devotion to religion, of her beauty and her loyalty. There was surely no woman more worthy to be the wife of such a King, and none but the King was worthy to be the husband of such a Queen. Heaven bless such a union; and surely when the crowns had long been worn by Katharine and Henry, their grandson and great-grandson would wear the crown of England in the years to come.

When Thomas recited this composition to John Colet, the Dean of St Paul’s remarked in his dry way that the qualities of Henry’s ancestors might have been construed differently. For instance, the wisdom of Henry the Seventh might have been called avarice; the kindly strength of Elizabeth of York, meekness dictated by expediency; the scrupulous intelligence of Margaret of Richmond, ambition; the noble heart of Edward the Fourth as lechery and determination to rule at all cost.

“Still,” said the dean, “this should be shown to the King. It will surely please His Grace. Much flattery has been poured into the royal ears, but I doubt that any has ever been so elegantly phrased.”

“Flattery?” said Thomas. “That may be. But, John, it sometimes happens that if a man is shown a flattering picture of himself, he will try to be worthy of that picture. For such reasons it is expedient to flatter kings.”

“Yet when men offer flattery with one hand, they are apt to hold out the other to receive the rewards such flattery may earn. What rewards seek you, friend Thomas?”

Thomas considered this. “Might it not be,” he said at length, “that this writing of mine is in payment for his coming to the throne at an opportune time for me? I could sing paeans, my friend, if I had the voice for them, because this King now reigns and there is no need for me to leave the country. Rewards? Perhaps I wish for them. It may be that I long to go on as I have…here in London…with my family about me. Oh, and perhaps if the King is pleased with my offering, I might ask concessions for Erasmus. It would be good to have him with us again, would it not?”

“It would. Take the verses. Crave audience. I doubt not you will obtain it.”

And so Thomas took his writing to the King.

THE HAPPIEST person in the palace of Westminster should have been its King. None knew this more than the King himself, and he was sullen on finding that it was not so.

It was a glorious thing to be a King. Wherever he went the people hailed him, for he was not only a King; he was a beloved King. Were he not taller than all those about him, he would have been distinguished as their King by the glittering jewels he wore. He was the richest King in Europe; he was only now realizing how rich, for he had only guessed at the amount of wealth and treasure his father had amassed.

The reason for his discontent was his Queen. He liked his Queen. She was older than he was by five years—but as he did not care to be considered a mere boy, he liked this, for it seemed that she helped to add years to his age.

But they were rich; they were young; and they should be gay. There must be lavish entertainment; masques, jousts and pageants could go on for as long as he wished; and at all these ceremonies he should be the very center of attention as was meet, considering who he was. All festivities should have one purpose: to honor the King, to display the King in all his glory, to show that the King was more skilled, more daring, than any King who had ever lived before him or would come after him.

But his Queen had disappointed him. Alas! she had not his love of gaiety, his passion for enjoyment; they had made her too solemn in that Spanish court of her childhood. She was comely enough to please him: and he was glad to reflect that she was the daughter of two of the greatest monarchs in the world; it pleased him too that he had married her, for marrying her was like snapping his fingers at his father’s ghost. He did not care to disparage the dead, but it had rankled to be forced to relinquish his betrothed. It was only at that time that he had discovered how fair she was and how much he desired her—her above all women. It hurt his pride to be forced into that protest. And now, every time he looked at her, he could say: “There is none now to force me to that which I desire not; nor shall there ever be again.” Such thought stimulated his desire, made him more ardent that he would otherwise have been; which, he reminded himself, not without a touch of primness, was all for the good of England, since an ardent man will get himself children more speedily than a cold one.

Yet she disappointed him.

It had happened on the day after the Coronation, when the ceremonies were at their height. He and Katharine had sat on a platform covered with velvet and cloth of gold set up within the grounds of Westminster Palace. What a wonderful sight had met their gaze, with the fountains emitting the best of wine, and more wine flowing from the mouths of stone animals! Many pageants had been prepared for the enjoyment of the royal couple. A fair young lady dressed as Minerva had presented six champions to the Queen, and that was a tribute to her solemnity, for these champions, dressed in cloth of gold and green velvet, were meant to represent scholars. That should have pleased her; and it did. Then drums and pipes heralded more knights who bowed before the Queen and asked leave to joust with the champions of Minerva.

Oh, what a spectacle! And the jousting lasted all day and night!

Then the King disappeared from the Queen’s side, and shortly afterward there came to her a lowly knight who craved leave to joust with the champion. The Queen gave that permission while everyone laughed the lowly knight to scorn until he threw off his shabby cloak and there, in glittering armor, towering above them all, was Henry himself. And Henry must be the victor.

That was all well and good.

But Henry had planned more joys for his Queen. An artificial park had been set up in the grounds of the Palace, with imitation trees and ferns shut in by pales; this contained several fallow deer and was designed to make a seemly setting for the servants of Diana. Suddenly the gates of this park were thrown open and greyhounds were sent therein. Through the imitation foliage they ran, leaping and barking; and out came the frightened deer, to the amusement of all except the Queen—rushing over the grounds and entering the Palace itself. And when all the deer were caught, they were laid, stained with blood, some still palpitating, at the feet of the Queen.

And how did she receive such homage? Shuddering, she turned her eyes away: “Such beautiful creatures,” she said, “to suffer so!”

He remonstrated: “It was a goodly chase. Mercy on us, it was fine, good sport!”

Before the courtiers he had laughed at her squeamish ways. But his voice had been a little threatening when he said: “You must learn to love our English ways, sweetheart.”

Now, alone with her, as he recalled this incident, his sullen eyes rested upon her. She had not been taught to ride in the chase; she liked better to spend her time with the priests; and it spoiled his pleasure that she should not appreciate the amusements which, he told himself, he had prepared for her. If he did not love her, he might have been very angry with her.

Well, it was a small matter and he would teach her. But perhaps he was not so displeased after all, for it must be admitted that she was a most virtuous woman; her virtue was a light that shone on him; and in the midst of pleasure he liked to be sensible of his own virtue.

Every moment he was feeling less displeased with her; and to soothe himself he planned more revels.

He said to her: “I shall ride into the tiltyard. I’ll tilt against Brandon. He’ll be a match for me.” He laughed. “There are few skilled enough for the task. And after that, we’ll have a ball…a masque…such as was never seen.”

“You are spending much of your father’s treasure on these ceremonies,” said the Queen. “They are costly, and even great wealth will not last forever.”

“Is it not better to delight the people with pageants and joyful feasts than to store up treasure in great coffers? I would rather be the best-loved King than the richest King.”

“The people murmured against your father’s taxes. Would it not be well to alleviate them in some way? Could we not devise some means of letting the people know that you will make amends for your father’s extortions? I am sure that my Lord Norfolk and that very clever Master Wolsey would know what should be done.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “Mayhap. Mayhap,” he said testily. “But know this: I too know…even more than such as Norfolk and Wolsey, what my people want—and that is to see their King, to know that he will make this land a merry one for the people of England.”

Katharine lowered her eyes. This boy whom she had married was a headstrong boy; he must, she was beginning to understand, be continually humored. She had been wrong to show her disgust when the warm bodies of the deer were laid before her; she must appear to enjoy the extravagant pageants which so delighted him; she must always feign astonishment when he presented himself before her faintly disguised as Robin Hood or some lowly knight. She must remember that he was young; he would grow up quickly, she was sure; as yet he was but a boy who loved a boy’s games. And she must never forget that, although he was a boy, he was the most powerful person in the kingdom. There were times when she thought that to put the scepter in the youthful hands was like giving a wilful, hot-tempered child a sword to play with.

He was smiling now, and his smile could startle her, for there was a malignant cruelty in it which sat oddly on his fair young face. Although she was growing accustomed to it, it made her uneasy.

“I have prepared a treat for the people which will repay them for all they have suffered,” he said.

“Yes, Henry?”

“You remember when I gave orders that those agents of Empson and Dudley should be placed in the pillory?”

“I do.”

“And what happened to them?”

“The mob set upon them, I believe, and stoned them to death.”

The King’s smile deepened. “Now I shall give them a bigger treat. Oh yes. I will repay the people for their sufferings, never fear.”

“Then will you give back what your father took from them?”

“Better than that!” he said. “Far better. I will give them Empson and Dudley. They were the extortioners. They shall be executed on Tower Hill, and I’ll warrant you, Kate, the people will come from far and wide to see their blood flow…and they will thank their King for avenging their wrongs.”

Words were on her lips, but each day she learned wisdom. So, she thought, you will offer them the blood of your father’s unpopular servants, but their money—the money which was wrung from them in cruel taxes so that they were left with little to show for their labor—you will spend on your jewels, your fine clothes and your rejoicing.

“You do not speak,” he said, frowning. “Like you not my plan?”

There is nothing I can do, she decided.

Ah yes, she was beginning to understand the man whom she had married.

She said quietly: “The people will rejoice, I doubt not.”

Now he was laughing, embracing her warmly. He loved and needed approval as much as he loved and needed feasting and revelry.

MY LORD Mountjoy was one of those who were with the King when Thomas brought the verses he had written on vellum decorated with the white and red roses of York and Lancaster.

Mountjoy was hopeful; the King had confided to him that he looked to the scholars to make his court bright with learning.

Mountjoy was considering writing to Erasmus.

There were also present the King and his chaplain, a man for whom Henry had a deep liking and respect. It was true that he was not a handsome man; his face was slightly marked with the pox, and the lid dragged a little over the left eye, which was not becoming; being in his mid-thirties, he seemed elderly to the King; but although he was, as yet, merely the King’s chaplain, Henry was so struck with his discourse that he determined to keep Thomas Wolsey at his side and to heap preferment on him at an early date.

And now came Thomas More, scholar and writer, to offer verses of laudation.

The King held out his hand for the man to kiss. He liked that face; and the royal smile was benign as Henry bade Thomas More rise.

“I remember you,” he said, “in company with the scholar Erasmus. Was it not at Eltham that we met?”

“It was, Your Grace, and Your Grace’s memory of that fact covers me with honor.”

“We like our poets. There is too little learning at our court We feel ourselves but ignorant when compared with such learned men.”

“Your Grace astonishes the world with his learning.”

The King smiled, meaning to charm; and instinct told him that modesty would appeal to this man with the kind mouth and the shrewd eyes. “If not with my own,” said Henry, “with that of my subjects. This is a pretty thing you bring me. Read the verses…that all may hear what you have to say to your King.”

Thomas read them, and as he listened the King’s heart warmed toward this man. Such elegance of phrase, such finely worded sentiments. He liked what this man had to say of him and his Queen.

“We thank you, Thomas More,” he said when the reading was over. “We shall treasure the verses. And Mountjoy here has been telling us of that friend of yours…Erasmus. We must have him here. I want all to know that I wish to see this court adorned by learned men. I would that I had paid more attention to my tutors. I fear the chase and all manner of sports have pleased me overmuch.”

“Your Grace,” said Thomas, “your humble subjects ask not that you should become a scholar, for you have a realm to govern. We would beg that you extend your gracious encouragement to scholars in this land of ours.”

“We give our word to do it. We need these scholars. They are the brightest jewels in our crown.”

And he kept Thomas More beside him, conversing lightly of theology and the science of astronomy. The Queen joined in and the King was pleased that this should be so.

There were some men whom he liked, whether they were old or young, gay or serious. He had two of those men close to him now…his two Thomases, he called them. One was Thomas Wolsey and the other was Thomas More.

TWO DAYS after the Coronation, Alice Middleton called at The Barge with a posset for Jane.

As soon as she entered the house it seemed to Margaret that she dominated it; but both Margaret and Mercy were pleased that she had brought her daughter with her.

The three children went to one of the window seats and talked together. Little Alice Middleton, to the astonishment of Margaret and Mercy, had learned no Latin.

“But what will you do when you grow up?” asked Margaret in a shocked voice. “Do you not wish to please…”

Margaret was stopped by a look from Mercy, which reminded her that as this little girl had no father they must not talk of fathers.

Margaret blushed, and her eyes filled with compassion. Both she and Mercy wished to be very kind to the little girl who had no father. But young Alice was not disturbed.

“When I grow up I shall take a husband,” she said. “A rich husband.” And she twirled a golden curl, which had escaped from her cap, and, fatherless as she was, she seemed very pleased with herself.

Meanwhile her mother was talking in a loud voice:

“This place is not healthful. I’ll swear it’s damp. No wonder you are not feeling well, Mistress More. But you take a little of this posset, and you’ll feel the better for it.”

Jane said it was good of her to call; she repeated her thanks, for, as she said again and again, she did not know how she would have reached home without the help of Mistress Middleton.

“You would have reached home, I doubt not. That which we must do, we find means of doing…. So I always say.” And Mistress Middleton smiled as though to imply: And what I say—by the very fact that I say it—it is bound to be right.

Jane was glad that Thomas should come in so that he could thank the widow personally for her kindness.

“Thomas,” she said, “this is Mistress Middleton, the kind lady who brought me home.”

“Right glad I am to meet you, Mistress Middleton. My wife has told me many good things of you.”

Mistress Middleton eyed him shrewdly. A lawyer! A scholar! she believed. She had not much respect for scholars; she doubted they did as well as mercers of London and merchants of the Staple of Calais.

“A pity, sir, that you had not the time to take your wife and children into the streets to see the sights.”

“A great pity, madam.”

“Thomas,” cried Jane. “The King…he received you?”

Thomas nodded.

“My husband,” Jane explained, “is a writer.”

A smile curved Alice Middleton’s lips. A writer? A writer of words? What was the use of words? Give her good bales of cloth. That was what people wanted to buy. Who wanted to buy words?

Thomas, grateful to the widow, could not help but be amused by her obvious contempt and her refusal to pretend anything else.

“I perceive,” he said, “that you do not worship at the shrine of Literature.”

“I worship in church like all good people, and in no other place. And Literature? Tilly valley! What is that? Will it build a house? Will it weave a cloth? Will it look after your wife when she falls fainting in the streets?”

“It might inspire a man or a woman to build a house, madam. And before a man builds a house he must have the will to do so. So might it make a man—or should I say a woman?—so long to possess a new gown that she will weave the cloth. As for its looking after a fainting wife: Well, suppose a lady could read of a great pageant, her imagination, enhanced by literature, might be such that she would feel it unnecessary to stand in a press of people in order to see with her eyes that which she could conjure up by a mental effort.”

“Here’s clever talk!” said Alice. “And my eyes are good enough for me. I can weave with the best, and I don’t need words to help me. If I can’t build a house I can keep one clean. And as for this Latin the scholars talk one with another, I manage quite well, sir, with my native tongue.”

“May I say, madam, that I am convinced you manage…you manage admirably.”

“But my husband is a poet,” said Jane in mild reproof.

“Poetry won’t bake bread. Nor make a man wealthy, so I’ve heard.”

“Who speaks of wealth, madam?”

“I do, sir. For in this world it is a useful thing to have. And no matter what you tell me, riches come through work and thrifty living…not through writing poetry.”

“True riches belong to the spirit, madam, which uses its own resources to improve itself. We can only call a man rich if he understands the uses of wealth. Any man who piles up endless wealth, merely to count it, is like the bee who labors in the hive. He toils; others eat up the honey.”

“I speak of money not of honey, Master More. It seems you are a man who cannot keep to the point. You may smile. Methinks I should be the one to smile.”

A faint color showed in the cheeks of Alice Middleton. She liked the man; that was why she was giving him what she would call the edge of her tongue; she would not bother to waste that on those she considered unworthy of it.

His face was pleasant and kindly, she concluded. A clever man, this; yet in some ways, helpless. She would like to feed him some of her possets, put a layer of fat on his bones with her butter. She’d warrant he gave too much thought to what went into his head and not enough to what went into his stomach.

“His verses were dedicated to the King,” said Jane. “And did the King accept them, Thomas?”

“He did. He took them in his own hands and complimented me upon them.”

His lips were smiling. Margaret left the little girls to come and stand close to him. She was so happy because this King loved him. They had nothing to fear from this King. She took his hand and pressed it.

“So the King likes verses!” said Mistress Middleton, her voice softening a little.

“Ah, madam,” said Thomas. “What the King likes today, may we hope Mistress Middleton will like tomorrow?”

“And he accepted them…from your hands?” demanded Mistress Middleton.

“He did indeed.” Thomas was remembering it all. It was only about his writing that he was a little vain; he made excuses for his vanity. Artistic talent, he was wont to say, is a gift from God. But he was conscious of his vanity, and he mocked himself while he treasured words of praise. And now at this moment he could not help recalling with pleasure the King’s delight in his verses.

As for Alice Middleton, she was looking at him with new respect.

For a lawyer and a scholar she had little to spare; for a man who had spoken with the King she had much.

THE NEXT two years were eventful ones for Margaret. For one thing, two people became very important to her. Both of these were visitors to the house; although one of these was a neighbor and a constant caller, the other lived with them as one of the family.

The first was Alice Middleton who made regular calls. Margaret did not love Mistress Middleton, although she recognized that lady’s wish to be kind. Mistress Middleton believed that everyone who did not do as she did must surely be wrong. If any household task was not done according to Mistress Middleton’s rule, it was not done in the right way. She would teach them how to bake bread in the only way to bake the best bread, and that was the way she always did it; she would show them how to salt meat in order to make the best of it. She would show how children should be brought up. They should be obedient to their elders; they should be whipped when stubborn; they should be seen and not heard, and not talk in heathen tongues which their elders could not understand.

What disturbed Margaret more than anything was the fact that her father did not feel as she did toward Mistress Middleton. She had watched his face as he listened to her tirades, and had seen the amused twitch of his lips; sometimes he would talk with her, as though he were luring her on to taunt him. She was a rude and stupid woman; yet he seemed to like her rudeness and her stupidity. And Margaret, who followed her father in most things, could not do so in this.

The other person was the exalted Erasmus.

Him, Margaret regarded with awe. He was now more famous than he had been in the days when he had first come to England. He was known all over the world as the greatest Greek scholar, and he was preparing to write a critical edition of the Greek text of the New Testament.

Margaret could understand her father’s affection for this great man, for Erasmus was worthy of his regard and friendship as Madam Alice could never be.

This Erasmus was a sick man. There were days when he could do nothing but lie abed. On such days Margaret would wait upon him, bringing to him the books he asked for. He had a great affection for Margaret and she was pleased that this should be so, largely because of the delight it gave her father. Thomas would openly sue for praise for his daughter as he never would for himself and Margaret felt very tender toward him as she watched his delight in the compliments Erasmus paid her.

Once Erasmus said: “I do not believe there is another girl—or boy—of this child’s age who can write and speak the Latin tongue as she does.” And afterward her father said to her: “Meg, this is one of the happiest days of my life. It is a day I shall remember on the day I die. I shall say to myself when I find death near me: ‘The great Erasmus said that of my daughter, my Meg.’”

She thought a good deal about Erasmus. He might be a greater scholar than her father—though she doubted this—but she did not believe he was such a brave man. There was a certain timidity in his manner; this had been apparent once when Alice Middleton was present and had spoken quite sharply to him—for Alice was no respecter of scholars, and the fame of Erasmus had not reached her ears. She obviously did not believe that a poor wisp of a man who, as she said, looked as though a puff from the west wind could blow him flat, was as important as they seemed to think. “Scholar! Foreigner!” she snorted. The sort of men she respected were those like the King: more than six feet tall and broad with it; a man who would know what to do with a baron of beef and a fat roast peacock…aye, and anything a good cook could put before him. She liked not this sly-looking man with his aches and pains. Greatest scholar in the world! That might be. But the world could keep its scholars, declared Mistress Alice.

Margaret said to Mercy: “No; he has not Father’s bravery. He would not have stood before Parliament and spoken against the King.”

“He has not Father’s kindness,” answered Mercy. “He would mock where Father pitied.”

“But how could we expect him to be like Father!” cried Meg; and they laughed.

Erasmus spent his days writing what he called an airy trifle, a joke to please his host who loved a joke, he knew, better than anything. He was too tired, he told Margaret, to work on his Testament. He must perfect his Greek before he attempted such a great task. He must feel sure of his strength. In the meantime he would write In Praise of Folly.

He read aloud to Thomas when he came home; and sometimes Thomas would sit by his friend’s bed with Margaret on one side of him, Mercy on the other; he would put an arm about them both, and when he laughed and complimented Erasmus so that Erasmus’s pale face was flushed with pleasure, then Margaret believed that there was all the happiness in the world in that room.

Erasmus poked fun at everybody…even at the scholar with his sickly face and lantern jaws; he laughed at the sportsman for his love of slaughter, and the pilgrims for going on pilgrimages when they ought to have been at home; he laughed at the superstitious who paid large sums for the sweat of saints; he laughed at schoolmasters who, he said, were kings in the little kingdoms of the young. No one was spared—not even lawyers and writers, although he was, Margaret noted, less severe with the latter than with the rest of the world.

And this was written with the utmost lightness, so that it delighted not only Thomas, but others of their friends, to picture Folly, in cap and bells, on a rostrum addressing mankind.

He stayed over a year in the house, and while he was there Thomas was made Under-Sheriff of the City of London, which was an honor he greatly appreciated. Alice Middleton, still a constant visitor, was delighted with this elevation.

“Ah,” Margaret heard Thomas say to her, “how pleasant it is to enjoy the reflected honors! We have neither to deserve them nor to uphold them. We bask in the soft light, whilst the other toils in the heat. The temperate rather than the torrid zone. So much more comfortable, eh, Mistress Middleton?”

“Tilly valley! I know not what you mean,” she told him sharply. “So you but waste your breath to say it.”

He explained to Margaret as he always explained everything: “The Mayor of London and the Sheriffs are not lawyers; therefore they need a barrister to advise them on various matters of law. That my Margaret, is the task of the Under-Sheriff who is now your father.”

And when he dealt with these cases he refrained, if the litigants were unable to pay them, from accepting the fees which had always previously been paid. This became known throughout the City. It was about this time that the people of London began to love him.

Margaret was very happy during those two years; she had learned the meaning of fear, and that lesson had made her happier, for with it had come the joy of being without fear. But there was another lesson to learn: It was that nothing in life was static.

First, Erasmus left for Paris, where he hoped to publish In Praise of Folly; and that was the end of the pleasant reading and discourse. Then Margaret’s mother took to her bed with a return of that weakness which had rarely left her since the birth of little Jack.

What they would have done during this time but for Alice Middleton, no one could say. Alice swept through the house like a fresh east wind, admonishing lazy servants, administering possets and clysters to Jane, boxing the ears of maids and menservants and the children when it seemed to her that they needed such treatment.

Gone was their gentle mother, and in her place was bustling and efficient, though sharp-tongued and heavy-handed, Dame Alice.

The children looked at each other with solemn eyes.

“Will our Mother get well?” asked four-year-old Cecily.

Jack cried at night: “Where is our Mother? I want our Mother.”

“Hush,” said Margaret, trying to comfort him. “Mistress Middleton will hear your crying, and box your ears.”

When he fell and cut his knees, or whenever any of the children hurt themselves, it was Mercy who could bind up the wound or stop the bleeding. Mercy had the gentlest of hands, and the very caress of them could soothe a throbbing head.

“I should like to study medicine,” she confided to Margaret. “I believe it is the one thing I could learn more easily than you could. In everything else I believe you would do better than I. But not in that, Margaret.”

And Mercy began growing herbs at the back of the house; and she became very skilful in these matters. Thomas called her: “Our young doctor”!

But nothing Mercy grew in her border, and nothing she could do, made Jane well.

ONE DAY Jane called her eldest daughter to her.

Jane seemed to have grown smaller during the last few days; she looked tiny in the four-poster bed; and her skin was the same color as the yellow thread in the tapestry of the tester.

Margaret suddenly knew that her mother would not live long to occupy that bed.

“Margaret,” said Jane, “come close to me.”

Margaret came to the bed.

“Sit near me,” said Jane, “where I can see you.”

Margaret climbed on to the bed and sat looking at her mother.

“Margaret, you are only six years old, but you are a wise little girl. You seem all of eleven. I feel I can talk to you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I am going to die.”

“No…you must not. What can we do without you?”

Jane smiled. “Dear little Meg, those are sweet words. It is of when I am gone that I wish to speak to you. How I wish I could have waited awhile! Another seven years and I could have safely left my household in your hands.”

“Mother…Mother…do not say these things. They make me so sad.”

“You do not wish for change. None of us does. You will take care of your father, Margaret. Oh, he is a man and you are but a child…but you will know what I mean. Margaret, I can die happy because I have left you to your father.”

The tears began to fall down Margaret’s cheeks. She wished that she had given her mother more affection. She had loved her father so much that she had thought little of the quiet woman who, she now saw, had taken such an important place in their happy household.

“Mother…please…,” she began.

Jane seemed to understand.

“Why, bless you, Meg, it has been my greatest delight to see that love between you and your father. When we married I was afraid I was quite unworthy of him. I was so…unlearned; and at first I was unhappy. I would sit at the table trying so hard to study the Latin he had set me…yet knowing I would never learn it to his satisfaction. And then when you were born all my unhappiness vanished, because I knew that, although I could not make him an ideal wife, I had given him someone whom he could love better than anyone in the world. That was worthwhile, Margaret. I was happy then. And when I saw you grow up and become everything that he had desired, I was even happier. Then there was Elizabeth…then Cecily…and now Jack. You see, he has, as he would say, his quiver full. And but for me he could not have had you all. That is what I have told myself, and because of it I can die in peace. So do not reproach yourself, my little one, that you love him more than you do me. Love is not weighed. It flows. And how can we stem the flow or increase it? Margaret, always remember, my child, that if you have given him great happiness, you have given me the same. Come, kiss me.”

Margaret kissed her mother’s cheeks, and the clammy touch of her skin frightened her.

“Mother,” she said, “I will call Mercy. Mayhap she will know what would ease you.”

“One moment, dearest Meg. Meg…look after them all. My little Jackie…he is such a baby. And he is like me. I am afraid he will not be as good with his lessons as you girls are. Take care of him…and of little Bess and Cecily. And, Meg, I need not tell you to comfort your father, for I know that your very presence will do that. Oh, how I wish that this could have been delayed…a year or two…so that my Margaret was not such a child. You are a dear child, a clever child—never was one so clever—but…if only you had been a few years older I could be content.”

“Mother…please do not fret. I will be as though I have lived twelve years. I will. I swear it. But you will get well. You must. For what shall we do without you?”

Jane smiled and closed her eyes; and, watching, Margaret was filled with terror.

She ran from the room, calling Mercy; but it was Alice Middleton who came into the chamber of death.

A WEEK later Jane was dead; and only a month or so after she was buried, Thomas called his children to him and told them that they should not be long motherless.

He was going to marry a lady capable of looking after them, a lady of great virtue. She was without much education and several years older than himself, but he was convinced that she would be the best possible stepmother for them.

Her name was Alice Middleton.

3

WHEN MARGARET WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD FEAR AGAIN appeared in her life. It seemed like a great cloud which came nearer and nearer to the house until that day when it enveloped it. The cloud formed itself into the shape of a man, of great height, of great girth, on whose head there was a crown. At the age of four, Margaret had learned to fear kings. And now would the cloud pass over the house? Would it pass on as, once before, had a similar cloud?

Much had happened since the death of her mother. The family still lived in Bucklersbury, but it had become a different household under the domination of Mistress Alice.

It must have been the cleanest house in London; the rushes were changed once a week, and very little odor came from them. When they were removed from the house it was only necessary to go upstairs, not to leave the house for a day until the servants had cleared it of its filth. Alice was the most practical of women. She knew exactly how many pieces could be cut from a side of beef, and she saw that they were so cut; her servants must account for every portion of fish, every loaf of bread. She kept strict count of the visitors who called for a meal. She reckoned—and this matter she took up fiercely with her husband—that visitors were costing the household purse the whole of twopence a day, what with food, beds and firing. The family was allowed only sixty candles a year, and if any burned out his share before the year was over, then, said Alice grimly, must that one sit in the dark. She herself kept the keys of the buttery; she saw that none had more than his portion of ale or mead. She was the martinet of the household.

All Thomas’s attempts to teach her Latin failed.

“What the good year!” she cried in scorn. “Would you have me one of these pale-faced, lantern-jawed scholars? I’ll warrant you, Master More, that I do you more good watching the affairs of your household than I ever should tampering with foreign speech. The English tongue, sir, is good enough for me.”

But nevertheless she kept a strict eye on the children.

Thomas had instituted what he called his “School” in the house, and here all the children spent many hours at their lessons. Alice had a habit of peeping at them at odd moments, and if she found them not at their desks she would take them, throw them across a chair and administer a good beating with her slipper.

“Your father has set you these tasks,” she would say, “and your father is head of this house.” (Not that she would admit such a fact to his face.) “He’d not whip you himself, being too soft a man, so there’s some that has to do his duty for him. Now…get to that Latin…or Greek…or that mathematics…or whatever nonsense it is, and if you have not learned it by sundown you’ll feel more of my slipper where you won’t like it.”

Jack was the chief offender, because he could not love learning as his sisters did. Jack would look longingly out of the window, particularly when horsemen rode by. He would like to be out of London, in the green country, climbing trees and riding horses. Jack sometimes felt it was a sad thing to be a boy possessed of such clever sisters.

Ailie was not overfond of lessons, but she did not care to be too far outstripped by her stepsisters. She applied herself and as she had a cleverness of her own, a natural wit, she could usually appear to know more than she actually did. Her mother had a habit of looking the other way when Ailie misbehaved, so, although she might have been in trouble as much as Jack was, somehow she managed to escape it. She was very pretty, and Alice believed that one day she would make a very good match.

Alice insisted that each of the girls should study housekeeping under her guidance; for what, she had demanded, would be the use of all that learning if when they married—and if only Master More would make the most of his chances they might marry very well—they had no knowledge of how to run a house and keep the servants in order? So each of the girls must, in addition to her lessons, give orders to the servants, decide on the composition of meals and superintend the cooking for a whole week before the task fell to her sister or stepsister. And if anything went wrong, if the bread was burned or the meat had been subjected to too many turns of the spit, or not enough, then it was not only the servant who felt the mistress’s slipper.

Alice was not above giving any member of this large household the measure of her tongue. Even the tutors came in for their share, learned men though they might be. Master Nicholas Kratzer, fellow of Corpus Oxford, who had come to live in the house to teach the children astronomy, particularly irritated Alice.

She laughed him to scorn. “You, a scholar…and cannot speak the King’s English! Here’s a pretty state of affairs. And supposed to be a learned man!”

“Madam,” he told her with the humility all these great men seemed to display before Alice, for it was a fact that every one of them wilted under her scornful gaze, “I was born in Munich; and although I cannot speak your tongue well, I doubt you can speak mine at all.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “And who would want to when they could make themselves understood in good plain English?”

The poor scholar, to the amusement of Margaret and Mercy, was quite at a loss to answer Alice; for, somehow, her method of delivering what she thought to be wise was so authoritative that temporarily it seemed to be so. Therefore, Master Kratzer returned to his study of the stars feeling a little cowed, and as for Margaret and Mercy, they had their ears boxed for laughing—as Alice said, when Kratzer had left them—at a great and learned man.

Richard Hyrde, the great Greek scholar, also lived in the house. Mercy was his favorite pupil, for he was also a student of medicine, and this science appealed to Mercy more than any other. Master Drew and Master Gunnel, considerable scholars, also lived in the growing household in order that they might tutor the children.

Dr. Colet and Dr. Lily came to the house now and then, but not so frequently as they had at one time, for all Dr. Colet’s thoughts and energies were now concentrated on the school he had built in St. Paul’s Churchyard, at which he planned to educate children of all ages, of all classes and all races. This school was his delight; it was a dream become a reality. He had always said that when he was a rich man—and he knew he would be on the death of his father—he would build such a school. Now he watched over it as a mother watches over her child, brooding over it, worrying over it, talking of it continually. Dr. Lily shared all his enthusiasm and fears for Dr. Lily had consented to become Headmaster of the school.

Thomas had said: “There is no man in England who could carry out this task with greater skill. But I wanted Lily for my children.”

Colet laughed gleefully. “I got there first, Thomas,” he cried. “I have secured him for my children.”

Now that Margaret was aware of the clouds coming nearer to her home she thought often of Dr. Colet’s escape from the King’s wrath. This had happened a few years before, and they had trembled for the fate which might overtake this beloved friend. The same cloud must have darkened Colet’s house then as it now did that of the Mores.

Why must these great men always express their views with such careless unconcern for the consequences? Why could they not be content to talk in private with their friends, and enjoy the happy lives they had built up for themselves out of their goodness? Dr. Colet had his school—the great wish of a lifetime fulfilled—yet when the King planned war with France, he must get into his pulpit and preach a sermon on the folly and wickedness of war.

It was inevitable that he should be called before an angry King; it was by a miracle that he had escaped with his life. But was it a miracle? What a plausible tongue had this great man, what a way with words!

He came to the house afterward to tell them about it; and he and her father had laughed together until Margaret had feared they would make themselves ill with such immoderate laughter which in her wisdom, she understood was partly the laughter of relief.

“But, Your Grace,” Colet had said to the King, “it is true that I preached against war. Aye, and would do so again. I said: ‘Few die well who die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is the argument? Men must follow Christ, the King of Peace…not the kings of war.’ Those were my words, Sire.”

“I know your words, sirrah!” the King cried angrily. “And I like them not.”

“But, Your Grace,” was the reply, “I but preached against dishonorable war…unjust war…and Your Grace must agree with me that there can be no good in unjust war.”

It was at this point, when telling the story, that Colet was overcome with helpless mirth. “And Thomas, the King looked at me, his little eyes suspicious. Then, suddenly, that tight mouth slackened. He laughed; he slapped my shoulder. ‘I see, friend Colet,’ he said. ‘You spoke not of this just war I would wage against the enemies of England. You spoke of the unjust wars that my enemies would wage on me?’ I bowed my head. I feared he might see the laughter in my eyes. For, this King of ours, Thomas, is a King who believes he is God Himself. He believes in all simplicity, in all sincerity, that he himself could not be unjust, could not be dishonorable. The very fact that he acts in a certain way makes that action honorable. What a man! What a King!”

“How easy life must be for him!” mused Thomas. “He has but to adjust his conscience to his desires.”

“Exactly. And this is what he did. He told himself that his Dr. Colet had not spoken against his war; he had spoken against unjust war, as he himself would speak, for is he not a just King? He led me out of his privy chamber, his arm about me. You would have been amused to see the faces of his courtiers. They had expected me to appear between two halberdiers, and here I was—His Grace’s arm through mine. He embraced me before them all, and he cried: ‘Let every man favor his own doctor. This Dr. Colet is the doctor for me.…’”

They might laugh; but such encounters terrified Margaret. But for a turn of phrase John Colet might not be with them at this time.

Erasmus had stayed in the house during those years, and of all the scholars who came to the house, Alice liked him least.

A “finicky” man, she declared he was—picking at his food, talking Latin to her husband, laughing with him. Alice was not at all sure that they were not laughing at her. “And here’s a pretty state of affairs when a woman does not know what is being said before her face.”

The climax came when he dropped a ring in the rushes and on recovering it looked at it with such distaste, and wiped it so carefully on a kerchief before restoring it to his finger, that Alice’s indignation could not be suppressed.

“So, Master Desiderius Erasmus, you find my house not clean enough for you? You sniff at my rushes, do you, sir? There is one answer to that, and I will give it. If you like not my house, why stay in it? Why not go back to your hovel…your native country where houses are so clean that they make you turn up your foreign nose at ours!”

He had tried to placate her, as all tried to placate Alice; but his arguments did not move her. She disliked him, and that was the blunt fact. All the learned tutors—the absent-minded Master Gunnel and the guttural-voiced Master Kratzer, she would endure; but not the sickly, watery-eyed, sarcastically smiling Erasmus. And indeed Erasmus had left England soon after that. He had told Margaret, of whom he was very fond: “I am a little tired of England, my child; and your stepmother is very tired of me.”

Soon after the great scholar had left them there had occurred the terrible rising of apprentices in the City, and, as Under-Sheriff, her father had played a great part in quelling the rebellion. The rising had come about on account of the citizens’ dissatisfaction with the foreigners who lived therein and who, said the citizens, took their livings from Englishmen in their native land. These foreigners brought silks, cloth of gold and merchandise into London and sold them cheaply. Dutchmen brought over timber and leather, baskets and stools, tables and saddles, already wrought; and these they sold in such numbers that there was little work for those who had previously made such goods for their own countrymen.

So it was that during the month of April people gathered in the streets to discuss this matter, and they asked themselves how they could best rid themselves of the foreigners. Thomas Wolsey, now Cardinal, Pope’s Legate, Archbishop of York, Chancellor of England and Prime Minister of State, sent for the chief aldermen of the City and told them that it was the King’s wish that the foreigners should not be molested, as they brought much trade to the country; but the aldermen, after listening respectfully to Thomas Wolsey, went away and assured each other that their first allegiance was to the City of London, and if the citizens had decided to rid themselves of the foreigners there was nothing they could do about it.

Then came that “Evil May Day” when the apprentices, with the people behind them, rose and rioted through the streets, sacking and burning the houses of foreigners.

Thomas, as Under-Sheriff, had been able to restore order to some parts of the City. The Cardinal, foreseeing how matters would go, ordered troops to close in on London, and several of the rioters were taken prisoner.

These men and boys were condemned as traitors, but only one of them was executed in the terrible manner—hanging, drawing and quartering—which was the lot of traitors. This one was to prove an example to the people; as for the rest, they provided the King with an opportunity to stage one of those little plays he so loved, the ending of which was supposed to be a surprise, but which all except the most simple of men knew to be inevitable.

Henry, gloriously clad, a mighty man in sparkling jewels, sat on a lofty dais in Westminster Hall, while before him were brought the condemned men, with ropes about their necks. The Queen must kneel before him—a foreigner herself—and beg the King for leniency since some of the offenders were so young; she asked this as a favor to herself.

The sullen little mouth became less sullen. The King raised the Queen and said that for her sake he would consider pardoning these wretches.

Then it was the turn of the great Cardinal—magnificent in his scarlet robes—to kneel and crave the King’s clemency.

All must watch this spectacle, all must know that a beloved Queen, the mother of the King’s own daughter, the Princess Mary, must humble herself before the all-powerful monarch, as must the mighty Cardinal who went about the City in such state that men gathered to see him pass as though he were a King himself; this mighty Chancellor, this great Prime Minister of the realm, also must bow the knee to beg a favor from the King.

And eventually the King allowed himself to smile, to temper justice with mercy, to receive the humble thanks of those miserable men and the gratitude of their wives and mothers who called blessings on him—their most clement King, their most handsome King, who in anger was terrible, but who knew how to relent.

It was a touching scene, begun so solemnly, ending so joyously. The memory of it would put the King in a good humor for days.

And it was not forgotten what an excellent part in quelling the rebellion had been played by Thomas More. The King noted it and discussed it with his right-hand man. They would keep their eyes on Master More. They liked the fellow, both of them.

But life was made up of success and failure, of joy and fear; it was like a game of see-saw.

Just as the King’s benevolence was shining upon Thomas More during that month of May, something happened to turn the King’s smiles to frowns.

One of the Pope’s ships had been forced to call at the port of Southampton, and the King had ordered it to be seized.

A week ago a man had called at the house in Bucklersbury to see Thomas and, when he had gone, Thomas told his family that he had agreed to act as interpreter and counsel in a case which the Pope was bringing against the authorities in England.

Alice said: “This is a good thing. You will win the case for the King, and the King’s favor never hurt anyone.”

“Nay,” Thomas answered her. “You mistake me. It is not for the King I am briefed, but for the Pope.”

Margaret said nothing; she could only look mutely at her father. He saw the way in which she looked at him, and his eyes conveyed reassurance to her.

But Alice cried: “’Tis a marvel to me, Master More, that some men deem you wise. A bigger fool it has not been my misfortune to meet. Here is a lawyer who advises those who would go to law not to waste their money! Here is a lawyer who spends much of his time saving his clients’ money that he may keep himself poor. He has won the King’s favor, this Master More, on Evil May Day. That will not do. Therefore he must throw away his advantages by working against the King and serving the Pope.”

“I seek no favors of the King,” said Thomas. “I seek to defend what is right. The ship does not become the property of the King because it calls at an English port.”

“Anything in this land belongs to the King.”

“Madam, you should enter the law. The King would doubtless favor your advancement. I doubt not that you would reap great honors.”

“I beg of you not to mock me, sir,” said Alice. “And I beg of you not to be such a fool as to take this case.”

“My folly has already run ahead of your wisdom, madam. I have accepted the brief.”

“More fool you!” cried Alice. But she, like Margaret, was afraid. Like the rest of the family, she did not want change to overtake them. If her tongue was sharp, if she must be subject to fools, in her private opinion they were beloved fools.

The weeks seemed like a year; and the cloud about the house grew darker.

Margaret said to her father: “I remember, a long time ago when I was a little girl, you told me that the King was angry with you. That was another King, but it seems to me that this King can be as angry—perhaps more angry—than his father.”

“That may be so, Meg.”

“Must you do this thing?”

“How could I refuse? The case was brought to me. I know the Pope’s cause to be the right one. Would you have me refuse it because I know that, in defending the right, I might offend the King?”

“Let some other do it.”

“Turn away from danger that some other might face it! Or leave it to those who would defy justice for the sake of the King’s favor! Nay, Meg! That is not the way to live. You…you of all people to ask it!”

“But, Father, I…”

“I know, Meg. You love me. But should I be worthy of your love if I turned away from danger? Remember this, Meg. When good fortune is greatest, then is trouble close at hand. For fortune delights to strike down those who are too high and to raise those who are low; and if we do not anticipate trouble, should it come, we shall face it with greater fortitude.”

So she trembled, and during that day when he went into the courts she found that she could not keep her mind on her lessons. Nor could Elizabeth and Cecily; and when Alice looked in and found Jack astride a stool, dreaming that he was on horseback, and Ailie pulling at the curls which escaped from her cap, and Cecily and Elizabeth whispering together, and neither Mercy nor Margaret attending to their lessons, she merely shook her head at them and said nothing, which was strange for her. There was about her an alertness, as though she were listening for the sound of horses’ hoofs, which would herald the return of Thomas.

And at length he came home.

“Wife!” he cried. “Children! Where are you?”

They rushed to greet him, to look into his face; and there they saw a shining triumph.

“Well, Master More?” demanded Alice.

“The case is won.”

“Won?” cried Margaret.

“There could only be one verdict, and I got it.”

He had won the case, even though it had been tried before the great Wolsey himself. He had won the Pope’s case, and in doing so he had defeated the King!

Margaret had felt then that that other occasion had been but a rehearsal for this. Henry the Seventh had gone timely to his grave; but the new King was young and healthy.

What will become of us? wondered Margaret.

Mercy was beside her. “Come, Margaret. Sit down here.”

Mercy forced her onto a stool and placed a cool hand on her forehead.

“Thank you, Mercy.”

“Do not frighten the little ones,” whispered Mercy.

“You are right,” said Margaret. “We must not frighten the little ones. But Mercy…Mercy…”

Mercy pressed her hands. Mercy, even though she loved him as Margaret did, even though she saw his danger, could remain serene.

They were at supper when the messenger came. He was the King’s messenger; they knew that by his livery.

The King, declared the messenger, desired the presence of Thomas More at his Palace of Westminster. It would be well for Thomas More to take barge at once.

Margaret felt the piece of cob bread sticking in her throat. Her eyes met those of Mercy. Mercy’s eyes, beneath her level brows, were full of fear.

WHEN THOMAS was shown into the royal apartments of the Palace of Westminster, the King was alone with his Chancellor.

Thomas went forward, knelt, and a large hand, aglitter with emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, was extended to him.

Almost immediately it was snatched away and waved impatiently.

“Rise…rise…” said the King.

Thomas did so and stood before the royal chair. The sparkling hands were laid on the velvet-covered chair arms; the big face was flushed, the eyes narrowed.

“We have had news, Master More,” said the King, “of your conduct in this affair of the Pope’s ship.” He glared at Thomas. “That is why we have sent for you.”

Thomas’s eyes strayed for a second to those of the Chancellor, who stood by the King’s chair. It was impossible to read the thoughts behind those eyes, but Thomas sensed a certain sympathy, a certain encouragement. During this day in the court he had been aware of Wolsey’s approval of his conduct of the case. But what the Chancellor would feel in the absence of the King might be something different from that which he might show in his presence.

“Master More,” went on the King slowly and deliberately, “you have a fine conceit of yourself.”

Thomas was silent.

“Have you not?” roared the King. “We hear that this day, when you defended the Pope, you were full of fine phrases. Now, when you should defend yourself, you appear to have lost your voice. What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of it, eh?”

“Before I begin the case for my defense, Sire, I must know what is the accusation.”

“You dare to stand before us…your King…and to ask what is the accusation! Master More, did you, or did you, not, deliberately act against your King this day?”

“Nay, Sire. I acted against injustice.”

The King’s hands on the arms of his chair were clenched suddenly; they appeared to tremble.

“Did you hear that, Wolsey, did you hear that?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“He acted against me…and he calls that acting against injustice! By God’s body, what should I do with such a man, eh? Tell me that. You are the Chancellor of this realm. What should I do with him? Clap him into the Tower? Know this, my friend…know this: Those who act against the King are traitors. Master More, do you know the death that awaits a traitor?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“You should…as a lawyer. Well…well…what have you to say? You stand there…Come, come, repeat to me what you said in the courts this day. You…you traitor…you…you who would work for a foreign power against your own country….”

“Your Grace, I was asked by the representative of His Holiness the Pope to argue his case for him. The Chancellor here will tell you that I only did what any lawyer would do.”

“And are you in the habit, Master More, of employing your talents to uphold injustice?”

“Nay, Sire.”

“And if you did not think a case was a just one, you would refuse it. I dare swear?”

“I should, Your Grace.”

The King rose. He put his hands on his hips and rocked on his heels. The little eyes opened very wide and he began to laugh.

“Here, Wolsey!” he cried. “Here is our man!”

Thomas looked in astonishment from King to Chancellor. Henry walked toward Thomas and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“It grieves us,” he said, “it grieves us mightily that when we find honest men in our kingdom…honest men and brave…they are not with us, but against us.” He lifted his hand suddenly and brought it down in an affectionate pat on Thomas’s shoulder. “And when we grieve, Master More, we seek to right the grievance. That is so, is it not, Master Wolsey?”

The Chancellor came forward. “’Tis even so, my gracious lord.”

“Speak to him then, Wolsey. Tell this fellow what I have said of him.”

Then Wolsey spoke: “Our most gracious King, in his clemency, in his great love of truth and justice, is not displeased, as you might well believe, at the way in which the case went this afternoon. When I told His Grace what had happened, how you, with your learned discourse, with your determination to uphold what you believed right in this matter, had so swayed the court that the verdict went against the holding of the Pope’s ship, his most gracious Majesty was thoughtful.”

“’Tis so!” interrupted the King. “’Tis so. And I said to Wolsey: ‘Thomas Wolsey,’ I said. ‘Thomas, I like it not when the best men in my kingdom…out of their honesty and bravery…are not with me, but against me.’ That is what I said to him. ‘By God,’ I said, ‘we should send for this fellow. He shall work for me in future, for he is a man that I like…and he is a man I will have beside me.…’”

“I understand not, Your Grace,” said Thomas.

“He understands not my grace!” said the King with a laugh. His eyes were sparkling with benevolence; the little mouth was slack with sentiment. “Aye, but you shall. You shall see, Thomas More, that I am a King who would surround himself with the best in the kingdom. I like you, Master More. You were against me…but I like you. That’s the man I am. You dared to speak against your King, but such is your King that he likes you for it.”

Now he stood back like a boy who has all the toys that others envy; and who, because he is wise and kindly, will share those toys with the less fortunate.

“Come here, my friend.” He took Thomas’s arm in a gesture of such friendliness that it startled Thomas. “Don’t be afraid of us, Master More. Don’t be overcome, my dear fellow. Yesterday you were a poor lawyer. Today the King is your friend. And you, my dear Wolsey, my other Thomas….” He put his arm through that of the Chancellor, and with them walked the length of the apartment. “We have work for a man like you here at court, Master More. We can lift you up. We can honor you with favors…and we will. You shall work with our Chancellor here, for he has taken a fancy to you. He likes you. Do you not, eh, Wolsey?”

“I do, my gracious master.”

“Indeed, you do.” The King stopped and looked with the utmost affection at the Cardinal. “There’s not much missed by those shrewd eyes. Now there shall be two Thomases to serve their master…two good and honest men. What have you to say, Master More?”

“Your Grace overwhelms me. I know not what to say.”

The King began to laugh. “’Twas as good as a play, eh, Wolsey? As good as a masque! Master More, present yourself to the King! By God, Master More, when you entered this room you thought you’d march out of it to a dungeon, I doubt not. You did not know that you would find in it the King’s warm regard…the King’s favor.”

“Your Grace,” said Thomas, “I know you to be a just King. I did not believe that you would condemn a subject because that subject acted in accordance with what he believed to be right.”

“Well spoken,” said the King soberly. “Your advancement is certain. You will do well in the service of the Chancellor.”

“Your Grace, I…I have my duties as a lawyer….”

Both the King and Wolsey had raised their eyebrows, but Thomas went on boldly: “I have also my duties as Under-Sheriff of the City of London….”

“Enough! Enough!” said the King. “We shall take care of that. Man, I offer you great rewards. Look at this man here. He was but my chaplain, and I have made him the greatest man in this land…under myself. My father raised him up…and what was he before that? I’ll tell you…. No, no. I will not tell you! Suffice it that it was humble…most humble, eh, Master Wolsey? But I like this man. I like this Wolsey. He is my counselor and my friend. And so…from little I lifted him to greatness. So will I do for you. Now…you are overwhelmed. It was a little joke of mine to tease you first, to fill you with fear, then to fill you with joy. You shall be a rich man, Master More. Fortune is favoring you, for the King is giving you his hand in friendship. Go away now…and think of the greatness which lies before you. I will let all men see this day how I honor those who are brave and honest men…even though they do not always share my views.”

“Your Grace…”

“You are dismissed, Master More,” said the King with a smile. “You shall speak of your gratitude some other time. You need now to be alone…to think of this sudden change in your fortunes.”

The King had turned away, calling for a page; and Thomas found himself walking backward out of the apartment.

SLOWLY HE made his way down to the river, where his barge was waiting for him.

Never had he been at such a loss for words; never in the whole of his life had he received such a surprise. He had gone to the Palace prepared to defend himself and, instead of having to justify his action in the court of law, had found a more difficult task presented to him. He had tried to refuse an appointment at Court which the King himself had offered, when to refuse it would certainly be looked upon as an affront to His Grace.

Yet refuse it he must. He did not want to go to Court. He was no courtier. He did not want his quiet life to be disturbed. He had his work, his writing, his study, his family. They were enough for him; they gave him all that he desired in life. It was ironical; so many yearned for a place at Court; so many were ambitious; and he who did not seek it, who must refuse it, was having it thrust upon him.

As he was about to step into his barge, one of the Cardinal’s servants came running to the river’s edge.

Wolsey’s retinue were as magnificently attired as though they served the King; they wore a livery of crimson velvet trimmed with gold chains; and even his menials wore scarlet trimmed with black velvet.

“His Excellency the Cardinal begs you to wait awhile,” said the man. “He would have speech with you. He says the matter is of importance. Will you wait for him in his apartments, sir?”

“Assuredly I will,” said Thomas; and he was conducted back to the Palace.

There he was shown into the apartments of the Cardinal, the furnishings of which were as rich as those of the King. Thomas was taken through many rooms to a small chamber, and when he had waited in this chamber for five minutes, the Cardinal came in.

In his scarlet satin dress and tippet of sable, he dominated the room; and he wore his garments as though they delighted him. There were many stories current regarding the magnificence of the Cardinal. He kept several princely households, in which he stored many treasures. York House and Hampton Court were said to vie with the King’s own palaces. He lived in great pomp, surrounded by a large retinue of servants; he had his cofferer, three marshals, an almoner, two yeomen ushers and two grooms; he had clerks of the kitchens, a clerk controller, even a clerk of the spicery; his pages, grooms of the scullery and scalding houses, grooms of the pantry, porters and yeomen were so numerous that even he did not know their number; and his cook was seen to strut in the grounds of his houses like a minor potentate in damask and with a chain of gold about his neck, carrying a nosegay or a pomander in imitation of his master, his own servants of the kitchen about him.

The grandeur of Wolsey exceeded, some said, that of the King himself; and because the Cardinal had risen to great heights from a lowly beginning, he was resented by those of high birth, who felt he should not be among them, and envied by those of low birth who felt he should be on their level. Yet he cared not for these criticisms. He cared not that the mischievous Skelton had written verses concerning the state he kept, and that the people were singing them in the streets, asking each other:

“Why come ye not to Court?

To which Court?

To the King’s Court

Or to Hampton Court?

“The King’s Court

Should have the excellence.

But Hampton Court

Hath the pre-eminence.”

Perhaps those who sung the verses believed they might rouse the King’s resentment; but the King was not resentful toward his favorite, for Henry believed that all the magnificence with which the Cardinal surrounded himself came from his own kingly munificence. Henry had set the fountains playing; if he wished, he had but to give the order and their flow would cease. Hampton Court was in reality the King’s Court, and the King’s Court was Hampton Court. The Cardinal regarded the King as his puppet; but that was exactly how the King saw the Cardinal; each was unaware of the other’s myopia, and while this was so they could feel safe and contented.

The Cardinal, though essentially ambitious, was not an unkindly man. There was no room in his life for malice for its own sake. There was one ruling passion in the Cardinal’s life, and that was ambition. To the humble, he was generous; and his servants were fond of him. He had used religion as a ladder to fame and fortune; he used people, and if he found it necessary to destroy them, it was not out of malice or sudden anger; it was merely because they impeded his ambition.

He, like the King, had taken a fancy to Thomas More; he had seen that this man could be useful.

He had also seen what the King had not seen: that Thomas More was not overcome with joy at the prospect of the King’s favor. It was not that Thomas More had been at a loss for words to express his gratitude; he had hesitated because he was wondering how to refuse the honors the King was ready to bestow. It was concerning this matter that the Cardinal wished to see Thomas More.

“I am glad that you returned to the Palace,” said the Cardinal.

“I would converse with you. You may speak frankly with me, as I will with you. And you need have no fear that what you say will go beyond these four walls, for my servant, Cavendish, whom I would trust with my life, will see that none overhears us. So…speak your mind freely to me, Master More, as I will speak mine to you.”

“What is it that Your Excellency has to say to me?”

“Merely this: You are considering how to refuse the King’s offer, I believe?”

“You are right. I shall refuse it.”

“Such procedure would be misguided.”

“I will try to explain to you.”

The Cardinal lifted his well-cared-for hand. “Save your breath. I understand. You are not an ambitious man. You are a scholar who wishes to be left alone with the work he has chosen. I understand that point of view, although it is a most unusual one. I have read your literary works—and may I compliment you on their excellence? You prefer the secluded life. But if you rebuff the King’s friendly gesture, you will be a foolish man. Nay…nay…mistake me not. I know that if a man does not seek fame, then he sets no store by it. But I do not talk of fame…of the advancement which I know could come to a man of your talents. I speak, Master More, of your life.”

“My life?”

“It could easily be at stake.”

“I do not understand you.”

“That is because you do not understand the man whom we have just left. You see him as a mighty King. Pray do not be alarmed. As I said, I shall speak frankly to you, even of the King. You may think I am incautious. But, my friend, if you carried tales of what I say to you now, I should deny them. Moreover, I should find some means of silencing you. But I speak to you thus because I know you are a man who would respect a confidence. I trust you as you trust me. You have just witnessed a little playacting in the royal apartments. Was it not charming? A humble official believes he has displeased the King; and then he finds that he has pleased him. The King is a boy at heart, Master More. He loves to play, and you have helped him to play a very pretty scene. Now, the King is not always a merry-tempered boy. Sometimes the young cub roars and sometimes he springs; and although I am his very watchful keeper, I cannot always save his victims from those mighty claws; even if I have a will to do so. You marvel? But, listen. I have a fancy for you…just as the King has. There are few men in this kingdom with brains and honesty…oh, very few. Having found one, I do not intend to let him slip through my fingers. I want you, Master More, to work with me. I can offer you a great career…fame…advancement…”

“Your Excellency…”

“You do not want them, I know. But you want to live. You want to go home to your clever children and your wife, do you not? You want to go on conversing with your learned friends. Oh, life is sweet, Master More, when it brings as much to a man as it has brought to you. But think of this: A child plays his games and he loves his toys; but if a toy displeases him, what does he do? He smashes it. Master More, when you played the honorable lawyer this day, you took a great risk. But the boy liked his playlet; he liked his new role. Perhaps he has heard his praises sung too consistently of late. Who shall say? But you pleased him. You played your part so well that the principal actor was able to outshine us all. Now, the King will not be pleased if you do not continue to make him feel pleased with himself, if you do not allow him to show the world what a beneficent monarch he is.”

“You are very bold, Cardinal.”

“You were bold this afternoon, Master More. But you cannot afford to risk offending the King twice in one day. Great good luck has attended you; you could not expect that to be repeated. This King of ours is a mighty lion who does not yet know his strength. He is caged…but he does not see the bars. I am his keeper. If he felt his strength, if he knew his power, then we might begin to tremble. I believe he would risk his kingdom to satisfy his appetites. That is why he must be fed carefully. It is the duty of men like yourself…like myself…who wish to serve our country—some because of honor, some because of ambition; what matters it if we serve our country well?—it is the duty of such men to suppress their personal desires. And if we do not, we may find that the King’s frown, instead of his smile, is turned upon us.”

“Are you sure that if I refused to come to Court I should find myself persecuted?”

“I believe this would certainly come to pass. Remember, my friend—and I mean ‘my friend’, for I will be yours if you will be mine—I know him. I served his father as I now serve him; and I have watched him grow up.”

“But I have no wish to come to Court.”

“Master More, you have no choice. I remember, when I served his father, that you were in disfavor. You are a man who cannot fail to attract attention. You would not be here in England at this moment had his father lived, unless you now lay under the earth. The young King is not the old King; but, Master More, he is none the less dangerous for that.”

“I wish to live in peace and quietude with my family.”

“If you wish to live at all, Master More, you will not reject the King’s honors.” The Cardinal was smiling quizzically. “Go now, my friend. There is nothing more to say at this stage. I will tell the King I have talked with you, and that the honor he is about to heap on you has overwhelmed you, robbed you of your native wit. I will tell him that I believe our country is fortunate in the learned honesty of Thomas More…and the clemency and astonishing wisdom of its King.”

MARGARET FLUNG herself into his arms when he came home.

“Father!”

He kissed her warmly.

“Why these sad looks? This is a time for rejoicing. The King honors me. He sent for me to congratulate me…to tell me of his regard.”

Margaret, her arms about his neck, leaned backward to look searchingly into his face.

“But you are disturbed.”

“Disturbed! My dearest, you will see your father a courtier yet. I met the great Cardinal, and he also honors me with his friendship. Meg, I am weighed down with honors.”

But she continued to look at him uneasily. The others were surrounding him now.

“What is this nonsense?” demanded Alice.

“The King sent for me to tell me he is pleased with me.”

“Pleased with you for losing him his ship?”

“The Pope’s ship, madam!”

“Pleased with you. Pleased! Is this another of your jokes?”

“’Tis no joke,” said Thomas slowly. “The King liked what I did this day, and he honors me. I am to go to Court. I am to work with Cardinal Wolsey. When I left this house, Alice, I was a humble lawyer; now I am…I know not what.”

Alice cried: “’Tis a marvelous thing and great good luck, though you have done little to deserve it. Come to the table. Tell us more of this. A place at Court! Tilly valley! I was never so excited in my life.”

How strange, thought Margaret, that the same piece of news could be so differently received by members of the same family. Here was her stepmother already looking ahead to a rosy future, to rich marriages for the young members of the family; and here was her father looking ahead—smiling for their sakes, trying to be pleased with advancement, yet unable to hide from his beloved daughter the foreboding which showed in his eyes.

THAT SUMMER was hot and dry, and the sweating sickness appeared in the City.

Thomas was to begin his service to the King by going on an embassy to Flanders. His life had changed; he must be often at the Palace and he spent much time with the Cardinal. The first trouble which his elevation brought were his absences from home.

“I wish we were a humble family,” said Margaret passionately to Mercy. “Then we might stay together and attract no attention to ourselves.”

“We should have no education,” Mercy reminded her. “And can you imagine Father as a man of no education? No, as he says, there is good and bad in life; and there is bad in the good and good in the bad; and the only way to live is to accept the one with the other. Enjoy one; endure the other.”

“How wise you are, Mercy!”

“It is borrowed wisdom…borrowed from Father.”

Mercy was happy that year in spite of the pending departure of Thomas, and the reason was that there was a new member of this ever-growing household. This was John Clement, a protégé of the Cardinal’s, a young man in his late teens who was to accompany Thomas as his secretary and attendant on the mission to Flanders.

John Clement was a serious and very learned person—a young man after Thomas’s own heart—and a warm welcome was given him in the house of his new master. Young Clement quickly became a member of that happy family group, but he found that she who interested him most was not one of the Mores, but Mercy Gigs.

He sought every opportunity of talking with her. He was several years older than she was, but it seemed to him that he had never met a girl of her age so solemnly self-contained; and if she was not quite so learned as Margaret, her scholarship lay in that subject which most interested him.

He never forgot the rapt expression in her eyes when he told her that he had studied medicine at Oxford.

“You are interested in medicine, Mistress Mercy?” he asked.

“In nothing so much.”

Now they had a subject which they could discuss together; Thomas watched them with pleasure. My little Mercy is growing up, he thought. They are all growing up. In two or three years it will be necessary to find husbands for Mercy and Margaret—and Ailie too, though she will doubtless find one for herself.

It was a dream materializing, an ideal becoming palpable. When he had decided on giving up the monk’s life for that of a family man, he had visualized a household very like the one which was now his. Had he ever imagined such love as he had for Margaret? Nay, the reality was greater than he had foreseen. And when she marries she must never leave me, he thought, for without Margaret I would not wish to live. And Mercy here is as dear to me as are my own children. Did ever a man possess such a learned and affectionate daughter as Margaret, such charming children as those who made up his household? And Alice herself, she was neither a pearl nor a girl, but he was fond of her; and he knew that her sharp words often hid kindly motives. Where could he find a better housekeeper? And surely she was the best of mothers to his children, for it was well to have a touch of spice in the sweetest dish. There might be times when his beloved children were in need of chastisement, and how could he administer a whipping? He was a coward where such matters were concerned. What could he whip his children with but a peacock’s feather? Yet Mistress Alice shirked not the task.

He was a lucky man. He must not complain that his life away from his family was not all that he could wish. So many men craved the King’s favor; so many would have been honored to call the Cardinal their friend. He wanted too much of life. He must make the best of his new honors; he must steal away from them as often as he could, to be with his books and his family; and he must be grateful to God for the good life which was his.

Was ever man so loved? Very few, he believed. Only yesterday, when the children were talking together of what they wished for most, he had wandered by and heard their talk. Mercy had said: “If I could wish for something, I would wish I were Father’s true daughter.”

And when he had found her alone, he had said to her: “Mercy, you have no need to wish for what is already yours. To me you are exactly as though you are my true daughter.”

She had blushed and faltered and said: “Father, I meant that I wished I were your daughter as Margaret, Elizabeth and Cecily are.”

“That matters not at all, Mercy, my child. I see you as my daughter—my true daughter—as much as any of the others. You are as dear to me.”

“I know it, Father,” she said. “But…”

“But, Mercy, if that love which is between us two is as strong as the love which is between me and the daughters of my own body, what difference can there be! You delight me, Mercy. You are all that I could wish for in a daughter. You must not wish for something which is already yours…in all that matters. I remember when you were a little girl and I took you to task for some small fault, your distress hurt me as much as the distress of any of the others would have done.”

She caught his hand and kissed it. “In those days,” she said, “I sometimes committed those faults that you might talk to me alone…even though it was to reprimand me.”

“Poor little Mercy! You felt you were left out then? You were the foster child? You wished to have attention…even if, to gain it, you must seem at fault?”

“It was that,” she answered. “But it was also that I might have the pleasure of standing before you and that you should be thinking of me…me…alone. Me…by myself, without Margaret.”

“Oh, Mercy…Mercy…you must not have such a high opinion of me. We must not set up gods on Earth, you know.”

She said: “I have set up nothing. I have lifted up my eyes and seen.”

He laughed. “Now to talk sense. Your wish was that you could be my true daughter. Now that you know there was no need for such a wish, what other wish have you, my child? Suppose I were a king with all the wealth in the world at my disposal, and I said I would grant you a favor, what would you say?”

She did not hesitate. “I would ask for a big house to which I could bring the sick and care for them, and gradually learn more and more, that I should know not only how to cure but prevent disease.”

“That’s a noble wish, Mercy. Would I were a king…solely that I might grant it.”

So he watched her with John Clement, and his heart warmed toward them both; for he wished his girls to marry and have families. That was the happiest life, he was sure; he had proved it. And while Thomas was preparing to depart on his embassy, Mercy and John Clement were often together, and they talked of the terrible sickness which had taken a hold of the City.

“’Tis a marvelous thing,” said Mercy, “that there is not a single case of sickness here in Bucklersbury.”

“I have a theory on that matter,” said John Clement eagerly. “This street lacks the maleficent odors of other streets. Here we do not smell unpleasantness, but sweetness…the smell of musk, the smell of spices and perfumes and unguents.”

“Do you think, then, that the sickness comes from evil smells?”

“I believe this may be so; and if this street, as I believe has been the case in past epidemics, has not a single sufferer of the sweat while scarce a house in the rest of the City escapes, then might there not be something in the theory?”

Mercy was excited.

“Why,” she cried, “when Erasmus was here he condemned our houses. He did not like them at all. He said the rooms were built in such a way as to allow no ventilation. Our casements let in light, but not air; and the houses are so drafty. He said our custom of covering our floors with clay on which we laid rushes was a harmful one—particularly as in the poor cottages those rushes are not changed for twenty years. I know how angry Mother used to be when he complained about our rushes, although they were changed once a week. He said we should have windows that opened wide. He said that we ate too much—too many salted meats. He said our streets were filthy and a disgrace to a country that called itself civilized.”

“He sounds a very fierce gentleman.”

“He was…in some ways. In others he was mild. But I think there may be something in what he said about our houses, do you not, Master Clement?”

“I do indeed.”

“I am terrified that the sickness will come to this house. But I am glad that Father is leaving the country just now. He at least will get away from these pestiferous streets. You also, Master Clement…. But…it would be terrible if anything happened here…while he is gone. What should I do if any take the sickness?”

“You can do nothing about the drafts and the lack of good air in the house, of course. But I believe more frequent sweetening would prevent the disease coming here. Here is a good mixture for any afflicted: marigold, endive, sowthistle and nightshade—three handfuls of all; seethe them in conduit water—a quart of this; strain into a vessel with a little sugar. This will remove the sourness. Let the patient drink it. The patient should keep warm and lie in his bed when first the sweat takes him. If he is dressed, keep him dressed; and if he is undressed let him stay undressed, but cover up the bed…cover it well. I have known men and women recover when so treated.”

“Marigold, endive, nightshade and sowthistle. I will remember that.”

“I will tell you how to make the philosopher’s egg. Now, that is an excellent remedy for the sweat. It can be prepared in advance and you can keep it for years. In fact, it improves with keeping.”

“That would delight me greatly. Do tell me.”

“You take an egg and break a hole in it and take the yolk from the white as cleanly as you can. Fill the shell with the yolk and some saffron; then close the ends with eggshell. Put it in the embers and leave it until it be hard and can be made into a fine powder.”

Ailie came over to where they sat; she eyed them mischievously.

“What is it that interests you so much that you forget aught else?” she wanted to know.

“Master Clement is telling me how to make the philosopher’s egg.”

“The philosopher’s egg! You mean that which changes base metals into gold or silver? Oh, Master Clement, I beg of you to tell me your secret.”

“You misunderstand,” said John Clement soberly.

“The philosopher’s egg,” explained Mercy. “You think of the philosophers stone.”

“And what magic powers hath this egg?”

“It cures the sick,” said Mercy.

“I would rather the stone,” said Ailie.

“Heed her not,” said Mercy with some impatience. “She loves to jest.”

Ailie stood by smiling at them, and John Clement went on: “You will need white mustard, dittony and termontell with a dram of crownuts; you must also add angelica and pimpernel, four grains of unicorn’s horn if you can get it. All these must be mixed with treacle until they hang to the pestle. I will write this out for you to keep. When this substance is made it can be put into glass boxes, and kept for years. Its great virtue is that the longer you keep it the better.”

“Oh thank you. I shall never forget your kindness.”

Ailie went to Cecily and whispered: “See how friendly they are becoming.”

“What is it he gives her?” asked Cecily.

“It is a love letter,” said Ailie. “To think that Mercy should have a lover before me.”

“Love letter! You are wrong, Ailie. It is a recipe for some medicine, I’ll swear.”

“Ah, my dear little Cecily, that may be. But there are many kinds of love letters.”

And Ailie pouted, for she said she liked it not that any of the girls should have a lover before she did.

Alice laughed at the two young people. “Master More, what strange daughters you have! They love Latin verse better than fine clothes, and exchange recipes when other youths and maidens exchange love tokens.”

“That may be,” said Thomas, “but with my family—and this fits every member of it—with my family, I am well pleased.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice; but she herself was no less pleased.

THOMAS WROTE home regularly while he was away from them.

They must write to him for, he said, he missed them sorely, and it was only when he received their letters that he could be happy. He wanted to hear everything, no matter how trivial it seemed to them; if it concerned his home, that was enough to delight him. “There is no excuse for you girls,” he wrote. “Cannot girls always find something to chatter about? That is what I want you to do, my darlings. Take up your pens and chatter to your father.”

There was always a special compliment if Jack wrote anything. Poor Jack, now that he was growing up he was beginning to realize how difficult it was for a normal, healthy boy to compete with such brilliant sisters. Alice said it was God’s rebuke on his father for having prated so much and so consistently about the equality of men’s and women’s brains when all the rest of the world opined that men were meant to be the scholars. Here are your brilliant daughters, perhaps God had said. And your son shall be a dullard.

Not that Jack was a dullard by any means; he was merely normal. He could not love lessons as he loved the outdoor life. Therefore his father wrote to his son very tenderly and cherished his efforts with the pen, encouraging him, understanding that all cannot love learning as some do.

He wrote enthusiastically to Margaret. He could not help it if writing to Margaret gave him pleasure which was greater than anything else he could enjoy during his sojourn abroad.

He was writing a book, which had long been in his mind, he told her. It consisted of imaginary conversations between himself and a man who had come from a strange land, which was called Utopia. They discussed the manners and customs of this land. The writing of this book was giving him great pleasure, and when he came home he would enjoy reading it to her.

“I showed one of your Latin essays to a very great man, Margaret. He is a great scholar, and you will be gratified when I tell you who he is. Reginald Pole. My dearest, he was astonished. He said that but for the fact that I assured him this was so, he would not have believed a girl—or anyone your age, boy or girl—could have done such work unaided. My dearest child, how can I explain to you my pride?”

He was a very proud man. He kept his children’s writings with him, that he might read them through when he felt dejected and homesick; nor could he refrain from showing them to his friends and boasting a little. His pride and joy in his family was profound. He wrote to them:

My dearest children,

I hope that a letter to you all may find you in good health and that your father’s good wishes may keep you so. In the meantime, while I make a long journey, drenched by soaking rain, and while my mount too frequently is bogged down in the mud, I compose this for you to give you pleasure. You will then gather an indication of your father’s feelings for you—how much more than his own eyes he loves you; for the mud, the miserable weather and the necessity for driving a small horse through deep waters have not been able to distract my thoughts from you.…

Then he went on to tell them how he had always loved them and how he longed to be with them:

At the moment my love has increased so much that it seems to me that I used not to love you at all. Your characteristics tug at my heart, so bind me to you, that my being your father (the only reason for many a father’s love) is hardly a reason at all for my love for you. Therefore, most dearly beloved children, continue to endear yourselves to your father, and by those same accomplishments, which make me think that I had not loved you before, make me think hereafter (for you can do it) that I do not love you now….

And so they waited, while the sweating sickness passed over Bucklersbury, for the return of the father whom they loved.

ONE DAY after his return when the family were gathered at the table, Thomas said to them: “I have a surprise for you all. There is to be a new addition to our family. I hope you will all make him welcome. I find him an interesting and charming person. I am sure you will too.”

“Is it a man?” asked Ailie, her eyes sparkling.

“It is, daughter.”

“Not a gray-bearded scholar this time, Father!”

“Half right and half wrong. A scholar but not a gray-bearded one. He is, I gather, some twenty years of age.”

“It is to be hoped he has not the finical manners of that Erasmus,” said Alice. “I want no more such foreigners in the house.”

“Nay, Alice, he is not a foreigner. He is an Englishman; and I doubt you will find him overfinical. He is of a very good family, I must tell you, and he comes to study the law with me.”

“Father,” cried Margaret, “how will you have time to help a young man with his studies, do your law work and serve the King and the Cardinal? You do too much. We shall never have you with us.”

“Do not scold me, Meg. I’ll warrant you’ll like Friend Roper. He is a serious young man, a little quiet, so he’ll not disturb you overmuch. I think he will be ready to join our family circle.”

So William Roper came to the house—a young man of quiet manners and seeming meekness, but, Margaret noticed, with an obstinate line to his mouth. There was one thing about him that Margaret liked, and that was his devotion to her father. It was quite clear that the young man had decided to follow in Thomas’s footsteps whenever possible.

John Clement, who had returned to the household of the Cardinal, came to the house whenever he could; and in a few months it became clear that Will Roper and John Clement looked upon The Barge in Bucklersbury as their home.

Margaret was thirteen when Will Roper came; he was twenty; yet in spite of the difference in their ages, Margaret felt as old as he was. As John Clement sought Mercy’s company, Will Roper sought Margaret’s; and this fact made Ailie pout a little. There was she, by far the prettiest of the three of them, and yet the two eligible young men at the house seemed to seek the friendship of Margaret and Mercy.

“Not,” she said to Cecily who was herself a little frivolous, “that we could call such as John Clement and Will Roper men; one is always sniffing herbs and cures, and the other always has his nose in his law books. Now that Father is at Court, perhaps he will bring home some real men…for you, Cecily, and for me. I doubt whether Margaret or Mercy would be interested.”

Alice worried Thomas when they were alone: “Now that you have such opportunities, you must see to husbands for the girls.”

“Why, Alice, there are some years to go yet.”

“Not so many. Mercy, Margaret and my girl are thirteen. In a year or two it will be time to settle them.”

“Then we may wait a year or two yet.”

“I know. I know. And by that time who knows what honors will be heaped upon you! It is all very well to be wise and noble and to prattle in Greek, but it seems to me you would be wiser and more noble if you thought a little about your children’s future.”

He was thoughtful, and suddenly he laid his hand on her shoulder.

“In good time,” he said, “I promise you I will do all that a father should.”

Those were the happy days, with few cares to disturb the household. They had grown accustomed to Thomas’s working with Wolsey now. He came home at every opportunity, and they would laugh at his tales of how he had managed to slip away from the Court unseen.

At that time the only troubles were petty annoyances. There was an occasion when Thomas went to Exeter to see Vesey, the Bishop, and he came home quite put out; and while they sat at the table he told them why this was so.

“I had some of your work in my pocket…a little piece from each of you…and the best you have ever done. Well, I could not resist the chance of showing them to the Bishop, and, to tell the truth, it was that which I was longing to do all the time I was with him. So, at the first opportunity I brought out this piece of Margaret’s. He read it, and he stared at me. ‘A girl wrote this!’ he said with astonishment. ‘My daughter Margaret,’ I answered lightly. ‘And her age?’ ‘She is just thirteen.’ And, my dear one, like Reginald Pole, he would not have believed me had I not given him my word. He would not hand the piece back to me. He read it through and through again. He walked about his room in some excitement and then unlocked a box and produced this.”

They crowded round to see what he held up.

“What is it, Father?” asked Jack.

“A gold coin, my son, from Portugal.”

“Is it valuable?”

“It is indeed. The Bishop said: ‘Give this to your daughter Margaret with my compliments and good wishes, for I never saw such work from one so young. Let her keep it and look at it now and then and be encouraged to grow into that great scholar, which I know she will become.’ I begged him to take back the coin. I refused to accept the coin. But the more I refused, the more earnest he became that I should accept it.”

Ailie said: “But why, Father, did you not wish to take it?”

“Because, my daughter, I wished to show him the work of the others which I had in my pocket. But how could I show it? He would think I was asking for more gold coins. I have rarely been so disappointed. I felt cheated. I wanted to say: ‘But I have five clever daughters and one clever son, and I wish you to know how clever they all are.’ But how could I?”

They all laughed, for now he looked like a child—a little boy who has been denied a treat, Margaret told him.

“Well, here is your coin. Meg, do you not like it?”

“No, Father. Every time I look at it I shall remember it brought disappointment to you.” Then she put her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Father, you must not be so proud of your children. Pride is a sin, you know—one of the deadly sins. I am going to write some verses for you…about a father who fell into the sin of pride.”

“Ah, Meg, I shall look forward to hearing them. They will make up for the disappointment the Bishop gave me.”

In the evenings they would gather together and talk and read; sometimes they would sing. Thomas had taught Alice to sing a little. She had begun under protest. She was too old, she declared, to join his school. And did the man never think of anything but learning and teaching? Latin she would not touch. As for Greek, that was more heathen than anything.

He would put his arms about her and wheedle her gently: “Come, Alice, try these notes. You’ve a wonderful voice. You’ll be our singing bird yet.”

“I never heard such nonsense!” she declared. But they heard her singing to herself when she sat stitching, trying out her voice; and they knew that one day she would join in; and she did.

Margaret felt that with the passing of that year she had grown to love her father even more—so much more, as he had said, that it seemed that previously she could hardly have loved him at all.

His book Utopia taught her more about him. She understood from it his longing for perfection. She enjoyed discussing it with him. “My pride in you, Father, is as great as yours in your children. Methinks we are a very proud pair. And, Father, there is one thing that pleases me more then any other: That is your tolerance in this matter of religion.” She quoted: “‘King Utopus made a decree that it should be lawful for every man to favor and follow what religion he would, and that he might do the best he could to bring others to his opinion, if he did it peaceably, gently, quietly and soberly, without hasty and contentious rebuking and inveighing against others….’ I like the views of King Utopus on religion. I feel them to be right.”

“Ah, Meg, what a wonderful world we could have if men could be induced to make it so.”

On one occason he said to her: “My dearest daughter, there is one matter which I wish to discuss with you. It is something between us two, and I want no other to know of it.”

“Yes, Father?”

“You know that at one time I considered taking my vows. Meg, it is a strange thing but the monastic life still calls to me.”

“What! You would leave us and go into solitude?”

“Nay, never! For you are dearer to me than all the world…you…you alone—and that is not counting the rest of the family. I once said to Colet, when he was my confessor, that I was a greedy man. I wanted two lives; and it seems I am a determined man, for I want to live those two lives side by side, Meg. While I live here in the midst of you all, while I am happy among you, still I crave to be a monk. While I live with you, I am happy with you, and I believe we are meant to be happy for a saintly life need not be a gloomy one, I still continue those practices which I followed when I was in the Charterhouse.” He undid the ruff about his neck and opened his doublet.

“Father!” she whispered. “A hair shirt!”

“Yes, Meg. A hair shirt. It subdues the flesh. It teaches a man to suffer and endure. Meg, it is our secret.”

“I will keep it, Father.”

He laughed suddenly. “Will you do more than that? Will you wash it for me…and in secret?”

“Assuredly I will.”

“Bless you, Meg. There is none other to whom I could confide this thing and be certain of understanding.”

“There is nothing you could not confide in me…nor I in you.”

“Your mother, God bless her, would not understand. She would ridicule the practice. So…I thank you, daughter.”

When she took the shirt and washed it in secret, she wept over it, seeing his blood upon it. Sometimes she marveled to see him so merry and to know he was wearing that painful thing. But he never gave a sign to the others of the pain he was inflicting on himself. If he was a monk at heart, he was a very merry monk.

There was great excitement when the Greek Testament, which Erasmus had edited and reconstructed, was received into the Mores’ home. Thomas read it aloud to the family. Alice sat listening, although she could not understand it, her fingers busy with her needle.

Those were happy days. Looking back, a long time afterward, Margaret realized that the change came from an unexpected quarter, as such changes usually do. A German monk named Martin Luther had during that eventful year denounced the practices of the monks and the Catholic Church, as Erasmus had denounced them before him; but whereas Erasmus mildly disapproved, this man was bold and passionate in his denunciation; and whereas Erasmus had taken refuge behind his scholarship and attacked with an almost lighthearted cynicism, the German monk did so with passionate indignation; whereas Erasmus had written for the initiated, Luther was fulminating for the multitude.

The climax came when this man Luther nailed to the door of a Wittenberg church his ninety-five theses against Indulgences. And when he did this he had fired the first shot in the battle of the Reformation which was to shake Europe, divide the Church, and plunge the world which called itself Christian into bloodshed and terror.

Men and women began to take sides; they were for the Pope or for Martin Luther. Erasmus crept back to his desk; he was no fighter. It was said that he had laid the egg which Martin Luther hatched; but he wished to be remote from conflict; he wished to live peaceably with his books.

But as Margaret saw it, her father was of a different nature; he was a man with firm opinions. He could agree with much that Erasmus had written, but if it was a matter of taking sides he would be on the side of the old religion.

But that had not yet come to pass.

The happy evenings continued, broken only by the shock produced by the death of Dean Colet, who was struck down by the plague. They wept sincerely for the loss of this old friend.

But, as Thomas said, he had had a good life. He had seen his dearest wish realized—and what more could a man ask? His school was flourishing under the headmastership of William Lily; and his life had not been an idle nor a short one.

Margaret marveled afterward that she had not paid more heed to the rumblings of that storm, which was breaking over Europe. It was due, of course, to Willam Roper, who was now seeking her company on every occasion, asking her to walk with him alone, for, he declared, conversation between two people could be so much more interesting in private than in a crowd.

There was a further excitement. One day a very handsome young man came to the house to see Thomas. He was a rich young courtier named Giles Allington, and Ailie, who had received him with her mother, seemed much amused by him, although she did not allow him to know that.

Ailie, when she wished, could be quite charming. She was the prettiest of all the girls, golden-haired, blue-eyed, tall and graceful. She took great pains to preserve her beauty and was for ever looking into her mirror. In vain had Thomas teased her. Often he repeated to her those epigrams which he had translated with William Lily. The one which concerned Lais, who dedicated her mirror to Venus, was a gentle warning. “For,” said Lais, “the woman I am, I do not wish to see; the woman I was, I cannot.”

“And that, my dear daughter, is what happens to women who attach great importance to beauty, for beauty is like an unfaithful lover; once gone, it cannot be recalled.”

But Ailie merely laughed and kissed him in her attractive way. “Ah, dearest Father, but no woman believes her lover is going to be unfaithful while he is faithful; and as you yourself have said, why should we worry about tomorrow’s evils? Does not the Bible say, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof?’”

Thomas could not resist her charms, and for all that she set such store by those pleasures which he deemed to hold no real value, for once he found she could score over him with her feminine logic.

So Ailie continued to make lotions for the freshening of her skin, and kept her hands soft and supple, avoiding any household tasks which made them otherwise. As for Alice, she looked the other way when Ailie refused to do such tasks. If Alice wished to see all the girls married well—which she certainly did—she wished Ailie to make the most brilliant marriage of all.

So came Giles Allington, heir to a rich estate and title, with the manners of the Court, and jewels in his doublet; and for all that he was a court gallant, he could not hide his admiration for Ailie as she concealed her interest in him.

“Where she learned such tricks I do not know,” said Cecily wistfully.

“’Twas not in this house,” said Elizabeth.

“There are some who are born with such knowledge, I believe,” said Mercy. “And Ailie is one of them.”

So it seemed, for Ailie grew very gay after the visit of Giles Allington, and although she was interested in Master Allington’s lands and titles rather than in himself, she grew prettier every day.

“She blooms,” said Cecily, “as they say girls bloom when they are in love.”

“She is in love,” said Margaret. “For a girl can be in love with good fortune as well as with a man.”

Giles Allington came often to the house in Bucklersbury; and Alice and her daughter talked continually of the young man. Alice declared herself pleased that Thomas had won the King’s favor and that he was now a man of no small importance. Will Roper was of good family, and he was as a son of the house; John Clement was slowly rising in the service of the Cardinal, and he looked upon this family as his own; and now the handsome and wealthy Giles Allington came to visit them. They were rising in the world.

Life went on pleasantly in this way for many months.

When the King and his lords went to France to entertain and be entertained by the French and their King with such magnificence and such great cost that this venture was afterward called “The Field of the Cloth of Gold,” Thomas went with the party on the business of the King and the Cardinal.

And it was at this time that William Roper declared his feelings for Margaret.

Margaret was now fifteen—small and quiet. She knew that—apart from her father—she was the most learned member of the family; but she had always seen herself as the least attractive, except in the eyes of her father.

Ailie was a beauty; Mercy had a quiet charm which was the essence of her gravity, a gentleness, the soothing quality of a doctor—and that was attractive, Margaret knew; Elizabeth, now that she was growing up, showed herself possessed of a merry, sparkling wit which, like her father’s, never wounded; Cecily was pretty and gay; Jack was jolly and full of fun. And I, pondered Margaret, I have none of their charms, for although when I have a pen in my hands, words come quickly, they do not always do so in conversation, except perhaps with Father. I most certainly lack Ailie’s beauty; I am solemn rather than gay like Jack, who says things which, by their very simplicity, make us laugh.

It had always seemed to Margaret, on those rare occasions when her thoughts unwittingly strayed to the subject, that she would never marry. This did not perturb her for she had had no wish to do so.

And now…William Roper.

He asked her to talk with him, and they went into Goodman’s Fields, where she had so often walked with her father. “It is not easy,” said Will, as they walked through the grass, “to talk in the house.”

“We are such a big family.”

“The happiest in London, I trow, Margaret. It was a good day for me when I joined it.”

“Father would be pleased to hear you say that.”

“I should not need to say it. I’ll swear he knows it.”

“’Tis pleasant for me to hear you say it, Will.”

“Margaret…tell me this…how do you feel about me?”

“Feel about you? Oh…I am glad that you are with us, if that is what you mean.”

“I do, Margaret. Those words make me very happy…happier than if anyone else in the world had said them.”

She was astonished, and he went on quickly: “You are a strange girl, Margaret. I confess you alarm me a little. You know more Greek and Latin than any other girl in England.”

She was silent, thinking of Ailie, in a new blue gown, exclaiming at her as she sat over her books: “Latin…Greek…astronomy…mathematics…. There is more to be learned from life, Mistress Margaret, than you can find in those books!”

Ailie was right. Ailie had been born with that special knowledge.

“Margaret,” went on Will, “I…I am not so alarmed by you as I once was, for there are times when you seem to me like a very young girl.” He turned to her smiling. “You know what my feelings are for you, Margaret?”

“Why yes, Will. You like me…you like Father…you like us all.”

“But I like you better than any of them.”

“Not better than Father!”

“Oh sweet Meg, one of the things I love so much in you is your love for your father. I admire him more than any man I know; but Margaret—do not be shocked—I admire his daughter more.”

She laughed to hide her embarrassment. “That sounds like one of Father’s puns.”

“I must tell it to him.”

“Nay, if you do…he will know…”

“Oh Meg, dost think he does not know already?”

“But…why should he?”

“I think I must have made my feelings clear to all except you, so it is high time that you began to understand me. Margaret, I want you to marry me.”

“But…I am not going to marry.”

“You are young yet. I doubt your father would think it seemly for us to marry for a while. But you are fourteen…. Perhaps in a year or so…”

“But, Will, I had decided I should never marry. And you have disturbed me. It seems now that I shall not be able to think of you as I do of the others, like John Clement and Giles Allington.”

“But I do not wish you to think of me as you think of them. Oh, Margaret, you have not grown up yet. You have been so busy being a scholar that you have not yet become a woman. You could be both. That is what I wish, Meg: for you to be both. Say no more now. Think of this matter—but not too much so that it oppresses you. Become accustomed to the idea of marriage. Think of it, Meg. It is not that I wish to take you from your father. I do not. I would never take you from him, because I have seen that love which is between you, and it is a rare love. I know that. Nay. I am sure he would wish us to live under this roof…here as we do now You would be my wife. That would be the only difference. I beg of you, think of this matter. Promise me you will think of it, Margaret.”

“I…I will…. But I do not think I shall want to marry.”

They walked back to the house slowly and thoughtfully.

THE YEAR 1521 provided a turning point in the lives of Margaret and her father.

Thomas was drawn more and more into Court business. To Margaret, from whom he hid nothing, he said: “I feel like a fly in a web. Mayhap at one time I might have made a mighty effort…I might have escaped…but now the sticky threads hold me fast.”

“But the King is fond of you. He and the Cardinal find you useful.”

“You are right, Margaret, and I will say to you what I would say to no other: Both the King and the Cardinal are only fond of those who can be useful to them, and only so long as they are useful. A man can grow out of his usefulness.”

There was one matter which shocked Thomas deeply. It concerned both King and Cardinal, and taught him much concerning these men; yet when he looked back he realized that it had taught him little that he had not known before—rather it had confirmed his opinion.

The Cardinal had drawn closer to Thomas in those years during which they worked together. To Thomas he was sometimes frank, and when he was sure they were quite alone he would discuss the King in such a manner that, if it were known, might have cost him his head. Such was the measure of his trust in Thomas.

There was in the Cardinal an overweening pride. He believed himself indispensable to the King; and indeed it seemed that this might be so. The King made few decisions without his chief minister beside him. The King was content to amuse himself, knowing that matters of state rested in the capable hands of Thomas Wolsey.

There was no one—apart from the King and Lady Tailbois—who, in the first place, had been more delighted than the Cardinal when the King’s natural son had been born to that lady. This had happened some four years ago, a year after the birth of the Princess Mary.

Now, in the year 1521, when the Queen had failed to give the King a son to follow Mary, the Cardinal was faintly disturbed by the affair and he opened his heart to Thomas.

“Why, Master More, when the boy was born, His Grace was like a child with the finest toy that has ever been given to him. He had a son—and for years he had been longing for a son. The Queen’s abortive attempts at child bearing have worried him considerably, for, as you know, he sets great store upon his manhood; and although it is His Grace’s custom to blame his partner in an adventure if blame should be necessary, there has been in him a slight fear that he may not be able to get him a son. Elizabeth Blount—or Lady Tailbois, if you wish—has proved him capable of getting a son; and little Henry Fitzroy is the apple of his eye. I was delighted in His Grace’s delight. But the years have passed and there is still no male heir to the throne—nor even another girl. Master More, the King is restive, and the Queen does not grow younger: If she were not such a great Princess, and if I did not fear to offend the Spaniards I would suggest the marriage should be dissolved and another Princess found for him—one who could give him sons as Elizabeth Blount has shown that she can do.”

“But there could be no honorable reason for dissolving the marriage,” argued Thomas. “The Queen is the most virtuous of ladies and…she is not past bearing children.”

“You have a fondness for Her Grace, I know; and she favors you. I, myself, have the utmost respect for the lady. But a Queen’s piety is one thing, her usefulness to her King and country is another. The main object of a royal marriage is to get heirs, and that she has not done with any marked success.”

“These matters are surely in the hands of God.”

The Cardinal smiled his slow, cynical smile. “My friend, if God is slow to act, then it is sometimes necessary for a King’s ministers to act without Him. Ah, would the lady had not such powerful relatives! Imagine…a new Queen. A French princess or a protégée of the Emperor Charles of Spain? Think what I could do…keeping them in suspense…having them both in fear that I should ally England with the other. A French princess, I think, would at this time hold the balance of power to greater advantage.”

“My lord Cardinal,” said Thomas, “the gown you wear proclaims you to be a man of God, but the words you speak…”

But Wolsey interrupted: “The words I speak betray me as the Lord Chancellor, the Prime Minister of England. I serve England, which I believe it is my duty to do.”

Nay, thought Thomas, you serve neither God nor England; you serve Thomas Wolsey.

Yet Thomas More understood Thomas Wolsey; he understood that the humble scholar, the tradesman’s son, finding himself possessed of a quick brain and great wisdom, together with a quality which could charm a King, could not but rejoice in these possessions. Wolsey was not, by nature, a bad man, but a man made bad by an overwhelming ambition; he was a man who enjoyed his wealth and delighted in it more because he had earned it.

It was all very well for such as Norfolk, Suffolk or Buckingham lightly to assume the honors which they had inherited by their birth; but the man who had inherited no such glory, who by his quick and clever cunning had created honors for himself, naturally prized them the more highly. And how great Wolsey’s pride must have been when he considered those noblemen, and could reasonably believe that had they been born the sons of Ipswich merchants, they would doubtless have remained Ipswich merchants for the whole of their lives.

Nay, Wolsey was not entirely bad, for he was kind to his servants and they loved him. All he asked of them was that they should pay homage to his greatness; then he would be the benevolent father to them, caring for them, feeding them and, in his way, loving them.

He had illegitimate children. Not that he was a sensual man. His union with the woman of his choice would seem to lack nothing but regularity. He did not consort with women promiscuously; there was only one woman. As he had decided to use the Church as his ladder to fame, he was denied marriage; therefore he dispensed with the marriage ceremony; but, being a normal man, he did not intend to dispense with all that marriage would have brought him. So he had settled into a quiet and steady relationship which, but for the facts that there had been no ceremony and he was a priest, would not have seemed different from the marriage of Thomas More himself.

He loved his children, but his love took a different form from that of Thomas; and yet Thomas saw that in some ways it was similar. Thomas wished to give his children that which he most treasured; Wolsey wished to shower on his children what he most treasured in the world—power and riches. His son, who was still a boy, was already Dean of Wells and Archbishop of York and Richmond, and thus the possessor of much wealth and power in his own right.

Not a bad man, but a man who worshipped, according to Thomas, false gods. But as Thomas told himself this he knew that Wolsey would say of him: A clever fellow, but a fool in some ways, for he seems to have no idea how to advance his fortune.

Now Wolsey talked of state affairs and how it would be a simple matter to get the King’s approbation of his plans. The King was immersed in a new love affair—a saucy girl had taken his attention and made big demands upon it.

“The daughter of Thomas Boleyn. Doubtless you know him. Well, Master Boleyn will enjoy some favor, I doubt not, when his pretty daughter Mary whispers her requests into the King’s ear. He found the girl when we went to France last year. She has pleased him ever since. We shall see the brother’s advancement too. George Boleyn is a bright boy. It must be his Norfolk blood—at least, I doubt not Norfolk would tell us so. I believe there is a younger girl…in France just now. We much watch this family, for a man like Thomas Boleyn will give himself airs if favored too highly. If little Mary becomes too demanding we shall have to find another lady for His Grace. Ah, Master More, you like not this talk. You would have the King’s household like your own in Bucklersbury. But there are few families like yours in the kingdom. That is why I must take such pains to enlighten you.”

This sign of the Cardinal’s favor would have delighted most men; it made Thomas uneasy; it meant that he was in danger of being more closely entangled in that from which he longed to escape.

He was disappointed in the young King. Henry seemed bent on pleasure, and much of that treasure which had been left by his father had already been squandered—not only on war, but on futile displays like this last one of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

What useful purpose had been served? It was known now that England could squander wealth to glorify the King and his Court; and that France could do the same for its gay young King. But what of that? Both these monarchs were developing into lechers whose minds could be continuously occupied with devising new sensations in amorous adventurings, rather than in studying a wise state policy.

England had Wolsey; and all Englishmen should be glad of that, because with all his pride, with all his ambition and his love of pomp, Wolsey was a great statesman.

Yet how he was hated by some! It was largely due to Wolsey’s carelessly expressed hatred of the Duke of Buckingham that Thomas became aware of new and terrible elements about him.

It was Buckingham’s duty at this time to hold the gold bowl in which the King washed his hands; and on one occasion—doubtless to avenge a slight which either Buckingham had given Wolsey, or Wolsey imagined he had, and to show his intimacy with the King—when Henry had washed his hands, Wolsey dipped his own into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.

This was more than the noble Duke could endure, for he could never forget that royal blood ran in his veins and that he was related to Edward the Fourth. That he should be expected to hold the bowl while the son of an Ipswich merchant washed his hands was intolerable. He immediately threw the water over Wolsey’s feet.

The King might be amused at this incident and Wolsey might appear to take it lightly, but Buckingham had offended that great pride of the Cardinal’s, and no man could do that with impunity.

Now Thomas witnessed the beginning of that terrible feud which could only end in tragedy.

Buckingham had forgotten two things when he made an enemy of the Cardinal. He was in a dangerous position, for his royal blood was something Henry had never liked; he also possessed great wealth, which Henry liked very much. He was one of the richest peers in England.

It was therefore a simple matter for the Cardinal to murmur a few well-chosen words into the royal ear. The King could be reminded that were Buckingham executed on a capital charge, his wealth would become the property of the King; moreover, Buckingham had boasted of his royal blood, and it was not difficult to find someone who had heard the haughty Duke’s statement that if the King died without heirs he, Buckingham, would be very near the throne.

The Duke was summoned by the King, and came to Court thinking that he was to be asked to take part in some jousting or jollity. He found himself in the Tower, tried by his peers—none of whom dared find him anything but guilty, since this was the will of the King. Old Norfolk, his friend, must find him guilty, though he shed tears as he did so.

The murder of the Duke shocked England and the Continent as well as Thomas More. It showed what manner of King was this fair-faced boy on whom the marks of lechery and good living had not yet appeared. The handsome boy was exposed as a cruel boy; bluff King Hal had set out on his career of royal murder, to which the deaths of Empson and Dudley were but a prelude.

Thomas now longed more than ever for the solitude of his home, for converse with his friends. Erasmus had written to him: “So you have deserted the scholars for the sake of the Court. Our learned philosopher has become a courtier.”

“Yes,” muttered Thomas; “but most reluctantly.”

There had been a time when it had been said among scholars that the three most learned men in the world were Erasmus of the Netherlands, More of England and Budé of France; but now More’s name was no longer mentioned in this connection. A young Spaniard, Vives, had taken his place.

Yet those in the King’s Court knew nothing of that lost eminence which had meant so much to Thomas. They saw him about the Court, and they knew him as a man destined for greatness.

“Thomas More is rising in the world,” they said.

He could not tell them that he did not wish to rise in the world, but to continue to shine in his own.

Meanwhile Martin Luther had published his book, which he called Babylonish Captivity of the Church. The Pope was up in arms and Europe was divided. The Cardinal had another secret conversation with Thomas More.

“His Grace has been expressing much interest in you of late, Master More.”

“Indeed? And for what reason?”

“There are two people in the world whom he hates, fears and envies, while he most jealously observes them. Doubtless you know to whom I refer?”

“The rulers across the water?”

“You are right. The mighty Emperor Charles, who rules other lands besides his native Spain, is one. And perhaps, more than the King hates Charles, he hates the King of France. They know each other well; they are of an age; they are both seekers after pleasure and sensation. Charles and Francis are servants of the Pope. Charles is the Most Catholic King; and Francis is the Most Christian King. Our King has no title to set beside those two, and that grieves him. He feels that this is a matter on which you, more than any other man, can help him.”

“I?”

The Cardinal laid his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You underestimate yourself. Go now to His Grace. He would have speech with you. Be not too modest. Luck favors you. Go in…and win your honors.”

It was with disturbed thoughts that Thomas made his way to the royal apartments.

WHEN THOMAS entered the King’s audience chamber it was to find him with those three friends and statesmen, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke’s son the Earl of Surrey and Henry’s brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk.

This, Thomas realized, was honor indeed, to be received in such company. Here was the King, familiarly talking with his friends, and smiling to receive Thomas More among them; but as he knelt before the King, Thomas was aware of the speculating eyes of the three noblemen.

All were well known to him.

Suffolk was not only the King’s brother-in-law, but his greatest friend; a clashing handsome fellow, he had accompanied Henry’s sister Mary to France when she had married old Louis, and when, after a few months of life with the vital young Mary, the French King had died, Suffolk had, with great daring, married her before their return to England. But Henry had forgiven that rashness long ago.

The old Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treasurer and Knight of the Garter, was a sturdy old warrior, proud head of one of the noblest families in the country, and was still reaping the rewards of his victory at Flodden Field.

His son, Surrey, slightly older than Thomas, was a gallant soldier, shrewd and high in the favor of the King in spite of the fact that his wife was the daughter of the recently murdered Duke of Buckingham. The King was amused by Surrey at this time, and he liked those who amused him. Surrey—the grim, stern soldier—had become enamored of his wife’s laundress, and there was much ribald comment throughout the Court concerning Surrey and Bess Holland.

“Ha,” cried the King. “Here comes Master More to join us. We were talking of this madman Luther, Master More. You have seen this new outrage of his, I doubt not?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“By God, I have a mind to answer him with my own pen. Now, you are a master of words, and it is on this matter that I wished to speak to you.”

“Your Grace honors me.”

“We have read some of your writings and found merit in them. We are giving orders that this evil composition of the German monk’s shall be publicly burned in St Paul’s Churchyard. We are instructing Bishop Fisher to preach a sermon against him. Master More, this man is an agent of the devil. Now…my friends, leave us. I would speak alone with our friend here on literary matters.”

The three noblemen retired, and the King smiled at Thomas.

“Now, my friend, we can get down to work. Since I read this…this…what shall I call it?…this evil document…I have felt an anger burning within me. I hear the voice of God urging me to act. This cannot go unanswered, Master More; and it needs one to answer it whose writing will astonish the world. Who better than the King of England?”

“Your Grace has written this book?”

“Not yet…not yet. I have made my notes…notes of what I wish to say. They shall go ringing round Europe. If I had the fellow here in my kingdom he should suffer the traitor’s death. But he is not here. I cannot chastise his body, so I will answer him with words. I will show you what I shall call my Assertion of the Seven Sacraments, and you will see that what I intend to do is to answer this monstrous piece of writing of this villainous monk. Now, come hither. This is what I have prepared.”

Thomas took the notes which were handed to him. “And my duty, Your Grace?”

Henry waved a hand “Well…you will arrange them…and set them into a form that…you know of. You are a man of letters. You will see what has to be done. I am a King. I have my affairs of state to attend to, but I have written the core of the thing. You will…” The King waved his hands in an expansive gesture. “But you know what is your task, Master More. To make this into a book. I have chosen you out of my regard for you.”

“Your Grace is determined to honor me.”

“As I am always ready to honor those who please me…whose learning adds luster to this realm. Now, Master More, your duties from now on will be undertaken in my small antechamber, to which I shall now conduct you. You shall have everything you require, and I should like the task completed with all expediency. Spare not the evildoer. We will talk to the world…even as he has. And we will speak in literary language, Master More; for they tell me you are a master of such language. You are excused all other duties. My friend, do this task well and you will be rewarded. Ah, it pleases you?”

“Your Grace could not have given me a task which delights me so much. To have a pen in my hand once more and on such a composition! It is something I have wanted for a long time.”

The King’s hand came down on his shoulder; it was a heavy blow, but its very heaviness expressed not only approval, but affection. The eyes were shining with pleasure; the cheeks were flushed.

“Come, Master More. This way.”

The King threw open the door of a small room, which was richly carpeted and hung with exquisitely worked tapestry.

When Thomas saw the young woman, she was on the window seat in an ungainly attitude, her legs tucked under her skirt. Her bodice was low-cut and her dark hair fell about her bare shoulders. What astonished him in that half-second was that she did not rise when the King entered, but threw him a saucy smile.

The King stopped and stared at her. Then she must have become aware of the fact that he was not alone. She jumped to her feet and fell on her knees.

“What do you here, girl?” demanded the King.

“I crave Your Grace’s pardon. I…but…I thought…Your Grace desired my presence here.”

“Get up,” said the King.

She rose, and Thomas recognized her as Mary Boleyn, the King’s mistress. Her gaze was almost defiant as she looked at Thomas. There was in that look a certainty that the King’s displeasure could not last.

“You have our leave to retire,” said the King.

She curtsied and took two or three steps backward to the door.

Thomas noticed how the King watched her, his mouth slackening, his eyes a brighter blue.

“Come in, come in, man,” he said almost testily. “Ah, there is where you may sit. Now, look you, these notes are to be made into a great book. You understand me? A great book! You know how to write books. Well, that is what you must do for me.”

The King’s attention was straying, Thomas knew; his thoughts had left the room with that dark-haired girl.

Henry said: “If there is anything you want, ask for it. Start now. See what you can do with these notes…and later…when you have something ready, you may bring it to me.”

The King was smiling. His mood had changed; he was already away with the girl who had just left.

“Do your work well, Master More. You will not regret it. I like to reward those who please me….”

The King went out, and Thomas sat down to look at the notes.

He found it difficult to concentrate. He thought of the King and the dark-eyed girl; he thought of Surrey and Bess Holland; he thought of the sharp eyes of Suffolk, the wily ones of old Norfolk, and of Thomas Wolsey, who was cleverer than any of them.

And he longed, as he had never longed before, for the peace of his home.

ADJUSTING THE King’s notes was a pleasant task, except that it kept him more than ever away from his family. Many times he had been on the point of slipping home to Bucklersbury when a messenger had come to tell him that the King was asking why he was not in his presence.

Henry liked him. He liked the way in which the work was shaping. He read it and reread it; and he glowed with pride.

“Ah,” he would cry, “here’s the answer to Master Luther. Read it, Kate.”

The Queen would read, and she also was delighted, for she hated the German monk even more than Henry did.

“Would I had him here…that German monk!” the King would cry. “He should die…die for the insults he has heaped upon my mother. For my mother is the Church. Ha, Kate, you will see what we shall do with this trumpeter of prides, calumnies and schisms. He is a member of the Devil. He is a low-liver. Mark my words on that. Only the immoral could lose the faith of their fathers in such a way. We are bound to the See of Rome. We could not honor it too much. Anything we could do would not be too great. I swear it.”

“Your Grace will forgive me,” interjected Thomas, “but those words you have uttered would, in a court of law, be called maintaining papal jurisdiction in England.”

“What’s that? What’s that?” cried Henry.

“I was thinking, my lord King, of the Statute of Praemunire.”

“Ha!” laughed the King. “Here’s a lawyer for us, Kate. A writ issued against a King in his own realm, eh? Ha, Thomas More, they are right to call you an honest man. You do well to speak thus before your King. He likes you for it. But I say this: So do I love the Papacy that I would hold nothing back to defend it. Remember, Master More, from that See we receive our Crown Imperial.”

“I must put Your Highness in remembrance of one thing,” said Thomas. “The Pope, as Your Grace knows, is a Prince, as you are yourself, and is in league with other princes. It could fall out that Your Grace and His Holiness may at some time vary in your opinions. I think therefore that his authority might be more lightly touched upon in the book.”

“But I tell you, Master More, so are we bound to the See of Rome that we could not do too much to honor it.”

“Then it is my bounden duty to remind Your Grace again of the Statute of Praemunire.”

“Have no fear, Master More. Have no fear. We know well how to look to these matters. And continue with us as you always have been. We like your honesty.”

And as the book progressed, so did the friendship between Thomas and the King and Queen. He must sup at the King’s table; he must walk with the King on the terraces; and he must linger at the Palace until darkness fell, for the Queen had heard that he knew as much of the spheres that moved in the heavens as any man at Court; and the Queen wished him to instruct her.

“The King himself would like to be there at the instruction,” said Henry. “For while governing this kingdom here on Earth, he would like to learn something of the kingdom of the skies.”

So in the evenings Thomas would be on the balconies of the Palace, the Queen on his left hand, the King on his right, the courtiers ranged about them while he pointed out the constellations to the watching group.

“How the King favors this man!” said the courtiers. “He is next to the Cardinal himself in the King’s favor.”

They would note the Queens smile as she pointed out how brilliant Orion was that night, and humbly asked if she was right in assuming that the two brilliant points of light in the western sky were the twins, Castor and Pollux, and was that Procyon down in the west-south-west?

They would hear the loud, booming laughter of the King as he declared that the constellation called Cassiopeia did not to him look in the least like a lady in a chair; they would notice how many times the glittering hand would come down upon the somberly clad shoulder of Thomas More.

“The King seems more interested in the Pleiades than in Mary Boleyn!” it was whispered among the ladies who watched such matters, for many of them hoped that one day the royal eyes would be turned from Mary Boleyn toward them.

When the book was finished, and such learned men as Fisher, Stephen Gardiner and Wolsey himself had studied it and declared it to be of sound good sense in perfect literary style, the King was so pleased that he said he would have no more of Master More in attendance; in future it should be Sir Thomas More.

HENRY THE King was deeply gratified. The book was acclaimed throughout Europe by all those who stood against Martin Luther. It was hailed now as a work of genius. The Pope was delighted with his English champion, but he demurred a little at bestowing the title asked for; he had to consider the wrath and jealousy of Francis and Charles, of whom he lived in perpetual fear. But eventually Henry’s bribes and offers of friendship prevailed, and the King of England was known throughout the Catholic world as “Defender of the Faith.”

But Martin Luther was not the man to ignore the publication of the book; he poured scorn on it and the King of England at the same time. Henry nominated Sir Thomas More to answer Luther in the name of the King of England.

Thomas had not only his title; he was now made Under-Treasurer of the Exchequer—Norfolk himself was the Treasurer—and so had become an important member of the King’s Council. Thus did the man in the hair shirt become one of those ministers in constant attendance upon the King.

Luther wrote scurrilous attacks on Henry; Thomas replied with equally scurrilous attacks on the German monk. And Margaret, reading those replies her father was writing in the name of the King, would often feel depressed and uneasy. It seemed to her that she had lost the father she had once known. The gentle, courteous man had become a master of invective. It made Margaret shudder to read: “Reverend brother, father, tippler, Luther, runagate of the order of St Augustine, misshapen bacchanal of either faculty, unlearned doctor of theology…” How could her gentle father have written such words? How could he have gone on to say that Luther had called his companions together and desired them to go each his own way and pick up all sorts of abuse and scurrility—one to gambling houses, another to the taverns and barbers’ shops, another to the brothels?

What is the Court doing to my father? she asked herself.

When he came home she saw the change in him. There was a fierceness of manner about him. She knew that the hair shirt, which she still washed for him, was worn more frequently; she knew that he used a piece of wood for his pillow, so that he might not find easy sleep. There was a new emotion in his life, which had never been there before; it was hatred for the heretics.

She had to talk to him.

“Father,” she said, “you have changed.”

“Nay, daughter, I am the same as ever.”

“I do not altogether understand,” she said, “for you and Erasmus at one time would talk of the wickedness in the monasteries. You planned to set certain matters right in the Church. This Martin Luther…does he not think as once you and Erasmus did?”

She thought of Erasmus, essentially a scholar. Now that the work he had started had been taken up by another, he wanted none of it; he would retire to his scholar’s desk, to the life of reflection, not of action. Margaret felt that that was the life her father should have chosen. But the King had forced him to the forefront of the fight, and it was the King’s battle; he was using words the King would have used. If he had been any other man she would have believed he did so in order to curry favor.

“A change has been wrought in these affairs, Meg,” he said. “Erasmus and I once sought to set right what was wrong. This monk seeks to destroy the Church and to set up in its place another which is founded on heresy.”

“But those words you have written of him…I…I could not believe that you had written them.”

“I have written them, Meg. Doubt not that. As I see it, we have to fight a greater evil, in those who would destroy the Church, than we had when we fought those who only abused it. Meg, the Church still stands…the Holy Catholic Church. To destroy it would bring horror to the world. Evil would break its bounds. At all costs the Church must be upheld. Oh yes, let us have evil driven from the monasteries, let us have a stricter rule for our priests if we must…but those who seek to destroy the Church must be themselves destroyed, for if we allow them to destroy the Church, then evil will prevail.”

“But this monk, Father…can you really call him a heathen?”

“I can, Meg, and I do.”

“Yet he claims to be a man of God. It is not God whom he reviles; it is the Church of Rome.”

“But the Church of Rome is the Church of our fathers. You know that, Meg.”

She looked at him and thought: For the first time in my life I doubt his wisdom. I have never known this ferocity in him before. I have never before known him show such anger as he does toward these heretics.

“Father,” she said uneasily, “the King has said that if this heathen—meaning the monk Luther—does not recant, he should be burned alive. Burned alive, Father! You cannot believe that that should be done! You used to say that we should be kind to others, treat them as we ourselves would be treated.”

“Meg, if your right hand was evil, if it was touched with a poison that would infect the rest of your body, would you not cut it off?”

She was silent, but he insisted on an answer. “Yes, Father.”

“Well, then. The suffering of the body is as naught to the eternal damnation of the soul. If, by setting the flames at the feet of this monk Luther, we could restore his soul to God, then would it not be well to burn him alive?”

“I do not know.”

“Meg, it is a glorious thing to subdue the flesh, to become indifferent to pain. What happens to these bodies cannot be of importance. And if those who deny God are to suffer eternal damnation, what can a few minutes in the fire mean to them?”

Margaret covered her face with her hands. I have lost a part of him, she thought.

He drew her hands from her face and smiled at her; all the gentleness was back in his eyes.

She saw that he was tired, that he longed to escape from the life at Court, to retire to the quietness and peace of family life.

It was a strange revelation to find that she did not entirely agree with him. Yet how she loved him! Even more, now that she believed she had detected a certain weakness in him, than she had when she had loved him for all his strength.

She almost wished that he had not educated her so thoroughly, that he had not trained her mind to be so logical. She wished that she could have gone on seeing him as perfect.

He was begging her to return to the old relationship. He wanted to laugh and be gay.

“Now you have talked to me, Margaret,” he said. “You have examined me with many questions, and you look at me quizzically, and you are turning over in your mind what I have said, and you doubt the wisdom of my words. Very well, my Meg. We will talk of this later. Now I have something to say to you. Can you guess what it is?”

“No, Father.”

“Well then, it is about Will.”

“Will Roper?”

“Who else? Do you not like him a little, Meg?”

She blushed, and he smiled to see her blush. “I like him, Father.”

“He loves you dearly. He has told me so.”

“I would rather he did not burden you with his foolish feelings.”

“Is it foolish to love you? Then, Meg, I must be the most foolish man on Earth.”

“’Tis different with us. You are my father, and it is natural that you and I should love.”

“’Tis natural that Will should also. He is good. I like him. I like him very much. There is no one I would rather see as your husband, Meg. For although he may not be as rich or handsome as our gay young Allington, although he may not make a lady or a duchess of you one day…he is none the worse for that.”

“Do you think I should care to be a lady or a duchess, Father? I am not like your wife, who has been so proud since she has become Lady More.”

He laughed. “Leave her her pleasures, Meg. They are small ones, and we understand her delight in them, do we not? But to return to Will. You are fond of him, I know.”

“As I am of the others. To me he is no more than…any of them.”

“But, Meg, he is personable and clever…a pleasant boy. What do you look for in a man?”

“He seems to me to be overyoung.”

“He is seven years your senior.”

“Still, he seems young. He lacks seriousness. He is no great scholar. If he had written something like Utopia…something that showed his ideals and…Oh, you have set us a high standard, Father. Your daughter measures all men against you, which means that she finds them sadly lacking.”

He laughed those words to scorn, but he could not help showing his pleasure.

Now he was himself again, full of laughter, enjoying every moment. This evening they would be together…all of them; they would converse in Latin as they were wont to do; and Alice would chide them, but only mildly. Her title, to her, was a bright bauble. They all smiled to see her face when the servants addressed her as “My Lady.”

It was good to have him back, to forget his fierceness against heretics, to sing and be gay as in the old days.

PERHAPS THERE is always something good in what seems to be evil, thought Margaret. She longed for the days when her father had been a humble lawyer and Under-Sheriff of the City; she remembered with a tender pain the walks through the City; but this was not the case with all the members of the family.

Ailie was bright-eyed with happiness as she came into the schoolroom where Margaret sat with her books.

How lovely she is! thought Margaret. And more beautiful now that she is a member of this distinguished family than she was in the days of our humility.

Ailie pulled off the net which held back her golden hair from her face. That beautiful hair now fell about her shoulders and down to her waist.

“Such news, Meg! I am to be married. My Lady Allington! What do you think of that?”

“So Giles is to be your husband?”

“I shall be the first in the family to find one.”

“That does not really surprise us.”

“To tell the truth, Meg, it does not surprise me. Giles says what a good thing it is that Father has written this book with the King and become such an important person at Court. His father could not withhold his consent to a union with the stepdaughter of Sir Thomas More. Oh Meg, is it not a marvelous thing…what great happenings are set in motion by such little things? A mere book is written and I become Lady Allington!”

Margaret laughed. There was that in Ailie which amused her as it did her father. Perhaps Ailie was selfish because she saw herself as the center of the world, but it was a charming little world, and Ailie herself was so pretty and pleasant in her ways that it was impossible not to love her.

“Ailie, you will go away from us, for Giles will not live here.”

“He will certainly have his estates to attend to. But, depend upon it, I shall insist on many visits to my darling family.”

“Then I doubt not that there will be many visits, for I believe you will have your way as Lady Allington just as you have as Alice Middleton.”

“So do not fret, dearest Meg. We shall be together often. I shall bring you tales of the great world. I shall tell you what the ladies are wearing and what new dances are being danced…and all Court matters which Father never notices. Meg, it will be your turn next…yours or Mercy’s. I wonder who will first find a husband.”

Margaret turned away, but Ailie was looking at her slyly.

“There is Master Clement who comes here so often. Have you noticed how he looks first for Mercy? It would not greatly surprise me if our solemn Mercy told us she was to be Mistress Clement one day.”

“Mercy is too interested in her studies to think of aught else.”

Ailie laughed. “John Clement and her studies both interest Mercy very much. There they sit, heads close together, talking of drugs and disease. Sometimes when I see them I think I shall die of laughter. I do indeed, Meg. I say to Giles: ‘You talk of my beauty…of my charming ways…and that is by far the best way of courtship. But there are other ways, I have discovered, for I live in a strange household. Some lovers exchange recipes and talk of the internal organs of the sick instead of the eyelashes of the loved one.’”

“Ailie, have done with such frivolous gossip.”

“I will not. For ’tis a strange thing, Meg that, when a girl has found a husband, she is anxious for all her friends to do the same. However solemn, however learned they may be, I want them to be married as I shall be.” Ailie began to dance a stately measure with an imaginary partner, tossing back her hair, smiling coquettishly into the face she saw in her imagination. “This is the newest Court dance, Meg. Giles taught it to me. Oh, how I long to be at Court, to dance in the great halls while the King’s minstrels play in the gallery. I shall have rich gowns, Meg, and jewels…. I shall be the happiest girl in the whole world…and all because Father has won the King’s regard; for Meg, had he not done so, I do not think Giles’s father would have readily given his consent to our marriage.”

“You think of nothing but yourself, Ailie. Might not Father rather be at home as he used to be?”

“How could he prefer that! Giles says that the King is as fond of his as he is of Master Wolsey…and mayhap more…for while the Cardinal makes great efforts to please the King, Father does it without effort; while the Cardinal has to be a worshipper of the King, Father has but to be himself. Nay, we are going up, Meg. Up and up. Father will win more honors yet, and there are many who will be ready—nay, eager—to wed his daughters. But some of these, I vow, look not farther than their own home.”

Ailie was looking at Margaret slyly, and Margaret said: “Enough of this. Is it not your turn to be housekeeper this week, and have you not your duties to perform?”

“Lady More will not be hard on the future Lady Allington. So rest in peace, dear Meg. I’ll swear Will Roper is a pleasant fellow, but now that our fortunes are rising, do not be rash, Meg.”

“I do not understand you.”

“What? Have you then become a fool? You…the cleverest of your father’s daughters! Listen to me, Margaret: if you do not look to Will Roper, then he looks to you.”

Margaret packed up her books and set them on a shelf; her cheeks were burning.

“You are making a mistake, Ailie,” she said, “when you think that everyone shares your desires for the married state.”

That made Ailie laugh, and she went on laughing as Margaret, in a most dignified manner, walked out of the room.

NOW SHE must continually think of Will Roper. When, during mealtimes, she lifted her eyes, she would invariably find Will’s upon her. While she studied she would find thoughts of Will coming between her and her work.

It was disturbing.

Then she noticed a change in Will. Often when she looked up she would find him staring into space, and if she caught his eye suddenly, he would start and smile at her; and she would know that his thoughts had been occupied with matters which did not concern her.

He would spend a long time alone and seemed to find great pleasure in his own company.

He has changed his mind, thought Margaret. He does not wish to marry me after all. Can it be that his fancy has turned to someone else?

She was astonished by her feelings. Could it be that, not desiring marriage with Will, she desired him to marry no other? She began to think of what the house would be like if he left it. Her father was away so much; how would it be if Will were not there at all?

Her father…and Will! She had come to think of them together. She realized how pleased she had always been when her father spoke well of Will.

One day, when she was alone in the schoolroom, Will came in. He carried a book under his arm. She thought it was a law book until she saw that it was the Greek Testament of Erasmus.

“Oh, Margaret, I am glad to find you alone,” he said. “I want to talk to you. No, don’t be alarmed…. It is not about marriage. It is another matter which gives me much concern.”

“Please tell me, if it is on your mind, Will. I have seen that something has bothered you of late.”

“I do not know how you will receive this news, Margaret. I have been reading this Testament, and I have pondered on what I have read. I have also read Babylonish Captivity of the Church, and I have come to this conclusion, Meg. There is no truth other than this which comes out of Germany.”

“Will!”

“I know. You are alarmed. You will hate me now. Your father has expressed his views strongly…and your views, of a surety, are his views on this matter. I had to tell you. I do not believe that Martin Luther is a bad man. I believe he is honest and Godfearing. I believe he seeks a better way of life for the world, and, Margaret, I believe that he, and he alone, has fallen upon the truth.”

Margaret stared at him; his eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed; he looked quite unlike the mild law student whom she had known for the last three years. He looked resolute and noble.

She thought: He knows that this confession of his may mean that he will be banished from the house, and yet he makes it. He knows that it will turn Father from him, and yet he makes it. He knows that Father is one of the brightest stars at the Court, and he knows that heretics are punished in this land. Yet he comes to me and says he will become a Lutheran.

Oh, Will, she thought, you fool…you fool!

But she was moved by his courage, even though it was inspired by what her loyalty to her father insisted must be his wrong thinking.

She began to repeat her fathers arguments, to prevent her thoughts running she knew not whither.

“The man is trying to tear the Church asunder.”

“What of Erasmus? What of your father in the days when they were writing In Praise of Folly and Utopia?”

She said: “They exposed certain evils in the Church. They wished these matters to be righted. This man Luther defies the Holy Pope and the whole Church. He would set up a new Church in its place.”

“But, Meg, if that were the true Church…is it not a good thing to set it up in place of the false one?”

“You would then deny the faith of your fathers?”

“I want a simpler way of worshipping God. I want to examine the Scriptures more carefully. I do not want to say, ‘My fathers thought this, therefore must I think it.’ I have thought much of Martin Luther, Meg. Can you deny that he is a great man? Think of him—the son of poor parents, thrown upon the world at an early age, begging his bread and studying…always studying. Meg, he reminds me of your father, for like him he studied the law, and like him he went into a monastery. And while he was there, he found much that was evil, and he determined to fight it with all his might. Margaret, think. These Indulgences against which he rails—are they good? I ask you: Can people buy, with money, forgiveness in Heaven? Picture him on that October day in Wittenberg…so boldly marching up to the church door and there nailing upon it his theses. He knew of the danger he was in. He knew that the whole Catholic world was against him. But he cared not, Meg, because he knew that what he did was right. He is a great man; he is a man of genius; he is a good man whose teaching I would follow.”

Margaret was deeply moved. There was so much truth in what Will said. She had rarely in her life been so grieved as when across Europe abuse had been flung by this monk of Germany, and by her father in the name of the King. What a terrible thing it was when two good men, because they could not agree on certain points, must forget courtesy and good manners, and fling insults at one another!

She said sternly: “I do not know what Father will do when he hears of this.”

“Nor I, Meg.”

“He would not wish to harbor a heretic under his roof.”

“That is so. Margaret, I love you. It is for that reason that I could be silent no longer. I could not continue with you under false pretences. Nor can I govern my thoughts. I trust you will understand me. Speak to me, Margaret. Tell me that you will try to understand how I have fought these thoughts.”

“You…you should not fight them. All thoughts should be examined.”

“Margaret…you…you will tell your father now, I know. Then I shall go away from here. That is something I cannot endure….”

He had turned to her, but she ran from him, out of the schoolroom.

HOW THANKFUL she was that it was daytime and there was no one else in the bedroom. She lay on the bed which she shared with Cecily, and drew the curtains…shutting out the house…shutting out everything but her thoughts.

Will…a heretic! And her father hated heretics! They had inspired him with a fierceness, a hatred of which she had not believed him capable.

This was terrible—nothing more terrible could have happened. Those two were against each other.

She remembered the change in her father, his fierceness against the heretic, his absolute belief in the Church of Rome.

He is wrong to be so certain, she thought. And Will is wrong to be certain that Luther is right. Why must there be this hatred between men? Why cannot they love God simply, without dogmas that must be disputed?

Jesus had told men to love one another. Yet how could they obey that command when they disputed together with such ferocity, and instead of love fostered hatred?

Love must become the ruling passion of the world. If her father was to follow the teaching of Jesus Christ, he must not hate Martin Luther because his views differed from his own; nor must Luther hate her father and the King for similar reasons.

Why could they not say: “You believe this and I believe that. But let us go our ways in peace. Let us brood on these matters which delight us, and in so doing, if perchance we find the truth, then that is a great and glorious thing which we can show to the world; and let us light it with love, not hatred, so that all may see it.”

She sat up in bed and touched her burning cheeks. She, being Margaret, must see herself as clearly as she saw others. Margaret’s brain must examine her heart. She stood between two men—Will Roper and her father—and now she would admit that they were the two whom she loved best in the world. She loved them both so much that she could not bear to be without either of them. A cause for dispute had raised itself between them; it was like an ugly dragon whose nostrils gave out the fire of hatred.

She must turn that hatred into love. She knew suddenly that she was ready to practice deceit if necessary to achieve that end.

Margaret More looked into her mind and discovered that the most important things in the world to her were that her father and Will Roper should continue to be friends, and that she should keep them near her that they might all be happy together. Who was right—the Pope or Martin Luther? She did not know; and she realized with a mighty shock that she believed neither of them was wholly right nor wholly wrong. In any case she wondered whether she would be prepared to take sides if she could believe that one was right and one was wrong.

She wanted to live in harmony with the men she loved.

NOW THAT she knew herself, she was too honest to feign ignorance.

She rose from the bed and went in search of Will.

He was still in the schoolroom where she had left him. He was standing by the window staring out disconsolately. If he was a man who had found the truth, he looked as if he had lost all else he cared for in doing so.

He turned as she entered. “Margaret!”

She went to him and smiled up at him. Then he put his arms about her.

“Margaret…dearest Meg…. Then you did love me?”

“I know not whether I did or did not,” she said. “I only know I do.”

“Margaret…now?”

“Yes, now!” she said emphatically. “For when our thoughts come, as you say, they must be examined. Will, some time ago you asked me to marry you. I answer you now: I will.”

“But, Margaret…your father…?”

“He has said he is pleased.”

He kissed her, and she thought: How strange it is! I am no longer Margaret More, the solemn little scholar. I do not care for the arguments in books. I care nothing but that Will loves me and that I can live the rest of my life with him and with Father.

“You are laughing, Meg. Why, you are different.”

“I am happy,” she said. “I see that it is because I am in love. Do you not like me thus?” Now she seemed coquettish, even as Ailie.

“Meg, I love you now and forever. But I feel this cannot really be happening, and that I shall wake up in a moment.”

“It is real…real as our life shall be.”

He took her to the window seat and kept his arm about her.

We shall be here together, she was telling herself. Life is good. It must be so. I will make it so.

“Meg…how happy I am! I never thought…You seemed remote…far too clever for me…and now…when I had given up hope…”

“You should never give up hope, Will. Never…never….”

“How you laugh, Meg. I have never heard you laugh like this.”

“It is the laughter of happiness, Will. That is the best sort of laughter. Not to laugh in derision at the misfortunes of others…not to laugh with relief because you feel remote from those misfortunes; but to laugh because you are happy…happy…because you have found that life is good.”

“When did you decide that you would marry me?”

“I think it must have been a long time ago, but I knew it only when you spoke to me just now. I knew then that I loved you.”

“When I told you…when I confessed?”

“It was seeing you, Will, so sure that you were right….”

“Then you, too, feel as I do.”

“I? I feel nothing but love. Sometimes I think I never have. I loved Father and I wanted to be clever to please him. You see, that was love of Father, not love of learning. Now I know that I love you too. So I have two people to love, and I love you both so much that there seems hardly room for anything else in my life.”

“Margaret! Is this Margaret?”

“Yes, it is the same Margaret. She was there all the time, I suppose, but she was hidden by the solemn scholar. She did not know herself. She saw herself as others saw her. Now she has seen herself as she is.”

They talked of marriage and he said: “What will your father say? Will he consent now?”

She was silent, amazed at herself, amazed that she who had never thought to deceive her father, could think of deceiving him now.

But she had become a woman who thought in terms of love. It only mattered that there should be amity in her house; that she, the woman, should hold her home together; and so make peace and love between those whom she loved more than her own life.

Therefore she was ready to temporize.

She said to herself: There is no need to tell Father. He has much to occupy his mind. He should not be worried with Will’s affairs. Moreover, Will may discover that he has not yet found the truth. Who knows, in a short time he may come to the conclusion that there is no truth in the teaching of this man Luther. Then shall we have had our storms for nothing. I can neither lose Will nor Father; therefore the two I love must love each other. Today let us think of love; and let us hope that tomorrow there will be no need to think of anything but love.

So now she said to Will: “Father is so rarely at home. It is a pity to worry him with your doubts and your leanings. Moreover, men’s minds change. Perhaps he will change; or you will change. For the time, let us keep this secret. You and I will discuss these matters when we are alone…and only then….”

And she smiled at him, wondering whether she would be able to mold his thoughts to her father’s way of thinking, or her father’s to his.

She thought tenderly: They are obstinate, both of them. They are brave, and they will never accept other than what they believe to be the truth.

But she would wait.

Meanwhile she had discovered love, and for the time being she had determined that nothing should disturb it.

4

MARGARET WAS MARRIED IN THE JULY OF THAT YEAR. Will continued to live in the house, and none was more happy than Thomas in his daughter’s marriage. He saw his new son-in-law as a serious young man—he did not know of his new religious opinions—who would rise in his profession; he would be a devoted husband, an affectionate father; he would not want to go to Court; he would be content to stay in the heart of the family. His beloved daughter was married, but not lost to him.

Ailie too was married, and she left the house to live in state in her husband’s country mansions or his London house.

The family star was steadily rising.

Ailie visited the house often. When she was in London she was continually in and out. She had discovered that, much as she wished for gaiety and excitement, the family circle in Bucklersbury meant more to her than she had realized. She confessed to the girls: “I feel sentimental about home…and when I say home, I mean this house; for nowhere else can be home to me in quite the same way.”

She was not displeased with marriage. Her Giles adored her; he was ready to satisfy every whim, and there was nothing that pleased Ailie more than having her whims satisfied; nevertheless, sometimes she would talk of the old family gatherings round the fire in winter, and out of doors in summer, of the dreams they discussed, the tales they had invented, the songs they had sung; and there would be a wistfulness in her voice.

She delighted in her fine jewels; she was gratified to display them when she came home, and endeavored to arouse the envy of the girls; but when she went away it seemed that she was often the one who was a little envious.

She had tales to tell of the grandeur of Giles’s fathers country estates. She had been to Court and had even spoken to the King.

She would gather the girls about her and talk of the King. “So gay…so eager for the balls and the masques.” And the Queen? Ailie would grimace lightly when she talked of the Queen. “She is old…and so serious. Older than His Grace; and methinks he is considering the fact with some displeasure. Of course, there is his boy, Henry Fitzroy, to prove that he has not been faithful to the Queen, and that he can get himself sons…. And now he is deeply enamored of Mary Boleyn.”

Cecily enjoyed listening to the stories.

She would urge Ailie to continue, while she plied her with eager questions. “And what is the girl like? Is she very beautiful?”

“I would not say that. But she has something…something that men like. She is plump and full of fun and laughter…and the King has loved her for a long time…a long time, that is, for him.” Then Ailie would stifle her laughter. “We must not let Margaret hear such talk. Dear Margaret. She likes to think everyone is as pure and noble as she is herself. And the King, my dear, has heaped titles on Mary’s father. He is the Steward of Tonbridge, Keeper of the Manor of Penshurst…and I don’t know what else. And George…the brother…is not forgotten. George is very attractive. Oh, very handsome! And such poetry he writes! And he has such a way of making the revels successful. The King likes him, as he likes all those who amuse him.”

“As much as he likes Father?” asked Cecily.

“Oh, quite different! With Father he is solemn. Father is a statesman-courtier. George Boleyn is a courtier-statesman.”

“Yet they are both poets.”

“I wish you could see him, Cecily. You would fall in love with him. George, I mean. Oh, assuredly you would.”

And the frivolous creature would go on to describe the balls and banquets, the dresses and jewels, so that it was clear that, although at times she missed her home, Ailie was enjoying life.

And Margaret? She also was happy, but her happiness was tinged with uneasiness. Always she was afraid that discord would flare up between Will and her father. She read with Will; she fortified herself with reasoning which, should the need arise, she could put before her father. She would also be ready with her father’s reasoning to set before Will.

And who was right? She, who for Will’s and her father’s sake had studied both points of view, could not say.

There came a day when Will did not return to the house. She knew that he had set out that afternoon to visit some of his friends. These were mostly merchants in the City, some English, some German traders from the Hanseatic ports. It was Will’s custom to visit one of the houses of these merchants where they would agree to congregate, and there to read and discuss the Lutheran doctrines.

Supper was eaten; yet Will had not come home.

To the inquiries of the family, Margaret said: “He has some business in the City, which I knew must keep him.”

But she was frightened; she was always frightened on such occasions, for she knew that since the King had become “Defender of the Faith,” heresy in England was looked upon as a crime.

She went to that bedroom she now shared with Will, and she sat at the window all through the night. But he did not come home.

THOMAS ENTERED the small private closet that adjoined the splendid Council Chamber of the Cardinal.

Wolsey was looking grave. “I am concerned about your son-in-law,” he said.

Thomas was astonished. How could the Cardinal be interested in insignificant Will Roper or Giles Allington?

“Your son-in-law Roper,” explained Wolsey. “He has been caught with some heretics in the house of a London merchant.”

“What! Will Roper…with heretics!”

“So it would seem. And bold withal. He declares that he holds the beliefs of these people and that, had he the chance, he would proclaim his beliefs from a pulpit.”

“But…I can scarcely believe this. You…you are sure?”

Wolsey nodded grimly. “It is a sad affair. A heretic—the son-in-law of a member of the King’s Council! We cannot have that said, Master More.”

“My lord Cardinal, I do not understand. It seems impossible to believe this. Where is he now?”

“Doubtless he will be in your house, whither I sent him. His friends will be punished…severely. But as regards your son-in-law…I sent him home and bade him have a care in future.”

“You mean…that he is as guilty of heresy as these others?”

Wolsey nodded.

“Then, my lord, should he not be judged with them?”

The Chancellor-Cardinal, that master of nepotism whose illegitimate sons held offices which, at their tender age, they could not possibly administer, smiled tolerantly at his assistant.

“The son-in-law of the Under-Treasurer! Indeed not!”

“So, because he is my son-in-law, he will go unpunished while the others suffer?”

“Oh, come, come, Master More. We will hush up this matter. But, I beg of you, see that nothing of this nature occurs again.”

Thomas was pacing up and down the apartment. Will…a heretic! Margaret’s husband! And he knew nothing of it. Did Margaret know?

A new emotion had come into his life since his wordy battle with Martin Luther; he had not known that he could feel such fierce hatred as he felt for that monk and the people who followed him. Margaret was as astonished as he was by the depth of his feelings. Why did he feel thus? She was right to remind him that he had said with Erasmus that there were anomalies in the Church, which must be stamped out; she had been right to remind him that, in a perfect state, he had visualized freedom of opinion. Why, then, had he changed so suddenly, lost that meekness, that understanding of others who did not share his views? Did he really believe that Martin Luther, the monk who had risked his life, who had given his burning energy to reforming the old religion into a new one, was a rogue?

When he had written Utopia he had imagined a state governed by wise men. But when he visualized the future, he was certain that drastic change, such as Luther advocated, could mean nothing but misery and bloodshed, the smashing of an institution which, while it was not ideal, had its roots in righteousness. The man Luther, it seemed, would smash the Catholic Church, and in so doing he would destroy all those who were as equally determined as he was; then would he set in its place another edifice, as yet untried, which would, Thomas did not doubt, grow up with all the frailty which now beset the Catholic Church.

How could such a disaster be prevented? Only by stamping out the heretic, by making sure that the change did not take place. For the sake of the many who would be bound to suffer cruelly in a mighty war of religion, the few upstarts must be made to suffer. They must be punished as a warning to the people. Those who considered following them must be made to fear the consequences.

Death—torture even—of the few, was a small price to pay for the death and torture of many, for the chaos which, as he saw it, must surely come to the world if the movement was tolerated and allowed to grow.

Thomas had believed when he wrote Utopia that in an ideal state freedom of religious thought was essential; but before such freedom could be given, there must be the ideal state.

He himself suffered physical torture daily. His body was tormented perpetually by his hair shirt, and at this time he had taken to whipping it with knotted cords; in the small chamber which he occupied as his sleeping apartment, he lay with a piece of wood for a pillow. The afflictions of the body, he believed, were as nothing to the triumph of the spirit. If he believed that heretics must be punished, he must punish himself. He believed that those who declared they gave their lives to a spiritual cause would care no more than he did for the torments of the body.

These ideas, he felt, came to him as a divine inspiration. He must do all in his power to preserve the Holy Catholic Faith, which had its roots in Rome; for this reason he had exercised all his talents in his writing against Luther. He saw himself as one of those who must lead the fight. He was no Erasmus, who, having thrown the stone that shattered the glass of orthodox thought, must run and hide himself lest he should be hurt by the splinters.

And now…one of those whom he must fight was his own son-in-law; moreover, he was the husband of her whom he loved more than anyone on Earth.

Wolsey watched the man with some amusement. They were growing further and further apart—he and the Under-Treasurer. More disapproved of the Cardinal’s policy, and did not hesitate to say so. A brave man, this, thought Wolsey, but a misguided one; he is a man whose talents would take him far, but whose emotions will hold him back and doubtless ruin him, for in the political arena there is no time for a man to serve anything but his ambition. And of Wolsey, Thomas often thought: A clever man, a shrewd and wise and greatly talented man, but a man who puts his own glory before honor, who will serve his ambition rather than his God.

And now, mused the Cardinal, he is turning over in his mind whether or not this man Roper should be spared the consequences of his action merely because he has a father-in-law in a high place. To what depth of folly will this man’s idealism carry him?

Wolsey shrugged his shoulders. He had done what he considered his duty toward a friend and fellow councillor by covering up the misdemeanors of a near relative. Now he washed his hands of the matter. His mind was occupied with affairs of greater moment that were pending in Europe. Pope Leo was sick. How long could he last? And when the new Pope was sought among the Cardinals, who would that man be?

What a splendid climb it would be from Ipswich to Rome, from a humble tutor to a mighty Pope. A Pope was a prince even as was a king, and the Pope stood equal to Charles of Spain, Francis of France and Henry of England.

Why should his new Holiness not be Cardinal Wolsey?

And since his mind was occupied with such great matters, how could he give more than the lightest attention to the consideration of the King’s philandering or to this matter of the foolish son-in-law of Sir Thomas More?

THOMAS SHUT himself into that small private room in which he tortured his body. He leaned against the locked door.

What could he do? Love and duty stood before him. Which was he to obey? His duty, he knew, was to refuse the intervention of the Cardinal, to send Roper from his house, to say: “This man is a heretic. He is one of those who would undermine the Church and bring bloodshed to the land.”

But love involved his daughter Margaret, and only now did he know fully what she meant to him. She loved Roper, and he could not think of this matter without imagining Margaret tormented and tortured, turning from him to her husband or from her husband to him. But if he were strong enough to torture himself he could not bear to hurt Margaret.

Yet it was wrong, was it not, that some guilty ones suffered whilst others went free?

But…his own son-in-law…and Margaret’s husband!

He must speak to Margaret first.

He called one of the servants and asked that Margaret should be told that he wished to speak with her. She would know, of course, what was wrong, because Will had been detained for a day and night, and he would have told her why he had been allowed to come home. Therefore she would know that the news of his arrest must have reached Thomas’s ears.

Moreover, when Thomas had arrived at the house, Margaret had not been at hand to greet him; doubtless she was in the bedroom which she shared with Will, talking to him. Was she trying to make him accept her father’s views? Or was she…but this he shuddered to contemplate…was she too a heretic?

At length she came and stood before him; her face was pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes; and as she stood there with the marks of anxiety and suffering on her face, he knew that his love for his daughter was so strong that it would turn him from his duty.

“Well, Margaret,” he said, “so your husband is a heretic.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You knew of this?”

“I did.”

He ought to ask her that further question: And you, Margaret? But he could not ask it; he was afraid of the answer.

“Why did you not tell me? You and I have always shared everything, have we not?” Almost immediately he was contrite. “But he is your husband…. A husband’s place is before a father’s…. You were right in what you did. Of course you were right.”

He saw the tears in her eyes now. She came to him and put her arms about him. He rested his cheek against her hair.

“Oh, Margaret…my dearest daughter.”

“Father,” she said, “how can anyone mean more to me than you do?”

“Hush, my daughter. You must not say that.” All his resolutions were crumbling. He saw himself as weak as other men. He understood the Cardinal’s gross action in bestowing favors on his beloved sons. How could he, who so loved his daughter, blame the Cardinal for loving his sons?

“We must be truthful, Father. We always have been. I knew before I married Will that he was leaning toward the new faith. I must tell you everything that is in my mind. I knew your mind and I knew his…and, strangely, because they were different and because I feared a quarrel between you, it was then that I knew I loved him even as I love you, and that what I cared for more than anything in the world was to guard the peace between you. So I married Will, and I have known that he was meeting these merchants…and I knew what books he has been reading…and I know how his thoughts run.”

“He has made his thoughts…your thoughts?”

“Father, you have always said that I was your clever daughter. You have said that my mind equals that of any man you know.”

“I believe that to be true, Meg.”

“Yet in this matter my mind is so clouded that I fear you are mistaken in me. When I listen to Will I see there is reason in what he says; and I think that is perhaps because I love him. Then I know your mind, and I see reason in your beliefs; perhaps that is because I love you. Father, I do not believe it is important whether men follow Luther or the Pope…as long as they obey Christ’s commandments. I have tabled the differences and pondered them. Are they real differences? Neither creed excludes love; and love is surely the whole meaning of good in life, is it not? Father, I know your thoughts. You think that these differences of opinion will eventually bring bloodshed, and you are doubtless right. In fact, is it not already happening in some degree? It would be a terrible tragedy. So in all you do and in all you say there is reason, there is love of your fellow men. Will believes that these questions raised by Martin Luther must be examined; and if Luther is right, his way must be followed…no matter what the cost. In a way he is right. You see, I am swayed…this way and that. And I know that the most important thing in the world is that men should live in amity together and love, not hate each other. I know that the two I love best must assuredly do that, and that I will do all in my power—for this seems the most important thing in the world to me—to make them.”

“That is women’s reasoning, Meg,” he said.

“I know it. You have said that there should be no differences between the education of men and women. Might it not be that a woman’s reasoning on certain matters could be more clear, more precise, more true than that of a man?”

“That could be so, Meg.”

“Oh, Father, you must try to understand Will.”

“Margaret, we must try to turn him from his folly. But for the fact that I have a high place at the Court, he would not be with us now.”

“I know. He would be in some prison awaiting his sentence.”

“He has broken the laws of the country as well—as I see it—as the law of God.”

“Will thinks that if he keeps the law of God as he understands it, it matters not if he breaks the law of the country.”

“We should refuse to accept this concession, Margaret. If he has stated such views, he should be ready to defend them.”

“He is ready, Father. He is not lacking in courage.”

“That is true. It is I who am the coward.”

“You?”

“Because, Meg, I love you so much that I could not bear to refuse to accept this favor. There are some things I have not learned to bear. Once I wished to be a monk, yet I could not resist my dreams of a family life. Now I wish to be an honest statesman, and I cannot be that if it will bring suffering to my beloved daughter.”

She smiled. “Oh, Father, do not be a saint. Do not torture your body with whips and this hair shirt. You are yourself. You are our beloved father. We do not want a saint. And if your love makes you weak…then that is yourself…far more lovable than any saint. Father, if you could only be less determined to do what you think is right! If only you could be more like other men! You have written your replies to Luther for the King. Any statesman might have done it, were he blessed with your gift for writing. Cannot it be left at that? What have heresies and religious opinions to do with our happy home?”

“They are part of the world about us, Meg. They are here with us, like the sun and the light. You may shut your doors, but the light will find some way of penetrating. Will you help me to recall your husband from his heresy?”

“As to that I cannot say,” she answered. “There is one thing I wish to do, and that is to foster love between you, to bring you back to that state which you once enjoyed. I cannot help it, Father. Perhaps it is because I am a woman. But I want you and Will to love each other. I want us all to be happy. I know that is right for us.”

He embraced her tenderly. He said: “I shall talk with your husband, and I shall pray for him. I trust ere long I shall call him home.”

“Father, I too shall pray for him and for you. I shall pray that all may be well between you, and that he who is right shall call the other home, so that you may be together—the two whom I love—in friendship, amity and devotion.”

And when Margaret left him, Thomas fell on his knees and prayed for the soul of William Roper, and that his daughters wishes should be granted.

FOLLOWING THAT, there were disputes and arguments between Thomas and Will. In these Will waxed hot, and Thomas was always calm, which meant that Will must come out the worse from the dispute.

With his wide knowledge of the world and men, with his skill with words, Thomas’s arguments must seem the more sound. Thomas was a practiced lawyer; Will was a very young and inexperienced one. Will became, quite naturally, a little less sure of his ideas.

Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that the obstinacy of her father was slightly greater than that of her husband; and she continued to wish above all things for peace between these two.

Will no longer consorted with the merchants, no longer attended illegal meetings. He felt he owed it to his father-in-law to abstain; for if Thomas suffered because he had accepted a concession, which it was against his conscience to accept, Will suffered equally. He would not put his father-in-law in a false position again. For that reason he would no longer run risks; no longer did he speak openly of his beliefs; he studied in the privacy of his apartment, and he talked no more of his ideas except with Margaret and her father.

Margaret had one great matter with which to occupy her mind during that year. She was to have a child.

Now, more than ever, Thomas regretted that he could not spend much time at home. But events were moving fast. Wolsey had been deeply disappointed when, on the death of Leo, Adrian, Cardinal of Tortosa, became Pope instead of Wolsey, Cardinal of York. But Adrian was a sick man, with little hope of occupying for long the Papal chair, and Wolsey’s eyes were still on Rome; his ambition had grown to such an extent that it seemed to blind him to all else.

Margaret’s emotions were divided between her joy in the unborn baby and her anxieties for her father who was becoming even more important at the Court. She could never forget that day when she had learned that he had aroused the displeasure of Henry the Seventh; she remembered also the law-suit when there had been a dispute over the possession of the Pope’s ship. That had been the beginning of advancement; but whither did advancement lead? So many men had found the axe waiting for them when they reached the top of the ladder which led to fame.

Now Thomas had been elected Speaker of the Parliament.

England was at war that year with France and Scotland, and Thomas had succeeded in delaying the collection of those taxes which Wolsey had imposed for the purpose of carrying on the war. Thomas was against war; he had always been against it. If he talked continually thus, what would become of him?

The Cardinal was now openly hostile toward Thomas. He was suffering acute disappointment over the election of the Pope. It seemed incredible to him that a man could be as foolish as Thomas More, so blind to his own chances of advancement.

As he left Parliament Wolsey forgot his usual calm so much as to mutter, so that several heard him: “Would to God, Master More, that you had been in Rome before I made you Speaker of this Parliament.”

Wolsey went straight to the King, and a few days later Thomas was told that he was to be sent on an embassy to Spain.

HOW COULD he leave London when Margaret was soon to have a child? He was beset by fears. How many women died in childbirth? It was the birth of Jack which had led to Jane’s death. He must be beside Margaret when her child was born.

She had said: “Father, I hope you will be near me. Do you remember when I was a very little girl and the pain was better when you sat by my bed, holding my hand?”

He had answered: “Meg, thus shall it be now. I shall be with you.”

But Spain! The strain of working for the King was beginning to undermine his health; he was often painfully fatigued. He did not believe he could keep in good health if he undertook the long journey in a trying climate. He thought of the many weary months away from his family. Was it too late even now to break away from the life of the Court which he did not want?

Greatly daring, and saying nothing to his family, he craved audience with the King. It was immediately granted, for Henry liked him for himself, and there were times when he wished to desert his frivolous companions and be with this serious-minded man. It gave him pleasure to see himself as a serious King who, while often gay could also appreciate the company of a scholar.

Thomas had asked for a private interview, so the King sent all his courtiers from him, and when they were alone he turned to his protégé with a pleasant smile.

“Well, Thomas, what is this matter of which you would speak?”

“’Tis the embassy to Spain, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes. You will be leaving us soon. We shall miss you. But Wolsey thinks you are the best man we could send.”

“I fear the Cardinal is mistaken, Your Grace.”

“Wolsey…mistaken! Never! Wolsey knows your talents, my friend, as well as I do.”

“Your Highness, I feel myself unfit for the task. The climate does not agree with my health, and if I am ill I cannot do justice to Your Grace’s mission. I feel that if you send me thither you may send me to my grave. If Your Grace decides that I must go, then you may rest assured that I shall follow your instructions to the very best of my ability. But I fear the journey, Sire; I greatly fear the journey.”

The King looked gravely at the man before him. He had grown thin, Henry saw. That was too much poring over books. Not enough good food. From what the King had heard, the fellow did not pay enough attention to what he ate; he did not drink wine. Poor Thomas More! He did not know how to live. And he was married to a woman older than himself. The King frowned at the thought, for it reminded him that he was in a similar position; and it was a position which he was beginning to find irksome.

Poor Thomas! thought Henry. He has his misfortunes…even as I. And he lacks my good health.

“There is another matter, Sire,” went on Thomas. “My daughter, recently married, is expecting her first child; and I should die of anxiety if I were not at hand.”

The King slapped his knee. “Ah, so that’s it, eh? That’s it, friend Thomas.” Henrys eyes filled with tears. “I like well such fatherly devotion. So should we feel for our daughter, the Princess Mary, were she in similar plight. But you have a big family in Bucklersbury, eh, Thomas? You have a fine son, I hear.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Three daughters, a son, a foster daughter and a stepdaughter.”

“I like to hear that, Thomas. Would it surprise you if your King told you that—in some respects—he envies you?”

“Your Highness is gracious indeed. And I know that in some ways I have been a lucky man.”

“Lucky indeed! A fine son, eh? Would to God I could say the same. And this child of yours…this daughter…Let us hope she will be brought to bed of a fine boy.” The King brought his face closer to that of Thomas. “And we consider it meet that her father should be in London…be here when his grandson comes into the world. Rest happy, my friend. We shall find another to send on that embassy to Spain.”

That was the extent of Thomas’s favor with the King.

Yet, delighted as she was to hear the news, Margaret was uneasy.

The King’s favor was pleasant while it lasted, but now it seemed to her that her father had won it at the cost of the Cardinal’s friendship.

MARGARET HAD quickly recovered from her confinement, and it was a very happy family that lived in Bucklersbury during those months.

Thomas was delighted with his grandson.

“But,” he said, “now that my secretary, John Harris, is living with us and I have a grandson, this house is not big enough; and in the years to come when I have many grandsons and granddaughters—for the other girls will marry one day and I trust that they, like Margaret, will not leave their father’s roof—I must have a bigger house.”

So he bought Crosby Place in the City—a beautiful house, the tallest in London, built of stone and timber and situated close to Bishopsgate.

One day he took Margaret along to see it.

They went through the great rooms of this house, which was so much grander than the one they were now occupying. Margaret stood with her father in the great hall, looked up at the vaulted roof and tried to imagine the family in it.

“You like it not?” said Thomas.

“Well, Father, you have bought it, and doubtless we shall make it ours when we settle in, but…”

“But?” he insisted.

“I know not. Perhaps I am foolish. But it is not like our house.”

“Propria domus omnium optima!”

“But we should make this our house, Father. Yet…I cannot see it as ours. There is an air of gloom about it.”

“You are fanciful, daughter.”

“Indeed I am. Why, when we have the family here and we sit talking and singing together…then it will be our home…and quite a different place from the one it is now.”

“Richard Crookback lived here for a time,” said Thomas. “I wonder if that is why you feel this repulsion. I wonder if you think of him and all the miseries that must have been his. Is that it, Meg?”

“It might be.”

She sat on a window seat and looked thoughtfully at her father.

“Come, Margaret, what is on your mind?”

“That we shall make this place our home.”

“Come, be frank with me.”

“It is just a foolish thought of mine. We have often talked of the house we would have…when you have not been with us.”

“And it has not been like this?”

“How could you expect it to be? Where should we find all that we have planned? Moreover, if there could be such a house we should have to pull it down once a week and rebuild it, because we have added to it and altered it so persistently that it could not stay the same for more than a week. There is Mercy with her hospital; and there is the library that I have built for you; there is the chapel, which Mother thinks should be attached to all great houses…. And Jack, of course, has set all this in the midst of green fields.”

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned to her. “Why, Meg,” he said, “did I not think of this before? We will build our own house. And all of us shall have a hand in it. We shall build what we would have. There shall be Mercy’s hospital, your mother’s chapel, your library for me and Jack’s green fields….”

“But, Father, you have bought this place.”

“We can sell the lease.”

“Father, it sounds wonderful, but could it really be done?”

“Why not? I am high in the King’s favor, am I not? I have money I have not spent. That is the answer, Meg. We will not live in this gloomy house which is full of unhappy ghosts. We will seek our own land and we will build our own house…our ideal house.”

“As you would build an ideal state,” she reminded him.

“A house is easier to build than a state, Meg, and I doubt not that, with the help of my family, I can do it.” He was as excited as a boy. “There I shall pass my days with my children and my grandchildren about me. My father will have to be with us soon. He and his wife are getting too old to be alone. Elizabeth, Cecily and Mercy must marry and fill our new house with children. It must be outside the City…but not too far out. We shall have to be within reach of London, for I am still bound to the Court. And Meg…Meg, whenever I can, I shall slip away. I shall come home. Let us go. Let us decide where we shall live. I can scarcely wait to discuss this with the others. Meg, we will call a conference this night; and the land shall be bought without delay and the ideal house shall be built…and we shall live in it happily for many years.”

They walked home, talking of the house.

Thomas was as good as his word. In a short time he had sold his lease of Crosby Place to a rich Italian merchant friend who was looking for a house in London.

Antonio Bonvisi, the merchant from Lucca, settled in at Crosby Place and Thomas bought land in Chelsea.

BUILDING THEIR ideal house occupied the minds of the family so much that they gave little thought to what was happening about them.

The Cardinal had again been disappointed of his hopes of the Papacy. On the death of Adrian, Giulio de’ Medici, called Clement the Seventh, was elected. The Emperor Charles came to London and was made a Knight of the Garter. This meant that Thomas was taken from his family to be in constant attendance at the Court, but it was regarded as an annoyance rather than a fact of political importance.

It seemed more interesting that that great friend of the family, Dr. Linacre, who was now the King’s physician, brought the damask rose to England. It should be awarded a special place of honor in the Chelsea gardens. There was again war with France; but that seemed remote, for meanwhile the house at Chelsea was being built.

It stood back from the river, with about a hundred yards of garden between it and the water. There were four bay windows and eight casements, allowing a superb view of the river. The center block was occupied largely by the great hall, and there were numerous rooms in the east and west wings.

“Mercy,” Thomas had said, “once you said your dearest wish was to own a hospital of your own in which you could tend the sick. Now that we are building at Chelsea, that hospital shall be yours.”

And so it was built, separated from the house by pales; for Mercy had said: “What if I should have contagious diseases in my hospital? I could not have my patients passing them on to my family.”

They had never seen Mercy quite so happy as she was when she showed Dr. Clement over the hospital. It seemed that when she had the young doctor there, Mercy had all she desired in life— John Clement, her family, and her hospital on the other side of the pales.

There was Thomas’s library and the chapel in a separate building—just as they had pictured it.

Elizabeth and Cecily planned the gardens; and Jack decided where they would grow their wheat, keep their cows and have their dairy. Alice designed her buttery and her kitchens; Thomas planned his library, gallery and chapel, with Margaret to help him.

It was to be a house in which one family, who had discovered the means of being happy, would live together, cherishing each other.

Will and his father-in-law were now the best of friends, although Will was not altogether weaned from the new ideas. Thomas prayed for him; Will prayed for Thomas; Will was wavering, for it seemed to him that a man such as his father-in-law, who seemed so right in all other matters, could not be entirely wrong on what seemed to Will the greatest matter of all.

By the end of the year they had moved into the house.

They were a bigger family now, for Thomas’s father, the judge, Sir John More, and his wife came to live with them.

In spite of his cynical views on marriage, Sir John had taken a fourth wife and lived amicably with her. He had ceased to fret about his son, and he would often laugh when he remembered how he had worried in the old days because Thomas had paid more attention to Greek and Latin than to law. He admitted that he had been wrong. He had seen Thomas as an ordinary man; and, like the rest of the household, he now knew that to be an error.

He was content in his old age to rest in this great house at Chelsea, to wander in the gardens watching the gardeners at work, now and then discussing a point of law with Thomas, who never failed to give him that deference which he had given him as a young and obscure student. Occasionally he worked in the courts at Westminster; he was treated with greater respect as the father of Sir Thomas More than he was as a judge of these courts.

It was a very happy family that lived in the house at Chelsea.

SOON AFTER they were established there, Sir John Heron, the Treasurer of the King’s Chamber, approached Sir Thomas concerning his son Giles. Sir John admired Sir Thomas More and, having heard of the large house, which had been built in the village of Chelsea, he would esteem it a favor if his son might live there with the Mores, after the fashion of the day.

Alice was atwitter with glee when she heard this.

“The Herons!” she cried. “Why, they are a most wealthy family. I shall look after that young man as though he were my own son.”

“And doubtless will endeavor to turn him into that,” said Thomas wryly.

“I have told you, Master More, that I shall cherish the young man…. He shall be my son in very truth.”

“Nay, by very law, Alice…the law of marriage. I’ll warrant that before you have seen him you have decided that he will make a suitable husband for one of the girls.”

“They are becoming marriageable. Have you not noticed that?”

“I have indeed.”

“Well, then, it is time we had more such as Master Giles Heron in our household, for one day he will inherit his father’s goodly estates.”

“And that is a good thing, for I doubt young Giles will ever win much for himself.”

“Tilly valley! Is it a clever thing, then, to be turned against a young man merely because one day he will inherit his father’s fortune?” demanded Alice.

“It is wise, you would no doubt tell me, to be turned toward him because he will inherit one.”

“Now, Master More, will you endeavor to arrange a marriage between this young man and one of your daughters?”

“I would rather let one of my daughters and the young man arrange it themselves.”

Alice clicked her tongue and talked of some people’s folly being past all understanding. But she was pleased with life. She enjoyed living in the big house at Chelsea; she had more maids than she had ever had in her life. Her daughter had married well; she would do her duty by her stepdaughters and see that they followed in Ailie’s footsteps; and she would never forget for one moment that she was Lady More.

She went down to the kitchen, her marmoset following her. She went everywhere with her. She scolded the little thing, but it was an affectionate scolding, the sort of scolding she was fond of bestowing on her husband.

Good marriages for them all, she reflected. Either Elizabeth or Cecily should have Giles Heron, who ere long would inherit his father’s title and lands. Elizabeth it must be; she was more suitable for the position. Cecily was inclined to be slothful, to lie about in the sunshine, under the trees or in the orchard, or wander about gathering wild flowers, spending too much time with her pet animals. Yes, Elizabeth, with her sharp wits, would make the better Lady Heron. Moreover, Elizabeth was the elder and should therefore marry first, for it was a bad thing when a younger sister married before an elder. Not, thought Alice complacently, that there should be any difficulty in finding a good husband for Cecily, a girl whose father was in such high favor at Court.

Fortune had taken a very pleasant turn.

“Lady More!” She whispered that to herself as she went about the house.

GILES HERON protested when his father told him that he would live for some time in the household of Sir Thomas More.

As Giles took barge for Chelsea, he was thinking of his father’s remarks:

“There are two daughters. A match between our house and theirs would bring great benefits, my son. Sir Thomas More is in as high favor at Court as any man—not excluding the Cardinal himself, some say. You will one day have land and property. I would like to see added to that the favor of the King’s favorite minister.”

That was all very well, but Giles was not interested in ambition. This river trip would have been most enjoyable to him if he could have idly drifted downstream, stopping perhaps to lie on the bank, breaking into song, chatting with merry companions; and then, when he was tired, turning the barge homeward. Instead of that, he was on his way to a new home; and he was uneasy.

Who wanted favor at Court? Not he. What did it mean? Constant work, constant fear that you would displease some high official of the Court—mayhap the King himself. Then you began to realize how much happier you had been lying in the sun, idling the hours away.

Then there was this daughter of Sir Thomas More. It was said that his daughters were almost as learned as he was. The girls were prim creatures who spent their days in a schoolroom writing Latin verses. Latin verses! Scholars! Giles wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought. He frantically sought in his mind for one little phrase which his tutors had taught him and which he might manage to quote; but his mind was a blank.

He had seen Alice Allington, a real little beauty, and not seeming very learned except in matters of manners and general fascination. But she was only a stepdaughter—no blood relation to the learned Sir Thomas More. He doubted if he would find another such as Alice Allington in the Chelsea house.

And one of these girls—there was, fortunately, a choice between two—he must try to make his wife. For, his father had said, if you do not, depend upon it others will. These girls have more than fortune. You yourself have wealth, but the More family can give you what you lack: the interest of the King himself. Marry one of these girls and the King, I am sure, could be induced to smile on you. Thomas More is reputed to be an upright man, a man who seeks no gain for himself; but I’ll warrant he’ll not be averse to taking a little for his daughters, since by all accounts he has a very deep regard for them.

Giles pictured the girls. They would be small, for sitting at a table, poring over books, did not develop the body; they would be pale; they would doubtless stoop; they would be ugly; they would give no attention to personal adornments; they would have Latin instead of good looks; they would have Greek instead of charm.

“O God in Heaven,” prayed Giles Heron, “save me from a daughter of Sir Thomas More.”

He had reached the privy stairs, and, leaving his servants to tie up the boat and take his baggage into the house, he mounted the stairs and went through the wicket gate.

He stood looking over the pleasantly sloping lawns, at the gardens of flowers, at the young trees and the house itself.

Slowly he made his way toward that great building. Which of the rooms, he wondered, was the schoolroom? He had heard of that schoolroom in which the wisest men in Europe taught the son and daughters of Sir Thomas More. He pictured the gray-bearded, solemn-faced tutors; they would be scornful of him. And the girls? They too. Perhaps they would despise him so much that they would beg their father not to let him marry one of them. Giles was hopeful by nature.

How beautiful it was on that summer’s day! He could smell the scent of newly cut grass; and in the distance he could hear the sound of voices. He heard laughter too; that was the last thing he had expected to hear in this domain, but doubtless it came from someone on land nearby, for voices carried far in the country. Mayhap it was some of the servants. Or were the servants as solemn as the family? Did they have to learn Latin and Greek along with their household tasks?

He stopped as a boy appeared from a clump of trees to the right. This boy’s gown was open at the neck; his face was hot for he had been running. He stopped short when he saw the visitor. Giles judged him to be about fifteen years of age.

“Good day to you,” said Giles. “Am I right in thinking these are the gardens of Sir Thomas More?”

“Good day to you,” said the boy. “And you are right. You must be Giles Heron.”

“I am. Would you please tell me who you are?”

“John More. Always known as Jack. We are worried about the rabbits. They are behaving in such an odd way. They are huddled together and making the strangest noises. I came to look for Father. He would know what to do. Would you…come and look at them?”

He turned without more ceremony and began to run. Giles followed him through the trees to a stone wall, on which sat a peacock displaying his gorgeous tail.

The stone wall enclosed a small garden, and in this a girl was kneeling by several rabbit hutches.

“What ails you, Diogenes?” she was saying. “Tell me, my little one. And you, Pythagoras, you are frightened. What do you see?”

“Any sign of what troubles them?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“This is Giles Heron. I found him coming up from the river.”

“Good day to you,” said the girl. “Do you know anything about rabbits? We have not had them long. Only since we have been at Chelsea. Can you imagine what could make them as frightened as that?”

Giles looked at her; her face was flushed; her fair hair was escaping from her cap; and her blue eyes showed her anxiety. It was clear that she was thinking more of the rabbits than of the newcomer. He thought her rather quaint, comparing her with the young ladies whom he met at Court.

“It might be a stoat or a weasel,” said Giles. “It is terror which makes them behave thus.”

“But where? I can’t see anything…. Can you?”

“A dog, mayhap?” suggested Giles.

“But Socrates and Plato love the rabbits.”

Diogenes, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato! thought Giles. Was that not what he would have expected? Even their pets must be named in Greek. Yet both the girl and the boy disarmed him.

The girl went on: “All the pets love each other. Father says that is because they have been brought up together and know they have nothing to fear from one another. He says that there would be no fear in the world if only everybody understood everybody else. So…I don’t think they are frightened by the dogs.”

Giles looked about the walled garden, and his quick eyes caught a pair of gleaming ones in the foliage a few yards from the hutch.

“There!” he cried. “Look.”

They followed his gaze.

“A weasel,” said Giles. “That explains much.”

“We must drive it off,” said the girl.

Giles caught her arm. “Nay. It may be dangerous. You stay here….”

Just at that moment a great dog came bounding into the garden, followed by a monkey. There was an immediate movement in the bushes; the dog paused for half a second; and then he was bounding over to the bushes, barking wildly and leaping with great excitement.

The monkey followed. Giles was still holding the girl’s arm. He had forgotten Court manners and all ceremony in the excitement of the moment. They were all tense, waiting to see what the animals would do.

It was the monkey who went into the attack. Suddenly she leaped into the bushes. The girl caught her breath; Giles tightened his grip on her arm. They heard a squeaking and a scuffle in the bushes; and the monkey emerged, her bright eyes gleaming, a chatter of gibberish escaping from her little mouth.

“It’s gone!” cried Giles in great excitement. “The monkey has driven it off.”

“Marmot!” cried the girl. “You brave creature!”

The monkey ran to her and climbed onto her shoulder. The dog leaped about her, barking wildly.

“All you did, Master Plato, was make a noise. You were the herald; but Marmot was the heroine. She is the victor. Do you like her, Master Heron? She is my mother’s, and she was given to her by one of our friends from foreign parts. She is very happy here in the summer, but we have to take great care of her in the winter.”

“She is certainly a brave creature,” said Giles. “But…I have not heard your name yet.”

“Have you not? I’m Cecily More.”

“Oh!” cried Giles with a lifting of his spirits. “You, er…you are…in actual truth?”

She looked surpised. “I do not understand.”

He smiled. “I thought that mayhap you would be very small and pale and humped through bending over your desk.”

Cecily laughed at that.

“And,” went on Giles, laughing himself with the immensity of his relief, “firing questions at me in Latin.”

“Margaret is the clever one of the family. Mercy, too. You may have heard of them. Margaret is quite a scholar, but she is merry too. She takes much delight in writing in Latin and Greek; and with Mercy it is all mathematics and medicine. Elizabeth, who is my elder sister, is clever too. Poor Jack and I…we are not so clever. Are we, Jack?”

“I am the dunce of the family,” said Jack. “I can just manage to write a little Latin and follow their speech.”

“You will feel yourself to be a learned scholar when you compare yourself with me,” said Giles.

“Then welcome!” cried Jack. “I shall enjoy appearing to be learned for once.”

Cecily said: “It is pleasant, is it not, Jack, to welcome someone to this house who does not think that a knowledge of Greek is the most important thing in the world?”

“And what, Mistress Cecily, do you think is the most important thing in the world?”

“At the moment, to make sure that the rabbits are safe and that the weasel cannot come back and frighten them.”

“He will not,” said Giles. “The monkey gave him a great fright. He will remember. Animals have long memories sometimes.”

“Is that so?” said Cecily. “I am glad of it.”

“You love animals, do you not?” asked Giles.

“Yes. And you?”

“My dogs and horses.”

“I love dogs and horses and the little helpless ones besides…like rabbits and birds. We have fowls and dear little pigs.”

“You have a farm, then?”

“Well, we have some land and animals. We grow much for ourselves. That is what we always wanted when we lived in Bucklersbury. They are cutting the grass in the home field now. I should be helping. So should Jack. But I saw what was happening here….”

“I should not have thought you would have had time to keep so many animals.”

“But we are a big family. Each has his own. Father says that we may have what pets we like. The only rule is that we must care for them, see that they are fed and looked after in every way. The peacock there is Elizabeth’s. He is beautiful, do you not think so? He is rather haughty too, for he’ll not take food from anyone but Bess…unless he is very hungry. He is asking for you to admire him.”

“He is as vain as a Court gallant.”

“Are Court gallants as vain as that?” asked Cecily.

“Some are much more vain.”

“You are one of them, are you not?”

“Ah, but out of my setting. Here, among the learned, I feel humble. But you should see me at Court. There I display my fine feathers and invite admiration.”

“I should like to see you do that,” said Cecily.

“Who knows, you may one day. Yet if I stay here for a little while, as your father and my father have arranged that I shall, doubtless I shall see myself so clearly that I shall know there is nothing to be vain about.”

“I do not believe you are vain,” said Cecily, “because the very basis of vanity is that those who possess it are unaware that they do so. They think the puffed-up vision they see is the true one.”

“I see you are very wise,” said Giles.

“Nonsense. See how Marmot regards you, Master Heron. She likes you.”

“Does she? Her bright eyes look at me suspiciously, I fancy.”

“She is looking at you with interest. If she did not like you she would be making strange noises of irritation.”

“I am glad one member of the family has taken to me.”

“She is not the only one,” said Cecily with disarming frankness. “Here is another.”

She made a gay little curtsy—not at all what Giles would have expected from such a learned little scholar.

“And here is another,” said Jack. “Let us go to the hayfields. We should be helping there.”

It was all very different from what Giles had expected. In the hayfield Sir Thomas More himself was sitting against a hedge, drinking some beverage from a jug, and his daughters were about him.

Was this Sir Thomas More, the Under-Treasurer, the friend of the King and the Cardinal?

“Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. “I am glad you came when we are all at home. The hay must be cut at the right moment, and right glad I am to be at home at such a time. You are thirsty, doubtless. Come, join us. Have you a tankard for Master Heron, Meg? And give him a piece of that cob loaf.”

Giles was introduced to the family. The Mistress of the house made him very welcome; and even Mistress Roper, the eldest daughter, whose fame as a scholar had reached even him, alarmed him not at all.

Cecily and Jack sat beside him and told how the monkey had driven off the weasel.

It was quite pleasant there, lying in the shade of the hedge and taking refreshment, joining in the conversation and laughter.

Afterward Jack showed him the grounds and stables, the orchards, barns, outhouses and, finally, the dairy.

Supper proved to be a merry meal taken at the long table on the dais in the great hall. The food was simple; and there was a newcomer, whom no one seemed to know, who had called just as the meal was about to be served and was given a place at the table.

Conversation was perhaps a little clever, and there was Latin—classical allusions, which Giles did not understand, but when this was the case, he found he had no need to join in, and that Lady More was always ready to poke fun at her scholars, and to smile at him as though to say: “We are the clever ones.”

When the meal was over they sat on the lawn, for the day was still hot; and some of them brought out their lutes and there was singing.

Giles Heron was very happy that night. He felt that, instead of coming to a strange household and perhaps a hostile one, he had come home.

He sat next to Cecily and listened to her sweet singing voice. He had already decided that by falling in love with and marrying Cecily he might please not only his father, but himself.

WHEN SIR John Heron, Treasurer of the King’s Chamber, told his friend Sir John Dauncey, Knight of the Body to the King, that his son Giles was to marry one of the daughters of Sir Thomas More, Sir John Dauncey was reflective.

His thoughts turned to his son William, and he lost no time in seeking him out.

It was possible to talk frankly to William, for William was a most ambitious young man, and would not have to be told twice to seize any advantages which came his way.

“I hear Giles Heron is to marry one of Mores daughters,” he said to his son. “Master Heron has been quick. But there is still one daughter left.”

William nodded. He did not need to have the implication of those words explained. There was no need to point out the advantages of a match between himself and one of the daughters of so favored a man.

“I must call at the house in Chelsea,” he said.

His father smiled his approval. There was no need to say: “Do not make the reason for your call too obvious. More is a strange man, and his daughters will doubtless be equally strange. The matter must be tackled with some delicacy.”

William would know. He was ambitious enough to approach every advantageous situation with the utmost tact and delicacy.

THE SUMMER was passing. Among the trees in the orchard, Dorothy Colly, Margaret’s maid, was playing with Margaret’s young son Will. An apple, part of which had been destroyed by the wasps, fell suddenly to the grass, and the baby began to crawl toward it.

“Come away, my little man, come away,” said Dorothy. “Don’t touch it, darling. Ugh!…Nasty!”

The baby crowed and Dorothy picked him up and cuddled him. He was very like his mother, and Dorothy loved his mother, who had treated her more like a friend than a servant, teaching her to read and write, giving her respect and affection.

“You’re a lucky boy,” she said. “We’re all lucky here in Chelsea.”

She thought of coming to the house—her life before, her life after.

As soon as she entered the house or the grounds a feeling of peace would steal over her. She knew this was due to the influence of the master, for to be in his presence was to be filled with a determination to live up to his high standards.

At this moment she could hear Lady More at the virginals, practicing in her labored way. Yet even such sounds were harmonious coming from this house, for to hear them was to remember that her ladyship, who had no great love of music, practiced the lute and the virginals so that when her husband came home she might show him what progress she had made. Even Lady More had been mellowed by the sweetness of her husband’s nature.

It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.

Dorothy’s heart began to beat faster, for, coming toward her, was Sir Thomas’s secretary, John Harris.

John was an earnest young man, fully aware of the importance of his work. He sought to emulate his master in all ways, even adopting that habit of walking with his gown not properly set on the shoulders, and the left shoulder lifted a little higher than the right. Dorothy noticed this, and it made her smile become a little tender.

He was deep in thought and did not immediately see Dorothy.

She spoke first. “Good day to you, Master Harris.”

He smiled, pleasure transforming his face. “And a very good day to you,” he said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the baby.

“How big he grows!” said John.

“His sister is nearly as big as he is. So you are not at the Court today, Master Harris?”

“No. There is work to do at home.”

“Tell me, do they really think so highly of the master at Court?”

“Very highly indeed.”

Dorothy pulled up a handful of grass and frowned at it.

“You are not pleased that it should be so?” he asked.

“I was thinking that I would like to see all the girls as happily married as is Mistress Roper. She was married before the master became so important. Master Roper was here…they grew to know each other…and they eventually married. I was thinking that that is the best way in which to make a marriage.”

“You are thinking of William Dauncey?”

She nodded. “Mistress Elizabeth does not seem to understand. Of course, he is very handsome…and very charming to her…but there is a light in his eyes which, it would seem to me, is put there by his love of the advancement Sir Thomas More can provide, rather than for Sir Thomas’s daughter.”

“Dorothy, you are a discerning woman.”

“I love them so much. I have been with them so long. Mistress Elizabeth is very clever with her lessons, but that is not being clever in the ways of the world. I wish that some quiet young gentleman like Master Roper would come here to study, and Mistress Elizabeth gradually get to know him. And I would like to see her take him instead of Master Dauncey.”

“You have served Mistress Roper for a long time, Dorothy. She has educated you and molded your thoughts, and you think that everything she does is always right. The baby is the perfect baby. Master Roper is the perfect husband. There are some who would say that Master William Dauncey is not such a bad match. His father has a high post at Court. What more could you want?”

“Love,” she said. “Disinterested love. Ah, I have said too much.”

“You need have no fear, Dorothy. But let me say this: When Mistress Roper married, her husband was caught fast in heresy. Heresy, Dorothy! Is that then more desirable than ambition?”

She was thoughtful. “His heresy,” she said, “grew out of his searching for the right, his determination to do what he considered best. Ambition—such as Dauncey has—is for self-glorification. There lies the difference.”

“Mistress Dorothy, you are wondrous learned.”

“My mistress has taught me to read; she has given me books. She has taught me to form my own opinions—that is all.”

Dorothy picked up the baby and held him against her. “Sometimes I wish that the master were not so well received at Court,” she said. “I would rather see him more often at home…with good people about him…like you, John Harris…than with the most handsome gallants of the Court.”

Then Dorothy left him and walked to the house.

How peaceful was this scene! she thought.

Now came the sound of someone playing the lute. It was too well played to be Lady More. Now she heard Cecily’s and Elizabeth’s voices, singing a ballad.

“Please God keep them happy,” prayed Dorothy. “Let us go on just like this…forever and ever…until we are called to our rest.”

There came the sound of other voices, singing with the girls—Giles Heron’s and William Dauncey’s.

Dorothy shivered. The voices of the young men reminded her that life was continually changing.

Too many honors were being thrust upon the master, and honors brought envy; they brought the sycophants, the false friends, who were like wasps that fed on the lovely fruit until it was ruined and dropped from the branches.

THAT YEAR came the winter of the great frost.

There was no keeping the house warm; the bleak winds penetrated into every room, and there was ice on the river. Blizzards swept across the country.

Mercy was hardly ever at home; she had so many sick people in the hospital. Margaret and Elizabeth were often there helping her.

Mercy was very happy. The hospital was her life. Although others might deplore Sir Thomas’s rise in the world, Mercy could not. But for his making a fortune in the service of the King, he could not have supplied the money which she needed to keep her hospital in being. But she was careful in the extreme. There was nothing extravagant about Mercy; she worked hard and enjoyed working hard. She remembered Erasmus’s criticism of English houses, and she had no rushes in her hospital; there were windows that could be opened wide; and her success with her patients was gratifying.

Mercy enjoyed those days when her foster father came to inspect her work. He would go among the patients, a joke on his lips. “Laughter is one of the best medicines,” he told her; and she was contented to have him with her whether he praised or questioned what she did.

She would not admit to herself that she was not completely happy; she, who was so frank on all other matters, knew herself to be evasive in this.

She would not admit to herself that she loved Dr. Clement. It is merely, she told herself, that there is so much talk of weddings and that makes me wonder if I shall ever be a bride. Ailie and Margaret are married; and now Cecily will have Giles Heron, and Elizabeth her William Dauncey; and because of all this I too look for love.

Had it not always been so? The little foster sister had always feared that she was not quite a member of the family, in spite of everyone’s attempts to assure her that she was. Now from Court came two gallants eager to wed the daughters of Sir Thomas More; but none came to woo his foster daughter.

Not that Mercy expected it. She laughed at the idea of plain Mercy Gigs being wooed by such a dashing gentleman as William Dauncey.

Moreover, Mercy did not want a Court gallant; she wanted Dr. Clement.

And he? Why should he think of Mercy Gigs? But he did think of her—oh, as a friend, as a girl who was interested in medicine, as one who spent her time working in her hospital and who liked to ask his advice on certain matters.

She must not be deluded. She was a nobody. She was an orphan on whom the Mores had taken pity; however much they tried to make her forget that, she must not. And John Clement? A young man of good family, high in the service of the great Cardinal, looked on with favor by the King’s physician, Dr. Linacre. As if he would think of Mercy Gigs as anything but a friend.

Ah yes, she reminded herself, all this talk of marriages makes me want what the others have. I want to be loved by a husband even as, when I was a child, I wished to be loved by their father.

Cecily and Elizabeth had come over to the hospital on this day, although it was as much as they could do to plod through the snow even that far.

They seemed quite pretty—both of them—with a certain glow upon them. That was being in love. Cecily was the happier perhaps; she was more sure of her Giles. But Elizabeth—more reserved than her younger sister—was she a little anxious about William Dauncey? Did she know—as others did—that he was an ambitious young man who believed her father could advance him? Poor Elizabeth! Like Mercy, she wished for marriage. Was she loving the ideal of marriage more than the man who would make it possible? Mercy uttered a silent prayer for Elizabeth. Cecily would be happy with her Giles. He was a lazy boy, good-natured, frank, not hiding the fact that his father had wished him to marry a Mistress More, and that he was delighted to find such a marriage to his liking. He had not William Dauncey’s tight-lipped ambition. And was she right, Mercy wondered, when she thought that even Dauncey had changed since he had visited the house? Was his laughter, when he joined their family group and played their games and sang with them, was it a little less forced than it had been?

The two girls laughed as they shook the snow out of their clothes.

“Why, Mercy, what a day! If the blizzard starts again, we shall be snowed up and unable to get out at all…and no one will be able to get to us.” That was Elizabeth.

Cecily said: “And you must come over to dinner today. Someone is coming, and he’ll be disappointed if you’re not there.”

Mercy flushed; she knew, by Cecily’s quick glance at Elizabeth, who was coming.

“If the weather is so bad, your guest may not arrive.”

“I doubt if he’ll come by barge. The ice is quite thick on the river. Oh, Mercy, what a lovely fire!” Cecily held out her hands to the blaze.

“I was lucky, I gathered much furze and bracken during the autumn. I had those of my patients who were recovering go out and get it for me. We believe that exercise is good, and so is fresh air.”

“We?” said Cecily almost archly.

“You and Dr. Clement, I suppose,” said Elizabeth.

“He is learned in these matters.”

“Father says,” said Cecily, “that one day the King might take him into his personal service, and Dr. Linacre thinks that he is the best young doctor he has known. That will doubtless mean that the King will soon hear of it.”

Oh, yes, thought Mercy, he is all that. He is rising in the world, and when he has gone far enough some nobleman of high rank will decide that he is a good match for his daughter.

And John himself? He was as ambitious in his way as Dauncey was in his. He wished to discover new ways of defeating sickness. The favor of the King might help him to do that.

Cecily and Elizabeth did not know that when they talked of the cleverness of John Clement and his chances at Court, they were showing Mercy, more clearly than she had ever seen before, how foolish she had been to dream.

“So,” insisted Cecily, “you must come to dinner and be early. You will then be able to talk to him of the latest remedies for the pox. I am sure that will make entertaining dinner talk.”

“We just came to tell you this,” said Elizabeth. “Mother is in a fine mood this morning. It is Margaret’s turn to keep house this week. Poor Margaret! Mother is puffing about the kitchen, warning them all that if the beef is not thoroughly basted, someone will suffer. There is much running to and fro…and all because Dr. John Clement has become such an important personage. It is hard to remember that he was scarcely more than a boy when he first came to us to attend Father on his way to Flanders. The humble secretary has become a great doctor.”

Ah, thought Mercy, too great for me.

Just as the girls were about to leave, a young boy arrived. He was white-faced, and the snow nestled in his hair, so that, on account of the gauntness of his features, he looked like a white-headed man.

“What is it, Ned?” asked Mercy, recognizing him as one of the boys from Blandels Bridge.

“It’s my father, Mistress Mercy. He’s lying on the straw like a dead man. But he’s not dead. He just stares with his eyes wide open, and he can say naught. My mother says to come to you and ask you to see him.”

“You cannot go all the way to Blandels Bridge in this weather,” said Cecily.

“He may be very ill. I must go.”

“But the snow is deep. You could never reach there.”

“It is less than half a mile; and Ned came here.” She looked at his feet. He was wearing a pair of shoes which had belonged to Jack, for Margaret’s task was to see to the needs of the poor, and this she did with the help of her family’s clothes.

“You will not come back with us, then?”

Mercy shook her head. She must stifle weakness. She was a doctor first. This was her hospital; she believed it must be the love of her life, for Dr. Clement—her affectionate friend, though he might be—could not marry her.

“Then you will miss dinner.”

“I fear so. I do not know how long I must stay at the cottage.”

“Mercy,” said Cecily, “come and have dinner and go there afterward. Perhaps John Clement will escort you.”

There was temptation. She pictured dinner in the beloved home, herself saying grace as she used to in the old days; she imagined the interesting conversation, and then, afterward, riding pillion with John Clement to the cottage by Blandels Bridge, listening to his diagnosis of the patient’s ailment, offering her own.

But sickness did not wait for such pretty, comforting scenes. Speed was everything in fighting sickness. A life could be lost by the delay of five minutes, let alone hours.

“Nay,” she said. “I must go at once. Ned, wait for me. I must bring a few simples with me.”

So Elizabeth and Cecily went back to the house on the other side of the pales, and Mercy trudged through the snow to Blandels Bridge.

The blizzard beat at her; the familiar landscape had become unfamiliar, a thick white cloth was laid over everything, disguising the shapes of hedges and cottages.

But Ned knew the way. She followed him blindly. Soon her fingers were numb, her feet icily cold. The journey—usually a walk of ten minutes—took the greater part of an hour.

She thought: I shall miss him then. It is so long since I have seen him. He is so busy that he comes to see us but rarely. And when he does…I cannot be there!

They had reached the cottage. The rushes stank. There seemed no air in the place, yet it was bitterly cold. The woman who had been sitting on a stool shivering as she watched the man on the floor, brightened when she heard Mercy’s voice without.

“God bless you for coming!” she cried as Mercy entered the cottage.

And when Mercy looked into her eyes, she thought: That must be my reward.

She knelt by the man on the dirty straw, and laid a hand on his burning forehead. He began to cough.

“He has been coughing like that for hours,” said the woman. “It seems as though the cough will choke him.”

Mercy said: “When the weather improves, I want to take him to my hospital. It is not good for him to be here.”

The man’s piteous eyes held Mercy’s. He seemed to be begging her to make him well.

She took one of the phials from her bag which she had brought, and gave him its contents. The close, cold atmosphere of the room made her shiver, and the smell from the rushes sickened her.

She thought: If only I could get him away from here…into one of my warm rooms, with blankets and a comfortable pallet on which to lie. If I could give him hot soup, fresh air, who knows…I might cure him.

“How is he, Mistress Mercy?” asked the woman.

“He is very sick.”

“Is he going to die?”

Mercy looked into the panic-stricken eyes. How could she say: “I can do nothing for him here”? How could she say: “Clean out these foul rushes”? Why, to disturb them now would double the danger. He was not so far gone in disease she could not save him. If it were not for the weather, she would go to her foster father’s house; she would get strong men, and boards on which to place this man, and carry him away from this foul-smelling place which was his home. But how could she do this in a snowstorm?

Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for guidance and, as if by some miracle, the door opened and there, seeming strong and all-powerful, was Dr. John Clement.

“John!” she cried in delight. “You…here?”

“Indeed yes, Mercy. The girls told me where you were, and I came to see if I could help.”

“Thank God!” she said. “It is the answer to a prayer.”

“And the patient?”

He knelt in the rushes and looked into the sick man’s face.

“This place…” said Mercy, and John nodded. “If I could get him to the hospital,” she went on, “care for him there…I believe I could nurse him back to health.”

John was silent for a while. Then he said: “I rode here. I tied my horse to a stake by the cottage. We could put him on the horse and get him to the hospital.”

“Through the snow?”

John’s answer was to look round the room, at the foul rushes and the earthen walls, damp and noisome.

“He cannot live if he stays here.”

“Can he live if he is taken out into the cold?”

“In a case like this, we have to take a chance.”

“You would take this chance, then, John?”

“I would. Would you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I would do as you would.”

Happiness came in strange places at strange times. The snow was blowing in Mercy’s face; she was wet and numb with cold, yet warm with pleasure.

She had rarely been so happy in her life as she was when she was walking through the snow with John Clement, the sick man, whom they held on John’s horse, between them, while the pale-faced boy led the horse.

THERE WAS a double wedding that summer.

The marriages of Elizabeth with William Dauncey and Cecily with Giles Heron were to be celebrated in the private chapel attached to one of the mansions belonging to the Allington family.

Ailie—now Lady Allington—was delighted to have her family with her for this occasion.

Ailie was a happy person. Her husband adored her; she had a child now, but that fact had changed her little; she was still the gay and fascinating Ailie.

With great pleasure she showed her mother the kitchens of the house. They were older than those of Chelsea and far more grand.

Alice sniffed her disapproval of this and that, trying hard to find fault while she congratulated herself that it was her daughter who had made the best match of all.

“Look, Mother. Have you seen these ceilings? Giles is most proud of them. You see how cleverly they are painted. You’ll find nothing like that in modern houses. Look at these painted cloths. They all represent scenes of some battles. Do not ask me which, I beg of you, for I do not know. In the great hall we have Flemish tapestry, which is every bit as fine as that which my Lord Cardinal has in Tittenhanger or Hampton Court.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “What happens in the kitchen is of more importance than painted hangings or Flemish tapestry, I tell you. That has to be tested yet.”

Ailie kissed her mother; she loved to tease…to tease them all, her half-sisters, her stepfather, her mother and her husband. And it was very pleasant to have them all with her again.

Margaret spoke to her of William Dauncey. “Elizabeth loves him, but does he love Elizabeth? Or is he thinking solely of what Father can do for him?”

“Well,” said Ailie, confident in her own charms, “if he does not love her, then it is for her to make him do so. And if he will not…”

Ailie shrugged her shoulders, but, glancing at Margaret, decided not to finish what she had begun to say. Instead, she added: “Why, they’ll be happy enough, I doubt not. Master Dauncey is a young man who will go far and, believe me, my dear Margaret, it is by no means unpleasant to be the wife of a rising star.”

“Is that so, then?” said Margaret. “I know what it is to be the daughter of one; and I would rather Father were less favorably looked upon at Court, so that his family might look upon him the more often.”

“Father! Oh, Father is no ordinary man. Father is a saint!”

Then Ailie left her sister; she was a busy hostess, and there was much to which she must attend, for her mansion at Willesden was filled with the most distinguished guests.

Her glance had gone to my Lord of Norfolk, recently the Earl of Surrey, who had succeeded to the title on the death of his father a year or so before.

Ailie curtsied before him and told him how honored she was to see him at her house. Strange man! He was scarcely conscious of Ailie’s charm. He looked grim, as though he had never given a thought to anything but matters of state. It was difficult to believe that his wife was giving him a lively time on account of her laundress, Bess Holland, for whom this grim man had a passion which he could not resist.

Norfolk was aloof, believing that he greatly honored the Allingtons by attending at their house, being conscious that he was a great nobleman, head of one of the highest families in the land, and—although he dared not say this to any—he could not help reminding himself that the Howards of Norfolk were as royal as the Tudors. The recent death of his father-in-law, Buckingham, was a terrible warning to him, a reminder that he must keep such thoughts to himself, but that did not prevent his private enjoyment of them.

No; he would not be here this day but for his friendship with Sir Thomas More. There had occurred in the July of this year an incident which had startled all men who stood near the throne, and had set them pondering.

The King had said to the Cardinal one day when they were in the grounds of that extravagant and most luxurious of country houses, Hampton Court: “Should a subject be so rich as to possess such a house?” And the Cardinal, that clever, most shrewd of statesmen, whose quick wits had lifted him from obscurity to a place in the sun, had thrown away the riches of Hampton Court in his answer: “A subject could only be justified in owning such a place, Sire, that he might give it to his King.”

No more could people sing “Which Court? The King’s Court or Hampton Court?” For now Hampton Court was the King’s Court in very truth.

Something was happening between the King and the Cardinal; it was something which put a belligerent light in the King’s eyes, and a fearful one in those of the Cardinal.

Norfolk, that ambitious man, that cold, hard schemer—soft only to Bessie Holland—believed that the favor so long enjoyed by the Cardinal was less bright than of yore. This delighted Norfolk, for he hated Wolsey. His father had instilled in him that hatred; it was not only brought about by envy of the favor Wolsey enjoyed; it was not only the resentment a nobleman might feel for an upstart from a humble stratum of society; it was because of the part this Duke’s father had been forced to play in the trial of his friend, Buckingham. Buckingham, that nobleman and kinsman of the Howards, had been condemned to death because he had not shown enough respect to one whom Norfolk’s father had called “A butcher’s cur.” And one of Buckingham’s judges had been the old Duke of Norfolk who, with tears in his eyes, had condemned him to death, because he had known that had he done otherwise he would have lost his own head. This would never be forgiven. However long the waiting must be, Wolsey must suffer, not only for the execution of Buckingham, but for the fact that he had forced Norfolk to condemn his friend and kinsman.

But, besides being a vengeful man, the Duke of Norfolk was an ambitious one. He did not lose sight of the fact that when Wolsey fell from grace there would be only one other clever enough to take his place. It would be well to be on terms of friendship with that man. Not that that in itself presented a hardship. If anyone, besides Bess Holland, could soften the heart of this hard man, it was Thomas More. I like him, thought Norfolk, puzzled by his own feelings. I really like him…for the man he is, not only for the greatness which may very well be his.

So it was that Norfolk wished to be More’s friend. It was a strange matter—as strange as such a proud man’s love for a humble laundress.

Thus was the Duke of Norfolk attending the double wedding of the daughters of a mere knight and the sons of two more mere knights.

Thomas was now approaching him. None would think, to look at him, that he was a brilliant scholar of world fame, and on the way to becoming one of the most important statesmen in the kingdom. He was more simply dressed than any man present, and it was clear to see that he thought little about his clothes. He walked with one shoulder higher than the other—an absurd habit, thought Norfolk, for it gave him an appearance of deformity.

But now Thomas stood before him, and Norfolk felt that strange mixture of tenderness and exasperation.

“I have never seen you so gay, Sir Thomas.”

“I am a lucky man, my lord. My two daughters are marrying this day, and instead of losing them I am to gain two sons. They will live with me—these two new sons—when they are not at Court, in my house in Chelsea. All my own daughters are married now, and I have lost not one of them. Do you not think that is a matter for rejoicing, my lord?”

“Much depends on whether you can live in amity with this large family of yours.”

Norfolk’s eyes were narrowed; he was remembering his own stormy family life with its recriminations and quarrels.

“We live in amity at Chelsea. You should come to see us one day my lord, when your barge takes you that way.”

“I will…I will. I have heard of your household. It is said: ‘Vis nunquam tristis esse? Recte vive!’ Is that how you achieve your happiness, Master More?”

“Perhaps we strive to live rightly in Chelsea. That may be why we are such a happy family.”

Norfolk’s eyes were brooding. He changed the subject abruptly. “There is something brewing at the Court.”

“My lord?”

“The King has created his bastard Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset.”

“He loves the boy.”

“But such great titles…for a bastard! Might it not be that His Grace feels he may never have a legitimate son?”

“The Queen has been many times disappointed; poor lady, she feels this sorely.”

Norfolk came close and whispered: “And will feel it more sorely still, I doubt not.”

They went together to the great table on which was laid out a feast so magnificent that it was said it might have graced the tables of the King or the Cardinal.

There was beef, mutton, pork; there was roasted boar and many kinds of fish, with venison and pies of all sorts. There was even turkey—that newest of delicacies imported into the country for the first time that year.

There was drink of all sorts—wine, red and white; malmsey, muscatel and romney; there was metheglin and mead.

And while the company feasted, minstrels played merry tunes in the gallery.

It was after the banquet and during the ball that followed it, that Mercy, standing aside to watch the dancers, found Dr. Clement beside her.

“Well, Mercy,” he said, “this is a merry day indeed. And right glad you must be that, although your sisters are marrying, like Margaret, they are not leaving the family roof.”

“That is indeed a blessing. I think it would have broken Father’s heart if any of them had wanted to leave home. It was bad enough when Ailie went.”

“How would he feel if you went, Mercy?”

“I?” She blushed. “Oh…as he did when Ailie went, I suppose. She is a stepdaughter; I am a foster daughter. He is so good that he will have us believe that he loves us all as his own.”

“I think he would be unhappy if you left, Mercy. But…why should you leave? You could stay there…with your hospital, and I should be at Court…. Like your father, I should seize every opportunity to be with you.”

She dared not look at him. She did not believe that she had heard him correctly. There could not be all that happiness in the world. Surely she could not have her beloved father, her family, her hospital and John Clement!

He was close to her, slipping his arm through hers.

“What say you, Mercy? What say you?”

“John…”

“You seem surprised. Did you not then know that I love you? Have I presumed too much in letting myself believe that you love me too?”

“Oh John,” she said, “do you mean…do you really mean…that you love me?”

“When you say you, you say it as though I were the King; and when you say me, you say it as though you were the humblest serving girl. Why, Mercy, you are clever; you are good, and I love you. I beg of you, cast aside your humility and tell me you will marry me.”

“I am so happy,” she said, “that I cannot find the words.”

“Then there must soon be another marriage in this family.”

What a happy day that was! Thomas smiled at each member of his family in turn. Would he rather have had the celebrations in his own home? Not when he looked at the proud smiles of Alice and her daughter. And as for Elizabeth and Cecily, they would have been equally happy wherever the ceremony had taken place.

It was not the banquet with its turkeys, the rich apartments with their painted hangings nor the distinguished guests that were important; it was the blissful happiness of each member of his family. And here was Mercy, as happy as any of them, and John Clement beside her, which could mean only one thing.

The merriment continued. There were morris dancers with bells on their legs; there were riders on hobby horses and there was the more stately dancing of the guests. Ailie was anxious to show that her attendance at Court had not been wasted, and the entertainment she could give her friends—if less luxurious than that given at the King’s Court—was such to which the King himself could have come and found pleasure.

And later, Ailie, in her own chamber, surrounded by her sisters, who had gone thither to rest awhile, allowed them to examine her dress, which was of blue velvet and made in the very latest fashion. The velvet overdress was cut away to show a petticoat of pale pink satin; the lacing across the bodice was of gold-colored ribbons.

Before them all Ailie turned and twisted.

“You like it, then? It is the very latest fashion, I do assure you. It is cut in the French manner. Do you like my shoes?” She extended a dainty foot for them to see. “Look at the silver star on them. That is most fashionable. And you should all be wearing bands of velvet or gold about your necks. That is the very latest fashion. And see the sleeves! They fall over the hands. They are graceful, are they not?”

“Graceful?” said Elizabeth. “But are they comfortable? It would seem to me that they might get in the way.”

“Mistress Dauncey,” cried Ailie, looking severely at her half-sister, “do we wear our clothes to be comfortable? And what matters it if the sleeves, as you say, get in the way? They are graceful, and it is the only way a sleeve should hang.”

“I care not,” said Elizabeth, “whether it is the latest thing from France or not. I should find it most uncomfortable.”

Ailie was conspiratorial. “You know who started this fashion, do you not? But of course you do not. How could you? It was one of the maids of honor. It seems that she decides what we shall and what we shall not wear.”

“Then more fool you,” said Cecily, “to let one woman decide what you should and should not wear.”

“Let her decide! We can do no other. She wears this sleeve because of a deformity on one of her fingers. Then it must seem that all other sleeves are ugly. She has a wart on her neck…a birthmark, some say; so she wears a band about it; and all see that such bands are so becoming that any without are quite unfashionable. She is lately come from France, and she is Anne…the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn. She is Mary’s sister; and all the men admire her, and all the women are envious, for when she is there, though she may have an ugly finger and a wen on her neck, it seems that everyone else appears plain and insignificant.”

Margaret interrupted with a laugh: “Oh, have done, Ailie! Have done with your frivolous maids of honor. Have done with your Frenchified Anne Boleyn, and let us talk of something that really matters.”

5

THERE WERE SEVERAL CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE NOW. Margaret had a little girl, and Cecily and Elizabeth both had babies. If Elizabeth had not found complete happiness in her marriage, she had great hopes of finding it in her children.

In the streets the people were singing:

“Turkeys, carps, bops, pippins and beer

Came into England all in one year.”

And that year was the one of the great frost and the marriages of Elizabeth and Cecily.

Margaret thought of that year and the year that followed it as the happy years. So much seemed to happen in the family circle that they were all blinded to what was happening outside…all except Thomas.

There were times when, with his family about him, Margaret would notice that he stared beyond them with a strangely remote look on his face. It might be that they were in the orchards gathering the fruit, or sitting at table, talking, laughing together.

Once she slipped her arm through his and whispered: “Father, of what do you think?”

His answer was: “Of all this, Meg, of this family of mine…this perfect contentment. On the day I die—no matter how I die—I shall remember this moment and say that my life brought me much joy.”

Then their eyes had met, and for a moment there was understanding between them as there never was between him and any other.

“Father,” she had cried out in panic, “I like it not when you talk of death. You frighten me.”

“Fear not, Meg,” he had answered, “for who knows when death will come? Rejoice, Meg, in that uncertainty. You would be weeping if you knew I had a month to live. You were laughing a moment ago, though I might not have a day.”

“Father, I long for the time when you will leave the Court.”

Then he had smiled his sweet smile and had said: “Let us be happy in this moment, Meg. Is it not as happy a moment as any could ask?”

There was so much to think about, so much to talk about during those two years. One child was having difficulty with her teeth; another cried too much; another had too many colds. These were such important matters. How could they stop for a moment to consider what was happening in the Courts of Europe? The King of France had been taken prisoner at Pavia and carried to Madrid; Cardinal Wolsey’s foreign policy was less successful than it had previously been. There was a certain subject about which there was much whispering in Court circles, and it was known as the King’s Secret Matter.

But to the family living in the pleasant house on the bank of the Thames, life was good. The babies were a source of amusement and delight; the Latin verses composed by their mothers provided much entertainment when read aloud. It was enjoyable to stroll in the gardens on a summer’s night and watch the stars with Master Kratzer; it was so amusing to try to make Alice take an interest in astronomy and to listen to her scathing comments.

There was the fun of feeding the animals, watching them grow and teaching them tricks; there were the flower gardens to be tended; there was the pleasant rivalry between Elizabeth with her gilly-flowers and Cecily with her daffadowndillies; there was the fun of trying out new dishes. Ailie would come with the very latest recipes and show them how peacocks were served at a Court banquet, and how to make sugarbread and marchpane the royal way. There was the great tapestry to work on in hours of leisure; there were the herbs to be gathered in the surrounding fields, so that Mercy could make them into medicines and Alice use them for flavoring or garnishing a dish.

They were very happy during those two years.

Mercy was married to her Dr. Clement, but she lived with them still, dividing her time between the house and the hospital. Thomas had given them the old house in Bucklersbury as a wedding present, and the girls were busy making tapestry to hang in Mercy’s new home; but she continued to live at Chelsea during those two happy years. When she went to live in Bucklersbury, Margaret would spend more time at the hospital, but that was not to be yet.

Every evening there were prayers in the private chapel with the family assembled; at mealtimes it was always Mercy who read from the scriptures. They would discuss together what she had read, and there would be interesting argument.

There were three new additions to the family during those years.

One was a poor man, Henry Patenson, who had need of succor. He had a certain sharpness of wit, and since it was not known what task could be given him in the household, he himself suggested that, as all great men whose work led them to the society of the wise needed a fool to amuse them in their leisure hours, Henry Patenson should become the fool of Sir Thomas More.

Thus Henry Patenson joined the household.

Then there was little Anne Cresacre, who came to Chelsea as the betrothed of Jack. Poor little girl, she was very frightened. She knew that she was going to live among the learned, and that terrified her; but she had been so delighted to find that her future husband was the dunce of the family that she saw him as a natural protector. As for Jack, he had himself often felt inadequate among the scholars, and understood her feelings and was able to reassure her. Consequently, Anne Cresacre found that, although her future husband’s learned family might terrify her, he did not.

Moreover, Lady More took her to her heart—for she was a very rich little girl—but all the same, riches or no riches, she must learn how to manage a household and take over the arrangement of domestic matters in turn with the other girls.

The third visitor was a painter from Basle—a young man full of enthusiasm and ideals, who had come to England to seek his fortune.

Erasmus—whom Thomas had visited on his trips to Europe and between whom there had been continual correspondence—discovered this man, and he wrote to Thomas asking him to receive him in his house. “His name,” he wrote, “is Hans Holbein, and I believe him to be a clever man at his craft. He wishes to come to England in order to earn some money. I beg of you, do all you can to help him.” Such a plea to Thomas could not be made in vain.

He welcomed the young man to his house, and so there was yet another to join the happy family group. He would sit sketching whenever the light allowed, listening to their talk, learning to speak their language, delighted because he could capture their expressions and draw them all with loving care.

“This man hath genius,” said Thomas to Alice.

At which Alice laughed. “Genius! He was sitting out in the east wind yesterday, sketching away. He’ll catch his death, I’ll warrant. And I shall have to nurse him. I shall have to spend my time, which I can ill afford, making hot possets for him. And you call that genius!”

Thus during the happy years life went on.

AILIE CAME one day with news hot from Court.

“Such a pother! It is Mistress Anne Boleyn. What do you think? She hath betrothed herself to Henry, Lord Percy. The eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland, if you please! Trust Mistress Anne to pick one of the noblest peers in the land.”

“Then the girl hath good sense,” said Alice. “For why should she not reach for the best plum on the tree?”

“And he was ready to fall to her touch,” cried Alice, “like a very ripe plum. Humble Anne Boleyn to mate with a Percy! So to Town comes my Lord of Northumberland, and poor little Percy hath been soundly berated. My lord Cardinal, in whose service he is, himself administered the scolding. And such a scolding! ’Tis said that poor Percy has not stopped weeping yet. And Mistress Anne? That’s a different matter. She has been going about the Court flashing her eyes, swearing she will not be told whom she is or is not to marry. But back she is gone to Hever Castle, and there she will stay for a while, so ’tis said.”

“And what will you do for your fashions now?” asked Margaret wryly.

“She has left us a few. Methinks we must wait until she returns to Court, which, some say, will not be long.”

“Come and help me feed the peacocks,” said Elizabeth. “I never heard such fuss, and all over one stupid girl!”

EARLY IN the following year, the King sent for Sir Thomas More. He was in his new Palace of Hampton Court, and he suggested that Thomas should take a walk with him, for he had heard that Thomas had made some pretty gardens round his house in Chelsea; he would like to discuss his own plans for altering the gardens at Hampton Court.

So they walked side by side, the man in the somber garments, his left shoulder a little higher than the right, his gown unadorned by jewels of any sort, and the gigantic, sparkling figure in doublet of purple velvet lined with ermine, his person sparkling with rubies and emeralds worth a fortune.

Now the King talked of the pond garden he would make; he talked of the beds of roses—red and white roses growing together side by side—symbols of the rival houses of Lancaster and York; and these should be enclosed by a wall, the pillars of which were to be made of stone and should be engraved with Tudor roses. All those who looked should see how the roses of York and Lancaster bloomed and faded while the Tudor rose altered not, engraved as it was on pillars of stone. The King enjoyed exploiting his fondness for allegory.

“Now, friend Thomas, what do you think of my pond garden? Have you anything to compare with that at Chelsea?”

“Nay, Sire. Our gardens are simple ones, tended mostly by my family.”

“Ah, that happy family of yours!” The King’s heavy hand was on his shoulder; the King’s flushed face was near his own and the little mouth was close to Thomas’s ear. “I’ll tell you a secret, Thomas, that I believe I have told you before: I envy you, man. Your King envies you. A happy family! How many grandchildren are there now? Six. And grandsons…. And your son soon to wed and provide you with more, I doubt not. You are a good man, Thomas More; and God has showered his favors upon you. Yet, Thomas, would you say your King was an evildoer?”

Into Thomas’s mind there flashed a procession of murdered men—Dudley, Empson and Buckingham at the head of them; he thought of Elizabeth Blount, flaunting the King’s natural son among her friends; he thought of wanton Mary Boleyn, and the quiet, long-suffering Queen Katharine. Was this King an evildoer?

What great good fortune that the King did not expect an answer to that which he considered a question so absurd that none could take it seriously!

“Nay, Thomas,” he went on. “I hear Mass many times a day. I am a devout man. I have dedicated my life to my country. You, my statesman, my Councillor who has lived close to me, know that. Is it not therefore a marvelous thing that God should deny me that which I most crave! Not for myself do I crave it. Nay. It is for this realm. Thomas, I must have a son. I need a son. I need a son for England.”

“Your Grace is young yet.”

“I am young. I am in the full vigor of my youth and manhood. I could have sons. I have proved…I have no doubt of that. And when a man and woman fail to produce an heir, when they wish above all things for a son, there is one explanation only of that Master More. They have displeased Almighty God.”

“Your Grace, have patience for a while. The Queen has given you a healthy daughter.”

“A healthy daughter! Much good is she! I want sons…sons…. I am King of England, Thomas More; and it is necessary for a King to give his country an heir.”

Thomas was silent and the King frowned as he went on: “There is a matter which lies heavy on my conscience. The Queen, as you know, was my brother’s wife ere she became mine. You are a learned man, Master More, a religious one. You read your Bible. God inflicts a penalty on those who commit the sin of incest. That is what I fear I have done in marrying my brother’s wife. Every son has died…every son the Queen has borne has died. Is that not significant? Is that not a sign from Heaven that I am a victim of Divine judgement? The more I study this matter, the more certain I become that I have offended God’s Holy Laws in my marriage.”

Thomas was deeply shocked. He had heard rumors of the King’s Secret Matter, and he had dreaded being asked to give an opinion. He thought of the Queen, that grave and gracious lady, who had offended none but the King; and him she had offended merely because she was growing old and unattractive and had been unable to provide him with a male heir.

The King had stopped in his walk and turned to face Thomas. He rocked on his heels; his face was creased with emotions—sentiment, cruelty, cunning and simplicity, and chiefly with his determination to make Thomas see him as he saw himself.

“I was against this marriage ere I made it. You remember the protest I made?”

Thomas looked in surprise at the King. “I remember, Sire.”

“There you see, I did not wish to enter into the marriage, then. She was, after all, my brother’s widow.”

Thomas dared not say: You protested on your father’s orders. It was when you made the protest that you determined to marry Queen Katharine.

Thomas was aware of the selfish cruelty, the predominant desire in the King to see himself as a righteous man. It would not be worth risking his displeasure by making such a remark. It would be folly to anger him at this stage. At this moment Henry was so carefully nursing his conscience that any man who dared suggest that his conscience was really his own desire would surely forfeit his head.

“But…I married her,” went on the King. “I married her, for she was a stranger in a strange land and she had been brought to us for marriage with the heir of England. And, because she was my wife, I cherished her and I loved her, as I still do. To part with her…that would be a bitter blow to me. You, who have married two wives and lived with them in amity, know that. It is nearly twenty years since I married the Queen. A man cannot cast off, without a pang, a woman to whom he has been married twenty years. Yet, though I am a man—aye, and a loving husband—I remember first that I am a King. And, Master More, if it were demanded of me to cast off this wife of mine and take another…though this matter were hateful to me, I would do it.”

“Your Grace should not sacrifice his happiness so lightly,” said Thomas, seizing the opportunity the King had given. “If a King has his duty to his country, a husband has his duty to his wife. And if the crowning of a King is a holy sacrament in the eyes of God, so is the ceremony of marriage. You have a daughter, Sire, the Princess Mary….”

The King waved his hand impatiently.

“That gives us much anxious thought. This country has never been happily ruled by a woman. You know that, Master More. And you, who call yourself a religious man, should ponder this: Is an incestuous marriage a holy one? Can it find favor in the sight of God? And what of a man and woman who, disturbed by their conscience, continue to live in such a marriage? Nay, this state of affairs cannot go on.” The King smiled slyly. “Nor will my Ministers allow it. Warham, the Archbishop, and Wolsey, the Papal Legate, are bringing a secret suit against me.”

“A secret suit against Your Grace!”

The King nodded mournfully. “A pretty pass when a King’s subjects act thus against him. Mark you, I have tried to be an honest man over this matter and, much as I deplore the action of Warham and Wolsey, I yet admit they act with reason and within their rights.”

So it has come to this! thought Thomas. The King is indeed determined to cast off his wife since he has made Warham and Wolsey accuse him of incest.

“You see,” said the King, “I am a King who is beset on all sides—by his love for his wife, by the demands of his ministers, by the reasoning of his own conscience. You are an important member of the Council, and there are many who set store by your opinions. You have many friends—Bishop Fisher among them. When this matter is discussed between you, I would have you obey your conscience as I am obeying mine. I would have you cast your vote not for Henry the man and Katharine the woman, but for the good of this land and its future heirs.”

“My Lord King, you honor me too much, I feel myself inadequate to meddle in such matters.”

“Nay, nay,” said the King. “You underestimate your powers.” His voice was kind still, but his eyes flashed a warning. This matter was very near his heart, and he would brook no interference. This was a matter of conscience—the King’s conscience and no one else’s, for the King’s conscience was such a mighty monster that it would tolerate no interference from the consciences of others. “Come. You agree with these men who will bring a suit against me, do you not? You know, as they know, that your King and Queen are living together in sinful incest. Come! Come! Be not afraid. We ask for the truth.”

“Since your Grace asks for the truth, may I ask for time—time that I may consider this matter?”

The King’s eyes were narrow, his mouth sullen.

“Very well, then. Very well. Take your time.”

He turned away abruptly, and several courtiers, who had been watching from a safe distance, asked themselves what Sir Thomas More had done to offend the King.

ONE OF the sights to be seen in the City, rivaled only by that of the marching watch on Midsummer’s Eve and the Eve of St. Peter, was the ceremonious procession which attended the great Cardinal on all his journeyings. Before him, about him and behind him, went his retinue of servants, extravagantly clad in black velvet with golden chains about their necks; the lower servants were conspicuous in their tawny livery. And in the center of all this pomp, preceded by the bearers of his silver crosses, his two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal’s hat, rode the Cardinal himself, in his hand an orange, the inside of which had been replaced by pieces of vinegar-soaked sponge and other substances to counteract the pestilential air; the trappings of his mule were crimson velvet and his stirrups of copper and gold.

He went with as much ceremony as if he were the King himself.

He passed over London Bridge, and the people watched him in sullen silence. They blamed Wolsey for all their ills. Who was Wolsey? they asked themselves. A low-born man who, by great good luck, lived in the state of a King. When taxes were too high—and they always were—they blamed Wolsey. And now that the King wanted to replace the Queen, they blamed Wolsey for that. The people wanted an heir to the throne, yes; but the more serious among them remembered that the Queen was the aunt of the Emperor Charles of Spain; they might not be troubled on account of the Emperor’s humiliation, which he would undoubtedly feel if his aunt were cast off, but they feared his armies. So…they blamed Wolsey.

He was on his way to France now, and in his retinue rode Sir Thomas More.

The great Cardinal was more deeply perturbed at this time than he had ever been before.

Fortune was turning against him. Had he looked too high when he had coveted the Papal Chair? Ah, if only he instead of Clement had been elected Pope, all his anxieties would be at an end. There he would have been content to rest, at the pinnacle of fame. There he would have had no need to fear any man. He had climbed to great heights, and now he was on a narrow ledge, his foothold precarious; he must retain a very careful balance if he were to continue to climb. About him snapped those angry, jealous wolves—Suffolk, Norfolk and their followers. There was only one man who could save him from those ravening beasts, and that was the most dangerous of them all—the King.

The secret court which he and Warham had called, that the King’s marriage might be proved incestuous, had failed because of the obstinacy of the Queen, who insisted that her marriage with Arthur had never been consummated; therefore there were no grounds on which legality could be denied. Wolsey’s foreign policy had resulted in his winning for England the enmity of both France and Spain; and now the Pope, on whose help he had relied in this matter of the royal divorce, had been captured during the sack of Rome and was a prisoner in the Emperor’s hands.

His mission to France was an uneasy one. He must talk with Francis; he must tell him of the King’s doubts regarding the legality of his marriage; he must try to arrange a match between the Princess Mary and the son of Francis; he must cautiously hint that he was looking for a future Queen of England in France. Perhaps the Princess Renee, sister of the Queen of France? Perhaps Francis’s own sister, the talented Marguerite de Valois?

Everything depended on the successful termination of the King’s Secret Matter; and this was a most delicate matter even for a great statesman to handle. To juggle with the politics of Europe was one thing; to secure the gratification of the King’s desires another.

Still he who had achieved so much would achieve this also. What perturbed him was the growing truculence of Norfolk, and particularly of Suffolk—for Suffolk, the King’s brother-in-law and his greatest friend, had the King’s ear; and there were times when Wolsey felt that Suffolk would not have dared to treat him so scurvily, had he not done so with the sanction of the King.

And at the root of this uneasiness was one factor; the King was no longer that careless boy who could be fed with the sugar plums of masques, jousts and fair women while the able hands of his shrewdest statesman steered the ship of state, which was England, along its perilous journey. This King had done with playing the careless boy; he had come to realize that the fascination of power politics was as great as a new feast or a new woman. He was breaking the bars of his cage; he was testing his strength; he was roaring with pride in his own glory. And he was saying: “I will have all…all…I will be King in very truth. I will have my rich entertainments, and I will stand on the bridge of my ship, and if any attempt to come between me and my desires they shall not live long to do so.”

On went the procession—all the pomp and glory—and in the midst of it rode an apprehensive man.

Thomas, riding along unnoticed in the glittering throng, was also pensive. All his sympathy was for the Queen. Poor lady, what had she done to deserve this humiliation? Had she wished for marriage with the King in the first place? He doubted it. He remembered her, serene and dignified, at the Coronation. Yet she had accepted her fate with meekness; she had tried to love the King, and she had been a faithful wife to him; the second was to be expected, for she was a virtuous woman; but her love for the King must have been sorely tried during these last years.

Now was his chance to leave his post, to tell the King the state of his mind, to say boldly: “Sire, I resign my post, for you will wish to have about Your Highness those ministers who can help you to obtain the divorce.”

It was a relief to rest at Rochester on the the journey to France, and there to stay in the company of his old friend, Bishop Fisher.

It was pleasanter still to have a private talk with Fisher after Wolsey had sounded him.

In the small paneled room, the two friends were serious together. They talked solemnly of the terrible calamity which had befallen the Pope; then their talk turned on the King’s Secret Matter.

How could the divorce be concluded without the sanction of the Pope? And how could the Pope give his consent to the King’s divorce from a lady who was a close relation of the man who held him prisoner, even if he was satisfied that he should grant a divorce?

“These are grave matters, my friend,” said Bishop Fisher.

“Grave indeed,” said Thomas, “for where they will end I do not know.”

And the next day, the Cardinal, with Sir Thomas More in his entourage, left for Canterbury, and so to France.

THE SWEATING sickness had again come to England; it roamed through the streets of the City like a hungry beast who was nourished on the filth which filled the malodorous gutters and the fetid air inside the houses. Men, women and children took the sweat; they lay down where they were, in a state of exhaustion, and died unless they could be roused from the coma into which they fell. This horrible pestilence was no respecter of persons; it struck at beggars and the highest in the land.

In the streets, the people were muttering together, telling each other that it was clear why God had sent this affliction. He was displeased. And why should He be displeased? The Secret Matter was no longer secret; they knew that the King wished to put the Queen from him; and there was no denying the rumor that the woman he wished to make his Queen was Nan Bullen—his mistress, so it was said. Who was this woman? The daughter of a knight. She was no royal Queen.

All the hatred the people felt for the upstart Wolsey they now allowed him to share with the upstart Anne Boleyn.

God was angry with England, and this was His way of showing it; there was the reason for a further visitation of this terrible pestilence.

The King was also angry. He had been deprived of the presence of his beloved mistress, who he desired to make his wife more than he desired anything on Earth. What had she said to him? “Your mistress I will not be; your wife I cannot be.” But he must be her lover even if, as she implied, the only way in which he could be was by making her his wife.

And now she had left the Court.

Wolsey had done this. What had happened to Wolsey? He had lost a little of his arrogance. He now knew that the King had not given him his confidence, and that when he, Wolsey, had been trying to negotiate a marriage with one of the princesses of France, the King had already firmly made up his mind that he would have none other than Anne Boleyn. Wolsey now knew that it was mainly Anne Boleyn who had set the King searching his conscience; but he had learned that important factor too late.

Now a sad and anxious Cardinal had advised his royal master that, since the people were angered against the Lady Anne, it would be wise at this stage to send her back to Hever.

So Henry was alone and wretched, longing for her, asking himself why it was that, surrounded as he was by the cleverest men in the world, there was not one of them who could settle this matter to his satisfaction.

There was a message from Hever.

The sweat cared nothing for the wrath and anguish of the King himself. Anne Boleyn—more precious to the King than his kingdom—had become a victim of the sweating sickness.

Now the King was in terror. He wept and stormed and he prayed. How could God put the King’s beloved in danger! Had he not been a good King…a good man…always striving to do God’s will! And was it not solely for the good of England that he would take Anne to wife?

He called for his physicians, and the only one who was at Court was his second, Dr. Butts. The King threatened this man while he beseeched him to save the Lady Anne, before he dispatched him in all haste to Hever.

Then he sat down and, weeping, wrote to her: “The most displeasing news that could occur to me came suddenly at night….” He wept as he wrote of his laments, of what it meant to him to hear that his mistress, whom he esteemed more than all the world, and whose health he desired as he did his own, should be ill. He told of how he longed to see her and that the sight of her would give him greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

And when he had written and dispatched this letter, he paced up and down his apartment, weeping and praying; and all the time longing for Anne, cursing the fate which kept them apart, promising himself how he would reward those who helped him to marry Anne, promising revenge on all those who continued to keep them apart.

In the Court the news spread: The Lady hath the sweat. This will doubtless impair her beauty, even though she should recover. Could she do so and be so charming when and if she returned to the Court?

Important events were being decided in a lady’s bedchamber at Hever Castle.

GREAT SORROW had touched the house in Chelsea.

Margaret had been to the village, taking some garments to one of the families, and she had seemed quite well when she had returned to the house. She had sat with them at the supper table and had joined in the talk. Then, as she had risen, she had tottered suddenly and had been obliged to catch at the table to support herself.

“Margaret!” cried Mercy in terrible alarm.

“What is it?” demanded Alice.

“Let us get Margaret to bed at once,” said Mercy. “She is sick, I am afraid.”

“Margaret sick!” cried Alice. “Why, she was eating a hearty meal a moment ago!”

“Yes, Mother, I know. But don’t hinder me now. Will! Jack! Father…help me.”

It was Will who carried her to her room. Now her eyes were tightly shut and the beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face; she was shivering, yet burning hot.

Thomas followed. He caught his daughter’s limp hand.

“O Lord God,” he prayed silently. “Not Margaret…. That I could not endure.”

Will was beside himself with anxiety. “What shall we do, Mercy? Mercy, in God’s name, what can we do?”

“Cover her up. Keep her warm. No; don’t attempt to undress her. I will try the philosopher’s egg. I have it ready. God be thanked.”

She lay on the bed, no longer looking like Margaret; her face was yellow and the sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Please,” begged Mercy, “everybody go. There is nothing you can do. Leave her with me. No, Will; you can do no good. Make sure that the children do not come into this room. Father…please…there is nothing…nothing you can do.”

Mercy’s thoat constricted as she looked into his face.

How will he bear it? she asked herself. He loves her best in the world. She is his darling, as he is hers. How could either endure life without the other?

“Father…dearest Father…please go away. There is nothing…nothing to be done.”

But he stood numbly outside the door as though he had not heard.

Margaret ill of the sweat! Margaret…dying!

Elizabeth and Cecily had shut themselves in their rooms. There was nothing to be done; that was the pity of it. They said to each other that if only there was something they could have done it would have been easier to bear. But to sit…waiting…in such maddening inactivity…. It was all but unendurable.

Alice took refuge in scolding anyone who came near her. “The foolish girl…to go to the cottages at such a time. She should have known. And they tell us she is so clever…! And what is Mercy doing? Is she not supposed to be a doctor? Why does she not cure our Margaret?”

Will paced up and down. He could find no words. Margaret, his beloved wife, so calm, so serene; what would he do if he lost her? What would his life be without Margaret?

Giles Heron was all for riding to the Court; he would bring Dr. Linacre himself, he declared. What did it matter if Dr. Linacre was the King’s first physician? Margaret was a member of that family, which was now his, and she was in danger. He must get the best doctors for her. He could bring Dr. Butts…and Dr. Clement. He would bring all the greatest doctors in the country.

Dauncey said: “You would find yourself in trouble, brother. You…from an afflicted house…to ride to Court!”

Dauncey was astonished that he could be so affected. What was Margaret to him? What could Margaret do to advance his fortunes? Nothing. He trembled, it was true, that her father might catch the disease and die, and that Dauncey’s biggest hope of achieving favor at Court would be lost. Yet he was moved, and faintly astonished to find himself sharing in the family’s anguish. He had grown fond of them; he had enjoyed their merry games; and, strange as it was, he knew that if any calamity came to them it could not fail to touch him. So there was a streak of sentiment in this most ambitious young man after all.

Thomas shut himself up in the private chapel.

What could he do to save Margaret? What could he do but pray? Now he thought of her—Margaret, the baby, the child, the prodigy who had astonished all with her aptitude for learning. He could think of a hundred Margarets whom he loved, but the one who meant most to him was the loving daughter, the Margaret who was his dearest friend and best companion, who was nearer to him than anyone in the world.

“O God,” he prayed, “do not take my daughter from me. Anything…anything but that.”

He did not leave the chapel. He stayed there on his knees. The hair shirt lacerated his skin, and he wished its pain were doubled.

Will came to him and they prayed together.

“Ah, son Roper,” said Thomas, “what religious differences are there between us now? We ask one thing, and that we wish for more than anything in the world. She must not die.”

“I cannot contemplate life without her, Father,” said Will.

“Nor I, my son.”

“They say that if she does not recover during the first day there is no hope.”

“The day is not yet over. How was she when you left her?”

“Unconscious. She lies there with her eyes fast shut, oblivious of the world. I spoke her name. ‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Margaret, come back to me and our children.’”

“Will, I beg of you, say no more. You unnerve me.”

He thought: I have loved her too well; I have loved her more than all the world. When she was born she gave me contentment; she was the meaning of life to me. She is the meaning of life. Have I loved her too well? Oh, how easy it is to torture the body, to wear the hair shirt, to flagellate the flesh, to deprive the body of its cravings. Those pains are easy to suffer; but how bear the loss of a loved one…how endure life when the one you love more than your own life, more than the whole world is taken from you?

“If…if aught should happen to her…” he began.

Now it was Will’s turn to implore him not to go on. Will could only shake his head while the tears ran down his cheeks.

But Thomas continued: “I would retire from the world. Nothing could keep me leading this life. Oh, my son, I could not go on. If Margaret were taken from me, I would never meddle with wordly affairs hereafter.”

“Father, I implore you…I beg of you not to speak of it. Do not think of it. She will get well. She must get well. Let us pray. Let us pray together….”

So they knelt and prayed, and if Will saw God as Martin Luther saw him, and if Thomas saw God as the Pope saw Him, they each knew that their prayers were being offered to the same God.

Thomas rose suddenly. His spirits were lifted.

He said: “Will, when Margaret was a little girl—scarcely two years old—and we were visiting her mother’s old home, New Hall in Kent, Margaret, playing in a field, was lost and could not find the gate through which she had come into the field and which opened onto the path which led to the house. She was frightened, for dusk was settling on the land. Frantically she ran about the field, and still she could not find the gate. Then suddenly she remembered that I had told her that when she was in trouble she must ask the help of her Father upon Earth or her Father in Heaven. ‘And, Father,’ she said when she told me this some time later, ‘I had lost you, so I knelt down and asked God the way home. And when I arose from my knees I was no longer frightened. I walked calmly round the field until I came to the gate.’ I had missed her, as it happened, and had gone to look for her, and as she came through the gate and ran toward me, she said: ‘Father, God showed me the way home.’ What a beautiful thought it is, Will. What a comfort. I have been on my knees now…frightened…panic-stricken, as Margaret was. I was lost and I could not find the gate which led to the home I knew…to the happiness I knew. ‘God,’ I have prayed, ‘show me the way.’”

“Father, you look changed. You seem…serene…as though you know she will get well.”

“I seem calmer, my son, do I not? I am calmer. I feel as she felt when she rose from her knees. My panic has gone. I know this, son Roper, God will show me the way, as he showed Margaret. My mind is calm; thoughts cease to chase themselves in my head. I am going to the house to see how she is. Come with me, Will.”

Mercy met them at the door of the sick room.

“No change,” she said, “I have tried to wake her. If we cannot wake her, she will die.”

“Mercy, I want you to give her a clyster.”

“Father, she is too ill.”

“She is so ill, Mercy, that she cannot be much worse…short of death. Do this, I beg of you. Administer this clyster. We must wake her, must we not? Then we will wake her.”

“Father, I am afraid. It is too violent, and she is very ill indeed.”

“Mercy, you are imprisoned in fear. Yes, my love, you are afraid because you love her even as I do. She is not your patient; she is your sister. You wrap her up; you watch over her; but you will not take a risk because you are frightened. I have prayed. I feel I have been in close communion with God and, Mercy, I am not afraid. I want you to be calm…to forget that this is our beloved Margaret. If she does not wake she will die. We must wake her, Mercy. We must. You agree that is so. Give her the clyster.”

Mercy said quietly: “I will do as you wish, Father. Leave me with her.”

Half an hour later Mercy came out of the sick room.

Her eyes were shining.

“She is roused from her sleep,” she said. “Father…Will…she asked for both of you.”

They went to her and one knelt on either side of the bed.

Margaret, weak and only just able to recognize them, let her eyes wander from one to the other.

THREE MEN were very happy after the next few days. Each had feared to lose the one he loved best in the world, and each experienced the great joy of seeing the return of the loved one to health. These men were Will Roper, Sir Thomas More and the King of England.

MARGARET WAS about the house again, although thin and pale. Her father seemed unable to let her go out of his sight.

They would wander together through the orchards and the flower gardens, and sometimes he would remind her of the pleasures they had shared during her childhood; they would laugh and sometimes weep together, over their memories.

He spoke to her, more frankly than he did to the others, of Court matters; and sometimes they would read together from Erasmus’s Testament.

Margaret’s convalescence consisted of many happy hours.

He would care for her in a hundred ways; he would get her a shawl from the house, for fear the wind might be too strong; he would not let her walk on the grass after rain lest her feet should be made damp. He rejoiced to see her gradual return to health, and often she would weep, contemplating the sorrow her illness had brought to her family, and in particular she wept for Will and her father.

The bond between Sir Thomas and his daughter was stronger than it had ever been.

One hot day, when they were sitting in the gardens, being overcome by the warmth of the day he opened the neck of his gown, and little Anne Cresacre, who was sitting near him, caught a glimpse of the strange garment he was wearing next to his skin. Anne’s big eyes were round with wonder; her lips began to twitch. Could it be a hair shirt! But only monks wore those…monks and hermits. Little Anne, who was often uncertain in this household of clever people, found that when she was at a loss, irrepressible laughter overcame her.

It was Margaret who followed her look and who rose from her seat and said: “Father, the air grows cold.” She buttoned up his gown and was angry with Anne for her youth and her stupidity, and because she had dared to giggle at a great and saintly man.

He, seeing what had happened and understanding it, smiled at Anne, who, aware of his kindness, was instantly ashamed. She rose and, murmuring that she was wanted in the kitchens, hurried away.

Thomas turned his smile on his daughter, and it grew very tender. He remembered that when Alice wished to know what happened to his shirts and why they were not given in with the ordinary linen to wash, it was Margaret who had answered her, to prevent his telling the truth; for Margaret could not bear to listen to the ridicule which she knew Alice would heap upon him. “I wash Father’s shirts, Mother, with things of my own. I have always done it, and I shall always do it.” “What nonsense!” Alice had said. “Why should you do such a thing when there are maids here to do it?” But Margaret had quietly said that it was her affair, and she said it with such determination that even Alice did not pursue the subject.

Thomas now suggested a walk by the river, and as they set forth he said: “You would protect me then from the scorn of the young and the gay?”

“The stupid child!” said Margaret. “I wanted to box her ears.”

“You are too hard on her, Meg. She is but a baby. You must not expect all to be as serious as you were at her age. Have patience with little Anne. She is a good child; and I believe she loves our Jack and that he loves her. Let us ask no more of her than that she shall love him and make him happy.”

“Oh, Father, what matters it after all? The important thing is: How go affairs at the Court?”

“Events move fast, Meg.”

“Is the King as determined as ever to cast off the Queen?”

“I fear so.”

“And if he succeeds in arranging the divorce, he will marry Anne Boleyn?”

“I believe that to be his intention. Meg, I think it will not be long before your father loses his honors and becomes a humble man again. You smile, Meg. One would think I had told you that my fortune was made.”

“So it will be if you are home with us all as you once were. If you take up your duties in the City as you once did….”

“I doubt that I could pick up the threads as easily as that, Meg.”

“Never mind. I should be happy to see you leave the Court forever.”

“We should be very poor.”

“We should be rich in happiness. You would not have to go away from England or be absent at Court. We should have you with us always.”

“What a happy day it will be when I come home and tell you I have given up my honors!”

“The happiest day we have ever known. And will it be soon?”

“As I said, events move fast. The King will let me go. He knows my views. He has not urged me to change them. He hints that he respects them. I think that must mean, Meg, that when I ask leave to retire from Court, he will readily grant it.”

“I long for that day.”

“It is a sad affair, Meg, to watch the rapid descent of those who have climbed to great heights. I think of the Cardinal.”

“How fares it with him, Father?”

“Badly. Meg, it is a sorry sight; it is a sorry thought.”

“The King has no more need of him?”

“The Cardinal has set up false idols, Margaret. He has worshipped pomp instead of honor; he has mistaken riches for the glory which comes with righteous work. Poor Wolsey! He has too many enemies; the King is his only friend…a fickle friend. The Cardinal has offended the Lady Anne. He broke the marriage she desired with Percy; he insulted a relative when he attempted to deprive Eleanor Carey of the post of Abbess of Wilton; but worst of all she knows that he has urged the King to marry one of the French Princesses. They are false steps in his slippery career. He felt so sure of his power. Who is this Anne Boleyn? he asked himself. She is another such as her sister Mary! There he finds his mistake, and the King’s mistress is his enemy. He could not have a greater, for she it is who commands the King. Moreover, Norfolk and Suffolk wait for the King to turn his back on the man he once loved; then they will rush in to attack him. He is a sad, sick man, Meg. Poor Wolsey!”

“He has been no real friend to you, Father.”

“He is no true friend to anyone or anything but his own ambition; and now, poor soul, he sees the falseness of that friend. Fame! What is fame? Men congratulate themselves if they attain to fame, empty though it is; and because they are light-minded they are lifted to the stars by the fickleness of opinion. What does fame do to a man? Though he be praised by all the world, if he has an aching joint, what does fame do for him? And Wolsey has many an aching joint, Meg…and an aching heart. His policy abroad, so successful at one time, has turned sour. He has aroused the hatred of the Emperor without gaining the love of the King of France. Our King cares only for one thing, for he is a single-minded man, and he thinks of little else day and night but ridding himself of Queen Katharine and marrying Anne Boleyn. Wolsey has one hope now—the successful outcome of the case which he and Campeggio are about to try here in London. If Wolsey can arrange the divorce, I doubt not that he will ere long win back the King’s favor. If he does not…then the King will turn his back on him; and if His Grace continues to look the other way, the wolves will descend on my lord Cardinal, and they will have no mercy, Meg. There are too many slights to be avenged, too many resentments festering.”

“And then, Father?”

“Then, Meg, that will be farewell to his glory, farewell to his pomp and his riches. We shall no longer see our Cardinal ride in state through our streets. Pray God we do not see him riding to the Tower.”

“And you?”

“Here is the way out, Meg. Depend upon it, the King has little use for me. He knows my mind. He will accept my resignation. It will save him the unpleasant task of dismissing me as, Meg, all will be dismissed who do not pander to his wishes.”

“Father, I long for the day of your resignation.”

“’Twill not be long now, Meg. I assure you of that.”

THE CARDINAL’S glory was dimmed. None knew it more than he himself. His fate was clear when Campeggio, whom all were expecting to give a verdict in favor of the divorce, with characteristic vacillation rose and adjourned the Court, suggesting that it should be recalled and continued in Rome.

Then the Duke of Suffolk, who, all knew, spoke with the authority of the King, rose in hot anger and, glaring not at Campeggio, but at Wolsey, cried: “It was never merry in England since we had Cardinals among us.” That was the signal, recognized by all; the King had thrown Wolsey to his enemies.

Events followed rapidly.

The Cardinal returned to his house in Westminster surrounded by his servants, who trembled with him, for he had been a kindly, gracious master. And there they waited for the coming of Norfolk and Suffolk.

They did not have to wait long.

They came in the name of the King and demanded that he deliver the Great Seal of England into their hands.

THE KING sent for Sir Thomas More.

Margaret went down to the barge with him.

“Depend upon it Meg: this will mean one thing. When your father returns he will be stripped of his honors. I shall receive my marching orders with the stricken Cardinal.”

“And, dearest Father, how different from Wolsey’s will be your feelings. You will rejoice. You will come home to your family, a happier man.”

And she stood at the top of the privy stairs, waving to him and smiling.

She had never felt so happy to see him depart.

THE KING received Thomas gravely.

“We have a matter of great importance to discuss with you,” he said. “You have worked in close company with Thomas Wolsey, have you not?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

The King grunted. He glared at his minister. He could not, even at this moment, resist a little acting. He wished to alarm Thomas More; and then speak what was in his mind.

There was, it seemed, only one man worthy to succeed to the office just vacated by Wolsey. The office of Chancellor was the highest in the land, and could only be given to a man capable of filling it. His Councillors had discussed this with the King. A knowledge of the intricacies of the law was a necessity, Norfolk had said. The new Chancellor must be an honest, upright man to whom the country could look with confidence and trust. The Councillors agreed that there was only one man in the country who could satisfactorily fill the office. This decision of his Councillors had set the King pondering. The Church had been reasonable over this matter of unlawful marriage with Katharine—all except one Bishop, that fool Fisher. He had hummed and ha-ed and maddened the King. But why should a King upset himself over the intransigence of a Bishop? That man should be adequately dealt with when the time came.

Henry did not forget that Sir Thomas More was not in favor of the divorce, that he had supported the Queen; yet he knew, as well as did his Councillors, that Thomas More was the man most fitted to step into Wolsey’s shoes. It must be so. Henry was sure of this; so were Norfolk, Suffolk and every member of the Council. Wolsey himself had said, when he knew he was to fall, that there was only one man capable of following him, and that that man was Sir Thomas More.

This man More had a strange effect on all men, it seemed. Even when his opinions differed from theirs, they respected him to such an extent that they must continue to love him.

The King ceased to frown. His smile was turned on Thomas.

“We have good news for you. We have always had a fondness for you. Did we not say so when you first came to us? You remember that affair of the Pope’s ship?” The King’s smile was now benign. “Now, we have a task for you. We said we would make your fortune, did we not? It is made, Thomas More. We like your goodness, your honesty, that respect the whole world has for you. We look for one on whom to bestow the Great Seal, and we say to ourselves: ‘Ah, Thomas More! He is the man for us. He shall be our Lord Chancellor.’”

“Lord Chancellor, Your Grace!”

“Now, Thomas, you are overwhelmed. I know. I know. ’Tis a mighty honor. Yet we have given this matter much thought, and we are assured that there is no man in the kingdom who deserves the honor more than you do. Your country needs you, Thomas. Your King commands you to serve your country. Your work with Wolsey, your knowledge of affairs, your love of learning, your erudition, your knowledge of the law…You see, do you not? You see that if I did not love you as I do, did I not respect you as a learned and an honorable man, I still must make you my Chancellor.”

Thomas looked with concern at the dazzling figure before him. “Your Grace,” he said, “I must speak to you frankly. I am unsuited to the task.”

“Nonsense! There is not a man in this realm whom the task becomes more. We command you to it, Thomas. We will have no other. It is your bounden duty to your King and your country to accept. We will take no refusal.”

“My lord, Your Highness, your most gracious Majesty, I must speak as my conscience commands me. I cannot give my support to the divorce.”

The King’s eyes seemed to disappear in his fleshy face. He flushed and drew back. He was silent for a few moments, as though he were considering which of his roles to play. He might roar: “Send this traitor to the Tower.” On the other hand, he might continue to play the part of benign monarch who respects an honest man.

He needed this man. He was the only man in the realm fitted for the task. All agreed on that. The learning and integrity of Sir Thomas More, the respect he had inspired on the continent of Europe, were necessary to England.

The King decided.

“Thomas,” he said, “you have your conscience, and I have mine. By God’s Body, I have been worried enough in my thoughts by my most sinful and incestuous marriage. I know the pain of a nagging conscience. And on this matter, Thomas More, you and I are not of one mind. I regret it. Thomas, I regret it mightily. But as a man of conscience, I respect a man of conscience…mistaken though I know him to be. For, Thomas, you are a learned man. I doubt it not. You are a good man, and we are proud to have you as a subject. You have been favored by God. I know of that family at Chelsea, and one day, Thomas, I am going to visit Chelsea. I am going to see it for myself. I am going to give the kiss of friendship to those merry daughters of yours, to that jolly wife. Yea, that I will. You have been favored in your family….” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “You do not understand how lonely a man can be—even though he be a King—who lacks that which God has given you with lavish hands. Thomas More, there are a few matters which you do not understand as worldly men understand them. And this is one of them. But I am a man of wide views. I understand you…even though you understand me not. And, Thomas, I will have you for my Chancellor and no other. And this matter which plagues me day and night shall put no barriers between us two. Dismiss it, Thomas. It is no affair of yours. Come, Chancellor More. Take the Great Seal of England, and your King will put the seal of friendship on your brow.”

Henry leaned forward and kissed Thomas’s forehead.

It was not for the Lord Chancellor to meddle in this matter of the divorce, thought the King. That was the task of the clergy. He had two new friends in mind from whom he hoped much: Thomas Cranmer and Thomas Cromwell.

It would seem that I have fancy for these Thomases, thought Henry; and he smiled pleasantly as he looked into the face of his new Lord Chancellor.

6

MARGARET WOULD NEVER FORGET RUSHING TO GREET him when he returned in his barge. She would never forget the jaunty smile on his face; but while he might deceive others, he could never deceive her.

“Father?”

“Well, Meg, see you not the change? The Under-Treasurer left you earlier this day. The Chancellor is now arrived.”

“Chancellor, Father…you!”

“A worthy Chancellor, though a humble one, as says my lord of Norfolk.”

“But…the King’s divorce?”

“I have told him that I can have no hand in it; and it seems he accepts my refusal to do so, as Norfolk accepts my humble birth. And, Meg, with so many ready to accept so much that is unpalatable to them, I was perforce obliged to accept that which I would fain refuse.”

“It is not a good thing, Father. It is not a matter for jokes.”

“It is not good, Meg, and therefore is it meet that we should joke, for by doing so we can make light of what we cannot refuse to undertake.”

“Could you not have refused?”

“I tried, Meg.”

“But…surely you have a free choice?”

“I am the King’s subject and as such must obey the King’s command. Come, let us to the house. I’ll warrant you’ll smile to see the family’s reception of this news.”

Slowly they walked toward the house, and Margaret’s heart was full of misgiving.

LORD CHANCELLOR!

The family received the news with wonder.

Alice was mockingly proud. “So, Master More, you have made a great man of yourself in spite of all.”

“Rather say, wife, that they have made a great man of me in spite of myself.”

Alice looked at him with beaming pride. “To think that a husband of mine should be the Lord Chancellor!”

“Why, Alice, you have grown two inches taller, I’ll swear.”

Alice was in no mood for raillery. “This means we shall need more servants. Why, who knows whom we shall have visiting us now. Mayhap the King himself!” Alice grew a shade paler at the thought. “Now, Thomas, should His Grace honor us, I shall need to know a day or more ahead.”

“Shall my first duties as Chancellor be to warn the King that if he should visit Lady More he must give her good warning?”

“Have done with your nonsense! ’Twould not be unknown, I trow, for the King to visit his Chancellor. Why, he was so much in and out of the houses of the last Chancellor that people did not know whether they were at the King’s or the Cardinal’s Court.”

“And now the Cardinal’s Courts are the King’s Courts. Has it occurred to you that all the last Chancellor’s possessions are now the property of the King? Do you not tremble for your own, Alice? For remember, they are the property of the new Lord Chancellor, and why should the new one fare better than the old?”

“Have done with such foolish talk.”

“Well, Alice, here is something you will like better. There is to be a visitor this night for supper.”

“A visitor. Who is this?”

“His Grace of Norfolk.”

“Tilly valley! And it already three of the clock! Tilly valley! What shall I do? I should have been given notice.”

“But, Alice, since you need twenty-four hours’ warning of a King’s visit, is not three hours enough for a Duke? Commoners call five minutes before a meal, and may have a seat at our table.”

“My Lord Norfolk!” cried Alice, growing red and white at the thought.

“His Grace will honor us, Alice. He made a delightful speech when I took the Seal. He stressed my virtues which, he said, were so great that they made him indifferent to my humble birth.”

Alice bristled, but she was still thinking: His Grace of Norfolk! The first nobleman in the land…and here to supper. Next it will be His Grace the King. I know it.

“And, Alice, my dear, do not fret,” said Thomas, “for such a second-rate compliment is only worthy of a second-rate supper. Let us be natural with this noble Duke. Let us treat him as we would a passerby who looks in to join us at supper. After all, he will expect no more of us—because we are such humble folk.”

But Alice was not listening. She must to the kitchen at once. She must see that the beef received the necessary basting. Had she known they were to be so honored she would have got one of the new turkeys. She was going to make her new sauce, adding the chopped roots of the wild succory and water arrowhead. She would set her cook making further pies. And her latest pickle should be set upon the table. She would show my lord of Norfolk!

“Now, Master More, do not hinder me. If you will ask great noblemen to supper, then you must give me time to attend to them.”

And she was off, bustling down to the kitchens, sniffing the savory smells; excited and a little fearful.

“Come, come, you wenches. There’s work to be done. My Lord Chancellor has a guest for supper tonight. I’ll doubt any of you have ever served a noble Duke before, eh, eh?”

“No, my lady.”

“Well, then, now you will learn to do so, for it would not surprise me if we shall one day have at our table a guest who is far greater than His Grace of Norfolk. Do you know whom I mean? Do you, wench?”

Alice gave one of the girls a slap with a wooden ladle. It was more an affectionate pat than a blow.

Alice allowed herself one minute to dream that at her table sat a great, glittering man who shouted to her that he had never tasted a better meal than that eaten at the table of his Lord Chancellor.

“Tilly valley!” she cried. “This is not the way to prepare supper for His Grace of Norfolk!”

THE OLD Judge stood before his son; his hands were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.

“Thomas, my son…my dearest son…. Thomas, Lord Chancellor of England. So you have the Great Seal, my son. You…my son, Thomas.”

Thomas embraced his father. “Your son first, Father; Chancellor second.”

“And to think that I scolded you for not working at the law!”

“Ah, Father, there are many routes to fame.”

“And you found a quick one, my son.”

“I took a byway. I confess I am a little startled still to find where it has led me.”

“Oh, Thomas, would that your mother could have lived to see this day. And my father…and my grandfather. They would have been proud…proud indeed. Why, your grandfather was only a butler of the inn; he was, it was true, at the head of the servants and kept the accounts. Would that he could have lived to this day to see his grandson Lord Chancellor of England. Oh, Thomas, my son! Oh, proud and happy day!”

Later Thomas said to Margaret: “You see, daughter, how there is much good in all things. I am glad to have pleased your grandfather, for he is feeble, and I fear he may not be long for this life. I believe his delight in me is almost as great at this moment as mine has always been in you. And, Margaret, it is a happy child who make a fond father a proud one, think you not?”

“If I were less fond,” she said, “I think I should find greater enjoyment in my pride.”

He kissed her. “Do not ask too much of life, my wise daughter; ask for little, and then, if it comes, you will be happy.”

IT SEEMED to Margaret that the one who was least changed by his elevation was her father.

He was delighted with his importance only when he could use it to do good for others. He had shown to the King the drawings Hans Holbein had made of his family, and the King had been impressed with them; so Master Holbein had, regretfully, left the house at Chelsea to take up his quarters at Court as painter to the King at a salary of thirty pounds a year.

“It is a large sum,” said Hans, “and I am a poor man. I shall mayhap find fame in Hampton Court and Westminster, but will it give me as much joy as the happiness I have enjoyed in Chelsea?”

“With a brush such as yours, my friend,” said Thomas, “you have no choice. Go. Serve the King, and I doubt not that your future is secure.”

“I would as lief stay. I wish to do more pictures of your family…and your servants.”

“Go and make pictures of the King and his servants. Go, Hans; make the best of two worlds. Take up your quarters at the Court, and come to Chelsea for a humble meal with us when you feel the need for it.”

Then Hans Holbein embraced his friend and benefactor, and said with tears in his eyes: “To think that I should wish to refuse an offer such as this. You have put a magic in your house, dear friend; and I am caught in its spell.”

Yes, those were the things which Thomas greatly enjoyed doing. At such times it was worthwhile holding a great office.

But he was uneasy—far more uneasy than he would have his family realize.

The King was spending more and more time with Cromwell and Cranmer; they were the two to whom he looked for help in this matter of the divorce, and no other matter seemed of any great importance to him. The Cardinal had slipped down to disgrace and death, and the descent had been more rapid than his spectacular climb to grace and favor. He had first been indicted upon the Statute of Praemunire; but Thomas Cromwell had cleared him of the charge of high treason, so that Wolsey had been ordered to retire to York; but before he had long rested there he was charged once more with high treason and had died of a broken heart at Leicester on his way to London.

Thomas Wolsey had come to the Chancellorship with everything in his favor; Thomas More had come to it with everything against him. Wolsey had not realized his peril until within a year or so of his decline and death; More was aware of his from the moment he received the Great Seal.

WILLIAM DAUNCEY came to his father-in-law on one of those rare occasions when Thomas found time to be with his family.

There was a determined light in Dauncey’s eyes.

“Well, son Dauncey, you would have speech with me?”

“I have thought much of late, Father,” said Dauncey, “that things have changed since you became the Chancellor of this realm in place of the Cardinal.”

“In what way?”

“When my lord Cardinal was Chancellor, those about him grew rich, for he shut himself away and it was a matter of some cost for any to put their desires before him. Yet, since you have become Chancellor, any man may come to you. He may state his case and receive judgement.”

“Well, my son, is that not a good thing? Why, when my lord Cardinal held the Great Seal there were many cases which must go unheard because there was no time to put them before him. ’Tis easier for me. My interests are not so many, and I am a lawyer to boot. Do you know that when I took office there were cases which men were waiting to present for ten or twelve years! And now, my son—I grow boastful, but this matter gives me great pleasure, so forgive my pride—I called yesternoon for the next case, and I was told that there were no more cases to be heard. So proud was I that I invented a little rhyme as I sat there. This is it:

“When More some time had Chancellor been,

No more suits did remain.

The like will never more be seen

Till More be there again.”

“Yes, Father,” said Dauncey impatiently, after he had given his polite laugh. “That is good for those who would wish their cases to be heard; but it is not so good for the friends of the Chancellor.”

“How so, my son?”

“When Thomas Wolsey was Chancellor, not only the members of his privy chamber but even the keepers of his doors took great gain to themselves.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. “Now I understand. You feel that a daughter of this Chancellor should be at least as profitable as a door in the house of the last.”

“Profit?” said Dauncey. “But there is no profit. How could I take gifts from those whom I brought to your presence when in bringing them to you I could do no more for them than they could do for themselves?”

“You think I am at fault in making myself accessible to all who desire to see me?”

“It may be a commendable thing,” said Dauncey stubbornly, “but it is not a profitable thing for a son-in-law. How could I take reward from a man for something he could get without my help?”

“I admire your scrupulous conscience, my son.” He smiled at Dauncey. Dauncey yearned for advancement. He was not a bad boy; he but obeyed his father, Sir John Dauncey, in his determination to rise. Now Dauncey looked downcast; he did not always understand his father-in-law. Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder. “If, my son, you have some matter which you wish to place before me, if you have a friend whom you wish to help, well then, you could always put this matter before me. I might hear the cause of a friend of yours before that of another if it could be done. But remember this, son Dauncey—and I assure you this on my faith—that if my father himself stood on one side of me and the Devil on the other, and in this instance the Devil’s case was the right one, then must I decide in favor of the Devil. Come, walk with me in the gardens. You too, son Roper. I like to have you with me.”

And he put his arm through Dauncey’s, for Dauncey was looking ashamed; and he spoke to him with the utmost kindliness.

It was not Dauncey’s fault that he had been brought up on ambition. Moreover, he had softened somewhat since he had come to Chelsea.

ALICE WAS in a flurry of excitement, making preparations for the wedding of Jack to Anne Cresacre. This was to be the peak of her achievements so far; there had been other marriages in the family; ah, yes, but those had been the marriages of Thomas More, later Sir Thomas; now the son of the Lord Chancellor was to be married.

Alice was a little disappointed that the King would not be among the guests. She listened to the talk when they did not always think she listened; she heard some of the remarks which had passed between Margaret and her father, and also some of the hints of the Duke of Norfolk—who called at the house quite frequently, to Alice’s delight—and she gathered that Thomas, as was to be expected, was not making the most of his opportunities. He was deliberately opposing the King, and all because the King wanted a divorce and Thomas did not think he should have it.

“What the good year!” said Alice to herself. “This man of mine is a most foolhardy person. He is so careless of his position that he treats it with indifference; and yet, as regards this matter of the King’s he is most firm and resolute. ’Tis nothing but stubborn folly, and I am glad that my lord of Norfolk agrees with me.”

Well, the King would not be at the wedding; nevertheless, it was to be a grand affair. She had bought the young couple one of the new portable clocks which were such a novelty, as they were unknown in England this time last year. It was pleasant to be in a position to buy such things.

Such a feast she would prepare! All should marvel at the good table she kept in Chelsea. She had planned this feast again and again, altering an item here and there, until Margaret cried out in dismay that if she were not careful she would find her feast falling short of perfection because she would forget what she had decided for and what against.

She puffed about the kitchen, taking a look at the boar which was being soaked in vinegar and juniper; she went out to the sties to study the fatness of the pigs which would be killed; she went to the cellars to see how the mead and metheglin were maturing. She inspected her pickles, which must be the best she had ever produced.

Hourly she admonished her servants. “Do not forget. This is no marriage of a mean person. This is the marriage of the son of the Lord Chancellor of England.”

“Yes, my lady. Yes, my lady.”

My lady! she thought blissfully. My lady!

Ah, this was the good and pleasant life. Her only fear was that Thomas would do something to spoil it, for indeed Thomas seemed to have no understanding of the great dignity which should be his. It was all very well for him to poke fun at her, to laugh at her dignity. She must have her dignity. She did not forget she was the wife of the Lord Chancellor, if he was so foolish as to forget the dignity he owed to his office.

She would have ceremony in her household. He was wrong to welcome into the house every humble traveler who, hearing there was a chance of a good meal at the table of Sir Thomas More, arrived at mealtimes. He was wrong always to wear the same somber dress. Not a jewel on his person! And when it was remembered how glorious had been the Cardinal, and how the crowds had gathered in the streets of London to see him pass…well, puffed Alice, it is enough to make a woman wonder what manner of man she has married. He had no sense of his power, of his dignity.

Recently Giles Heron had occasion to bring a case to the courts against a certain Nicholas Millisante. But would Master More favor his own son-in-law? Indeed, he would not. Master Giles had gone confidently to court. Naturally, the somewhat easygoing Giles had expected his father-in-law to decide in his favor and…Thomas had decided against him!

“A fine thing!” Alice had chided. “So the affairs of your family mean nothing to you? People will say that the Lord Chancellor has no power, since he is afraid to give a verdict in favor of his own son-in-law.”

“What matters that, Alice, if they know that the laws of England are just?”

“Tut, tut,” said Alice to herself. “Tut, tut” was my lord of Norfolk’s favorite expression, and Alice was ready to ape the manners of the great, even if Thomas was not.

Thomas scorned all pomp and show. A week ago, when Norfolk had called unexpectedly on matters of business, Thomas had actually been singing in the choir of Chelsea Church. There he had been, wearing a surplice like an ordinary man; and Alice was not surprised that the sight of him, so undignified, had shocked the Duke.

“God’s Body! God’s Body!” Norfolk had cried. “My Lord Chancellor playing parish clerk! Tut-tut, you dishonor the King and his office, Master More.”

Had Thomas been contrite? Not in the least. He had merely smiled that slow maddening smile of his and answered: “Nay, your Grace, I cannot think that the King would deem the service of God a dishonor to his office.”

And there had been His Grace of Norfolk lost for words, while Thomas smiled and was so sure of himself. Yet the Duke had not been angered by that sharp answer; he had seemed most friendly with Thomas, both during the meal and afterward in the gardens.

But Alice herself would remember the dignity due to his office, if others did not. And she would have her servants remember also. In Chelsea Church each morning after prayers she had insisted that one of his gentlemen should come to her pew and tell her of the departure of her husband, although she knew the moment when he must leave the church. This gentleman of her husband’s must bow before Alice and say: “Madame, my lord is gone.”

Then she would bow her head and solemnly thank him. It was a ritual which made the others smile. But let them smile, said Alice. Someone must remember the dignity of the house.

Now one of her serving maids came to her to tell her that there was a poor woman at the door who would have speech with her.

“There are always poor women at the door!” she cried. “They come here begging from this house, because they know the master’s orders that none should be turned away without a hearing. It seems to me that beggars are given more honors here than are noble dukes.”

But this poor woman had not come to beg, she assured Lady More. She had a pretty dog, and as she had heard of Lady More’s fondness for these animals she had brought it along in the hope of selling it to her ladyship.

Alice was immediately attracted by the engaging little creature. She gave the woman a coin and welcomed yet another pet into the house.

IT WAS only a week or so after the wedding when the absurd controversy about the dog arose.

Alice was annoyed. A beggar woman, roaming near the house, saw the dog being carried by one of the servants and immediately declared that it had been stolen from her.

The servant retorted that this was nonsense. My lady had bought the dog. If the old beggar woman did not go away at once she would be tied to a tree and whipped.

Alice was indignant. To dare to say I stole the dog! I! Does she not know who I am? The wife of none other than the Lord Chancellor!

But the beggar woman would not go away. She loitered on the river bank, and one day when she saw the Lord Chancellor himself alight from his barge she accosted him.

“My lord! Justice!” she cried. “Justice for a poor woman who is the victim of a thief.”

Thomas paused.

“Mistress,” he said with that grave courtesy which altered not whether he addressed a duchess or a beggar, “what theft is this you wish to report?”

“The theft of a little dog, your honor. I wish to regain what I have lost.”

“If you are speaking the truth, and the animal has been stolen from you, then must it be restored to you. Who now has possession of your property?”

“Lady More, your honor.”

“And is that so? Well then, come to my hall tomorrow morning when I try the cases, and we shall hear yours against Lady More.”

He went smiling to the house and there spoke to Alice.

“Alice, you are summoned to the courts tomorrow morning.”

“What foolish joke is this?”

“No joke. ’Tis true. You are accused of theft, wife and must needs come to answer the charge.”

“I…accused of theft!”

“Of a dog.”

“So it is that beggar!”

“She says you have her dog.”

“And I say I have my dog.”

“In a court of law, Alice, it is not enough to say an article is yours if another claims it. It must be proved.”

“You cannot mean that you would ask me to go to the courts, on a matter like this!”

“I do, Alice.”

She laughed in his face; but he meant it, she realized to her astonishment. She thought it was a most unseemly thing that the Lord Chancellor should summon his own wife to appear before him, and on the word of a beggar too! They would be the laughingstock of all, she doubted not.

She dressed herself with great care and set out with the dog as Thomas had bidden her. She would show dignity if he did not. She would show the world that if Thomas was unfit for the office of Chancellor, she was not unfit for the position of Chancellor’s wife.

And in the hall, there was my Lord Chancellor with his officers about him.

“The next case we must try this day,” he said, “concerns the possession of a small animal. Let us have a fair hearing of this matter. This lady declares the dog was stolen from her and therefore belongs to her; this lady declares she bought him and therefore he belongs to her. Now let us place the little dog on the table here. Lady More, stand you back at that end of the hall; and, mistress, you stand at the other. You will both call the dog, and we will see whom he considers to be mistress; for, I verily believe this is a matter which the dog must decide.”

Imperiously Alice called the dog to her, and lovingly the beggar woman called him; and he, the little rogue, did not hesitate; he did what he had been wanting to do ever since he had seen her; he ran, barking excitedly, to the beggar woman.

“There can be no doubt,” said Thomas, “that the dog has once been the property of this lady, and her story that he was stolen from her is doubtless a true one.”

The beggar woman held the dog tightly against her, and Alice, seeing this, knew herself defeated. She knew too that Thomas had been right in this matter, although she deplored his undignified manners.

The beggar woman said to her: “Lady, he has fattened since he was in your care. You can offer him a better home than I can. Take him…care for him as you have done. I see it would be for the best that he should be yours.”

Alice was touched, as she always was by animals and those who loved them.

She saw that the old woman really loved her dog and that it was no small sacrifice to give him up.

Alice hesitated. She said: “The judgement of this court went against me. The dog is yours. But if you would like to sell him, I am ready to buy him of you.”

And so the matter was settled amicably and to the satisfaction of all; but Alice could not help pondering on the strange ways of her husband.

THE GREAT day came, as Alice had known it would.

The King was to dine at Chelsea.

All that activity which she had set in train for the entertainment of a noble duke was intensified.

Alice could scarcely sleep at night; and when she did she dreamed of serving at her table beef that was almost burned to a cinder. She dreamed of seeing black piecrust on her table. She called out in the agony of her nightmare.

She could not stop talking of the great event. “Do you wenches realize that it is tomorrow that the King comes! Hurry, hurry, I say. We shall never be done in time.” Then she would smile and think of His Grace sitting at her table, smiling at her. “His Grace the King, so I have heard, likes to see the blood flow rich and red from his beef. We must make sure that there is not one turn too many of the spit. I hear he has a fancy for his pastry to be well baked…”

Never had the servants lived through such days. Preparations were started four days ahead, and Alice could speak of nothing else during that time. All the girls were pressed into service. Ailie must come and stay, and tell all she knew of Court manners and Court etiquette. “For,” said Alice, “your father is a dullard in such things. It is beyond my understanding why they have called him a wise man.”

So again and again Ailie told of the King’s habits and how food was laid at a Court banquet; and Alice wept because she had not gold platters to set before the King.

And at length the great day came.

She was at her window when the royal barge sailed along the river.

“The King!” she murmured, touching her coif nervously to make sure that it was exactly as it should be. “The King is coming to dine at my table!”

She saw him alight. Who could mistake him, surrounded though he was by dazzling courtiers?

The jewels on his clothes caught the rays of the sun. What royalty! What magnificence!

Alice marshaled the family together. They stood, as Ailie had said they should, in the hall, waiting to receive him. Thomas watched them all, and he was smiling as though he found this convention somewhat amusing. Amusing! Alice was beside herself with anxiety. Would the beef be done to a turn? How were they faring in the kitchen? She should be there…yet she must be here.

And now she heard the great booming voice. “Why, this is a pleasant place you have here at Chelsea, Master More. We have heard much of it. Norfolk has sung its praises when he has sung yours.”

And now the King was stepping into the hall.

Alice went forward and sank to her knees. All the rich color had left her face; she was trembling.

“Why, Lady More,” said the King. “Rise…rise…good lady. We have heard much of your excellence. We have come to see for ourselves what it is that calls our Chancellor so frequently from our Court.”

Alice had risen uncertainly. “Your Grace,” she stammered. “Your…most…gracious…Grace…”

The King laughed; he liked her. He liked reverence. It was good to see how his subjects stood in awe of him. He placed his great hands on her shoulders and kissed her heartily.

“There…there…We are as glad to come as you are to have us. Now we would see this family of yours.”

One by one they came forward. The King’s eyes smoldered as they rested on Jack. A fine healthy boy! He felt angry when he saw the fine healthy boys of other men. Now the girls. He softened. He was fond of young girls. Lady Allington was a fair creature, but all women other than Anne were insignificant to him now; when he compared them with the incomparable they could interest him but little. He gave Lady Allington a kiss for her beauty; and he kissed the others too. Thomas’s girls were hardly beauties…but pleasant creatures.

Afterward he sat at the table with the family about him; his courtiers who had accompanied him ranged among the family.

It was an appetizing meal. The food was simple, but well cooked; he complimented the lady of the house and it did him good to see the pleasure he gave her in so doing.

The conversation was interesting—he could rely on More to make it so; and naturally that matter which was becoming more and more a cause of disagreement between them was not mentioned in such company.

More was at his best at his own table—gay and witty, anxious to show the cleverness of his children, particularly the eldest girl. The King liked wit and laughter, and, in spite of the man’s folly at times, he liked Thomas More.

It pleased Henry to see himself as the mighty King, accustomed to dining in banqueting halls, the guest of kings and princes, yet not above enjoying a simple meal at the humble table of a good subject.

After the meal he asked Thomas to show him the gardens. Taking it that this meant he wished to talk with his Chancellor alone, the courtiers stayed in the house discoursing with the family.

Alice was beside herself with pride.

This was the happiest day of her life. She would talk of it until the end of her days.

Now she must slip away from the company—she could safely leave the entertaining of her guests to her daughters for a short while—and go to the top of the house, whence she could command a view of the gardens; and there, walking together, were the King and his Chancellor. Alice could have wept for joy. About the Chancellor’s neck, in a most affectionate manner, was the arm of the King.

The wonderful visit was nearing its end. With what pride did Alice walk down to the royal barge, receive his words of congratulation and make her deep respectful curtsy!

“I shall remember Your Majesty’s commendation of my table to my dying day,” she said.

The King was not to be outdone. “Ah, Lady More, I shall remember my visit to your house to the end of my life.”

Alice was nearly swooning with delight; and, oddly enough, the others were almost as delighted. They stood in respectful attention while the royal barge slipped along the river.

Alice cried: “To think I should live to see this day! If I were to die now…I should die happy.”

“I rejoice in your contentment, Alice,” Thomas told her.

She turned to her family. “Did you see them…in the gardens together? The King had his arm…his arm…about your father’s neck.”

“Then he loves Father well,” said Will. “For I believe that to be a mark of his highest favor. I have never heard of his doing that with any other than my lord Cardinal.”

Thomas smiled at their excitement; but suddenly his face was grave.

He said slowly: “I thank our Lord, son Roper, that I find the King my very good lord indeed; and you are right when you say that he favors me as much as any subject in this realm. But I must tell you this: I have little cause to be proud of this, for if my head would bring him a castle in France, it should not fail to go. That, my dear ones, is a sobering thought.”

And the family was immediately sobered—except Alice, who would not allow her happiest day to be spoilt by such foolish talk.

DEATH TOUCHED the house in Chelsea during the early months of the year 1532.

The winter had been a hard one, and Judge More had suffered through this. He had caught cold, and all Mercy’s ministrations could not save him. He grew weaker; and one day he did not know those about his bedside.

He passed peacefully away in the early morning.

There was much sorrow, for it seemed that no one could be spared from this home.

Thomas declared that he was sorry he had given the house in Bucklersbury to his son and daughter Clement, for it meant that he saw much less of them than if they had continued to live in Chelsea. There had been regrets when Hans Holbein had left the house and Mr Gunnel had taken Holy Orders. It was a large household, as Thomas said, but none could be spared from it.

They mourned the old man for many weeks, and one day, in April of that year, when Margaret and her father were walking together in the gardens, he said to her: “Meg, we should have done with grieving, for I believe that your grandfather was a happy man when he died; yet had he lived a few months longer he might have been less happy.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“Like Mother, he took great pride in my position; and it is a position which I may not always hold.”

“You mean that you are shortly to be dismissed?”

“No, Meg. I do not think that. But I think that I might resign. Oh, Meg, I am happier about this matter than I have been since that day, nearly three years ago, when I was given the Great Seal. Then I saw no way in which I could refuse; now I believe I can resign.”

“The King would let you go?”

“Events have been moving, Meg, though sluggishly, it may seem, to those outside the Court. It is now four years since the King made his wishes for a divorce known to us, and still there is no divorce. That is a long time for a King to wait for what he wants. He grows impatient, and so does the Lady Anne. When I was given the Great Seal, you will remember, the Cardinal, who had managed the affairs of this country for so long, was falling out of favor and there seemed no one else capable of taking his place. So was I pressed into taking office. But now matters have changed. The King has at his elbow two clever men, from whom he hopes much. He loves them dearly because they work for him…solely. They have no mind but the King’s mind, no conscience but the King’s conscience, no other will than his. They have two brilliant suggestions which they have put before the King, and the King likes those suggestions so much that I believe he will follow both of them. Cromwell suggests that the King should break with Rome and declare himself Supreme Head of the Church of England; in which case he would have no difficulty in gaining the divorce he wants. That is Master Cromwell’s suggestion. Cranmer’s is equally ingenious. He declares that, since the marriage of the King and Queen was no true marriage, there is no need for divorce. The marriage could be declared null and void by the courts of England. You see, Margaret, these two men have, as the King says, ‘the right sow by the ear.’ I, His Grace would tell you, have the wrong sow’s ear in my grasp.”

“Father, as Chancellor, you would have to agree with these two men?”

“Yes; that is why I believe nothing will be put in the way of my resigning from the Chancellorship. There is a very able man, a great friend of the King’s, and one who he knows would willingly work for him. That is Lord Audley. I doubt not that the King would be willing enough that I should hand the Great Seal over to him.”

“Father, that means that you would be home with us…you would go back to the law…and we should be as we were in Bucklersbury.”

“Nay, Meg. I should still be a member of the Council, and a lawyer cannot leave his practice for years and take up the thread where he dropped it. Moreover, I am not as young as I was in those days.”

“Father, I know. I have watched you with great anxiety. We will nurse you, Mercy and I. Oh, I beg of you, give up the Great Seal. Come home to us as soon as you can.”

“You must no longer be anxious for me, dearest Meg, for this poor health of mine gives me the reason I shall need, and which the King will like, for giving up the Chancellorship.”

“I long for that day.”

“And poverty, Meg? Do you long for that? We shall be poor, you know.”

“I would welcome it. But it will surely not be our lot. Will is well placed in his profession.”

“This is a big house and we are a large household. Meg, in spite of our big family and the positions they have secured for themselves, we shall be poor.”

“We shall have you home, Father, and out of harm…safe. That is all I ask.”

“So, Meg, I will continue my little homily. Do not grieve because my health is not as good as it was, since because of it I shall come home to you. And do not grieve for your grandfather; he died the father of the Lord Chancellor; and had he lived he might have died the father of a much humbler man.”

She took his hand and kissed it.

“I shall remember life’s compensations, Father. Never fear. And how deeply shall I rejoice when you leave the Court, for that has been my dearest wish for many a long day.”

“Dear Meg, I may not be blessed with good health and the King’s favor—but I’d throw all that away for the blessing of owning the dearest daughter in the world.”

MARGARET WAS waiting. She knew that it must happen soon. The King had now declared himself to be Supreme Head of the Church. Her father was detained at Court, and she heard that Bishop Fisher had become ill with anxiety.

They were at church one morning—a lovely May morning when the birds sang with excitement and the scent of hawthorn blossom filled the air.

Morning prayers were over, and suddenly Margaret saw her father. He was standing by the door of that pew in which the ladies of the family sat. Margaret took one look at him and knew.

He was smiling at Alice, who had risen to her feet and, in some consternation, was wondering what he was doing there at that hour. He bowed low to her as his gentleman was wont to do, and he said: “Madam, my lord is gone.”

Alice did not understand.

“What joke is this now?” she demanded.

He did not answer then, and they walked out of the church into the scented air of spring.

Margaret was beside him; she slipped her arm through his.

“What nonsense is this?” demanded Alice as soon as they had stepped out of the porch. “What do you mean by ‘My lord is gone’?”

“Just that, Alice. My Lord Chancellor is gone; and all that is left to you is Sir Thomas More.”

“But…I do not understand.”

“’Tis a simple matter. I have resigned the Great Seal and am no longer Chancellor.”

“You have…what?”

“There was naught else I could do. The King needs a Chancellor who will serve him better than I can.”

“You mean that you have resigned? You really mean that you have given up…your office?”

Alice could say no more. She could not bear this sunny May morning. All her glory had vanished.

Her lord had gone in very truth.

7

THEY GATHERED ABOUT HIM THAT NIGHT—ALL THOSE whom he called his dear children. Mercy and John Clement came from Bucklersbury, for the news had reached them. Ailie had heard, and she also came to the house in Chelsea that she might be with him at the time of his resignation. “My children,” he said when they were all gathered together, “there is a matter which I must bring to your notice. We have built for ourselves a fine house here in Chelsea; we have many servants to wait upon us; we have never been rich, as are some noble dukes of our acquaintance….” He smiled at Alice. “But…we have lived comfortably. Now I have lost my office and all that went with it; and you know that, even in office, I was never so rich as my predecessor.”

He smiled now at Dauncey—Dauncey who had hinted that he did not take all the advantages that might have been his. But Dauncey was looking downcast; his father-in-law was no longer Chancellor, and Dauncey’s hopes of advancement had not carried him very far. He had a seat in Parliament, representing, with Giles Heron, Thetford in Norfolk; Giles Allington sat for the County of Cambridge, and William Roper for Bramber in Sussex. This they had achieved through their relationship with the Chancellor; but all that seemed very little when compared with the favors which had been showered on Wolsey’s relations. Moreover, wondered Dauncey, did these people realize that a man could not merely step from high favor to obscurity, that very likely he would pass from favor into disfavor?

Dauncey and Alice were the most disappointed members of the household; yet, like Alices, Dauncey’s disappointment was overshadowed by fear.

Thomas went on: “My dear ones, we are no longer rich. Indeed, we are very poor.”

Margaret said quickly: “Well, Father, we shall have the comfort of your presence, which will mean more to us than those other comforts to which you refer.”

Ailie said: “Father, Giles and I will look after you.”

“Bless you, my dear daughter. But could you ask your husband to take my big household under his wing? Nay, there will be change here.”

“We have always heard that you are such a clever man,” Alice pointed out. “Are you not a lawyer, and have not lawyers that which is called a practice?”

“Yes, Alice, they have. But a lawyer who has abandoned his practice for eleven years cannot take it up where he left it. And if he is eleven years older and no longer a promising young man, but an old one who has found it necessary to resign his office, he is not so liable to find clients.”

“What nonsense!” said Alice. “You have a great reputation, so I have always heard. You…Sir Thomas More…but yesterday Lord Chancellor!”

“Have no fear, Alice. I doubt not that we shall come through these troubles. I have been brought up at Oxford, at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln’s Inn, also in the King’s Court; and so from the lowest degree I came to the highest; yet have I in yearly revenues at this present time little above one hundred pounds. So we must hereafter, if we wish to live together, be contented to become contributaries together. But, by my counsel, it shall not be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with Lincoln’s Inn diet, which we can maintain during the first year. We will the next year go one step down to New Inn fare, wherewith many an honest man is contented. If that exceed our ability too, then we will the next year after descend to Oxford fare; and if we cannot maintain that, we may yet with bags and wallets go abegging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity.”

“Enough of your jokes!” cried Alice. “You have thrown away your high post, and we are not as rich as we were. That is what you mean, is it not, Master More?”

“Yes, Alice. That is what I mean.”

“Then more’s the pity of it. No; don’t go making one of your foolish jokes about More’s pity…or such kind. I have no pity for you. You’re a fool, Master More, and it was by great good luck, and nothing more than that, that you took the King’s fancy.”

“Or great mischance, Alice.”

“Great good luck,” she repeated firmly. “And His Grace is a kindly man. Did I not see him with mine own eyes? It may be that he will not accept your resignation. I am sure he likes you. Did he not walk in the garden with his arm about your neck? Ah…he will be here to sup with us again, I doubt not.”

They let her dream. What harm was there in dreaming? But the others knew that the King had no further use for him; and those who knew the King’s methods best prayed that the King might feel nothing but indifference toward his ex-minister.

They brought out their lutes, and Cecily played on the virginals. They were the happy family circle. There was not one of them during that evening—not even Alice nor Dauncey—who did not feel that he or she would be content if they could all remain as they were this night until the end of their days.

But they knew that this was not possible.

Even the servants knew it, for the news had reached them.

How could the household go on in the same comfortable way? Some of them would have to go; and although they knew that Sir Thomas More would never turn them away, that he would find new places for them—perhaps in the rich households of those whom he had known in his affluent days—that brought little comfort. There was no one who, having lived in the Chelsea household, would ever be completely happy outside it.

A YEAR passed.

They were very poor during that year; the house at Chelsea was indeed a large one and there were many living in it to be fed. Yet they were happy. The hospital continued to provide succor for the sick; there was little to spare in the house, but it was always shared with those who were in need. There was always a place at the table for a hungry traveler, and if the fare was simpler than before, it appeased the hunger. Alice took an even greater pride in her cookery; she discovered new ways of using the herbs which grew wild in the fields. They collected fern, bracken, sticks and logs, which they burned in the great fireplaces; and they would gather round one fire to warm themselves before retiring to their cold bedrooms.

Still, it was a happy year. They would not have complained if they could have gone on as they were.

Alice grew angry when the abbots and bishops collected a large sum of money which they wished to present to Thomas. He had written much, they said; the Church was grateful; and they deemed that the best way in which they could show their gratitude was by presenting him with the money. Thomas, however, would not accept it. “What I have done,” he said, “was not for gain.”

So Alice scolded him for what she called his misplaced pride, and they continued to live in simplicity.

Patenson the Fool had left them in tears to work with the Lord Mayor of London; and Thomas, knowing that poor Patenson was a very poor Fool indeed, whose idea of wit seemed to be to laugh at the physical appearances of others, arranged that he should be passed from one Lord Mayor to the next Lord Mayor so that he might not suffer through the decline in fortune of one of his masters.

There were some members of the household who were lulled into a feeling of peace, who believed that life would go on humbly and evenly in the years to come. They did not realize that Thomas More had played too big a part in the affairs of the country to be allowed to remain outside them.

So gradually had matters been changing at Court that they were almost unnoticed by those outside it. The King had declared himself to be the Supreme Head of the Church of England. His marriage with Queen Katharine was declared null and void. He had been forced to this procedure by the pregnancy of Anne Boleyn. He was determined that if she gave him a son it should not be born out of wedlock; and he would wait no longer.

Margaret knew that the shadows were moving nearer.

One day a barge pulled up at the stairs, and in it came a messenger.

Margaret saw him as she was playing with her babies, Will and Mary, on the lawns. Her heart leaped, and then she felt the blood thundering in her head. Her children were looking at her wonderingly; she took their hands and forced herself to walk calmly toward the approaching messenger.

To her great relief, she saw that he was not wearing the King’s livery.

He bowed low on seeing Margaret.

“Madame, this is the house of Sir Thomas More?”

“It is. What would you of him?”

“I have a letter here. I am instructed to hand it to no other.”

“Whence do you come?”

“From my lords the Bishops of Durham, Bath and Winchester.”

She was relieved.

“Please come this way,” she said, “and I will take you to Sir Thomas.”

He was in the library, where he now spent the greater part of his time. He could be happy, she thought, then; He could remain in perfect contentment as he is now. Our poverty matters not at all. He can write, pray and laugh with his family. He asks no more than that. “O God,” she prayed silently, as she led the messenger to her father, “let him stay as he is…. Let him always be as he is now.”

“Meg!” he cried when he saw her.

The little ones ran to him; they loved him; they would sit on his knee and ask him to read to them; he would read them Latin and Greek, and although they could not understand him, they took great pleasure in watching the movement of his lips and listening to the sound of his voice.

Now they caught his skirts and laughed up at him.

“Grandfather…here is a man for you.”

“Father,” said Margaret, “a message from the Bishops.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. “Welcome, my friend. You have a letter for me. Let little Will take our friend to the kitchens and ask that he may be given something of what they have there, that he may refresh himself. Could you do that, my little man?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” cried Will. “Indeed I can.”

“Then off with you.”

“Take Mary with you,” said Margaret.

The two children went off with the messenger, and as soon as they were alone Margaret turned to her father. “Father, what is it?”

“Meg, you tremble.”

“Tell me, Father. Open your letter. Let us know the worst.”

“Or the best. Meg, you are nervous nowadays. What is it, daughter? What should you have to fear?”

“Father, I am not as the others to be lightly teased out of my anxieties. I know…as you know…”

He put his arm about her. “We know, Meg, do we not? And because we know, we do not grieve. We are all death’s creatures. I…you…even little Will and Mary. Only this uncertain air, with a bit of breath, keeps us alive. Meg, be not afraid.”

“Father, I beg of you, open the letter.”

He opened it and read it. “It is a letter from the Bishops, Margaret; they wish me to keep them company from the Tower to the Coronation. They send me twenty pounds with which to buy myself a gown.”

“Father, this is the beginning.”

He sought to comfort her. “Who knows, Meg? How can any of us know? At this magnificent Coronation, who will notice the absence of one poor and humble man?”

Then she knew that he would refuse to go to the Coronation; and while she longed that he should accept the invitation of the Bishops and bow to the will of the King, she knew that he would never falter in his way along the path he had chosen.

THERE HAD never been such pageantry as that which was to celebrate the crowning of Queen Anne Boleyn.

In the gardens at Chelsea could be heard the sounds of distant triumphant music, for the river had been chosen as the setting for the great ceremony in which the King would honor the woman for whom he had so patiently waited, and for whose sake he had severed his Church from that of his father.

Many of the servants from Chelsea had gone forth to mingle with the crowds and enjoy the festivities of that day, to drink the wine that flowed from the conduits, to see the new Queen in all her beauty and magnificence.

Margaret had not wished to mingle with those crowds.

On that lovely May day she sat in the gardens at home. Her father, she knew, was in his private chapel, praying, she guessed, that when his testing time came he would have the strength to meet it nobly.

May was such a beautiful time of the year; and it seemed to Margaret that never had the gardens at Chelsea seemed to offer such peaceful charm. Those gardens were beginning to mature; the flower borders were full of color; there was blossom on the trees, and the river sparkled in the sunshine. From far away came the sounds of revelry. She would not listen to them. They were distant; she must not think of them as the rumbling of the coming storm. The buzzing of bees in the garden was near; the scent of the flowers, the smell of fresh earth—they were the home smells. Sitting there in the heat of the sun, she reminded herself that she was in her home, for from the tumult, at peace in her backwater.

Why should the King care what her father did? she soothed herself. He was of no importance now. Who would notice that Sir Thomas More was not present at the Coronation?

She recalled that meeting of his with the Bishops, whom he had seen after he had received their letter.

“My lords,” he had said in his merry way, “in the letters which you lately sent me you required two things of me.” He was referring to the money they had asked him to accept and the invitation which they had asked him to accept also. “The one,” he went on, “since I was so well content to grant you, the other therefore I might be the bolder to deny you.”

They had protested that he was unwise to absent himself from the Coronation. What was done, was done, they pointed out. By staying away from the ceremony, they could not undo the marriage of the King with Anne Boleyn and set Queen Katharine on the throne.

Then he had spoken in a parable. He had told them the story of an Emperor who had ordained that death should be the punishment for a certain offense except in the case of virgins, for greatly did this Emperor reverence virginity. Now, it happened that the first to commit this offense was a virgin; and the Emperor was therefore perplexed as to how he could inflict this punishment, since he had sworn never to put a virgin to death. One of his counsellors rose and said: “Why make such an ado about such a small matter? Let the girl first be deflowered, and then she may be devoured.”

“And so,” added Thomas, “though your lordships have in the matter of the matrimony hitherto kept yourselves pure virgins, take good heed that you keep your virginity still. For some there may be that by procuring your lordships first at the Coronation to be present, and next to preach for the setting forth of it and finally to write books to all the world in its defence, therefore are desirous to deflower you; and when they have deflowered you they will not fail soon after to devour you. Now, my lords, it lieth not in my power that they may devour me, but God being my good Lord, I will so provide that they shall never deflower me.”

These words would be noted by many who had heard them. And what would the King say to their utterance? And what would he do?

These were the questions Margaret asked herself as she sat in the sunshine.

We can be so happy here, she thought. And he is no longer Lord Chancellor. He is of no great importance now.

But, of course, he would always be of importance while men listened to his words and he had the power to turn their opinions.

From the river came the sounds of rejoicing. In vain did Margaret try to shut out these sounds.

WAS SHE really surprised when the persecutions began?

The first came at the end of the year after the King’s Council had published the nine articles which justified all he had done in ridding himself of one Queen and providing himself with another.

Thomas was accused of having written an answer to the nine articles and sent it abroad to be published. Thomas had written no such answer. He was still a member of the King’s Council, and as such would consider that his membership debarred him from discussing the King’s affairs except in Council.

Nothing could be proved against him and the matter was dropped; but to his family it was an indication of how the winds were beginning to blow.

The King was angry with Thomas, as he was with all those who did not agree with him or who made him question the rightness of his actions.

A few peaceful months passed, but every time Margaret heard strange voices near the house she would feel beads of sweat on her brow, and she would place her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to quell its wild leaping.

Another charge was brought against him. This time he was accused of accepting bribes.

Here, thought those who had been set to bring about his downfall, was a safe charge to bring against him, for surely any man in his position must at some time have accepted a gift which could be called a bribe. It was possible to produce people who had presented him with gifts during his term of office, but it could not be proved that any of these had been bribes, or that the donors had gained aught from such gifts. Instead, it was shown how his son-in-law Heron had lost a case which he had brought, and that even the rather comic case, in which his wife had been involved, had gone against her. No, there was no way of convicting him on the score of bribery.

The King was irritated beyond measure by the folly of the man. He knew well that there were many in his kingdom who thought highly of Sir Thomas More and who might change their opinions regarding the King’s recent actions if only such a highly respected man as Sir Thomas More could be made to come to heel.

Friar Peto, of the Observants of Greenwich, had actually dared preach a sermon against the King, declaring from the pulpit that if he behaved as Ahab, the same fate would overtake him. This was prophecy, and Henry was afraid of prophets unless he could prove them false—and only the King’s death could prove Peto false.

The Carthusians, with whom More had a special connexion, were preaching against the marriage.

Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was another who dared to take his stand against the King.

“By God’s Body,” said Henry, “I do verily believe that if this man More would state in his clever way that he is with me in all I do, he could have these others following him.”

But More would do no such thing; he was an obstinate fool.

If he could be proved false…ah, if only he could be proved false!

The King himself wanted to have nothing to do with Mores downfall. He wished to turn his back, as he had in the case of Wolsey; he wished to leave More to his enemies. This was not so easy as it had been in the case of Wolsey, for More had few enemies. He was no Cardinal Wolsey. Men loved More; they did not wish him harm. Audley, Cranmer—even Cromwell—became uneasy over the matter of More’s downfall.

That was why, when More was accused of taking bribes, with his clever lawyer’s words and his proof of this and that, with his knowledge of the law, he was able to rebut the charges.

It was even so with regard to the matter of the lewd nun of Canterbury.

Elizabeth Barton, a mere serving girl, who had been cured of a terrible sickness by, some said, a miracle, became a nun in the town of Canterbury. She had made certain prophecies during trances, and when Thomas was Chancellor, the King had sent him to examine the woman. Thomas had been impressed by her holiness and, with Fisher, inclined to believe that she was not without the gift of prophecy. Elizabeth Barton had declared that if the King married Anne Boleyn he would, within six months, cease to be King of England. Six months had passed since the marriage, and here was Henry still in firm possession of the throne.

Elizabeth Barton was a fraud; she was a traitor and she should suffer the death penalty.

The King was pleased, for those who had believed the nun’s evil utterances were guilty of misprision of treason.

What of my lord Bishop of Rochester? the King asked the devoted Cromwell. What of our clever Sir Thomas More?

Here again he was defeated, for Thomas the lawyer was not easily trapped. He could prove that, as a member of the King’s Council, he had always refused to listen to any prophecy concerning the King’s affairs.

That was an anxious time for Thomas’s family. Now they felt fresh relief. Nothing could be proved against him in this affair of the nun of Canterbury and once more, after an examination, Thomas returned to his family.

It was small wonder that they would sometimes catch a look of alarm in one another’s eyes, that sometimes one of them would appear to be alert, listening, then that fearful disquiet would settle on the house again.

THE KING was fretful.

His marriage was not all that he had believed it would be. He had a child—but a daughter. He was fond of young Elizabeth, but she was not a son; and it was sons he wished his Anne to give to him.

Moreover, Anne the wife was less attractive than Anne the mistress had been.

The King was beginning to feel great need to justify his behavior. He wanted all the world—and certainly all his own countrymen—to see him as the righteous man who had rid himself of an ageing wife and married an attractive one, not for his own carnal desires, but for the good of the country.

He was very angry with Thomas More, who, while he had done nothing against the King which the law could condemn, yet refused to express his approval of the King’s actions. When the list of those who had been guiltily involved in the case of the nun of Canterbury was brought before Henry, he refused to allow Thomas’s name to be removed.

But he could do no more about that matter at the moment.

He would pace up and down his apartments with some of his intimates about him.

“It grieves me,” he cried. “It grieves me mightily. I have honored that man. What was he before I took him up? A miserable lawyer. I made him great. And what is his answer? What does he offer me? Base ingratitude! A word from him, and there could be peace among these monks. Even Fisher himself could doubtless be persuaded by his old friend. Yet…Thomas More will not accept me as Head of the Church! By God’s Body, this is treason! He holds that the Pope is still Head of the Church! That’s treason, is it not? Was there ever a servant to his sovereign more treacherous, more villainous, or subject to his prince so traitorous as he? What have I given him? Riches. Power. Favor. And what does he give me? Disobedience! I ask nothing but that he does what others of my servants have done. He has but to acknowledge my supremacy in the Church. Audley…Cromwell…Norfolk, my friends…was ever King so plagued?”

He was asking them to rid him of this man.

The little eyes were hot and angry, but the mouth was prim. All over the continent of Europe, Sir Thomas More was respected. The King’s conscience must not be offended.

“Bring this man to obedience.” That was what the little eyes pleaded with those about him. “No matter how…no matter how you do it.”

NORFOLK TOOK barge to Chelsea.

Margaret, on the alert as she ever was, saw the Duke coming, and ran down to meet him.

“My lord…fresh news?”

“Nay, nay. ’Tis naught. Where is your father? I would speak with him at once.”

“I’ll take you to him.”

Thomas had seen the Duke’s arrival and had come down to greet him.

“It is rarely that we have had this honor of late,” he said.

“I would speak with you alone,” said the Duke; and Margaret left them together.

“Well, my lord?” asked Thomas.

“Master More, you are a foolish man.”

“Have you come from the Court to tell me that?”

“I have. I have come straight from the King.”

“And how did you leave him?”

“Angry against you.”

“I regret that. I regret it deeply.”

“Tut, tut, what is the use of such words? You could turn his anger into friendship if you wished it.”

“How so?”

“Tut, I say again; and tut, tut, tut. You know full well. You have but to agree to the succession of the heirs of Anne Boleyn and the Act of Supremacy. And, Master More, when you should be called upon to sign these Acts, you must cast aside your folly and do so.”

“I would accept the former, because it is the law of this land that the King and the Council may fix the succession. Even though that would mean setting aside a lawful heir for the sake of a bastard, the King and Council can, in law, do it. But I would never take the Oath of Supremacy.”

Norfolk tut-tutted impatiently. “I come as a friend, Master More. I come from the Court to warn you. The King will not brook your disobedience. He seeks to entrap you.”

“Several charges have been brought against me, but I have answered them all.”

“By the Mass, Master More, it is perilous striving with princes. Therefore I would wish you somewhat to incline to the King’s pleasure, for, by God’s Body, Master More, Indignatio principis mors est.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Thomas with a smile. “The indignation of this Prince is turned against Thomas More.”

“I intend no pun,” said Norfolk impatiently. “I ask you to remember it, that is all.”

“Is that all, my lord?” said Thomas. “Then I thank you for coming here this day, and I must say this: In good faith, the difference between your Grace and me is but this: that I shall die today and you tomorrow.”

The Duke was so exasperated that he took his leave at once and strode angrily down to the barge without coming into the house.

This annoyed Alice, for she had seen his arrival and hastened to change her dress and put on her most becoming coif; and lo and behold, when she went down to receive her noble guest, it was but to see his abrupt departure.

GLOOM HUNG over the house.

Mercy had called, anxious and pale.

“How go matters, Meg?” she asked.

“Mercy, come out to the gardens where we can be alone. I cannot talk to you here, lest Mother overhears.”

In the quiet of the gardens, Margaret said: “He has gone before another committee.”

“Oh, God in Heaven, what is it this time?”

“I know not.”

“His name is still on the Parliament’s list of those guilty with Elizabeth Barton.”

“Oh, Mercy, that’s the pity of it. He has confuted them with his arguments, but it matters not. They still accuse him. Why do they do this, Mercy? I know…and so do you. They are determined to accuse him. He is innocent…innocent…but they will not have it so.”

“They cannot prove him guilty, Margaret. He will always triumph.”

“You seek to comfort us, Mercy. Often I think of the happy times…when we were cutting the hay, or walking in the gardens, sitting together…singing, sewing…reading what we had written. Oh, Mercy, how far away those days seem now, for we can never sit in ease or comfort. Always we must listen…always be on the alert. A barge comes. Will it stop at our stairs? we ask ourselves. There is a sound of a horse on the road. Is it a messenger from the King…from the new Councillor, Cromwell?”

“Meg, you distress yourself.”

But Margaret went on: “He used to say when he was particularly happy: ‘I shall remember this moment when I die. I shall remember it and say that my life was worthwhile…’” Margaret broke down and covered her face with her hands.

Mercy said nothing; she clasped her hands together and felt she would die of the deep distress within her.

She thought: We are realists, I and Margaret. We cannot shut our eyes to the facts as the others can. Bess, Cecily, Jack, they love him…but differently. They love him as a father, and I believe that to Meg and me he is a saint as well as a beloved father.

“I remember,” said Margaret suddenly, “how Ailie came to us and showed us the fashions. Do you remember? The long sleeves? It was that woman…the Queen. That woman…! And but for her, Mercy, he would be with us now…perhaps he would be reading to us…perhaps he would be laughing…chiding us for some folly in his merry way. And now, Mercy, he is standing before a Commission, and we do not know of what he is accused; and we do not know when he will come home…if he will come home.”

“Margaret, this is not like you. You…so reasonable, so rational. Margaret, you the cleverest of us all…to give way to grief, to mourn for what has not yet come to pass!”

“Oh, Mercy, do not stand there and pretend to be so calm! There are tears in your eyes. You have the same fears. Your heart is breaking too.”

Mercy looked at her, and the tears began to flow silently down her cheeks.

“And all for a woman,” cried Margaret in sudden anger, “a woman with a deformed hand and a mole on her throat that must be covered with a jewel…. For beautiful sleeves…for Frenchified manners…our father must…”

“Don’t say it, Meg. It has not happened yet.”

They looked at each other and then began to walk silently back to the house.

HE DID come home from the Commissioners; he came merrily. Will was with him in the barge when Mercy and Margaret ran down to meet him.

He embraced the girls warmly. He saw the tears on their cheeks, but he did not comment on them.

“Father…so you have come back!” said Margaret.

“Yes, daughter, your husband and I came back together.”

“And, Father, all is well?”

“All is well, my daughter.”

“You are no longer on the Parliament’s list? You are no longer accused with the nun of Canterbury?”

“It was not of that that they wished to talk.”

“Then what?”

“I was accused of urging the King to write his Assertion of the Seven Sacraments.”

“But, Father, he had started to write that when he called you in.”

“Ah, my dear daughter, it was as good a charge as the others, so, I beg of you, do not complain of it.”

“Father, they are seeking to entrap you.”

“They cannot trap an innocent man.”

“How could they have accused you of this matter?”

“His Majesty was determined to honor the Pope in his book, and he did so. And now it appears he would like to accuse me of writing this book, but for the fact that it is so well done, and he likes better the praise he has received for writing it. But it is said that I have caused him, to his dishonor, to put a sword in the Pope’s hand to fight the King.”

“Oh, Father!”

“Have no fear, Meg. I have confounded them. For did I not warn the King of the risk of incurring the penalties of praemunire? I reminded them of this, and that the book was the King’s book; that he himself had said I had but arranged it to his wishes. They could scarcely bring such a matter against me when the King has so clearly said that the book was his own—aye, and has received the title of Defender of the Faith for having written it.”

“If he is repudiating authorship of the book, then he should abandon the title it brought him,” said Mercy.

“You are right, daughter. I said: ‘My lords, these terrors be arguments for children and not for me.’”

Will’s brow was furrowed. He said: “But, Father, what of the Parliament’s list? Have they struck your name from it?”

“By my troth, son Roper, I forgot that matter in this new one.”

Will spoke tartly in his anxiety. “You did not remember it? A case that touches you so near, and us all for your sake!”

Margaret looked anxiously from her husband to her father. Thomas was smiling; Will was angry.

“I understand not, sir,” said Will, “why you should be so merry.”

“Then, Will, let me tell you. And I will tell my dear daughters also. This day I have gone so far, I have spoken my mind so clearly to these lords who cross-examined me, that, without great shame, I could not now turn back.”

He lifted his eyes and looked beyond them. He was smiling, but those about him were conscious of a deepening of their fear.

IT SEEMED wrong that the weather should be so beautiful. Surely there had never been a more lovely April. Margaret could not bear the brightness of the spring sunshine. They went about their work silently, forcing their smiles. Everyone in the household knew that it could not be long before he was called before the Commissioners to sign the newly coined Oath of Supremacy. How would he be able to extricate himself from this trouble? Now he would be presented with the necessity to sign or not to sign. The first would mean a return to the King’s pleasure; the other…? They did not know; they dared not think.

Easter Day came, and he, determined not to brood as they did, trying to laugh at their fears, being more gay than even was his wont, had arranged to go with Will to St Paul’s to hear the sermon.

On that lovely spring day they set out by barge.

He would not be back until late in the day.

“I shall be within a few minutes of Bucklersbury,” he said “and I cannot pass so close without calling on my son and daughter Clement.”

Mercy was waiting for him with a heavy heart. Each time she saw him she wondered whether it would be the last.

“John,” she cried to her husband, “how can I greet him merrily? How can I?”

“You must,” John answered. “Who knows, this storm may pass.”

Dinner was on the table waiting for him, and she went out along the Poultry to meet him.

She saw him coming, his arm through that of Will Roper; they were deep in discussion, doubtless talking of the sermon they had just heard.

He embraced her warmly when they met; but his searching eyes saw what she could not hide, and that which he must be seeing in the faces of every member of his family now.

“Why, daughter, it is good indeed to see you. And how do I find you? Merry and well?”

“Merry and well,” she repeated. “Merry and well, Father.”

He put his arm through hers and they walked thus to Bucklersbury; he smiling, a son and daughter on either side of him happy to be with them, for although they had neither of them been born son and daughter of his, he would have them know that he considered them as such.

Friends and acquaintances greeted him as they passed along. There was warmth in the smiles of these people. They bered him when he had been Under-Sheriff of the City; they remembered him as the incorruptible Lord Chancellor. But Mercy interpreted the looks in their eyes—fear, pity, warning.

The blow could not be far off.

Margaret, who loved him perhaps more poignantly than any of them, would have him sign the Oath; Margaret would have him do anything so that she might keep him with her. Mercy knew that. And if she, Mercy, could have pleaded with him, would she have urged him to sign the Oath?

She differed from Margaret. Margaret’s love was all-important to her. He was, after all, Margaret’s father, and if Margaret could keep him with her she would not care what it cost. But Mercy would never ask him to do what was against his conscience. Mercy would have him do what was right…whatever the consequences to himself and his family.

But that did not mean her suffering was any less acute.

Here was Bucklersbury with its pleasant apothecaries’ smells. Here was the old home.

“I never enter it without a thousand memories assailing me,” he said.

And Mercy knew that he was glad to be here again, to recall those happy memories, to treasure them for that time when he would be unable to visit the house in Bucklersbury.

“Come, Father, you will be hungry. Let us eat at once.”

They were at table when the messenger arrived.

Mercy rose. She was not unduly disturbed. She did not expect them to come for him here. This must be a friend calling. No? Then a messenger from the Court. It must be someone for John, for he was now one of the King’s physicians.

The man came forward. He carried a scroll in his hands.

“A message for me?” asked John.

“Nay, sir. I was instructed to deliver this to Sir Thomas More at Chelsea, but, hearing that he was at your house, I have saved myself the journey.”

Thomas rose to receive the scroll. “Thank you. You were wise to save yourself the journey.”

He did not look at the scroll, but chatted awhile with the messenger in his friendly way; and when the man had left, he still held it unopened in his hands.

“Father…” began Mercy fearfully.

“Let us eat this excellent meal you have prepared for us, my daughter.”

“But…”

“After,” he said. “There is time for that.”

Then he began to talk of the sermon he and Will had heard at St. Paul’s; but none of them was attending; their eyes kept going to the scroll which lay on the table.

“Father,” said Will angrily, “keep us no longer in suspense. What is this?”

“Have you not guessed, my son? I’ll warrant it is an instruction for me to appear before the Commissioners to take the Oath of Supremacy.”

“Then, Father, look at it. Make sure.”

“Why, Will, you fret too much. We knew this must come.”

“Father,” said Will in exasperation, “your calm maddens me. Read it…for pity’s sake.”

Thomas read. “Yes, Will,” he said. “I am to appear before the Commissioners at Lambeth to take the Oath.”

“It is more than I can bear,” said Will. “It is more than Margaret can bear.”

“Take hope, my son. Let no trouble drive you to misery. If the trouble is lasting, it is easy to bear. If it is hard to bear, it does not last long.”

“Father, when do you go to Lambeth?” asked Mercy.

“Tomorrow. You see, today I need not fret. Today I may do what I will.”

“We must go back to Chelsea,” said Will.

“Why?”

“They will wish to have you with them as long as possible. Margaret…”

“Let her be. Let her have this day in peace. The sooner she knows this notice has been served upon me, the sooner will she fret even as you do, Will.”

“Is the knowledge that this has come any worse than the fear that it will, the knowledge that it must?”

“Yes, Will. For in uncertainty there is hope. Leave Margaret for a while. Come, let us eat, or Mercy will be offended. She and her servants have taken great pains to please us with these foods.”

Eat! Take pleasure in food? How could they?

They sat there at the table, and the pain in their hearts was almost unbearable.

And the only merry one at that table was Sir Thomas More.

THEY WENT along the river, back to Chelsea, in the early evening.

“Not a word yet, Will,” said Thomas. “Leave them in peace…. Let them have this day.”

“But, Father,” said Will in distress, “I doubt that I can keep my fears from them.”

“You have been displaying fears for many a day, Will. Smile, my son. They’ll not know. They’ll not think this could be served on me anywhere but in my own home. Let us have one more merry night at home. Let us sing and tell tales and laugh and be happy together, Will…just for one more night.”

Will did manage to curb his misery. He sang as loudly as the rest; and he was aware of his father-in-law’s gratitude.

And that night, when he lay beside Margaret, he was sleepless, and so was she.

She whispered: “Will, it cannot be long now, can it? There cannot be many more such days left to us.”

And Will said: “It cannot be long.” He remembered his father’s plea and he did not say: “There can be no more such days. Today is the last, for tomorrow he goes to Lambeth.”

THE NEXT morning the family rose as usual. Thomas had an air of resignation which Margaret noticed: it was almost as though he found pleasure in this day. Alice noticed it too; she thought, I do believe he is going to do as the King wishes. I do believe he has come to his senses at last.

But after they had breakfasted he said: “Come…let us go to church.”

They walked across the fields to Chelsea Church as they had done on many other mornings. And after the service, when the sun was high in the sky, he laid his hand on Will’s arm and said: “Will, ’tis time we were away.”

He called to two of the servants and said: “Have the barge ready. This day I have to go to Lambeth.”

So they knew. The day had come.

Margaret took a step toward him, but his eyes held her off. Not here, Meg, they said. Not here…before the others.

“I have to go to Lambeth.” Those words might not sound ominous to the others as they did to Margaret and Will.

He is going to Lambeth on some business of the Parliament, they would think. He will be home ere evening.

But Margaret knew why he must go to Lambeth; and she knew what he would do when he was there. In her eyes was a mute appeal; Father, Father, do as they wish. What does it matter who is Head of the Church, if you are head of your family and continue to live with them to their delight and your own?

He was looking at Margaret now. He said: “Do not come beyond the wicket gate. I must go in haste. Good-bye to you all.”

He kissed them all, and when her turn came, Margaret clung to him.

“Father…”

“Good-bye, my daughter, my beloved daughter. I shall be with you…ere long….”

And he went over the lawns, opening the wicket gate, shutting it fast when Will had passed through, down the steps to the barge.

He took one look at the house which he had built, the house in which he was to have known perfect happiness with his family. He looked at the casements glittering in the sunshine, the peacocks on the wall, the blossoming fruit trees in the orchards. Who would gather the fruit this year? he wondered.

One last look at all that contained his happiness on Earth. Then he turned to Will, and as the barge slipped slowly away from the stairs he said: “I thank the Lord, son Roper, that the field is won.”

HE WAS sent to the Tower, and all the brightness had fled from the house in Chelsea.

There was no more pleasure in that house. There was nothing to do but wait in fear for what would happen next.

Margaret had begged to see her father, and because of the influence Dr. Clement and Giles Allington were able to exert, she was at last allowed the privilege.

She had not slept at all the night before; indeed, for many nights she had had little sleep. She would lightly doze and wake with thoughts of her father in his comfortless cell. During the days she would walk along the river until she could more clearly see that grim fortress, which had become his prison.

And now that she was to see him, now that she might take boat and go down the river to the Tower, she must be ready to offer him words of comfort. She must try not to beg him to do that which was against his conscience.

She reached the stairs; she alighted from the barge. Will helped her out, for he had insisted on coming as far as the Tower with her. Will would wait for her. Dear, good Will, the best of comforters, the dearest of husbands! She would bless the day her father had brought him to the house; for she must think of her blessings, not her miseries.

How she hated the place—the place that impressed her with its might and its horror! She looked up at the round towers, at the narrow slits which served as windows, at the dungeons with the bars across the slits. And here, in this place, was her father, her beloved father.

A jailer took her up a winding staircase and unlocked a heavy door. She was in a cell, a cell with stone walls and a stone floor; and then she saw no more of it, for there he was, smiling at her, hurrying to greet her.

She looked into his face and noticed how pale he was, how hollow were his eyes. He had changed. Yet…he could still smile, he could still feign a gaiety which he could not possibly feel.

“Meg…my own Meg!”

“My Father!” She was kissing him, clinging to him. “Oh, Father, how are you? What have they done to you? You have grown thin and your beard is unkempt, and your clothes…Oh, Father…Father…what can I do? What can I say?”

“Come,” he said. “Sit down, Meg. My jailer is a kind man. I have these stools…. Many people have been kind to me, Meg. My good friend, Bonvisi…he sends meat and wine…and I am allowed to have my good John a Wood here with me to look after me. You see, I am not treated badly. I am well looked after here.”

She tried to smile.

“Why, Meg, how are you? You are looking well. The sun has touched you. How are my dear sons and daughters? Bid them be of good cheer, Meg. You can do it.”

“To be of good cheer!” she cried. “Father, let there be no pretence between us. Do not let us deceive ourselves and say, ‘This will pass,’ when we know there is only one way in which it could pass, and that you have determined against it.”

“Let us talk of other things, dear daughter.”

“How can I? What can I tell the children?”

“It may be, Meg, that you will have to speak to them of death. And if that be so, let them see it as a beautiful thing. Let them see it as release to beauty, to joy, to happiness such as this Earth cannot offer. Tell them that the man is dreaming who thinks in this life he is rich, for when death wakes him he will see how poor he is. Tell them that those who suffer at the hands of unjust men should take hope. Let kindly hopes console your suffering, Meg. He who is carried away by great wealth and empty pride, he who stands so bold among his courtiers, will not always be so bold. One day he will be equal with the beggars. Ah, what gift has life given that compares with death? You will find that he who can in life inspire fear, in death inspires nothing but laughter. Oh, Meg, Meg, lift up thy spirits. Do not grieve because I must come to that which awaits us all. My spirit is ready to break its shell. What matters it who cracks that shell. It may be the King. It may be the King’s ministers. It may be the King’s mistress.”

“Do not speak of her, Father. When you do, my heart is filled with hatred. I think of her as when we first heard of her and she seemed naught but a frivolous girl. I did not know then that she was a wicked wanton…a would-be murderess of saintly men.”

“Hush, Meg! Do not speak ill of her. Pity her rather than condemn. For how do we know, poor soul, to what misery she may come?”

“I will not pity her, Father. I will not. But for her, you would be with us at home in Chelsea…all together…as we used to be. How can I pity her? How can I do aught but curse her?”

“Meg, you must have pity. She dances gaily at the Court, I hear; and these dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but, Meg, it may not be long before her own poor head will dance the like dance.”

“Father, what does it matter…what does anything matter if you but come home to us? Could you not…?”

“Nay, Meg, I know what I must do.”

“But what will happen?”

“We shall see.”

“My lord Bishop of Rochester is also in the Tower.”

“My jailer told me. I knew my dear friend Fisher must do this…even as I must.”

“The monks of the Charterhouse refuse to acknowledge the King’s Supremacy, Father.”

“My good friends? It is what I would expect of them.”

“But, Father, is it right…is it lawful that they should imprison you for this? What have you done? You have merely refused to take an Oath. Is it then the law that a man may be imprisoned for this?”

“Ah, Meg, the King’s pleasure is the law. It is a great pity that any Christian prince should, by a flexible Council ready to follow his affections, and by a weak clergy lacking grace constantly to stand to their learning, be so shamefully abused with flattery.”

“But, Father, is it worth it, think you? Could you not…take the Oath…and retire from Court life altogether? Live with us…your family…as you long to live. You have your library…your home…all that you love. Father, you are no longer young. You should be at home with your sons and daughters, with your wife….”

“Why, have you come here to play the temptress, then? Nay, Mistress Eve, we have talked of this thing more than once or twice. I have told you that if it were possible to do this thing that would content the King, and God therewith would not be offended, then no man would have taken the Oath more gladly than I.”

“Oh, God in heaven,” she cried, “they are coming to tell me I must go. Father…when shall I see your face again?”

“Be of good cheer, Meg. Ere long, I doubt not.”

She embraced him, and she saw the tears on his cheeks.

She thought: My coming has not cheered him; it has distressed him.

ALICE HAD permission to visit him.

She was truculent, more full of scolding than usual; that was because she was so unhappy.

She stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes taking in the cell in all its comfortless gloom.

“What the good year, Master More!” she cried. “It is a marvelous thing to me that you have always been taken for such a wise man. Here you are, playing the fool, as is your wont. You lie here in this close, filthy prison, and you are content to be shut up with mice and rats, when you might be abroad and at your liberty, enjoying the favor of the King and his Council. And all you must do is as the Bishops and learned men of this realm have done. And seeing you have at Chelsea a right fair house, your library, your gallery, your garden, your orchards and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might be in the company of your wife and children and with your household be merry, I muse what in God’s name you mean, here so fondly to tarry.”

“Alice…Alice, it is good to see you. It is good to hear you scold me. Come, wife. Sit down. Sit on this stool which my good jailer has provided for me. We do well, here, John a Wood and I. My good friend Bonvisi sends more meat and drink than we need. Have no fear.”

“So you like this place better than your home. Is that it? Is that what you would tell me?”

“Is this house not as nigh Heaven as my own?” he asked.

“Tilly valley! Tilly valley! What nonsense you talk! All the prisons in the world could not alter that, I see.”

“But answer me, Alice. Is it not so?”

“By the good God, will this gear never be left?”

“Well, Mistress Alice, if it be so, and I believe you know it to be so and that is why you will answer with nothing but ‘Tilly valley!’ that is well. I see no great cause why I should have much joy in my handsome house or in anything belonging to it, when if I should be but seven years buried under the ground and then arise and come thither, I should not fail to find someone therein who would bid me get out of doors and tell me it was none of mine. What cause have I then to like such a house as would so soon forget its master?”

“Tut and tut! Have done with this talk. What of your clothes? Have you anything for me to wash? And what a filthy place is this! And what does Master a Wood think he is doing not to look to your comforts more? It seems to me Master More, that you are a fool…surrounded by fools….”

And he saw the bright tears brimming over onto her cheeks; he pretended not to see them. She scolded on, while in her way she was begging him to come home, even as Margaret had done.

FROM THE windows of her husband’s mansion, Ailie looked out over the park. She was tense and waiting. Soon, she believed, Lord Audley would come riding to the house in the company of her husband, and she had told Giles that when they returned he must leave her that she might have a word with the Chancellor.

“Oh, God help me,” prayed Ailie, more fervently than she had ever prayed before. “Help me to do this.”

Lord Audley could help her, she believed. But had he the power? He was the Lord Chancellor, and when her father had been Chancellor many had brought their petitions to him.

Ailie could not bear to think of the house in Chelsea now. Margaret wrote to her often; so did Mercy. But the feigned cheerfulness of their letters only served to tell her how changed everything was. Would this dreary summer never pass?

She heard the huntsmen’s horns and looked in the polished Venetian mirror her husband had given her and of which she had once been so proud. Her eyes were hard and bright; her cheeks were flushed; she looked at her trembling, twitching mouth.

Then, composing herself, she ran down to greet the returning huntsmen.

Audley was talking excitedly about the deer he had killed in the park. What could it matter? There was only one thing that mattered now.

Giles was smiling at her tenderly, full of understanding. He led the way to the stables, where the grooms rushed forth to take the horses. Ailie was walking with Lord Audley, and Giles saw that they were left alone.

“’Twas a good day’s sport, I trust, Lord Audley?”

“It was, Lady Allington. Your husband is fortunate to have such happy hunting grounds at his disposal.”

“You must come often to hunt with us.”

“That I will.”

Ailie laid a hand on the arm of the Lord Chancellor and smiled up at him.

“My lord, you are a man of great influence at Court.”

Lord Audley smiled his pleasure.

“You could do something for me as you wished.”

“Lady Allington, I would willingly do anything in my power to please you.”

“You are gracious, my lord. It is of my father, I would speak.”

Lord Audley gave a quick, rather harsh laugh. “Why, Lady Allington, he has all the means at his disposal to help himself.”

“That is not so.”

“I beg of you, forgive the contradiction, but it is so. He has but to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and he would be a free man tomorrow.”

“But that he cannot do.”

“Cannot! Cannot sign his name!” Lord Audley laughed. (He was proud of saying, “I am no scholar!” which meant he had a certain contempt for those who were.) “But we have always heard that he is such a learned man!” he went on.

“My lord, he feels this to be a matter of conscience.”

“Then he should reason with his conscience. My dear lady, I would do as much for your father as I would for my own…for your sake; but what can I do? The remedy lies with him. I marvel that he should be so obstinate in his conceit.”

“Could you not persuade the King that, in my father’s case, this matter of the Oath could be waived?”

“My dear lady, you know the ways of Parliament.”

Then the Chancellor began to tell Ailie one of Æsop’s fables.

“This,” he said, “you, being the daughter of such a learned man, have doubtless heard before.” It was the fable of the few wise men who tried to rule the multitude of fools. The few were flogged by the many. “Were they such wise men after all, Lady Allington? Were they, I wonder.”

Ailie looked into the cold, proud face beside her, and her heart felt leaden.

They had reached the house, and she stepped on ahead of him. Giles came forth and, seeing her state, engaged their guest in conversation so that she was free to run upstairs to her bedroom.

This she did, with the tears flowing down her cheeks, and her face set in a mask of utter hopelessness.

THERE WERE no more visits to the Tower, and the months were dragging on. Christmas came; and it was last spring when he had been taken from home.

What a different Christmas was this from that which they usually spent! They were all together, but how could they be happy without him?

They lived for the letters they received from him. They were allowed to send a servant to the Tower to take letters to him and receive his. The faithful Dorothy Colly made the journey, for she was almost one of the family, and Thomas was fond of her. She would come back and tell them everything he had said.

“He wishes to know what you are doing, how you spend your days. No little detail is too small. It pleases him much to hear these things. He must have news of the latest sayings of the children.”

To Margaret, when they were alone, she said: “He kissed me when I left. And I was to tell you, he said, that he loves me as one of the family. He said: ‘Have you married John Harris yet, Dorothy? You should. Tell Margaret. She will help you to arrange it, for marriage is a good thing; and if two people grow together in love and comradeship, there is no happier state in the world.’”

Margaret kissed her maid. She knew that John Harris loved her; and she knew that her father meant: “Be happy. Do not continue to grieve. Go about your ordinary business. If there is a wedding among you, rejoice and celebrate. Your father is with you in all you do.”

“I must see him soon, Dorothy,” she said. “We cannot go on like this.”

HE HAD changed very much since his imprisonment; he was thin and ill. He had his books with him, and they brought him much comfort. He was writing what he called A Dialogue of Comfort. This was a conversation between two Hungarians, an aged man Antonio and his nephew Vincent. These two discussed the coming invasion of the Turks. The allegory was easily understood by Margaret—for he sent his writings to her.

“I cannot read this to you,” he wrote, “but I need your opinions as I ever did.”

Margaret guessed who the Great Turk was meant to be, for Thomas wrote: “There is no born Turk so cruel to Christian folk as is the false Christian that falleth from his faith. Oh, Margaret, my beloved daughter, I am a prisoner in a foul place, yet I am happy when I take up my pen to write to you, and I would rather be Margaret’s father than the ruler of an Empire.”

Rich, the Solicitor-General, paid him many visits. Thomas understood the purpose of these visits; they were to entrap him. Now they were trying to make him deny the King’s supremacy; but Thomas was too learned in the ways of the law to do this. He was fully aware that he could not be condemned merely for refusing to sign the Oath. If he preserved silence on his views, he must be guiltless. There was no law under which it was possible to punish a man because he refused to sign an oath.

In vain did Rich seek to entrap him; Cromwell, Norfolk, Audley, the whole Council did their best to please the King by making a case against him; but Thomas was the greatest lawyer of them all. Not one of them—even Cranmer—could lure him to say that which would condemn him.

He knew that his friend Bishop Fisher was in the Tower. Fisher was a brave man, but he was no lawyer. Thomas wrote notes to him, and Fisher answered him; their servants found means of exchanging these notes, for the jailers were willing to make the incarceration of two such saintly men as Fisher and More as comfortable as was possible.

“Have great care, my friend,” Thomas begged the Bishop. “Be on your guard against the questions which are put to you. Take great care that you do not fall into the dangers of the Statutes. You will not sign the Oath. That is not a crime in itself. But guard your tongue well. If any ask you, be sure that you say not a word of the King’s affairs.”

The Bishop was a very sick man and his imprisonment had greatly affected his health.

One day Richard Rich came to the Bishop and, smiling in a friendly fashion, assured him that this was not an official visit; he came, not as the King’s Solicitor-General, but as a friend.

The Bishop, worn out with sickness, suffering acutely from the closeness of his confinement, from heat and from cold, bade the Solicitor-General welcome. The latter talked about the pity of this affair, the sorrow it was causing many people because such men, so admired and respected as were Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, must lie in prison on account of a matter such as this.

“I talked to the King of you but yesterday,” said Rich, “and he said that it grieved him to think of you in prison. He said that he respected you greatly, and that his conscience worried him concerning you. He fears that he may not have been right in what he has done. And indeed, where is the son that God would have given him had He approved the new marriage? He has but a daughter—a healthy child, it is true, but a daughter! The King’s conscience disturbs him, and you could lighten it, my lord Bishop. The King has promised absolute secrecy, but he wishes to know your mind. He says that what you say—as a holy man of the Church—will be carefully considered by him. Now, my lord Fisher, if I swear to you that what you say is between you, myself and the King, will you open your mind to me?”

Fisher answered: “By the law of God, the King is not, nor could be Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” Rich nodded and smiled: he was well pleased with himself Fisher had answered exactly as he had hoped he would.

THERE WERE others in the Tower for the same reason as were those two brave men.

The Carthusians had been asked to sign the Oath of Supremacy. This they had found they could not do in good conscience, and the Prior of the London Charterhouse, with those of Lincoln and Nottinghamshire, was very soon lodged in the Tower. Others quickly followed them there.

The King was growing more and more angry, and when he was angry he turned his wrath on Cromwell.

“By God’s Body,” roared the King. “It is this man More who stiffens their resistance. We must make him understand what happens to those who disobey the King.”

“Sire, we have done all we can to bring a charge against him, but he is as wily as a fox in this matter of the law.”

“I know, I know,” said the King testily, “that he is a clever man in some ways and that I am surrounded by fools. I know that you have tried in many ways to bring charges against him, but every time he has foiled you. He is a traitor. Remember that. But I have no wish to see him suffer. My wish is that he shall end his folly, give us his signature and stop working malice among those who so admire him. These monks would relent if he did. But, no…no. These fools about me can in no way foil him. It is Master More who turns their arguments against them and snaps his fingers at us all. Let him be reminded of the death a traitor suffers. Ask him whether or not that is the law of the land. Ask him what clever lawyer can save a man from a traitors death if he is guilty of treason.”

Cromwell visited Thomas in his cell.

“Ah, Sir Thomas,” he said, “the King grieves for you. He wishes you well in spite of all the trouble you are causing him. He would be merciful. He would take you to a more comfortable place; he would see you abroad in the world again.”

“I have no wish, Master Cromwell, to meddle in the affairs of the world.”

“The King would feel more inclined toward you if you did not help others to resist him. There are these monks, now lodged in this Tower. The King feels that if you would but be his good friend you could persuade these monks to cease their folly.”

“I am the King’s true and faithful subject and I do nobody harm. I say none harm; I think none harm; and I wish everybody good. And if this be not enough to keep a man alive and in good faith I long not to live. Therefore is my poor body at the King’s pleasure.”

“I repeat that the King wishes you well. He would do a favor unto you. Yet you would not accept this favor.”

“There is one I would accept. If I could see my daughter, Margaret Roper, there is little else I would ask of the King.”

Cromwell smiled. “I will do what can be done. I doubt not that the request will soon be granted.”

And it was.

She came on that May day, a year after his imprisonment, when the four monks were to pay the terrible penalty, which had been deemed their due.

This was as the King and Cromwell would have it; for, said Cromwell, the bravest of men would flinch when they considered the death accorded to these monks. It was the traitor’s death; and there was no reason why a Bishop and an ex-Chancellor should not die the same horrible death as did these monks. Only the King in his clemency could change that dread sentence to death by the axe.

Let Master More reflect on that; and let him reflect upon it in the company of his daughter, for she might aid the King’s ministers with her pleas.

So she was with him while preparations were being made immediately outside his prison. He and Margaret heard these and knew what they meant. The hurdles were brought into the courtyard below the window; and they knew that those four brave men were being tied to them and that they would be dragged to Tyburn on those hurdles, and there hanged, cut down and disemboweled while still alive.

To face such death required more than an ordinary man’s courage, though that man be a brave one.

Margaret stood before him tight-lipped.

“I cannot bear it, Father. Do you not hear? Do you not know what they are doing to those brave monks?”

And he answered: “Lo, Meg, dost thou not see that these blessed fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths as bridegrooms to their marriage?”

But she turned from him weeping, swooning to the floor; and it was he who must comfort her.

MERCY SAID to her husband: “I must do something. Inactivity is killing me. I have a tight pain in my throat, so that I feel it will close up altogether. Think, John. For a year we have suffered this agony. Oh, was there ever such exquisite torture as slow torture? Does the King know this? Is that why he raises our hopes and all but kills them before he seems to bid us hope again?”

“Mercy, it is not like you to give way, you…who are always so calm.”

“I cannot go on being calm. I dream of him as he was years ago when he first brought me to the house…when I would stand before him while he explained some small fault to me. I think of him when he told me that I was truly his daughter. I am his daughter. That is why I must do something. And you must help me, John.”

“I would do anything in the world for you, Mercy. You know that well.”

“Four of the monks have now suffered most barbarously at Tyburn, John. And there are others who are suffering, less violently, but in a horribly slow, lingering way. They are in Newgate and I am going to help them.”

“You, Mercy? But…how?”

“I am going to Newgate to take succor to them.”

“They would never let you in.”

“I think the King’s physician could help me.”

“Mercy! If you were discovered…have you thought what it would mean?”

“He said I was truly his daughter. I would like to prove that to myself.”

“What would you do?”

“You know their sentence. Those learned monks are tied to posts in confined spaces. They cannot move; there are iron collars about their necks and fetters about their ankles. They are to be left thus to die. That is their punishment for disobedience to the King. They are given no food; they cannot move from that spot. They have been there a day and a night. I am going into Newgate with food and the means to cleanse them…so that they do not die of their plight.”

“It is not possible, Mercy.”

“It is possible, John. I have planned what I shall do. I shall dress as a milkmaid and carry a pail on my head. It shall be full of food and the means of cleaning them of their natural filth. And this milkmaid shall be allowed into the prison on the recommendation of the King’s physician. You can do it, John. And you must…you must…for I shall die if I stay here thinking…thinking…Don’t you see it is the only way for me to live? I shall feel I am helping him. I must, John; and you must help me.”

He kissed her and gave his promise.

The next day Mercy, dressed as a milkmaid, with a pail on her head, walked into Newgate Jail and was taken to the monks by a jailer who had been paid to do this.

She fed the monks with the food that she had brought; and she cleaned them.

She was happier than she had been since her father had been taken to the Tower.

THE KING was growing angrier. He was also growing accustomed to the shedding of blood. He was being unfaithful to his Queen, and he was in urgent need of reassurance, for that old monster, his conscience, was worrying him again.

The Pope, hoping to save Fisher, had talked of giving him a Cardinal’s hat.

The King laughed aloud when he heard this. “Then he shall wear it on his shoulders,” he said, “for he’ll have no head to put it on.”

And on a day in June Bishop Fisher, after his examination in the Tower, during which the secret confession he had made to Rich was revealed by the treacherous Solicitor-General, was condemned to death.

But the King was generous. In view of the Bishop’s age and position, though he was a traitor indeed, it was not the royal wish that he should suffer the traitor’s death. He should die by the executioner’s axe.

Now it was Thomas’s turn, and on the 1st of July he was taken to Westminster Hall for his trial.

There Norfolk, his kindness forgotten—for he had become exasperated by what he called the obstinacy of the man for whom he had once had a liking—told him that if he would repent of his opinions he might still win the King’s pardon.

“My lord,” was Thomas’s answer, “I thank you for your goodwill. Howbeit, I make my petition unto God Almighty that it may please Him to maintain me in this my honest mind to the last hour that I shall live.”

Then he defended himself so ably that those who had been set to try him were afraid that yet again he would elude them. That could not be allowed to happen. There was not one of them who would dare face the King unless Thomas More came out of Westminster Hall convicted of treason. Then the resourceful Rich stepped forth and announced that he had had a secret conversation with More, even as he had had with Fisher.

“Ah,” cried Thomas, “I am sorrier for your perjury, Master Rich, than for my own peril.”

But the jury was glad of a chance to find him guilty, as each member knew he must or earn the King’s displeasure.

They brought him out of Westminster Hall, and Margaret, who was waiting with Jack and Mercy, felt numbed by her pain when she saw him between the halberdiers, and the blade of the executioner’s axe turned toward him.

Jack ran forward and knelt at his father’s feet. Margaret threw herself into his arms; only Mercy stood back, remembering even in that moment that she was only the foster daughter.

Margaret would not release her father; and Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, stood by unable to speak because of his emotion.

“Have patience, Margaret. My Meg, have patience. Trouble thyself not…” whispered Thomas.

And when he released himself, she stepped back a pace or two and stood looking at him, before she ran forward to fling her arms once more about his neck.

Now Sir William Kingston laid gentle hands upon her, and Jack had his arm about her as she fell fainting to the ground and lay there while the tragic procession moved on.

THE KING had been gracious. He would save the man who had been his friend from that terrible death which the monks had suffered.

“The King in his mercy,” said Cromwell, “has commuted the sentence to death by the axe.”

“God forbid,” said Thomas with a touch of grim humor, “that the King should use any more such mercy to my friends.”

There were certain conditions, Cromwell explained. There must be no long speeches at the execution. And if Thomas obeyed the King’s wishes, the King would graciously allow his family to have his body to bury. The King was indeed a merciful king.

DEATH BY the axe!

Now it was dark indeed in the house at Chelsea. They sat in a mournful circle, and none spoke of him, for they had no words to say.

That which they had feared had come to pass. He who had made this house what it was, who had made their lives so good and joyous, was lost to them.

They would never see him again.

Dauncey was weeping silently—not for frustrated ambition; that seemed to matter little now. He did not know what had happened to him when he had come to this house. He had dreamed of greatness; he had made an advantageous marriage that would lead to the King’s favor; and whither had it led him? Being Dauncey, he knew more than the others. He knew that the King’s hatred of Sir Thomas More would extend to his family; he knew that goods and lands would be taken from them; that it might be that their very lives were in danger. But he cared not. He, Dauncey, cared not. He would have given all the lands and goods he possessed, he would have thrown away his ambitions for the future, if the door could have opened and the laughing voice of Sir Thomas More be heard again.

His wife Elizabeth smiled at him. She understood and was grateful to him, for it seemed to her that in the midst of her black sorrow there was a touch of brightness.

Cecily and Giles Heron were holding hands, staring before them, thinking…thinking back over the past.

Alice was remembering all the scoldings she had given him, and wishing, more than she had ever wished for anything before, that she could have him with her to scold now.

Dorothy Colly slipped her hand into that of John Harris; and they were all very still until they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs approaching.

It was a messenger who had brought a letter for Margaret.

She trembled as she took it, for he was to die tomorrow, and she knew that this was the last she would ever receive from him.

It was written with a piece of coal—all that was left to him to write with; for they had taken his writing materials when, some time before, they had taken his books.

She forced herself to read aloud.

“Our Lord bless you, good daughter, and your good husband, and your little boy, and all yours…and all my children and all my god children and all our friends….”

He then mentioned them all by name, and as Margaret spoke their names they hung their heads, for the tears streamed from their eyes.

But Margaret went on steadily reading.

He begged them not to mourn for him. He was to die tomorrow, and he would be sorry to live longer.

“For tomorrow is St. Thomas’s Eve, and therefore tomorrow I long to go to God. St. Thomas’s Eve! It is a day very meet and convenient for me. Dear Meg, I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last, for I love when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy. Farewell, my child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all my friends; and may we all meet merrily in Heaven.”

Margaret had stopped reading and a silence fell upon them.

EARLY ON the morning of St. Thomas’s Eve, Master Pope, a young official of the Court, came to tell him that he was to die that day.

The young man came with tears in his eyes, and could scarcely speak for weeping, so that it was Thomas More who must comfort Thomas Pope.

“Do not grieve, Master Pope,” he said, “for I thank you heartily for these good tidings.”

“It is the King’s pleasure that you should not use many words at the execution.”

“You do well to give me warning, for I had planned to speak at length. I beg of you, Master Pope, plead with the King that when I am buried, my daughter Margaret may be there to see it done.”

“The King will consent to that if you do not speak overmuch before your death. Your wife and all your children shall then have liberty to be present.”

“I am beholden to His Grace that my poor burial shall have so much consideration.”

Then Pope, taking his leave, could say nothing because his tears were choking him.

“Quiet yourself, good Master Pope,” said Thomas, “and be not discomfited, for I trust that we shall, once in Heaven, see each other merrily where we shall be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally.”

Shortly before nine o’clock, wearing a garment of frieze that hung loosely on his thin body, and carrying in his hands a red cross, Thomas More left his prison for Tower Hill.

There was only one member of the family there to see him die. Mercy was that one. She stood among the crowds about the scaffold, watching him, taking her last look at him. Later she would be joined by Margaret and Dorothy Colly for the burial of his body in the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.

Mercy did not stand near, for she did not want her father to witness her grief. She told herself that she should be glad, for he was not subjected to that ignoble death which those poor monks had suffered at Tyburn, while others of their brethren were rotting in their chains at Newgate. The jailer there, fearing discovery, would no longer allow her to visit those monks, and although she had made efforts to reach them she had not been able to do so, and they were slowly perishing where they were chained.

Oh, cruel world, she thought, that surrounds that island of peace and happiness in Chelsea like a turbulent sea. They had thought themselves safe on their island, but now the malignant waters had washed over it, destroying peace and beauty, leaving only memories for those who had lived there and loved it.

Thomas was mounting the steps which led to the scaffold. They had been hastily constructed and shook a little.

He smiled and said to one of the Sheriff’s officers: “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, that you will see me safe up. As to my coming down, you may leave me to shift for myself.”

The executioner was waiting for him. This hardened man looked into Thomas’s face and, seeing there that sweetness of expression, which had won the affection of so many, he turned quickly away murmuring: “My lord, forgive me….”

Thomas laid a hand on his arm. “Pluck up your spirits, my friend. Be not afraid of your office…for such is all it is. Take heed that you strike not awry for the sake of thine own honesty.”

Then he knelt and prayed. “Have mercy upon me, O God, in Thy great goodness….”

He rose and the executioner came forward to bind his eyes.

“I will do it for myself,” said Thomas.

But first he spoke to the people who were waiting on his last words; very briefly he spoke, remembering the King’s displeasure that could fall on those who were left behind him.

“My friends, pray for me in this world and I will pray for you elsewhere. Pray also for the King that it may please God to give him good counsel. I die the King’s servant…but God’s first.”

Then he bound his eyes and laid his head on the block, pushing his beard to one side, saying: “That has no treason. Let it therefore be saved from the executioner’s axe.”

There was a great silence on Tower Hill as the axe fell.

Thomas’s lips moved slightly.

“The King’s good servant…but God’s first.”

NEWS OF the death of Sir Thomas More was brought to the King.

“So perish all traitors!” he cried.

But his little eyes were fearful. In the streets the people were murmuring. It was all they dared to do against the King. They had seen the terrible deaths of the Carthusians; and now the head of Sir Thomas More was on a pole on London Bridge beside that of the saintly Fisher, Bishop of Rochester.

“Come, Norfolk, what are you thinking…skulking there?”

Norfolk was a bold man. He said: “That it was a pity, Your Grace. Such a man of talents to be so obstinate…so wrong-minded.”

“You seem sad that it should be so.”

“Your Grace, he was a lovable man…for all his faults. Sire, many loved him.”

Many loved him!

The King’s eyes narrowed. The people would remember that the man had been put to death because he had obeyed his conscience rather than his King. The King’s good servant, but God’s first.

The King cursed all martyrs.

This man must not live in the memory of the people. He must be seen as a traitor, a man deserving death, a traitor whose head was in its rightful place, looking down from London’s bridge on London’s river.

But Henry knew that, as the people passed by the bridge, as they looked at the head of the man, they would mutter prayers and ask his blessing. Too many of them remembered his kindness, his piety and virtue.

Living, he had been Thomas More, the kind, good man; dead, he would be Thomas More, the saint.

That should not be; it must not be.

Had not More stated that he believed the sowing of seditious heresies should be prevented at all costs? During his reign as Chancellor one or two people had been burned as heretics. The King would have it bruited abroad that this great good man had not been averse to inflicting suffering on those who did not share his views. Could he then complain at the King’s treatment of himself?

There would be some who would say: “It is not the duty of a Chancellor to pass sentence on heretics. That lies in the hands of the clergy.” But who would examine that too closely? The Tudors and their friends, who had found it necessary to suppress many historical facts, would have no difficulty in supressing or garnishing wherever it was expedient to do so.

The King remembered the case of a heretic who had been ordered by Sir Thomas More to be flogged. The King had been amused at the time of the offense, for the man concerned had crept behind women kneeling in the church and, lifting their clothes, had cast them over their heads. The just sentence for such an act was flogging; but this man, as well as being a lewd person, was also a heretic. A little adjustment of the reports of such cases, and there was More, a flogger of heretics.

The King doubted not that his good friends would have no difficulty in providing the necessary evidence.

For, thought the King, we cannot have martyrs in our kingdom. Martyrs are uncomfortable men, and I like them not.

The King must always be right; and the King was uneasy, for he also found it hard to forget the man. Norfolk was right: More had been a lovable fellow.

I liked him, mused Henry. It gave me pleasure to honor him.

He remembered their pleasant talks together over the writing of the book; he thought of evenings on the balcony with his first Queen beside him, and Thomas More pointing out the stars in the heavens; he thought of the pleasant family at Chelsea and walking through those fragrant gardens with his arm about his Chancellor’s neck.

“I loved the man,” murmured Henry. “I…as well as the others. It was not my wish that he should die. God bear me witness. I loved him.”

His Queen came in.

He was not pleased with her. She had not brought him all that he had desired. She had filled his heart with jealousy and his mind with misgiving.

He had noticed a quiet, pale girl among her maids of honor. Jane Seymour was her name; and although this young woman was modest, she had shown that she was not unconscious of the King’s regard.

The King lost control of his temper suddenly as he looked at his Queen; and he was filled with fear because the murder of a great and good man lay heavily upon his conscience.

“You have done this!” he shouted at his Queen. “You have done this. You have demanded of me the death of a good man and, God forgive you, I have granted your request.”

8

THERE WAS NO SOUND ON THE RIVER BUT THAT OF THE oars as they dipped in the water.

The stars in the July sky scintillated like jewels in the doublet of a king, and the outline of hedges was clear along the banks.

The bridge and its ghastly relics came into view.

The boat stopped and, when Margaret alighted, Will was beside her. He put his arm about her.

“Meg…Meg…you still insist?”

She nodded.

“’Tis a dangerous thing to do, my darling. I know not what the penalty would be if…”

“I know not either,” she said, “and I care not.”

They walked away from the rivers edge up and on to the bridge.

“Meg…go back to the boat. I will do it.”

“Nay. ’Tis my task and mine alone.”

The air of the hot summer’s night caressed her face as she stood on the bridge and firmly grasped the pole in her hand.

“Meg, you torture yourself.”

“Nay,” she answered. “Let be, Will. Let be.”

And together they pulled down the pole, and they took that which was set upon it.

Margaret wrapped it tenderly in the shawl she had brought, and, putting his arm about her, Will led her back to the boat.

Tenderly Will Roper watched his wife and swore to cherish her until the end of their days. He and their children between them would give her such love that Thomas himself, looking down from Heaven, would smile upon them and bless them.

Now Margaret stared before her, her arms about the shawl which held that terrible and precious relic.

London Bridge was behind them, and they went swiftly up the river to Chelsea.

Reading Group Guide

About This Book

Sir Thomas More (1478—1535) was an English lawyer and statesman who first served in Parliament during the reign of King Henry VII, where he made a name for himself by taking a stand against the king’s practice of appropriation. Once the king died, More quickly moved up the ranks in King Henry VIII’s court due to the new king’s recognition of his impartiality. As secretary and personal advisor to the king, More became increasingly influential in the government, welcoming foreign diplomats, drafting official documents, and serving as a liaison between the king and the Archbishop of York. He was eventually honored as lord chancellor in 1529.

A kind father who put as much emphasis on educating his daughters as on his son, More declared among his scholar-friends that women were just as intelligent as men, and often would exhibit works by his children as proof of his theory. His warm and loving household in Chelsea stood as a testament to his beliefs in the power of education and devotion to Catholicism, a startling contrast to the licentious Tudor court. Overall, More’s love of faith surpassed his duty to the crown, and his refusal to accept King Henry VIII’s claim to be the supreme head of the Church of England ended his political career, leading him first to the Tower on charges of treason, and eventually to his execution.

Throughout his life, More’s strong sense of values sheltered him and his family from the harshness of the world. In The King’s Confidante we meet not just Sir Thomas More, the king’s subject, but Thomas, the devoutly Catholic and loving husband, father, and friend, a man who creates a peaceful existence on earth, and who is so steadfast in his beliefs that even the threat of death does not make him falter, but makes him stronger.

Reading Group Guide

This guide is designed to help you direct your reading group’s discussion of Jean Plaidy’s The King’s Confidante.

1. What do you enjoy about historical novels like The King’s Confidante? Does knowledge of history enhance your enjoyment of the story or detract from it? How much did you know about Thomas More, King Henry VIII, and other important figures of the time period before starting this book?

2. The main character of the novel, Thomas More, lived with the Carthusian monks at Charterhouse for four years before deciding he was better suited to marriage, family life, and civil service. Carthusian monks are often characterized as a “community of hermits” due to the fact that the monks live together but spend most of their time in solitude, studying and praying. Through the course of The King’s Confidante, Plaidy portrays More as someone who takes great pleasure in family, friends, and work, but also as someone very attached to monastic practices such as wearing a hair shirt and flogging himself. What do you make of More’s decision to leave the monastery? Given his personality traits, do you think he made the right choice? How did his choice ultimately affect the intellects and government of his time?

3. More was a remarkably loving father, especially to his first child, Meg. What were the most interesting aspects of their relationship? Considering the desire of many men of the era to have a son, how was More different? Do you think that his desire to prove that women are just as capable of learning as men are was a factor in his love for Meg?

4. More had both a stepdaughter, Ailie Middleton, and an adopted daughter, Mercy Gigs. How was his relationship with them different than that which he had with his own children? How was his relationship with Ailie different than his relationship with Mercy? What do you think are the reasons for the differences?

5. After many years of living in London, More decided to move his family to a new estate in Chelsea. How did this move affect his family? What were the impressions of visitors from London? How did they view the family and their new lifestyle?

6. Everyone who lived with the More family seemed to have great fortune. All of the More children married well and happily, the artist Hans Holbein eventually found employment at King Henry VIII’s court, and even Dorothy Colly found a husband who adored her, even though he far surpassed her in wealth and prestige. What is it about the Mores that brings out the best in people? What characteristics do they exhibit that differ from others of their era?

7. Perhaps one of the most interesting characters in The King’s Confidante is Alice Middleton. What did you make of her boisterous personality and the way she interacted with those around her, especially her husband and children? Why do you think that More chose to marry her after Jane’s death? Do you think there was something that he understood about her that is perhaps hard to see on the surface?

8. In what ways was More a feminist? How did the women in his life play a role in developing his idea that women are just as capable as men? How did this belief affect his decisions to marry Jane rather than her sister, to support Queen Katharine, and to marry Alice?

9. Jean Plaidy paints King Henry VIII as a very attractive and vivacious character, especially in his youth. From portraits you’ve seen of King Henry VIII, and from characterizations you’ve seen of him in films and on television, does the image Plaidy conjures of him match with your previous impressions? Why or why not?

10. When King Henry VIII chose to dissolve his marriage with Queen Katharine in order to marry Anne Boleyn, did you find yourself rooting for one woman over the other? If so, which one? Why?

11. Did you find yourself intrigued by the depiction of Anne Boleyn? Was it surprising to hear Ailie say that the fashion in the courts was to wear long sleeves and neck ribbons because Anne Boleyn had a deformity on her hand and a wart on her neck (p. 188)? Was this something you knew prior to reading The King’s Confidante? Did it make you question why she would be so highly regarded by people in the court or by King Henry VIII?

12. In 1516, More published Utopia, his book about a fictional island nation where people live in peaceful communion with one another and are allowed to practice many different religions without the fear of punishment. As Meg notes when her father calls her husband, Will Roper, a heretic (p. 149), More seems out of synch with the ideas put forth in Utopia. What do you think of this discrepancy? Do you believe More is right to think that “drastic change, such as Luther advocated, could mean nothing but misery and bloodshed” (p. 146)? Was it surprising to learn that More was instrumental in prosecuting and putting to death these so-called heretics?

13. When More speaks with Meg about her husband’s new beliefs, he is shocked to learn that she already knew, for that meant that she had kept a secret from him. How does this revelation affect their relationship? What does Meg’s keeping a secret from her father say about how she has matured?

14. At several points throughout The King’s Confidante, More tells Meg that he plans to resign from his post at King Henry VIII’s court; however, each time he returns from his intended mission, not only has he not resigned, he also has gained a better title. Do you think that More was simply afraid to refuse the king or do you think that he secretly cherished his rise in status? Why?

15. When More refuses to sign the Oath of Supremacy, he learns that he will be sent to the Tower on charges of treason. Though this charge could mean that he will be executed, and most certainly that he will be detained in the horrible conditions of the Tower, More seems at ease. Why do you think he has a peaceful resignation about his fate, even after he learns that he will be executed? Do you think his last words (p. 279) speak to the reason he could accept what the king was doing to him?

Contents

Title Page

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The life-story of Katharine Parr, from the time she became Henry VIII’s sixth Queen until her death, reads, in many respects, more like a tale of fiction than of fact. I feel therefore that I should say to those readers who are not fully acquainted with the events of this time, that although some of the extraordinary happenings related herein may seem incredible, I have founded my story on the basic facts recorded by historians of the period. As an example: Strickland, Tytler, Speed and Fox all record as historical fact the fortuitous dropping of the all-important document and the discovery of this by Katharine’s faithful servant; yet this incident might appear to be manufactured melodrama; and indeed, but for this event, Katharine’s story would undoubtedly have had a different ending, and Henry might have been known as the husband of seven instead of six wives.

Historians, while agreeing in the main as to events, disagree widely in their estimation of character. Froude, for instance, would have us believe that Henry was a hero; yet Tytler says of him: “It may be doubted whether in the wide range of English history, there is to be found any monarch whose moral features, upon minute examination, become more harsh and repulsive than Henry VIII. Vain, capricious, profligate and tyrannical, he seems, even in the generous season of youth, to have exhibited but few indications of a better mind.”

In view of the wide differences of opinion, I feel that my estimation of character is likely to be as near the truth as others.

I wish gratefully to acknowledge the help I have had in writing this book from the following:

The National and Domestic History of England. William Hickman Smith Aubrey.

The Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland.

Henry VIII. A.F. Pollard, M.A., Litt. D.

The Political History of England (1485–1587). H.A.L. Fisher, M.A.

The Private Character of Henry VIII. Frederick Chamberlain, LL.B., F.R. Hist. S., F.R.G.S., F.R. Ast. S., F.S.A., M.R.I. of Gt. Brit.

The Wives of Henry VIII. Martin Hume.

Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Ed. by Dr. A. Clarke, M.A.

British History. John Wade.

A History of Everyday Things in England. Marjorie and C.H.B. Quennell.

Henry the Eighth. Francis Hackett.

England in Tudor Times. L.F. Salzman, M.A., F.S.A.

History of England: Henry VIII. James Anthony Froude.

—J.P.

CHAPTER

I

SPRING HAD COME TO ENGLAND. THERE WERE MARSH marigolds along the banks of the river, and in the royal park the saxifrage showed gold and green on the damp sweet-smelling earth; the buds were bursting open in the hedgerows; and the songs of the thrush and the blackbird filled the air.

In his royal palace of Greenwich, his “Manor of Pleazaunce,” the best-loved of all his palaces because it was his birthplace, the King was aware of the coming of spring. He was melancholy and he knew the reason for his melancholy. It was little more than a year since his fascinating but unfaithful wife had, at his command, lost her head. A whole year! It was a long time to be without a wife.

The small eyes seemed to sink into the puffy face, the mouth grew prim, as he thought of all he had suffered at the hands of his wives. The first and second had deceived him; he had divorced one and beheaded the other; the third had died giving him his son; the fourth he had not loved at all and had lost no time in divorcing her; and the fifth—that faithless wanton, Catharine Howard—whom for the last year he had been unable to banish from his thoughts, had walked out to Tower Green on a February day of last year and laid her head on the block.

This was an unnatural deprivation for a man to suffer; and, he reminded himself, if I am a King, I am also a man.

And the remedy for his melancholy? A wife.

The King must look for a sixth wife.

BLUSTERING MARCH WINDS buffeted the walls of a mansion close to the Charterhouse Priory in the City of London. On one of the window seats, her tapestry in her hands—although she was paying little attention to the design she was working—sat a woman. She was small and her hair, which was fair and abundant, showed beneath her hood of black velvet; her gown of the same material was richly embroidered, but in dark colors; and the skirt was open in the front to display her silk petticoat, which was a somber shade of purple; the long veil flowing from the back of her headdress proclaimed her a widow. Her face was charming, but the charm came from its expression rather than a regularity of features; at the moment it seemed to wear a borrowed beauty; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, and it was as though this beauty had snatched away ten years of her thirty and made her a young woman of twenty again.

She was in love; and the eager glances which she cast down at the courtyard suggested that she was waiting for her lover.

Why should she not have a lover? She had married twice to please her family. Why should she not marry this time to please herself?

Soon he would come riding into the courtyard. He would look up and she would wave her hand, for there was no subterfuge in her nature, and she would not hide her feelings. He was quite sure that she loved him and that he had only to ask her to become Lady Seymour and she would most readily agree.

He was the handsomest man in the King’s court. It was not only her love that told her this. Others said the same; even his enemies—and he had many—granted him that. He was the brother-in-law of the King; and he was a favorite of the King, for all knew that the latter liked to have about him those who were gay, young and handsome. Some thought that Thomas Seymour had become too ambitious since his sister Jane had married the King; others said that favors won through a female relative and not as a reward for a man’s prowess, were built on flimsy foundations. Thomas, they said, lacked the ability of his elder brother, Edward, Lord Hertford. Edward had crafty diplomacy to set against Thomas’s charm. Edward was cautious; Thomas was reckless.

It mattered not, Katharine, the widow, assured herself. He was the most charming, the most delightful of companions. He was the only man she would ever love, and he loved her too. He was going to ask her to marry him and she—widow of a few months though she was—was going to marry him.

Contemplating her third marriage must naturally make her think of the other two. They had been no real marriages. She smiled now, a little tenderly, thinking of the poor frightened child whom they had married to Lord Borough of Gainsborough, an elderly widower, with children who had seemed to Katharine quite old. Her Mother had arranged that match, and she and her sister and brother had always obeyed their mother without question. Katharine could not remember her father, for Sir Thomas Parr had died when she was only four; and in the capable hands of his wife, Maud, he had left the care of his children.

Lady Parr had been a stern mother, continually scheming for the advancement of her children; and when young Katharine had been told she was to marry the rich Lord Borough, it had not occurred to her to protest.

And perhaps, Katharine told herself, as she threaded her needle with crimson silk, she had not been so unfortunate, for my Lord Borough had proved to be a kindly man, gentle and tender, and not so demanding as a young man might have been. She had been sorry when at the age of fifteen she had found herself to be a rich widow.

The first widowhood had been allowed to last only two or three years when another wealthy widower had been found for her. John Neville, Lord Latimer, was an excellent match, so said her family; and recognizing in him the same kindly tolerance which had made her first marriage less frightening than it might so easily have been, and finding friendship with his grownup children, Katharine had allowed herself to be married a second time—indeed, she had had little say in the matter—and had taken up residence in the beautiful mansion of Snape Hall, or sometimes in another of his houses in Worcester, or, when they visited London, here in the mansion near the Charterhouse.

With Lord Latimer she had attended court and had become acquainted with the Princess Mary, who was of an age similar to her own; they had interests in common and had found pleasure in each other’s company.

She had been a good wife to Lord Latimer; she had nursed him in sickness and she had astonished him with her wisdom, since but for her he might have come to a tragic end. He had taken an active part in the “Pilgrimage of Grace,” that insurrection against the reforms of the King and Cromwell, and it was only by great good fortune that he had escaped the King’s wrath; and this was due to his listening to Katharine’s entreaties that he should not join in the second rising.

Katharine could shudder now remembering those times, but they were behind her since she was widowed for the second time. She was still young—only in her thirty-first year—and she was rich, possessing several stately mansions and the fortunes inherited from two husbands. She was also in love.

Sir Thomas Seymour was quite different from either Lord Borough or Lord Latimer. The flashing eyes, the chestnut beard, the curling hair, the great stature, the booming voice, the air of jaunty recklessness, the sailor’s oaths which rose to his lips at the least provocation, set him apart; he was a man in a thousand. Perhaps she was rather foolish, she a widow of thirty, to love the most charming man at court. She would certainly have been had she not been sure that her affection was returned.

As she stitched she thought of their meetings in this mansion. Lord Latimer had been a Catholic, but she even during his lifetime had been attracted by the New Religion. She had friends who were interested in it; and how she had enjoyed their conversations, the books which had to be smuggled to her apartments because they were forbidden reading. She had never talked to Lord Latimer of her feelings for the New Religion. How could she when he was a staunch Catholic and supported Rome with such fervor that he was ready to disobey the King and risk his life to do so? She had been taught that it was a wife’s duty to follow her husband in all things. But when Lord Latimer had died there seemed no longer any reason why she should not admit to herself that she had these Protestant leanings.

She had first become interested through her conversations with a friend named Anne Askew, the daughter of a squire of Lincoln. Anne was fervent in her beliefs and Katharine felt that she herself could never be so pious. Her intentions were noble, but worldly matters came between her and her piety. She smiled as she paused in her work to smooth the folds of her velvet gown; she enjoyed wearing beautiful garments and rich ornaments.

It was at a religious gathering which she had arranged should take place in this house that she had first become aware of Thomas. He had looked incongruous at the gathering; he had not seemed in the least devout; his extravagant clothes and gay manners set him apart. Did he come for religious reasons? She doubted it. He came because the meetings were anti-Catholic and antagonistic to those—such as the Duke of Norfolk, Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester and Sir Thomas Wriothesley—who wished to wrest the King’s favor from himself and his family.

Katharine was not interested in his reasons for coming; she only cared that he came; and from the moment he had selected her for his attention, she had to admit that the religious purpose of the gatherings seemed to lose its importance.

At that moment her woman, Nan, came into the room.

Nan was younger than Katharine by a year or two; dark-haired and pretty, she had been with Katharine since her marriage with Lord Latimer; she was a very loving servant.

There was a cloud in Nan’s eyes today because she knew the reason for her mistress’s elation, and it disturbed her. Nan felt that Katharine judged all men by the two she had married, and innocently thought that Sir Thomas Seymour was a younger, more handsome and more charming version of Lord Latimer.

“Well, Nan,” said Katharine, “how do you think the pattern goes?”

Nan came and surveyed it.

“Very well, my lady.”

“It is cold today. But the spring will soon be here. There are signs of it everywhere.”

“They are saying, my lady, that the King feels the effects of spring.”

“The King?”

“Yes, my lady. And it is rumored that he looks for a new wife.”

“Oh, yes.” Katharine glanced down at her embroidery. Her mood had become solemn. There was not a lady at court who did not become solemn at the thought of the King’s last marriage, which had ended so tragically just over a year ago.

“It seems such a short while ago that we had a Queen,” went on Nan. “We thought the King was happy at last. And then quite suddenly…” She paused and shivered. “She was so pretty,” she went on. “I do not think I ever saw anyone quite so pretty. Queen Anne Boleyn was more striking to look at—more fascinating too, they say—but I do not think I ever saw one so dainty, so sweet to look upon as Queen Catharine Howard.”

“Don’t speak of it, Nan. It is…upsetting.”

But Nan went on: “I remember how she ran screaming down the gallery at Hampton Court when the King was at chapel. I can’t forget the sound of her voice.”

“It is best forgotten, Nan.”

“But I shall never forget. I was there at the end. I should not have gone, but I could not help it. I had to go. And I saw her walk out and lay her pretty head on the block…like a child who had learned her lesson. They say she practiced how she should do it while she was waiting in her cell. And now, my lady, the King looks for a sixth wife.”

“A sixth wife!” said Katharine. “How I pity her…whoever she shall be. But what are we saying? This is no affair of ours. The King grows older—although doubtless it is treason to say so. Let us hope he is putting all thought of another marriage from him. And, if he should marry, now that he is older, there is less likelihood of his fancy’s straying.”

“It did not stray from Catharine Howard, my lady.”

“Let us not speak of it. Do I hear the sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard?”

She looked out of the window, smiling, for riding into the courtyard was Thomas Seymour.

THE KING WAS becoming more and more occupied with thoughts of a wife. He was no longer young on that March day in the year 1543. Fifty-two. There were times when that seemed a great age for a man to be, particularly when in his teens and his twenties he had been one of the most vigorous of men, over six feet tall, of great girth, delighting in all sports and pastimes—and more than any in the sport of love.

In his thirties he had been a giant among men, unmistakably a king. It had been his delight to go among his subjects feebly disguised and to play a pleasant little game of make-believe which all saw through. “Who is this man?” people were expected to ask. “Why, he has the bearing of a king!” And when they had speculated and marveled, he would throw off his disguise and say: “Cudgel your pates no more, my friends. I am your King!” That was just one of the games he had delighted to play. But a man of fifty is not to be compared with a man of twenty or even thirty, and now he was no longer able to win games with skill, and he would not play except to win. There were days when he could but hobble about his palaces, and then he must have the aid of a stick and the arm of a courtier to lean on. His leg—his accursed leg—grew worse instead of better; he had tried he could not remember how many remedies. He had promised a fortune to the man who could heal it; he had threatened to lop off the heads of those who failed. All to no avail. The leg might seem better for a while; then the ulcer would make itself felt again and the pain could at times be so agonizing that he would cry out with it and hit out at any who irritated him.

Last year had been a trying one for him. He had made fresh claim to the throne of Scotland, had attacked the Scots and given them a trouncing at Solway Moss. But the battle was not decisive. State affairs were pressing and he needed escape from them at times. For, as he often said to his friends, a king is a man for all he is a king. And he had suffered—as a man, as a husband—great sorrow.

Now, with the trees budding and the birds disturbing the royal slumbers in the early morning, so that he would awaken in his lonely bed (or if it was not lonely, it was occupied by one whose presence there disturbed his conscience), he felt that he, like the trees and flowers and grasses, was renewing his strength. As a husband, Fate had treated him cruelly. But did that mean he would never know good fortune in marriage?

The plain fact was (and, thought Henry, I am a plain man to whom facts should be plain) the King was in need of a wife.

So on this March day, when the winds seemed to penetrate the Palace of Greenwich, the King stumped up and down his Privy Chamber, while outside in the audience room several of his courtiers awaited his summons; none dared approach without it. They feared his anger. And he wanted none of them; he wished to be alone with his thoughts. Yet, because he needed a new wife, he could not shut out of his mind memories of his other wives.

Five of them! It was a good tally. François Premier, across the water, had had only two; but his mistresses were legion.

There, thought the King of England, we differ—the King of France and I. His little mouth grew prim; his little eyes were complacent. It was a habit of his to compare himself with the lecher, François. They were of an age; and love was the ruling influence in the life of the French King. Henry liked to think that kingship occupied that place in his. All knew that Madame d’Étampes ruled at the French court as once Madame de Chateaubriand had ruled.

Using his healthy leg, Henry kicked a stool out of his way. The veins stood out on his temples. The very thought of the dark, sardonic face of his enemy infuriated him at all times.

“He has no conscience,” he muttered. “And I…I am all conscience. Oh God, Thou knowest what a man of conscience I am.” The King often addressed God, addressed Him as an equal; for as the King saw himself to be always right, always obeying his conscience, he felt sure, as a man of God, of the constant approval of the Almighty.

Two wives of his had died at his command, young women both of them; and some called them martyrs. Not that any dared say such things in public…if they had any respect for their tongues, for tongues could be cut out for saying such words; and ears could be lopped off for listening to them. Henry insisted (and God must know this too, for Henry continually explained to God) that he had been reluctant to order the death of those two wives of his; but he was a good man, a man of God; he had a conscience which would not allow him to find happiness in an irregular union. It was better that a woman should die than that the King should be forced to illicit pleasure.

God understood that he was right, because the King and God saw through the same eyes. Henry was sure of that. Anne Boleyn haunted his dreams now and then, with her mocking black eyes and her clever tongue; but God had given him a sign that in the case of Anne Boleyn he had acted with wisdom and righteousness. Had not Jane Seymour, Anne’s successor, produced a son? Little Edward was now safely past his fifth year; he was the heir for whom, through the barren years with Spanish Katharine and the fiery ones with Anne Boleyn, he had longed. And Jane had given him that son. Meek little Jane. He had forgotten how quickly he had tired of her; he liked to say now: “Ah, God, if only Jane had lived, how different my life would have been!” Then he would smile and add that God doubtless had had His reasons for taking Jane. The King did not question the Almighty’s reasons, as doubtless the Almighty did not question his.

The King laughed suddenly. He had thought how angry those brothers of Jane’s must have been with her for dying when she did.

Edward Seymour was a clever fellow, taking good advantage of the fact that he was young Edward’s uncle. Full of craft…diplomatic…a good servant. As for Thomas, the King could not help liking the fellow. In Thomas he saw something of the man he himself had been—a pale shadow, of course, a very pale shadow. But that breezy air, the great oaths, and his way with the ladies! Yes, it was big, hearty men like Thomas Seymour that the King liked to have about him.

He had heard rumors of Master Thomas’s ambitions, and that he did not like so well. It was necessary to be watchful of those who were too ambitious. There was that scoundrel Norfolk and his son, Surrey—they had to be watched. They were too near the throne for comfort, and the Tudor tree was not as firmly rooted as Henry would like to see it.

That was why he needed more sons to grow up with his little Edward…sons, sons…Tudor sons to live after him and keep the throne for his house.

Marriage! That was the answer. Marriage was in the air because it was springtime. Young Seymour wanted to marry, so it was said, and he had cast his insolent eyes on the King’s own daughter, on the young Elizabeth—Anne Boleyn’s bastard. For all that she was her mother’s daughter, he could not help having a certain feeling for her. He detected some fire within her, something she had inherited from him. He pretended to doubt that she was really his daughter. He had tried to believe she was like his old friend, poor Norris, who had gone to the block with Anne. He could feel the hot jealousy swelling in his head now when he thought of that May day when Anne had sat beside him in the tiltyard and Norris had ridden there. Although that was seven years ago he could remember it vividly. Seven years since the executioner’s sword, specially procured from Calais, had slashed Anne’s lovely head from her graceful body, yet whenever he saw the girl Elizabeth he remembered. She lacked her mother’s beauty and inimitable charm, but there was something of Anne in Elizabeth—something of Anne and something of himself. And now that rake Seymour had cast his eyes upon her.

The King had learned from his spies that if Thomas could not get the lady Elizabeth he would take the Lady Jane Grey, granddaughter of Henry’s sister Mary, whom—so long ago now—he had sent to France to marry old Louis, and who, after leading that poor old monarch such a dance that in a few months he died, had secretly married Charles Brandon before returning to England. The fruit of that marriage had been Frances Brandon, who had borne Jane.

“Elizabeth for preference then,” said young Seymour. “But if I can’t get the King’s daughter, I’ll have his kinswoman.”

Henry considered them as he could not help considering all women. Elizabeth would be the more suitable. She was ten years old; Jane was only five.

But did it matter what plans Seymour made, since they would come to nothing unless the King willed otherwise? The important factor was the King’s marriage.

Whom should he choose? Who could be compared with the dainty Catharine Howard? The lady must have all that fair wanton’s charm and none of her wickedness.

He was aware that the ladies of the court were not eager for the honor he would bestow on one of them. That was a little disturbing. He could force the woman of his choice to marry him; but he could not force her delight in doing so. When Catharine Howard had died, he had made it a capital offense for any woman to marry a King of England if she were not a virgin. Surely there were some virtuous women in his court. Yet if any caught his eye upon her, she would seem overcome by embarrassment, and when he looked for her again he would find her absent; should he inquire of her, he would doubtless be told that she had fallen sick and was keeping to her apartments.

He shook his head sadly.

It was said—though he pretended not to know this—that no unmarried woman would care to risk marriage with him because she knew that when he was tired of her he could trump up a charge against her virtue. He preferred not to know of such talk. There was his giant conscience to be appeased. The King must always be right; his motives must always be of the highest. The conscience demanded that it should be so, and the conscience, if necessary, was monster enough to stamp out the truth.

Could they say that Catharine Howard was not a slut, not a wanton? Could they say that he had trumped up charges against her? Surely those charges had been proved.

But Anne Boleyn: only young Smeaton had “confessed” to adultery with her, and that under dire torture.

But he was tormenting himself. The past was done with. Forget it he must, and remember the need of the present. He needed a wife. Yet he could not think of one he would care to honor. He wanted a Queen. He was growing tired of the hunt—both in the forest and the women’s apartments at the palace. He wanted comfort now; he wanted a peaceful old age. He wanted a woman—not too young and frivolous, not the sort who might hanker after younger men. She need not be a beauty if she were comely enough. He called to mind the five he had had: Katharine from Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne from Cleves and Catharine Howard. How unsatisfactory they had all been in their different ways! And yet what he wanted now was a woman who would embody all their virtues and none of their faults: the piety, poise and nobility of the first Katharine; the great fascination of Anne; the meekness of Jane; the good sense of the second Anne (for that woman from Cleves had been sensible and had regarded herself as lucky to get away with a pension and her head on her shoulders to enable her to enjoy it); and the sweet, complacent beauty of little Catharine Howard. Yes, she must have all those qualities and she must be a good and faithful wife, a consort of whom one could be proud, a gentle, serene lady to soothe him when necessary, to enchant him, to make him feel young again, to be a stepmother to the children he had, and a mother to those he might yet have. Edward was sickly (what a perpetual anxiety the health of that boy was!), and there was always the need to get more sons.

That reminded him of the pretensions of his brother-in-law. He shouted to his attendants, and a page came fearfully into his presence.

“Find my brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, and bring him hither,” ordered the King.

The page bowed low, assuring his gracious Majesty that his will should with all speed be done, and set off in search of Sir Thomas.

Seymour was preparing himself for a trip on the river that he might call on Lady Latimer. His short gown, girdled at the waist, reached his knees and was of rich blue satin. His dalmatica was adorned with the widest sleeves; his hose were of white satin and his cap sparkled with sapphires and diamonds.

He was pleased with his appearance; he was pleased with himself. It was good to be young, handsome and full of vigor, to have ambitions which, because he was by nature optimistic, he was certain would very soon be fulfilled.

Sir Thomas Seymour, the great sailor, was not yet the Admiral he intended to become. But that should come about very soon, he promised himself. The young Prince Edward idolized him; Uncle Thomas was his favorite uncle, and such as Uncle Thomas did not forget that one day little Edward would be King of England, and little Edward was not the sort to forget his favorite uncle. What a good thing it had been for the House of Seymour when the King’s roving and most amorous eyes had alighted on his little sister Jane.

Dear Jane! So obedient. She had done just what her brothers had told her to. He was not sure that, in dying when she had, she had not done a good thing too; for the King would soon have tired of her, and who could say what might have happened if Jane had not made a perpetual shrine for herself in the King’s heart by promptly departing after the birth of her son? It was so easy for a sentimental, conscience-stricken King to sigh and tell himself and his courtiers that Jane had been the only wife for whom he had cared, the only woman worthy to have been his wife. So, because accommodating Jane had died at the right moment, she was now safely buried, with her head on her shoulders, and all was set fair for the Seymour brothers.

There was one minor irritation in the life of Thomas Seymour at that moment. The Lady Latimer, in mourning for her husband, was not at court; and he must make the long journey to her house if he would see her.

Katharine. Fair Katharine. And rich Katharine. He was very fond of her. She was perhaps not so beautiful as some other women he knew, but she had other qualities. For one thing, she adored him so obviously. What a refreshing change she must find him after those gouty old widowers of hers. She had never really lived, poor soul. She had been a nurse, not a wife. How different she would find life if she were the wife of Thomas Seymour.

He thought of those mansions which were hers; he thought of her fortune; he also thought of her charming person. He would have proposed marriage to her immediately after my Lord Latimer had died but for one thing.

He was well aware that the Princess Elizabeth was only nine years old. But he could wait…six or seven years. And who knew what was going to happen in the course of seven years. The King had lived for fifty-two years, and those fifty-two years had been somewhat rashly spent. The kingly body was none too healthy. It was said that the hideous leg was the outward sign of inner evils. The King of France suffered from similar abscesses, and all knew of the life he had lived. Fifty-two were not a great many years, but so much depended on how those years had been spent. And then, when Henry died, there was Edward. Poor Edward! Poor, sickly, learned little boy! His uncles would control him, and England would be ruled by her Protectors; and who should they be but the boy’s uncles? And if the boy should die—he certainly had not the appearance of one who would make old bones—and one of those Protectors was married to the King’s daughter…It was not difficult to see the possibilities in that situation. Moreover, that red-headed little girl was not displeasing to him; and he fancied—for there was something of her mother in her—that he was not altogether displeasing to her, young child that she was.

“By God’s precious soul!” he murmured. “I see great days ahead for the Seymours—and in particular for you, my dear Sir Thomas.”

One of his gentlemen came in to tell him that the King’s page had brought a message for him. He was to go at once to the King’s presence, and it seemed from the King’s mood that it would not be wise to delay.

Cursing softly, Seymour went to the King’s apartment, where he knelt in reverence.

“H’m!” snorted the King, noting the rich blue satin and the sparkling sapphires and how they made the sailor’s eyes look bluer and more vivid in his suntanned face. There should be a law, thought the King, forbidding a King’s servant to deck himself in finery rivaling his King’s.

“I had word that Your Majesty desired my presence and I came with all speed.”

“You were wise there, brother,” said the King. “Wiser than you have been in some other matters.”

Seymour opened wide his blue eyes and looked at the King with astonishment. He was ready with his tongue too, the King noted.

“My Gracious Lord, if my unwisdom has offended Your Grace, pray let me know in what cause, that I may hasten to be wise.”

“Methinks,” said Henry, “that when I honor a subject with a small favor, that subject is apt to look for bigger ones.”

“It is such an honor to serve Your Grace, and Your Grace’s smiles are treasured. You must forgive your loving subjects if, having received one of your royal smiles, they crave for more.”

“Smiles! It is not smiles some look for. Some enjoy lands and treasures which not so long ago belonged to others.”

Seymour bowed his head. It was true that, as Jane Seymour’s brother, he had received lands and riches from the despoliation of the monasteries; he had grown from a humble country gentleman into a rich courtier. Was the King planning to take away that which he had given? Seymour thought uneasily of another Thomas—Cardinal Wolsey—who had at one time been the richest man, next to the King, in all England; yet he had lost everything, even his life.

“But it is not of lands that we would speak,” went on Henry. “We have been hearing rumors of your conduct, Seymour, and we do not like what we hear.”

“I am deeply grieved, Your Grace.”

“Then that is well. And, hark ye, we shall look to you to mend your ways. We have heard rumors of your gallantry, Seymour. You know what store I set on virtue….”

Seymour bowed his head even lower. It would not do for his master to see the smile which played about his mouth, and, try as he might, Thomas Seymour could not prevent its appearing there. This model of virtue! he thought. This husband of five wives—this lover of how many women! Yet in his own eyes the King remained a figure of virtue. After all, he had always put away one wife before the official ceremony of taking another, even if it meant cutting off her head.

“I know, Your Grace,” said Seymour craftily; “and if I have offended, I crave your pardon and Your Majesty’s clemency. I would remind Your Majesty that it is not easy for a humble subject to follow the example of his King.”

Henry looked sharply at the man. Insolence? Was that it? He softened in spite of himself. Liking the fellow, he could not help it. Yes, he had a liking for Tom Seymour as he had had for others. Thomas Wyatt, for instance, who was reputed to have been the lover of Anne Boleyn; Thomas Wolsey was another who had had his regard. Dear Thomas Wolsey! A good servant. Henry had long persuaded his conscience that Wolsey’s decline and death lay at the door of Anne Boleyn, as did the execution of that other favorite, Thomas More. There was yet another Thomas who was beloved of the King—Thomas Cranmer. How different was pious Cranmer—rather sly, sensitive Cranmer—from this handsome braggart who now stood before him. Perhaps he liked Cranmer for his very cunning, for his clever way of extricating his King from troubles; and he liked Tom Seymour because he was amusing, because he seemed a pale shadow of a youthful Henry.

“There has been too much gallantry, my lord,” went on Henry. “It extends, we hear, from the lowest to the highest. Take care, brother.”

“I know not what tales have been brought to Your Gracious Majesty, but whoever uttered them…”

“Lied in his throat, I don’t doubt you will tell me. Let us hope that you are right.”

“I can assure Your Gracious Majesty that it is so.”

“And,” went on the King, “that you, my lord, have never raised those handsome eyes to the Princess Elizabeth, our daughter?”

“My Gracious Lord…”

“Ah, you would have need of our gracious leniency if we found you guilty of such folly.”

“I beg Your Grace to listen to my side of the story.”

“We are listening.”

“I would not presume to raise my eyes to one so near Your Grace.”

“That is well. Eyes raised to the sun become dazzled, brother; and dazzled eyes see not clearly the dangers that lie ahead. Do not allow yourself to be blinded. Neither the Princess Elizabeth nor the Lady Jane Grey is for you, brother.”

“Indeed not, Your Majesty. If I seemed to admire these two, it was as charming children and…”

“Then all is well. You may leave us, brother.”

Seymour bowed, retired and went from the palace to his waiting barge.

He was sweating a little under his fine garments, particularly about the neck. Necks were so sensitive. How many times did the gentlemen about the King fancy they felt the touch of the ax there? One day a man was in high favor, his ambitions promising fulfillment; the next day he was being rowed to the Tower and taken through the Traitors’ Gate. It had happened to so many whom he had known.

That interview meant that, at present, he must curb his hopes. The red-headed Princess was not for him…at present. He must forget the little Lady Jane. But there was still the rich widow waiting in her late husband’s mansion; and very rich she was, and comely too. He had developed an insatiable taste for riches since his sister’s elevation. A rich wife today was a more exciting prize than a royal one in seven years’ time. Much could happen in a day, an hour. How much more could happen in seven years!

The King had stumped to his window and watched the progress of the gallant young man as he made his way toward the river.

Whither was he going? wondered Henry. It was to meet a woman, doubtless. Henry smiled slyly. Not the Princess Elizabeth, for certain. He had not been unaware of the fear he had planted in Seymour. The gallant sailor would be a little less gallant in that direction and keep his eyes from straying too high.

The King was so curious that he had one of Sir Thomas’s gentlemen brought to him.

“Whither goes your master this day?” he asked.

“To London, Your Majesty.”

“And why to London?”

“On business, as far as I know, Your Majesty.”

“What business? Out with it, knave. You know his errand and you would be wise to tell it.”

“My Lord King, if it pleases you, he has gone to call on Lady Latimer.”

The King smiled. “You may go. It is our wish that you tell not your master that we were interested in his journey. It will go ill with you if you do.”

Lady Latimer, mused the King, when the man had left. He knew her well. Kate Parr, he called her, for he remembered her as Parr’s girl. He had noticed her when she came to court, and he had liked her. She had been a good wife, first to Borough and then to Latimer. A sedate and virtuous lady. The kind of woman he liked to see about the court. And why was it he had not seen her at court? Ah, mourning Latimer, he supposed.

So Seymour was visiting her. To what end? Wealthy widow. Very wealthy widow. Those Seymours were the most avaricious men in the kingdom.

The King laughed. He believed that Seymour, knowing now that the Princess Elizabeth and the Lady Jane Grey were out of reach, was turning to the more mature charms of the widow.

Seymour could always make the King laugh; perhaps that was why the latter liked him. But even as Henry laughed, he grew solemn. She was a charming woman, this Katharine Parr. A good, virtuous and not uncomely woman, the sort the King liked to see at his court. A good influence on others. She had been friendly with the Princess Mary, and that meant that she was a sober, religious lady, having similar interests to those of his twenty-seven-year-old daughter.

Kate Parr and Tom Seymour. Incongruous!

Later, when he was closeted with his Primate, Thomas Cranmer, discussing State affairs, the King said suddenly: “The morals of the court distress me. I would like to see it influenced by our virtuous matrons. There is one…Katharine Parr…recently widowed. Latimer, was it not? He died a short while ago. She is a good woman and she would be an influence for good with our young maidens. I do not see her at court as often as I should like.”

Cranmer lowered his eyes. He was like a frightened stag, always on the alert for the chase to begin. He had seen Thomas Cromwell fall, and he could not forget it.

Latimer! he thought now. The noble lord had been involved in the Pilgrimage of Grace, as had Katharine Parr’s relatives, the Throckmortons. They were staunch Catholics, and Cranmer must be continually on guard against the influence of Catholic thought on the King. Yet of late Latimer’s widow had been turning toward the new faith, which was dear to Cranmer. A Protestant lady’s influence on the King would make Cranmer happy, while it would certainly discomfit his enemies—Norfolk, Gardiner and Wriothesley.

Cranmer said: “Your Grace, we should command this lady to come to court.”

The King nodded.

“Let it be done,” he said. “Let it be done.”

IN THE OAK-PANELED room of the Latimer mansion, Thomas Seymour was bowing over the hand of Katharine Parr.

“I have waited for this moment for…for…” Seymour lifted his handsome eyes to Katharine’s face. It was a trick of the gallant gentleman, who was rarely lost for words, to feign a nervousness which made him tongue-tied. It was a trick which never failed to please the lady he was trying to impress.

“For?” prompted Katharine.

“Since I last saw you.” He smiled and boldly drew her to the window-seat, keeping her hand in his.

“Do you find it pleasant to be in London, fair lady, after the monotony of Yorkshire?”

“I had too much to do in Yorkshire to find life monotonous there.”

“But did you not, when you so nobly nursed your husband, long for court life?”

“No. I was happy. Except…”

“Except?”

“I thought of that time when I knew great fear. Not a day would pass when I would not be startled out of my wits by a knock on a door or a sight of a rider in the courtyard. I would look through a window and say to myself: ‘Can it be a messenger from the King?’”

“And, your lord husband, did he tremble with you?”

“He did not. He seemed insensible to danger. He was a brave man.”

“Too sick, I’ll wager, too concerned with fighting death to fear the King’s anger.”

“And then…” she said, “the King pardoned him.”

“The King’s pardon!” Seymour laughed. “The King’s smiles are like April sunshine, Kate.”

“I hear he is moody and depressed these days.”

“The King! Aye. And looking for a wife.”

“May God preserve the poor, unfortunate lady on whom his choice falls.”

Seymour raised his eyebrows in mock horror. “Treason, Kate!” he said.

“I know I should be careful. I speak too rashly.”

“Rashness? That is a fault I share with you. But ’tis truth you speak. What woman would be eager to share the King’s throne since poor little Howard’s head rolled in the straw?”

“Poor child. So young. So beautiful…and to die thus!”

“Caution!” Seymour took the opportunity to put his face close to hers on a pretext of whispering. “Master Wriothesley hath his spies everywhere, they say. I will tell you something: All through the court people are whispering, asking each other on whom the King’s choice will fall. Age creeps on the royal body. Once he was a raging lion; now he is a sick one. The same desires, the same mighty bulk, but a sick lion who stays at home to lick his poor, wounded limbs when once he would have led the chase. Such a state of affairs has not been beneficial to the royal temper.”

“’Tis you who are incautious now.”

“I ever was, and ’tis true I am more so now. Do you know why? It is because you are sitting near me. You are as beautiful as the sun on the sea, Kate. Oh, I beg of you keep clear of His Majesty’s roaming eye.”

She laughed. “You are mocking me. I have been a wife twice already.”

“Nay! You have never been a wife. You have been twice a nurse. My lord Latimer was old enough to have been your grandsire.”

“He was good to me.”

“Good to his nurse! Oh, Kate, you know not how fair you are. Again I say, strive not to catch the King’s eye.”

“I am thirty years old.”

“And look but twenty. But why talk of the King and his marriages? The marriages of others might make better talk.”

Katharine looked at him earnestly. It was difficult to believe what she so longed to believe. He was too charming, too handsome; and she, as she had pointed out to him, was thirty years old, and twice widowed. No, it was to some fresh and beautiful young girl that he would turn.

“Which…which marriage had you in mind?” she asked.

He put his arm about her then and kissed her heartily on the mouth. “My own!” he cried.

“Yours?” She made an attempt to struggle, but she could put no heart into it because this was where she longed to be, with him beside her, his arms about her, listening to words which she longed to hear more than any in the world. “Since…when did you contemplate marriage?”

“From the moment I set eyes on you,” was his prompt reply. “That was when I began to think of marriage.”

“You forget I am so lately a widow.”

“Nay, sweet Kate—scarce a widow since you were never a wife. Sicknurse! That was you, Kate.”

“But…should I think of marriage with my husband scarce cold in his grave?”

“Bah! He is lucky to be there, Kate. The King never forgives those who work against him. Better, when one is a sick old man, to die in bed than rot in chains as Constable did. He was a fool, that husband of yours.”

Katharine would not allow even the man she loved to speak against the man she had married. “He did what he believed to be right,” she said warmly. “The cause of Rome was very near his heart and he supported it.”

“A man’s a fool who’ll support the Pope’s cause against the King’s when he lives within reach of the King’s wrath and out of reach of the Pope’s succor.”

“We are not all as ambitious, mayhap, as Sir Thomas Seymour.”

“Ambitious? I?”

Katharine drew herself away from him and said with a touch of coldness in her voice: “I have heard it whispered that you are very ambitious indeed, and that you have aspired to make an advantageous marriage.”

“’Tis true,” he said, “that I seek an advantageous marriage. I seek the advantages that a happy marriage could bring me. I seek the advantage of marriage with the woman I love.”

“And who might that be? The Princess Elizabeth?”

“The Princess Elizabeth!” Seymour’s expression was a masterpiece of astonishment. “I…marry a Princess! Come, Kate, you’re dreaming.”

“So the reason you have remained a bachelor so long is not because you wait for one whom you would marry to reach a marriageable age?”

“The reason I have remained a bachelor for so long is that the woman I wish to marry is only now free to marry me.”

“I wish I knew that it was true!” she sighed.

He laughed and held her closer to him.

“Kate! Kate!” he chided. “You are mad to speak thus. Could you be jealous of a child?”

She smiled contentedly. “It is said that those who study the ways of ambition learn patience,” she reminded him.

“Patience! It was never a virtue of mine. That is why I’ll not wait a moment longer before I kiss those lips.”

How pleasant it was there in the room with its windows overlooking the courtyard, and with him beside her promising such joy as she had never known.

They talked of the future which would be theirs.

“But we must wait awhile,” insisted Katharine. “I dare not marry yet. It is too soon.”

Seymour feigned impatience, but he was not sorry that there must be a time of waiting. He could not get the picture of the red-headed Princess out of his mind. She had such a white skin and a coquettish air, he fancied, when she looked his way. Not yet ten years old and a coquette already, and not insensible to the outstanding attractions of a man old enough to be her father.

He was not averse to waiting, for, in this age of surprises, events came thick and fast, and one could never be sure what would happen next.

“I warn you,” said Seymour, “I shall not wait too long.”

“Nor should I wish to, for now I know your mind I could not bear to.”

They talked once more of the life they would share. They would escape into the country as often as possible, for there were great joys, she would show him, to be found in the simple life.

When at length he left her, she stood at her window watching him for as long as was possible. It seemed to her that her happiness was almost too great. Perhaps she felt thus because she had waited so long for it. Yet thirty was not so old. He did not think so.

She tried to work at her embroidery, to read a little from her book of devotions, to write; but it was impossible; she could think of nothing but the happy promise of the future. The marriages which had been arranged for her, and which had brought friendship and riches, were over; and now she could make the romantic marriage which would bring her that perfect contentment of which she had often dreamed.

It was later that day when a messenger arrived from the court. The King missed the company of Lady Latimer, and he had discovered that he desired it. Lady Latimer would therefore present herself at court without delay.

THERE WAS SPECULATION among the courtiers.

Lady Latimer had arrived with a few attendants, and the King had noticeably singled her out for his special attention. On every possible occasion he extolled the piety of those women who, in their kindness and sympathy, nursed their husbands through sickness. The King’s ideal of womanhood was now Lady Latimer. There seemed to be only one person at court who did not grasp the situation, and this was Katharine herself. It was due to modesty, for she could not believe that the King would really regard her as a possible Queen. She was sure that she lacked all the gay, spirited fascination of Anne Boleyn, all the young beauty of Catharine Howard. Even Jane Seymour had had a pale beauty of her own. And I, Katharine told herself, am no more handsome than the Lady of Cleves; and the King would have none of her. It was true that Anne of Cleves had had strange, rough manners and awkward speech and that her skin was pitted from smallpox; but at least she had been the sister of the Duke of Cleves and of importance in European politics. But what had Katharine Parr to offer a man who had always demanded outstanding physical attraction or political assets in his wives?

What she heard concerning this matter must be merely court gossip, and Katharine would not allow herself to be disturbed by it. She was not going to relinquish her dreams as readily as that. She was going to marry Thomas Seymour; she loved him and he loved her.

Nan, who had accompanied her to court, was looking very mournful. Poor Nan! She was a pessimist by nature. Other ladies also threw her compassionate glances. Naturally, the whole court was concerned as to the King’s potential wife, merely because he lacked a wife. They did not realize that when men grew old they thought more often of their comforts than of erotic excitement. Katharine knew. She had had two old husbands.

She therefore persisted in her dreams of marriage with Thomas and refused to admit to herself that he had seemed to grow aloof, that he was often absent from court, and that when the King was present he scarcely looked her way. It was agreed between them that they must wait for marriage; she had been the one who had insisted on that. Naturally, they must wait for a reasonable time to elapse after the death of Lord Latimer; and until they could announce a date for their marriage it was better to keep silent about it and let none guess that they contemplated it.

So Katharine went on blithely dreaming.

Thomas Cranmer watched the progress of events. He was cautious by nature; a man must be cautious in the service of such a master. Lady Latimer was a pleasant woman; she would serve the King well if she could do what most of his wives had failed to do: provide him with sons. Cranmer wished to play the safe game. He would not further the marriage of his master with Katharine Parr; nor would he thwart it. Many men had fallen after taking a hand in the King’s matrimonial affairs. Anne Boleyn had caused the downfall of Wolsey; Anne of Cleves that of Cromwell; and because of the frailty of Catharine Howard, Norfolk and his family were in decline. A statesman must play for safety when the King contemplated marriage.

Cranmer’s thoughts went back to a longago marriage in which he had been bridegroom to Margaret Anne Osiander. Very charming she had been—the daughter of a Reformer with whom he had conferred when he was in Germany on the King’s business. But that marriage had been declared void, for Cranmer had had to choose between the King and Margaret Anne. Often he despised himself—the coward who longed to be brave, the priest devoted to his religion, yet longing for a wife and family…longing to be a martyr to his beliefs, yet fearing the martyr’s flaming crown.

So Cranmer would keep as aloof as possible from the King’s affair with Lady Latimer; but he hoped that the marriage would take place, because the lady leaned toward the Protestant faith, and a Protestant Queen was what Cranmer—a Reformer at heart—would have advocated for his King.

Thus, while keeping aloof, Cranmer prayed for the success of the King with Lady Latimer.

Stephen Gardiner, the celebrated statesman and Bishop of Winchester, saw how matters stood and, as he was unaware of the lady’s religious leanings and remembered the service her late husband, Lord Latimer, had paid to the Catholic cause, he was not against the match. He was an ambitious man, this Gardiner, this statesman and priest. He wished to rule the country, as Secretary of State, through the King; and as a churchman he wished to stamp out those he deemed heretics. There was only one religion for him; and if he accepted the King as head of the Church of England, that was for expediency’s sake; for the rest he wished to support the religion of his youth, which had its roots in Rome.

And Lady Latimer herself? She was a good woman, not likely to cause trouble to the King’s ministers. Could she give the King a son? He doubted it. The King, it seemed, could not have healthy sons. Not one of his Queens, except Anne Boleyn, had been able to give him a really healthy child. Anne’s other pregnancies had come to nothing, just as had those of Katharine of Aragon. Jane Seymour had had at least one miscarriage. His natural son, whom he had created Duke of Richmond, had died in his teens; Edward, the heir to the throne, caused much anxiety on account of his health. Princess Mary was a sickly woman who suffered frequently. Only the young Princess Elizabeth was a healthy child. Therefore it seemed unlikely that the King would achieve in his declining years what he had failed to accomplish in his youth. Then would the old familiar pattern begin to form? Would he, tiring of yet another partner, desire a new wife and look to his ministers—his long-suffering ministers—to find a way of ridding him of a woman who had become an obstruction?

If all the young ladies at court dreaded the King’s attentions for fear of the consequences to themselves when they ceased to amuse him, the King’s ministers, remembering the disasters which had befallen their predecessors, also had their fears.

But the King was ageing; perhaps his sixth marriage would content him; and as Lord Latimer had been a good Catholic, so, reasoned Gardiner, would his widow be also. If the King wished to marry the lady and if—as surely he must—he no longer expected children, Gardiner would welcome the match.

He said to Wriothesley when he obtained a private interview with that man: “What think you of this matter of the King and Lady Latimer?”

Sir Thomas Wriothesley, as zealous a Catholic as Gardiner himself and longing for promotion to the Chancellorship, was ready to agree with such an influential Catholic as Gardiner.

“The lady’s husband, recently dead, was a good Catholic,” said Wriothesley. “The lady was a dutiful wife to Latimer, and would be so to His Majesty, I doubt not.”

Gardiner came nearer. He liked Wriothesley as well as he liked any man; he liked him a good deal, for his liking depended on a man’s usefulness to himself.

“With a good Catholic Queen,” murmured Gardiner, “there would be one near him to whisper wisdom in the King’s ear.”

“And he needs such whispering,” said Wriothesley, “with the Seymours ever about him, paving the way for themselves with young Edward.”

Gardiner nodded and laid a hand on Wriothesley’s shoulders. “Audley looked sick today; I thought.”

They exchanged nods and smiles of understanding.

Wriothesley knew that if Audley became too sick for the post of Lord Chancellor, it would not be Gardiner’s fault if Sir Thomas Wriothesley did not receive the Great Seal.

Edward Seymour, Thomas’s elder brother, who was now Lord Hertford, being one of the chief Reformers, was aware of Katharine’s leaning toward the Party; so he, also, was not averse to the King’s marriage with Lady Latimer.

There was only one notable gentleman of the court who was against it. That was Sir Thomas Seymour himself. It seemed to him that the more Katharine became out of reach, the more desirable she became.

He thought longingly of her sweet comeliness, of her gentleness, her unspoiled nature—and her considerable possessions.

Sir Thomas Seymour was a very sad man as that blustering March of 1543 gave way to softer April.

THE YOUNG PRINCE EDWARD was entertaining his two sisters in his apartments.

He was not quite five years old, a pale-faced, puny child, whose health was a source of great anxiety to all those who were responsible for him. It was their constant fear that he would die and that the King would punish them for his death.

His tutors feared either that he might over-tax his brain or that he might not please his father with his learning. Those in charge of his physical training suffered even more acutely. They were apprehensive every time the little boy mounted a pony or played a game of tennis. But these things he must do, for the King wanted Edward to be another such as Bluff King Hal had been. At five, Henry had been a lusty boy, “pink and gold,” they had said of him, taller than his brother Arthur, outshining him in everything he did. He had been a Prince who looked a Prince, and that was the sort of Prince Edward must be.

Little Edward knew what was expected of him, for he was knowledgeable beyond his years. Sports tired him, but book-learning did not, and therefore he loved books. He could write Latin and read it fluently. He already knew that one day he must be the King, and a Tudor King. Wishing fervently to please his father and do all that was expected of him, he rigorously performed all his duties; but his greatest pleasure was in being with the younger members of his family, and in particular with his half-sister Elizabeth and her whom he called his cousin—little Jane Grey. He was sure that he loved Jane best of all. There were several reasons for this; Jane was nearer his age than the others, being barely a year older than he was. His sister Elizabeth, who was nine years old, was clever, but not in quite the same way as Jane was. Jane and he were of a kind; but Jane was beautiful and not made breathless by small exertions, as he was; her legs were fine and firm and could support her with the greatest ease; she had no pains in her head and there were no outbreaks of rashes on her delicate skin.

He was glad this was so. Jane was his dearest.

But he was greatly excited by the presence of his sister Elizabeth—perhaps more excited by her than by anyone else. Her sharp eyes were everywhere; she knew all the court gossip and would tell it, throwing back her mane of red hair and playing the parts of all the people who figured in the stories she told.

She looked for admiration while she talked, and nothing pleased her more than a compliment. Edward never forgot to admire her gown. She had asked him whether he thought Jane prettier than she was, and Edward found it very difficult to give a truthful answer to that, for a reply in the affirmative would have infuriated her; so he told her that as Jane was just a child and merely Lady Jane Grey, and she herself was grown up and a Princess, there could be no comparison.

Then Elizabeth had kissed him in her quick way and burst out laughing. She knew that he deceived her, but she did not mind that. She told him he was a clever little boy.

He was not so pleased to see his sister Mary, for she always saddened him. When she came into a room she seemed to bring sorrow with her. She was often ill, as he feared he was. Mary had been so ill a little while ago that it had been feared she would die. The King had not greatly cared what befell his elder daughter, but when his son was sick there were doctors all about the boy. His father, sparkling with jewels, looking bigger than anyone else in the world, would stump up and down the chamber, haranguing the doctors, threatening them—almost threatening Edward himself—if the Prince should die.

I dare not die! Edward often said to himself. I must not complain of this pain in my head. I must be a King, and a Tudor King. I am my father’s only male heir.

It was a great responsibility for such a small boy and such a frail one. No wonder he liked to sit in an alcove with Jane and talk to her of what he had read or what he had learned.

Yet it was pleasant to gaze at Elizabeth, with the color flaming under her pale skin, the freckles across her nose. Such a diplomatic Prince did not mention the freckles—although they pleased him—for Elizabeth’s women prepared lotions to make them disappear, as the vain creature imagined that they spoiled her lovely skin.

When she kissed him and told him he was her dearest brother, he could not be quite sure whether she was not remembering all the time that one day he would be the King and very important, and that she would need him to be kind to a Princess of uncertain birth.

Today she was excited. She had news.

She came in haughtily, as she did when the mood took her; and he fancied that she played a game of make-believe in which she was a Queen and he her subject. With her came Mistress Ashley, her governess, whose life the Princess plagued, though the woman adored her.

Elizabeth was dressed in a new gown of which she was very proud, yet she was angry because she lacked jewels. She had told him that she wished for emeralds, because emeralds suited the color of her hair. He wished that he had emeralds that he might give her. When he was a King he would do so; but he hoped that would not be for a long time; he dreaded that day when he would have to be the King.

Now here was his sister, taking his hand and kissing it. “Nan Bullen’s girl,” he had heard her called; that was when people were angry with her. “Who is she?” they said then. “Who but Nan Bullen’s bastard.”

He knew of Nan Bullen, who, some said, had been a witch, a sorceress, and who had died that his father might marry his mother, the one pure Queen whom his father had loved.

Elizabeth, in her haughtiest manner, dismissed all attendants.

“That is what you wish, is it not?” she demanded, almost menacingly of the little boy.

“Yes,” he answered. “That is what I wish.”

Then Elizabeth looked from him to little Jane and back to him, and said: “Have you heard the gossip, brother?”

“What gossip?”

“The gossip that is all over the court. Our father has chosen his new wife.”

“A new wife!” cried Jane.

“A new stepmother for us!” said the boy with a perplexed look.

“But you like your stepmothers. You liked the last one.”

“Queen Catharine was so pretty,” said Edward wistfully.

“But she died.” Jane’s gentle eyes filled with tears. It was obvious that she knew in what manner Queen Catharine had died.

None of the children ever mentioned the way in which the Queen had died. The beheading of Queens was a sore subject with Elizabeth. If any lightly mentioned her own mother, her face would grow dark with anger. Edward knew that it was because Mistress Ashley had married a kinsman of Queen Anne Boleyn that Elizabeth kept the woman with her, loved her dearly, and would suffer none other to command and scold her as Mistress Ashley did.

“Who…is the new one?” asked Edward.

“Can you not guess?” demanded Elizabeth. “You know her. She has paid you many a visit. You will love her as much as you loved Queen Catharine Howard.”

“Please tell me quickly who it is,” said the small boy imperiously, for he could be imperious when kept in suspense.

“Lady Latimer.”

“Oh!” The two younger children exchanged smiles. They knew her well. She was a delightful lady. A short while ago when Edward had been recovering from a sickness, and there had been one of those dreaded scenes at his bedside, with the King cajoling and threatening all those in attendance, Lady Latimer had come to see him. He had thought her sweet and gentle, as a mother ought to be.

“You are not then displeased by this news?” said Elizabeth.

“Nay. It delights me. She will be Queen Katharine and our stepmother.”

“I too am pleased,” said the Princess. “I love her well.”

Mistress Ashley came into the apartment to tell them that the Lady Mary was on her way and would be with them in a few moments.

“She has heard the news, I’ll warrant,” said Elizabeth. “It will please her also.”

“She will be always at court,” said Edward, “when she is our stepmother.”

Elizabeth looked momentarily serious. She was old enough to remember a good deal more than Jane and Edward could. She remembered a dark-eyed, very beautiful woman who laughed and cried, who embraced her warmly and called her “Daughter,” and who loved her more than anyone in the world had ever loved her. Then quite suddenly Elizabeth had understood that she no longer had a mother; but it was not until some years after her loss that she knew the reason.

Cruel things had been said about her mother; and what was said about her mother must reflect on Elizabeth. Some had said she was not the King’s daughter at all, but the daughter of a man named Norris, who was supposed to have been the Queen’s lover and had died with her. Some said a thing even more horrible: that she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn’s own brother, Lord Rochford. But the King did not believe this. Indeed, how could he? He had but to look at her to know that she was his own daughter. And although there were times when he seemed to care not whether she had a rag to her back or a crust to eat—while if aught befell the precious body of young Edward all the great doctors of the realm must congregate at his bedside—still Elizabeth felt that the King had as warm a feeling for her as for any of his children.

The Lady Mary came into the room and Elizabeth at once went to her, knelt and kissed her hand.

How sick she looks! thought Elizabeth. She is old—old. The idea of being twenty-six—nearer twenty-seven—and without a husband!

So many great men had been promised to Mary and yet not one of them had married her. No wonder she was sick and sad and bore resentment against the world.

How healthy she is! thought Mary. How full of vitality! She cares nothing that they call her “bastard.” If I had been the daughter of Anne Boleyn, I would have died of shame ere this.

Mary paid homage to the little boy. She never forgot the relative positions of them all. Edward was the prospective King and the most important member of the family. She and her sister had both been called bastards; they had both been made much of by the King and both scorned by him when he had decided to discard their mothers.

Mary would have envied Elizabeth if she had not believed it was a sin to envy anyone and not to accept that lot which a Greater Power had ordained must be borne. She, Mary, had been the petted darling of the court when she had been a little girl. Her mother, who had adored her, had made great plans for her and longed to see her Queen of Spain. There had been a time when Mary had thought she would be Queen of France. And here she was, a Princess whom her father refused to recognize as his legitimate daughter; for if he did so it would mean that he had been wrong to set aside her mother. The King could do no wrong. That was the order of the day. So from great honor Mary had been cast down—not only to obscurity, but to actual danger, for the King had at one time threatened her life.

She, who had been brought up under her mother’s eyes, felt this deeply. She was steeped in tradition. She was the daughter of a Princess, the daughter of a King, and she possessed all that love of solemnity and ritual which came from her Spanish ancestry. There could not be two sisters more unlike than Mary and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth’s manner had changed at the entry of her sister as rapidly as Elizabeth’s moods could change. She had become demure.

“We were speaking of the news, sister,” she said. “You have heard it?”

“You mean that our father thinks to marry again?”

“Yes,” answered Elizabeth, watching her sister.

“It is Lady Latimer,” said Edward. “Jane and I are very fond of Lady Latimer.”

Jane smiled at him. She was awed by the two Princesses. They alarmed her slightly, each in a different way. With Elizabeth she could never be entirely at ease; and Mary seemed so old, dignified and solemn.

“She is a very virtuous lady,” said Mary, “and one who should bring great happiness to our father.”

Elizabeth looked at her slyly. Did she not know then that Lady Latimer was interesting herself in the reformed faith? Apparently she did not, for Mary would never esteem virtuous anyone who was not a good Catholic.

Mary did not know as much of what was going on at court as did Elizabeth. Mary spent so much time on her knees asking for guidance and courage to endure her lot. Elizabeth kept her eyes open, her ears trained, and had developed the trick of worming secrets out of her women. As for her courage, she was not sure of that, but she hoped that her wits would prevent its ever being put to the test.

“Another stepmother,” she said. “I am glad, sister, that the King has chosen one who is such a great friend of yours.”

“It will be a pleasure to welcome her,” said Mary, thinking: Perhaps she will ask our father to have us reinstated at court.

They had been fortunate in their stepmothers; there was not one of them who had been unkind, except perhaps Anne Boleyn, and she had tried to become reconciled to Mary before her death. Mary refused to see that Anne Boleyn had had no alternative but to ignore and debase her, since any honor done to Mary must minimize that paid to her own daughter, Elizabeth. Mary never saw any point of view but that dictated by her own rigorously observed religion. Jane Seymour had been kind to the Princesses; so had Anne of Cleves and Catharine Howard. But Mary, as did Elizabeth and Edward, believed that their new stepmother would be the one whom they would love best of all.

Mary dismissed the subject; her father had not yet announced his decision to marry Lady Latimer and, until he had done so, it was neither wise nor tactful to discuss it. She must curb that vulgar curiosity of Elizabeth’s, inherited from her lowborn mother; she must not allow her to chatter of court gossip to the little Prince.

So Mary looked at his books and talked earnestly with him for a while; and Elizabeth, joining in the conversation, immediately became a prim little maiden of nine years, learned for her age—for she too had been made to work hard under her tutors, and as she was avid for all knowledge she, like her brother, had been a praiseworthy pupil.

The Lady Mary at length left the children together, and as soon as she was gone Elizabeth took charge and the atmosphere changed. It was small wonder that Edward was fascinated by this sister of his. It was not only her rude health which so amazed him, but her ability, it seemed, to change her character that she might interest and attract different people.

This was indeed a happy day for the Prince for on it his Uncle Thomas called upon him.

If he had not been a little boy so determined to do what was right, he would have loved his Uncle Thomas Seymour more than his father. How different were those two men! They were both possessed of dazzling personality; yet the King inspired his son with fear and Thomas Seymour filled him with affection. When Uncle Thomas came into a room he would seem to bring the sea breezes with him. He was a great sailor, Edward delighted to recall, an important man in the kingdom, yet not too important to have time to spare for his small nephew.

On those rare occasions when they were alone together, Uncle Thomas became more exciting than ever. He would lift the boy high above his head and make him squeal with delight; he had actually succeeded in making him forget that he was heir to the throne, a King-to-be, and a Tudor King at that! Uncle Thomas had the rare gift of making himself so young that, in his presence, children felt that they were as grown-up as he was.

Edward was not the only one who felt this. As soon as Uncle Thomas appeared, a change took place in the apartment.

Jane grew quieter before that magnificent presence. Elizabeth seemed a more haughty Princess than ever, but a very gay and excited one. As for Edward, he felt that he was a man, as gay and swaggering as Uncle Thomas, discarding all the heavy responsibilities which must rest on the shoulders of a boy of five who was being trained as a King.

“A good day to you all!” cried the gay Sir Thomas, and his bright twinkling eyes surveyed them all. “Your Princely Grace.” He kissed Edward’s hand, but mockingly, so that Edward knew he had no need to receive the greeting ceremoniously. “My dearest Princess.” The Princess’s eyes glittered, for the sailor surely had accentuated the adjective. “And my sweet Lady Jane.” His voice had grown tender as he kissed the hand of the quiet little girl who had risen to receive his greeting. “And how conspiratorial we all look today! What’s afoot?”

They all began to laugh, like small children in a nursery…any children…happy children who need not be constantly on the alert to do what was expected of them.

“Secrets, eh? Secrets! Secrets that should be kept from Uncle Tom?”

“No, indeed, dear Uncle,” said Edward. “There are no secrets we would keep from you.”

“You deceive me.” The blue eyes flashed and Sir Thomas stroked his beard and scowled wickedly from one to the other. He began to growl through his teeth. “Methinks I must make myself aware of this grim secret.”

He considered them. Poor Edward, just for a few moments a little boy! His great head was so packed with learning that his puny body seemed to protest against carrying it. Little Lady Jane, lifting her solemn eyes to his face, divorced from her habitual gravity, was at this moment, like Edward, a child just because the magic youthfulness of Sir Thomas Seymour could cast a spell upon her. And Elizabeth…? Ah, Elizabeth! She was no child. She was standing before him, against the hangings, those which had the greenish pattern upon them that would set off her flaming hair so beautifully. Her eyes were downcast, but her mouth was sly. Elizabeth was refusing to play the child; she wished to play the woman. And…she was enjoying the banter more than any of them.

“By God’s precious soul!” cried Seymour. “I shall discover this plot against me. I shall tear this secret from you. Who shall tell me? You, my lord?”

He had taken Edward in his arms and lifted him high above his head. Edward laughed aloud, as he rarely did.

“Will Your Grace tell this dread secret?”

Edward’s hand which had only just lost the pudginess of babyhood, grasped the beautiful brown locks of Sir Thomas.

“Put me down, Uncle Thomas. Put me down, I say. I will pull your hair if you do not.”

“I tremble. I am in fear. So Your Grace refuses to tell me his secret?”

“There is no secret.”

Sir Thomas lowered the Prince and gave him two hearty kisses; and Edward put his arms about his uncle’s neck. Oh why, thought Edward, are not all men like my Uncle Thomas?

Sir Thomas set him on the floor and went to Lady Jane Grey.

“And you, my lady, will you tell me the secret?”

“There is no secret, Sir Thomas.”

“I would force it from you,” he cried, “were you not so beautiful that I could not bear to hurt you.”

He let his fingers caress the soft golden curls of the beautiful child, contemplatively, sadly; for she was small and so young and it would be long before she was a woman.

“I must prise the secret from one of you, that is certain…and since it cannot be from you, my Prince, or you, my Lady Jane, it must be from the Lady Elizabeth.”

She was waiting for him, seeming cool yet inviting, her light lashes lowered over her eyes which might have betrayed too much. He noted the softness of her delicate skin, the provocative powdering of freckles.

She lacked the beauty of Jane, but, by God, thought Sir Thomas, she is the one for me.

He laid his hands on her shoulders.

Haughtily she glanced first at one hand then at the other. “You will take your hands from me, sir.” She was very proud, very much the daughter of the King.

He took her chin in his hand and jerked her face up to his. Now he could see her eyes; he could see the curve of her lips which betrayed her excitement, her pleasure in this badinage, which he knew and she knew was not the play between a grown person and a child, but an encounter between a man and a woman.

Nine years old, he reflected. Is it possible?

His hand touched her throat. She was as yet too inexperienced to hide her feelings. She was delighted to have his attention. She had known that his tricks with Edward and Jane had been the preliminaries that should lead to this encounter between them.

He brought his face close to hers. “Will the Lady Elizabeth tell me the secret?”

“How would that be possible, sir, when there is no secret?”

“Are you sure that you hide nothing from me?”

“If I wished to hide matters from you, Sir Thomas, I should do so.”

How exciting she was! A nine-year-old girl, a Princess as ambitious as himself. Was her glance telling him now: “Who are you to dare look at me in that way? Do you forget I am the King’s daughter?” And his eyes answered: “I do not forget. It but adds to your charm. And I beg of you, do not forget that the King calls you his bastard daughter, and that I am the uncle of the King-to-be. Anne Boleyn’s daughter and Jane Seymour’s brother—what a delightful partnership! How the ghosts of Anne and Jane must be laughing—if ghosts can laugh!”

“What shall I do?” he asked. “Prize the secret from you?”

“Do not disturb yourself,” she answered. “I think that to which you refer is no secret. My father is to marry again, we have heard. Is that the matter which you call a secret?”

Did she know of his ambitions? He could swear that she mocked him when she continued: “It is on my Lady Latimer that the King’s choice has fallen.”

He dropped his hands then; he could not meet her eye. She must have heard rumors regarding himself and Lady Latimer. The saucy young coquette was reproaching him with that, as though he were indeed her lover.

“We are all well pleased,” said Edward. “For we know her and like her well.”

“She is a good lady,” said Sir Thomas; and he felt depressed suddenly, but only momentarily; he had complete faith in his destiny. But he had been so fond of Kate. He had visualized such a pleasant life with her.

The Prince then demanded that his favorite uncle should sit beside him and tell him a stirring story of the sea, and this Sir Thomas was pleased to do. Very soon all three children were listening to him, under the spell of his charm, and at that moment it seemed that they were all children, even Elizabeth, excited by his stories of adventures at sea. They watched his face as he talked; he was their hero. There was not one of them who could be in his presence and remain untouched by his charm.

Before he left he drew Edward aside and whispered to him: “And what is the state of Your Grace’s purse?”

“Very low, I fear, Uncle.”

“It is a shame to keep you so poor. You know that the purse of your favorite uncle is at your disposal.”

“Uncle Thomas, you are the best man in the world.”

“It is good enough for me that I am your favorite uncle. And would you care to dip your royal hands into my willing purse?”

Edward hesitated. “Well, there are one or two items…”

“I knew! I knew it.”

“I will tell you,” whispered the boy. “I wish to buy green ribands.”

“Green ribands? Why have you need of green ribands, my Prince?”

“For Elizabeth’s hair. She longs for green ribands to adorn it. They become it so. And she, like me, is kept very poor.”

“Poor little Princess! Between us, nephew, we will give her green ribands to adorn her hair.”

It was not the first time that Sir Thomas had given his nephew money. It was money well spent, decided Sir Thomas. Edward was grateful by nature; and when he was King of England he would be very kind to his favorite uncle.

When he took leave of them all, he whispered to Elizabeth: “I would like to see green emeralds adorning that head. But in place of green emeralds, green ribands might serve.”

Now she would know, when she received the ribands, from her brother, who had supplied the money with which to buy them. The sly creature knew of most things that went on at court and would know, of course, that his uncle supplied the Prince with money now and then.

He was thoughtful as he went back to his apartments. He saw himself as the favored of the gods. He had been endowed with all the graces and it was so easy for him to win the love of his nephew. He was indeed fond of children. Ambitious as he was, ready to be unscrupulous, he could yet find great pleasure in the society of the young. He loved them all, Jane, Edward and Elizabeth…Elizabeth most of all. He was in love with Elizabeth. He was in love with Katharine. He was fond of the Prince and Jane. When he spoke honeyed words to Kate he meant them; when his eyes shone with silent admiration of Elizabeth he sincerely felt that admiration. When he curried favor with the boy who would one day be King, he was sharing amusement, delighting himself as well as the boy.

It seemed to him that he was the darling of the gods and that they intended him for greatness. He was certain of ultimate success with the Princess Elizabeth; he felt sure she would one day be Queen of England and he saw no reason why the man who married her should not be the King.

Stranger things had happened. Look how Fate had pointed a finger at his shy sister Jane and made a Queen of her!

Fortune was undoubtedly smiling on the Seymours. If it had denied him the warm and cozy comfort he might have found with Kate, perhaps that was merely because it was saving for him a more exciting life to be shared with the Princess.

While Seymour pondered thus, Elizabeth’s thoughts were of Seymour.

THE KING FELT sleepily content. He had dined well on good roast beef, venison, and pies of various sorts; he had drunk deeply; he had listened to music and felt temporarily at peace.

His leg pained him less on this day and he was ready to believe that the new remedies would prove efficacious, although common sense reminded him that he had been trying new remedies for years without avail. There were times when the pain in his leg was so acute that his face became purple, then gray, and he could not suppress his cries of agony.

But now the bandages seemed less irksome and consequently he was less exhausted. He had hobbled into the musicroom to hear some verses of Surrey’s, and he was determined not to like them even before that arrogant young man had opened his mouth to recite them. He did not care for anything Surrey wrote, for Surrey himself was a source of anxiety to him.

By God, he mused, as he watched him now, a little more of the fellow’s arrogance and I’ll have him clapped into the Tower. What airs! What manners! And some would doubtless say: What beauty! Have I not suffered enough from these Howards? Anne was connected with them; that witch, that sorceress who deceived me into believing she could give me a son—and deceived me with others too! Then…young Catharine…

But he could not bear to think of Catharine. That affair was too recent and he had not had time to grow out of love with her. But nevertheless she also was a Howard. She had belonged to that accursed line.

He must not get overheated. His doctors had told him that. If he did, it would be necessary to apply the leeches again. No! He must think of pleasanter things than the Howards. There was Lady Latimer, looking fair enough, but sitting too far away from him.

He roared: “Bring Lady Latimer’s chair closer to mine. I would talk with her.”

She came slowly behind the men who had carried her chair. She drew it slightly back before she said: “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to sit?”

“You have it,” he answered, reaching for the chair and bringing it closer. “You must not be overawed, Lady Latimer, because we like to talk to you.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“We understand your feelings. We applaud them. We like modesty in our ladies.”

His face was close to hers and he noted the fine texture of her skin, the delicate bloom of health; he decided that none would guess she was thirty.

I like this woman! he told himself. I like her serenity. I like the respect she shows for her King. She’s no giddy girl. She’s no Anne Boleyn; no Catharine Howard. She may lack their beauty, but she’s a good woman; she’s a modest woman. She’s the sort of woman I like to see about my court.

“Believe us, Lady Latimer,” he said. “We feel the utmost kindness toward you.”

“Your Majesty is gracious.”

“We are indeed to those who please us. Now, Surrey, let us hear these verses of which you prate.”

Surrey stepped boldly forward, displaying both grace and nonchalance. He was very elaborately dressed, almost as elaborately as the King himself. His blue velvet cap was ornamented with gold, his doublet striped with blue and white satin, his hose of the same becoming shade of blue, and his person aglitter with diamonds and sapphires. The young poet bore himself like a king; there were some who said that it was Surrey’s boast that his house had more claim to the throne of England than had the Tudors. If his folly could be proved, ruminated the King, that handsome head would not long sprout so gracefully from those arrogant shoulders.

“It is a small poem,” the young nobleman was announcing, “on the means to attain a happy life, an it please Your Grace.”

“Let us hear these words of wisdom. We would fain hear of the means to attain a happy life.” Henry caught Katharine’s eye, and his intimate smile made her shiver. “Methinks you are over-young, my lord Earl, to have gleaned already so much knowledge.”

Gardiner, who was seated near the King, said: “It is the young, Your Majesty, who consider themselves to be wise men. When they grow older wisdom seems less sure.”

Henry grunted and winced with pain as he moved his leg. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Let us hear the verses and have done with it.”

Surrey stood elegantly, the scroll in one hand while the other was laid negligently on the jeweled doublet. Arrogant young fool! thought the King; and he hated him for no more reason at that moment than that he was one of the most handsome young men at court. Henry had reason to hate all handsome men on this occasion, for now, with so many about him, he felt his age and infirmity keenly. These were so hard to accept when one had been the handsomest Prince in Christendom and had excelled at all manly pastimes and had been a King—not, he reminded himself scowling at Surrey, a would-be-King.

Surrey had begun to read:

“Martial, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I find:

The richesse left, not got with pain;

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;

“The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;

No charge of rule, nor governance;

Without disease, the healthful life;

The household of continuance;

“The mean diet, no delicate fare;

True wisdom joined with simpleness;

The night dischargèd of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppress.

“The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleeps as may beguile the night:

Contented with thine own estate

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.”

While the poet was reading, the King fidgeted in his chair, and all those present marveled at the rashness of Surrey, for it should have been perfectly clear to the poet that those sentiments must arouse unpleasant memories for the King. That talk of health and sleep and, above all, faithful wives! Surrey was a fool. It was almost as though he teased a dangerous bull, deliberately inviting attack.

There was a short silence. No one spoke before the King expressed an opinion, for it was unwise to differ from His Majesty in the appraisal of verses.

“Bravo!” growled the King eventually. “Your meter’s good, Surrey.”

Surrey bowed low. “My greatest delight in my simple verses must be the pleasure they afford my most Gracious Sovereign.”

“Not so simple!” cried Henry. “Not so simple, eh?” He glared about him. “What did you think, eh, Gardiner? A Bishop should appreciate good verses, And you, Master Wriothesley. You’ve heard enough verses to judge, I’ll swear.”

Gardiner could always be relied upon to say what was expected of him. “We have heard your Grace’s own verses, Sire.”

And Wriothesley, always eager for promotion and knowing the surest way to the King’s heart, added: “When your Gracious Majesty sets such a high standard…”

The Catholic faction must not be allowed to supply all the required compliments. Sir Thomas Seymour interrupted Wriothesley. “The verses seemed to me good enough, but I am a rough sailor, and know little of these matters. I have a fondness for Your Majesty’s own rhymes, it is true…”

Henry interrupted: “We deemed the verses good.” He was impatient with them all, except the woman beside him. He had been too long without a wife. He was wasting time. “Lady Latimer,” he said in a gentler voice, “what thought you of the verses?”

Katharine answered nervously: “I thought them good, Your Majesty. Very good.”

“You did, did you? And are you a judge of verses, Lady Latimer?”

“I fear not, Sire. I am only…”

“Ah!” cried Henry. “You are a lady of much modesty, and ’tis my belief you know more of the value of verses than these men who talk so readily of them. Methinks you should have an opportunity of judging your Sovereign’s.”

“Sire, my judgment would be of little worth.”

Surrey said ironically: “You would doubtless discover, Lady Latimer, that His Grace the King, as well as being the ruler of this land, is also its greatest poet.”

Henry shot a suspicious glance at the insolent youth, but he was too intent on Katharine to be drawn at this moment. He leaned forward and patted Katharine’s arm. “Such praise,” he said, “is to be prized since it comes from Surrey—as good a poet as any to be found in the realm, so some men say.”

“I trust Your Grace has never heard my verses compared with your own,” said Surrey; and if Henry did not recognize the subtle note of mockery in his voice, others fancied they did.

“Nay!” said the King. “Much sweet praise has been poured in our ears, and though we have heard your verses commended, yet never have we heard them set side by side with our own.”

Surrey gave what might have been a sigh of relief. “Your Grace has doubtless heard them compared with Wyatt’s?”

“Aye, that we have! And to Wyatt’s disadvantage.”

“A great poet…poor Thomas Wyatt!” said Surrey.

Henry was suddenly aware that Lady Latimer’s gaze was fixed on Seymour. The blood seemed to rush through his veins as though it would burst them.

“Seymour,” he cried, “you are silent, man.”

“I am out of my depth, Sire.”

Henry snorted. “He should learn the gentle art of rhyming, should he not, my friends? He would find it of use in his gallant adventures.” Everyone tittered, and Seymour smiled charmingly. The King turned away with a gesture of impatience. “Ah yes,” he went on. “Wyatt was a good poet and a handsome fellow.”

Of Surrey’s intentions that afternoon none could be sure. He seemed to be inviting the King’s displeasure. Perhaps he was thinking of those royal arms which had been given to his family five hundred years before; perhaps, as he spoke again, he was thinking that he was more royal than the heavy, diseased man who sat in the ornamented chair.

“I like nothing of Wyatt’s so well as that which ran thus: ‘And wilt thou leave me thus….’ Marry! I forget how it goes. Oh, this was it. Your Grace will remember.

“‘And wilt thou leave me thus!

That hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among:

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?’”

Henry’s face was contorted, whether with rage against Surrey or the pain of his leg none could be sure.

“You liked those verses, did you?” he roared. “Methinks there is a cheapness in the sentiment.”

There was complete silence as the Earl and the King looked at each other. Every member of the gathering was aware that Surrey had quoted the words which Wyatt had written to Anne Boleyn. It seemed to Katharine, sitting fearfully beside the King, longing for the privacy of her home in Yorkshire, that Surrey was like a gorgeous dragonfly determined to tease an already angry bull.

“Cheapness, Your Grace?” said Surrey. “In Wyatt’s appeal to an unkind mistress? Poor Wyatt!”

Henry looked almost defiantly at those about him, as though he was determined to show them that Surrey’s careless words had not reminded him of Anne Boleyn. “I liked that fellow, Wyatt…fool that he oft-times was. I mourned his death. Marry, it is a year ago! But what subject is this for a lady’s ears? Death? No! We will not speak of it. I would have speech with Lady Latimer…and I would have speech alone.”

Even as he said those words he remembered the old days, when, wishing to play the lover, he had grasped his opportunities. He had not then found it necessary to dismiss his courtiers so pointedly. But he would do what he wished…now and for ever. He was their King and they should remember it.

They were bowing as they left the chamber. It seemed to him that Seymour hesitated, and Seymour had never looked quite so handsome as he did at that moment.

“Why do you linger, brother?” demanded the King.

Seymour said: “I am sorry if I have offended Your Grace.”

“The sight of you offends us when we have dismissed you. Go, I say.”

They were alone. Katharine could hear the heavy hammering of her own heart. She had never really been so frightened in the whole of her life as she was at this moment, and when Henry leaned toward her she had difficulty in suppressing a cry of dismay.

Henry was laughing and his voice was gentle. “What thought you of the verses, eh? Come. The truth.”

“They were well enough, I thought,” stammered Katharine. “But I, being a woman, could give no judgment that would interest Your Majesty.”

“And you, being a woman, must have such soft feeling for the poet’s handsome person that you have little thought to bestow upon his verses, eh?”

“My Lord King, I have been twice widowed. I am not a young girl to harbor such soft thoughts of a poet.”

Henry patted his thigh—that one which was sound and not affected by the ulcers which were creeping up from his leg. “Are you sure of that, Kate?” he asked slyly. “For ’tis hard to believe you have been twice widowed, and did I not know that you had been to bed first with my Lord Borough and afterward with my Lord Latimer, I’d not believe it.”

Katharine smiled nervously. “Your Majesty knows that I am an old woman…well past my thirtieth year.”

“Old, Kate! Nay. Not so. Not so. For if you are old, what of us? Would you call your King an old man? Treason, my Lady Latimer. Treason, Kate!”

“My Lord King,” began Katharine breathlessly, “I assure Your Highness…”

The King gripped her knee. “Rest easy, girl! I feel no anger. ’Twas a joke. Nay, you’re as fresh as a young girl, and if you are thirty years old, well then, thirty is as good an age as any.”

“But it is old, Your Majesty…for a woman. I vow it is.”

“I forbid you to say it,” said Henry playfully. “You are not old, Kate, and your King forbids you to say you are.”

“Your Grace is too kind to me.”

His next words filled her with horror. “Aye!” He squeezed her knee. “And ready to be kinder. Ready to be kinder.”

Katharine now began to understand all those significant glances which had been cast in her direction during the past weeks. Others had been aware of what she had failed to notice. Yet she could not believe the truth even now. Frantically she sought in her mind for some means of escape.

“I am unworthy…” she faltered.

Henry looked momentarily stern. “A King is the best judge of a subject’s worthiness.”

She was really frightened. He who was accustomed to speaking with the ministers of his own government and the ambassadors of others knew how to imbue his words with deep meaning. He was telling her that it was not for her to say whether or not she would have him. He was the best judge, and he it would be who made the choice.

“We have been lenient with you and yours, have we not?” he said on a softer note.

“Your Majesty is a great and good King to all his subjects.”

He nodded, smiling. “That is so. But to some subjects he is known to be over-merciful at times.”

“I am but a foolish woman, Sire.”

“You’re a very pretty one, Kate—which is all your King asks you to be.”

She could only repeat nervously: “Your Grace is too kind to me.”

“And, did I not tell thee, ready to be kinder? Latimer was a traitor to his King.”

“Oh, no, Sire…never that.”

The King lifted his stick and rapped the floor with it. Katharine drew away from him, flinching.

“We like not contradictions,” he growled. “Your husband was a traitor. Why did I not have him in chains? Do you know?” He laughed and she detected the return of that indulgence which disturbed her more than his anger. “No, you do not know, Kate. You’re too modest a woman to know the reason for that. Latimer deserved to go to the block, and I pardoned him. And why, think you?” He slapped his healthy thigh. “Because I liked his wife. That’s the answer. By God, that’s the answer. I said to myself, ‘Latimer’s wife…she’s a good wife to Latimer. Would to God there were more like her in our kingdom!’ That’s what I said, Kate. Here. Come nearer. Look at me. Don’t be afraid of me. Look at your King.”

She obeyed him and looked into his face, noting the cruel little mouth, the pouchy cheeks that had once been ruddy and were now purple; she saw the knotted veins at his temples, and those eyes which suggested shrewdness and a certain refusal to face the truth. She read there, mingling sensuality and primness; she saw the hypocrisy, the refusal to see himself except as he wished to be. There, in his face, were the marks of those characteristics which were at the very root of his nature and which had made him the man he was, the man who had sent thousands to their death, the murderer who saw himself as a saint. And she was terrified because she knew that he was inviting her to take that place from which it was an easy step to the block. Inviting her? If only that were true! He was commanding her.

“There!” he continued. “Now you see we speak sincerely. Don’t be afraid, Kate. Don’t hold back. ‘Would to God,’ I said, ‘that there were more like her in our kingdom. Would to God I was blessed with a wife like Latimer’s.’ Oh, Kate, you were another man’s wife.” His voice had dropped to a whisper; the little mouth seemed to grow smaller, tighter, more prim. “And though I be a King of this realm, to pluck where I will, I said to myself. ‘A man’s wife is his wife.’” His mouth slackened; the shrewd eyes traveled slowly from the neck of her velvet gown to her feet. The sensualist had taken the place of the moralist. “Well, Kate, Latimer’s dead now.”

“Your Grace, he is so lately dead.”

“Long enough for a wench like you to lay aside her mourning. You are too fair to spend your time in mourning. Time won’t wait, Kate. How are you going to give your husband all those fine sons he will ask of you if you spend your nights crying for a husband who is dead and gone?”

Oh God, help me, she prayed silently. Now he talks of sons. Thus must he have talked to the first Queen Katharine, to Anne Boleyn, to Jane Seymour. And then those continuous disasters. Two girls and one sickly boy was all he had in spite of his endeavors. Here was a tragic pattern starting again. A son! A son! I want a son. And if you cannot provide one, there is always the ax or the sword to remove you, to make place for another who will give me sons.

“You are overcome,” she heard the King say gently. “The honor is too great for you. You are too modest, Kate.”

“My Lord…my Lord…” she began desperately. “I understand not….”

“Over-humble, that is what you are, sweetheart. You have been the wife of those two old men—men of some position it is true, but they have made you humble.”

She thought longingly of them now. Kindly Lord Borough; gentle Lord Latimer. They had been old, but they had not looked at her as the King was now looking; they had not disgusted her, nauseated her. She had dreamed of a third marriage—to the man she loved. She dared not think of him now; she was afraid that if she did she would be compelled to cry out: “I love Thomas Seymour.”

He could be so malignant, this man, so cruel. If she spoke those words, not only she, but Thomas, would be sent to the Tower. It was so easy, for a woman whom the King had chosen for his wife, to commit treason.

“Too humble,” he was murmuring, “so that you dare not consider the prize which is held out to you. Do not be affrighted, Kate. Listen to what your lord the King tells you. I am no longer in the first sweet flush of youth. Ah, youth! Do you know, Kate, when I was a young man I would hunt all day, tire out six horses and be as fresh as when I started? Then I had that accursed accident, and my leg broke out in ulcers…and none of the cures in Christendom have been able to take them away. I was a King among men then, Kate. Had God not chosen me to rule this realm, then would men have pointed at me and said, ‘There goes a King!’”

“I doubt it not, my Lord.”

“You doubt it not! You doubt it not! That is good, Kate. Ah, did you but know what your sovereign has suffered, you would long to comfort him.”

“I would not dare presume…”

“We give our permission for the presumption. Think of your King’s poor sick leg, Kate, and weep for him.”

“Weep for Your Majesty, who is both great and glorious!”

“Tush! You think of matters of state. A king is a man as well as a king. You know I married my brother’s widow. Twenty years, Kate—twenty years of marriage that was no marriage. For twenty years I lived in sin…with my own brother’s widow. Unintentional sin, though. I was tricked. I was cheated. And England all but robbed of an heir! You know our story, Kate.”

“I know of Your Majesty’s sorrows.”

Henry nodded. He was passing into that mood of sentimentality and self-pity which contemplation of the past brought with it. He took a lace kerchief and wiped a tear from his eye. He could always weep for the injustices that had come to him through his marriages. “To some men it would have been simple,” he said. “I was happily married. I had one daughter. Suffice it that I had given England a future Queen, though a son had been denied me. Then, Kate, I understood. It was my conscience, my most scrupulous conscience that told me I could no longer risk England’s security by continuing with a marriage that was no marriage. No marriage, Kate! Can you realize what that meant? The King of England was living in sin with his brother’s widow. Small wonder that God did not grant us a son! So I wrestled with myself, and my conscience told me that I must end that marriage. I must take a new wife.”

Henry had stood up; he now seemed unaware of the shrinking woman, who immediately rose, as she must not be seated while the King stood. Katharine realized that it was not to her that he was talking now. He began to shout and his fist was clenched.

“I took to wife a black-browed witch! I was cajoled by sorcery. She would have poisoned my daughter, the lady Mary. My son, Richmond, died soon after she laid her wicked head on the block…died slowly, lingeringly. That was the result of the spells she laid upon him. The devil had made her beautiful. I was entrapped by sorcery. She should have burned at the stake.” He began to speak more softly. “But I was ever merciful to those that pleased me…and she pleased me…once.”

There was silence in the chamber but for the rustling of the silken curtains as they moved in the draft. The King’s face was gray, and his eyes went to the curtains as though he looked for someone there.

He turned suddenly and saw Katharine standing beside him. He seemed startled to find her there.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed. “Kate…Kate…Sit down, Kate.”

“Your Grace,” she said, “was most unhappy in his marriages.”

“Aye!” He spoke softly now, and all the self-pity was back in his voice. “Most unhappy. And then came Jane…poor gentle Jane, Jane whom I loved truly. She gave me my son and then she died. The most cruel blow of all!”

Katharine began to pray again silently and fervently. Oh God, save me. Save me from this man. Save me from the King.

She knew more of him than he realized. In her country house she had heard how he had received the news of Jane Seymour’s death. Bluntly he had told his ministers that the death of his wife meant little to him beside the great joy he had in his newborn son.

“Had Jane but lived!” he was saying. “Ah, had Jane but lived!” He turned to Katharine and she felt the hot hand on her knee, caressing her thigh. She longed to beg him to desist, but she dared not.

“You are cold, Kate,” he said. “You tremble. ’Tis all this talk of my miseries. Sometimes I wonder if I have paid for my most glorious reign with my most miserable domestic life. If that be so, Kate, I must be content. A king oft-times must forget he is a man. A king is the slave of his country as is never the humblest citizen. You know the rest of my sad story?”

“I do, my lord.”

“I am young enough to enjoy a wife, Kate.”

“Your Grace has many happy years before him, I trust and pray.”

“Well spoken. Come nearer, Kate.”

She hesitated, but he had had enough of reluctance.

“Hurry! Now! Here, help me up. This accursed leg gives me much pain.” He stood beside her, towering above her. She felt his hot, sour breath on her cheek. “Do you like me, Kate?”

How to escape him she did not know. She fell on her knees.

“I am the most obedient of your subjects, Sire.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Henry testily. “But enough of kneeling. Get up. Be done with maiden modesty. You have been twice a wife. It becomes you not to play the reluctant virgin.”

“I am overwhelmed,” said Katharine, rising.

“Then you need no longer be. I like you, Kate, and you shall be my Queen.”

“No, no, Sire. I am too unworthy. I could not…”

“It is for us to say who is or who is not worthy to share our throne.” He was losing patience. Now was the time for kissing and fondling, for that excitement which should chase away the ghosts he had conjured up.

“I know it, my lord King, but…”

“Know this also, Kate. I choose you for wife. I am tired of the celibate state. I was never meant to bear it. Come, Kate, give me that which I found but once and held so short a while before death intervened. Give me married happiness. Give me your love. Give me sons.”

Katharine cried: “I am too unworthy, Your Majesty. I am no longer in my prime….”

Henry stopped the words with a loud kiss on her mouth. “Speak up!” he cried. “Speak up. What’s all this you are saying?”

Katharine cried in desperation: “If you love me then…then you must needs love me. But ’twould be better to be your mistress than your wife, an it please Your Grace.”

He was overcome with horror. The little mouth was tight with outraged modesty. “It pleases me not!” he shouted. “It pleases me not at all to hear such wanton talk. You are shameless.”

“Yes, Sire, indeed yes, and unworthy to be your wife.”

“You said you would be our mistress and not our wife. Explain yourself. Explain yourself.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands. She thought of two women who had knelt on Tower Green, who had laid their heads on the block at the command of this man. They had been his wives. Already she seemed to sense the executioner beside her, his ax in his hand, the blade turned toward her.

Henry had taken her by the shoulder and was shaking her.

“Speak up, I said. Speak up.” His voice had softened. He was seeing himself now as he wished to see himself—the mighty, omnipotent King, whom no woman could resist, just as they had been unable to resist him in the days of his youth when he had had beauty, wealth, kingship and all that a woman could desire.

“It is on account of mine own unworthiness,” faltered Katharine.

He forced her hands from her face and put an arm about her. He kissed her with violence. Then, releasing her, he began to roar: “Here, page! Here, man! Call Gardiner. Call Wriothesley…Surrey…Seymour…call them all. I have news I wish to impart to their lordships.”

He smiled at Katharine.

“You must not be afraid of this great honor,” he said. “Know you this: I can take you up and lift you to the greatest eminence…and I will do it.”

She was trembling, thinking: Yes, and you can cast me down. You can marry me; and marriage with the King, it is said with truth, may be the first step toward the Tower and the block.

The courtiers came hurrying back to the chamber. The King stood smiling at them.

He looked at them slyly, all those gentlemen who, a short time before, he had dismissed that he might be alone with Katharine.

“Come forward!” he cried. “Come and pay your respects to the new Queen of England.”

KATHARINE WAS IN her own apartments. With dry, tragic eyes she stared before her; she was trying to look into a future which she knew would be filled with danger.

There was no escape; she knew that now.

Nan, her faithful woman, had wept openly when she had heard the news. Katharine’s own sister, Anne Herbert, had come quickly to court. They did not speak of their compassion, but they showed it in their gestures, in the very intonations of their voices. They loved her, those two; they prayed for her and they wept for her; but they did not let her hear their prayers, nor see their tears.

It was the day after the King had announced his intention to marry her that Seymour came secretly to her apartments.

Nan let him in. Nan was terrified. She had been so happy serving Lady Latimer. Life, she realized now, had been so simple in the country mansions of Yorkshire and Worcester. Why had they not returned to the country immediately after the death of Lord Latimer? Why had they stayed that the King’s amorous and fickle eyes might alight on her lady?

There was danger all around, and Sir Thomas made that danger more acute by coming to her apartment. Nan remembered the stories she had heard of another Thomas—Culpepper—who had visited the apartments of another Catharine; and remembering that bitter and tragic story she wondered if the story of Katharine Parr would be marred by similar events. Was she destined for the same bitter end?

“I must see Lady Latimer,” said Sir Thomas. “It is imperative.”

And so he was conducted to her chamber.

He took her hands in his and kissed them fervently.

“Kate…Kate…how could this happen to us?”

“Thomas,” she answered, “I wish that I were dead.”

“Nay, sweetheart. Do not wish that. There is always hope.”

“There is no hope for me.”

He put his arms about her and held her close to him. He whispered: “He cannot live for ever.”

“I cannot endure it, Thomas.”

“You must endure it. We must both endure it. He is the King. Forget not that.”

“I tried,” she said. “I tried…. And, Thomas, if he knew that you were here…”

He nodded, and his eyes sparkled with the knowledge of his danger.

“Thus do I love you,” he told her. “Enough to risk my life for you.”

“I would not have you do that. Oh, Thomas, that will be the most difficult thing that faces me. I shall see you…you whom I love. I must compare you. You…you who are all that I admire…all that I love. He…he is so different.”

“He is the King, my love. I am the subject. And you will not be burdened with my presence. I have my orders.”

“Thomas! No…not…the Tower?”

“Nay! He does not consider me such a serious rival as that. I depart at sunrise for Flanders.”

“So…I am to lose you, then?”

“’Twere safer for us, sweetheart, not to meet for a while. So thinks the King. That is why he is sending me with Dr. Wotton on an embassy to Flanders.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Methinks the King will find good reason to keep me there…or out of England…for a little while.”

“I cannot bear it. I know I cannot.”

He took her face in his hands. “My heart, like yours, is broken, sweetheart. But we must bear this pain. It will pass. I swear it will pass. And our hearts will mend, for one day we shall be together.”

“Thomas, can you believe that?”

“I believe in my destiny, Kate. You and I shall be together. I know it.”

“Thomas, if the King were to discover that you had been here…”

“Ah, perhaps he would give me this hour, since he is to have you for the rest of his life.”

“For the rest of my life, you mean!” she said bitterly.

“Nay. He is an old man. His fancy will not stray to others as once it did. One year…two years…who knows? Cheer up, my Kate. Today we are broken-hearted, but tomorrow the future is ours.”

“You must not stay here. I feel there are spies, watching my every movement.”

He kissed her and caressed her afresh; and after a time he took his leave, and on the next tide sailed for Flanders.

IN THE QUEEN’S closet at Hampton Court, Gardiner performed the ceremony. This was not hurried and secret as in the case of Anne Boleyn; this was a royal wedding.

The Princesses Mary and Elizabeth stood behind the King and his bride, and with them the King’s niece, the Lady Margaret Douglas. Lady Herbert, the Queen’s sister, and other great ladies and gentlemen were present.

The King was in excellent humor on this his marriage morning. The jewels flashed on his dalmatica; the shrewd eyes sparkled and the royal tongue licked the tight lips, for she was a comely creature, this bride of his, and he was a man who needed a wife. He felt, as he had said that morning to his brother-in-law, Lord Hertford, that this marriage would be the best he had ever made.

The July sun was hot and the bride felt as though she would faint with the oppressive atmosphere in the room and the fear within her.

A nightmare had sprung into life. She was here in Hampton Court being married to the King, here in a palace surrounded by gardens which Henry had planned with Anne Boleyn, on whose walls were the entwined initials, the H. and A. which had had to be changed hastily to H. and J. Along the gallery which led to the chapel, the youthful Catharine Howard had run one day, screaming for mercy. It was said that both Anne and Catharine haunted this place. And here, in the palace of hideous memories, she, Katharine Parr, was now being married to Henry the Eighth.

There was no longer hope of escape. The King was close. His breath scorched her. The nuptial ring was being put on her finger.

No. No longer hope. The King in that tragic moment had made Katharine Parr his sixth wife.

CHAPTER

II

THE KING WAS NOT DISPLEASED WITH HIS NEW WIFE. She had the gentlest hands that had ever wrapped a bandage about his poor suffering leg, and in the first few weeks of his marriage he discovered that he had not only got himself a comely wife, but the best of nurses. Nervous and timid she was during those first weeks, as though feeling herself unworthy to receive the great honors which were being showered upon her.

“Why, bless your modest heart, Kate,” he told her, “you have no need to fear us. We like you. We like your shapely person and your gentle hands. We know that you have been raised to a great position in this land, but let that not disturb you, for you are worthy, Kate. We find you worthy.”

She wore the jewels—those priceless gems—which had been worn by her predecessors.

“Look at these rubies, Kate.” He would lean heavily on her and bite her ear in a moment of playfulness. Why had she thought that elderly men were less interested in fleshly pleasures than the younger ones? She realized that the experience afforded her by Lords Borough and Latimer had taught her little. “You’ll look a Queen in these! And don’t forget you wear them through the King’s grace. Don’t forget that, my Kate.”

And she herself, because she was by nature kindly and gentle and looked for that good in others which was such an integral part of her own character, was more quickly resigned to this marriage than others might have been.

Yet there were nights when she lay awake in the royal bed, that mountain of diseased flesh beside her, thinking of her new life as Queen of England. Of the King she knew a good deal, for the affairs of kings are watched closely by those about them, and this man was a supreme ruler whose slightest action could send reverberations through the kingdom.

What sort of man was he whom she had married? First, because she had been the victim of this quality, she must think of him as the sensualist. Indeed, his sensuality was so great that it colored every characteristic he possessed. But he was far more than a man who delighted in pandering to his senses with fair women, good food and the best of wine; he was a King, and for all his self-indulgence, he was a King determined to rule. When he had been a young man, his delight in his healthy body had proved so great that he had preferred to leave the government of state affairs to his able Wolsey. But he had changed. He was the ruler now. And through that selfishness, that love of indulgence, that terrifying cruelty, there could be seen the strong man, the man who knew how to govern in a turbulent age, a man to whom the greatness of his country was of the utmost importance because he, Henry the Eighth, was synonymous with England. But for his monster conscience and a surprising primness in the sensualist, he would have resembled any lusty man of the times. But he was apart. He must be right in all things; he must placate his conscience; and it was those acts, demanded of him by the conscience, which made him the most cruel tyrant of his age.

What would happen to her in the months to come? wondered Katharine, staring at the ornate tester, although there was not enough light to show her its magnificent workmanship. And what of Thomas Seymour, temporarily banished from his country because he had been known to cast covetous eyes on the woman the King had decided to make his wife! How was he bearing the banishment?

What are this King’s subjects, Katharine asked herself, but figures to be moved about at his pleasure? Some please him for a while, and he lifts them up and keeps them close beside him until he sees others who please him more; then those who delighted him a week before are discarded; and if that prim quality within him suggests that the favorite of yesterday be removed by death, the conscience demands that this should be done. For the King must always be able to answer his conscience, no matter how much blood must be spilled to bring about this state of concord between a self-willed sensualist and his conscience.

So Katharine prayed in the silences of the nights for the courage of which she knew she would have great need. Often she thought of a friend with whom she had been on terms of affection before she came to court. This was the Reformer, Anne Askew, herself the victim of an undesired marriage; she thought of Anne’s courage and determination and she longed to emulate her.

But I am a coward, thought Katharine. I cannot bear to think of the cell, and the sound of tolling bells, bringing to me a message of destruction. I cannot bear to think of leaving that cell for Tower Green and the executioner’s ax.

Her prayer for courage, it seemed, did not go unanswered, for as the days passed her fears diminished and she felt that a new sense was developing within her which would make her aware of encroaching danger and give her the calm she would need to face it.

Some might have loathed the task which was thrust upon them. Each day it was her duty now to bathe the leg, to listen to his cries of rage when he was in pain; but oddly enough, instead of nauseating her, this filled her with pity for him. To see this man—this all-powerful King—such a prey to his hideous infirmity, was a sorry sight. Once when he looked at her he had seen her eyes filled with tears. He had softened immediately.

“Tears, Kate? Tears?”

“You suffer so.”

Then those little eyes, which could be so cruel, also filled with tears, and the fat hand which was heavy with flashing jewels came down to pat her shoulders.

“You’re a good woman, Kate,” he said. “Methinks I made a good choice when I took you to wife.”

She had asked that her sister Anne, Lady Herbert, might be a lady of her bedchamber, and that Margaret Neville, the only daughter of Lord Latimer, be one of her maids of honor.

“Do as you will, Kate,” said the King when she had made the request. “You’re a good woman and a wise one, and you’ll surround yourself with others of your kind.”

Yes, the King was pleased. This marriage had not begun with one of those burning infatuations such as he had felt for Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard. That was all to the good. This, he assured himself, was a wise choice, a choice made while the judgment was cool and sober.

Then there were the children. He had made it clear to her that he wished her to take a stepmotherly interest in them, and for this she was grateful. It had been one of her deepest regrets that she had no children of her own, and that her strong maternal nature had always to be placated with stepchildren. Well, it had been so before, and never had she found anything but joy in mothering the children of those other women.

The royal children were as responsive as had been those of her other marriages. How happy she was to be so obviously welcome in their apartments! Poor children, they had known so many different stepmothers and they were accustomed to such changes.

When, as their stepmother, she paid them her first visit, they were all ceremoniously assembled to greet her.

Little Edward looked so puny that she wanted to take him in her arms and weep over him. Yet while he moved her with pity, he filled her with dread. This was the only male heir, and the King wished for others.

He put his hand in hers and, on sudden impulse, dispensing with that ceremony due to the heir to the throne, she knelt and kissed him, and, following her lead, he put his arms about her neck.

“Welcome, dear Mother,” he said; and in his voice was all the yearning of a little boy who has never known a mother and always longed for one, and whose childish pleasures had been overlaid by the great duties demanded of an heir to the throne.

“We are going to love each other,” she said.

“I am glad you are to be our stepmother,” he answered.

The Lady Mary knelt before her. Poor Mary, who was almost as unhealthy as Edward. She never dispensed with what she considered the right formalities, and this was a solemn occasion for Mary—the greeting of the new Queen of England. Previously it had been Lady Latimer who must kneel to the Lady Mary; now the position was reversed, and although there had been warm friendship between them, Mary never forgot the demands of etiquette.

“Rise, dear Mary,” said Katharine; and she kissed the slightly younger woman.

“Welcome, dear Mother,” said Mary. “I am glad to welcome you.”

And then Elizabeth came forward, dropping a pretty curtsy and lifting her sparkling eyes to her stepmother’s face.

“I, too, am pleased,” she said; and when she had received her stepmother’s kiss, as though on sudden impulse, she followed her brother’s example and, putting her arms about Katharine’s neck, kissed her.

Little Jane Grey, who was waiting with her sister Katharine to welcome the Queen, thought that Elizabeth seemed more pleased than any of them. Little Jane noted a good deal more than people guessed, for she never spoke, even to her beloved Edward, of all that she saw. She did not believe that Elizabeth was really half as pleased as Edward or Mary, although she was not displeased. (Who could be to welcome such a gentle and charming lady as the new Queen?) It was merely that Elizabeth could show great pleasure or great sorrow as she wished, and the more easily than others because she did not feel these emotions deeply and could remain in control of herself.

Now Elizabeth stood back that the Queen might greet the little Greys, and while Jane knelt before the Queen and was kissed by her, she was thinking that Elizabeth was not really so pleased because the King had married a good lady, but because this lady would be easy to persuade; and Elizabeth would know how to persuade her to ask the King to give her what she most needed; and what Elizabeth needed was that position which she considered hers by right. She wished to be received at court, not as the Lady Elizabeth, the bastard, but as a Princess; and she wished to have an income that she might buy beautiful clothes; she wished to have jewels with which to adorn her person. Jane felt sure that that was what Elizabeth was thinking as she greeted Katharine Parr.

And yet, when they had dispensed with ceremony as far as Mary would allow them, and were all gay and happy together, Jane noticed that it was Elizabeth’s gay chatter which most charmed the Queen.

Edward kept close to Jane, and now and then held her hand and looked at her with fresh tenderness. He was thinking that his father must be very happy to have this new stepmother for a wife, and that a wife could be a great help to a King.

Then he felt suddenly happy because of Jane, who was quiet and gentle and very clever—she was not unlike the new stepmother in these things—for Edward knew that Queen Katharine was quiet, gentle and learned.

While Elizabeth was talking to their stepmother, Edward said to Jane: “It is a good thing to have a wife, Jane. If a king loves her dearly and she is good and kind and clever, that is a very good thing. You are kind, Jane, and good and clever. You are beautiful too.”

Then he and Jane smiled at each other, because there was such accord between them that they did not always have to put their thoughts into words, and Jane knew that Edward meant that he wished he might have her for his Queen when he grew up.

The King too visited his son’s apartment on that day, for he wished to see how his wife was faring with his children.

His approach was heralded as he came slowly to those apartments.

“The King comes this way!”

Waiting women and ushers, guards and gentlemen-at-arms were alert, terrified that he might glance their way and find some fault, hoping that he would give them a nod of approval.

And into the room he hobbled, beside him one of his gentlemen on whom he might lean. His doublet was of crimson velvet, striped and slashed with white satin. About his neck was a gold collar from which hung a magnificent and very large pearl. His cloak was of purple velvet; and on his left leg he wore the Garter. He glittered with jewels; they adorned his cap, his doublet and his cloak; they sparkled on the pouch of cloth of gold which hung at his side and which hid from view the dagger with the jeweled hilt. The color of his face almost matched that of his cloak, so purple was it with the exertion of walking; but at the moment its expression was one of beaming kindliness. It pleased him to see his new wife and his children together.

As he entered the room all fell to their knees.

He surveyed them with contentment, until he examined more closely the face of his little son. The boy was wan and there were dark shadows under his eyes. That tutor of his was letting him work too hard; he would have a word with the fellow.

“Rise,” he commanded; and they rose and stood before him in awe and fearful admiration.

He limped to the Prince. The boy tried not to shrink, but found it difficult, for in the presence of his dazzling father he felt himself to be more insignificant than usual. It always seemed to Edward that he shrank to a smaller size under that scrutiny; his headaches seemed worse, and his palpitations returned with violence; he was aware of the new rash which had broken out on his right cheek. The King would notice it and blame someone for it—perhaps dear Mrs. Penn, his beloved nurse. Edward was always terrified that Mrs. Penn might be taken from him.

From the boy the King turned his gaze on Mary. He felt an almost active dislike toward her, for she was a continual reproach to him. She ought to have been married, but what royal Prince wanted a bastard for his wife, even if she was a King’s bastard? And how could he declare her legitimate and still insist that he was right to put her mother away? No wonder the sight of her depressed him.

Then Elizabeth. She grows more like me every day, he was thinking. That hair is as mine was; once I had such a fair and glowing skin. Perhaps you didn’t make a cuckold of me with Norris after all, Anne.

He wanted to dislike Elizabeth, but he found that impossible, since to do so would be tantamount to disliking himself.

“Well…fostering friendship?” he asked.

Katharine spoke. “We were friends already, Your Majesty.”

“It pleases me to hear that.” He smiled, reminding his conscience that he was above all things a benign parent who had chosen a wife, not for carnal pleasures, but because he wished to benefit his children. He gazed at her and was pleased with what he saw. Her bodice of cloth of gold was a pleasant change after her widow’s black. The bodice fitted tightly, showing her neat but womanly figure, and at her throat glowed the great ruby which he had given her.

A comely Queen! he reflected. A good stepmother into the bargain. Not too old to have sons of her own. She was a healthy woman, small but sturdy. She would have sons. And he would be looking to her to provide him with one very soon.

He signed for his chair, and one of the attendants hurried to place it for him. He made his son come to him and he questioned the boy as to his studies. He placed his great hand on the small head.

“You must be healthy,” he said. “When I was your age I was twice your size.”

“I crave Your Majesty’s pardon for my size,” said the boy. “I ride every day, as did Your Majesty at my age, and I jump and run.”

“You’re a good boy,” said Henry. “But I should like to see you grow somewhat faster.”

He would like to hear the boy read to him in French and Latin, he said; and books were brought; but while the Prince stood at his father’s knee and read aloud, the King was watching the others, who stood, without speaking, in his presence.

This boy is all I have, he reflected sorrowfully. Oh Jane, why did you not live to give me more? And healthy ones too. His breathing’s bad, and he’s too thin. I’ll see his cook this very day. He shall be made to eat. He shall be made to grow strong and lusty.

This boy and two girls…a pretty state of affairs! He remembered his son, Richmond, and the delight he had felt when that boy had been born, proclaiming his father’s manhood to the world; for he had feared, before the birth of Richmond, that he could not beget a son. Then Richmond had died that horrible, lingering death.

Henry was afraid that the small child at his knee might go the way of Richmond. Mary had managed to cling to life, but he felt that that had been something like a miracle. Elizabeth alone seemed capable of living to the normal span. He wished there was some magician at his court who could change the sex of the girl. Ha! What an achievement that would be. If Elizabeth could be changed to a boy he would make her heir to the throne, by God he would!

But there was no one who could perform such a miracle, and he felt that it was cruel that it must be Anne’s girl who should claim his attention, whom he should long to make his successor. He had always believed that Anne might have the power to mock him from the grave.

Then he contemplated his Queen again. He had a good wife. She was small and dainty and he would like her better when her body broadened with his child. Well, it was early yet, but perhaps this time next year there would be another Tudor Prince to delight his heart.

“Have done,” he said to Edward. “Have done. Your reading’s good. I’ll compliment your tutor instead of berating him. And how do you like your new mother, eh?”

“Sire, I love her dearly.”

“That is well.” He touched the boy’s cheek with his sparkling forefinger. “More spots, eh?”

“They came only today,” explained the Prince apologetically. “I feel in very good health, Sire.”

“That is well.”

He rose painfully and Katharine came forward to help him. “Good Kate. I rejoice to see you here. Now help me back to my apartment.”

He took her arm and leaned alternately on her and on his stick.

When they were in the royal apartments he said: “The Prince looks poorly. My only son. I would I had a dozen more to follow him.” He pinched her cheek. “We’ll get ourselves a son, eh? We’ll get ourselves a son, Kate, my little pig.”

This, she brooded, is the height of royal favor. The King calls me his “pig” and asks for sons. If I provide them I shall continue to be his pig. If not…?

Why should she not have a child? She longed for a child. Some of the wise women said that those who longed for children most easily conceived them. And yet how those unfortunate Queens must have longed for sons!

She refused to be depressed. She had her friends about her—her dearest sister Anne and her beloved stepdaughter, Margaret Neville. She had her dear Nan with her, and Nan would serve her faithfully as long as they lived. And she had her new stepchildren, who had received her with warmth; and at the moment she was the King’s little pig.

“My lord,” she said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

He surveyed her benignly. He wished her to know that, being pleased with her, he was in the mood to grant favors.

“Well, Kate, speak up. What is this favor?”

“It concerns your daughters. It is one of my dearest wishes to see them reinstated at court. My lord, I cannot help but feel that it is wrong that they should not be recognized as royal Princesses.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know what I suffered through their mothers. Mary’s a bastard. You know that. And so is Elizabeth.”

“But were you not married to the Lady Elizabeth’s mother?”

“Nay. You meddle in things you do not understand. I never liked meddling women, Kate.” He caught her cheek between his thumb and finger and pinched it. “Mind you, Kate, I know your motives. You meddle for them and not for your own gain. I like you for it. The form of marriage I went through with Elizabeth’s mother was no true marriage. She was precontracted to Northumberland. That made our marriage void, and her girl a bastard. They’re both bastards, I tell you.”

“Yet they are your daughters. And how like you is the Lady Elizabeth! My lord, could you not have them brought back to the position they enjoyed when you believed yourself to be married to their mothers?”

He pretended to consider, pretended to be faintly displeased. This was one of the games of make-believe which he so liked to play. He was not considering; he was not displeased. He knew that the people thought it wrong that his daughters should live in penury; providing all agreed that they were bastards—which they must do if his conscience was to be satisfied—he would not be unwilling to give them a position at court. And how pleasant it was to do this thing which he wished to do and still make it a favor to Kate, his new wife, his sweetheart, his little pig.

“Methinks I find it hard to deny you aught, sweetheart, for now you ask this favor I am inclined to grant it.”

“I thank you. I thank you most heartily. Your Majesty is indeed good to me.”

“And you in turn shall be good to me.” She knew what he meant. It seemed to her as though the bells in the chapel had begun to toll. “Sons. Sons,” they seemed to say. “Give me sons.”

“But first,” he said, with the air of one who offered yet another honor to a subject already overloaded with them, “you shall dress my leg. The walking has shifted the bandage and it plagues me.”

THERE WERE TWO men who were not pleased with the King’s felicity. One of these was Thomas Wriothesley and the other Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester.

It was Wriothesley, the sly and cunning, who discovered through his spies that, in the privacy of her chamber, the Queen read forbidden books, and he hastened to his friend Gardiner to acquaint him with the discovery.

The court was at Windsor, and Gardiner, greatly disturbed by the news that he had helped to put on the throne a Queen who leaned toward Protestantism, suggested that Wriothesley and he should walk together in the Great Park to discuss this matter which he would prefer not to mention within castle walls.

When the two men had put some distance between themselves and the castle, Gardiner said: “This is indeed disturbing news, my friend. I would have sworn that the Queen was a good Catholic.”

“A sly woman, my lord Bishop, I fear. While she was Latimer’s wife, she allowed it to be understood that she was as good a Catholic as you or I. As soon as he dies and she marries His Grace, we find her playing the heretic.”

“A foolish woman, friend Wriothesley. Playing the heretic when she was Latimer’s wife would have been a mild matter. Playing the same as the wife of our Sovereign Lord is another affair. But we waste time tattling of the follies of such a woman. We must act.”

Wriothesley nodded. This was what he expected of Gardiner. He would be ready to strike a blow for Catholicism and strike it in the right direction. Gardiner was a strong man; he had served under Wolsey; his tact and enthusiasm in the affair of the King’s first divorce had placed him in high favor. When Wolsey had fallen, Gardiner became Secretary of State. The Archdeaconry of Leicester and the Bishopric of Winchester had speedily fallen to him. And if the King did not care for him as he had cared for some of his ministers, if Gardiner’s origins were obscure, these facts merely meant that his rise to power was the more spectacular, and if he did not win the King’s love, he had his respect.

“Tell me what you have discovered of the Queen,” went on Gardiner.

“She surrounds herself with those who are interested in the new religion. There are her sister Lady Hertford, the stepdaughter Margaret Neville, the Duchess of Suffolk, Lady Hoby and others. They are secret ‘Reformers’…as they call themselves. Remember, my lord Bishop, she has some charge of the education of the Prince and Princess. Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth are but children; their minds could be easily perverted. The Lady Mary is a staunch Catholic and safe from any contamination. But not only has the woman charge of the young Prince and Princess, but of the two Grey girls, and they are near enough to the throne for that fact to be disquietening.”

“You have no need to warn me on that score. We cannot have heretics sharing the throne with the King.”

“Could we not take this matter to the King and lay it before him?”

Gardiner smiled ruefully. He let his gaze rest on the two towers of the castle which were approached by the drawbridge. He was standing on a mound and could see the straggling street with its gabled houses, black and white, which formed the town of Windsor. He could see the winding river, silver under the summer sky, cutting its way through meadows gold with buttercups. But Gardiner had not a thought to spare for the beauties of Nature. Instead he thought of other Queens whom ministers had planned to destroy. He knew that any minister would be a fool to approach an amorous King with tales against the woman he had married as recently as two weeks before.

Cranmer had brought Catharine Howard to the block, but that had been some time after the marriage; yet the King had undoubtedly been infatuated with the woman. But what tales Cranmer had had to set before the King—such tales and such proof that poor nervous Cranmer had dared deprive Henry of a wife with whom he had been in love. And what Protestant Cranmer could do to Catharine Howard, Catholic Gardiner could do to Katharine Parr.

But not yet. Timing was all-important in such matters.

“This needs much thought,” he said slowly. “To strike at the Queen now would be to invite disaster. The King is pleased with her. Two weeks of marriage have increased rather than diminished his pleasure in her. I can assure you, Wriothesley, that she delights him more now with her nursing and her gentle ways than she did before the marriage. The time is not yet.”

“I am sure that you are right, my lord Bishop, but might not delay prove dangerous? It is while the King sets such store by her that she will have the best opportunity of whispering her heresies into his ears.”

The Bishop patted Wriothesley’s arm. “Yet we must wait. Later we shall no doubt have Seymour back at court. Then, mayhap, it may be possible to bring a case against those two. Such a case would be sure of success…if proved, and there are usually ways of proving these matters.” The Bishop’s lips formed into a smile, which disappeared as he looked toward the Castle walls. But they were far-distant and there was no one but his companion to hear this dangerous conversation.

“Ah, Seymour!” said Wriothesley. “If we could but prove something against those two! His Majesty would be mad with fury and we should bring down two groups of enemies at the same time. The Queen and her heretic friends…and the Seymours. What could be better?”

“We must remember if Seymour returns that it may not be as simple as you assume. Seymour is a very ambitious man. I doubt that he would allow his feeling for any woman to interfere with his ambitions. The King, moreover, is fond of the fellow.”

“Still, the Queen was enamored of him before her marriage with the King. He wished to marry her. And the King must have felt some uneasiness to have dispatched him to Flanders. It may well be that the King will keep him there. Oh yes, his jealousy is aroused—if only slightly—by the fascinating sailor.”

“That’s so; but his love for the Queen is not the white-hot passion it was in the cases of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard. We might attack through Seymour, I do not doubt; but Seymour is not here. That may come later. In the meantime, we might strike, not at the Queen, but at her friends.”

“Her friends? You mean her sister and the ladies?…”

“Nay, nay. You have something to learn, Wriothesley. We strike first at little deer and wait for the head deer. There are Reformers in most towns, and it is my belief that if we looked we might find them here in this town of Windsor. There is a priest I know of, a certain Anthony Pearson. The people flock to hear his sermons, and the good honest Catholic lawyer, Simons of this town, has already conveyed to me his suspicions of this man. Simons declares him to be a Reformer. There are others. A little inquiry into the life of this man Pearson would doubtless disclose their identities and give us what we desire. We could strike at the Queen through them and, while we await the opportunity to implicate Her Majesty, doubtless these men would help add a little fuel to a Smithfield fire.”

“I applaud your wisdom, my lord.”

The Bishop slipped his arm through that of Wriothesley. “Keep close to me. I will have you informed of the progress of this affair. Let us strike at the little deer before we bend our bows to bring down those at the head of the herd. We will return to the Castle, and I will seek an early opportunity of an audience with the King; and when it is over I will let you know how I have progressed. Watch me, my friend, and you will see how I intend to deal with this delicate affair, and I promise you that in a matter of months—though it may be a year or two—you will see Her Majesty following in the footsteps of other foolish Queens.”

“It would be the block.”

Gardiner nodded. “His Majesty has had two divorces. He does not like them. He prefers…the other method.”

“I doubt not,” said Wriothesley, “that it will be the…‘ other method’…for Katharine Parr.”

IN ST. GEORGE’S HALL the King had seated himself in that chair of state above which was the ornate canopy of Edward the Third. It was at the head of the banqueting table, and on his right hand sat his Queen. The Lady Mary was present in a place of high honor, and as Gardiner said grace he reflected that his task might not be a difficult one, for Queen Katharine Parr must be a foolish woman so to raise such a staunch Catholic as the Princess Mary to work against her.

Before the King knelt one of his gentlemen with a ewer, another with a basin, yet another with a napkin. The great table seemed as though it must collapse under the weight of heavy flasks of wine and the enormous gilded and silver dishes. Venison, chickens, peacocks, cygnets, salmon, mullet and pies of all sorts were laid out. Gardiner watched the King’s eyes gleam as they studied the food. The King’s love of women was, it was said, being surpassed by his interest in food. The Bishop must speak to the King after the meal and he must make sure of doing so before his blood became overheated and his digestive organs complained of the great amount of work their royal master would give them to do.

The minstrels began to play and a humble chorister from the town of Windsor to sing one of the King’s songs. The King’s eyes were glazed with pleasure; next to his love of food, wine and women came his love of music; and there was no music that delighted him as much as his own.

This was a state occasion and the hall was thronged with men at arms, yeomen and halberdiers. Thus, thought Gardiner, must feast Henry the Eighth by the Grace of God King of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Defender of the Faith! His ministers, decided the Bishop, must needs keep him to that defense.

When the music was over and before the feasting began, the King sent for John Marbeck to come before him.

The man, deeply conscious of the honor done him, knelt in a reverence which was far from displeasing to Henry. He had always been eager to win the approbation of his humble subjects.

“Your name?” said Henry.

“John Marbeck, Your Most Gracious Majesty.”

“We liked your singing. You shall sing to us again. I said to the Queen that rarely have I heard my song sung so well.”

“I shall treasure the memory of those words for the rest of my life, Your Grace.”

The Queen gave Marbeck one of her smiles, and the man looked at her with a devotion which equaled that he gave to the King, for in those circles in which he moved he had heard of the Queen’s sympathies with that religion which he, Marbeck, was convinced was the true one.

The King gave orders that Marbeck should be given good food and wine, and the banquet began.

“I liked that fellow,” said the King to Katharine. “Methinks I know an honest face when I see it.”

“Your Majesty must have him to sing more of your songs,” said Katharine.

“That I will. And it shall be while we are here at Windsor. I hear he works with Priest Pearson and is a good churchman.”

When the King was heavy with much food and wine, Gardiner craved private audience, saying that he had matters of great importance which he wished to set before His Majesty.

Henry nodded, and before retiring to his bedchamber received the Bishop in his private closet.

“What now, Bishop?” he asked.

“It has come to my ears, Your Grace, that there are a number of heretics in the realm, men who doubt the word of Your Majesty and plan to work against those laws which you have set down.”

“What’s this?” cried Henry.

“Books are being circulated, books which Your Majesty has forbidden his subjects to read. They are being compiled against Your Majesty’s orders. There are men who seek, by sly and secret means, to work against you. They disagree with the Six Articles. They would defy Your Grace and teach a false religion.”

“Oh, these meddlers!” groaned Henry. “They torment and plague me. Why cannot they accept the religion which their King has given them?”

“They are wayward subjects, Your Grace. It is the books which are at the root of the evil. I ask Your Majesty’s permission to make a search of every dwelling in this town. Give me this permission, and I will have the ringleaders in a week.”

Henry was silent and Gardiner went on: “These heretics, Your Grace, they creep into every comer of the court. Even about Your Majesty they gather.”

He stopped, noting his master’s frown. Henry did not wish to be disturbed with these matters now. He had eaten well; he had drunk well; and he wanted his pleasant little Queen to sit beside him. They had been married for two weeks, and the more he saw of her, the more he liked her, so he wished that nothing should interfere with his postmarital courtship.

Clever Gardiner was a good servant, the sort he needed about him, but there were times when the fellow irritated him. He knew whither Gardiner wished to lead him. His Queen had been betraying her thoughts. She was not a foolish, frivolous woman, and she spent much time with her books. Some of these books, Henry guessed, would not have given great pleasure to his Catholic Bishop. Let the Queen read what she would; he wanted no fool for a wife, and as long as she did not imagine herself to be too clever, he was pleased that she should display a certain good sense. Most of the clever people at his court had a desire to examine new ideas; it was natural.

Regarding his wife, Henry was in a benevolent mood. He was happier than he had been since they had brought him the news of Catharine Howard’s infidelities. The fact was he had needed a wife, and now he had one. She was a good little woman who gave him much pleasure. He wished, therefore, to be left alone with his pleasure; and if Master Gardiner had the good sense he imagined himself to have, he should realize this.

“Your permission, Sire, to search the houses of Windsor, and I will bring you proof.”

“Oh…very well, Sir Bishop. Go to your searching.”

“Every room in Windsor, Sire, shall be ransacked in the service of Your Grace.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “You’ll not search the Castle apartments, my lord. You’ll keep your fingers out of them, Sir Bishop.”

Gardiner bowed, well pleased. So the King already knew of the Queen’s sympathies, and he did not wish to be disturbed with the knowledge. This could mean only one thing: the present Queen was in such high favor that her religious opinions were of little moment. They were to be ignored…for the time being.

Certainly the Bishop was not displeased. Once the King had tired of his little pig, he would be only too eager to listen to an account of her heresies. And, cogitated the Bishop, if and when that came about, and Master Thomas Seymour returned to court…the stage would be set.

THE BISHOP’S FIRST action after that interview with the King was to send for a certain Dr. London, whom he knew to be in the town of Windsor.

Gardiner had a special reason for sending for this man. He had watched the career of the Doctor of Divinity and knew him for a man of great resource and cunning. Dr. London had worked under Thomas Cromwell in the dissolution of the monasteries and he had been the perfect tool of his master. Cromwell had said: “Bring me evidence of the infamies which persist in such and such an abbey.” And Dr. London had never failed to bring what was required of him; he was an indefatigable exposer of foulness; he was a reviver of old scandals; and if he could find no scandal foul enough to please his master, well then, he was a man of ready wit and it was not beyond his power to invent them.

Moreover, Dr. London was a man who needed to show the Bishop his loyalty. As he had once been Cromwell’s man, he could not easily become Gardiner’s. In these dangerous times a man must take sides; and Dr. London had shown the Bishop that he wished to establish himself as a good Catholic.

The man had wisdom. He looked into the future. The present King was ailing; his son was weak; and there was Catholic Mary waiting to take the throne. Dr. London—like Gardiner—saw a return to Rome not far distant. He had no wish to feed the flames of Smithfield.

Such a man, the Bishop was sure, would work with zeal.

“Dr. London, I have work for you. You have shown me that you wish for preferment. You have sworn loyalty to me and the true religion. Now is the time to prove it.”

“I am at your service, my lord Bishop.”

“The task to which I am appointing you, good Dr. London, is the smelling-out of heretics in Windsor.”

“Ah. They abound in this town, sir. They abound.”

“Alas, ’tis true. I have the King’s order to bring them to justice. Whom do you suspect of heresy?”

“There is a priest, Anthony Pearson. I have made notes of his sermons, your lordship. He has said enough to send him to the stake.”

“Mayhap examination of his house will lead you to others.”

“I doubt it not.”

“Go to it, good Doctor. I doubt not that you will find evidence against these rogues.”

“My lord Bishop, it is said that these people are given aid by some at court.”

The Bishop nodded. “For the time, Doctor, let us keep to the herd. We will shoot at the head deer later.”

The Doctor’s eyes gleamed. He understood. Great things lay ahead of him. This was but a beginning. He would perform the task required of him, and another and greater would come his way. That was what the good Bishop, the mighty Bishop, was telling him.

“How many heretics would my lord Bishop require?”

“Not too many. We might say…four. They should be humble men. The court is to be left alone. Start with this priest Pearson and see whither that leads.”

The Doctor bowed himself out of the Bishop’s presence and at once went to his task.

AS HE LEFT THE Castle of Windsor, John Marbeck was singing softly. It had been a successful evening, a wonderful evening indeed when the King had singled him out to express his pleasure.

John Marbeck was a simple man, a deeply religious man, a man of ideals. His greatest desire was not that he might win fame and fortune at court, but that he might help to give the Bible to the people of England.

He had many friends in Windsor, men with ideals similar to his own; he met them in the course of his duties at church and he sometimes joined gatherings at their homes and, on occasions, they visited his. During these meetings there was one subject which they discussed with passion: religion.

Each of these men wished to do some work which would aid others to reach the great Truth which they believed they had discovered.

Pearson did it by his preaching, as did Henry Filmer, a friar, who, being turned from his monastery, had become interested in the new learning and was now a vicar in Windsor.

Marbeck’s friend Robert Testwood, a fine musician and the head of the choir to which Marbeck belonged, had introduced him to these men; and how happy Marbeck had been to show them the great work which he was doing!

“I shall go on working at my Concordance,” he told them, “until I have made possible a greater understanding of the Bible.”

“Then keep it secret,” Pearson had warned him.

It was strange, thought Marbeck, looking back at the gray walls of the castle, how simple men such as himself and his friends, knowing the risks they ran, should continue to run them.

Robert Testwood had said: “This is more than a religious issue, my friends. We do these things because within us we feel that a man should have freedom to think as he wishes.”

Marbeck was not sure of that. The religious issue, to him, was all-important. And on this night he wished merely to be happy. The King had complimented him on his voice; the Queen had smiled graciously upon him—the Queen, who, some said, was one of them.

He smiled, thinking of the future. Perhaps he would dedicate his Concordance to that gracious lady.

He was singing the song he had sung before the King, as he let himself into his house.

He stood at the door listening. He heard noises within. Strangers were in his house.

His heart was beating fast as he opened the door and went into that room in which he did his work. There stood two men; he noticed that his cupboard had been turned out, as had the drawers of his table. In the hands of one were several sheets of his Concordance. These men had forced the lock; they had discovered his secret.

“What…what do you here?” he stammered.

“John Marbeck,” said one of the men, “we come on the King’s business. You are our prisoner. There will be questions for you to answer.”

“Questions…questions? I beg of you, give me those papers…. They are mine….”

“Not so,” said the man. “These papers are our prisoners also. Come, master chorister. There is no time to waste.”

“Whither do you take me?”

“To London. To the Marshalsea.”

Marbeck was trembling, remembering tales he had heard and had bravely not heeded. Now they were close to him and he would have to heed them. He thought of torture and death; and as he left Windsor for London in the company of his captors he thought of the smell of crackling wood and burning flesh; he thought of the martyr’s death.

ANNE, LADY HERBERT, came to the Queen and begged a secret audience with her. Katharine forthwith dismissed all her attendants.

“What ails you, sister?” asked the Queen. “I declare you look as if you have seen a ghost.”

Ah! thought Anne Herbert. Mayhap I have. The ghosts of Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard warn me.

“Gardiner is moving against you. He, with his friend Wriothesley, has ordered a search of the houses in this town.”

“A search!”

“There have already been arrests.”

“Whom have they arrested?”

“Four men of Windsor. Two priests and two musicians. Pearson is one of them, Marbeck another.”

“God help us!” cried the Queen. “I know why these men have been taken.”

“It is a blow at you, dearest sister. They dare not attack you now because you have the King’s favor. But this is a warning. As soon as they consider they have a chance to work against you, they will do so. Dearest Majesty, you must give up your reading, give up those little gatherings of our friends. It was unsafe when you were Lady Latimer; but now that you are the Queen it is desperately dangerous.”

“Anne, what will happen to these men?”

“I know not. Dr. London is preparing a case against them.”

“Dr. London! That rogue. He was Cromwell’s man. That is he, is it not? He roamed the countryside and turned the monks from their monasteries while he took their treasure.”

“He took those treasures for his master, Kate. He is a man without principles. Then he worked against the Catholic monks; now he works for Catholic Gardiner and the King’s Secretary, Wriothesley. He is wily; he is clever and he is unscrupulous. What is to become of these men, I do not know. They say they have found Marbeck’s notes on the Bible. That will ensure a fiery death for him.”

“But, Anne, the King has a fondness for Marbeck. He complimented him on his singing.”

“Gardiner has no fondness for Marbeck’s religious views.”

“The King is all-powerful.”

“But, Kate, Gardiner will show that Marbeck has disobeyed the King’s orders. I am afraid…desperately afraid. Not only for these men…but for you.”

“We must help them, Anne. We cannot let them die.”

“Let well alone. Listen to me, dearest Kate. Remember those who went before you. You have the King’s favor now. Keep it. Do everything you can to keep it, and stay away from trouble.”

“But I must do everything I can for these men, Anne.”

“You tempt Fate.”

“No, Anne. I must prove my courage in this. I have to acquire courage. Something within me tells me this. If I fail now I should fail later.”

“Later?” said Anne Herbert fearfully.

“Anne, there may come a time when I shall have to be very brave indeed.” Katharine put her arm about her sister. “Speak what is in your mind, dearest. You talk of four men of Windsor, and you think of two Queens. Remember, I have an advantage over them. I know what happened to them; though they, poor souls, had no indications of what they would come to. All will be well, I promise you. The King is fond of me and he grows fonder.”

“Dearest sister,” said Anne, “I would that you were merely my sister and not my Queen.”

IN THE DARKNESS of the royal bedchamber the Queen whispered to the King: “My Lord, you are pleased with me?”

The King’s laugh was a deep, satisfied rumble.

“Your Grace has been good to me.”

“Well, sweetheart, that is what I would wish to be to one who pleases me as you do.”

“In my happiness I think of others less happy.”

“That’s like you, Kate. You’re a kind woman.”

“I trust my ways do not displease you.”

“And what is all this talk of pleasing and displeasing? It seems that women talk in this way when they would ask a favor.”

“You are clever. You follow the workings of my mind.”

“I am well versed, Kate, in the ways of women.”

“It is of those men of Windsor so recently arrested that I think. They have been condemned to the flames.”

The King grunted. This was no time to talk of state matters. He wished Kate would ask for something for herself, some ornament, some fancy velvets to make a gown. Now, first, she must ask that his daughters might be reinstated; then she must ask for money for them. He had given way to her there. Now she was going to plead for these heretics who were condemned to die.

“Poor Marbeck!” she said.

“Aye!” said the King. “Poor Marbeck.” The man had an enchanting voice. A plague on Gardiner for arresting him. Why should he interfere with the King’s pleasure? For Marbeck, with his pleasant singing, had brought pleasure to his King. “It would be well if Marbeck’s accusers spent their time in no worse way than he does,” growled Henry.

Katharine felt exultant. “Your Majesty will pardon this man?”

Henry himself had been thinking of doing that; but he was not going to say that he would immediately. Katharine was going to ask a pardon for all four, and he did not wish to pardon them all. He was not going to allow men to act with impunity against himself; and these men, in acting against laws which he had approved, were acting against him.

Blood must flow, he reasoned. If any lift the mildest voice against the King’s command, blood must flow…or, as in this case, flesh must burn.

He could not therefore pardon all the offenders; but he liked Marbeck. What if he gave Marbeck to Katharine? But the other three would have to go to Gardiner.

“Kate,” he said, “this man has been condemned. Books have been found in his house.”

He felt the Queen’s shiver, and he knew that, had he allowed those men to search her apartments, they would have found similar books there. Well well, let her read her books for the time being; it was pleasant to discourse with a woman of good sense.

“Pardon them, my dearest lord,” pleaded Katharine. “Show your clemency.”

“Only fools show clemency, Kate. If I let those men go free, what would happen, think you? Others would proclaim themselves heretics without more ado.”

“Only those who do so in secret already would do that.”

“When men practice in secret what they fear to do in the open, that is not a good thing, Kate. Perhaps we should find more of these rogues.”

“No, my lord, I beg of you.”

“There, sweetheart. You are a woman and soft. You plead for these men because it is in your nature to be soft with all. You are our Queen—our well-loved Queen. We will do something to show you our regard.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“I give you Marbeck.”

“A thousand thanks, Your Grace. And Pearson…Testwood and Filmer?”

“You’re greedy, Kate. No. Take Marbeck, and be grateful. I cannot interfere further with justice, even for your sake.”

“My lord…”

“The matter is closed, sweetheart.”

She was silent, and the King smiled smugly in the darkness. He felt loving and benign. He had granted his Queen’s request, and he had saved his friend Marbeck, which, after all, he had long made up his mind to do.

GARDINER WAS PLEASED with the Windsor episode. As he explained to Wriothesley, the Queen had Marbeck, but they had kept the other three for the flames which had now consumed them. This was no true victory for the Queen, as the King himself had not wished Marbeck to die and would doubtless have saved him even if the Queen had not asked for his life.

“The woman is soft and a fool,” said Gardiner. “She should have asked for one of the others and left Marbeck to rely on the King’s favor. Well, she is new to her position and I prophesy that she will not long hold it. And this is not an end to the matter. I have set the good Dr. London to pursue his inquiries, and ere long he will have more men and women to bring up for examination. And this time, Master Secretary, I think he might look a little higher. Oh, not so high as I intend him to go, but creeping up, creeping upward.”

“The Queen will protect her friends.”

“She has no chance against us. Remember there is the Act to suppress what is called the New Learning. Has not the King himself said that the ignorant people have contaminated and perverted the Scriptures by their translations, and that these translations are not in accordance with the Catholic Church of which he is head? Tyndale’s translation has been condemned as crafty and false. It is an offense to be in possession of such books. As for those who add to their sins by further translating and writing, they deserve the flames. If these people are allowed to proceed, the Latin tongue will become a dead one. The three men of Windsor have been rightly burned under the Act of the Six Articles. Rest assured that more arrests will follow. And very soon we may be in a position to take our aim at the main target, eh, Wriothesley, my friend?”

Gardiner was smiling as he spoke. Soon he hoped to see Cranmer fall with Katharine Parr, as Wolsey had with Anne Boleyn, Cromwell with Anne of Cleves. And after Cranmer it would be the turn of those men who had become the greatest enemies of all—the Seymour brothers, Lord Hertford and Sir Thomas. As brothers-in-law of the King, they had enjoyed special favor since Henry’s marriage with their sister; but as uncles of Edward they would be more dangerous still. Gardiner believed that Edward would still be a boy at the time of his accession and, if he were, he could easily be the tool of his uncles. Lord Hertford was constantly with the boy, molding him, dominating him. Hertford was not only an ambitious man; he was also a strong one. He would aim to be nominally the Protector of England and in actuality England’s ruler. Sir Thomas Seymour was even more to be suspected, for while the boy Edward feared his elder uncle he doted on the younger. It would, therefore, be a masterstroke to have the two brothers in their graves before the accession of their nephew. And why not? Powerful as they were, they leaned toward Protestantism, and that created a flaw in their armor. Moreover, Thomas had cast his eyes in the Queen’s direction.

These were ambitious schemes, in which Gardiner would need the help of the entire Catholic Party; they were not, however, impossible of achievement, if crafty patience were employed; and employed it should be.

He could visualize a future with the Lady Mary on the throne—Queen Mary, that true and loyal supporter of the Catholic cause. It might well happen in his lifetime, and he doubted not that if it did he would be one of those whom she would raise to a lofty eminence. He must be beside the Queen; he must teach her what should be done with heretics. When he contemplated his good Catholic Queen Mary on the throne he could almost smell the fires of Smithfield.

“Have no fear, my dear Wriothesley,” he said now. “Our good friend Dr. London will smell out our enemies. I think you will be surprised when he has done his work. We can rely on that man’s help.”

IN A WAY GARDINER was right. When Dr. London contemplated the future he saw a similar picture to that conjured up by Gardiner: Queen Mary on the throne and the Catholics triumphant.

He was very anxious to show himself a good Catholic, and how could he do this better than by pleasing the Catholic Bishop of Winchester and the King’s Catholic Secretary?

They had brought down the little game; now they looked higher.

“But not too high, good Doctor.” Those were the very words.

As usual he selected his victims, and his choice fell on the learned Dr. Haines who had been the Dean of Exeter and was now a Prebendary of Windsor. But he would go even higher than that; he would creep a little closer to that one who he knew was the most important on the list. He would go to the Queen’s household and select Sir Philip and Lady Hoby, together with Sir Thomas Carden. He would also take some of the minor gentlemen and ladies. That would suffice.

He outlined his plan to his friend Simons, the lawyer who had been a great help in the affair of the men of Windsor.

“A difficulty presents itself here,” said the wily lawyer. “We need evidence, and we have not the King’s permission to search the royal apartments.”

Dr. London confessed himself to be in a quandary. These people he had selected, he knew, had interested themselves in the New Learning, but how could he prove it?

He was disturbed, but, remembering the methods he and his master Cromwell had used during the dissolution of the monasteries, he decided on a plan of action. After all, had not the Bishop of Winchester something like this in mind when he had selected the experienced Dr. London for this task?

“It would be necessary,” said Simons, “for us to find men who would testify against them. That would not be easy.”

“We have not been given enough power,” said Dr. London. “Did not the three men who have recently been burned at the stake mention the names of these people?”

Simons looked at the Doctor sharply.

“That was not so, Doctor.”

“An oversight. Doubtless had we tried to extract these names from them we should have done so.”

“But we did not.”

“There was written evidence of what these men said during examination, was there not?”

“There was.”

“And where are these documents?”

“In the hands of the clerk of the court.”

“A man named Ockham. I know him well. He should be easy to handle.”

“What do you propose, Doctor?”

“My good man, the evidence is not there because of an oversight. It is always possible to remedy such oversights.”

“Do you mean to…forge evidence…to insert something those men did not say concerning and implicating these men and women?”

“Hush,” said the Doctor. “You speak too freely.”

“But that…would be criminal.”

“My dear lawyer, when the Bishop of Winchester asks for victims, he must have them.”

“You wish me to see…Ockham?”

“I will see the fellow.” The Doctor laid his hand on Simons’ shoulder. “Do not tremble, man. This is the task which has been set us. Success is expected of us; never doubt that we shall achieve it.”

THE QUEEN SAT in her apartment with a few of her ladies. They were working at their tapestry, but the Queen’s thoughts were far away.

On a stool beside her sat little Jane Grey. The child attracted Katharine. She was so small and so beautiful. She was only six years old, but she was wise enough for eleven; she was also clever with her needle, and most happy to be beside the Queen.

Little Jane believed that one day she might be a Queen. Edward had whispered to her that he would ask if she might be his, when he was of an age to ask. They wanted to marry him, he believed, to his cousin, young Mary of Scotland, but he was not sure, because such a matter as the choice of his wife would not be mentioned to him just yet. He had heard too that Mary had been promised to the King of France, and that his father was very angry about that. “But I am not, Jane,” he had said, “and you know why.”

They had smiled and nodded because they understood each other so well.

So Jane, who might one day be a Queen of England, liked to study the ways of the present Queen, and she found that study of great interest to her. She knew when the Queen was frightened as she was today, although she did not know the cause of her fear.

The tapestry was beautiful. In the center was a medallion about which flowers were being worked in gold and scarlet, blue and green silks. At each comer was a dragon with crimson fire coming from its mouth; and it was on one of these dragons that Jane herself was working.

It is a sad thing, I verily believe, to be a Queen, pondered Jane as she stitched at her dragon.

It was also a sad thing to be a King—a little King. It was all very well when you were mighty and all-powerful as was the King himself. It was when you were a little boy who was unsure of himself, as all young people must be, that it was alarming. It was only when they were in the apartments with Mrs. Sybil Penn that they were really unafraid. Mrs. Penn refused to look upon the Prince as the future King; he was her little one, she always said; and she would rock him on her knee and bathe his skin and croon over him; she would mutter threats against his tutors and his riding masters, and tell Jane that they should not long treat her little princeling as they did.

Edward would sit there contentedly in Mrs. Penn’s lap and Jane would sit at her feet.

“Jane,” the young Prince would say, “now let us play at being children.”

Jane intended to look after him when she grew up; that was why, if she were to be his Queen, she wished to know all about queenly duties.

Life was so difficult. It changed so quickly. The Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were now often at court and consequently the children saw less of them. It seemed a long time since Uncle Thomas Seymour had sailed away. Edward complained bitterly of his loss.

“It all changes so quickly, Jane,” he had said, his brow puckered so that Jane knew that he was thinking that soon the greatest change of all might come: the day when Prince Edward would become King Edward.

And now, what was it that was worrying this dearest of Queens? She was preoccupied; she was not paying attention to what her ladies said; every now and then she would glance toward the door as though she expected to see someone enter, someone whose coming would be very important; as though she longed for it and yet she dreaded it.

Jane knew that some of the ladies and gentlemen of the court had disappeared suddenly. Among them were Sir Philip and Lady Hoby and Sir Thomas Carden. People did go away suddenly, and when you asked for news of them, strange looks appeared on people’s faces.

Jane had often traveled along the river from Greenwich to Hampton and she had seen that gloomy fortress of the Tower. She had heard terrible stories of what went on behind those gray stone walls; and she knew also that when people looked as they looked now when the names of Sir Thomas Carden and the Hobys were mentioned, that meant that those of whom one inquired had gone to the Tower.

Katharine, as she stitched at her tapestry, was marveling at her own temerity. Her sister Anne had been against what she had done, had implored her not to interfere.

“Discard these new ideas,” Anne had pleaded. “Shut your mind to them. These people are beginning to look to you as a leader. You know what these arrests mean. They mean that Gardiner and Wriothesley are working against you. They have marked you for their victim.”

Anne was right. Katharine knew these things to be true. She was a meek woman, but she had a mind and she could not shut it to ideas, however dangerous. If she thought they were the right ideas she must accept them; she must read, and be true to herself; and because of some urge within her she must accept Gardiner’s challenge.

She had said to Anne: “How can these men possibly have found evidence against the Hobys and Carden? I know they are in possession of books, but those books remain in their apartments. The King has not given his permission that the castle shall be searched.”

“Someone has informed against them.”

“I do not believe it. Who would have done so? None but our friends here at court knows of their connection with the New Faith. And none of our friends has been questioned. We know that.” It came to her as an inspiration. After all, she was no fool. Had not the Bishop appointed that rogue Dr. London to work for him, and did not Katharine know in what manner London’s evidence against the abbeys had been compiled?

From that inspiration grew another: If he were going to prove that some had spoken against the men and women of the Queen’s household, who could be better informants than dead men who could not speak for themselves? At the house of the clerk of the court would be those documents which had been written at the time of the examination of the three martyrs. If those papers could be seized and they could be proved to contain forgeries, not only would Katharine’s friends be saved, but her enemies would be exposed.

It was bold, but she felt the need to be bold. The right action—if her suspicions were correct—could save not only her friends now, but perhaps herself in the future.

She had not hesitated. This day, while the court was sitting, she had sent men on whom she could rely to the house of the clerk of the court. They would seize those documents on her authority.

If she had made a false step her position would be an unenviable one, but the King was still very kindly disposed toward her; if she were right, then would she be triumphant indeed.

No wonder she was nervous. No wonder she kept glancing toward the door.

She looked down and saw the wondering eyes fixed upon her. Was it sympathy she saw in those lovely eyes? Katharine stooped and kissed the upturned face.

“Jane, my dear,” she said, “you shall come to my chamber. We will find a post for you. Oh, you are over-young to be a maid of honor, but you shall be there to serve me, because it pleases me to have you with me.”

Jane kissed the hand of her royal benefactress and expressed her thanks in the solemn manner which was habitual to her.

She wished she knew what ailed the Queen.

THE KING WAS FURIOUS. The trial of those members of the Queen’s household had been proved to be full of trickery. The clerk of the court had been arrested; papers had been found at his home which contained forgery, inserted by him to implicate the arrested men and women. Dr. London and Lawyer Simons, together with the clerk, had been concocting evidence.

He sent for Gardiner and berated him severely.

Gardiner swore he had been deceived by Dr. London and the lawyer.

“Then let them feel our wrath!” cried the King.

His eyes narrowed, and they told Gardiner, although the King spoke not a word of this matter, that he understood these accusations, purporting to be directed against members of the household, were meant to involve his Primate Cranmer and the Queen; and that if more such tricks were played it would be Gardiner himself who felt the weight of the King’s displeasure.

Henry reflected: I’d dismiss this fellow now if he, being so sly, were not so useful to me.

As it was he would be content with the punishment of others.

“Let this Dr. London be set in the pillories of Newbury and Reading and Windsor. Let papers be attached to his person, notifying all who can read them that he has committed perjury, so that all may know what the King’s will is toward those who would accuse the innocent.”

The King raged up and down the apartment, calling God to witness that he was a just King. He shook his fist at Gardiner.

“Remember it, Bishop. Remember it.”

Gardiner was trembling when he left the royal presence.

He found Wriothesley and told him that it would be unwise to take further action against the Queen for the time being. They had underrated her. They had thought her weak, and this she most certainly was not.

“It would seem,” said Wriothesley wryly, “that all we have done is to bring to the stake three men of little importance, while much harm has been done to ourselves in the eyes of the King.”

“You are impatient, sir,” said Gardiner testily. “We have lost the first battle, but it is the last one that proclaims the victor. This would not have happened but for the fact that the King’s marriage is as yet young. In a few months…in a year…he will have ceased to love Madame Katharine. His eyes will have fixed themselves on another lady. We have acted too soon, and London was a fool. Many men are exposed in these matters of policy…exposed as fools. There is no place for fools. Let us not accuse each other of folly. We will wait and, ere long, I promise you, Katharine Parr will go the way of the others.”

In her apartments Katharine embraced her friends who had returned unharmed from their imprisonment. They fell on their knees and thanked her; she was their savior and they owed their lives to her courage.

“Do not rejoice too soon,” warned her sister.

But Katharine kissed Anne tenderly. She felt strong now. She had made up her mind as to how she should act in a future crisis; it would be as her integrity demanded.

“Beware of my lord Bishop,” whispered Anne.

And afterward, Katharine often heard those words when the hangings rustled or when the wind howled through the trees.

“Beware…Beware…Beware of my lord Bishop.”

They mingled with those words which seemed to come from the tolling of the bells.

THE FIRST YEAR of Katharine’s life as Henry the Eighth’s sixth Queen was slowly passing.

It was full of alarms as startling and terrifying as those sudden attacks of Gardiner and his Catholics. During the year, Gardiner had seemed to turn his attention from her to Cranmer; and contemplating the manner in which the Catholic Party had plotted for the downfall of the Primate Thomas Cranmer, and noting how on two occasions it was the King himself who had saved Cranmer, Katharine was comforted. The King, it seemed, could feel real affection for some. In the case of Cranmer, the astute monarch, knowing his well-loved Thomas to be in danger, had presented him with a ring which he might show to the Council as a token of the royal regard. None, of course, had dared attack a man who was possessed of such a token. On another occasion when the Catholics had wished to set up a Commission for the examining and discovery of heretics, the King had given his consent to the formation of this Commission but had foiled the purpose of it—which was to ensnare the Archbishop of Canterbury—by setting none other than that Archbishop, Thomas Cranmer, at the head of it.

Yes, the King had his affections and loyalties. But would he feel for Katharine the same regard he had shown to Cranmer?

How often during the passing months had the King demanded of his wife: “No sign of a child?”

Once he had said: “By God, I have, I verily believe, got me another barren wife!”

That had been said after a state banquet when he had been feeling more sprightly than was his habit, for his leg had been in one of its healing phases and he had been listening to the singing of one of the ladies, a very beautiful lady, whose person pleased him as well as her voice had charmed him.

“No sign of a child?” The words were ominous; and the glance which accompanied them had been one of dislike.

But a few days later the leg had started to pain more than ever, and it was Katharine, that gentle nurse, to whom he turned. He was calling her his little pig again; and when the beautiful young lady begged leave to sing His Majesty another song, he said: “Another time. Another time.”

How strange, thought Katharine, with that philosophy which had come to her since she had become the Queen, that the King’s infirmity, which made him so irritable with others, should be her salvation!

Uneasy weeks flowed past her. There were nights when she would wake up after a dream and put her hands about her neck, laughing a little, half mocking herself, saying with a touch of hysteria in her voice: “So, my dear head, you are still on my shoulders?”

She was a little frightened of that hysteria. It was new to her. She had always been so calm, so serene. But how could one remain calm when one was close to death?

But what a fool she was to brood on death. It seemed far away when she sat with the courtiers, and the King would lift his heavily bandaged leg and lay it across her lap. “’Tis easier there,” he would say. “Why, Kate,” he added once in a rush of grateful affection, “there would appear to be some magic in you, for it seems you impart a cooling to the heat, that soothes my sores.”

“Good Kate, good Kate,” he would say; and sometimes he would caress her cheek or her bare shoulder. “Little pig,” he would call her and give her a ruby or a diamond. “Here, Kate, we like to see you wearing our jewels. They become you…they become you.” They were gifts given in order to soothe his conscience; they indicated that he was planning to replace her by some fresh victim who had caught his eye; then because of infirmity and age he would decide not to make the effort; if his wife could not always charm him, the nurse, when pain returned, had become a necessity.

It was about this time that the King decided he would have a new portrait of himself.

Katharine remembered that occasion for a long time afterward, and remembered it with fear. It seemed to her that this matter of the portrait showed her—and the court—how dangerous was her position. The King, when he tired of a woman, could be the cruelest of men. He believed he himself was always in the right, and that must mean that anyone not quite in agreement with him must be quite wrong.

Katharine’s great sin against the King lay in her barrenness. So, after a year of marriage, the King constantly brooded on the fact that there was no child…no sign of a child. Why, he would say to himself, with the others there were pregnancies. Seven, was it, with the first Katharine? Four with Anne Boleyn, two with Jane and one with Catharine Howard. He remembered wryly that he had given Anne of Cleves no opportunity to become the mother of a child of his. Katharine Parr had had her opportunities and there was not even a sign.

Did this mean that God did not approve of his sixth marriage?

When this King imagined that God did not approve of a wife, it could be assumed that he was looking for another. And he could not more clearly expose to the court his state of mind on this matter than he did over the affair of the portrait.

His health had improved; he had been recently bled and his ulcers were healing, so that he could move about with greater ease than of late. In this false spring he had been struck by the beauty of one of the ladies of the Queen’s bedchamber.

His little eyes grew mean as he considered the manner in which he would have his portrait painted. It had occurred to him that Katharine, his wife, was a little too clever with her tongue. He did not like clever women over-much. The thought made him mourn afresh for little Catharine Howard. The ambassadors and emissaries from other countries seemed to find pleasure in the conversation of this present Queen, and this appeared to delight her. He fancied she gave herself airs. She would have to learn that they paid homage to her because she was his Queen and not because of her accomplishments. He wished to show her that though he had raised her up, he could put her down.

There was that fellow Holbein. He was paid thirty pounds a year. Let him earn his money.

He sent for the man. He had a weakness for those who excelled in the arts. He often declared that, had he not been burdened with matters of state, he would have devoted himself to the writing of poetry and the composing of music. But Master Holbein had painted some fine pictures since he had been introduced to the court by Sir Thomas More. There were two allegorical and certainly very beautiful paintings by the man, on the walls of a salon at White Hall; and there were in addition many portraits of the royal household and the nobility.

The King, however, was not altogether pleased with Master Holbein. He remembered how the fellow had deceived him with a portrait of his fourth wife, Anne of Cleves, representing her as a beautiful woman. Whenever the King saw the painter he would be reminded of the shock he had received when he had gone, with a handsome present of sables, to meet the original of the picture. Ah! The horror, when he had looked into that pockmarked face, so different from the Holbein representation!

Moreover the man revived other memories. It was in More’s Chelsea house that he had first met him; and so the painter reminded the King of More, the great man—the greatest statesman of his age, he had been called—the family man who loved to joke with his sons and daughters and who had sought to evade the glories of office when he could not accept them with honor. The King would never forget how More’s daughter had stolen her father’s head from London Bridge, and how the people had quickly called the man a saint. Saint! thought Henry angrily. People were too ready to apply that word to any who lost his head. Had not More been jubilant at the prospect of burning heretics at Smithfield?

Ah yes, the King liked to remember that. More had not been all softness, not all saintliness. True, he had gone to the block for his beliefs, but one did not forget the Smithfield fires. Every time he smelled the smoke, heard the crackle of flames, he could think of Thomas More…Saint Thomas More.

He was sage enough to know that these thoughts came to him because he was growing old. Being all-powerful here on Earth, he must yet placate the invisible powers; and sometimes, with the pain on him and the hot blood pounding through his veins, he could fancy his end was not far off; then the fears multiplied, the uncertainties returned; and then it was consoling to remember the faults of other men.

“Now, Master Holbein,” he growled, “I pay you well, and I want you to earn your money. We want a picture of ourselves. We want something larger and grander than anything you have done before. Yes, we will have a picture of our family. My son, my daughters, my…Queen. You will start tomorrow.”

Hans Holbein bowed. Nothing, he declared, would give him greater pleasure, and he would be eager to start on the royal portrait the next day.

And during that day the lady of the bedchamber, who had caught the King’s eye, sang a song of his which greatly charmed him. A strong-looking girl, he reflected, with health as well as beauty. A girl molded to bear children.

When he was alone with the Queen that night he said: “It is a marvelous thing that God denies me a son.” And the look which accompanied the words was that which Katharine had begun to dread more than any other.

The next day when Hans Holbein came to the King, Henry’s resentment had increased. His son and daughters stood before him, and he surveyed his daughters with distaste, his son with apprehension.

In health he felt well; his leg scarcely pained him at all. Before leaving his chamber he had examined himself in his mirror; he had seen a magnificent figure in a gown of gold and scarlet drawn in at the waist with a sash of white satin, its short skirts embroidered in gold; about his neck was a collar of pearls and rubies; his dalmatica was lined with sables and decorated with pearls to match those in his collar. More than usual he glittered with jewels, and if he did not look too closely he could imagine he was young again.

“By God!” he had told his reflection. “I feel I have many years of health left to me. Have I once more saddled myself with a woman who cannot give me sons?”

He looked at her now, at her meek eyes and gentle mouth. He did not want gentle meekness; they were all very well for a sick man; but when a man feels himself to be in good health and hopes to be cured of the accursed humors in his leg, he does not wish to waste his time with a barren nurse. He wants fire and fertility.

The Prince looked pale, and the crimson cap of velvet with its feather and jewels merely accentuated his pallor; the red damask garment did not suit him, and no amount of artful padding could hide the fact that he was thin and puny.

The two girls in their crimson velvet gowns, wearing their pearl and ruby crosses, angered him; the elder because she reminded him of his first Queen (and he did not wish to be reminded of his past and the Spanish woman’s reproaches), the younger because she was the most healthy of his children and had failed to be born a boy.

The picture would be of himself, his children and his Queen; but he would not have Katharine in it. This was a family portrait, and had she helped him to add to his family? She had not.

He growled his instructions. “I will sit as though on my throne, and the boy shall stand beside me. Come here, my son. Let my daughters take their stand by the pillars there, and my Queen should be beside me.” He glowered maliciously at Katharine. “Methinks though that there should be another beside me on this day, and that is the Queen who gave me my son.”

There was silence. Hans Holbein looked uncomfortable. Katharine forced herself not to show the fear that came to her whenever the King talked in this way.

Henry had seated himself. His son and daughters took the places he had assigned to them. Only Edward dared to look compassionately at the Queen.

“I have it!” cried Henry. “You shall paint the boy’s mother beside me. Queen Jane must be the Queen in this family group. She is dead, and that fact grieves me sorely, but she was our Queen; she was the mother of our son. I will have you set her beside me, sir painter. You understand?”

“I shall be for ever at Your Gracious Majesty’s command.”

“She will be painted pale and shadowy…almost like a specter…as though she has come from her grave to join our family group. So, madam” (he had thrown a malevolent glance at Katharine), “we shall have no need of your presence here.”

Katharine bowed and retired.

This was the greatest insult she had received since her marriage, and it filled her with a terrible fear. It could mean only one thing: the King regretted his marriage. When Henry the Eighth started to regret a marriage he was already looking for a new wife.

Everyone at court now knew how the picture was being painted; all had heard of the spectral Queen.

Gardiner and Wriothesley congratulated each other. Now was surely the time to strike.

Cranmer and Hertford were watchful of Gardiner and Wriothesley. Katharine’s closest friends were nervous. As for Katharine herself, she thought constantly of her predecessors who had walked out to Tower Green and died there, for she felt her time was near.

The bells rang jubilantly: Sons…sons…sons….

And all through the court there was tension and a sense of waiting.

FATE, IN THE GUISE of War, distracted Henry’s attention.

There had for some months been trouble in Scotland. It was Henry’s dearest wish that his son should marry Mary, the baby Queen of Scots, and so bring Scotland and England under one crown. This the French King wished to oppose with all his might. François planned to remove the child and bring her up at his court as the future wife of his eldest son. He had sent ships and supplies to Scotland, and the Scots thereupon repudiated the promises they had made to Henry and began to negotiate with France.

Henry’s great ideal was a British Empire; he realized that a marriage between Scotland and France would make this impossible. He decided therefore that the only course open to him at this stage was a war on two fronts.

The Emperor Charles had been seeking England as an ally against France, and Henry decided to join forces with the Spaniard. He had sent troops to the north of France under Thomas Seymour and Sir John Wallop; he was sending his brother-in-law the Earl of Hertford to Scotland. Henry decided that he himself would go to France for the attack; he and the Emperor planned to meet triumphantly in Paris when that city fell to them.

Temporarily Henry had ceased to think of a seventh wife.

There must be a Regent in England, and if his wife had ceased to appeal to him as a bedfellow, nevertheless he could trust her to act in his name during his absence. With Cranmer and Hertford to help her, he decided he could safely leave England and cross with his Army to France.

Thus on a July day he set out for Dover and reached Calais in safety.

While deeply aware of the immense responsibility which now rested upon her, and aware also of what reward would be hers if she failed in her duty, Katharine could feel nothing but relief. After all, when one was married to a man who had murdered two wives and terrified and humiliated three others, one must be prepared for alarms; and it was possible, if not to feel contempt for death, to be less unnerved by the contemplation of it.

He had gone; and she was free, if only for a little while. She rejoiced in secret.

He had parted from her with loving assurances of his devotion, but before he had left he had given her a special charge with regard to Prince Edward.

“We cannot get ourselves another son,” he had said reproachfully, “so we must guard well him whom we have.”

When he had kissed her fondly she had known he was thinking: A whole year and no sign of a son! Doubtless, as he crossed the Channel under his sails of cloth of gold, he was telling himself that he was a patient man and that a year was a very long time to wait for the sign of a son.

One day when she was with the children, superintending their studies, word was brought to her that a lady had presented herself at court and, stating that she was a friend of the Queen, asked if an audience might be granted her.

Katharine bade the messenger say that as soon as she was free she would see the lady; and shortly afterward there was brought to her a young woman, tall and slender, a pale primrose of a woman, with golden hair, and deep blue eyes in which seemed to burn an emotion not of this world.

“Your dearest Majesty…” The young woman knelt before the Queen.

“Why, Anne! It is Anne Askew. Though I suppose I should call you Mistress Kyme now that you have married. Rise, my dear Anne. I would hear your news.”

“Pray call me Anne Askew, Your Majesty, as you did in the old days, for that is how I wish to be known from now on.”

Katharine, seeing signs of distress in the face of her friend, dismissed her attendants with the exception of little Jane, whom she sent to her needlework in the far comer of the apartment.

“What has happened?” asked Katharine.

“I have left my husband. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he has sent me from him.”

“He has turned you out of his house?”

“I fear so, Your Majesty.”

Anne laughed without mirth.

“I am sorry, Anne,” said Katharine.

“Do not look so sorrowful, Your Majesty. It is no great sorrow to me. I was married to Mr. Kyme, as you know, because he is the richest man in Lincolnshire. He was to have had my elder sister, but she died before the marriage contract could be completed; and so, my father gave me to him. I had no wish for the marriage…nor indeed for any marriage.”

“Alas,” said Katharine, “such as we are, we have our marriages made for us. Our wishes are not consulted.”

She thought of her own three marriages, particularly of the present one.

“And now,” she went on, “he has turned you out of his house?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I was forced to marry him, but I cannot be compelled to abandon my religion.”

“So, Anne, he has discovered where your sympathies lie?”

“How could I deny them?” She stood before the Queen, her eyes a burning blue, her hands clenched. “Your Majesty, there is one true religion and one only. I have studied much in the last few years. I know that there is only one way to the salvation of England, and that is for her to adopt the true religion, the religion of Martin Luther.”

“Hush, Anne! Hush!”

Katharine looked fearfully about her; the little girl in the comer had her head bent low over her needlework.

“There are times when I think I am past caring what becomes of me,” said Anne.

“Heads have rolled in the straw because their owners have dared say words such as you have just said,” the Queen reminded her severely.

“Your Majesty would betray me?”

“Anne! How can you say such a thing! I am your friend. You have my sympathy. I too love the new learning. But I pray you, have a care what you say. Terrible things happen in the torture chambers of the Tower. Have you ever heard the shrieks of agony at Smithfield stakes? So recently three gentlemen of Windsor were burned to death.”

“Such shrieks,” said Anne, “are but the triumphant shouts of martyrs.”

“Martyrs indeed, poor souls!” said Katharine. “And, methinks, there are some of us who are born to wear the martyrs’ crown. But let us not be rash, dear Anne. You have come to me now because you have nowhere else to go, since your husband has turned you out. Is that so?”

“I put myself under Your Grace’s protection.”

“Rest assured, my dear friend, that I shall do everything in my power to help you. You shall stay here; but Anne, have a care. We are surrounded by enemies here. Your movements will be watched. You will be spied on. Oh, Anne, have a care.”

Anne knelt and kissed the Queen’s hands.

Katharine was uneasy. This burning love of the new religion in Anne Askew bordered on fanaticism. She guessed that it had been enhanced by her experiences. Anne should never have been forced into marriage with Mr. Kyme nor with anyone. Anne was not meant for marriage; she was without the desire for physical love.

Katharine longed to help Anne. She decided she would give her a place at court and see that she had leisure for her reading and study. And above all she would try to infuse into Anne the need for caution.

KATHARINE FOUND THAT the very absence of the King brought fresh fears to her.

The heat was intense that summer. From the noisome pits and sloughs of the highways rose the stench of decaying refuse. In the narrow streets flanked by houses with their high gabled roofs and the stories which projected one above another, the atmosphere was stifling although the sunlight was almost shut out. The hovels in which the poor lived were made of wood and clay and, in them, vermin flourished. The rushes on the floors were added to month by month and not removed until they were halfway up the walls; they abounded with lice; the dogs slept in them; bones and gristle lay rotting beneath the top layer; and it was only when the noses of the inhabitants, long accustomed to the smell of decay and sewage, were nauseated beyond endurance that any attempt was made to “sweeten.” The windows were small and not made to open, and the sick lay with the healthy on the malodorous rushes.

And one day a man, walking along the highway which connected the Strand with the village of Charing, collapsed and lay there on the road; when he was discovered it was seen that his face was covered with spots and was of a dark purple color. Some who saw him recognized the symptoms and turned shuddering away. There was nothing to be done for him; he had but a few hours to live.

Later that day one body was discovered by the Church of St. Clement Danes and another in Gray’s Inn Lane; more were found on the causeway leading from Aldgate to Whitechapel Church.

The news spread. The plague had once more come to London.

When Katharine heard the news, her first thoughts were for the young Prince. She was terrified. He was so weak that she felt he might be a ready prey for any fever that stalked the town.

She watched him; he seemed listless; and she could see that his headache was more acute than usual.

Should she shut him into his apartments, order that none should approach him, and hope that the pollution would not reach him? Or should she take the risk of riding through the plague-infested streets, far away to some spot as yet unvisited by the plague?

She was uncertain. Haunted by visions of the King’s wrath if any harm should come to the all-important heir, she could not help putting her hands about her neck and shivering. She was no martyr. She was no Anne Askew. She wanted to live, even though she must not so much as think of the man she loved, even though she must be on perpetual guard against her enemies.

While the King had been away she had conducted herself with caution. Cranmer and Hertford, without whose advice she would not have dreamed of acting, were pleased with her, admiring her calm judgment. She herself had written regularly to the King, and in a manner which she knew would please him. Hypocritical, some might say those letters were. Always she applauded his greatness, speaking of him as though he were a god rather than a King, stressing her gratitude for the honor he had done her when he raised her to the throne.

What is a woman to do, she asked herself, when any false step might cost her her life? And is it not better to try to believe that I am honored and should be grateful, to make an attempt to see myself as the King sees me, rather than to rail against my fate? It is the presence of Anne Askew that has set me despising myself. Anne would never demean herself with hypocrisy. Anne would tell the truth and nothing but the truth. She would die rather than write or act a lie. But how different we are! Anne cares nothing for life, and I want to live; I want desperately to live.

In her heart she knew why. The King was not a healthy man; he was many years older than she was…older than Sir Thomas Seymour. Thomas had said: “The future is ours.” She could not help it if she longed for the future, if, while she tried to do her duty as the wife of the King and to accept the cruel fate which had been thrust upon her, she tried also to put the best face upon it and to give herself courage by believing that it could not last for ever and that she would outlive it.

She did not want to die, and if it were necessary to write those fulsome letters, to flatter the monster who could cut off her head with a stroke of the pen, then she would be a hypocrite. She would at least fight for her life.

During Henry’s absence the campaign in Scotland had, mercifully, gone well for the English. Hertford had sacked both Leith and Edinburgh; and Katharine had been able to send this joyful news to the King. Henry himself was full of optimism. François was already putting out inquiries for a secret peace, but Henry had for some time cast longing eyes on Boulogne and did not intend to leave the soil of France until he had captured the town.

Henry was satisfied with the way the regency was being conducted, but if anything were to happen to the little Prince, he would certainly blame the consort who had so far failed to provide him with another boy. Moreover, if the heir to the throne died, it would seem imperative that the King find a wife who could supply an heir.

What can I do? Katharine asked herself. Get him out of London to the country, or stay here? Which would be the greater risk?

Lady Jane Grey was watching her. The child was always watching her.

“What is it, Jane?” asked the Queen, laying her hands on the soft curls.

The little girl said: “Your Majesty is uneasy. I would I could do something to help.”

Katharine bent and kissed the pretty head. “You do much to help me with your presence,” she told Jane. “You are like my own child. I wish to God you were.”

“Is that what ails Your Majesty…that you have no children?”

Katharine did not answer. She bent swiftly and kissed the child again.

The wise little creature had struck right at the root of her fears. If she had a child, if she had a son, she would have no need to be continually in fear of losing her life. If Princess Elizabeth had been a boy, it might well have happened that Anne Boleyn would still be alive and on the throne.

Yes, that was the very root of her troubles. It was the old cry of “Sons!”

“Have you seen the Prince today, Jane?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And how was he?”

“He had the pain in his head and he was tired.”

Then Katharine made up her mind suddenly.

“Go to the Prince, Jane. Tell him we are leaving for the country. We leave this very day. Go, my dear, quickly. I wish to leave as soon as possible.”

KATHARINE WAS PROVED to be right in the action she had taken. The plague had died down with the passing of the hot weather, and the little Prince’s health was no worse than it had been before his father left England.

Katharine had been fortunate during those months of the regency. Might it not be that fortune had decided to favor her? She was full of hope.

The King came home not altogether displeased with the way affairs had gone abroad. He had taken Boulogne; but it was not long before he and Charles had fallen out. They had been uneasy allies. The enemy was a common one, but the motives of the two allies were quite different. Henry wished to force the French to abandon Scotland to the might of England; Charles wished François to give up his claim to Milan and his help to the German Princes. The Emperor, convinced that Henry’s possession of the town of Boulogne would satisfy him, and that having achieved it he would desert his ally, made a secret peace with the French. Henry was furious. The French and the Spaniards were now allies, and England was their enemy. It was necessary for him to return to England, for there was a possibility that the French might attempt an invasion of his island. This he did, leaving Boulogne heavily fortified. Yet, he was not displeased. He had set out to capture Boulogne and he had captured the town; he swore to keep it, no matter at what cost.

There had been great rejoicing at the capture of Boulogne all through the country, and the King returned, a conquering hero.

The journey across the water had not improved his health. The sores on his leg were spreading; the other leg had become infected; and both were so swollen that it was difficult for him to move about his apartments. A chair on wheels was made for him, and this had to be pushed about by his attendants and carried up staircases.

All this did not improve the royal temper; yet again Katharine realized that his infirmity made her more important to him, and her position seemed less precarious than it had before he left the country. She was once more his sweetheart and his little pig; as he told her, none could dress his legs as she could.

“We missed you on our journeyings,” he said. “None but clumsy oafs to bandage me! I said: ‘I’ll not stray far from my Queen again!’ And I meant it, sweetheart. Aye! I meant it.”

Then would come those days when he would feel better and could walk with the aid of a stick. It was the well-remembered routine. There would be feasting and music; and the King would grow mellow and glance with appreciation at the more beautiful of the young ladies. He would reiterate those reproaches. Why had he not another son? Why should some of the noblemen in his realm have sons—great stalwart men—while their King could not get himself another to set beside Prince Edward? God had been unjust to him. He had given him power but denied him sons. And why should God be unjust to one who served him as had Henry the Eighth of England? There was only one answer: The fault could not lie with the King. It lay in his partners. He had exposed those wicked women who had cheated him; then he had known why sons had been denied him. When he meditated thus, he would watch his sixth wife with narrowed eyes and think what a comely wench was that young Duchess, or that Countess—or perhaps that simple daughter of a knight.

Something was wrong. Why, why should sons be denied him?

Then again the leg would be so painful that he could think of nothing else. There was Kate, dear Kate, with the gentle hands, who never for a moment showed that she did not regard it as the greatest honor to wait upon him.

Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador and spy of his master, wrote home to Spain: “This King has the worst legs in the world.”

But those legs were the Queen’s salvation; and the worse they grew, the safer she became.

But her life was still in danger. There was never a day when she dared not be on the alert. Royal storms could spring up in a moment, and how could she know what the outcome of those storms would be?

Always it seemed that beside her stalked the shadowy figure of the executioner. It seemed that the bells continually warned her: “Sons, sons, sons!”

And then Sir Thomas Seymour returned to the court.

CHAPTER

III

THE QUEEN WAS IN HER APARTMENTS, WORKING ON the great tapestry which she proposed to use as hangings in the Tower. With her were the ladies whom she loved best: Anne Askew, ethereal, remote from them all, her blue eyes seeming a little strained after so much reading; that other Anne, Lady Herbert, Katharine’s sister who had been with her since she had become Queen; Margaret Neville, the stepdaughter whom Katharine loved as though she were her own; Lady Tyrwhit and the Duchess of Suffolk, with young Lady Jane Grey.

Their fingers worked busily while they talked, and their talk was of the New Learning.

Little Jane was interested. When she and Edward were alone they talked of the New Faith. Edward read books she brought to him, which had been given to her, with the Queen’s consent, by Anne Askew.

Jane knew that these ladies, who had her love and her sympathy, believed that she might one day be Edward’s Queen, and it seemed important to them that she be a Protestant Queen, and Edward a Protestant King. Jane had heard frightening stories of what was happening in Spain under the dreaded Inquisition, and how it was the great wish of the Spaniards that the Inquisition should be set up in all countries.

Little Jane could not bear the thought of violence. The stories she heard of the hideous tortures horrified her. There were occasions when the court was at the palace of Hampton, and she had stood in the gallery which led to the chapel and imagined she heard the terrible screams and saw the ghost of Catharine Howard.

How did it feel, wondered Jane, to know that in a short time you would walk out to the block and lay down your head?

As she listened to the impassioned voice of Anne Askew who read aloud from the forbidden books, she knew that Anne was the only one in this apartment who was unafraid of torture and violent death.

The Queen’s sister was apprehensive and uneasy, and chiefly for the sake of the Queen.

It was nearly two years since the King had ordered that a picture be painted of himself and his children with Queen Jane Seymour at his side. Edward had told Jane of it and how unhappy he had been to stand there beside his father, and how he had kept glancing over his shoulder to see if his mother had really returned from the grave.

The Queen had felt that insult deeply, but she had given no sign of what she felt. Jane had seen the King and Queen together, had seen the King lay his foot on the Queen’s lap, had seen him rest his jeweled hand on her knee; she had also seen the black looks on his face and heard the menace in his voice.

How did it feel to be afraid…afraid that one day you would be sent to the Tower, never to emerge again except for that last walk to the scaffold?

Uncle Thomas Seymour was back at court. Jane had noticed how coldly he looked at the Queen, but his looks were not so cold when they rested on the Princess Elizabeth.

The Queen’s thoughts were as busy as her fingers on the tapestry. She was not thinking of the doctrines so ardently preached by Anne Askew. She agreed with Anne; she admired Anne; and she was glad that she had been able to protect her here at court. But Thomas was back, and she could think of nothing else. He had been back many months, and she felt that meeting him every day and having nothing from him but cold looks was more than she could bear.

But she understood. His motive was wise and necessary. She would have him run no risks.

The King had evidently ceased to be jealous of him, for he had made him Lord High Admiral and a gentleman of his Privy Chamber. There were times when he was so cordial toward his brother-in-law and looked at him with such sly speculation, that Katharine wondered whether he was hoping to accuse him with his Queen. All through those months Henry had been alternately doting and menacing, assuring her that she was his dear Kate, his good nurse, and shortly afterward complaining that she was not pregnant.

It was nearly three years since their marriage, and there had not been even one pregnancy. Moreover it was remembered that she had had two husbands and not a child from either of them. Three years of these alarms—three years when she must submit to the King’s caresses and the King’s anger, and accept all with a meek endurance. Three years that seemed like thirty!

She was tired suddenly and wished to go to her bedchamber and rest. She rose and said that she would retire.

“Jane,” she said, “come with me and make me comfortable.”

All the ladies rose, and when the Queen had left the apartment with the little nine-year-old Jane in attendance, they dispersed to their own rooms.

Anne Askew felt in turns triumphant and resigned. She had many friends at court; her gentle nature, her complete lack of worldliness, her goodness and purity, had made people look upon her as a saint. Others regarded her as a fool to have left her rich husband, to have come to court as a sort of missionary for the new faith, to have laid herself open to the enmity of such men as Gardiner and his friend who was now Chancellor Wriothesley.

A few days before, Anne had received a warning. She had found a note under her bolster when she retired one night. “Have a care. It is the Queen they want. But they will strike at her through you.”

And then again there had been another note. “Leave this court. You are in danger.”

Anne would not go. She believed she had a vocation. Since her coming to court many ladies had been reading the books she treasured; there had been many converts to Protestantism and there would be many more. Anne knew that she was placing not only herself in danger, but others also. But to Anne there was nothing to be feared save infidelity to the truth. The religion imposed on the country by the King differed only from the old Roman faith in that, instead of a Pope at its head, it had a King. Anne wanted a complete break with the old faith; she believed the new and simpler religion to be the true one. She wanted all to be able to read the Bible; and how could those humble people, who did not understand the Latin tongue, do so unless they were allowed to read it in English? It was her desire to distribute translations all over the country.

She was fanatical; she was sure that she was in the right; and she believed that no matter what harm came to any who might be involved with her, if they had to die for their faith, they were fortunate indeed, for theirs would be immediate salvation.

The Princess Elizabeth was interested in the new faith, though her interest was more intellectual than devotional. Elizabeth’s religion would, Anne guessed, always be the welfare of Elizabeth. She sought power and she could never forget the days when she had been a poor humiliated daughter of a great King who, when the fancy took him, chose to call her “bastard.” Elizabeth then, favored the new faith but she would never be a strong adherent to it. She would always trim her sails according to the wind that blew.

And the Queen? Ah, the Queen was a good and earnest woman, but was she made of the stuff of which martyrs were made? That would doubtless be proved. Anne prayed for the Queen—not for her safety, but that she might show courage when the time came.

She went to her apartments and as soon as she entered the room she was aware that something had happened to it during her absence.

It was some seconds before she noticed the disorder; and a few more before she saw that in the shadows by the hangings were men-at-arms.

One of them came forward as she entered, and two more took their stand on either side of her.

“Anne Askew,” said he who stood before her, holding a scroll in his hand, “I am ordered to arrest you on a charge of heresy. It would be well for you to come quickly and make no resistance.”

She saw then that they had found her secret store of books and the writing she had done; but instead of fear, she felt an exhilaration. She had expected this for a long time and she found that she could welcome it.

They took her down the river by barge.

Calmly and silently she watched the play of light on the river. She looked at the great houses with their gardens which ran down to the water’s edge, and she wondered, without any great emotion, whether she would ever see them again.

The great gray bastion of the Tower was visible now, strong, invulnerable.

Her eyes were shining as they took her in by way of the Traitors’ Gate. She remembered that through this gate they had taken the martyrs, Fisher and More.

She was helped out of the boat; she stepped on to the slippery bank and followed the jailor into the cold building, up a staircase, through dark passages that stank of blood and sweat and the damp of the river.

The jailor jangled his keys and to many the sound might have been like notes of doom; but to Anne Askew it was but the jingling of the keys which would open the doors of Paradise to the martyr.

THE ELEGANT AND most witty Earl of Surrey was sprawling on a window seat in his apartments at Hampton Court Palace. He was in that reckless mood which was becoming habitual to him. Thirty-one years of age and a poet, he was a member of the greatest and most noble family in the land, and there were times when he felt his ambition to be so strong that he was ready to do the most foolhardy thing to achieve it.

Death! He thought of it often. He had lived so near to it all his life that he felt an intimacy with it. So many of his House had died violently and suddenly. None of them could ever be sure which one of them would be the next to die. His family was guilty of the gravest offense against the King: They had a claim to the throne. The Howards of Norfolk were, some said, more royal than the Tudors. The King could never forget that, and he was constantly on the alert for a sign that the Howards were giving this matter too much consideration.

“Have a care!” said Surrey’s cautious father often enough. But, pondered the young poet, idly playing a few notes on his lute, there comes a time in the life of a man when he no longer wishes to take care, but rather to be reckless, to stake everything…to win, or pay the price of failure with his head.

Wild plans were forming in his mind. This had begun to happen when the King had told him that he had decided to send Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford, to Calais as Governor in place of himself.

These accursed Seymours! Who were they? Surrey asked himself rhetorically. An upstart family! And because young Jane had married the King, the Seymour brothers were fast becoming the most important pair in the country.

Surrey called one of his men to him and cried: “Go to the apartments of my sister, the Duchess of Richmond, and tell her I would have speech with her. Tell her it is of the utmost importance.”

The man went while Surrey sat playing with the strings of his lute.

He was thinking of his sister, Mary; she was beautiful with that striking beauty of the Howards, the mingling of dignity with personal charms. Mary had been married some years ago to the King’s illegitimate son, the Duke of Richmond, and she was now a widow, ripe for a second marriage.

The Howard women had always pleased the King, though briefly. Surrey’s father, the old Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treasurer of England, was not in favor with the King just now and had not been since the unhappiness caused Henry by Catharine Howard. Surrey smiled. But the King was old now, and his fancy would not stray so easily, and he, Surrey, did not see why a Howard woman should not retrieve the family’s fortunes.

He was madly impatient. He played with the idea of quartering the arms of Edward the Confessor on his escutcheon. Why not? He was entitled to do this by the grant of Richard the Second, because of his descent from Edward the First. Flaunting those arms would proclaim to the court that Surrey and his family considered that they had more right to the throne than the Tudors.

Imagine the royal ire at such daring! And what then? wondered Surrey. “To the Tower, my lord Earl. Off with his head. He has committed the mortal sin. He is more royal than the King!”

Surrey burst into laughter. His maternal grandfather, the Duke of Buckingham, had lost his head in 1521 because he had a claim to the throne.

I believe I will do it, he thought, for I am tired of living at the command of the King, tired of seeking the royal favor, tired of placating the angry frown. Is this how men become when they live perpetually on the edge of danger?

His father would call him a fool. The old Duke had been a doughty warrior, a cautious man. He had been less cautious in his hot youth when he had fallen in love with his wife’s laundress and raised Bess Holland to the position she enjoyed as mistress of one of the most important men of the time.

Surrey thought of the endless strife Bess had caused between his parents. Was life worth the trouble it brought? he wondered.

He doubted it.

His sister came into the room and, throwing aside his lute, he rose to greet her.

“You have something to say to me, brother?”

“You grow more beautiful every day. Sit beside me, sister, and I will sing you my latest verses which I have set to music.”

Mary Howard, Duchess of Richmond, looked at him with sly amusement. She knew he had not asked her to visit him merely to hear his verses.

“I have a new poem,” he said. “Even the King has not heard it yet.”

She listened, but she was paying little attention to the words.

She could think of nothing but a certain handsome gentleman who dominated her thoughts and desires. It was long since Richmond had died that lingering death, and she wanted a husband. She had been fond of the young Duke—such a fine, handsome man, and the image of the King—until disease had claimed him. But what was her feeling for the Duke of Richmond compared with this passion which now obsessed her?

Her father had started it. He had said to her: “These Seymours are our enemies. Who are they, these upstart gentlemen? Miserable squires, claiming kinship with the King. Daughter, we cannot fight these mighty rivals, but we could link ourselves with them.”

“By marriage?” she had asked.

And then a great excitement had been hers, for there were only two brothers and the elder was married. It was the younger, the swaggering sailor, whom her father had in mind.

Sir Thomas! The merry twinkling eyes, the jaunty beard, the charm of the man! No sooner had her father spoken those words than she could think of nothing but marriage with Sir Thomas, and he had continued to dominate her thoughts.

Surrey dismissed his attendants.

“Well?” she said. “Your news?”

He smiled at her idly. “Sister, you are very beautiful.”

“So you have already said. There is no need to repeat it, though a compliment from a brother is to be cherished, as there is often plain speaking in families. What do you want of me?”

“I? Nothing. I have had thoughts.”

“And those thoughts?”

“They have taken Anne Askew to the Tower.”

“I know. She is a heretic. What has that to do with me?”

“I saw her…this very afternoon. She was sitting in the barge, her arms folded across her breast. She looked a veritable martyr, which I doubt not she will be ere long. Sister, what does this mean? Have you thought of that?”

“That another heretic is to pay the price of her folly and her treason to the King.”

“She is a great friend of the Queen’s, and yet they have dared to take her. Gardiner and the Chancellor are behind this, depend upon it. They would not dare to take the Queen’s great friend if they did not think her Majesty was out of favor with the King.”

“And what of this? We know what favor she enjoys. If he were his old self he would have had her head off by now, and doubtless that of some other lady who had been unfortunate enough to share his throne after her. But he is sick and she is a good nurse. So he keeps her beside him.”

“He is not always so sick. I have seen his eyes grow misty and his voice gruff with desire when a beautiful woman passes before him.”

“He is too old for such pleasures.”

“He will never believe he is too old. He has indulged in them too freely. There will always be his thoughts, his desires, his belief that his powers are not yet past.”

“And what would you say to me? Have you brought me here to tell me what the court knows already and has always known?”

“Nay. The Queen’s days are numbered. Poor Katharine Parr! I am sorry for her. She will go the way of others.” He smiled. “We should not be saddened. It is the fate that threatens us all. We should look on it stoically, for if it comes not today, then it may come tomorrow. The Queen’s place will be taken by another lady. Why not you, my sister?”

She was hot with anger. “You are asking me to be the seventh? To prepare myself for the ax?”

“Nay. Be not the seventh. Be the honored mistress. Smile on his Grace and do not say, ‘Your mistress I cannot be!’ as poor deluded fools have said before you. Say this: ‘Your mistress I will be.’ Thus you will keep alive his desire. You will rule him and bring our house back to the favor it once enjoyed.”

“How dare you talk to me in this manner! You shame me. You insult me. And the King…my own father-in-law!”

Surrey shrugged his shoulders. “You were the wife of his bastard son. There is no true relationship to him in that. Moreover it will not be necessary to get a dispensation from the Pope, for his Holiness no longer carries weight in this realm. The King would get dispensation from the King, and that should be an easy matter. The royal conscience would no doubt be appeased with the greatest ease, for I doubt not that though the King’s conscience is the master of the King’s desires, the King’s desires are so subtle that they will once more deceive the conscience.”

“Brother, you talk with folly. You are proud and foolish. One of these days your tongue will cut off your head.”

“I doubt it not. I doubt it not. And, Mary, dear sister, there are times when I care not. Do not think to ally yourself with lowborn Seymour. I would stand against uniting our family with that one.”

She cried: “More foolish than ever! To unite ourselves with the King’s brother-in-law would be the best thing that could happen to our family.”

“And to its daughter—who lusteth for the man?” he taunted.

“You go too far, brother.”

“Do I, fair sister? I will tell you this: Seymour looks higher. He looks to the Princess Elizabeth. Who knows—he may get her. Unless the King decides to execute him, for that may be necessary in the process of getting rid of the Queen. Seymour had his eyes on Her Majesty at one time, you remember. Master Thomas Seymour is as near the ax as any of us, even though the King may call him brother. Nay, dear sister, do not long so for one man that you cannot see the advantage of casting your glances at another. Be bold. Be clever. Love Tom Seymour if you must, but do not lose the opportunity of restoring your family to greatness through the grace of His Majesty. I tell you he is ripe…ripe for seduction. And the ladies of our family are most accomplished in that art.”

She rose and swept haughtily from the room.

Surrey watched her, plucked a few notes from his lute, and was still playing when a messenger came and told him that his presence was required in the King’s music-room.

THE KING SAT on his ornate chair in that chamber which was reserved for the playing of music.

He was surrounded by his courtiers, and the Queen sat beside him. She looked fair enough, sitting there in her scarlet hood; the pearls, which made a becoming edge to it, suited her complexion. Her skirt was of cloth of gold and cut away to show a crimson velvet petticoat. Crimson suited Kate, thought the King. If she would but give me a son I should not be displeased with her.

But she was meddling with religion; and he liked not meddling women. He was now persecuting Lutherans as heretics, and Papists as traitors. Religious matters in this realm had become complicated; and what annoyed him so, was the fact that this need not be. All he wished men to do was worship in the old way, remembering that their King, instead of the Pope, was head of the Church. It was simple enough.

His most comforting thought at the moment was that François across the water was ageing just as he was. He doubted François had more than a year or two of life left to him; he suffered malignant pain, just as Henry did; and the thought of the French King’s pain helped Henry to bear his.

Matters of State had been equally trying to them both of late. Neither of them had gained much by the war they had been waging against each other.

On Henry’s return to England, the Scottish campaign had gone against him; the French had launched an attack on Boulogne, which, thanks to Hertford, had withstood the attack. But at the same time French ships had entered the Solent and actually landed at Bembridge and tried to force their way into Portsmouth Harbor. But Lisle had caught the foreign fleet and driven it back; and disease aboard the French ships had been a strong ally of the English.

Henry had ridden this storm like the mighty ruler he could be. Ruthless, he did not hesitate. Taxes, “benevolences,” were extorted as they never had been before. His enemies thought that surely his long-suffering people must rise against him. He was a tyrant, a murderer, and many had suffered cruelly at his hands; if there had ever been a moment when he could have been overthrown that was the moment. But the people of England recognized him as their King; he was the strong man; they trusted him to lead them from their trouble. Cheerfully they paid what was asked of them; and during those uneasy months the King had forgotten everything but that he was a King and his country was in danger. He coined his own plate and mortgaged his land; if he did expect his people’s untiring effort, he gave his own contribution also. He had always played for popularity with the people; now he reaped the benefit of that popularity. To those who lived close to him he was a murderous tyrant; to the people he was the dazzling King.

And so, England held fast behind Henry. The French were driven back; a decimated army returned to France. François was as eager as Henry for peace, and they had made a settlement. Henry was to keep Boulogne for eight years, after which time the French might bargain for its return. Trouble continued in Scotland, but there was now a war on one front only.

The King could rest a little from his tribulations and give himself to pleasure.

Now there was Surrey entering the music-room, as elegant as ever and as insolent. Why was it that Surrey aroused the King’s anger nowadays? He was a good poet, a fine gentleman, but he was arrogant, and each day his insolence was growing. And with Surrey, there was his sister, Mary—Henry’s own daughter-in-law—a comely girl, with the Howard beauty, and the Howard slyness, the King did not doubt.

She knelt before Henry and, as she lifted her eyes, he looked straight at her. She flushed a little as though she read something in his glance which had not been there. She seemed shy and fluttering, dazzled by the radiance from the royal countenance; and Henry felt that sudden pleasure which that look on a woman’s face had never failed to give him. It was as though they expected to look into the face of a mighty monarch and had seen there instead a desirable man.

The King’s eyes softened and his gaze followed the girl as she stepped back and took her place with the Queen’s ladies. Expertly, in his mind’s eye, he divested her of her velvet and her jewels. “I’ll warrant she’s as comely without as with her adornments,” he told himself; and the room seemed diffused with a more gentle light, and there was a lifting of his spirits that almost smothered the throbbing of his leg.

Gardiner and Wriothesley were in attendance; they looked smug on this day. Something afoot there, I’ll swear, thought the King; and when I’ve heard this music, I’ll have it from them.

There was Seymour, now Lord High Admiral. The King smiled. How that young man reminded him of himself! The ladies liked Seymour and Seymour had once had his eyes on the Queen, the rogue! But he had never let them stray very far from the Princess Elizabeth. She was another on whom the King must keep a watchful eye.

But at the moment he could not keep his eyes from Mary Howard. She outshone all the women, he decided; and he fancied he saw a resemblance in her to little Catharine Howard.

The instrumental piece which the musicians were playing had come to an end. It was charming, and he would reward the fellow who had written it.

“Bravo!” cried the King. “Bravo! There’s naught that soothes the troubled mind as certain as sweet music.”

“I trust,” said the Queen, “that Your Grace’s mind is not overtroubled.”

“A King, wife, must of necessity have much upon his mind.”

Wriothesley, who never lost an opportunity of flattering his royal master, murmured: “It is fortunate for this realm that Your Majesty sits on the throne.”

Henry lifted his heavy lids to glare at his Chancellor. Too ready, was this Wriothesley, with his honeyed words; true though they were, the rogue was too ready. Yet, as ever, flattery was sweeter in the King’s ears than the sweetest music.

“Good Chancellor,” he replied, wincing as he moved painfully in his chair, “it is the kingly lot to bear the troubles of our subjects. For many years we have sat on the throne of England, but we cannot hope to rule this realm for ever.”

His eyes flickered angrily on the Queen who had failed to provide him with sons; then they went to the charming figure of his daughter-in-law.

Watching them, Surrey speculated: So my words have borne fruit. Mary has already given him the glance, the promise. The seed has been sown. Oh, poor Katharine Parr, my heart bleeds for you. But you are as safe as the rest of us, so why should it bleed for you and not for poor Surrey? My head may not remain on my shoulders any longer than yours. I am a poet, and so is the King. I am the greater poet, and in that I offend. I am more royal than His Majesty, and I have written verses. Two of the greatest literary men of our age have already laid their heads on the block—More and Rochford. Tom Wyatt was a fine poet but he was born lucky. The ax did not catch him though he had his miraculous escapes. And the next who dares wield his pen with more dexterity than the King, shall he die? And is his name Surrey?

Katharine had grown a shade paler, and the King went on with a trace of malice: “We’ll not talk of such matters. They disturb our Queen. Do they not, wife?”

“There are topics which please me more, Your Grace,” said Katharine quietly.

“We like not to brood on the days that lie ahead,” mused the King, “days when we shall no longer be here to lead this country. There is overmuch conflict in this land, and we like it not.” He glared at those about him and shouted: “We like it not. We would have peace in our time, and though that be denied us beyond the realm of England, we demand it at home.” Gardiner had moved closer to the King. The Queen looked at the Bishop and their eyes met. Something has happened, thought Katharine. There is some fresh plot against me.

She had noticed the King’s frequent glances at the Duchess of Richmond. Could it be that Gardiner was offering the King the Duchess as his seventh wife? Had it already been suggested that the sixth wife should go the way of the second and the fifth?

“We pray, as Your Majesty does, for peace,” said Gardiner. “And it is in the cause of peace that we will keep our vigilance night and day over those who dare to question your command. Though there are many in this land, my liege, who would see your enemies at large, working for the destruction of all that you, in your great wisdom and understanding, have laid down as our way of life….”

Henry waved his hand, interrupting the Bishop. He was accustomed to Gardiner’s harangues. The Bishop was one of those unfortunate men who could not win his affection. He did not dislike Gardiner as he had disliked Cromwell, but the Bishop did not charm him as Wyatt had and as Seymour did. Gardiner, like Cromwell, seemed to him plebeian. He must tolerate them for their wisdom, for his need of them; but he never liked them, and with Gardiner, as with Cromwell, at the first sign of failure he would show no forbearance.

“The state of kingship is an uneasy one, my lord Bishop,” he said. “None knows the truth of that better than ourselves.”

Wriothesley murmured: “And about Your Grace’s throne there are many enemies.”

His glance rested as if by chance first on the Queen, then on Seymour.

Katharine shivered. Was there some plot to implicate herself and Thomas? Not Thomas! she prayed. Anything but that harm should come to him.

Then insolently and ironically Surrey spoke: “Enemies of each other, my lord Chancellor, or enemies of the King, mean you? Enemies, say…of the Lord High Admiral, or of my lord Bishop?”

Wriothesley’s eyes flashed hatred and his smile was venomous as he said softly: “What enemies could there be, of true and loyal subjects, but enemies of the King?”

“We might well ask,” continued the irrepressible Surrey. “It would seem to me that there are men in this realm who seek first their own advancement, and secondly that of England—and the latter only if both are on the same road to the goal.”

The King glared at the poet. “You make an accusation, my lord Earl. You tell us that there are those about us who would seek their way even though it did not run side by side with that of England’s.”

“Alack, Your Grace, I make the suggestion because I fear it to be true.”

Henry’s eyes had narrowed in that fashion familiar to them all. There was no one present—with the exception of Surrey—whose heart had not begun to beat faster, who wondered whither this mischief of Surrey’s would lead.

“If any man among you,” continued the King, “knows aught against another, it is the sure and bounden duty of that man to lay his knowledge before the members of our council.”

The King tried to rise, but with a sudden angry roar fell back into his chair. Katharine hastened to kneel at his feet.

“Your Grace, the bandage is too tight.”

“By God, it is!” cried the King, the sweat on his brow, his face almost black with pain. “Mercy on us, Kate. There’s none can dress my wounds as thou, for I declare that when others do it, the rags must either be over-loose or over-tight.”

Katharine was glad to find occupation with the bandages. “Have I Your Grace’s permission to loosen them now?”

“Indeed you have…and quickly…quickly, Kate.”

There was silence while she worked, and the King lay back for a few seconds with his eyes closed. He was clearly too concerned with his pain to think of any enemy other than that.

But at length he opened his eyes and looked at those gathered about him.

Wriothesley said, as soon as he knew that he had the King’s attention: “When the Earl speaks of Your Majesty’s enemies, he must be thinking of the last to be discovered—the woman Kyme.”

“What of the woman Kyme?” said Seymour quickly.

“She lies in the Tower, as should all the enemies of our lord the King.”

The Bishop said very clearly: “So be it.”

Katharine was aware of the frightened eyes of three of her ladies—her sister, her stepdaughter and little Jane Grey. These were the three who loved her best, and they knew that an open attack on Anne Askew signified a covert attack on the Queen.

Surrey said: “What is this of Anne Askew? She wishes to be called Askew in place of Kyme, I believe. A comely girl. Dainty of structure, tall and over-sad. Her hair is gold as meadow buttercups, and her skin pale as garden lilies; her eyes are blue as skies in summer time.”

“What’s this?” roared the King, recovering from his pain.

“Anne Askew, Your Grace,” said Surrey.

The King laughed unpleasantly. “Like my lord Earl, I remember her well. Over-bold of tongue. I like it not when women presume to teach us our business.” He roared out in sudden pain. “What do you, Kate? Thou art pulling our leg this way and that.”

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” said Katharine. “The bandage slipped from my hands.”

“Have a care then.”

Surrey could not resist continuing with the dangerous subject of Anne Askew. “She left her husband’s house, Your Grace.”

Lady Herbert interjected quite heatedly: “It would be more truthful to say that her husband drove her from it, Your Grace.”

“What was that?” asked the King.

“Her husband, Your Grace, drove her from his house.”

“For a good reason,” said Wriothesley, throwing a sly smile at Lady Herbert and the Queen. “He liked not her disobedience to Your Grace’s commands.”

“Then ’twas rightly done,” said the King. “We’ll brook no disobedience in this land from man or woman…comely though they may be.”

“Ah,” said Surrey lightly, “it is not always easy to bend the head to the prevailing wind.”

The King gave the Earl a malevolent glance, and as he turned to do so, his leg was jerked out of Katharine’s hand and Henry cried out in agony.

“It was, I fear, Your Grace’s movement,” said Katharine. “’Twill be soothed when I have the bandages in place. I have a new ointment which I am assured will ease the pain.”

The King took off his plumed hat and wiped his brow. “I am weary of new ointments,” he said peevishly.

“How I long to find the remedy!” said Katharine.

“Right well would I reward the fellow who found it. By my faith, I cannot sleep o’ nights from the pain in this leg. We’ll try the ointment tonight, Kate. Ah, that’s better.” The King turned to frown at his courtiers. “It is not for women to teach us our business,” he said. “We agree with St. Paul on this matter: ‘Let your women keep silent in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience…’”

Henry paused significantly to glance at the kneeling figure of his wife. He trusted Kate would remember that. She was a good woman and she had the gentlest fingers in the court. For that he loved her. But he did not love women who meddled in matters which should be regulated by the superior intellects of men. Kate was another such as this meddling Anne Askew. The latter had most rightly been lodged in the Tower. He trusted his good nurse Kate would heed a gentle warning.

Gardiner obsequiously finished the quotation: “‘…as also saith the law.’”

Henry nodded and shook a bejeweled finger at the company and then at his kneeling wife. “This woman, Askew—an I mistake not—was found in possession of forbidden books; she has spoken against the Mass. Keep her in the Tower, my lord. Keep her there until such time as she shall learn good sense.”

Gardiner had stepped forward; his head was bowed and his voice had taken on a serious note. “The woman is over-saucy, alack, having friends at court.”

“What friends are these, lord Bishop?”

“That, Your Grace,” said the Bishop, looking for a few seconds at the kneeling Queen, “is what we have yet to discover.”

“My lord Bishop,” said Seymour, “it cannot be of any great consequence to His Majesty that this woman has friends.”

“I understand you not, brother,” said the King.

“She is a foolish woman, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

“Foolish in all conscience,” growled the King.

“Scarce worthy of such notice,” said Seymour.

Katharine, trying to steady her trembling fingers, wanted to implore him to take care. He must not involve himself in this. Did he not see that; that was just what his enemies wished?

“Mayhap she is not,” said the King. “But we would teach a lesson to those who dare oppose us.”

“The female sex,” said Gardiner, “can be as troublesome as the male. I would not excuse her, Seymour, on account of her sex. To my mind, any that work against our lord the King is an enemy to England—be it man or woman.”

“Well spoken,” said the King. He looked at Sir Thomas and chuckled. “I follow our gallant Seymour’s thoughts. She is a woman; therefore to be treated tenderly. Come, brother, confess.”

“Nay, my liege.”

“Oh?” said the King. “We know you well, remember.”

There was a titter of laughter among the courtiers, and Katharine must lift her eyes to look into the face of the man she loved. But he was not looking her way; he was smiling almost complacently. He was so clever, thought Katharine; he was so wise; he was far more restrained and controlled, for all his seeming jauntiness, than she could ever be. It was foolish of her to wish that he could have looked a little hurt at this estimation of his character.

“I would say,” went on the obsequious Wriothesley, “an it please Your Grace, that, like Seymour, I do not think of Anne Askew as a woman. I think of her as a menace, for about her are gathered the enemies of the King.”

“You are over-fierce, friend Wriothesley,” said Henry.

“Only in the cause of Your Majesty,” replied the Chancellor, bowing his head in reverence.

“That is well, good Chancellor. And now…enough of this woman. I would be entertained by my friends’ achievements and not made sad because of my enemies. Master Surrey, you skulk over there. You are our great poet, are you not? Entertain us, man. Come…let us hear some of those fine verses on which you pride yourself.”

The Earl rose and bowed before the King. The little bloodshot eyes looked into the handsome brown ones.

“I am ever at Your Grace’s service,” said that most insolent of men. “I will give you my description of the spring.”

“Ah!” said the King, reflecting: I’ll not brook your insolence much longer, my lord. You…with your royalty and your words. I see that sister of yours in your handsome face. She is proud…proud as the rest of you. But I like proud women…now and then.

And for the sake of the young man’s sister, Henry softened toward him.

“We would fain hear your description of the spring. ’Twas ever our favorite season.”

“Spring!” said Surrey ecstatically. “It is the most beautiful of all seasons. Wherein each thing renews, save only the lover.”

The King shot a suspicious look at the Earl, but Surrey had already begun to recite:

“The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings,

With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale:

The nightingale with feathers new she sings;

The turtle to her mate hath told her tale.

Summer is come, for every spray now springs:

The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;

The buck in brake his winter coat he flings…”

Surrey stopped short, for the King had spoken. He was saying to Seymour, who stood near him: “What meant he, brother? ‘Wherein each thing renews save only the lover’! The lover methinks breaks out in love as readily as any flowers in spring. Aye! Nor does he need to wait for springtime.”

Everyone laughed with great heartiness, and when the laughter had subsided, Surrey said: “The flowers, Your Grace, bloom with equal freshness each spring, but the coming of another spring finds the lover more jaded than did the previous one.”

There was a short silence. What had happened to Surrey? Was it that which had been known to break out in men before? They lived under the shadow of the ax for so long that their fear changed into recklessness. Surrey had been showing this attitude for some time.

Katharine looked at the young man and prayed silently for him: “Oh, Lord God, preserve him. Preserve us all.”

She said quickly: “Your Grace, listening to the Earl’s verses has set up a longing within me to hear something of your own.”

Henry’s good humor was miraculously restored. How strange it was, thought Katharine, that this great King, this man whom the French and the Spaniards feared, should be so childish in his vanity. The King’s character contained the oddest mingling of qualities; yet the brutality and the sentimentality, the simplicity and the shrewdness, made him the man he was. She should not regret these contrasts; she could watch for those traits in his character, and, as her knowledge of them grew, she might find some means of saving others from his wrath, as well as herself. She had indeed now saved Surrey from his displeasure.

“Since the Queen commands,” said Henry graciously, “we must obey.”

“Would Your Majesty care to come to my music-room, that my musicians may first play the new melody set to your verses?”

“Aye. That we will. And we will take with us those who most appreciate the pleasure in store.”

He scanned the assembled company. “Come…you, my Lady Herbert, and you, my Lady of Suffolk….”

The King named those whom he wished to accompany him to the Queen’s music-room. Surrey was not among them, and for that Katharine was grateful. Let the young man withdraw to his own apartments and there ponder his recklessness in solitude.

But others noticed that Surrey’s sister was one of those who received the King’s invitation; and that during the musical hour he found a pretext for keeping her close beside him.

THOMAS SEYMOUR, not being among those who had been invited to the Queen’s chamber, strolled out of the palace into the gardens.

He was thinking of Surrey’s words, which had been deliberately calculated to stab the King. What a fool was Surrey! Thomas Seymour had no intention of being such a fool.

He strolled past the gardens which would soon be ablaze with roses—red and white roses which would suggest, to all who saw them, from what the founding of the Tudor dynasty had spared the country. The Wars of the Roses had ended with the coming of Henry the Seventh; now the red roses of Lancaster and the white roses of York mingled peaceably, enclosed by wooden railings of green and white, the livery colors of a Tudor King; the pillars were decorated with the heraldic signs of the Tudors as an additional reminder.

Looking at these gardens, Seymour thought afresh what a fool Surrey was. What was his motive? To undermine the Tudors? That was ridiculous. The Tudors had come to stay.

Seymour leaned on the green-and-white fence and surveyed the rose trees.

Life was good to the Lord High Admiral of England. Ambition would be realized. He was sure of his destiny. But, sure as he was, he knew that he must be constantly on the alert, ready to snatch every advantage; and one of the greatest assets which a kindly fate had thrown into the hands of Sir Thomas Seymour was his personal charm.

Marriage! What could not be achieved by the right marriage!

Now, it seemed, haughty Norfolk was looking his way; and if Seymour was not mistaken, so was his daughter.

Seymour could not suppress the laugh which came to his lips. Her family would have no difficulty in persuading the Duchess of Richmond to become the wife of Sir Thomas Seymour, he fancied.

How far we have come! he mused. The Seymours of Wolf Hall—humble country gentlemen—and now we are related to the King and fit to ally ourselves with the greatest families in the land.

The question was not whether my lady of Richmond would take Sir Thomas Seymour, but whether Sir Thomas would take her.

He liked her. He liked all beautiful women; but a woman must have more than her beauty to offer an ambitious man. “And, my dear Mary Howard,” he murmured, “there are others who have more to offer me than you have.”

The spring air was like a glass of wine; he could smell the scents of the earth. Life was good; and would be better.

There were four women now whom he must consider before he took the final step. A duchess, a Queen, the kinswoman of a King, and a King’s daughter.

There was no doubt on whom his choice would fall, were it possible for him to make the choice. For the Queen he had a great tenderness; he loved Kate and there would be great happiness with such as she was. But she could not be his wife until she was a Dowager Queen; whereas the Princess might one day be a Queen in her own right.

He could love the woman for her sweet nature, but he longed for the red-headed Princess. Ambition and desire could mingle so pleasantly.

He left the rose gardens and strolled toward that new pond garden of his master’s. How beautiful it was! How quiet! What perfect peace there was in such a garden, with its lily pond, its statues and terraces. Already it was gay with spring flowers and the blossoming shrubs.

He looked into the future—a future in which the King would be dead, and he and his brother would rule; but his brother was a man who would wish to take first place, and it seemed to Thomas that since Edward lacked his own superior personal charms, people thought he must be the more astute statesman. Edward was sly; Edward was clever; and he had an ambitious wife. Those two would wish to rule without the help of Thomas.

Marriage was, therefore, of the utmost importance to the Admiral; but it must be the right marriage.

A movement in the gardens caught his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of deep satisfaction as a small figure rose from the grass, a figure in crimson velvet, her red hair just visible under her pearl-trimmed hood.

Seymour lost no time in approaching the Princess Elizabeth.

He bowed and took her hand.

“I was admiring the flowers,” he said; “then I saw that I wasted my admiration on them.”

“It rejoices me that you realized the wastage in good time,” she said, “for I know you are a man who does not care to waste his talents. It grows chilly.”

“Then I must fain give you my cloak. We cannot allow the Lady Elizabeth to be cold.”

“My walk back to the Palace will doubtless warm me.”

“I hoped that you would tarry and talk awhile.”

“Your hopes, Sir Thomas, I doubt not are always high. Perhaps too high.”

“Hopes can never be too high, my lady. If we hope for much, we achieve a little. But to hope for nothing is too achieve nothing. That, you will agree, is folly.”

“You are too clever for me, my lord.”

“Nay. There are times when it saddens me to think that I am not clever enough.”

“You speak in riddles and I must leave you to them. My lord…” She curtsied, and would have walked past him; but he had no intention of letting her go.

“Could we not dispense with ceremony now that we are alone?”

“Alone! Who is ever alone at court? Such as you and I, my lord Admiral, are never alone, for there will always be eyes to watch us when we do not see them, and ears to listen. There will always be those who treasure your simplest utterances—and mine—and mayhap use them against us.”

“Elizabeth…most beauteous Princess….”

She flushed. Clever as she was, she was susceptible to flattery, even as was her royal father; and she lacked his experience in hiding this fact. Important as she knew herself to be in the affairs of state politics since she had been reinstated at court, and much as she enjoyed her new position, she was more pleased at hearing herself called beautiful than she would have been by any reference to her importance in the realm.

Seymour kept his advantage. “Give me this pleasure…give me this pleasure of gazing upon you.”

“I have heard the ladies of the court say that it is not wise to take too seriously the compliments of the Lord High Admiral.”

“The ladies of the court?” He shrugged his shoulders. “They are apart. You are as different from them as the sun from the moon.”

“The moon,” she retorted, “is very beautiful, but it hurts the eyes to look at the sun.”

“When I look at you I feel myself scorched with the passion within me.”

Her laughter rang out clear and loud.

“I hear talk of your marriage, my lord. May I congratulate you?”

“I would welcome congratulations, only if I might announce my coming marriage to one particular lady.”

“And can you not make the announcement? I have heard that there is no man at court more likely to sue successfully for a lady’s favor.”

“She whom I would marry is far above me.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do I hear aright? Is the Lord High Admiral losing his belief in himself?”

“Elizabeth…my beautiful Elizabeth….”

She eluded him and ran from him; she paused to look back, artful and alluring, urging him on, yet forbidding him to come.

She was aware of the Palace windows. Much as she would have enjoyed a flirtation with this man, who fascinated her more than any person ever had, she did not wish to endanger her new position at court.

If Seymour had his dreams and ambitions, the Lady Elizabeth had hers no less. Indeed, they soared higher even than those of Seymour; and if they were more glorious, they were more dangerous.

He would have followed her, but she had suddenly become haughty.

“I wish to be alone,” she said coldly, and she walked from the garden, forcing herself to conquer her desire to stay with him, to invite his warm glances and perhaps the caresses which he longed to give and she would not have been averse to receiving.

Coquettish as she was, she longed for admiration. Flirtation was an amusing pastime, yet beyond the love of light pleasures was her abiding ambition.

As he watched her, Seymour had no doubt that she was the woman for him.

NAN CREPT SILENTLY out of the Palace of Greenwich. She was covered from head to foot in a dark cloak, under which she wore many thick petticoats which she would not be wearing when, and if, she were fortunate enough to return to the Palace that night.

It was not the first time she had made this journey, carrying food and warm clothing with her, but each time she made it she was filled with fears, for it was a dangerous journey.

Lady Herbert had said to her: “If you should be detained, on no account must it be known who sent you.”

“No, my lady.”

“And Nan…be strong…and brave.”

They both knew that if she were caught she would be recognized as a lady from the Queen’s household. But on no account, Nan assured herself, would she let them know that the Queen had played a part in this mission.

“God help me to be brave” was Nan’s continual prayer.

The faint light of a waning moon shone on the river, and in the shadow cast by the bushes she made out the barge which was waiting for her.

The boatman greeted her in that manner which had been arranged. “Hello, there! Come you from my lady?”

“Yes,” whispered Nan. “From my lady.”

She stepped into the boat which began to slip along only too slowly. Nan listened to the sound of the oars and continued to pray for courage.

The boatman sang softly to himself as he rowed. Not that he felt like singing. He must be almost as nervous as Nan; but he, like her, must wear an air of calm, for it must not be suspected that she came from the Queen, and that she was on her way to visit one who must surely be the most important prisoner in the Tower.

“Are you ready?” whispered the boatman at length.

“I am ready.”

She scrambled out on to the slippery bank; it seemed very cold under the shadow of the gray walls which loomed before her.

A man was waiting for her and she followed him without a word. He unlocked a door; Nan shivered as she stepped inside the great fortress of the Tower of London. This man held his lantern high, and she saw the damp walls and the pits at the bottom of which was the muddy water of the river; rats scuttled under her feet. She did not cry out, great as was the temptation to do so.

“Hurry,” whispered the man with the lantern. “You must be gone before the guard comes this way.”

He unlocked a door, and Nan stepped into the cell.

In spite of the intense cold, the closeness of the atmosphere, the smell of dirt and decay, sickened her. It was some seconds before her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, for the man with the lantern had shut and locked the door; in a short while he would return; she would hear the key in the lock and he would let her out.

She could vaguely see the shape on the straw.

“Mistress Askew?” she whispered.

“Nan! Is it you?”

“Yes, Mistress. I have brought food and clothes. You are bidden to be of good cheer.”

“You are a good and brave woman to come to me thus,” said Anne. “Have you a message for me?”

“Only that all that can be done for you will be done.”

“Thank you.”

Nan could see the emaciated face; it looked ghostly in the dimness of the cell.

“Take a message for me,” said Anne. “Tell those who sent you that they should not endanger themselves by sending food and clothing for me. I can face hunger; I can face cold and discomfort.”

“It is our delight to help you, to let you know that although you are a prisoner and others are free, they do not forget you.”

“I thank them,” said Anne, and in spite of her brave words, she fell upon the food which Nan had brought, and ate it ravenously. Nan was taking off the petticoats as she talked, and Anne went on eating as she put them on.

Anne’s hands were icy and her teeth chattered. There was hardly any flesh on her bones to keep her warm.

Ah, thought Nan, it is an easy matter to wish to be a martyr; but how eagerly she eats and how grateful she is for a little warmth!

Already the man was unlocking the door.

“Hasten, Mistress,” he said. “There must be no delay. I have not seen the guard at his usual post. Hasten, I say. If we are followed, remember, I know nothing of you and how you came here.”

“I will remember,” said Nan.

Hastily he locked the door of the cell, and Nan picked her way through the dark passages, trying not to brush against the slimy walls, praying that she might not step on the rats.

She felt exhausted when she lay, at length, in the boat, listening to the sound of the oars as she was carried away from the grim fortress of the Tower of London back to Greenwich.

THE MAN WITH THE lantern reentered the Tower and had scarcely taken three steps inside the building when two men took their stand on either side of him.

“Where go you, sir jailor?” asked one.

“Where go I?” blustered the man, and he felt as though cold water were dripping down his back, although he was sweating with fear. “Where go I? To my post, of course.”

“Who was the fair lady to whom you have just bade farewell?” enquired the other man.

“Fair lady…? I…?”

“You conducted her to a certain cell, did you not?”

“You are mistaken.”

The lantern was suddenly taken from his hand, and he was pinioned.

“This way,” said one of his captors. “We have questions to ask you.”

They pushed him roughly along through the gloomy passages. Terror walked with him. A short while ago the Tower had been to him merely the prison of others; now it was his prison.

“I…I have done…nothing.”

“Later, later,” said a soft voice in his ear. “You shall speak for yourself later.”

They were taking him into unfamiliar byways. He could hear the fierce chorus of rats as they fought with their human victims; he could hear the piercing screams for help from those miserable prisoners who were chained to the walls and who, when they heard footsteps coming their way, shouted for help without any hope that it would be given to them. They took him past the pits in which men were chained, the dirty water up to their knees; the lantern showed him their faces, wild-eyed and unkempt, faces that had lost their human aspect, as they fought the hungry pests which could not wait for them to die.

“Whither…whither are you taking me?”

“Patience, friend, patience!” said the voice in his ear.

Now he was in a chamber, and although he had never seen it before, he knew what it was. He had heard much of this chamber. The dim light from the lamp which hung from the ceiling confirmed his horrible fear.

He smelled blood and vinegar, and he knew them for the mingling odors of the torture chambers; and when his eyes were able to see through the mist of fear, he picked out a man at a table with writing materials before him. Much as he desired to, he could no longer doubt that he was in the torture chamber.

The man at the table had risen; he came forward as though to greet the jailor in friendship. There was a smile on this man’s face, and the jailor guessed from his clothes that he was a personage of some importance. He knew that he himself had been a fool to take a bribe and get himself involved with the kind of people who would be interested in Anne Askew. A jailor was subject to bribery. You took a little here, a little there. But he wished he had never meddled in the case of Anne Askew.

“You know why you are here, my friend,” said the personage.

“Yes…yes, my lord. But I have done nothing.”

“You have nothing to fear. You have only to answer a few questions.”

God in Heaven! thought the sweating jailor. That is what they are all told. “You have merely to answer a few questions!”

“Allow me to show you round the chamber,” said the jailor’s host. “You see here the gauntlets, the thumbscrews, the Spanish collar…the Scavenger’s Daughter. You, who serve the King as one of his jailors, know the uses to which these toys may be put, I doubt not.”

“I do, my lord. But I have done nothing.”

“And here is the rack. The most interesting of them all. My friend, a man is a fool who lets his limbs be stretched on that instrument. There is no need for it. No wise man need let his limbs be broken on the rack. You look pale. Are you going to faint? They deal well with fainting here. The vinegar is a quick restorative…so they tell me.”

“What…what do you want of me?”

The man gripped his arm.

“Answer my questions and go back to your work. That is all I ask of you. Give me truth and I’ll give you freedom.”

“I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“That is well. I knew you were a sensible man. Sit here…here on this stool. Now…have you recovered? Let us be quick; and the quicker the better, say you; for when you have given the simple answers to these questions you will go back to your work and never, I trust, enter this place again.”

“Ask me,” pleaded the jailor. “Ask me now.”

“You are ready?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Did you conduct a woman to a prisoner this day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was not one of your duties, I feel sure.”

“No, no….” The words tumbled out. He could not speak quickly enough. “I took a bribe. It was wrong. I repent of it. I should not have done it.”

“But it was such a big bribe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From a person of quality, doubtless. And the name of the prisoner whose cell was visited? Do not try to deceive me, because then I should have to use these toys to make you tell the truth.”

“I will not. I swear I will not. The prisoner was a Mistress Anne Askew.”

“That is good. You are doing well. I can see we shall not have to play with those toys tonight.”

“Who was the woman you took to Anne Askew?”

“A lady…whose name I know not.”

“Whose name you know not? Have a care.”

“I swear I know not her name. She came with food and clothes for the prisoner. I know whence she came, though I know not her name. It was never told me.”

“So you know whence she came?”

“Yes, I know. She came from the heretic friends of Anne Askew.”

“The names of these friends?”

“They told me no names.”

“You are not being very helpful. I must have names.”

“They are ladies of the court.”

“Cannot you give me names…even of some of them?”

He had signed to two men with evil faces; they came forward.

“Not one name?” said the interrogator.

“I do not know who sent them. I was told by a man who brought her…I know…”

“You know?”

“Yes, my lord. I know the woman who comes is a messenger from the Queen.”

“The Queen! Ah, that is good. You have been useful. Let him go. Let him go back to his work. Not a word, my friend, of tonight’s adventure, or…”

“I swear I’ll say nothing. I swear…”

“You will be watched. Just go on as before. Take your bribe. Let the lady in. Your little journey to our chamber, your inspection of our toys makes no difference. Go, my good man. You have answered well and faithfully.”

The jailor’s response was to fall into a faint on the earthen floor.

Wriothesley watched him with a smile. He liked the man. He had given the answer he most wished to hear.

WHEN NAN REACHED the Palace of Greenwich she went straight to the apartments of Lady Herbert as was her custom. The Queen’s sister had spent the time of her absence alternately on her knees praying for Nan’s safety, and at the window watching for her return.

“Nan,” said Lady Herbert, “how went it?”

“Much as before, my lady.”

“Methinks you are returned a little earlier.”

“Yes, my lady. I had scarcely time to take off all the clothing I had brought when the jailor urged me to leave the cell.”

“Why was that?” demanded Lady Herbert, her face growing pale.

“It was merely, he said, that he had not seen the guard in his usual place.”

Lady Herbert’s fingers played nervously with the jewels at her throat.

“This cannot go on. They suspect something.”

Nan threw herself on to her knees. When she had been in the company of Anne Askew she seemed infected by her fanaticism, her desire for martyrdom.

“My lady, I am ready to die, if need be, in the cause of the Queen and the Queen’s faith.”

Lady Herbert began to walk up and down the apartment.

“Oh, Nan, if only it were as simple as that! If death were swift and painless, how easy it would be! What else, Nan? How was she?”

“As strong as before in spirit, but very frail in body.”

“Nan, you must not go there again.”

“If the Queen commands me, I should go. There are times, my lady, when I almost feel a desire to be caught…though I know I should all but die of fright. There is something about that place, something that wraps itself about one. It is utter desolation, hopeless…and yet there is a kind of welcome.”

Lady Herbert took the young woman by her shoulders and gently shook her.

“Nan, Nan, do not talk so. You speak as one who is ready to embrace death.”

“Willingly would I do so, if the Queen commanded,” said Nan. “If they caught me, none should draw the secret from me. They could put me on the rack…”

“Hush, you foolish woman!” cried Lady Herbert almost angrily. “You know not what you say. Stronger than you have been broken in the torture chambers of the Tower.”

“They would not torture me…a woman. They do not torture women. I should be sent to the stake, and because I am a woman they would strangle me so that I should not feel the scorching of the flesh.”

Lady Herbert recognized the signs of hysteria. The strain was too much for any but a fanatic like Anne Askew. They must give up these dangerous visits. She must make the Queen see that they dared not continue with them.

“Go to your room,” she said. “I will send you a soothing draught. Drink it and draw your bedcurtains; then…sleep…sleep until you awake refreshed.”

Nan curtsied and went to her room.

And when she awoke from the soothing sleep, the lightheadedness had passed. She was herself once more. She could think of her experience with nothing but horror, and instead of seeing death beautified by martyrdom, she saw it evil and horrible, as the cold unhappy Tower had told her it must be.

IN THE QUEEN’S closet Lady Herbert shut the door and leaned against it.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“Why so?” asked the Queen.

“Our father and mother would never have dreamed that you would one day be Queen of England.”

“But the Queen of England must be braver than any lady in the land.”

“She must also be wiser. Oh, Kate, Anne Askew looks for martyrdom, but she is armed with her faith and her courage. You know that she has always been different from the rest of us.”

“Yes, even as a girl she was different. How remote she was from us! Oh, sister, what will they do to her? They have taken her because they wish, through her, to take me, and…we know why.”

“Yes, we know. It is you they wish to have in prison. They will try to make her admit that you too are in possession of the forbidden books, and that you have offended against the King’s laws.”

“And then?”

“And then I know not.”

“Do you not?” Katharine laughed bitterly. “Everything depends on His Majesty. If he wishes to see me condemned as a heretic, then condemned I shall be.” Her laughter grew wild. “It makes me laugh. I cannot help it. Everything depends on his state of health. If he is sick, I am safe for a while. But if he grows well…Oh Anne, is it not comic? I have watched his glances. The Duchess of Richmond is a comely lady. And so is Her Grace of Suffolk. Different types—and he cannot make up his mind which he prefers: the widow of his son, or the widow of Charles Brandon. Both widows, you see! I believe I have given him a taste for widows. And none but a widow would dare return the King’s loving glances. Sister, my life hangs by a thread; and who is holding that thread? His Majesty. And how he jerks it, depends on the Duchesses of Richmond and Suffolk…and the state of his health!”

“You must not laugh like this. It frightens me. You must be calm. You must be serene. Your smallest action is of the utmost importance.”

“Oh, sister, what will they do to poor Anne Askew?”

“They dare do nothing. They cannot torture a woman…a high-born woman. The King would not allow it.”

The Queen looked at her sister and broke into fresh laughter, and the Lady Anne Herbert had great difficulty in soothing her.

THE BISHOP AND THE CHANCELLOR walked once more in the Great Park.

“What news, my lord Chancellor?” asked Gardiner.

“My lord Bishop, good news. I had the jailor taken as soon as he left the court woman. He admitted in the torture room that the clothes and food which the prisoner has been receiving were sent at the Queen’s command.”

Gardiner nodded. “That is good.”

“Well, is it not enough?”

The Bishop shook his head. “It’s that accursed leg. The woman is such a good nurse.”

“You think he is so fond of her still that he seeks no other?”

“While the King breathes he will always be ready to seek another wife—providing the current one has shared his bed for a month or more.”

“My lord Bishop, it was but a week ago that he said to me: ‘Three years of marriage, Wriothesley, and no sign of fruitfulness. I cannot think the fault is mine; therefore must I wonder if my marriage finds favor in the sight of God.’”

“That was good.”

“And have you seen the looks he casts at my lady of Suffolk?”

“Not so good. She, like the Queen, inclines to heresy. I would my lady of Richmond did not worry his conscience. The warmer his feelings grow for her the better. Everything depends on the warmth of his feelings.”

“But…if he should turn to Brandon’s widow?”

“We must see that that does not happen. But first we must rid him of Katharine Parr.” Gardiner looked grave. “We must practice the utmost caution. Remember Dr. London, who has since died of the humiliations inflicted upon him.”

“I do remember him. But the jailor admitted the woman came from the Queen.”

“The word of a lowborn jailor could not be of great account. We must remember this, friend Chancellor: The situation is not a simple one. When Cromwell found evidence against Anne Boleyn, the King was already impatient for marriage with Jane Seymour. Now it is less simple. At one moment the King wishes to be rid of his wife, and at the next he remembers that she is his nurse and necessary to him. To bring the jailor’s evidence before the King when he needs his nurse, might bring down Heaven knows what on our defenseless heads. Nay! We must learn by the mistakes and successes of others. Think of the King’s love for Catharine Howard. Cranmer was fully aware of that. What did he do? He presented the King with undeniable evidence of his Queen’s guilt. That is what we must do. But the word of a lowborn jailor is not enough.”

“You mean the woman herself—this Anne Askew—must speak against the Queen?”

“That is what I mean.”

“But you know her mind. She will say nothing against anyone. ‘Kill me,’ she will say. ‘I’m not afraid of death.’ And, by God, you will have but to look at her to know that she speaks truth.”

“It is easy for a fanatical woman to say these things, and to die quickly is easy. But to die slowly…lingeringly…horribly…that is not so simple. The bravest men cry out for mercy on the rack.”

“But…this is a woman.”

Gardiner’s thin lips smiled faintly. “This, dear Chancellor,” he said, “is our enemy.”

IN HER CELL in the Tower, Anne Askew daily waited for the doom which she felt must certainly be hers.

She had knelt by the barred window and prayed, and praying lost count of the hours. On the stone walls of this cell which had been occupied by others before her were scratched names, messages of hope and words of despair. She prayed not for herself but for those who had suffered before her. She knew that there was some grace within her, some extra strength, which would enable her to meet with courage whatever was coming to her.

It was midnight when she had knelt, and now the dawn was in the sky. It filtered through the bars of her cell; another day was coming and she was still on her knees.

It was some days since Nan had visited her. She had had little to eat, yet she did not feel the need of food. There were times when her mind wandered a little—back to her childhood in her father’s house, back to the days when she and her sister had wandered in the gardens and been happy together.

Anne had always been the serious one, loving books more than play. Her elder sister had laughed at her, and there had been times when Anne had envied her. She was so normal, that elder sister of Anne’s; she liked good things to eat, fine clothes to wear. She had said: “Anne, you are strange. Sometimes I think you are a changeling—not the child of our parents. You are like a fairy child, and in your eyes there burns such fervor that I feel your sire must have been a saint.”

Sometimes Anne imagined that she was back in the days of her sister’s betrothal to Mr. Kyme.

She could hear her sister’s light chatter. “He is very rich, Anne. They say he is the richest man in Lincolnshire, and I like him well enough.”

“How can you go into marriage lightly?” Anne had asked, shuddering. “How I rejoice that it is not for me. I shall go into a nunnery. That is what I long for…quiet…peace…to learn that of which Martin Luther has written.”

Looking back it seemed that she lived again through those tragic days of her sister’s death. Death was ever near. It swooped suddenly, and one could never be sure from what source it came.

“Now that your sister is dead,” her father had said, “you must take her place with Mr. Kyme.”

She could see him clearly—Mr. William Kyme, a young and ardent man in need of a wife. He was very willing to take the younger sister in place of the elder.

In vain she had prayed and pleaded with her father. “A daughter’s first duty is obedience; so said the Scriptures,” she was told.

So said the Scriptures. And she would not fight her destiny.

Now was the most horrible of all her memories: the warm, eager hands of Mr. Kyme, and herself trembling supine in the marriage bed.

He had been kind at first. “My poor sweet child, you do not understand. You are so young…so innocent. You must not be afraid.”

She had lain, shuddering, bearing that torture as later she would bear others.

Resignation came to her at length, but Mr. Kyme did not wish for resignation. There were angry scenes. “Unnatural!” That was the word he had flung at her.

“Leave me alone,” she had begged. “Divorce me…do what you will. But release me from this life which is distasteful to me.”

He had not been, she was sure, more brutal, more unkind than any man would have been. “I will not let you go,” he had stormed at her. “You are my wife and you shall be my wife.”

She would awake even now with those words in her ears, so that she was almost glad to be in this cold cell because it at least meant escape from a life which had been too humiliating and distasteful to be borne.

“I will make a normal woman of you yet,” he had said; but he had changed his mind when he had discovered her books.

“What is this?” he had demanded. “Are you one of these Reformers?”

“I believe in the teachings of Martin Luther.”

“Do you want to make us the King’s prisoners?”

“I would as soon be a prisoner of the King as of your sensuality.”

“You are mad. I will stop this reading and writing.”

He had locked her in her room, destroyed her books.

But she had found him to be vulnerable, and she rejoiced that this was so. The servants were talking of her leanings toward the new faith, and when a man’s wife is implicated, how easy it is to cast suspicion on that man!

Mr. Kyme was such a rich man; and it often happened that rich men were considered most worthy prey by those who wished to bring an accusation which might result in the confiscation of lands and goods. He trembled for his possessions; he was ready to give up his wife rather than place his lands and coffers in jeopardy.

“You will leave this house at once,” he had said. “I’ll dissociate myself from you and your evil teachings.”

And the day she left his house was a happy one for her. Now, kneeling in her cell, she was glad of that experience. It had taught her courage; and she knew she would have great need of courage.

Early that morning she heard footsteps in the passage outside her cell; the door opened and two men came in.

“Prepare yourself for a journey, Mistress Askew,” one said. “You are to go to the Guildhall this day for questioning.”

SHE STOOD BEFORE her judges. The strong, pure air had made her faint; the sunlight had seemed to blind her; and her limbs would scarcely carry her. But she did not care, for though her body was weak, her spirit was strong.

She looked up at the open timber-work roof and down at the pavings of Purbeck stone. It was warm in the great hall, for the early summer sun was streaming through the windows, picking out the carvings of the Whittington escutcheons.

Her trial was considered of some importance; yet she was not afraid. She knew that she was in the right, and it seemed to her that, with God and his company of angels on her side, she need have no fear of the Lord Mayor of London, of Bonner, Gardiner, Wriothesley and all the nobles of the Catholic faction who were there to discountenance her and hasten her to the stake.

She heard the words of the Lord Mayor:

“You are a heretic and condemned by the law if you stand by your opinion.”

Her voice rang out—a strong voice to come from such a frail body. “I am no heretic. Neither do I deserve death by any law of God. But concerning the faith which I have uttered, I will not deny it, because, my lords, I know it to be true.”

Wriothesley said: “Do you deny the sacrament to be Christ’s own body and blood?”

“Yes; I do. That which you call God is but a piece of bread. The son of God, born of the Virgin Mary, is now in Heaven. He cannot be a piece of bread that, if left for a few weeks, will grow moldy and turn to nothing that is good. How can that be God?”

“You are not here to ask us questions, madam,” said Wriothesley. “You are here to answer those which we put to you.”

“I have read,” she answered, “that God made man, but that man can make God I have not read. And if you say that God’s blood and body is in bread because man has consecrated that bread, then you say that man can make God.”

“Do you insist in these heresies?” demanded the Lord Mayor.

“I insist on speaking the truth,” she answered.

“You are condemned of your own mouth,” she was told.

“I will say nothing but that which I believe to be true.”

“Methinks,” said Gardiner, “that we should send a priest that you may confess your faults.”

“I will confess my faults unto God,” she answered proudly. “I am sure He will hear me with favor.”

“You leave us no alternative but to condemn you to the flames.”

“I have never heard that Christ or His Apostles condemned any to the flames.”

Her judges whispered together; they were uncomfortable. It was ever thus with martyrs. They discomfited others while they remained calm themselves. If only she would show some sign of fear. If only it were possible to confound her in argument.

“You are like a parrot!” cried Gardiner angrily. “You repeat…repeat…repeat that which you have learned.”

Wriothesley’s eyes were narrowed. He was thinking: I should like to see fear in those eyes; I should like to hear those proud lips cry for mercy.

She spoke in her rich clear voice. “God is a spirit,” she said. “He will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.”

“Do you plainly deny Christ to be in the sacrament?”

“I do. Jesus said: ‘Take heed that no man shall deceive you. For many shall come in My name saying I am Christ; and shall deceive many.’ The bread of the sacrament is but bread, and when you say it is the body of Christ, you deceive yourselves. Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold and worshipped it. That is what you do. Bread is but bread…”

“Silence!” roared Gardiner. “You have been brought here, woman, to be tried for your life, not to preach heresy.”

The judges conferred together and, finding her guilty, condemned her to death by burning.

They took her back to her dungeon in the Tower.

TO DIE THE martyr’s death!

Had she the courage to do that? She could picture the flames rising from her feet; she could smell the burning faggots, she could hear their crackle. But how could she estimate the agonizing pain? She saw herself, the flames around her, the cross in her hand. Could she bear it with dignity and fortitude?

“Oh God,” she prayed, “give me courage. Help me to bear my hour of pain, remembering how Thy Son, Jesus Christ, did suffer. Help me, God, for Jesus’ sake.”

She was on her knees throughout the night. Scenes from the past seemed to flit before her eyes. She was in her father’s garden, with her sister, feeding the peacocks; she was being married to Mr. Kyme; she was enduring his embraces; she was in the barge which was carrying her to prison; she was facing her judges in the Guildhall.

At last, swooning from exhaustion, she lay on the floor of her cell.

But with the coming of morning she revived. She thought: Previously it was so easy to contemplate death, but that was when I did not know I was to die.

WITHIN THE PALACE they were talking of Anne Askew.

She had deliberately defied her judges. What a fool! What a sublime fool!

“This is but a beginning,” it was whispered.

Those who had read the forbidden books and had dabbled with the new learning, were, in their fear, looking for plausible excuses.

“It was just an intellectual exercise, nothing more.”

“It was not a heresy…not a faith to die for.”

The Queen took to her bed; she was physically sick with horror. Anne—delicate Anne—condemned to the flames! This thing must not be allowed to happen. But how could she prevent it? What power had she?

The King had been irritable with her; he had ignored her when the courtiers were assembled. Once he had made up his mind regarding the Duchesses of Suffolk and Richmond he would find some means of disposing of his present Queen.

Her sister came and knelt by her bed. They did not speak, and Lady Herbert’s eyes were veiled. She wanted to beg her sister to plead for Anne; yet at the same time she was silently begging the Queen to do nothing.

Little Jane Grey went quietly about the apartment. She knew what was happening. They would burn Mistress Anne Askew at the stake, and no one could do anything to save her.

Imaginative as she was, she felt that this terrible thing which was happening to Anne was happening to herself. She pictured herself in that cold and airless cell; she pictured herself facing her judges at the Guildhall.

That night she dreamed that she stood in the square at Smithfield, and that it was about her own feet that the men were piling faggots.

She was with the Prince when Princess Elizabeth came to see him.

Elizabeth was a young lady now of thirteen years. There were secrets in her eyes; she wore clothes to call attention to the color of her hair, and rings to set off the beauty of her hands. She could never look at a man without—so it seemed to Jane—demanding to know whether he admired her. She was even thus with her tutors. And it was clear that Mistress Katharine Ashley, who thought her the most wonderful person in the world, now found her a difficult charge.

Everyone, even Elizabeth, looked sad because of Anne Askew. Elizabeth liked the new learning as much as Jane did—but differently. Elizabeth appreciated it, but would be ready to abandon it. Jane thought: I would not. I would be like Anne Askew.

“Something must be done to save her!” said Jane.

Edward looked expectantly at his sister, for she was the one who was always full of plans. If something could be done, Elizabeth would invariably suggest the means.

But now she shook her head.

“There is nothing to be done. Those with good sense will keep quiet.”

“We cannot let them send her to the stake!” insisted Jane.

“It is no affair of ours. We have no say in the matter.”

“We could plead, could we not?”

“With whom could we plead?”

“With the King.”

“Would you dare? Edward, would you dare?”

“With those near the King perhaps?” suggested Edward.

“With Gardiner?” cried the Princess ironically. “With the Chancellor?”

“No, indeed.”

“Then with Cranmer? Ha! He is too wise. He does not forget how, recently, he himself came near to disaster. He will say nothing. He will allow this affair to pass away and be forgotten—as we all must.”

“But it is Anne—our dearest Mistress Askew!”

“Our foolish Mistress Askew. She dared to stand up and say that the holy bread was not the body of Christ.”

“But that is what we know to be true.”

“We know?” Elizabeth opened her eyes very wide. “We read of these things, but we do not talk of them.”

“But if she believes…”

“I tell you she is a fool. There is no place in this court…nor in this world, I trow, for fools.”

“But you…no less than ourselves….”

“You know not what you say.”

“Then you are against Anne, against our stepmother? You are with Gardiner?”

“I am with none and against none,” answered the Princess. “I am…with myself.”

“Perhaps Uncle Thomas could put a plea before my father,” said Edward. “He is clever with words, and my father is amused by him. Uncle Thomas will know what to do.”

“’Tis true,” said Elizabeth. “He will know what to do, and he will do what I shall do.”

She smiled and her face flushed suddenly; it was clear to Jane that Elizabeth was thinking, not of wretched Anne Askew, but of jaunty Thomas Seymour.

THE KING WAS in a merry mood. He sat, with a few of his courtiers about him, while a young musician—a beautiful boy—played his lute and sang with such sweetness that the King’s thoughts were carried away from the apartment. The song was of love; so were the King’s thoughts.

It should be my lady of Suffolk, he decided. She would bear him sons. He pictured her white body and her hair, touched with the bright yellow powder which so many used to give that pleasant golden touch. She was a fine, buxom woman.

Her glances had told him that she found him attractive. He liked her the better because she was the widow of Charles Brandon. There had always been friendship between himself and Charles. How readily he had forgiven the fellow when he had so hastily married Henry’s own sister, Mary Tudor, after old Louis’ death. Henry chuckled at the recollection of the old days, and a great longing for them swept over him.

He was not an old man. Fifty-five. Was that so old? He decided angrily that he felt old because he no longer had a wife who pleased him.

Why is it, he pondered, that she cannot give me sons?

He had the answer to that. God was displeased with her. And why should God be displeased with her? She was no harlot—he would admit that—as the others had been. No. But she was a heretic. She was another such as that friend of hers, this Anne Askew. And that woman had been found guilty and condemned to the flames. Henry licked his lips. Was this wife of his any less guilty than the woman they had condemned to die?

I would not wish her to die such a death, he thought. I am a merciful man. But was it right that one woman should die for her sins while another, equally guilty, should go free?

There was an unpleasant rumor that the Duchess of Suffolk was one of those ladies who had dabbled in heresy. He did not want to examine that now. He refused to believe it. It was the sort of thing her enemies would say against her, knowing his interest. No! There was no need to occupy his thoughts with that matter…at this time.

She was a fascinating creature—aye, and not a little fascinated by her King. Feeling perhaps just a little afraid of such a mighty lover, seeming at times to long to run away? Perhaps. But he knew how she longed to stay!

In the old days she would have been his mistress ere this. But when a man grows older, he mused, he does not slip so easily into lovemaking. There is not the same desire for haste. Lovemaking must now be conducted more sedately, by the dim light of say…one candle?

His Chancellor was at his side. The King smiled. Wriothesley had comported himself well at the trial of the heretic. He had shown no softness merely because she was a woman.

A woman! A new vision of the Duchess’s beauty rose before him. Soon to be tested! he thought with pleasure.

Nay! Anne Askew was scarcely a woman. Lean of body and caring for books rather than the caress of a lover. That was not how a woman should be. No! Anne Askew was no woman.

He caught the phrase and repeated it to his conscience, for he was wily and shrewd and could guess what plans were being formed in the Chancellor’s mind.

No woman! No woman! he repeated to his conscience.

She was not alone in her guilt. There must be others. A little questioning, and she might disclose their names. The name of the Duchess of Suffolk came quickly into his mind. No, no. It was not true. He did not believe it. Moreover he had no fools about him. There was not one of them who would dare present him with the name of an innocent lady.

But why should Anne Askew not be questioned by his servants of the Tower? Because she was a woman? But she was no woman…no true woman.

And if I find heretics in my court, he said to his conscience, they shall not be spared. In the name of the Holy Church of which I am the head, they shall not be spared…no matter who…no matter who….

He could see the fair Duchess staring dreamily ahead, listening to that song of love. Was she thinking of a lover, a most desirable and royal lover?

He spoke to his conscience again: “I am a King, and many matters weigh heavily on my mind. I am the head of a great State, and I have seen that State grow under my hands. I have shown wisdom in my relations with foreign powers. I have allowed nothing to stand in the way of England. I have played off the Emperor Charles against sly François…and I have seen my country grow in importance in the world. I am a King and, because of these state matters, which are ever with me, I have need of the soothing sweetness of love. I have need of a mistress.”

The conscience said: “You have a wife.”

“A wife who is a heretic?”

“Not yet proven.”

The little eyes were prim.

“And if it were proved, I should have no alternative but to put her from me. I cannot tolerate heretics in my kingdom. Whoever they should prove to be, I could not tolerate those who work against God’s truth.”

“Nay! But it would have to be proved.”

“Perhaps it is my duty to prove it. And when I talk of love I think not of my body’s needs. When did I ever think of that? Nay! I need sons. I need them now in my declining years more than I ever did. If I put away one wife and take another, it would be solely with the object of getting myself sons, of making my line safe…for England’s sake.”

“That,” said the conscience primly, “is a very good motive for putting away a barren wife.”

The conscience was subdued. It had been shown that as usual the sensualist and the moralist walked hand in hand.

And now the Chancellor was at his side.

He murmured: “Your Grace’s pardon, but have I Your Grace’s permission to question the condemned woman?”

“You suspect you can get the names of others?”

“I do, Your Majesty; and I propose to question her in the service of Your Grace.”

“If there be those in this realm who disobey their King, I would know of them. Whoever they be, sir Chancellor, they may expect no mercy from me.”

The Chancellor bowed. He was pleased to have won such an easy victory.

THE DOOR OF ANNE’S cell was opening.

Two men had come for her.

“Is it to be so soon?” she asked. “Do you take me to Smithfield?”

“Not yet, mistress. You have another journey to make ere you set out on that last one.”

“What journey is this?”

“You will see soon enough. Are you ready to come with us?”

“Yes.”

She walked between the two men.

“Whither are you taking me?” she asked; but she believed she knew.

“Oh God,” she prayed, “help me. Help me now as never before, for I need Your help. I am a woman…and weak…and I have suffered much. I am faint from hunger, sick from cold; but it is not these things which distress me. I mourn because I am afraid.”

She fell against the slimy walls in her sickness; she drew back shuddering as she heard the rats scuttling away, alarmed by the sound of footsteps.

“This way, mistress.”

One of the men pushed her forward, and before her dazed eyes appeared a short, spiral staircase, down which they led her.

Now they were in the gloomy dungeons below the great Tower. Foul odors from the river were stronger here.

“Oh God,” she prayed, “let me die here. Let me die for the Faith. Willingly I will give my life. Let me not bring disgrace on the Faith. Let me be strong.”

Now the sickening stench of stale blood assailed her nostrils. She had no doubt to what place they were taking her. Misery seemed to haunt it. She fancied she heard the screams of men in agony. Did she really hear them, or were they the ghostly echoes of forgotten men?

She was pushed into the chamber—that dread chamber, the sight of which sickened the hearts of the bravest men.

She fell against a stone pillar from which hung the hideous instruments whose uses she could only guess, except that she knew they were made to torture men.

Two men had come toward her—two of the most brutish-looking men she had ever seen. Their eyes betrayed them—their glittering, cold, excited eyes. Those eyes betrayed too a certain lewdness in their thoughts; it was as though they spoke and said: “Ha! Here we have a woman!” These two men were Chancellor Wriothesley and Solicitor-General Rich, whom she had seen at her trial.

She was aware that this was to be one of the most important cross-examinations which had ever taken place in this room, for not only were the Chancellor and the Solicitor-General present, but there also was Sir Anthony Knevet, the Lieutenant of the Tower.

She looked at him appealingly, for he had not the cruel, animal look of the other men, and it seemed to her that there was sympathy in his eyes, as though they meant to convey the message to her: “I am not responsible for this. I but obey orders.”

The Chancellor spoke first. He had seated himself at the table on which were writing materials.

“You wonder why you are brought here, madam?” he said.

“I know why people are brought here. It is to answer questions.”

“You are clever. I can see that we need not waste time with explanations.”

The Solicitor-General had turned to her. “You will answer my questions, madam.”

“Do not weary yourselves with asking me questions,” she said. “I have answered them, and I shall not change those answers. I believe that the body of Christ…”

Rich waved a hand. “No, no. That is settled. You are a heretic. We know that. You have been sentenced, and that case is closed.”

“It is for another reason that you are brought here,” said Wriothesley. “You were not alone in your heresies. You must know the names of many people who support that erroneous belief for which you are going to die.”

“How should I know what goes on in the hearts and minds of others?”

“Madam, you are very clever. You have read too many books…far too many books. But do not waste your cleverness on us. We do not want sly answers. We want names.”

“Names?”

“The names of those who attended your meetings, who read those books with you.”

“I cannot give you names.”

“Why not, madam?”

“If I could say with certainty that such and such a person believes as I do…even so I would not give a name.”

“It would be wise not to be saucy. We are less patient here than in the Guildhall.”

“That I understand. Many may hear your words in the Guildhall. Here, you may say what you will.”

“Madam, you are a lady of gentle birth. I do not think you realize the importance of your visit to this chamber.”

“I know, sir, why you have brought me here,” she said. “Here you bring men to suffer torture. I did not know that you brought women. I understand now that it is so.”

“You are insolent, Madam. Have a care.”

Wriothesley signed to the two men, who came forward. They were professional torturers; their faces were blank; they were devoid of all feeling, as all must become who ply such a horrible trade.

They had seized her by the arms, and Wriothesley put his face close to hers.

“I do not think even now that you fully understand what will happen to you if you are obstinate. You have heard of the rack, no doubt, but you have no notion of its action.”

“I can imagine that,” she answered; she hoped that he did not see her lips moving in prayer, forming that one word which made up her desperate plea: Courage.

“Take her to the rack,” said the Solicitor-General. “Mayhap the sight of it will bring her to her senses.”

She was dragged across the room and her eyes perceived that instrument which none could look on without a shudder. It was shaped like a trough, at the ends of which were windlasses; in these, slots had been cut in which oars could be placed in order to turn them, and about them were coiled ropes to which the wrists and ankles of the sufferer could be tied and made taut by winding the windlasses. By means of the oars, in the hands of two strong men, the windlasses could be turned so that the victim’s legs and arms were slowly pulled out of their sockets. Even the dreaded Scavenger’s Daughter was not more feared than the rack.

“You…you would put me on the rack…in the hope that I would betray the innocent?” asked Anne.

“We would put you there that you might betray the guilty.”

She looked at the men about her, and her eyes rested on the anxious face of the Lieutenant of the Tower, but he could not bear to meet her glance. He said: “My lords, I like this not. A lady…to be put on the rack!”

“Those are His Majesty’s orders,” said Wriothesley.

Knevet turned away. “If you are sure, gentlemen, that these are the King’s commands, then we must obey them.” He turned to Anne. “I appeal to you, madam. Give us the names that we ask of you, and save yourself from torture.”

“I cannot give names merely to save myself from pain. How could I?”

“You are brave,” said the Lieutenant. “But be guided by me. Give the names…and have done with this miserable affair.”

“I am sorry,” said Anne steadfastly.

“Then,” said Wriothesley, “we have no alternative. Madam, you will take off your robe.”

She was made to stand before them in her shift, whereupon they placed her on the rack and attached the ropes to her emaciated wrists and ankles.

“Are you sure,” said Wriothesley, “that you wish us to continue?”

“You must do with me as you will.”

The Chancellor and Solicitor-General signed to the two men who had taken their stand at each end of the trough.

Slowly the windlasses began to turn; her poor sagging body became taut, and then…such agony took possession of it that for one terrible moment she must scream aloud for mercy. But almost immediately she was lost in blessed unconsciousness.

They would not allow her to remain in that happy state. They were splashing vinegar on her face. She opened her eyes, but she did not see the men about her; she was aware only of her sagging body held to the ropes by her dislocated limbs.

Wriothesley said: “The pain is terrible, I know. Endure no more of it. Merely whisper those names.”

She tried to turn her face away. Her lips began to move; but as Wriothesley put his ear close to her face, he was disgusted to find that she gave no names; it was but prayers she uttered, prayers for courage and the strength to endure her pains.

Wriothesley cried out in anger: “Again! Again! The woman is a fool. Let her suffer for her folly. That was merely a taste. Now let her have the full fury.”

“No…no…” cried Anne’s lips. “This…is…too…”

She had believed, a few seconds before, that she had learned all she could ever know about pain, that she had suffered it in all its malignancy, its fullest and most venomous powers. She was mistaken. Here was woeful agony, excruciating, exquisite torture, the very peaks of pain. “Oh God, let me die…let me die….” Those words beat on and on in her brain.

But they would not let her die. They would not let her long enjoy the benefit of unconsciousness. They were there, those evil men, bringing her out of the blessed darkness to suffer more pain.

“Names…names…names….” The words beat on her ears.

“Oh, God,” she prayed, “I had not thought of this. I had not thought I could endure so much and live. I had thought of the quick sharp pain. Death by the flames could not bring such agony as this.”

She heard the voice of Wriothesley beating like an iron bar on her shattered nerves:

“I will have those names. I will. I will. Again. Again. Give it to her again. You men are soft. You are too gentle. By God, I’ll have those names.”

Sir Anthony Knevet intervened: “My lords, I protest against this additional racking. The lady has been put to the test. That is enough.”

“And who, sir,” demanded the Chancellor, “are you to say what shall and what shall not be done?”

“I am the Lieutenant of this Tower. I am in sole charge in this Tower. The lady shall not, with my consent, be tortured further.”

“And who has placed you in command of this Tower? You forget to whom you owe your honors. This is rank disobedience to His Majesty’s orders. I will carry reports of this to the King, and we shall see how much longer you remain Lieutenant of the Tower, sir.”

Sir Anthony grew pale. He was afraid of the Chancellor and the Solicitor-General, for the two stood firm against him. But when he looked from them to the half-dead woman on the rack, he boldly said: “I cannot give my consent to the continuation of the racking.” He turned to the torturers. “Hold!” he ordered. “Have done.”

Wriothesley laughed.

“Then must we do the work ourselves. Come, Rich!” he cried; and he threw off his cloak. “We will work this together. We will show the lady what happens to those who defy us. As for you, sir Lieutenant, you will hear more of this matter. I, personally, shall convey the tale of your disobedience to the King.”

Knevet walked out of the chamber.

Rich hesitated; the two professional torturers, who dared not disobey the Lieutenant’s orders, stood watching. But Wriothesley had pushed them aside, was rolling up his sleeves, and, signing to Rich to do the same, he took an oar.

And venomously and most cruelly did those two go to work.

Anne was past prayers, past thought. There was nothing in the world for her, but the most exquisite agony ever inflicted on man or woman; there was nothing for her but the longing for death.

Sweating with their exertions, Wriothesley and Rich paused.

“She cannot endure more,” said Rich. “She is on the point of death.”

Rich was also thinking: And Knevet will be in his barge at this moment on his way to Greenwich. And what will the King say? His Majesty would not want this woman to die on the rack; he only wanted her to betray, as a heretic, the woman of whom he was so tired that he wished to rid himself of her.

Wriothesley followed his thoughts.

“Remove the ropes,” he said. “She has had enough.”

The professional torturers untied the ropes and laid the broken body of Anne Askew on the floor.

KNEVET SOUGHT AN AUDIENCE WITH THE KING.

“Your Majesty, I come in great haste. I come to lay before you my sincere apologies if I have disobeyed your orders. But I cannot believe Your Most Clement Majesty ever gave such orders.”

“What orders are these?” asked the King, his shrewd eyes glinting. He guessed that the Lieutenant of the Tower had news of Anne Askew.

“Your Grace, I have come straight from the racking of Anne Askew.”

“The racking of Anne Askew!” The King’s voice was noncommittal. He wished Anne Askew to betray the Queen’s guilt, but he did not care to have his name connected with the racking of a woman.

The Lieutenant of the Tower lifted his eyes hopefully to the King’s face.

“It is the woman, Your Grace, who is condemned to the stake.”

“The heretic,” said Henry. “She is condemned with three men, I understand. She has offended against our Holy Church and slandered the Mass. She has been tried and her judges have found her guilty.”

“That is so, Your Majesty. The sentence is just. But…they are racking her to death. Your Chancellor and Solicitor-General are racking her for information.”

“Racking her! Racking a woman!”

Knevet was on his knees, kissing the King’s hand.

“I knew that Your Grace in your great mercy would never have given your consent to such treatment of a frail woman. I could not allow myself to be involved in the matter unless I had written orders from Your Majesty. I trust I did right.”

The King’s lips were prim. To rack a woman! He had never given his consent to that. The rack had not been mentioned in his talk with the Chancellor.

“You did right,” said the King.

“Then I have Your Majesty’s pardon?”

“There is no need of pardon, my friend.” The King laid his hand on Knevet’s shoulder. “Go back to your duties with a good conscience.”

Fervently Knevet continued to kiss the King’s hand.

As he was about to retire, Henry said: “And the woman…did she disclose…er…anything of interest?”

“No, Your Majesty. She is a brave woman, heretic though she be. I left the Chancellor and Solicitor-General working the rack themselves, and with great severity.”

The King frowned. “And…on a frail woman!” he said in shocked tones. “It may be that under dire torture she will betray others who are as guilty as she is.”

“I doubt it, Your Majesty. She was then too weak to know anything but her agony.”

The King turned away as though to hide his distress that such things could happen in his realm. “A woman…” he murmured, his voice half sorrowful, half angry. “A frail woman!”

But when the Lieutenant had gone, his eyes, angry points of light, almost disappeared in his bloated face.

“A curse on all martyrs!” he muttered. “A curse on them all!”

Memories of others came to him in that moment. Norris and Derham; Fisher and More.

And it seemed to him that the ghosts of those martyrs were in the room, mocking him.

IN THAT SQUARE where so many tragedies had been played out, where medieval duels had been fought, where the sixty-two-year-old Edward III had held a seven-day joust for the entertainment of the young woman with whom he was in love, where Wat Tyler had been bettered by the youthful Richard II—in that square of gay triumphs and cruel deeds, men were now piling the faggots around four stakes.

From all over London the people were coming to Smithfield. Today was a show day, and the crowning event of a day’s sightseeing was to be the burning of four martyrs, one of them a woman—the famous Anne Askew. They chattered and laughed and quarreled, and most impatiently they waited for the sight of those who were to suffer.

The hot sun burned down on the walls of the Priory renowned for the fine mulberries that grew in its grounds, picking out the sharp stones and making them glitter. The smell of horses was in the air, although this place was to be used for a purpose other than the marketing of horses on this tragic day.

On a bench outside the Church of St. Bartholomew sat Wriothesley, with important members of his party, among them the old Duke of Norfolk and the Lord Mayor.

Wriothesley was uneasy.

The King had not reproved him in private for the racking of Anne Askew, and he knew that he had done what His Majesty had wished even though he could not be commended for it in public. Still, the torturing had been a failure, for the woman had refused to give the names which were required of her; and it was not wise to forge a false confession, for she was a fearless woman who was quite capable of exposing the fraud when she was at the stake and there would be many to hear her.

Yes, the affair was a failure, for clearly the torturing and burning of a gentlewoman had not in itself been the desire of the King or the Chancellor. The motive had been to implicate the Queen, and that had not been achieved.

On this day a fence had been erected on all sides of the square. It was necessary to keep back the press of people. He was afraid of what they might do, what sympathies they might display toward a woman who had been broken on the rack…whatever her faith. He was afraid of what words Anne Askew might speak while the flames crackled at her feet. Fervently he hoped that if she did speak, the fences would prevent the mass of sightseers from being near enough to hear her. He was, therefore, a most uneasy man.

The victims were now on their way from Newgate, whither Anne had been taken after her torturing, to await the day of her death. Anne came first. She was carried to the stake in her chair, for her limbs were useless. The people shouted when they saw her. The cry of “Heretic! To the stake with the heretics!” was distinctly heard. But so also were the words: “God bless you.” And some pressed forward to touch the garment of one who they considered would shortly be a holy martyr.

Her golden hair lay lusterless about her shoulders, but how fiercely her blue eyes burned. No torture could douse the light which burned within her. She was the fanatical and triumphant martyr. She knew that she had come successfully through the greater ordeal. Death by the flames would offer a welcome release from pain.

With her were three men—three others who had denied the Mass. None of them was considered of any importance; they were humble people. John Lascelles was the most interesting, because he had been the man who had first spread the rumors concerning Catharine Howard and so sent her to her doom.

Wriothesley thought fleetingly that every man was near to death. He who condemned today, was in his turn condemned tomorrow.

He turned to Norfolk. “A woman to die thus! It seems cruel.”

“Aye,” said Norfolk, who had seen two female relatives, wives of the King, lose their heads. “But she is nevertheless a heretic.”

“I have the King’s pardon in my pocket. It is hers if she will recant. I wish to let the people know that pardon awaits her if she will see reason.”

“Have it sent to her before the sermon starts.”

Anne received the message while, about her body, they were fixing the chain which would hold her to the stake.

“I come not hither,” she said, “to deny my Lord and Master.”

She saw that the three men who were to die with her received similar messages.

They were brave, but they lacked her spirit. They turned their agonized eyes to her, and she saw how their apprehensive bodies longed to recant, although their spirits would firmly ignore the frailty of the flesh.

She said: “My friends, we have suffered…I more than any of you. I am happy now. I long for death. I long to feel the flames. To deny your God now, would mean that you would loathe the life offered you on such terms.”

She smiled and looked almost lovingly at the faggots about her maltreated legs.

Then the men smiled with her and tried to emulate her courage.

“They are beginning the sermons,” she said. “There is Dr. Shaxton. He will preach to us, he who a short while ago was one of us. Now he has denied his faith. He has chosen life on Earth in place of the life everlasting. Do not envy him, my friends, for very soon now you and I will be in paradise. We are to die, and we die for truth. We die in the Lord. God bless you, my friends. Have no fear; for I have none.”

She held the cross in her hands. She lifted her eyes to Heaven, seeming to be unaware of the flickering flames. She heard the shrieks of agony about her; but she was smiling as the flames crept up her tortured body.

Soon there was silence, and a pall of smoke hung above Smithfield Square.

CHAPTER

IV

THE KING WAS DISSATISFIED.

The execution had availed him nothing. He was a tired man; he was a King in need of relaxation, and my lady of Suffolk seemed to grow more fair as the days passed.

He was overburdened with matters of state. The cost of garrisoning the town of Boulogne and holding it against the French was a considerable drain on his resources, yet he would not give it up. It was an additional foothold in France which he felt was necessary to England. He affectionately called Boulogne “my daughter”; and it was said that he never squandered so much on any child of his as he did on the bricks and soil of that town.

Indeed he needed relaxation. In the days of his youth he had found great pleasure in the hunt; but he could no longer hunt with pleasure. He had enjoyed dancing, jousting, playing games, amusing and distinguishing himself in the tiltyard. But now that he was no longer a young man those avenues to pleasure were closed. There was still love. He needed love; but because he was a virtuous man—and he was continually worried by the thought that his end might not be far off—it must be legalized love; the sort of love which would not distress his conscience while it delighted his body.

All the kings of his age were egoists; but egoism was the very essence of this King’s nature. Everything that happened must be colored by his view of it, garnished and flavored to satisfy his conscience.

After he had fallen from grace, Cardinal Wolsey, who had perhaps known him better than any other person, said of him: “The King is a man of royal courage. He has a princely heart; and rather than he will miss or want part of his appetite he will hazard the loss of one-half of his kingdom.”

It was true of Henry. He was as Wolsey had seen him. But he was strong and ruthless in an age when strength and ruthlessness were the qualities a growing country looked for in its King; and under this man a little island had become a great power; he, who had seemed to his enemies on the Continent of Europe but of ducal standing when he ascended the throne, had become a mighty King.

But there was more than one Henry. Just as there was the moralist and the sensualist, so there was the strong and ruthless ruler, determined to make his country great, and that other who must at all cost have his pleasure and who was ready to sacrifice half his kingdom for his appetite. But every phase of Henry’s character—the moralist, the sensualist, the great King and the weak King—was dominated by the brutal, callous monster.

Those about him, those sly and subtle ministers, continually watching him, sensed his moods.

They had murdered Anne Askew, but they still had to rid him of his sixth wife and provide him with a seventh. And there came a day shortly after the executions in Smithfield when Gardiner found his opportunity.

Gardiner had been granted an audience with the King when His Majesty was alone with the Queen, and the Bishop sensed at once a certain tension in the atmosphere. The King was irritated and wished to quarrel with the Queen; and the woman would give him no opportunity.

When Gardiner had the King’s signature to the papers which he had set before him, he spoke of the execution of Anne Askew, a subject which never failed to upset the Queen so thoroughly that it set her emotions above her common sense.

The King scowled.

“The trouble, Your Grace,” said Gardiner, “can be traced to these books which are circulating in your realm. They lead astray those who read them.” Gardiner had turned to the Queen, and he added pointedly: “Your Majesty has doubtless seen the books to which I refer?”

“I?” said Katharine, flushing uncomfortably.

“I feel sure that the woman, Anne Askew, must have brought them to Your Grace’s notice.”

Katharine, who had suffered and was still suffering from the tragedy which had robbed her of a woman whom she had loved and respected, said sharply: “The books I see and read could be of little interest to you, my lord Bishop.”

“Not if they were forbidden books, Your Majesty.”

“Forbidden books!” cried the Queen. “I was unaware that I must ask my lord Bishop’s advice as to what I might and might not read.”

Henry, who could never like Gardiner, thought his manner insolent, and growled: “I, too, was unaware of it.”

Gardiner bowed. He was a bold man and he knew that he was but obeying the will of the King in what he was doing.

“In truth,” he said quietly, “it would be presumptuous of me to direct Your Highness’s reading. I would but express an opinion that it might be unwise for the Queen’s Grace to have in her possession books given to her by those who, by order of the King, have been found guilty of heresy and sentenced to death.”

The King’s eyes glistened; they almost disappeared into his face as they did in moments of great pleasure or anger.

“What books are these?” he growled. “Has our Queen become the friend of those who work against us?”

Gardiner caught the note of excitement in the King’s voice. Was this the moment? Could he, by subtle words, trap the Queen, as he and the Chancellor had been unable to do by applying the torture to Anne Askew?

“Indeed not,” said Katharine.

She saw the crafty wickedness in her husband’s eyes, and because of what had happened to those who had shared his throne before her, she read his thoughts.

“Not so?” said the King. “We would be sure of that.”

“Your Majesty will hear me out?” said Katharine.

The King would not look at her. “I am weary of these conflicts,” he said. “I will not have my Queen take part in them…or if she does, she will not long remain my Queen.”

The threat in his words terrified Katharine. “Courage!” she prayed, as Anne Askew had prayed before her. But she knew that she, who loved life so much, could never face death as Anne had. Anne had longed for death, for martyrdom; and Katharine had never ceased to long for life and Thomas Seymour.

“Conflicts…?” she stammered.

“You heard us,” said the King; and the scowl on his brow had deepened. His anger shifted from the Queen to Gardiner. At that moment he disliked them both heartily and he was thinking: I am a King, heavily burdened with matters of state. I need pleasure to soothe me; I need gentle relaxation. Instead I have these two to plague me. Methinks it is time I rid myself of them both. “It would appear,” he continued, keeping his eyes on Gardiner, “that there are some among us who, in place of preaching the Word of God, do nothing but rail against one another.” His eyes shifted unpleasantly from the Bishop to the Queen and back to the Bishop. “If any know that there are those among us who preach perverse doctrines, he should come and declare it before us or some of our council. Have I not said it before?”

Gardiner murmured: “Your Majesty has indeed, and it shall be done….”

The King waved a hand; he was not going to endure one of Gardiner’s speeches. If any should speak now it would be the King.

“We now permit our subjects to read the Holy Scriptures,” he said, “and to have the Word of God in our mother tongue, and I will have it known that it is licensed them so to do only to inform their consciences, their children and their families, and not to dispute and to make scripture a railing and a taunting stock. This I have said to my parliament, and now I say it to you, Bishop, and to you, wife. I am sorry to know how irreverently that precious jewel, the Word of God, is disputed, rhymed, sung and jangled in every alehouse and tavern, contrary to the true meaning and doctrine of the same.”

He paused and raised his eyes devoutly to the ceiling, as though he knew that God was watching and applauding.

“My lord King,” said Katharine, “when Your Most Gracious Majesty says ‘to dispute,’ Your Grace cannot mean that it is not lawful to discuss, one with another, the interpretation of the Gospel?”

“I should have thought that we had stated our meaning clearly,” said the King with weary menace. “What do you, madam? Would you question the decision of our ministers?”

“Never, my lord, but…but…”

“But? But?” cried the King threateningly. “You would then question our decision?”

“I do no such thing, Your Majesty,” said Katharine quickly, “since it would be unseemly on my part. I would only beg Your Grace that you might cease to forbid the use of that translation which you previously licensed.”

The King let loose his anger. He flagellated it to greater vehemence. He wanted to find fault with his wife; he was tired of her. Through the haze of his fury he saw the alluring body of the Duchess of Suffolk.

“By my faith!” he cried. “I’ll have obedience from my subjects; and hark ye! a wife is not less a subject because she is a wife. Madam, when we say it is forbidden to use a translation, it is forbidden.”

“My lord,” said Katharine, trembling before the storm which she had raised, “your word is law indeed, but this translation did so clearly set forth the truth…”

“We would hear no more,” roared the King. “Therefore you have our leave to retire from our presence.”

She knelt before him, but he waved her away.

“Come,” he said, turning to Gardiner, “let us attend to matters of state.”

When Katharine had gone, the purple color flamed anew into his face.

“A good hearing it is,” he snarled, “when women become such clerks; and much to my comfort to be taught in my old age by my wife!”

Gardiner’s eyes were glistening; he wetted his dry lips. “Your Majesty, have I your leave to speak to you on a very serious matter?”

The King’s shrewd eyes appraised his Bishop. He knew the nature of this serious matter; it was a matter, above all others, that he wished to discuss.

“You have my leave,” he said.

“Your Majesty said that if any offended against your laws, no matter what rank that person should hold…it was the bounden duty…”

“Yes…yes…” said the King testily. “I remember my words. There is no need to repeat them.”

“There are secret matters, Your Majesty, which I have long sought an opportunity of bringing to your ears…but since they concern the opinions of the Queen…”

“Well?” cried the King. “Get on, man. Get on.”

“Your Majesty excels the princes of this and any other age as well as all the professed doctors of divinity. It is unseemly for any of Your Majesty’s subjects to argue and discuss with you as malapertly as the Queen hath done. It is grievous for any of your counselors to hear this done.”

“You’re right, Bishop. You’re right there.”

Gardiner lowered his voice. “Your Grace, I could make great discoveries, were I not held back by the Queen’s faction.”

The King looked fiercely at his Bishop, but his pleasure was obvious; and Gardiner knew that the moment for which he had longed was at hand. He would not have been in his eminent position if he had not been a man to seize his opportunities.

NAN WANDERED LISTLESSLY about the gardens of Hampton Court. It was no use pretending that she was unafraid. Every time a messenger came to the apartment she would find herself shivering.

She had heard of the terrible things which had happened to Anne Askew in the Tower. She had been there, at Smithfield Square, and had seen the poor broken creature they had carried out in her chair. She could not look on that gruesome end to Anne’s tragedy; she had knelt on the stones praying while the horrible smoke rose to the sky.

And those wicked men who had destroyed Anne now sought to destroy the Queen.

Nan watched a bee fly past, on the way from the flower garden, laden with pollen. She envied the bee who knew nothing of court intrigues, of fear, and the terrible things which could be done to a good and virtuous woman who had asked nothing but to be allowed to think for herself.

And what next? wondered Nan.

She was in constant dread that she herself would be taken to the Tower. What if they questioned her under torture? It was not the pain that she dreaded so much as the fear that she would not be strong enough to keep silent, and that she might betray the Queen.

What tragedies these gardens must have seen! It seemed to Nan that tension and horror were in the very air of this place. So many had suffered here. So many had walked these gardens waiting for dis-aster to overtake them.

And now, in the court, people were saying that the days of Katharine Parr were numbered.

The King had turned his eyes elsewhere; and here was the same pattern that had been worked before, with Katharine Parr in place of Anne Boleyn.

I would die for her! thought Nan; for dying would be easy. And oh, how I pray that it may never be my evil lot to betray her.

She must not delay. It was time to attend, with the other ladies, in the Queen’s apartment. The Queen’s apartment…. How long before there would be a new Queen in place of Queen Katharine?

She was about to cross the great courtyard when she saw, hurrying across it, that man who had taken off his mantle that he himself might ferociously work the rack and so inflict greater torture on the suffering body of Anne Askew. Nan drew back and hid herself in an archway.

Sir Thomas Wriothesley, the Lord Chancellor, was smiling, and it occurred to Nan that she had never seen him look so smug.

What could this mean? What fresh evil was he planning?

And as he crossed the courtyard, obviously in great haste, by some chance which could only be called miraculous, a scroll fell from his sleeve and came to rest on the cobbles.

Nan waited for him to pick it up, but he was unaware that it had fallen.

He passed on into the palace.

Quickly, and with madly beating heart, Nan ran out of her hiding place and picked up the documents.

She felt them to be of great importance, but she did not stop to read them; she thrust them into her bodice and ran, as fast as she could, to the Queen’s apartment. Intuitively she knew that the self-satisfied smile on the face of the Chancellor had something to do with these documents.

When she was in a small antechamber she took them from her bodice and examined one of them. She saw the seal and the King’s signature, and with horror, realized what it was.

Benumbed, she stood looking at it, and never in all her life had she felt such misery.

“What shall I do?” she whispered. “What can I do?”

She closed her eyes and said a short prayer asking for help and guidance that she might do the right thing. Then she thrust the documents back into her bodice and went to find the Queen.

IN THE PRIVY CHAMBER the Queen sat alone with her sister. She could not bring herself to work on the embroidery which lay on the windowseat.

She had been aware of the atmosphere of brooding disaster which pervaded the court. She was conscious of the quick glances which the King gave her now and then. All the ladies and gentlemen of the court were aware of it. They waited, with a certain fatalism, for past events to be repeated.

Lady Herbert felt the tension as much as any. Not only did she fear for her sister but for her husband, Lord Herbert, who was involved in the new learning as deeply as she was. It was true that the powerful Seymours were with them, but one felt sure, knowing the mental agility of the Seymours, that if there was trouble they would, with a few twists and turns, extricate themselves and leave their friends to take the blame.

The tragedy of Anne Askew could not be forgotten or misunderstood. It was a grim warning, the shadow cast before approaching disaster.

Katharine spoke of it, for to whom could she speak her thoughts if not to this beloved sister?

“I cannot bear to refer to it,” she said. “And yet I cannot bear not to.”

“Oh, my sister, when the mind is disturbed, it is well to speak of the worry, since it is not dismissed by silence.”

“How brave she was! Oh, Anne, could any of us be as brave?”

“I doubt it. It seems she was born to be a martyr. She longed for martyrdom. She was different from the rest of us. She embraced death eagerly; but dearest Kate…you and I…there is much on Earth that we long for.”

“You speak truth there, sister.”

Anne said: “You think of Seymour still, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Dearest Kate, it is not wise.”

“Love is beyond wisdom.”

“Sometimes I wonder…”

“You wonder whether I am a foolish woman to love him? You see him about the court, seeming not to care for me, casting his eyes on others. But, Anne, what could he do? How could he show his love for me, the King’s wife?”

Anne Herbert sighed and turned away. The tragedy of Anne Askew was a safer subject than the love of Thomas Seymour.

“I have scarcely slept since they took Anne Askew to the Tower,” she said.

“Nor I. I have dreams, Anne…horrible dreams. I dream of her on the rack…so frail…so delicate. And her bearing it so bravely, refusing to name us. I am glad we made her days in prison as comfortable as we could.”

“We acted foolishly in sending Nan with comforts,” said Anne. “But I am glad we did so. I, like you, dream dreams…of discovery. I dream that Nan…little Nan…is caught and tortured.”

The Queen shuddered. “If she had betrayed us they would have sent me to the Tower.”

“Dearest Kate, I think that was what Gardiner wished to do. Face the truth, my sister. It was you whom they wanted…not poor Anne Askew.”

“How I hate that man…and Wriothesley…Wriothesley the brute who tortured Anne with his own hands. How I hate them both!”

“Do not let your hatred grow too hot. You must be cool and calm…as they are.”

“Anne…my dearest sister…what can I do?”

Anne Herbert rose and, going to the Queen, put her hands on her shoulders and, drawing her toward her, held her close.

“Kate, face the truth. When the King’s nuptial ring was put on your finger, your head was placed directly under the ax.”

“I know it, Anne. I would be brave, but I am so frightened. When I think of what happiness might have been mine…”

“Hush! You must not speak of Seymour. You must not think of him.” Anne Herbert’s mouth hardened. “You must play his game. When he looks at you it would seem he has forgotten that he ever thought to make you his wife.”

“He is clever. He thinks of me, but he knows that one careless word would be enough to send us both to the scaffold. Oh, Anne, often I think of those others…Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard.”

“But you must not! You must not!”

“How can I help it? What happened to them will happen to me.”

“Nay!” Anne was frightened by the signs of hysteria in her sister. “We have the advantage of knowing what happened to them.”

Katharine laughed wildly, and it was laughter which aroused fresh fears in her sister. Was this calm Kate, the practical one? They had made fun of Kate in the old days at home. Dear, sensible little Kate! they had called her. How placidly she had received the news that she was to marry Lord Borough; and how quickly she had adjusted herself to life with her husbands. There had never been any sign of hysteria in Kate during those years. But she had been living at the whim of a royal murderer for the last three years, and the strain was too much. It would break through the deep composure.

“Death is a dreary subject,” said Anne. “And how do any of us know when it will catch up with us? Come. I want you to see this embroidery of mine.”

“It is beautiful,” said the Queen. After a short silence she went on: “I often think of life in Yorkshire. Long summer days and the buzz of the bees in the lavender. I would sit in the garden with my husband and we would talk of…little things; the weeding that would have to be done; the little affairs of those who labored for us. How different life was! I was a Catholic then.”

“Catholic or Protestant, none is safe, Kate.”

“You are right. From the fury of the King none is safe.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Who is there?” cried Katharine, and the color left her face.

Every knock, every sound, is to her like the death knell! thought Anne.

“Please come in,” said the Queen in a breathless voice.

The door was opened and both ladies felt an immense relief, because it was only Nan who stood there.

But what had happened to Nan? Her face was parchment color and her eyes were wild; she held her hands across her bodice as though she feared someone might force from her what was hidden there.

“Your Majesty…” she stammered; and she did not fall on her knees, but stood still, looking wildly from the Queen to the Queen’s sister.

“You are distressed, Nan,” said the Queen. “What ails you?”

“Your Majesty, I know not what I have done. I thought it for the best….”

“Come here, Nan. Tell us what troubles you.”

Nan came forward and, as she did so, took the documents from her bodice.

“It was in the courtyard, Your Majesty. I saw the Chancellor. He was smiling, and he looked…so evil, that I greatly feared what was in his mind. And then…this dropped from his gown. I picked it up, and instead of running after him, something held me back. And…I saw Your Majesty’s name…so I brought it to you. If I have done aught wrong, it was for love of Your Majesty.”

The Queen took the documents. She said: “Nan, you did well to bring this to me. If…if it is aught that should be passed on to a member of the court, I will see to its despatch.”

“I thank Your Majesty.”

Nan had recovered her self-possession. She had done all that she could.

Katharine said: “You may go, Nan.” And her sister, watching her, was aware of the great effort she was making to keep her control.

“I…I trust I did right, Your Majesty,” said Nan dropping to her knees.

“Yes, Nan. Yes.”

Nan went out, and Lady Herbert said quickly: “What are these papers?”

“They concern me, Anne. They concern me deeply. Read this! You see…”

Anne took the paper, and as she gazed at it, realized that what she had feared above all things had come to pass.

“It is a mandate for my arrest,” said Katharine slowly, and the hysterical laughter was in her voice.

“Oh God!” cried Anne. “It has come. It has come then.” She kept staring at the paper; she longed to tell herself that her eyes had deceived her, that fear and anger had made her see what was not there. But she knew that her eyes were not deceived. She cried out angrily: “Wriothesley has done this. He…and Gardiner. I would it were in my power to kill them!”

“But it is not in your power,” said Katharine wildly. “It is they who have the power. It is they who plan to kill me.”

“Nan saw this mandate for your arrest. She has endangered her life by bringing it to you. There are many who love you, Kate. Remember that. Remember it, dearest sister. Wriothesley was on his way to the King. He would have done his best to persuade His Majesty to sign.”

Katharine’s laughter seemed to fill the apartment. “Did you not see then? Did you not see it, Anne?”

Anne stared at her sister.

“The King!” cried Katharine wildly. “The King has signed. See. Here! The King has signed the mandate for the Queen’s arrest.”

Katharine walked to the window and looked out over the gardens where the red and white roses were lifting their faces to the hot sunshine.

She whispered: “I shall go down to the river. I shall take boat to the Tower. I shall enter by the Traitors’ Gate. That which I have dreaded so long is about to take place. Can aught prevent it? Oh, Thomas…we could have been happy together, you and I. But ’twas not to be so. I might not be your wife, for I must be a Queen. Often I have wondered about those who went before me, who enjoyed royal favor and who suffered royal displeasure. I have no need to wonder now.” She turned to her sister. “Do not weep for me, Anne. The shadow has grown large above me. I have seen it grow. Sweet sister, I am no lighthearted girl to imagine that the way which was so thorny for some would be smooth for me.”

“Katharine…perchance this is not the end.”

The Queen shook her head slowly. “This much I know: You spoke truth when you said that the King put a ring of doom about me when he placed the nuptial ring on my finger. None may share the throne of Henry of England and escape disaster. Mine closes in upon me now.”

Anne Herbert watched the Queen with wide and terrified eyes. That calmness would break, she knew; and then what would happen?

“Save her,” prayed Anne. “Save her. Death should not come to her so soon. She is young; she is sweet and kind and has never willingly harmed any. Oh God, let her live. Let her have a chance of happiness. She is not meant for death…not yet, dear Lord, not yet.”

And the Queen stood long at the window, looking out on the white and red roses of York and Lancaster blooming side by side within the Tudor fence.

THE QUEEN LAY on her bed. Her ladies had drawn the curtains, but the sound of her unrestrained sobbing could be heard even in the adjoining apartments.

A familiar sound within these walls—a Queen’s sobbing! The gallery was haunted by the sound of another Queen’s cries—those of the fifth Queen. How could the sixth Queen hope to evade the fate of the others?

“What means it?” asked the gentlemen of the King’s bedchamber when they heard the sound of the Queen’s distress.

“What has happened? Something of which we have not yet heard?”

They could guess what was about to happen. Had it not happened to others?

How far would this go? Would this mean the end of others besides the Queen? The Seymours seemed strong, but would the downfall of the Queen mean the downfall of their party? Those with Protestant leanings would have to take care, for if the King had decided to rid himself of the Queen, he must show less favor to her party. The King’s physical needs had always in some measure dictated his state policy. He was a ruthless ruler with voracious appetites.

Speculation was rife. And all through the day the Queen’s hysterical sobbing could be heard, and many thought that she was on the point of losing her reason.

Lady Herbert and Nan sat together in the ante-chamber. Between those two was a great bond: their devotion to the Queen.

“I fear she will die,” said Anne Herbert.

“A terrible thing has come upon us,” said Nan, the tears streaming down her checks. “It is like a wild storm that sweeps through the forest. It will blow down the little plants with the big trees.”

“I trust not. I trust not, Nan. I will not give up hope.”

“It breaks my heart to hear her,” said Nan.

“I fear for her reason. I cannot believe that this is Kate, my calm sister Kate.”

“It is the nearness of the ax, my lady. It would drive me mad, I fear, to know the ax was so close. Throughout the palace men and women speak in hushed whispers. I dreamed last night that I was walking ’twixt two halberdiers, and one carried an ax whose blade was turned toward me.”

“You should not set such store by dreams, Nan.”

“I awoke with tears on my face. Oh, my lady, I heard the Duchess of Suffolk spoken of with great respect this day. It seems that many do her honor already.”

“I cannot think any envy her, Nan. Would she be the seventh? Would she come to this…this near madness, this closeness to the ax?”

“Some would do anything, my lady, anything for one short hour of fame.”

“Not after this. And if the King will rid himself of the Queen for what he calls heresy, how can he take my lady of Suffolk who could also be accused of the same?”

“The King would do anything that pleased him.”

“You must not speak of the King. Oh God, did you hear that? Poor soul! Poor Kate! What torment!”

“She will be heard in the courtyards. There seems to be a quiet everywhere, as though people wait and listen.”

“Ah, my sweet sister!” cried Lady Herbert, herself beginning to weep. “What did she ever do that was not kind? And what cares that…that lecher…but to satisfy his desires?”

“Hush, hush, my lady. We know not who may listen.”

“Nan…dear good Nan, I will say this: You may be near death, Katharine Parr, but in your goodness you have made many love you.”

“My lady, I have heard it said that if Catharine Howard could have spoken to the King she would have saved herself.”

“But, dear Nan, this is not quite the same. The pattern changes a little. He was deeply enamored of Catharine Howard. There was no lady of Suffolk waiting for him then.”

“Oh my lady, I think I hear someone at the door.”

“Go…go quickly and see. It may be that we have been overheard.”

Even as she spoke there was a loud rapping on the door.

“Let no one in!” whispered Lady Herbert. “Say that the Queen is sick to death and can see no one.”

With terrified eyes, Anne Herbert stared at the door. Nan had opened it and closed it behind her. From the Queen’s bedchamber came the sound of her sobbing.

Nan came back, shut the door and stood against it. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“Who is it, Nan?”

“Sir Thomas Seymour.”

“What does he want?”

“A word with her Grace the Queen.”

“Then he has gone mad.”

“He says it is most important. He is in great haste. He says, for pity’s sake let him in quickly, an you love the Queen.”

“Bring him here, Nan. Quickly.”

Lady Herbert rose and met Thomas at the door.

“My lord,” she cried, “you are mad…to come thus to the Queen’s chamber.”

“None saw me come,” said Seymour, shutting the door quickly. “How fares the Queen?”

“Sick…sick unto death.”

“There is yet a hope. I came to warn her. The King has heard her cries.”

“And what of that?”

“He comes this way. He comes to see the Queen.”

“Then why do you come here? Go at once, my lord, and for the love of God, be quick. Were you found here…”

“He will be some minutes yet. He is himself indisposed. He cannot set foot to ground. He will be wheeled here, and that will take time. Tell the Queen that he comes. Prepare her. Impress upon her that if she will fight with all her might there may be a chance. That chance, which was denied to others may be hers.”

“Go. Go at once. I will prepare her.”

By force of habit he bowed over her hand.

“Please…please,” she begged. “No ceremony. I will go to her. I will go at once.”

He smiled his reckless smile, but there was a touch of anguish in it. Did he then care for Katharine after all? wondered Anne. He must in some measure, for he had come to her apartments at some peril.

She shut the door and ran to the Queen’s chamber.

“Kate…Kate…rouse yourself, my dearest. Gather your thoughts together, sweet sister. All is not lost.”

The Queen sat up, pushing the hair from her hot face. She had changed in the last few days; she was unlike the calm, pleasant-faced woman whom the court knew as Queen Katharine Parr.

“What means this?” she asked listlessly.

“The King comes this way. He has heard of your distress and is coming to see you.”

Katharine laughed wildly.

“No, no,” cried her sister. “Be calm. Be calm. Everything depends on the next few minutes. Let me braid your hair. Let me wipe the tears from your face. The King comes, I tell you. He is being carried here in his chair, for he cannot walk…yet he comes to see you.”

Katharine had roused herself, but the deep depression had not left her face. If it had changed at all, it had changed to resignation. It seemed to Anne that the listlessness indicated that if she had done with tears it was because she no longer cared whether she lived or died.

“Did you see his signature, sister? His signature on the mandate? Bold and clear…signing me to death?”

“The King’s moods are variable as April weather. One day a cloudburst, and within the hour…bright sunshine. Rain, hail, storm and sudden heat. You should know, Kate.”

While she spoke she was combing the Queen’s hair, and in her voice there were trills of laughter. This sudden hope after hopelessness was more than she could bear. She felt that if the King did not soon come she herself would burst into hysterical laughter.

“He was ever a strong man, sister,” Katharine was saying, “a man of purpose. And now that purpose is to rid himself of me.”

“He is a sick man also.”

“She is beautiful, his new love; and he desires her as once he desired Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour and Catharine Howard.”

“This is an ageing man. Deft healing fingers mean more to him in some moods than a pretty face.”

“I only wish that I might die now, before I am required to walk out to the Green and see in the crowd the faces of mine enemies come thither to watch my blood flow.”

“Kate, Kate, while there is life in the body there is hope in the heart. There must be. Tidy yourself. Look your most beautiful. You are fair enough.”

“I care not. I care not, Anne; for what would happen if I escaped this time? How long before the King would be signing another mandate for my arrest?”

“You must save yourself…for Thomas’s sake. He will be anxiously awaiting the result of the King’s visit.”

“Thomas?”

“Hush! Thomas Seymour. I trust he is in safety by now.”

“What means this?” cried Katharine. “You think…he is to be accused with me?”

“If he were seen leaving your apartment he well might be.”

“But…that could not be?”

“Could it not! He has been here. He has just left. It was he who warned me of the King’s approach. At great risk to himself he came here. ‘Tell her,’ he said, ‘tell her to save herself….’”

“And did he then?” said Katharine softly. And Anne felt a new hope within her, for Katharine was beautiful, even in the wildness of her grief, when she spoke of Seymour.

“He came,” elaborated Anne, “risking his life that you might be warned to save yourself. He begged that you should do all in your power to win the favor of the King. You must save yourself, sister, so that one day, if the fates are kind…”

Katharine’s face had lighted up, and she seemed like a different person from the poor, fear-dazed creature she had been a short while before.

“One day,” she murmured, “if the fates are kind to me…and to him…”

“Listen!” commanded Anne. “I hear a commotion. The King and his attendants are coming this way.”

The two women were silent, listening; through the apartment from which, such a short time ago, had come the sound of the Queen’s terrible sobbing, now echoed the cry of the heralds:

“Make way for His Most Gracious Majesty!”

THE KING WAS FEELING HIS YEARS.

His leg had pained him so much that it had been necessary for him to take to his bed; and since the Queen was in disgrace, it had been the duty of one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber to dress his leg.

His temper had been short; he had roared with pain; he had leaped up to cuff the gentleman, only to sink back, groaning in pain.

At such times he could find little pleasure in the contemplation of the charms of my lady of Suffolk. In fact, he wished that his Queen were not indulging in a little sickness herself, so that she could be at hand to attend to him. There had been times when he cursed her for her clumsiness, but he realized now how deft were those nimble fingers.

He thought tenderly of them, and the more tender his feelings grew toward her, the more angry he grew with those who had turned him against her.

He had sent for her physician.

“What ails the Queen?” he demanded. “What is that noise I hear? It sounds like a creature in distress.”

Dr. Wendy answered: “Your Grace, the Queen is, I fear, in a low state of health. She seems on the point of death through melancholy.”

“She is in pain, then?”

“Great mental stress, Sire.”

“She disturbs our rest with her cries.”

“They cannot be silenced, Your Grace. Her distress is such that there is nothing that can be done.”

The King dismissed the man.

He knew what ailed his wife. He had heard screams like that before. Sometimes he heard them in his dreams. Sometimes he fancied he heard them mingling with the singing in the chapel.

Kate must have discovered what was afoot.

She was no wanton. He could be sure of her fidelity. But she gave herself airs. She would teach her husband. She had become a clerk with her cleverness. A woman should have more sense.

Yet, to tell the truth, it distressed him to hear her distress.

Misguided Kate! he mused.

He had merely given his permission to have her examined, that was all. The next day they would come to take her to the Tower. He had no intention of harming Kate if she could satisfy them that she had not been dabbling in heresy. It was naught to do with him. He was a King, not an examiner of his subjects’ opinions. Others did that, and brought the results to him.

If Kate were innocent, she would have nothing to fear.

His little mouth was set in prim lines. There was justice in this land; and he had instituted it. If any of that long procession of headless corpses, which sometimes haunted his dreams, had proved their innocence, they would have retained their heads. That was how his conscience said it was, and that was how it must be.

But heretic or not, Kate was the best nurse he had ever had, and he needed Kate.

He roared to his gentlemen.

“I will go to see the Queen. I will see if I can calm her distress. Here! Get my chair and take me there. I declare I cannot put foot to the ground, yet I will make the journey to her apartment, since she is so sick. I will not trouble her to come here.”

Even while he cursed them for their clumsiness, he was smiling at his own benevolence. You see, he said to his conscience, what a clement ruler we are! We never condemn unjustly. Now I shall go to Kate and see what I can do for her. I shall try to soothe her malady, poor Kate!

They wheeled his chair through the great rooms, lifting it up the stairs when necessary. When they neared the Queen’s apartments, Seymour joined the party, but the King, so intent on his own thoughts, paid no heed to the sudden reappearance of that gentleman.

When the King entered the Queen’s bedchamber, Lady Herbert sank to her knees. The Queen raised herself at Henry’s approach.

“Don’t rise…don’t rise,” said Henry. “We know of your sickness.”

“Your Majesty is gracious,” said Katharine.

For a moment her eyes rested on the most handsome gentleman of the King’s bedchamber, but Seymour had looked quickly away.

Lady Herbert said: “Your Majesty, I fear the Queen is very ill.”

The King looked at her in mild distaste. “We asked not your opinion, my Lady Herbert. It is for the Queen’s physicians to give us news of the Queen’s health, and that when we ask it.” He looked round at the assembled company. “I would be alone with the Queen,” he said. “Push me nearer to the bed that I may see the Queen as I speak with her.”

They did this and, bowing low, left Henry and Katharine together.

The King began, not without a note of tenderness in his voice: “How now, Kate? What means this?”

“It is good of Your Grace to visit me thus,” said Katharine.

“You sound as pleased to see us as you would to see a ghost.”

“If I seem ungracious it is on account of the deep melancholy which besets me, my lord.”

The King gazed at her—so small and fragile in the huge and most splendid bed, her hair hanging about her shoulders.

“By my faith,” he said in those tones which she knew so well, “you’re a pretty wench with your hair thus disordered.”

She answered as though repeating a lesson she had at great pains taught herself. “I am glad my looks find favor in Your Majesty’s sight.”

“Looks?” cried the King. “Ah!” He winced as he moved forward in his chair that he might see her better. “Methinks I am too old to sigh because a woman’s hair is black or gold.”

“But Your Majesty is as young in spirit as he ever was. That is constantly proved.”

“H’m,” said the King. “But this poor body, Kate…Ah! There’s the pity of it. When I was twenty…when I was thirty…I was indeed a man.”

“But wisdom walketh hand in hand with our gray hairs, Your Grace. Which would you…youth and its follies, or age with its experience?”

And as she spoke she asked herself: How is it that I can talk thus, as though I cared for his opinion, as though I did not know his thoughts, his plans for me? But I flatter him because I want to live. Thomas came to my apartments at great risk to warn me…to let me know that I must live because he is waiting for me.

“There speaks my wise Queen,” said the King. “Methinks, Kate, that youth should be the right of kingship. Never to grow old! A king should be young for ever.”

“Had your royal father been eternally young, we should never have had his great and clement Majesty King Henry the Eighth upon the throne.”

The King shot her a swift glance, and she knew that she had made a mistake. Her nails hurt the palms of her hands. There must be no mistakes.

“Methinks you jest,” said Henry coldly. “You were ever fond of a jest…overfond.”

“My lord,” said Katharine earnestly, “I never was less in the mood for jokes.”

Henry sighed. “It is doubtless folly to talk of such matters, for when a man would talk of what he has done, he is indeed an old man. It is when he speaks of what he will do that he is in his prime. Doth that not show how we—the most humble among us and the most high—love life?”

“You speak truth, my lord, for love of life is the only love to which men are constant.”

“Why speak ye of constancy in such a sad voice, Kate?”

“Was my voice sad?”

“Indeed it was. Come, come, Kate. I like not this sadness in you.”

Katharine watched him cautiously. “I did not command it to come, my lord. I would I could command it to go.”

“Then we command it!” cried the King. “A wife must obey her husband, Kate.”

Katharine laughed mirthlessly; she felt the hysteria close.

She reminded herself of Thomas, and remembering him, wished above all things to placate her husband. Between the promise of a happy life with Thomas and the threat of death which Henry personified, she must walk carefully.

The King leaned forward; he was able to reach her hand, and he took it and pressed it.

“You and I,” he said musingly, “we suit each other. I am not so young that I must be a gay butterfly, flitting from this flower to that. There is a quiet of evening, Kate, whose coming should bring peace. The peace of God that passeth all understanding; that is what I seek. Oh, I have been a most unhappy man, for those I loved deceived me. I am a simple man, Kate—a man who asks but little from his wife save fidelity…love…obedience. ’Tis not much for a man…for a King…to ask.”

Katharine smiled ironically. “Nay, my lord. ’Tis not much. ’Tis what a husband might well ask of his wife.”

Henry patted the hand over which he had placed his own. “Then we see through the same eyes, wife.” He shook his head slowly. “But oft-times have I sought these qualities in a wife, and when I have put out my hands to grasp them, they have been lost to me.”

He sat back, looking at her; and, passing a weary hand across his brow, he went on: “We are wearied with matters of state. Our French possessions are in constant danger. The Emperor Charles strides across Europe. He is after the German Princes now. But what will follow? Will he turn to England? Oh, I have prayed…I have worked for England. England is dear to me, Kate, and England is uneasy. These wars bring the trade of our people to a standstill. State matters, I tell you, weigh heavily upon my mind. And when we are worried, we fret. Burdens fray our temper.”

He looked at her appealingly, and this seemed incongruous in one so large, so dazzling and all-powerful. She could have laughed, had she not been afraid of him, contemplating this man who, so recently, had plotted against her life, and was now begging for her approval.

She said quietly, but with an aloofness in her tone: “Your Majesty has much to occupy your mind, I doubt not.”

He looked at her slyly. “There you speak truth. Aye, there you speak truth. And when a man is tired—and a King is also a man, Kate—he is apt to seek diversion, where mayhap it is not good for him to seek it. Might it not be that she, who should offer this diversion, hath become a little overbearing, that she hath become her husband’s instructor rather than his loving wife?”

Katharine did not meet his eyes; she looked beyond him, at the window, through which she could see the trees in the gardens.

She answered slowly: “Might it not be that she, who should be a loving wife, seemed an instructress because her husband saw her, not through his usually shrewd eyes, but through those of her enemies?”

“By God, Kate,” said the King with a wry smile, “there may be some truth in those words of thine.”

“I would hear news of Your Grace’s health,” she said.

“By St. Mary, I suffer such agony, Kate, that there are times when I think I know the pains of hell.”

“Your Majesty needs those who love you, and whose joy it is to attend you, to be at your side by day and night.”

She closed her eyes as she spoke, and she thought: I believe I am saving my life. I believe the ax is not turned toward me now. It will be there, near me…as long as this man lives, but the blade is now turning slowly from me. And I do this for Thomas…for the hope that is in the future.

She wondered ruefully what the King would do if he could read her thoughts; but there was no need to conjecture; she knew. She would be judged guilty—so guilty that neither clever words nor deft fingers would be able to save her.

The King was saying pathetically: “There’s none that can dress my wounds as thou canst, Kate.”

“Your Grace honors me by remembering that.”

“I’ faith I did.”

Katharine smiled and lifted her hand which he had released. She smiled at it gratefully. “These are good and capable hands, are they not? They are deft with a bandage. Perhaps there are more beautiful hands. I have often noticed how beautiful are those of my lady of Suffolk.”

Henry looked nonchalant. “Have you, then? I cannot swear that I have marked the lady’s hands.”

“Has Your Grace not done so? I am surprised at that. Methought Your Grace talked often with the lady.”

Henry smiled deprecatingly, and Katharine found that she could be faintly amused at his discomfiture. “Why, bless you, Kate,” he said, “we are over-eager to help all in our realm. The lady, being lately widowed, is in need of comfort. We did but wish to make her happy. She misses our friend Brandon, I doubt not.”

“I noticed Your Grace’s kindness to the lady. Methinks it did much to help her forget the so recent loss of her husband.”

“Then our purpose was achieved,” said Henry with familiar unctuousness. He smiled impishly at the Queen. “We need not, therefore, give too much of our time to the lady in the future. Is that what you think?”

Katharine said, with a dignity which was not lost on him, and did not in his present mood displease him: “Your Majesty can be the only judge of how and where he shall give his time.”

Henry chuckled benevolently. “We would please our Queen in this matter. By my faith, we did miss her so much, and we were so concerned for her health, that we thought we must put an end to her melancholy by telling her these things without delay.”

“Ah, Your Majesty must have suffered much.”

“Those fools!” said the King. “My bandages are ever too loose or too tight when thou dost not fix them.”

“There’s none can fix a bandage, Sire, like a loving wife.”

He nodded; but a sternness had crept into his face, and it set her shivering afresh.

His eyes narrowing, he said: “Dost still think I should give license to that translation of the Scriptures?”

Katharine’s heart had begun to beat faster.

The mask of indulgence was removed from the King’s face, and the expression of well-remembered cruelty was exposed. She wanted to live, to fulfill those dreams which she had had before the King had made her aware of his intention to make her his sixth wife.

She folded her hands across her breasts and lowered her eyes demurely. “My lord King, ’tis not the task of a woman to discuss such matters. Her place is on the footstool at her husband’s feet. I would refer this, and all other matters, to the wisdom of Your Majesty.”

The King was not to be easily put off. He was watching her shrewdly. “Not so, by St. Mary! You are become a doctor to instruct us, Kate, as we take it, and not to be instructed or directed by us.”

“Nay,” said Katharine. “You have mistaken my intentions. I know there have been times when I have been led into discourse with Your Majesty, but such was to pass the time, for well I know the pain that besets your royal body. I took an opposite view but to entertain, for, had I shown immediate agreement, then would the discourse have ended ere it had begun, and Your Majesty would have had no amusement from our talk. My one thought has been to entertain Your Grace, to do my small part in taking your mind, when possible, from your grievous pains and burdens of state. Only for such a purpose would I venture such views—not to contradict my most gracious lord, but to divert him.”

Fearfully she threw a glance in his direction. He was stroking his beard and smiling. He was pleased with her answer.

She went on: “It was true that I did hope that, by hearing Your Majesty’s most learned discourse, I might perchance receive some profit.”

The King was laughing.

“And is it even so?” he said. “Then we are perfect friends again, sweetheart.”

He sat there, smiling at her. She had pleased him. He was her friend now; and the friendly smile was soon giving place to the lecher’s leer.

“Get up from your bed and come and kiss me, Kate,” he commanded.

As she rose, she thought: I am safe for a while. The danger is past…for a time. Now the pattern will be formed again—starting from the beginning. Will it have the same ending?

He caught her and pulled her on to his knees. She closed her eyes as she felt his mouth on hers. His lips were no longer tight and prim, but slack and eager.

This, she thought, is the price of postponement.

NEXT MORNING HE sent for her to sit with him in the walled garden.

He was much better, and able to hobble with the aid of a stick.

She came, her sister and Lady Jane Grey in attendance; but he dismissed those two with a wave of his stick.

“Good morrow to you, Kate. Come sit beside me. There’s tonic in this morning air. There, there, you may come close. Don’t feign to be a modest virgin…for I know better, Kate, eh? I know better.”

He was in good spirits.

“The pain’s relieved a little. A good nurse and a good bedfellow. Well, who could do better than that? That’s good enough for a King, eh, Kate?”

He pinched her cheek.

“It is indeed gratifying to see Your Majesty in such good spirits.”

“Oh, Kate, I fear I am a sad old bear when the pains are with me. What say you?” He drew back to watch her face, and it was as though he dared her to agree with him.

“Nay,” she said; “there was never a man more patient.”

“Ah, Kate, for one who has ever been sprightly, ever active, a leader in the jousts and tourneys, it is hard to stand by and see other men excel.”

“Your Grace’s skill is well remembered and will, I dare swear, never be forgot.”

“There was not a man who could tilt against me and be the victor,” said Henry sadly. “Ah well, I am skilled in other matters, am I not, sweetheart?”

“I know it well.”

“You know it well, eh, little pig? And it pleases you! It is well that we are blessed with a faithful and obedient wife. We shall never seek to change her, Kate, while she is thus.”

“Her desire,” said Katharine, “is to please her lord in all things.”

“If she would but give me a son, I should have naught to complain of.” He sighed.

“Ah, my lord, those matters are with God.”

That had been a mistake, for his eyes had narrowed at once. But there must always be such mistakes. It was not possible always to avoid words which could conjure up pictures in his mind, pictures which it was unwise for him to see.

“I cannot understand why God should deny me a son,” he said; there was the faintest criticism in his voice, for the emphasized word was significant. He would never deny me a son, those words implied; although He denies you one.

But he was too pleased with her on this bright morning to dwell on that dismal subject; he would shelve it for a more appropriate time.

“I like to hear you say you are an obedient wife, Kate,” he said. “Forget it not.”

“Nay, my lord,” said Katharine with great earnestness. “I’ll not forget. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll not forget.”

“A hundred!” cried Henry boisterously. “Why, bless you, Kate, thou art many a long year from that great age. And, by my faith, I swear you look younger than you did the day I made you my Queen.”

He turned to her and kissed her; he fondled her throat and let his hands stray to her breasts and thighs.

“Your…Your Majesty is kind to me,” stammered Katharine.

“To be kind was ever a fault of ours, Kate.”

“A fault? I would not call it that. ’Tis a virtue, and in one so great as your august self, doubly so.”

The lecher had now been succeeded by the sentimentalist. He took his hand from her thigh and laid it on her arm. “You speak sound truth, Kate. Yet it has been our kindness…our softness, which has led many to deceive us. We have been deceived again and again in our life. By those, mark you, who had the best reason to give us their loving regard. This garden doth remind me of another…. It was at Hever Castle. A garden of roses…walled thus…a pleasant place.”

Katharine heard the note of regret and longing, the self-pity which she had heard so many times.

“By God,” he cried suddenly, “if any try deceiving tricks on us, they shall pay. They shall pay with their blood.”

She drew away from him. His moods followed quickly on one another this morning.

“Who would dare deceive the King?” she soothed. “Who would dare deceive a wise and tender King?”

He mumbled: “That is what we would know.” He softened again and put an arm about her shoulders. “Thou art a good woman, Kate. Thy beauty is not of the devil; it is the beauty of meadow flowers, sweet and simple, and not to drive a man to torment.” He began to kiss her and his ringed fingers caught at the neck of her gown. “Thou and I have many a merry night before us, Kate. Old age? Who dares speak of it?”

“It is years away from us, my lord.”

“And we are here, and the sun doth shine. And you are a fair woman and I love you well. You are my wife, and we will get ourselves a son, eh?”

“I trust so. Indeed, I trust so. I care not that the sun doth shine. I care only that my lord’s content doth continue to shine on me.”

“It doth, Kate, and it shall. Thou mayest rest assured of that. Thou art good to kiss, and I am man enough to do the kissing.”

He had lifted his head from her throat and, with him, Katharine heard the sound of soldiers’ marching feet.

The King stood up and shouted, but the sound of his voice was lost in the noise made by the approaching guard.

Katharine stood beside him; she could see a company of the King’s guard, and at its head marched Sir Thomas Wriothesley.

“Halt!” cried the King. “Halt there, I say. What means this? Who dares disturb the King’s peace?”

“Your Majesty…” began the Queen.

“Wait there!” commanded Henry; and he hobbled toward the Chancellor and the forty members of the Guard who had halted at his command.

Over the morning air their words came distinctly to Katharine.

“Wriothesley, you knave, what means this?”

Wriothesley ingratiatingly replied: “My lord King, I have come on your orders with forty halberdiers.”

“What means this?” cried the King. “I understand you not.” His face was purple with fury. “How darest thou disturb our peace?”

“Sire, Your Majesty’s orders. I come with forty men to arrest the Queen, and take her to the Tower. My barge is at the privy stairs.”

“Fool! Knave!” cried Henry. “Get you gone, or ’twill be you who are clapped into the Tower.”

Wriothesley, pale with confusion, yet persisted: “Can Your Majesty have forgotten? You gave the order. Your Grace signed the mandate…. To arrest the Queen at this hour…wherever she might be.”

“Get you gone from here,” screamed the King. “You fool…you arrant fool!” He lifted his stick and struck at the Chancellor, who managed, most skillfully, to avoid the blow.

“By God,” went on the King, “are you a fool, Chancellor? It would seem my lot to be surrounded by fools and knaves. Get you gone, I say. Get you gone.”

Katharine watched the discomfited Chancellor lead his men away.

The King hobbled back to her.

“He…he was disobeying Your Majesty’s command?” asked Katharine in a trembling voice.

“The man’s a fool. The man’s a knave. By God, I’ll not forget this.”

“Mayhap he thought he was obeying Your Majesty’s commands. Mayhap he thought he had Your Grace’s consent to do what he was about to do.”

Henry sat down heavily and signed to her to take her place beside him.

“Let be,” he said. “Let be.” He watched her covertly.

He does not know, she reflected, that I have seen his signature on the order for my arrest, just as Wriothesley does not know that he has changed his mind. From the bed to the scaffold is such a short step. How should Chancellor Wriothesley know that on the King’s whim I have turned about…away from the scaffold, back to the bed!

She began again: “Wriothesley…”

“Enough,” said Henry testily. “I command thee not to speak of that knave.”

“Your Majesty will pardon me, but I thought you regarded him as a good servant. Mayhap Your Majesty will not feel too hard toward him, since he has failed to interpret your wishes on this day.”

Henry, being ignorant of her understanding of this matter and not imagining that she could possibly know that he had signed a mandate for her arrest which should be her death warrant, looked at her pityingly.

“Do not defend Wriothesley,” he said. “Poor soul, poor Kate, you do not know how little he deserves grace at your hands. Come, Kate, enough of this man. You and I have more pleasant matters with which to occupy ourselves.”

His hands were caressing her. She was once more his sweetheart, his little pig.

By a miracle, it seemed, she had been saved from death. But was she saved, or had Death merely receded a pace or two?

CHAPTER

V

DURING THAT AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER THE KING made the progress, from palace to palace, which had been a habit of his. From Westminster the court went in state along the river to Hampton Court; and after a brief stay at that palace they made the journeys to Oatlands, Woking, Guildford, Chobham and Windsor.

But when the court had reached Windsor it was seen that this last journey had greatly taxed Henry’s strength; and those whom his death would most affect watched him—and each other—with speculation.

Those who had hitherto behaved with the utmost obsequiousness became arrogant. Lord Hertford and Lord Lisle were back from their duties in France, and they were making preparations to rule through the boy King in whom they had instilled a strong appreciation of the new learning. Sir Thomas Seymour was on the alert; his brother was a great statesman and power in the land, but Thomas was the man whom the King-to-be loved more than any other. Cranmer, beloved of the King, was with these men, and they made a powerful party.

On the Catholic side was the Duke of Norfolk and his son Surrey, together with Gardiner, Wriothesley and their supporters.

Now that the King felt death to be near, he knew great anxiety for the future of his House which would have only a young boy at its head. One look from his bloodshot eyes, one gesture, could still strike terror into those about him. After all, he could still wield a pen; he could still sign a death warrant. Callous and brutal as he was, he had to deal with men who lacked his callous brutality, largely because they lacked his vitality. If he was a sick lion, he was still a lion. He was a ruler of men, even now as he lay in his bed, or sat painfully in his chair of state, or hobbled about on his stick, or was conveyed about the palace in that wheeled contrivance which had had to be made for him.

He made his will. Wisely he decided that the council of ministers, who should comprise the Protectorate during the little King’s minority, should be equally balanced by the two parties. Henry was confident that his wishes would be obeyed; he was enough of a King to rule after death.

The people were with him. They were his strength. They had always been with him from the days when he, as a pink and white boy, had ridden among them and sought their applause. It had been his policy to remove the dangerous influential nobles and placate the mob. The people believed that he had freed them from the tyranny of the Pope. The state had taken precedence over the church, and that appealed to the unemotional English as it was done under a cloak of piety. Terrible suffering had been witnessed in the cities: burnings, hangings, beheadings and the most horrible death accorded to traitors; there had been much bloodshed. But on the Continent of Europe the bloodshed had been more fierce; and bloodshed there must be, it seemed, when a new religion was born.

The King was still King and would remain the master of his subjects after death. His word was law and would remain so.

But those turbulent men about the throne were tensely waiting. Tempers ran high and men were reckless.

One November day, Protestant Lord Lisle, during a Council meeting, struck Gardiner in the face. Lisle was banished from the Council.

To be set against this was the fact that Gardiner had been in disgrace with the King ever since Katharine had come so near to being arrested. The King, characteristically, blamed Gardiner for that affair, for he had convinced himself that he had had no intention of allowing Katharine to be removed, and the whole plot had been devised by the Bishop.

The disgrace of Gardiner and the banishment of Lisle kept that balance of power which Wolsey had taught the King was always desirable. A great Reformer and a great Catholic were both in disgrace.

Gardiner tried to regain his position with an offer of money which could be extorted from the clergy. Henry was pleased to receive the money, but refused to reinstate the Bishop; and so Gardiner continued in disgrace. For, concluded the King, he is a man who tried to poison our mind against the innocent Queen! So Gardiner received nothing but scowls from his master. It was unfortunate for him, but that was what so often happened to those who served the King.

Those were anxious days for all, but with the coming of November, the King’s health began to improve a little. There was feasting and revelry at court, and at a certain banquet Henry’s eyes alighted on a fair lady of the Queen’s household. It seemed to him once more that it was a pitiable thing when a man such as he was—a mighty King, a great ruler—had but one legitimate son to follow him.

Surely there must be some truth in those accusations which some of his ministers had tried to bring. Had Gardiner been so wrong when he had plotted against the Queen? Was the barren Katharine a heretic at heart?

DURING THOSE WEEKS of tension, the manners of the Earl of Surrey became insufferable by those whom he chose to consider his enemies; the chief of these was Edward Seymour, Lord Hertford.

Surrey hated the Seymours more than he hated any, and in particular he hated the elder brother. Reckless Surrey, that elegant poet, was no clever statesman as Hertford had proved himself to be. Surrey had been born to a high place in the realm; Edward Seymour had fought for his place. Surrey was proud and foolish, and Edward Seymour was one of the most astute men in the Kingdom. That was why Henry had removed the Earl of Surrey from his post in the garrisoned French towns, to which his conduct had done no good service, in order to replace him by the clever elder Seymour.

This had seemed to Surrey an insult to himself and his house which he could not endure.

Swaggering about the court, he insulted all those who had risen to high places in the land through their talents. His father warned him, but he would not listen to warnings.

“This kingdom,” he declared, not caring who heard him, “has never been well since the King set mean creatures in the government. It would seem that His Majesty delights to rid himself of noble blood and to employ none but low people.”

This was a direct insult to the Seymours, so they watched him and waited for their opportunity.

“Since the King,” said Edward Seymour to his younger brother when they walked in the Great Park together, “cannot last long it might be well to lower the pride of these Howards while he yet lives.”

Thomas agreed that it would be well. “You will remember that Norfolk once proposed a match between Surrey and the Princess Mary.”

“The King would have none of it.”

“But if the King were dead and there was a young boy in his place, who knows what Norfolk might try? The Princess Mary is a Catholic, and so is Surrey. The Catholic Party would be strongly in favor of such a match.”

The brothers looked at each other cautiously—two scheming men; for the moment they seemed to harbor the same desires. But did they? Hertford wished to see himself Protector of this kingdom with the little Edward his puppet. Thomas visualized marriage with the Princess Elizabeth and, as a corollary, the throne.

Temporarily they stood together against the Howards, but only temporarily.

And while they talked, Hertford thought of the great power which would come to him through his little nephew; and Thomas’s dreams of a shared throne were tinged with other dreams, of an erotic nature.

Surrey, from his apartments, watched them and laughed aloud.

“See,” he said to one of his attendants, “there go the low-born Seymours. They plot against me and my father, I doubt not. They hate our noble blood as we hate their baseness.”

He sought his sister.

She was not a very happy young woman at this time. The King occasionally looked her way, but although his desire for her was at times quite strong, he could not forget the affinity between them, since she was his daughter-in-law, and his desire was not quite strong enough to overcome that drawback.

“Look!” cried Surrey, entering her apartments, and not caring that some of her servants were with her. “See the two great men walking together?”

The Duchess looked, and she found it difficult to draw her eyes away from the younger of the Seymour brothers.

“You are a fool,” she whispered. “Brother, you are the most reckless fool at court.”

He bowed. He was not displeased with the epithet.

“And,” she went on quietly, still looking at the tall man who walked beside his brother in the park, “I will tell you this: If your folly takes you to the Tower—which it may well do—I will do nothing…nothing to help you.”

Her brother laughed aloud and did not bother to lower his voice. “So you think I have persuaded our father against a match with Seymour, do you? Then you are right. I’ll not stand by and see our noble family united with such low-born knaves.”

“How dare you speak to me thus?” she demanded.

“Because I am your brother. I will never allow you to marry with Seymour…even if he would. Ah, but he never would. He looks higher. Low-born as he is, he yet looks high indeed.”

“You speak of the King’s brother-in-law,” she murmured.

“I speak also of the man you long for, sister.”

“Go…Go. Do not come here to brawl.”

He bowed ironically. He saw that he had won her hatred. He had insulted her before her servants.

The courtiers continued to watch him with speculative eyes. They were beginning to look at him in the way they regarded those whose days they believed to be numbered.

What is wrong with me? he asked himself. He was getting old, he supposed. He was thirty; he longed for excitement; and he was so reckless that he cared little how he obtained it.

He looked about him for fresh mischief, and his interview with his sister gave him an idea.

SURREY LOST NO TIME. He dressed himself with the utmost care. Sparkling with jewels, haughty in the extreme, he called on Lady Hertford.

Hertford’s wife, who had been Anne Stanhope, was known throughout the court as one of its proudest and most ambitious women. She shared her husband’s ideals and ambitions; she was cold and avaricious. She was waiting with impatience for the day when she should be the first lady in the land. She was determined to gain that status, promising herself that when her husband was Protector of England she would take precedence over every other lady, and if any dared attempt to place themselves before her she would persuade her husband to make arrangements for their removal.

She was greatly surprised to hear that the Earl of Surrey had called to see her.

He bowed low over her hand and looked at her most humbly. She was a very conceited woman, so it gave her great pleasure to see the heir of the most noble house in the country bowing so graciously before her.

“Lady Hertford, I have something of great importance to say to you,” said the incorrigible Earl, “and it is for your ears alone.”

She dismissed her attendants; and as he watched them go, the Earl smiled insolently.

“Lady Hertford,” he said, “you are a fair and gracious woman, and it pleases me to see you occupying such a position in the land.”

“Thank you, my lord Earl,” she said. “But what is this matter of which you would speak to me?”

“I have long watched you, Lady Hertford.”

“You have watched me?”

“With great admiration; and that admiration has grown so strong that I have come to the conclusion that there will be no peace for me until I have revealed it to you.”

She began to regard him suspiciously.

He had come toward her, seized her hand, and pressed it to his lips.

“You are so beautiful,” he said.

“I think, my lord, that you have drunk too freely. I think it would be wise for you to go home.”

“Wise!” replied the poet. “But what is wisdom? It is for the old—a compensation for those whom love has passed by.”

“Love! You speak to me of love!”

“Why not? You enchant me. You delight me. So I come to lay my proposals at your feet, to beg you not to deny me, for I am dying of love for you.”

“I shall be grateful if you will leave at once.”

“I will not until you have heard me.”

“These are my apartments…”

“I know. I know. Your husband’s low-born sister married the King. By my faith! I have often wondered how she seduced him to marriage. Well, she did, and thus were her low-born brothers raised to greatness. The King delights in having those about him who are low-born. Do you know why? It is because he need not fear them. It is the nobles whom he must fear. Look at them: Wolsey, Cromwell, Gardiner and…the Seymours. All low-born people.”

“How dare you?” cried the enraged lady.

She went toward the door, but he barred the way. He seized her and held her fast, laughing as he did so.

“Do not imagine, my dear Lady Hertford, that my proposal is an honorable one. No, I could not…even if I were in a position to offer you marriage, and you in a position to receive such an offer…make such an offer. It has been suggested that your brother-in-law should marry my sister. But I would not allow that. Marry a Seymour with a Howard! That could not be. There is too great a gulf between our families. But another kind of liaison between your house and mine might be arranged….”

She had broken free and was about to call her servants when she remembered that she could not easily ask them to remove from her apartments such an important nobleman.

She was by no means a hysterical woman and, as she stood there, uncertain how to get rid of him, she was deciding that he should pay for this insult with his life.

There was nothing she could do but walk with dignity to the door. This she did, leaving him alone in the apartment.

Surrey stood watching her leave. He knew that of all the foolish things he had ever done in his life—and they were legion—this was about the most foolish. And he did not care.

He left the apartment. He knew that Hertford would take revenge. But he did not care. He had lost interest in living. There was one thing he would have liked, though; and that was to hear Lady Hertford’s description of the scene which had just taken place when she imparted it to her husband.

IT WAS A COLD December day and the King was now in his royal palace of White Hall.

He was feeling a little better than of late. He had suffered great pain through the cauterization of his legs, but he believed the treatment to have been successful and he was looking forward to the Christmas revels. His mind kept reverting to the past, and he was thinking now of other revels at which he had been the leading spirit. Wistfully he longed for a return of his youth.

It was at such times that he thought much of women, but his fancy did not stay long on any in particular. His wife? He was fond of her. She was a gentle nurse; but it was not always a nurse that he wanted. In any case, he was at this time preparing a charge of heresy against her. Soon he would have her questioned. But let her stay beside him for a while. Then, if she were proved to be a heretic, it was his bounden duty to rid himself of her. She would have to die. He had had two divorces and he did not like them. They were dangerous. A divorced woman might get a child, and rumor might have it that it was his. There had been such a rumor concerning Anne of Cleves. No! Death was the better solution. He did not want trouble for little Edward.

He merely wanted a wife—a young and comely woman to take his mind off his longing for the past.

Hertford begged an audience which the King granted.

“Ah, brother,” said Henry. “You wear an angry look.”

“Your Majesty, I have discovered treason.”

“What treason’s this?”

“My Lord Surrey, your Grace.”

“That braggart? What now?”

“He has foreign friends. Your Grace, we have always known that. There is in his employ an old servant of your enemy, Cardinal Pole. He has tried to persuade his sister, the Duchess of Richmond—Your Grace’s own daughter-in-law—to become Your Grace’s mistress!”

The King burst out: “The rogue! The knave! How dare he suggest such a thing! He should know how I would look upon such a horrible proposal!”

Hertford bowed. “Your Grace is happily married to a lady we all love and respect.”

“Indeed it is so,” said Henry. “How dare the young fool presume to provide me with a mistress! As if I were not capable of finding my own…should I desire one. But I do not. I have tried to uphold the sanctity of marriage. Always this has been my endeavor.”

Henry shot a swift glance at Hertford, but Hertford was looking grave, obsessed by his own anger, his own determination on revenge.

“He conspired, Your Grace, to govern you through his sister.”

That brought the hot blood to the King’s face. “By God, I’ll have him in the Tower for this. The man’s a traitor.”

Now was the moment to clinch the matter. Hertford was wise enough to understand that.

“My lord, in his arrogance, he has had the leopards of England emblazoned on a panel of one of the rooms at Kenninghall.”

“What!” roared Henry.

“It is true, Your Grace. This was discovered by an intimate of his, who, having seen that such amounted to treason, felt that he himself would be considered guilty if he did not report it.”

“It is treason!” cried Henry. “What right has he to bear the arms of England?”

“He said, when challenged, that he has a right to those arms, for the blood of Charlemagne and Plantagenet flows in his veins.”

“By God!” cried the King, rising and leaning on his stick. “He shall suffer for that!”

“He considers himself more royal than Your Grace. He and his father are both guilty of treason.”

“Norfolk also? What has he done?”

“He has seen the royal escutcheon on that panel at Kenninghall and has not testified against his son.”

“Aye,” said the King. “Aye.”

“And Your Grace will remember that he wished to marry his son to the Princess Mary. They are dangerous, those Howards. They are traitors.”

“Traitors!” snapped Henry. “Brother, you speak truth.” He was remembering the mocking brown eyes of England’s greatest poet; he was hearing the words which flowed so easily from the haughty lips. He pictured also the royal arms on a panel in Surrey’s mansion; and he foresaw the trouble that important house might bring to his little son, who was but nine years old.

“To the Tower!” he cried. “To the Tower with these traitors!”

And he brooded: I will not die. I will live yet. I will beget more sons. Edward is too young. I will not die until he has brothers growing up about him.

Hertford left gleefully with the King’s command. Henry promised himself that when these affairs were done with, and Norfolk and Surrey had lost their heads, he would, without further delay, have that charge brought against the Queen.

He would have a buxom wife—the seventh and the best; and she should bear him many sons in the years that were left to him.

SIR THOMAS SEYMOUR rode out to Hatfield House, where the Princess Elizabeth now lived with her brother Edward.

Thomas knew that the children were to be separated and that the following day Edward would be sent to Hertford Castle and Elizabeth to Enfield. These were the King’s orders. It might be that His Majesty believed the young Elizabeth to have too strong an influence on the boy.

Thomas felt pleased as he rode through the countryside. He saw the house in the distance and thought longingly of Elizabeth. He guessed that she might be watching his approach, from a window; but if she were, she would feign surprise at his arrival.

She was sharp for her thirteen years and was no doubt watching events as eagerly as any.

A groom took his horse, and he went into the house. He was received by the tutors of the royal children, Sir John Cheke, Dr. Cox and Sir Anthony Cooke.

“Greetings, gentlemen!” he cried in his jaunty way. “I hear there is to be a parting between our Prince and Princess; and I have ridden hither to see them both while under the same roof.”

“They will welcome your coming, Sir Thomas. The Prince speaks of you often and has been wondering when you will come to see him.”

“And the Princess?”

“She has not spoken of you, but I dare swear she will have pleasure at the sight of you.”

He went to the apartment where the young Prince and his sister were together. There were traces of tears on the faces of both.

Thomas knelt before the heir to the throne and kissed his hand.

“Uncle Thomas!” cried Edward. “Oh, how glad I am to see you!”

“Your Highness is gracious,” said Thomas. He turned to Elizabeth. “And the Lady Elizabeth, is she pleased to see me?”

She gave him her hand and let it linger in his while he fervently kissed it.

“You come, my lord, at a sad time,” she said.

“We have been so happy here,” said Edward passionately, “but we are to be parted. I am to be sent to Hertford, and my sister to Enfield. Oh why, why?”

“Those are your royal father’s commands,” said the Admiral. “I doubt not that he hath good reason.”

He thought how fair she was, this little girl who, in spite of her slender child’s body—she was too restless of mind to put on flesh—had all the ways of a woman.

“I have wept,” said Elizabeth, “until I have no tears left.”

Thomas smiled. She had not wept so much that the tears had spoiled her prettiness. She would have wept discreetly. It was the poor little Prince who was heartbroken at the prospect of their separation. Elizabeth’s tears had been a charming display, an outward sign of the affection she bore to one who soon—surely very soon—must be King of England.

“We have been so happy,” persisted the Prince. “We love Hatfield, do we not, sister?”

“I shall always love Hatfield. I shall remember all the happy days I have spent here, brother.”

Hatfield! mused Seymour. A lovely place. A fitting nursery for the royal children. The King had taken a fancy to it and had intimated to the Bishop of Ely, to whom it had belonged, that he should present it to his royal master. It was true that His Majesty had given the Bishop lands in exchange, but one’s possessions were not safe when such covetous eyes were laid upon them.

And as she stood there, with the faint winter light on her reddish hair, in spite of the fact that she was a girl and a child, she reminded the Admiral of her father.

But I’ll have her, he swore. If I wait for years I’ll have her.

And so did he believe in his destiny, that he was sure this thing would come to pass.

The Prince dismissed his attendants, and the Admiral sat on the window seat, the Prince on one side of him, the Princess on the other; and never did he take such pains to exert his charms as he did on that day.

“My dear Prince, my dearest Princess,” he said, “you are so young to be parted. If I had my way I should let you do exactly as you wished.”

“Oh, Uncle Thomas, dearest Uncle Thomas,” said the Prince, “if only you had your way! Have you seen Jane? I see her so rarely now.”

“She is happy at court with the Queen.”

“I know. She would be happy with our dearest mother. But how I wish she could be with me. And now they would take Elizabeth from me.”

“It may not be for long,” said the Admiral recklessly, yet deliberately indiscreet.

The two children looked at him in astonishment.

“My dears, forget those words,” he said. “By God’s precious soul, I should never have uttered them. It is tantamount to treason. Would you betray me, Edward?”

“Never! Never! I would rather die than betray you, dearest Uncle.”

He put his arm about the boy and, holding him, turned to Elizabeth.

“And you, my lady, would you betray poor Thomas?”

She did not answer for a moment. She lowered her silky lashes so that he could not see her eyes. He put his unengaged arm out to seize her.

He said: “Edward, I’ll not let her go until she swears she will not betray me.”

To the boy it was horseplay, in which Uncle Thomas Seymour loved to indulge.

Her face close to his, Elizabeth said: “No. No. I do not think I would betray you.”

“And why is that?” he asked, putting his lips near hers.

He now held the children tightly. Edward was laughing, loving the man who made him forget the difference in their ages.

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “it might be that I like you well enough not to.”

“Too well?” said the Admiral.

She lifted her eyes to his and hers were solemn with the faintest hint of adoration.

The Admiral’s hopes were soaring as she said: “That might be so.”

Then Seymour kissed the boy’s cheek and turned to the girl. She was waiting. She received his kiss on her lips, and as he held her she felt his heart beating fast.

He kept his arms about her.

“We three are friends,” he said. “We will stand together.”

How exciting he is! thought Edward. He makes everything seem gay and amusing, dangerous though it all is. He makes it seem a wonderful thing to be an heir to a throne. He never says: “You must do this; you must learn that by heart.” He never tires you. You feel that merely to be with him is an adventure, the pleasantest, most exciting adventure in the world.

Elizabeth was thinking: To be near him, to listen to him, is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.

“If our beloved King should die,” said the Admiral gravely, “and he is sick…very sick…Edward, my dearest nephew, you will be the King. You will not forget your old uncle then, will you?”

Edward took the Admiral’s hand and solemnly kissed it.

“I will never forget thee, dearest Uncle.”

“There will be many to tell you they are your dearest, when you are the King.”

“There is only one that could be that in very truth.”

“You will be a King. Your word will be law.”

“They will not let that be so,” said Edward. “My Uncle Hertford, Cranmer…Lisle…Wriothesley, Brown, Paget, Russell…. My father has appointed them to govern me. I must be guided by them, he says, for I am young yet to take the reins of kingship. I shall have to do as I am told…more then than now.”

“You will always be my dearest nephew,” said Thomas. “You will always receive me, will you not, and tell me your troubles?”

“As ever, dear Uncle.”

“And if they should keep you short of money, it shall be into Uncle Thomas’s purse that you will dip your fingers?”

“It shall, dearest Uncle.”

This was reckless talk. To speak of the King’s death was treason. But he was safe. He knew he was safe. He could trust Edward, for Edward was a loyal little boy. And could he trust Elizabeth? He believed he could. He had seen that in her eyes which told him that if there was a weakness in her nature, there was one person who could play on it; and that person was Sir Thomas Seymour.

“And you, my lady?” he said. “What of you? Doubtless they will find a husband for you. What shall you say to that?”

His arm had tightened about her. This was, she well knew, flirtation of a dangerous nature, though disguised, because the words spoken between them had a hidden significance.

“Rest assured,” she said, “that I shall have a say in the choice of my own husband.”

He smiled at her and his fingers burned through the stuff of her dress.

“May I…rest assured?” he said lightly.

“You may, my lord.”

Then she remembered suddenly the dignity that she owed to her rank; she removed herself haughtily from his grasp.

When Sir Thomas left Hatfield House he was sure that the visit had been an important one. He believed that he had made progress in his courtship and that he had taken one step nearer to the throne.

CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT. Everyone, except the King, knew that he was about to die. Henry refused to accept this dismal fact. Ill as he was, he insisted on meeting his council each day and discussing matters of state. He saw little of Katharine. He did not wish to see her. Since the cauterization of his legs he had not wished any female to come near him; and in any case, he was still contemplating ridding himself of her.

January came, cold and bleak. On the nineteenth of that month, the poet Surrey went out to meet the executioner on Tower Hill.

The young man died as he had lived, reckless and haughty, seeming not to care.

People of the court shivered as they watched the handsome head roll in the straw. What had this young man done except carry royal blood in his veins and boast of it? Well, many had lost their heads for that crime.

That was the end of Surrey; and his father, it was said, was to follow him soon.

The King, in his bedchamber, received news of the execution.

“So die all traitors!” he mumbled.

He was, in these days of his sickness, recalling to mind too vividly those men and women he had sent to the block. But he had an answer to his conscience, whatever name his memory called up.

“I have to think of my boy,” he told his conscience. “That is why Surrey has gone. That is why Norfolk shall go. He is too young, my Edward, to be without me and surrounded by those ambitious men who fancy their heads fit a crown.”

Surrey then. And after him, proud Norfolk.

Norfolk now lay in the Tower awaiting his trial.

Seymour was beside the King, proffering a cup of wine to his lips. There were times when Henry’s hands were so swollen with dropsy that he could not hold a cup.

“Good Thomas!” he murmured.

The handsome head was bent low. “Your Grace,” said Seymour, “the Lady Elizabeth was grieved to leave her brother. I thought it would please you to know how much they love each other.”

“Would the girl were a boy!” muttered Henry.

“Indeed, Your Grace, that would be well. But alas, she is a girl, and what will become of her? Will she grow, like her sister Mary, into spinsterhood?”

Henry gave the Admiral a sly glance. He knew what thoughts were going on in that handsome head.

“’Twould be a sad thing, Your Grace,” persisted the bold Admiral.

“Aye! ’Twould be a bad thing,” said the King.

“And yet, Sire, on account of the frailty of her mother, and the fact that she was not married to Your Grace because of that precontract with Northumberland, what…will become of the Lady Elizabeth?”

The King softened toward Seymour. He liked boldness, for he himself had been bold.

He smiled. “More wine, good Thomas.”

“Your Majesty might give her to one of your gentlemen…if his rank and wealth were commensurate.”

“I might indeed. But she is young yet. There’s no knowing…no knowing, friend Thomas.”

And the King’s friend Thomas felt elated with his success.

THE OLD DUKE OF NORFOLK lay in his cell awaiting his death. How many years had he expected this? All through his life there had been these alarms which he was too near the throne to have escaped. But he had been a wise man and had always made the King’s cause his own.

But the wisest men could be betrayed, and often by those who were nearest and dearest to them.

Tomorrow he was to die.

In the Palace of White Hall the King lay sick. He will not live long after me, reflected Norfolk.

When a man is going to die he thinks back over his life. He had been a great statesman, this Duke of England’s noblest House; he had had his place in the building of England’s greatness. He was a proud man and he hated to die thus…as traitors die.

Proud young Surrey had betrayed him—not with plots, but with vanity, pride.

Norfolk’s thoughts went back to his marriage with Buckingham’s daughter—a proud woman, a vain woman. He himself had been Earl of Surrey then and had inherited the title of Duke of Norfolk some years later. The trouble with Bess Holland had started when he was still Earl of Surrey.

Bessie! he brooded, seeing her as she had been then, with the sleeves of her cheap gown rolled up over her elbows showing her buxom arms—a slut, some might say, but bearing that indefinable attraction which even a great nobleman—so conscious of his status—found irresistible.

He had seduced her on their first meeting; yet he almost believed that she had seduced him. It had not ended there. One went back, and back again, to such as Bessie.

Naturally his wife had been furious. A daughter of noble Buckingham to be set aside for a laundress: But Bessie had had something more alluring than noble lineage. Bessie had that way of setting aside all the barriers of class.

Well, it was a lusty age and, although he was the most noble man in the realm, under the King, and one of its keenest statesmen, he had been unable to give up Bessie.

His Duchess had been a vindictive woman, determined to make trouble; so between her and Bess he had had enough of that in his life.

His family…his accursed family! First Anne Boleyn—though not all Howard, being part low-born Boleyn—and then Catharine Howard. Both of these Queens had brought wealth and advancement to the Howards, and when they fell, the Howard fortunes declined with them.

He remembered now—he who believed he would soon go to Tower Green—how he had flayed with his scorn those two kinswomen of his, those fallen Queens. More fiercely than any, his tongue had condemned them. He had stood by the King and deplored the fact—so tragic for the House of Howard—that it was those two women who had made the King suffer.

And now his own son—his elder son—on whom he had fixed his pride and hope, had lost his head. Gay Surrey, the handsome poet who could not keep his mouth shut—or perhaps did not care to do so.

“My son…my son…” murmured the Duke. “But what matters it, for tomorrow I shall join you.”

And as he lay there, waiting for the dawn, he wished that he had often acted differently during his long life. He could not forget the scornful flashing eyes of Anne Boleyn when he had conducted her to the Tower; he could not shut out of his mind the memory of Catharine Howard’s tears.

He waited calmly for the dawn.

THE KING HAD not yet signed Norfolk’s death warrant. He was too ill to deal with matters of state and kept to his bed that day. His limbs were swollen with dropsy; he felt low and was in great pain; and he was only half aware of the candle-lit room in which he lay.

In a corner waited several gentlemen of the bedchamber. With them were members of his Council—the Seymours, Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Denny among them.

They whispered together.

“He cannot last the night.”

“He has never been in this condition before.”

“He should be told. He should be prepared.”

“Who will dare tell him?”

All were silent; and then the King’s voice was heard calling.

“Go,” said Hertford to his brother. “You go. He has a liking for you.”

Sir Thomas went into the chamber and stood by the King’s bed.

“Who is there?” asked Henry, peering before him. “Who is it?”

“Thomas Seymour, my lord. Your humble servant and your friend.”

“Friend Thomas…friend Thomas…My arms are burning stumps of fire. My legs are furnaces. My body lies in the grip of deadly pain.”

“Rest, Sire. Speak not,” said Seymour, “for speech doth bring out the sweat beads, big as grapes, upon thy brow.”

“An we wish it, we will speak,” growled the King. “We will not be told, by a subject, when to speak.”

“Your Grace’s pardon. I but feared for you.”

“How goes the hour?”

“Creeping on to midnight, Sire.”

“I hear the bells in my ears, Seymour. I seem to be walking on soft grass. I think I ride in Richmond Park. I think I am up the river in my state barge. I think I sit beside my Queen, watching the jousting in the tiltyard. But…I lie here…with furnaces for limbs…a-dying in my bed.”

Two members of the Council had come into the chamber. They stood by the hangings and whispered together concerning the King’s condition.

Henry heard them. He tried to lift his head, but fell back groaning.

“Who whispers in the shadows? ’Tis Surrey…’Tis my lord Earl.”

Seymour bent his head and murmured: “Nay, Sire. Your Grace forgets. Surrey laid his head on the block nine days ago.”

“Surrey!” muttered the King. “Surrey…a poet…a handsome boy…a proud and foolish boy.”

“A conspirator against the Throne, Your Grace.”

Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet…but…a proud and foolish boy.”

“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”

The King had become confused. “Buckingham!” he shouted, but his voice immediately fell to a whisper: “To the Tower with Buckingham. To the block, I say!”

Seymour reflected that it must be thirty years since Buckingham went to the block. Now the King remembered. Was his conscience, so long subdued concerning Buckingham, now rousing itself uneasily? The case of Buckingham had been similar to that of Surrey; both had been noble lords obsessed by their nobility.

The King was muttering again. He had returned to the present. “Seymour…are you there? Thomas…my friend…you spoke of Surrey. He has gone, has he? What was his crime?”

“He would have made his sister your mistress, Your Grace. Your Grace was enraged at such a suggestion.”

A leer, which made the bloated face more horrible, now curled the King’s lips. “Howard’s girl…a comely wench…and saucy…”

Seymour felt nauseated. He turned from the King, thinking with amazement: On his dying bed he contemplates his bedtime pleasures! And Kate…my poor Kate…she was married to this man; and this is the monster who planned to send her the way he has sent others; who was planning, if rumor be correct, but a few weeks since.

“Thomas…” cried the King suddenly. “There are men in our chamber. Our enemies whisper and conspire against us.”

“Nay, Sire. They are but your Councillors. They come to inquire of your health.”

“Is Norfolk there?”

“Nay, Your Grace, Norfolk lies in the Tower, awaiting your signature to his death warrant.”

“We’ll give it. We’ll give it. To the block with these Howards…father and son.”

“Your Majesty must preserve his strength.”

“There’s strength enough…I’ll sign it. Surrey…a foolish boy. A comely wench, thy sister, Surrey. A drink…a drink…my throat is scorched by fires. Douse them, Seymour. Douse them, my friend. What whispering goes on about me? Come forth! Come forth! Ah, I see you there, you rogue. What news, eh? Why do you look so smug? Am I going to die? Is that what you would tell me? Come…. You there, Denny. What news? What news, I say?”

Denny, braver than the rest and certain now that the King was dying, decided to tell him the truth.

“My lord King, all human aid is vain, your doctors fear. It is therefore meet for Your Majesty to review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ.”

There was a second of terrible silence while understanding showed itself on the King’s distorted face. But he was quick to recover his calm, to banish the terror which had laid hold on him. He said sternly: “Tell me, Denny, by what authority you come to pass sentence on me. What judge has sent you here?”

“Your doctors, Sire. I will send them to you. They await an audience.”

The King closed his eyes wearily, but when a few seconds later the doctors approached the bed with medicines for him, he opened his eyes and glared at them with the old ferocity. “What’s this?” he demanded. “You have passed sentence on me, you judges; and when a judge has passed his sentence on a criminal, he has no longer need to trouble him. Begone! Begone, I say!” As they continued to stand there watching him, he shouted: “Begone! Begone!”

The doctors bowed and turned away.

“Your presence can do no good here,” said Wriothesley.

When they had gone, the Chancellor approached the bed.

“Your Majesty, would you wish to see some of your divines?”

“Eh?” said the King. “What’s that? Ah…so it has come to that. Divines! Nay! I’ll see none but Cranmer…and him not yet.”

Wriothesley turned to one of the gentlemen. “Go you to Cranmer. He is at Croydon. Go with all speed. Tell him the King desires his presence at White Hall without delay.”

“Your Majesty,” he went on, “Cranmer will come.”

“I’ll have him when I am ready…and not before. Begone! Begone, I said. Leave me….”

His eyes glared at them, although, to him they were like shadows at his bedside. They moved away to a far corner of the chamber, and after a while the King closed his eyes and began to speak again.

“Begone…. Begone…I’ll have none of ye.” He moaned and cried out suddenly in a startled voice: “Anne! Anne! You’re there, you witch. I see you.” He spoke in a whisper then. “Why lookest thou at me with those great black eyes? Thy neck is small. Thou wilt not feel the sword. Ah! You would have a sword from Calais. That is like you. The ax is for ordinary mortals. Haughty to the end! Anne…Anne…’tis for England, sweetheart. An heir for England. A King is the servant of his country. He is not the servant of his passions. Anne, thy black eyes scorn me. I’ll not have it. To the block! To the block!”

The King opened his eyes suddenly and stared about him in a startled fashion. The candles were burning low and flickering in their sockets.

“Review your past life and seek God’s mercy through Christ,” he murmured. “That is what they tell me. That is what they tell me now. A great reign…a great and glorious reign. Oh God, always did the eighth Henry work for Thy glory and for the good of England. No thought gave he to his own desires….”

His voice died away; his breathing was heavy; then suddenly it stopped, and those watching in the shadows thought the end had come.

But before they could move toward him, he had begun to speak again.

“Is that you, Cardinal, sitting there? Why do you smile, Cardinal? I like your smile not at all. The Cardinal died of a flux. Many die of a flux…be they Cardinal or beggar. You keep good wine, Thomas…good food and wine. A subject should not keep such state. Look at me not with those great black eyes, Anne. You witch! Sorceress! Poisoner! The roses are beautiful at Hever. Red roses…red…the color of blood. Shadows…shadows move about me. Shadows in my room. There. There! Monks…monks.… Black cowls that drip red blood. Oh, dear God, they creep toward me. Closer…closer they come. Monks…monks from all corners….” He tried to lift his hands, but he could not move them; he tried to shout for help, but his voice was a whisper. “The candles are going out and the darkness is coming, and with it…monks…. To Tyburn with them! To Tyburn! I…am not at Tyburn. I lie in bed…a-dying…adying.”

The sound of his stertorous breathing filled the chamber.

“A drink!” he gasped. “A drink…a cup of wine, for the love of God.”

“He is scorched with the death thirst,” said Wriothesley.

As the Chancellor approached the bed and poured wine into the cup, the King said: “Kate…Kate, is that you…good wife?”

“It is your Chancellor, my lord,” said Wriothesley. “Here is the wine you crave.”

“Good Kate,” said the King; and his eyes were closed now. “Good wife.”

“There, ’tis refreshing, is it not, my lord?”

“It doth but cool the fires ere they burst to wilder fury. Kate…Kate…I’ll not see the sun rise again.”

“Speak not thus, my lord,” said Wriothesley.

“Kate…I loved thee. I loved thee well. I had not thought of putting you from me that I might take another wife. I would not have married…Jane…yes, Jane…an my subjects had not urged me to it.”

Even the grim heart of the Chancellor was moved to pity, and listening to these last words of the King he wished to soothe the monstrous conscience.

“Your subjects urged Your Grace to the marriage,” he said softly.

“’Twas so. Katharine…canst thou see a dark shadow there…over there by the arras at the door?”

“There is nothing there, Your Grace.”

“Look again,” commanded the King.

“Nay, Sire. Your eyes deceive you.”

“Come closer, Kate. I would whisper. It doth look to me like a fellow in a black robe. Can you not see a monk standing there?”

“It is but the hangings, my lord.”

“You lie!” cried the King. “I’ll have your head off your shoulders an you deceive me. Suffolk’s wife, ah! She doth please me. Her eyes are dove’s eyes and she would be a loving wench, I vow. And not too docile. I never greatly cared for too much docility. Jane, dost remember what happened to thy predecessor? A Flander’s mare…and Howard’s niece the prettiest thing that ever graced a court. Is that you, Chancellor? Monks…. Chancellor. They come at me. They come at me. Hold them off. Hold them off from your King, I say!” The King was breathing with difficulty. “What day is this?” he asked.

“The morning has come, for it is two of the clock,” said Wriothesley.

“What day? What day?”

“The twenty-eighth day of January, my lord.”

“The twenty-eighth day of January. Remember it. It is the day your sovereign lord the King was murdered. There in the hangings. See! Take my sword. Ah, you would have a sword from Calais to sever that proud head. The huntsman’s call…do you hear it? There…look. In the hangings. I swear I saw the curtains move. Monks…monks…Hanged, drawn and quartered. So perish all who oppose the King!”

Those who had been standing back from the bedside now drew near.

“He dies, I fear,” said Wriothesley. “His hour is come.”

The King seemed calmed by the sight of his ministers.

“My lords,” he said, “my time approaches fast. What of my son—my boy Edward? His sister Mary must be a mother to him; for look, he is little yet.”

“Be comforted, Your Majesty. Edward will be well cared for.”

“He is your King. Supreme head of the Church. Defender of the Faith. A little boy…but ten years old.”

“Your Majesty may safely leave these matters to your ministers, those whom you yourself have appointed to guide the affairs of your realm.”

The King chuckled incongruously. “A motley lot. You’ll have a noisy time, fighting together. But I’ll not be there to see it…I’ll not be there. Kate…. Where is Kate? I see her not. I command you all to honor her, for she has been a good wife to me. We…we never thought to…put her from us. ’Twas but for sons…for England. Wine, wine…I am a burning furnace.”

He had not the strength to drink the wine which was offered.

His eyes rolled piteously.

“All is lost. All is lost,” he moaned.

Cranmer came hastening to the chamber. Henry looked at this well-loved minister, but he could no longer speak to him.

The Archbishop knelt by the bed and took his master’s hand.

“My lord, my beloved lord, give me a sign. Show me that you hope to receive the saving mercy of Christ.”

But Henry’s eyes were glazed.

Cranmer had come too late.

IN THE PRIVY CHAMBER, the King’s body lay encased in a massive chest; and in this chamber, for five days, the candles burned, masses were said, and obsequies held with continual services and prayers for the salvation of his soul.

On the sixth day the great chest was laid on the hearse which was adorned with eight tapers, escutcheons, and banners bearing pictures of the saints worked in gold on a background of damask.

Dirges were sung as the funeral cortège began its stately journey to Windsor, where the chapel was being made ready to receive the royal corpse.

And the mourners?

There was his wife, now strangely light of heart. How did one feel when the ax which had been poised above one’s head for nearly four years, was suddenly removed? She was a young woman in her mid-thirties, and she had never known that happy marriage which she had thought would be hers before the King had decided to make her his wife. Those four years had seemed liked forty; but she had come through them unscathed. The death of the King had saved her; and as she rode with the procession or took her place in the state barge, she could think of little but Thomas, who was waiting.

In his cell in the Tower of London, the Duke of Norfolk felt a similar lifting of the spirits—for he too had escaped death, and in his case, it was by a few hours. The King had intended that he should die, and instead the King had died; and now, without that master of men, there was no one left who would dare destroy the great Catholic leader. The Catholics were too strong, and there must be much diplomacy if the country was to avoid a bloody civil war. None wanted that. The hideous Wars of the Roses were too close to be forgotten. So, like Katharine, Norfolk, who had narrowly escaped with his life, could not be expected to mourn sincerely the passing of the King.

Lord and Lady Hertford could scarcely wait to take over control. They had the young King in their keeping and they were the rulers now.

There was the little King himself, frightened by the homage which was now done to him. Men now knelt in his presence and called him Majesty, but he was wise enough to know that he was their captive as he had never been before.

And Mary? One life was now between her and the throne. The King was sickly; and so was she; but she prayed that God would take her brother before her so that she might have the glory of leading the English back to Rome.

There were two other important actors in England’s drama at this time—two of the most ambitious people in the kingdom—a Princess of thirteen and a man in his thirties.

Why not? the Lord High Admiral asked himself. I verily believe the King would have given me his daughter, had he lived. But he is dead and Kate is free, and the Council will put obstacles between myself and the Princess.

The Admiral had need of caution, and he was the most reckless man in the kingdom.

And the Princess Elizabeth? She was impatient of her youth, impatient of her inexperience. She longed for the Admiral. She had her mother’s love of gaiety and admiration and she yearned for the man who titillated her senses and roused within her that which was delightful and wholly dangerous. And yet…she must remember. There were two lives between herself and the throne. She was sure that her brother would never have an heir. And Mary with her ills and complaints—how long would she last? And then…! The glory of it was dazzling. She wanted it so eagerly, so urgently. But she also wanted Seymour. She wanted the man and the throne. Yet something told her she could not have them both.

Here was a problem for a girl not yet fourteen years of age to solve. What could she do? She could wait; she could watch; she could remember always to act with caution, the greatest caution she could muster. Those who were very near the throne were in great danger until they reached it. And even then…But not a Tudor. No, once a Tudor was on the throne, he—or she—would know how to stay there.

Such were the dreams of those who had lived near the King, as the funeral procession went its solemn way.

The body was brought to rest for a while in the chapel at Sion House; and while it was there the chest burst open and the King’s blood was spilt on the chapel floor.

Horror ran through the land when this became known. The terrible tortures, which had been inflicted on many during this King’s lifetime, were remembered; and the names of thousands who had died at his orders were recalled.

What has this King to answer for? it was whispered.

And the people shuddered.

A certain William Greville declared that a dog had appeared and licked the King’s blood; and although great efforts had been made to drive the dog away, none had been able to do so.

It was a ghost, said the superstitious—the ghost of one whom he had murdered.

It was then recalled that his fifth wife, Catharine Howard, had rested at Sion House on her way to the Tower, and this was the anniversary of that day when she had laid her head on the block and departed this life.

Had not Friar Peyto, greatly daring, preached against the King when he had put Queen Katharine of Aragon away from him and married Anne Boleyn? Had not the bold man compared Henry with Ahab, and prophesied that the dogs would, in like manner, lick his blood?

In the church of Windsor, Gardiner stood at the head of the vault, surrounded by the chief officers of the King’s household while the corpse was lowered by means of a vice and sixteen of the strongest Yeomen of the Guard. Out of favor with the late King and looking fearfully toward a new reign by a King indoctrinated with the new learning, he turned his eyes to the Princess Mary and prayed God that it might not be long ere she took her place on the throne.

The Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Treasurer and all the company which stood about the grave held their rods and staves in their hands, and when the mold was cast down, each in turn broke his staff upon his head and cast it on to the coffin. De Profundis was then said and when the planks were laid over the pit, Garter, standing among the choir, proclaimed the little King’s titles.

“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble order of the Garter,” repeated Garter’s officers; and three times they said this while the trumpets rang out.

A new reign had begun. A mighty ruler was laid to rest, and in his place stood a pale-faced boy.

It seemed to many who watched that ceremony that among them were the ghosts of murdered men and women.

CHAPTER

VI

THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS DEEPLY PERPLEXED.

There had come to her that day a proposal of marriage. It was her first proposal of this nature, because it was an appeal to her direct. There had, in the course of her thirteen years, been other suggested marriages, but she had never been called to give her opinion on these. When she had been a few months old and high in her father’s favor, he had negotiated a marriage for her with the Duke of Angoulême, the third son of King François. That could not be expected to materialize after the King had called her a bastard, and it had long been forgotten. Later she had been promised to the heir of the Scottish Earl of Arran—a poor match for a royal Princess of England—and that, as perhaps had been intended from the first, had also come to nothing. Later there had been a more ambitious plan to unite her with Philip of Spain, son of the Emperor Charles, but that was also doomed to failure.

But this proposal she had now received was different from all others. This was a declaration of love; and it had been made by the man whom Elizabeth could now admit that she herself loved. The Lord High Admiral of England, Sir Thomas Seymour, craved the hand of the Princess Elizabeth in marriage.

She sat at a window of her apartments in White Hall, those apartments which her stepmother had begged the King to give her, and which she used when she was with the court and the court was at this palace.

For a short hour she was giving herself up to romantic dreams; she was allowing herself to think that she could marry whom she pleased.

He was handsome, that man. Handsome? That was inadequate to describe him. There were many handsome men at court, but there was none like Thomas Seymour. He was so gay, so jaunty, and there was about him that air of wickedness which delighted her as it must delight so many more. She loved his boldness, the strength in those arms that seized her, the speculation in the laughing eyes as though he were wondering how far he dared go. There was so much in him that called to the like in her; and while he made discreet love to her with the most indiscreet look in his eyes and the most suggestive tones in his voice, she was always aware of that ambition in him which she understood and applauded because that very same ambition was a part of her own nature.

He would be bold and passionate, and so would she. Her need of him, his need of her, were like a pair of mettlesome horses held in restraint by the reins of ambition. And because they were so checked their progress was the more exciting.

I want him, she decided; but I want so much besides.

She was her father’s daughter; she was her mother’s child. In her was that streak of levity which had characterized her mother; there was that desire to be admired and, because that desire for admiration was stronger than the sensuality which she had inherited from her father, she wished always to keep the admiration at fever heat; therefore the pursuit interested her more than any possible fulfillment. Even now she did not wish the Admiral to be her husband; she wished him to remain her suitor.

Yet it was not endurable to continue in a state of uncertainty.

When she had heard the conditions of her father’s will she had been filled with elation. Failing other heirs, she was placed third in the line of succession. She was to be treated with a respect and consideration almost equal to that which was to be bestowed on her sister Mary. Three thousand pounds a year was to be hers, and that seemed riches after the penury she had endured; a marriage portion of ten thousand pounds was to be given at the appropriate time. But there was a condition: This would only be hers if she married with the consent of her brother Edward and his Council. If she married without such approval, she would forfeit her dowry and, in all probability, her income.

She had turned this matter over and over in her mind.

She longed for Seymour; yet she longed also to stay where she was in the succession to the throne.

Queen…Queen of England…and Queen in her own right—not lifted up, as her mother had been, to be cast down again at the whim of a husband. No! Queen—true Queen of England for the rest of her life!

The chances of success were good. Edward was sickly and it was hardly likely that he would produce an heir. Mary was thirty-one—old to marry and have children; and Mary’s health was not of the best. Elizabeth was but thirteen years old. Oh yes, the chances of Elizabeth’s becoming Queen of England were good indeed.

And if she married? What then?

The Council, she knew, would never approve of her marriage with Thomas. The King could be persuaded. She laughed to think of the little boy’s being persuaded by herself and Thomas. That would be an easy task.

But she immediately called to mind those grim men, the real rulers. Thomas’s brother would never agree. And Gardiner, Wriothesley, Cranmer? No! They would refuse consent. And then? Doubtless she and Thomas would find themselves in the Tower if they disobeyed, and all knew what could happen to prisoners in that doom-filled place.

There was so much to think of, so much to consider.

Her governess, Kat Ashley, came into the room and, finding her charge brooding in the window seat, asked if aught ailed her.

“Nothing ails me,” said Elizabeth.

“Your Grace looks to have a fever. Your cheeks look hot and your eyes are so bright. I am not sure that you should not retire to your bed.”

“Pray do not bother me, Kat. I am well enough.”

“Your Grace is bothered concerning the letter you have received?”

“And how did you know there was a letter?”

“In my love for Your Grace I keep my eyes open and my ears alert. Tell me, darling, it is from the Admiral, is it not?”

Elizabeth looked at the woman and burst into sudden laughter. There were moments when she was very like her mother, thought Kat Ashley.

“And what if it should be?” asked Elizabeth.

“He’s a darling man, Sir Thomas, and I could love him myself, but he has no right to send you a letter.”

“Lord Sudley now, if you please. You know that the first thing my brother did was to raise his dear uncle. Not Sir Thomas Seymour merely, but my Lord Sudley. My brother, like you, my saucy Kat, loves the darling man dearly!”

“Well, all the Council have been raised, have they not? There is Lord Hertford become the Duke of Somerset, and Sir Thomas Wriothesley, my lord Southampton.”

“Yes, but Master Wriothesley is deprived of his Seal, while my brother gives love to Thomas Seymour as well as land and title.”

“And does the King’s sister love the man as much as her brother does?”

Kat Ashley was a born gossip, a lover of tittle-tattle; she was vitally interested in the affairs of those about her and inquisitive in the extreme, though goodhearted; she was always eager for exciting events about which to marvel or commiserate, and if they did not happen quickly enough she was ready to apply a little gentle prodding. But the welfare of her little Princess meant more to her than anything on Earth. Elizabeth knew this; and because one of the great desires of her life was to receive the loving admiration of those about her, she was always as affectionate and considerate as she could be to Kat Ashley.

“How could she?” answered Elizabeth. “Would it be wise to love such a man and yet be unable to enter into a marriage with him?”

“It would not!” cried Kat. “If you as much as gave him a hint that you were eager for him—why then, there would be no holding him back.”

They laughed together.

“The Council would never agree to such a marriage, would they, Kat?” said Elizabeth wistfully.

“Nay.”

“They have their eyes on me now, Kat. I must walk warily. Do you not think so?”

“With the utmost wariness, my darling lady.”

“Kat Ashley, do you think I shall ever be Queen?”

Kat was solemn for a moment; she laid her hands on the girl’s shoulders and studied the pale face, the eyes which could at some times be earnest and at others frivolous, the mouth that provoked and promised, yet denied.

“Oh, my dearest mistress, my dearest mistress, I beg of you take care.”

“It is you who should take care, Kat. You gossip whenever you have a chance. You must restrain yourself now. My poor brother…my poor sister! Kat, just think of them. They seem so sick at times, and then…then there will be just myself.”

Kat sank to her knees and took the hand of her charge. She kissed it, and lifting her eyes to Elizabeth’s face said: “God save the Queen!”

Then they laughed together, looking over their shoulders with furtive enjoyment.

How like her mother she is! thought Kat again; and she held her fiercely and protectively. “God preserve her,” she prayed. “Take care of her. She is young…so very young.”

Nevertheless, she was wise; she was crafty; it was possible to see the craftiness in her face at times; later she would be crafty enough to hide it. But she was young yet.

“Keep her safe until she is old enough to keep herself safe,” Kat continued her prayer; and she thought: I am a fine one. I am as reckless as she is.

Elizabeth drew herself away from her governess and was solemn, thinking, as she must when she considered her nearness to the throne, of Thomas whom she could not have as well.

I need not fear for her, reflected Kat Ashley. She’ll pass through all the dangers. I never knew one so clever.

Her brother was learned, but the Princess was the cleverer of the two. Lady Jane Grey, who had been tutored with them, was also learned; they were a clever trio. But Jane and Edward loved learning for itself, while Elizabeth loved it for what she hoped it would bring her. It seemed as though she had trained herself from her earliest years for a great destiny. She excelled in all subjects; she was a Latin scholar; she spoke French, Spanish, Flemish and Italian fluently, taking great pains with those languages which she thought might be useful to her. Like young Jane and Edward, and indeed like most cultured children, she wrote verses; but while those children loved their verses and spent much time over them, Elizabeth wrote hers merely to show that she could do anything they could. Her greatest delight was to study the history, not only of her own country, but that of others. She wished to know how kings and governments had acted in the past, and the result of such actions. So the greater part of her time was devoted to the study of history, and she had learned foreign languages with such zest, that she might be able to read history written in those tongues. Always she was preparing herself for greatness. Therefore it seemed strange that a girl who, at such an early age, had so serious a purpose in mind which amounted almost to a dedication, could at the same time be so frivolous.

But she was her father’s daughter and he, while occupying his mind with great state policies, had found the inclination toward his pleasures irresistible.

Kat Ashley, while she admired her mistress’s uncommon astuteness, trembled for her.

“Kat dear,” said Elizabeth suddenly, “leave me. I have a letter to write.”

“To…the Admiral?”

“It is no concern of yours.”

“It is. It is. Have a care, sweetheart.”

“I intend to.”

“Do not forget….”

“I forget nothing. Go now. Go quickly, I say.”

Kat Ashley moved toward the door and, when she reached it, paused to look appealingly at the Princess.

“Oh, Kat,” said Elizabeth, “do not forget. Tomorrow we go to Chelsea, to be with my stepmother. We must prepare.”

“I had not forgotten. I, too, forget nothing, my lady.”

“Get you gone, and leave me to my work,” said Elizabeth, with a return of the imperious manner which she employed at times and which was always an indication that she had done with play.

She had made up her mind. Kat’s byplay had decided her. When she had knelt, and half in earnest had said, “God save the Queen!” she had brought Elizabeth to the point of decision.

The Princess dared not risk the loss of that for which, above everything, she longed.

I will not think of him, she told herself. I must not think of him. I will remember the tales I have heard of him. He is a philanderer; he has had many mistresses. If I were a commoner it would be different.

Then she laughed aloud, for if she were a commoner would Thomas have looked her way? Yes, he would; it was not solely because she was third from the throne that he wanted her. If she had been a low serving girl he would have sought her out, even if only to make love to her.

She took up her pen.

“From the Princess Elizabeth to the Lord High Admiral.”

Firmly she wrote, thanking him for his letter.

“…but,” she went on, “I have neither the years nor the inclination for marriage, and I would not have thought that such a matter should have been mentioned to me at a time when I ought to be taken up in weeping for the death of my father, the King….”

And as she wrote those words her mouth was remarkably like her father’s.

She stared before her, and she was thinking, not of the dead King, but of the charm of Seymour.

Her mouth softened. A Queen, she reminded herself, would choose her own husband. A Queen would not allow a council of ministers to decide such a matter.

Thomas would still be there. She pictured him, calling as often as he dared, and those little scenes when he made excuses to touch her.

She was thrilled at the thought of him; but even more thrilling was the echo of those words: God save the Queen.

THOMAS SEYMOUR, the new Lord Sudley, was angered by that letter from the Princess.

He wanted a wife, and he wanted the Princess, but if she would not have him he would have another. He was a man who could love many women; and a motherly, tender woman, a Queen who had become very rich and was of some importance in the land, was not a bad substitute for a prickly Princess.

He, like Elizabeth, realized that had she accepted his proposals they would have been in great danger. He had been prepared to risk that danger. But since the Princess had refused him, he saw no reason why he should remain a bachelor. The Princess was but thirteen; he might still have her, for who knew what the future held?

In any case, he was piqued by the tone of her letter, and, a few days after the receipt of it, he set out for Chelsea, where the Dowager Queen was in residence. The young Princess, who had been assigned to her care, was now there with her. It was a piquant situation—the two women with whom the Admiral had contemplated marriage, together under one roof—a Queen and a Princess.

But he would call to see the Dowager Queen.

It was not quite a month since the death of the King, and he saw that snowdrops were beginning to appear in the gardens before the cottages which he passed on his way through the villages, and the purple flowers of the butterbur were blooming along by the river.

Katharine was staying in the Dormer Palace of Chelsea (which Henry had built after he had seized the Manor of Chelsea), with its gardens that ran down to the Thames. Thomas approached the palace by the only road through the village, which wound between the meadows. He crossed Blandels Bridge—very pretty now with the hoar frost on the nearby bushes, but so dangerous at dusk on account of the many robbers who infested the place, and who had so often added murder to their crimes that the bridge had become known as Bloody Bridge.

Lord Sudley’s eyes glistened with excitement as they turned from the small turrets to the long narrow windows, while he hoped for a glimpse of a red head.

He wondered if the weather was warm enough to walk in the gardens with Katharine, for those gardens had been made very pleasant with their lawns and miniature fishponds.

Katharine received him rather cautiously, because several of her ladies were in attendance. How fair she looked! She wore her royal widow’s hood and barb with its sable pall as though she did so with great relief—as indeed she must. She could not hide her feelings for him, so he was glad when she dismissed her women and they were alone together.

He took her hands. “At last!” he said.

“Thomas! How I have longed to see you! But is it not a little too soon?”

“It is most improper,” he replied with a laugh.

He knew she was hoping he would take her into his arms, and how could he refuse? He had never been able to refuse such a thing to a woman.

“Thomas…what if we were seen?”

“Ah, my brother Somerset’s spies are everywhere. Somerset now, remember. No longer merely Hertford.”

“And you are no longer plain Sir Thomas.”

He bowed. “Lord Sudley at your service.”

“Always Thomas…my dearest Thomas.”

“Oh, Katharine, how I have trembled for you in these latter years.”

“And yet you seemed not to notice me. How you made me suffer!”

“How I should have made us both suffer if I had looked at you and betrayed my thoughts!”

“You were the wise one, Thomas. I was foolish.”

“Now you understand how greatly I love you. I can even be wise for your sake.”

“You make me so happy.”

“And when, Katharine, my sweet Katharine, will you make me happier still?”

He was carried on by his feelings, as he always was. He owed his successes at sea to this very impetuousness. He believed so firmly in the destiny of Thomas Seymour that he was able to forget that five days ago he had asked Elizabeth to marry him; now it seemed to him that he had always loved Katharine, that during those years of danger he had deliberately forced himself to think of others for her sake.

Elizabeth, that child! It was a pretty joke, a pleasant game. And, oh, what an exciting game! But how could he marry the Princess without the consent of the Council? Besides, she was a child; and here was a warm, loving woman, so earnestly, so faithfully in love with him.

He took her roughly in his arms. He liked to play the buccaneer. It was usually successful, accompanied as it always was, in his dealings with women, by an underlying tenderness. See the strong man who could vanquish an enemy, see how he curbs his strength for fear of harming the one he loves!

She was a Queen; he could not help it if, in calculating her desirable qualities, he had in mind not only her gentle nature, her adoration of himself, her charming little body, not too mature, but so comfortable, so pleasant and delightful; there were also her lands, her endowment, her influence. The King loved his uncle, but without a doubt the boy idealized his stepmother. The two of them together would make a team to guide the King. With her riches, her influence and her charm, she was irresistible.

“My dearest,” he said, “when?”

“When?” she cried. “And the King not dead a month!”

“I shall not hesitate this time.”

“My love, you must…hesitate a little…for the sake of decency, for the sake of etiquette.”

But he had seized her again. “Do you think I care for these things when love burns in my heart? No, no! I lost you once. Do you think I will allow that to happen again?”

“Nay, my dearest, you must be patient.”

“Patience and love, dear Kate, go not hand in hand.”

“What would be said of me if…my husband not dead a month…I took another?”

“I would take my fists to the ears of any who spoke ill of you, Kate…from the lowest to the highest. Take off the hood.”

“I dare not.”

“Then I will.” He seized it and flung it from them.

She looked at him and laughed aloud. There was a note of the old hysteria in her voice when she said: “It is the end…the end of fear. Oh, Thomas, you cannot guess what it was like. Every time I heard footsteps I wondered whether they came for me.”

“My darling Kate, my dearest Kate, none shall harm you now, for Thomas will be at your side…as long as we both shall live.”

“It is so wonderful, my darling. I think I shall die of happiness.”

“Die! Ye shall not! You have done with death. Kate, we shall marry soon…this very week.”

“Now let us talk seriously.”

“I speak with the utmost seriousness. I’ll brook no delay.”

He lifted her in his arms while she laughingly begged to be put down. “For if we were seen, I know not what would be said or done against us.”

He refused to release her. He sat on a stool and held her against him.

“Nothing will be done against us, Kate. None would dare.” He was about to outline the advantages of a marriage between them, to explain how the little King would be as butter in their hands; but at such moments it was wiser to talk of love and nothing but love. If he was a reckless statesman, experience had made him a perfect lover; and in any case, love between them was a very pleasant topic.

“I am a most impatient man, Kate.”

“I am an impatient woman where you are concerned. But, Thomas, I am as yet unready. I have nightmares still.”

“You need me beside you to comfort you.”

“I dream…”

“Forget those dreams. Let us talk of others…when you and I shall be married.”

“The earliest would be May.”

“May! Three whole months away!”

“We dare not before.”

“Who says I dare not when I will?”

“My dearest…” But he stopped her protests with kisses while his thoughts were racing on.

“A secret marriage,” he murmured in her ear.

She caught her breath. “No. No. It would be dangerous.”

“May, for our official ceremony then,” he went on. “But I shall visit you. I shall come by night.”

“No, Thomas.”

But he insisted: “Yes.”

“You will ride out to Chelsea after dark? No, Thomas, I forbid it.”

“But I shall forbid you to forbid it when you are in my arms.”

“Across the fields…over Bloody Bridge?”

“Why not?”

“At night! It is most dangerous.”

“So you think I could not defend myself?”

“I know you are the bravest, the strongest…”

“Yes,” he said. “I shall come. For I cannot wait till May.”

“No, no.”

“But yes!” he cried; he laughed and she could not help but laugh with him.

There had never been happiness like this in the whole of her life. Her widow’s hood lay on the floor—a symbol of her freedom. She knew that she would deny him nothing, for there was no happiness for her apart from him.

And when Thomas rode away from the Dormer Palace he was affianced—though as yet in secret—to the widow of a King not four weeks dead.

From one of the windows, the Princess Elizabeth watched him ride away. She tossed back her hair and smiled secretly.

He had called at the Palace in the hope of catching a glimpse of her, she was sure; he was pretending to be piqued because she had not accepted his proposal.

She danced round her room, pausing to admire herself in a mirror. She thought how enchanting she looked and of the months ahead when the Lord High Admiral would continue to woo her.

THE SPRING HAD COME to England. Daisies starred the fields, and the marsh marigolds, with the celandines, made a gold pattern along the banks of the river. Then came April, and the wild violets bloomed beneath the trees in Chelsea village.

Elizabeth was waiting for Thomas to act. There were occasions when she felt that she cared for nothing but to be with him and listen to his wooing.

Kat Ashley watched her.

“It is the coming of the spring, my lady,” she said. “Guard yourself, for in the spring fancy runs riot.”

“Mine never would,” declared Elizabeth.

The days were fully occupied. There were regular lessons of many hours’ duration. Elizabeth was studying now under the very distinguished and learned William Grindal who confessed himself astonished at her scholarship. Katharine conferred with William Grindal on her stepdaughter’s studies; but there was a remoteness about the Dowager Queen which Elizabeth did not understand. She was less important as the King’s widow than she had been as his wife; yet never had she looked so contented with life as she did now.

Elizabeth had seen Thomas now and then, although he made no special effort to meet her. It seemed as if he no longer thought of her as anyone but the late King’s daughter, and sister to the present one. But she fancied she caught a reminder of the old gleam in his eyes, and she guessed that he still wanted her. He was chagrined by her refusal. Arrogant Thomas! He thought any woman ready to submit to him. He had to learn that a Princess—who might one day be Queen—was no ordinary woman.

Avidly she learned all she could learn of the histories of England, France and Spain; and she imagined herself in a place of high state, governing countries. Two pictures dominated her dreams; one was of herself in the jeweled raiment of a Queen with her ministers about her, accepting her merest word as law; in the other she was lying under a hedge, as a serving woman might, and Thomas was beside her.

So passed the weeks with her stepmother at Chelsea.

Occasionally she went to court and saw her little brother. Edward seemed weighed down by his state duties. Whenever she saw him she thought: Kingship is too much for Edward. That which should adorn his head like a saint’s halo is but a weight he is not strong enough to carry.

What did her sister Mary think of all that was happening? Mary too, one step ahead of Elizabeth, must have her dreams. Hers were not of power and glory, of adulation, of wisdom to make her country great; her one thought was of turning England back to Rome. The clever girl who was not yet fourteen felt an inner exultation when she thought of Mary, since to force the people to what they loved not, was no way to rule, no way to keep the scepter in the hands and win the love and adulation of one’s subjects. She called to mind her father’s rule. His policy had been to destroy the dangerous men at the top and placate the mob. Already she was smiling at the people—the cottagers, the merchants and apprentices—when she went abroad. Already they were returning her smiles, liking her youthful beauty and her friendliness. “God bless the Princess Elizabeth!” they cried when they saw her. She was astute enough to know that this sign of her growing popularity must not show itself too often. It must not be known that already she was wooing the people, the common people who, those foolish ones did not fully understand, ultimately decided whether their monarchs should rule.

It was during the month of May when she made a discovery. She was lying drowsily on her bed in her apartment at the Dormer Palace; it was just on midnight, and through the slight opening where the curtains about her bed had not been pulled together, she caught a glimpse of the moonlight which flooded her room.

Suddenly she heard a sound in the grounds below. It might have been the snapping of twigs or the sound of a footfall—she was not sure; but she felt certain that someone was down there creeping stealthily about the gardens.

She remembered gossip she had heard among her women.

“They say he comes at night.”

“They say she meets him at the postern gate…and lets him into her chamber….”

Elizabeth had taken little notice. It was not unusual for a woman to have a lover, to bring him into the palace at night. She wondered now who the man was. If she discovered, she would tease the woman in the morning. She got out of bed and went to the window, creeping that she might not disturb her attendants who were sleeping in the room beyond, with the connecting door open.

She knelt on the window-seat.

Moonlight lay across the grass, and there…coming across it, was a man.

She had not been mistaken then….

She drew back suddenly in delighted terror.

He is coming to me! she told herself. How like him! He will climb the creeper to my room. And what shall I do? He will be seen. There will be scandal. I shall have to make them keep quiet…I…

She placed her hand on her heart and felt its mad beating under the thin stuff of her nightgown.

He must not come….

Yet she hoped, of course, that he would.

Then, as she watched, she knew that she need not fear his coming. She would not have to deal with a delicate situation, for she had no part in it—except that of looker-on. Another person had appeared. There was the small figure of a woman. She ran to Seymour, and he and the woman seemed to melt into one. The woman’s hood fell back exposing the head of the Dowager Queen.

Elizabeth watched their kissing, the hot blood in her face, the sweat in her palms.

“How dare he!” she murmured. “And how dare she!”

She watched them, her rage increasing. He had released Katharine now. They stood looking at each other; then he put his arm about the Queen and they turned toward the Palace.

So the Queen was taking Thomas Seymour secretly to her apartments. She was behaving, Elizabeth told herself, like any kitchen slut.

She remained kneeling at the window after they had disappeared, picturing them in the silences of the Queen’s chamber.

Her women would know, and they would keep her harlot’s secrets. Katharine Parr had always won the regard of those who served her. Doubtless Kat Ashley knew, for did not Kat make it her task to discover everything that went on? And Kat would have kept it from her mistress because she feared such news would wound her pride.

If I were Queen, meditated Elizabeth, if I were Queen of England now!

She gave herself up to thoughts of the torture she would inflict on those two.

But her rage was only temporary, for she loved them both. That was what hurt so badly. Who could help loving Katharine Parr? Ingratitude was not one of Elizabeth’s failings; she could not forget how the Dowager Queen had changed the state of the neglected princesses when she had become the King’s wife. Elizabeth must love Katharine for her virtues, while she loved Seymour in spite of his sins.

These two had betrayed her; but the Queen, of course, knew nothing of the betrayal. But he knew. He was laughing at her whose hand he had asked in marriage when he was the lover of Katharine Parr.

Elizabeth went back to her bed and tried, without success, to banish thoughts of those two together. The pictures her mind conjured up for her were so vivid. They embodied all that Elizabeth wanted for herself and dared not take, all that was denied her because of her dream of Queenship.

Her mouth grew prim. This was an insult to her father, the great King Henry. They were traitors, both of them. What if she betrayed them? What would be the fate of those two if the Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector, knew what his brother was doing with the Dowager Queen?

What if there was a child…a son! And what if they declared that son to be the late King’s! Elizabeth grew cold at the thought. She knew at that moment that her desire for the crown would always be greater than her desire for Seymour or any man.

They would not dare declare their son the King’s son. If they tried to, she would let nothing stand in her way of humiliating them…destroying them.

I could have had him, she reminded herself. Poor Katharine! She is the one who is being cheated.

She could not sleep. She lay, conjuring up more pictures of their lovemaking until the dawn came.

She was at the window, watching his hasty departure.

THE LORD HIGH ADMIRAL sought audience with the King at the palace of White Hall. This His Majesty was very willing to grant.

“A good morrow to you, my Lord Sudley,” said the King.

The Admiral bent low and kissed the little hand. Then, lifting his face which was turned away from the King’s attendants, he slowly closed one eye and almost imperceptibly jerked his head. The little King’s face flushed with pleasure. Uncle Thomas meant: Let us be alone together.

There was nothing that would please Edward more.

“I would be alone with my uncle,” he said. “Pray leave us.”

He looked fearfully at his attendants as though he suspected that they might refuse; but there were no gentlemen of great importance among them at that moment to offer that advice, proffered ingratiatingly and yet in such a manner as to imply that His Majesty—for all his titles—was but a child, and a child who was in duty bound to obey his ministers.

When they had gone, Thomas said: “And how fares the King?”

“He was not feeling well until the Lord High Admiral called to see him. That lifted his spirits mightily.”

“My dearest nephew!”

“Uncle Thomas, it is long since I have seen you.”

“You are so guarded now, continually surrounded by your counselors. There seems hardly room for poor Uncle Thomas.”

“There is always room for Uncle Thomas.”

“Tell me, what money does Your Grace need?”

“I will show you. I have written out what I need and what I owe.”

“Then let Uncle Thomas take care of that.”

“Dear Uncle, it seems so strange. I am a King, and yet I have to do what I am told. I am kept short of money, and I have my tutors who call me ‘Majesty’ and yet hint at stern punishment if I fail in my duties.”

“Be of good cheer. To be a King is a great honor. But more so when the King is no longer a boy. Now if you were a man like myself or like your father…”

“How I wish I were! Yes…like my father, so that I only had to raise an eyebrow to have everyone trembling. How fares my mother? Have you seen her? It seems long since I have. I often think of the days when she would spend long hours with us…my sister Elizabeth and Jane Grey…while we were at our lessons. I miss them all sorely.”

“They are all well. They miss Your Majesty.”

“It seems a sad thing to be a King and not to have those you love about you. Oh yes, I would I were like my father.”

“Marry! He was a boy once. Soon your boyhood will be over, dear Edward. You will be a man; you will marry a wife…and, if you are like your father, mayhap six.”

The little King smiled sadly. “One would suffice for me.”

“You are wise, dearest Majesty. I myself would be happy with a wife, I am thinking.”

“It surprises me that you have not one. You are no longer young and, from all I have heard, the ladies are fond of you.”

“My lord King, if you were to command me to marry a wife, then I should have no excuse for remaining single.”

“I? Command you? Dearest Uncle, what do you mean?”

The Admiral’s eyes were alert. He loved the boy; indeed he did; and he was enjoying this moment. He had committed a great indiscretion. He had married the Dowager Queen, although her husband had been dead little more than three months. It was, to say the least, a great breach of court etiquette; he was not sure that it would not be regarded as a crime. The Council would be furious at his conduct, and he needed the approval of the King.

“If you were to choose a wife for me, whom would you choose? Think carefully, dearest nephew. When I was your age I used to imagine the people I loved best, married to one another. Just tell me; if you could pick a bride for me, on whom would you decide?”

Edward smiled. Like many whose minds are heavily burdened with learning, his humor was a little childish. He shut his eyes.

“I must think of a lady of your own age,” he said. “The lady must be one whom I love as much as I love you. There is only one grown lady whom I love as I love you.”

“Then you should command me to marry her, Sire.”

“How can I do that, my lord?”

“You are the King. Your Majesty has only to command. Tell me her name, Sire.”

“It is my stepmother, the Queen.”

“But…I love her. How did you know? Your Majesty, you are most astute! If I might choose from all the ladies in this land…nay, in all the world, I would choose Queen Katharine. So Your Grace commands me to marry her?”

“Yes,” said the King. “I do.”

Seymour knelt and kissed his hand.

“And none dare disobey the King’s command!” he said with a wink, and they laughed together.

“I shall be glad,” said Edward, “when I have a wife.”

“I know the very one for you. I know the lady of your choice.”

“Who then?”

“The Lady Jane Grey.”

“I love her dearly,” admitted Edward. “It would be wonderful to have her with me always. I am so lonely sometimes.”

“I cannot command Your Majesty to marry, as Your Majesty commands me.”

“But if you could, Uncle Thomas, would you command me to marry Jane?”

“I would, dearest nephew. But as I cannot, I will do everything within my power to bring about the match.”

“How will you do that?”

“As yet I cannot say. But, by God’s precious soul, I will do my utmost. There! You have my oath on it.”

They laughed together and the pleasant interview continued until some of the King’s ministers demanded an audience.

Seymour left, promising the King to return soon. He was pleased with the results of his little game. He had received the King’s consent to his marriage; and it would certainly be in the interests of the Reformed Party, to which, for political reasons the Seymours belonged, to have the King married to Lady Jane Grey, for little Jane had been brought up in the reformed faith, and the Catholic influence must be suppressed.

Seymour’s thoughts were merry as he rode to Chelsea to spend the night with his wife.

WHEN THE COURT HEARD the news of the marriage of the Dowager Queen and Lord Sudley it was deeply shocked.

Both the Admiral and the Queen were in disgrace.

This was the worst breach of royal etiquette since Mary Tudor, Henry’s sister, had married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, in such haste after the death of her husband, the King of France. It was remembered that Henry the Eighth had married Katharine Parr quite as soon after the death of Lord Latimer, but he was a King and all-powerful. Such as the Admiral and Katharine Parr should be taught that they could not take the law into their own hands.

Seymour pleaded that he had the King’s consent.

Edward said with dignity that this was so. He had desired the marriage; and, supported by and supporting the two people he loved so dearly, he took on new dignity and authority. He was the son of his father when he told the Council that he approved of the marriage and that it would be as well for the gentlemen to remember that he was their King.

The most furious person at court—with the exception of Elizabeth, who had taught herself to keep quiet when it was necessary to do so—was Anne Stanhope, Duchess of Somerset, the wife of the elder Seymour brother.

She had hated Katharine Parr ever since the death of the King.

It was ironical, she declared, it was ridiculous that the woman should take precedence of her. She was the wife of the Protector, the true governor of England; and because of Katharine Parr’s marriage to the late King, she was the first lady in the land. The Duchess recognized that the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth, and the King’s divorced wife, Anne of Cleves, must have precedence; that was understood. But that Katharine Parr, who was now but the wife of her husband’s younger brother, should do so, was monstrous.

She faced her husband when she heard the news and, though fully acquainted with her turbulent moods, never had Edward Seymour seen her so furious.

“The Dowager Queen!” she cried. “And who is this Dowager Queen? Katharine Parr! King Henry the Eighth married her in his doting days when he had brought himself so low by his cruelty and his lust that no lady of honor would venture near him. And I…I, my lord, must give place to her! Once she was Latimer’s widow; now she is the wife of your brother…your young brother…and yet she is placed above me. Methinks we shall have to ask Master Admiral to teach his wife good manners. And if he will not, then I swear I will.”

The astute Protector, both calm and cold, ever ready to see an advantage and be on the spot to take it a second or two before a rival could do so, was yet gentle with his Duchess.

“Anne,” he pleaded, “be calm. Nothing can be done at this moment. You must accept this state of affairs. She has married Thomas, and, no matter what we do, we cannot prevent that.”

“Do you not see that your brother Thomas has done this that he may become more powerful than you are?”

“I am watchful of him,” he answered serenely.

“With the Queen his wife, and the two of them preparing to mold the King, what might they not do?”

“The King is in our care. Thomas may be his uncle, but so am I. And I am the elder.”

“You have been sterner with him than Thomas has. Thomas has bribed him with gold, and bemused him with charm. Beware of your brother.”

“I am wary, dearest Anne. I am ever watchful. Thomas knows how to charm people, but there his accomplishments end. He is a fool, that brother of mine.”

“His charm has brought him much. It has already brought him the Queen.”

“I fear neither Thomas nor his Queen. I and my Duchess will be a match for them.”

She smiled. They were together in all things, bound by affection and ambition. To her he was not cold and ruthless; to him she was not proud and haughty.

“My dear,” he said, “this matter of marriage has set me thinking. What would you say to our daughter Jane’s marrying the King? It would not be the first time a Jane Seymour sat upon the throne.”

The Duchess flushed with pleasure. “Our daughter…Queen of England!”

He kissed her cheek.

“You would like that, eh? And what do you say to the Lady Jane Grey for our son?”

She seized his hand and pressed it. “Our daughter a Queen!” she repeated. “Our son married to one who is not so very far from the throne. My lord husband, there are glorious days ahead for us.”

“There, my love, you see we are doing well. Do not let us begrudge Thomas his Queen.”

She looked momentarily grave. “He has his Queen; he has his influence with the King; and our daughter is not yet Queen of England, our son not betrothed to the Lady Jane Grey. Methinks that Thomas should be shown he cannot flout the Protector’s authority.”

“How should we show our displeasure?”

“By confiscating all the jewelery which King Henry gave to Katharine Parr. It is not in truth her property now, because it belongs to the crown; and you, as Protector, are responsible for it.”

He looked at her slyly. “Much of it would become you, my dear.”

“That it would! But I could not wear it—and should your younger brother’s wife be adorned with jewels that I may not wear?”

He put his arm about her waist. “Why, indeed,” he said, “should my brother’s wife wear jewels which mine cannot!”

TO SOME IT MIGHT have seemed difficult to concentrate on lessons; this was not the case with the young Elizabeth. Hurt and humiliated she had been, but there were times when she could completely banish that humiliation from her mind. She could welcome what had happened with Seymour as an experience from which she could learn much; and one thing she had learned was that no amount of study could give a Princess that knowledge of human nature which was perhaps more desirable than any other. A good understanding of the people would be the first requirement of one who planned to rule them.

So, even while she wept, while she gave herself up to silent rages, she could not be altogether angry with the newly married pair.

She was determined to face the truth. Katharine was in love with Thomas Seymour, and she did not see him as the avaricious philanderer; therefore it would be folly to feel anger against the Queen. As for Thomas, he was still Thomas; and she had never believed him to be a saint.

She must be calm; she must try to understand the motives behind people’s actions, she must therefore welcome all experience, however bitter.

Her servants were her friends; she had never to ask them in vain for any special service. Her appealing youthfulness, her dangerous position, that troublous childhood through which she had passed, touched them deeply and bound them to her. Moreover, although she could at times be more imperious than any, she could also show the utmost familiarity. She was loyal to them and defended them always if they were in any trouble. These qualities bound them to her, and if she knew the secret of the bonds, that did not make them less secure.

Her cofferer, Thomas Parry, had not hesitated to betray the Admiral to her. When the news of Thomas’s marriage to the Queen was bruited abroad, Parry had looked sly, and Elizabeth, sensing this, demanded to know why.

“My lady Princess,” said Parry, “he has married the Queen, but to my mind he was hoping for the Princess.”

She could not hide her satisfied smile. “Master Parry, why do you say that?”

“It is because of what happened the day after the King’s burial.”

“And what was that?”

“My Lord Admiral sought me out and put to me many questions concerning your ladyship.”

“Questions! And how dared you discuss me with the Admiral!”

“’Twas not your ladyship so much as your possessions, and doubtless he thought I would be the person most fitted to inform him in such matters.”

“My possessions!”

“Yes, he would know what lands and estates were yours, and methinks he was well pleased with what was coming to you.”

The Princess’s eyes narrowed and she laughed immoderately.

“The Admiral is a very cautious man, Tom Parry.”

“Indeed, yes, my lady. But methinks he has a fondness for your person which equals that for your lands.”

“My stepmother’s possessions were greater than mine, and her person more charming?”

She waited, and Parry, being so fond of her, could not disappoint her.

“The possessions, yes, my lady; but how could the charms of a middle-aged lady compare with those of a young girl…and a young girl who…” He paused.

“Who…? What were you about to say, Master Parry?”

“A young girl who is acknowledged to be a beautiful Princess.”

She held her head very high. “But you flatter me,” she said. “I did not come to you for flattery.”

Then she left him, and Parry looked after her, smiling. She could not deceive him. He had seen the heightened color, the flash of her eyes. He judged that if she had refused my Lord Admiral—as Kat Ashley had told him she had—she had been in two minds about him. Seymour was a man who knew how to charm the women.

Parry would lose no time in telling Mistress Ashley of their Princess’s words. They were a pair of gossips; and since their little Princess’s welfare was so near their hearts, they enjoyed, more than anything, discussing her actions.

“God bless her!” said Parry aloud. “The sly, conceited little Princess. God bless her! May she come to greatness, and I doubt not that she will, with her pretty, cunning ways.”

Elizabeth went on, feeling just a little piqued that Seymour had asked such questions concerning her property. She could understand his asking those questions; they were such as she herself would have put; and she, like Seymour, would have been influenced by the answers. Such a Princess, determined on practical behavior, could not, therefore, entirely blame Thomas Seymour for making such inquiries.

She remembered now those occasions when they had met since his marriage. He had kissed her with lingering tenderness and his eyes had shown traces of passion when they rested upon her.

We understand each other, they seemed to imply. We are of a kind, made for each other. What a little fool you were to refuse me! Are you realizing that now?

She did understand him. He was a man who could love two women at the same time, for there was no mistaking his tenderness when his eyes rested on his wife. At the same time he could desire Elizabeth.

She also was capable of two loves. One for Seymour and one for power.

They were alone together, a few weeks after the marriage had been announced. She had been walking near the Dormer Palace, and he came upon her when she had eluded her attendants and had walked near Blandels Bridge.

She believed he had seen her and followed her; it was because of this that she had slipped away from her attendants.

“This is a happy meeting,” he said, catching up with her as if by chance near a clump of trees which would provide a screen and protection against prying eyes.

“Happy for whom?” she asked. “For you, my lord, or for me?”

“Dare I hope, for us both? I have seen little of you in these last few months.”

“’Twas two days ago, my lord, that we met.”

“I mean alone,” he said with that low caressing note in his voice which, in spite of her knowledge of him and herself, could not fail to thrill her.

“Alone?” she said, looking about her as if surprised to find herself unattended.

“How beautiful you are!” he said. “As beautiful as this May morning. The year is in its springtime and so are you.”

“My lord, your flatteries fall on deaf ears.”

“And what has befallen your royal ears that they are deaf to flattery?”

“Do not mock me, I beg of you.”

“It is sometimes easy to hide deep feelings behind mocking words.”

She could see the bluebells under the trees bowing in the faint breeze, and she fancied they were the men and women of England bowing to her greatness, reminding her of her royalty. But she could smell the May flowers and see the budding and blossoming of the trees; the sun was warm on her face; she felt reckless because there was spring in the air.

She could not resist dallying with him, luring him on to flirtation, that most pleasant of all pastimes, allowing him to give her those toys for which she most longed—fl attery and admiration—showing her that if she had not yet the power for which she longed as a Queen, she had the subtle power of an attractive woman.

“I could not take you seriously when you speak of deep feelings,” she said.

He tried to seize her hand.

“My Lord Admiral,” she went on, “methinks you forget the respect due to me. You find me here unattended and you forget.”

“I forget everything,” he said, “but that you and I are here…alone together.”

“Thus speaks the bridegroom?” she said, lifting her eyes to his, mocking and inviting. “The bridegroom of a few weeks! Or is it longer? Methinks you may have become my stepmother’s bridegroom before ever you went through the ceremony of marriage with her.”

“You’re a saucy wench!” he said with a laugh.

“My lord, how dare you!”

“I would dare much with you, my lady; and methinks you invite me to the daring.”

“I would be alone. I give you leave to retire.”

“Your eyes invite me to stay, Princess.”

“How dare you treat me thus…because you find me here alone and unprotected?”

The Admiral laughed. She was as fond of make-believe as her father had been. She wished to play the part of the pursued and reluctant maiden.

“You’ve a droll little face,” he said. “And I have a weakness for red hair.”

He held a lock of it in his hands and, bending his head, swiftly kissed it.

She pushed him away; she now wished to play the haughty Princess, for she would not let him think she could easily forget that he had humiliated her deeply.

“What dost think the Queen, my stepmother and your wife, would say if she knew that, scarce had the King been dead a week, you were suggesting marriage with me?”

“Have you not told her, then?”

“You must be very sure of your charms, my lord, since you think that I might have told her that, and she still remain so affectionate toward you that she would consent to become your wife.”

“I am sure of them,” he said; and bending his head swiftly, he kissed her lips.

She gasped, but her flush betrayed her enjoyment.

“Aye,” he went on, mocking her, “and not only am I sure that I can charm the Queen…but others also.”

“I could carry tales of this to the Council,” she said threateningly.

“You could, my Princess.”

“And you would suffer for it.”

“And you would not? They would say: ‘And how came the Lady Elizabeth to be alone in such a place with the Lord Admiral, her step-father?’”

“Why should she not be…if her attendants had left her?”

“Certainly she could be…if she had eluded her attendants.”

“You presume too much, sir.”

“I would I might presume more.”

Her defenses dropped suddenly; he had that effect upon her. She said in a pathetic voice: “You asked my hand in marriage, and then you must have gone straight to my stepmother and made similar protestations of love.”

“You refused me,” he reminded her.

“I could not marry without the consent of the Council.”

“Nor could the Queen…but she did.”

“You did not seek to marry for love, My Lord Admiral.”

“That is just what I did.”

“When you asked me, or my stepmother?”

“When I asked you both.”

“You thought I should be the better prize. Was that why I had the honor of the first proposal?”

“Why do you ask? I see in your eyes that you believe yourself to be the greatest prize in the world. You respect me for my wit; therefore you must know that I could not fail to recognize that prize.”

“You are a bold man, Admiral.”

“You are a bold Princess. Is that why we like each other, do you think?”

“Have a care, my bold Admiral.”

“I will, my bold Princess. You must have a care. Even more than I perhaps, you must take care.”

She stepped away from him. “I beg of you to cease this unmannerly conduct toward me.”

He smiled ironically. “My lady Princess, you may be sure that I will follow your wishes in that respect, whatever they may be.”

She walked away from him, back through the meadows to the Palace. Her cheeks were flushed and her spirits high.

She was pleased, for she was now rid of the tiresome problem of considering a marriage which would be far beneath her; and at the same time she need not dispense with the handsome gentleman’s wooing.

KATHARINE PARR WAS ANGRY with her brother-in-law and his wife.

Anne, Duchess of Somerset, had refused point-blank to carry her train. She had said insulting things about her sister-in-law, pointing out that it was unseemly for the wife of the Protector to pay homage to his younger brother’s wife.

Lady Herbert called at Seymour Place to see the Queen; she was vaguely worried about the attitude of the haughty Duchess.

Katharine embraced her sister warmly. Anne Herbert studied Katharine and found it difficult to believe that this happy woman was the same one who had almost died of terror less than a year ago.

“There is no need to ask how you are,” said Lady Herbert. “It is writ on your face.”

“I am well, sister. And you? And my Lord Herbert?”

“Both well, Kate. It is wonderful to see you thus.”

“Oh, Anne, I never thought to come to such happiness. It seems now that everything I suffered has been worth while, since I could never have appreciated this to the full had I not known great misery.”

“You deserve all the happiness in the world. And my lord, your husband?”

“He is well and as happy as I am.”

“May God preserve your happiness,” said Anne Herbert; and she said it fervently, for she was not so inclined to believe in the fine qualities of Thomas Seymour as was Katharine. There were too many well-authenticated stories concerning his light behavior, his ambitions, and the schemes he had once laid to bring about a union with the Princess Elizabeth. She wondered whether she should warn her sister, but when she remembered that terrible melancholy which she had previously witnessed, she could not spoil, by one word of warning, this unsullied happiness which her sister was now enjoying.

“I think,” said Lady Herbert, “you are so happy that you do not care that there is all this pother about the royal jewels.”

“I do not care for the jewels,” said Katharine. “Marry, I am happier without them than I ever was with them. But I am angry that my sister-in-law should give herself such airs. I believe she would like to wear the jewels herself.”

“Indeed she would. She fancies herself a Queen, I doubt not.”

Katharine laughed. “Thomas cares not a jot for my Lord Protector.”

“He should, Kate. The Protector and his wife are very powerful now. Dearest sister, you have come through great dangers. For the love of God, do not court more.”

“I court danger! Never, Anne. I do not care for these jewels. Do I need jewels to make me happy? When I was the King’s wife, those precious gems were mine. But was I happy then? Oh, Anne, you know the answer to that.”

“Then, Kate, why is there so much noisy talk about them?”

“Thomas thinks that his brother and his wife humiliate me by holding them back.”

“Ah…. Thomas!”

Katharine smiled. “He is so angry when any fail, as he says, to respect me. He says I am too gentle…with others. He says it is a goodly thing that I have his strong arm to protect me, and his wits to work for me. He is always saying that he will put his fists to the ears of any that harm me.”

“Lovers’ talk!” said Anne Herbert.

“It is…and he means it. He looks so fierce when he says those words that I must coax him back to a merry mood.”

“I do not think he would put his fists to the Lord Protector’s ears.”

“He would try to do it…if he thought the need arose. I know my Thomas.”

“If he is reckless, Kate, it is for you to be cautious. Why, to marry him when you did…and to let him visit you at night! My dear, there were rumors about you two before the marriage was announced.”

“I know.” Katharine laughed indulgently. “Thomas cares for nothing. He said he lost me once and was not going to lose me again.”

“Is it true that you were affianced to him within a week of the King’s burial?”

“Oh, Anne, pray do not ask me such questions.”

“That was very dangerous. It is said that if you had had a child, it might not have been known whether its father was Thomas or the King.”

“You know I should not have allowed that to happen.”

“Yet it is what people say.”

Katharine shrugged her shoulders. She was too happy to consider any termination of her present state.

“Anne,” she said, “how I long for a child! Do you think I am too old?”

“You are thirty-six, Kate.”

“I know. But I long to bear Thomas’s child.”

“You would need to take great care of yourself.”

“I should. I pray each night that I may have a child, and I have a feeling that my prayers will be answered.”

Anne Herbert put her arms about her sister. She felt almost as fearful for her, now that she was the Admiral’s wife, as she had when she had been the King’s.

Then, thought Anne, she was prepared for disaster; now she is prepared only for bliss.

“God keep you well, Kate. God keep you happy.”

“There are tears in your eyes, Anne.”

“Are there, sister? It is because I am moved to see you so happy. Is it possible to suffer as you have and emerge from all that horror with your belief in men still intact? I do not know how you can be so sure, dearest sister. I do not know.”

“Ah,” cried Katharine embracing her, “but then you do not know my Thomas.”

THE PRINCESS MARY had spent the months, since her father’s death, in her country manors of Wanstead and Norfolk.

This was on the advice of her friends, for her name had been mentioned freely at the time of Surrey’s execution. One of the charges against the Earl had been a proposed marriage between himself and the Princess, and some had said that Mary had been a party to what might well have been a conspiracy.

Mary had faced death at her father’s hands and had miraculously escaped it; she had no wish to court it again. She was a Catholic and she would remain faithful to Rome till her death; the King and his Council were largely of the Reformed Party. Therefore no good could come of the Princess Mary’s residence at court, it was decided by those who wished her well.

She knew that many had their eyes upon her and that, in the event of her brother’s death, greatness would be hers; and she would welcome it, not for personal reasons, but for the sake of Rome. She spent long hours at her devotions and she guarded her health that she might not fail if the call came.

It was during the month of June that she received a letter from Thomas Seymour. His marriage with her father’s widow seemed to Mary an act of the greatest impropriety and evil taste. She firmly upheld all the traditions of royalty. She had been fond of Katharine Parr, although her affections had declined since she had discovered Katharine’s interest in the new learning; now her respect for Katharine had waned still further, for she simply did not understand how any lady could have allowed herself to be persuaded to such an action.

So that when she received Thomas Seymour’s letter, she looked at it with suspicion and distaste.

He was asking her to give her blessing and sanction to his marriage with Katharine Parr.

A little late in the day! said Mary to herself. For I know full well that the marriage has already taken place, and that this happened in the month of May if not before.

She sat down and wrote a curt note to the Admiral. She thanked him for asking her sanction to his marriage; “But,” she added, “I do not think the Queen can so quickly have forgotten the King as to be ready for a further marriage. As for myself, I am a maid and not cunning in the matters of wooing. You must forgive and respect my innocence.”

She smiled as she wrote. If he could be sly, so could she. Did he think she was so cut off from the affairs of the court that she did not know he and the Queen were already married?

Then her thoughts turned to her young sister. What a terrible position for a child, to be living under the same roof with a man and woman who had so little care for the proprieties.

That should be set right.

So Mary wrote to Elizabeth, suggesting that she should come and stay with her, for she was sure that she must be most unhappy living in the house with a lady who had so recently been the wife of her father and was now the wife of another.

“See that the Lady Elizabeth receives this letter with all speed,” she said to her messenger. “I think she will welcome it. We will prepare to receive her here at Wanstead.”

But when Elizabeth read the letter she was a little perplexed. She did not wish to offend Mary by refusing the offer, yet how could she accept it? How could she shut herself away with pious Mary, spending her days in study and prayers and the working of embroidery, when life at Chelsea, or Seymour Place, or Sudley Castle offered so many delightful possibilities?

On no account could she bear to accept her sister’s invitation, and yet on no account must her refusal offend. Mary might yet be Queen and, as heiress to the throne, Elizabeth’s position would not be an easy one to hold.

I should accept, she told herself. I dare not take the slightest risk of offending Mary. Yet how can I go when every day there is a possibility of meeting Thomas?

Desire for excitement, on that occasion, triumphed over sober sense. She told herself—and perhaps this was the way in which her royal father would have reasoned—that it would be unwise to offend Thomas Seymour by suggesting she was willing to leave his roof. There was a possibility that he might be Lord Protector one day. A little accident to the elder uncle, and who would be more likely to step into his shoes than the beloved younger uncle?

No! said Elizabeth to her conscience. I must not run the risk of offending the Admiral.

She wrote a carefully worded letter to her sister, in which she said that she must submit with patience to what could not be cured. She deplored this marriage as much as did her greatly honored and well loved sister; yet she felt that to offer any objection—which her abrupt departure from her present home might appear to offer—would only make matters worse. They must not forget—her beloved sister and herself—how defenseless they were and always had been; they must remember against what a powerful party such behavior would set them. No, the only thing which they could do was to suppress their pain at the disrespect which had been shown to their royal father’s memory; and, deeply as she regretted her inability to join her sister and share the felicity of her roof, she feared that her place was here with the Queen whom her royal father had appointed as her guardian.

She smiled as she sealed the letter. She was well pleased with life. She was beginning to understand herself. She was glad Seymour had married. Unmarried, he was a menace to her prospects of power; as a bachelor he put temptation in her way, while as a married man it was quite impossible for him to tempt her to the indiscretion of marriage.

There was still left to her the pleasures of flirtation, the dangerous interlude which never quite reached the climax which he desired, and which she believed would mean little to her. She wished to travel indefinitely along erotic byways, and the only way in which she could do this was by never reaching the end of the journey.

THERE WERE HAPPY DAYS at Sudley Castle—that ancient and noble building which had come to Seymour with his title.

The surrounding parklands were enchanting, and during the summer months the bride and bridegroom dallied there. It was to be a honeymoon, so the Princess Elizabeth had not accompanied them.

Seymour was glad that she was not with them. It enabled him to give his full attention to Katharine.

They explored the castle, the park and the beautiful countryside of Gloucestershire which surrounded it.

“Did you ever dream you would be so happy in a marriage?” he asked his bride.

“Perhaps I dreamed,” she answered, “but I never knew till now that dreams came true. Thomas, I was always afraid that you would find the waiting too long…and marry someone else.”

“I would have waited ten years for you, Kate. I would have waited the whole of my life.”

He believed it. He believed that the love of the moment was the great love of his life. He had forgotten Elizabeth. Katharine was his love; he had waited years for her; he had been faithful to her; he had never thought of marriage with another; lands and possessions meant nothing to him. Thus thought Thomas Seymour during summer weeks at Sudley Castle.

They discussed their plans as they lay on the grass away from their servants and attendants—like a pair of country lovers, he said, simple people without a care in the world.

He talked to her of his plans. “We will get the jewels from my brother and his wife. We’ll not allow them to treat us so.”

“I would we could rest here for ever and never go back to court.”

“Aye, that would be a great joy to me.” But even as he said that, he could not help looking ahead to the time when he hoped to be in his elder brother’s place. “That woman rules my brother,” he went on. “She has persuaded him in this matter of the jewels.”

“And I have said that I am happier now, without the jewels, than I ever was, wearing them.”

“You are the dearest creature in the world, and I love you, Kate. You are right. What do we want with jewels…with rank…with ambition? What do we want but this?”

Then he kissed her and they lay on the grass, marveling that all this joy had come to them.

But he could not stop talking of his plans.

“The King will be thinking of marrying soon,” he said. “I cannot contemplate a happier union for him than with the Lady Jane Grey.”

“Indeed no. I had always meant her to have him. She is the dearest of girls—learned, kindly and of gentle birth. She will wear the crown with grace.”

“And she loves us…even as doth the King. But my brother and his wife have a plan of marrying their daughter to the King.”

“To little Jane Seymour! No, Thomas, that would not do. It must be Jane Grey for him.”

“So think I!”

“But why should we meddle…?”

“Dearest, there is our place at court to think of. The more power my brother builds for himself, the more he will rule us. He will be taking our houses and land ere long, to lay side by side with the royal jewelery.”

“I do not want to concern myself with our places at court now. I am happy here…I would like to stay here forever…forget everything but this.”

He smiled, tenderly sighing with her; but he was not the man to throw aside ambition because he had achieved a happy marriage.

“When we talk of these children,” she said, “I long for the children we may have.”

“I also, sweetheart.”

“And then I am afraid, Thomas. I have never had a child. I hope I may bear you one.”

He bent over her and kissed her.

“Kate, I too wish for children—sons and daughters. But I would not have you thinking of them if thinking makes you sad.”

She said: “I used to listen to the tolling of the bell. ‘Sons. Sons,’ it seemed to say to me, warning me, reminding me that if I did not give the King a son, it would toll for my death. I prayed for a child then—a royal Prince. Oh, Thomas, I used to think that if I did not have a son I should die as Anne Boleyn died.”

“I know,” he soothed her. “But that is over; that is done. That is why, much as I desire our child, I would not have you brooding on it. We have each other, Kate. If we have a child, that will be good. If we do not…we have each other.”

She took his hand and kissed it; and as they walked home, the church bells sounded a merry peal.

IT WAS SEPTEMBER, a few days after Elizabeth’s fourteenth birthday.

Lord and Lady Sudley had moved to Hanworth, and Elizabeth went with them. All through the summer days, after the newly married pair had returned from Sudley Castle, Elizabeth was becoming more and more aware of the Admiral’s watching eyes.

She was a young lady now, she believed. Fourteen seemed grownup, old enough for a girl to have a husband, if she were a Princess.

She fancied the Admiral thought so too. He had been very bold of late. It was a situation filled with danger; she was living in the household of a man and his wife, and was slightly in love with the man, and he…how much in love was he with her?

She did wish that the third person concerned was not her dear stepmother; and she wished too that the Queen was not so openly doting. Yet, thought Elizabeth, if it were not I who caught those stray glances of his, might it not be another? It would be disastrous if the wicked Admiral turned those bold glances of his on someone who did not know how to receive them in the right spirit!

She put on a gown of black velvet, and told Kat Ashley that she was going into the gardens to join the Admiral and her stepmother.

Kat Ashley protested at the dress. “My darling lady, it is too old for you. Black at your age!”

“I am grown up, Kat. Do you not realize that I am fourteen?”

“So you are, sweetheart, but you are but a girl in growth.”

“Do you not think the black suits my hair?”

“It does,” Kat admitted.

“Then it is time I began to look my age.”

Kat put her arms about her and kissed her. “Oh, my lady, I don’t want you to be grown up.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am afraid. I am afraid of when you grow up.”

“Dearest Kat, why should you be afraid?”

“Afraid for you, sweet. Now they say: ‘Oh, she is just a child…’ And they think of you as a child…of no importance.”

“But I am of importance, Mistress Ashley. I do not wish to be thought of no importance.”

“It is safer so…until…”

“Until, Kat?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Kneel and kiss my hand, then.”

She took the bracelet from her arm and put the circlet on her head.

“My lady! My lady!” cried Kat in dismay.

“There are just the two of us, so what matters it? And, Kat, you are not to gossip of it.”

“No, my lady.”

Elizabeth took Kat’s ear and pinched it hard. “You gossip too much with Master Parry.”

“Oh, my ear! It hurts. Stop, you wild cat. Stop…Your…Your Majesty!”

They began to laugh, and the bracelet fell to the floor.

“A bad sign!” said Elizabeth, growing pale.

“Nonsense!” cried Kat, sprawling on the floor to recover the bracelet. “Here, let me put it on your wrist…where it belongs. Bless you, my love. God preserve you.”

“Kat, you foolish woman! You’re crying.”

“I love you, darling, and that’s the truth. So much that I am sometimes afraid.”

“I know what you’re afraid of. You think of her of whom we never speak. Kat…I want to talk of her now…and then, afterward…never again. Am I like her?”

“No.”

“She was beautiful, was she not?”

“She had more than beauty.”

“That did not save her. All that charm and all that beauty…it did not save her from the sword.”

“She was wild and full of levity,” said Kat, “and many men loved her. The King was among them. They say he never loved any as he loved her. But that did not save her.”

“She was raised to be a Queen…raised quickly, and quickly put down. But I would be Queen in my own right. I am a King’s daughter. Remember that.”

“I remember it, my lady.”

“And if I will wear a black velvet dress, then I will wear a black velvet dress.”

“Yes, my lady, but that does not mean I shall say I like it.”

“Why do you not like it, Kat?” Her tone was wheedling.

“It makes you look too old.”

“Too old for what?”

Kat Ashley shook a finger at the Princess. “Take care, my lady. You know what I mean. When I see the glances he gives you, I tremble.”

“Oh, Kat…so do I! But have no fear. I am not so charming as she was…and although I have some levity, it is not as great as hers. Many men will love me, Kat, but none shall ever betray me.”

And with that she went sedately out of the room and down into the gardens.

There she found the Admiral and her stepmother walking under the trees.

The Admiral bowed ironically as he watched her approach. Katharine smiled, giving no sign that Elizabeth, as far as she was concerned, made an unwelcome third.

How can she remain in ignorance of those glances? wondered Elizabeth. She looked haughtily at the man, to show him that she did not approve of such looks…when his wife was present.

“Why,” said Thomas, with mock dignity, “it is the Lady Elizabeth. And how think you she looks this day, Kate?”

“Very well and very charming,” said Katharine.

“I think not,” said Thomas. “I like not her gown.”

Elizabeth answered pertly: “Indeed, and do you not? I did not know it was the duty of a stepfather to approve his daughter’s gowns.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “The responsibility of a father toward his daughter through marriage is great; and the more so when she is a Princess, and a Princess who dares parade her charms in a black velvet gown.”

“I care not that you do not like my gown,” said Elizabeth, turning away. “My mother does, and that is enough for me.”

But as she turned, Thomas had caught her. He seized her by the shoulders and pulled her roughly round to face him.

“How dare you?” cried Elizabeth, flushing hotly. “How dare you treat me thus!”

Katharine’s innocent laughter rang out.

“He teases you, my dear. Thomas, you should not tease her so. It is too much teasing, now that she grows up.”

“But, my love, she needs to be teased out of her haughtiness. What do you think of this black gown, Kate? ’Twere as though she mourns someone. Does she mourn someone? Do you know, Kate?”

“Nay, she wears black because it becomes her. And it does, Thomas. You must admit it does.”

“I admit nothing. She mourns someone. Some secret lover, is it? Why, the girl blushes.”

“I do not! I do not!” cried Elizabeth.

“Let her go, dearest,” said Katharine. “I believe she is really angry.”

“Then she must learn that she must not be angry with her stepfather, who is a very loving stepfather. The wicked child hides secrets from us. Who is this lover whom you mourn? Come, Princess. Confess.”

Elizabeth twisted from his grasp, but, as she did so, her gown was torn, exposing her shoulders. She knew that he had deliberately torn it.

“She hath a tolerably white skin,” said Thomas. “Hath she not? Methinks it is a pity to hide such sweetness under this ugly black cloth.”

“You have torn it,” cried Elizabeth, “and you will have to pay the cost of a new one.”

“You see how avaricious she is!” He caught her skirt as she would have run away.

Katharine began to laugh. “Oh, Thomas, you must not be so childish. You play such games. Are you really a man or just a boy?”

“Do not heed him,” said Elizabeth. “He must amuse himself. It is naught to me that he doth not like my gown. It is naught to me that he hath torn it, since he must provide me with a new one.”

“Undutiful!” cried Thomas, lifting her skirts. “Oh, most undutiful!”

They were both tugging at her skirt, and the stitches gave way.

“Would you then tear the clothes from my back?” she demanded. “Here…in the gardens?”

“I would,” he said.

Her eyes were shining; her mouth was laughing. She could not help it if she loved to play thus with him. It was so safe, with Katharine standing by; it was safe and yet so dangerous. This was the part of courtship which was most enjoyable.

Katharine was quick to see her amusement. Is she completely blind? wondered Elizabeth. Did she not know this man she had married?

He had turned to her now. “Kate,” he said, “help me…help me tame this wild cat. We’ll teach her to parade our gardens in black cloth.”

“Thomas…Thomas…have a care,” laughed Katharine.

“Whose side are you on?” demanded Elizabeth. “His or mine?”

“On mine, of course!” cried Thomas. “Hold her, Kate. Hold her, I say. Take her arms and stop her fighting, and I will show you what we will do with her.”

Katharine obediently ran behind Elizabeth and put her arms about her.

“No,” said Elizabeth.

And “Yes,” said the Admiral.

He had taken the jeweled dagger from his belt and, his eyes gleaming with desire for her, he slashed at her skirt with the dagger; he put his hand in the neck of her bodice and ripped it down the front, so that she stood there in her silken petticoats, flushed and laughing, and loving him, exulting in the feelings she could arouse in him.

“Thomas!” cried the Queen. “What have you done?”

He had his hand on Elizabeth’s bare shoulder.

“I have taught our daughter a lesson, I hope.”

“She should not stand here thus. It is most improper.”

“Aye!” he said. “Most improper. But she must not come parading herself in her black gown, looking like a grown-up Princess. She must not blush when we question her as to her secret lover.”

“Elizabeth, run in quickly,” laughed the Queen. “I pray none sees you.”

Elizabeth wrenched herself free. She heard their laughter behind her.

The Admiral put his arm about his wife.

“Dearest,” said Katharine, “how I long for a child! And if I am an even more fortunate woman than I count myself already, how that child will love you! Why is it that you, who are so bold, so much a master of men, a great sailor and statesman, know so well how to amuse children?”

“And is the Princess such a child?”

“Indeed yes. Did you not see how she enjoyed your game?”

“She did, did she not,” said the Admiral somberly; and he tried to forget the passion Elizabeth aroused in him, in his tenderness for Katharine.

KAT ASHLEY ASKED if she might have a word in private with the Admiral.

“My lord,” she said, when they were alone, “I trust you will forgive my impertinence, if impertinence it is.”

“I would hear it first,” said Thomas.

“The Lady Elizabeth came in from the gardens this day—her dress cut away from her, her skin bruised by rough handling.”

“And you, Mistress Ashley, witnessed our play from one of the windows?”

“You know that?”

“I know Mistress Ashley,” he said wryly.

“It is my duty to look after my young lady.”

“That is so.”

“My lord, I beg of you to forgive me, but if any but myself had seen what happened in the gardens this day…”

“Well, Mistress Ashley, what then?”

“They…they might think it unseemly for a Princess so to behave and…and for a gentleman such as yourself….”

“Bah, Mistress Ashley, there was nothing in it. It was but play.”

“That I know, my lord, but others have thought differently.”

“Rest happy, Mistress Ashley; there is no harm done.”

“I trust not, my lord.”

“Your Princess is well able to look after herself, were that necessary. The Queen joined in the play, remember.”

“I know, my lord. But a dress…to be cut off a young lady in such a manner!”

“Never fear. She insists that I pay for another dress. You see, your Princess knows well how to guard her interests.”

The strange thing was, mused Kat Ashley afterward, that when you were with him, you believed all he said. He became the benign stepfather, anxious to make a happy home.

But what should be done? wondered Kat.

He must be right. All was well, because it was true that the Queen, his wife, was present.

THE MARQUIS OF DORSET called at Seymour Place in response to an invitation from the Lord High Admiral.

Dorset was the father of Lady Jane Grey, and he guessed that he had been invited to discuss her future, for he had been warned of this by Sir John Harrington, a friend and servant of the Admiral.

Dorset was warmly received, and Thomas made a point of dismissing all servants before he began to speak.

“My Lord Dorset,” he said, “you have some inkling of why I have asked you to call?”

“I understand it concerns my elder daughter.”

“The Lady Jane is a charming girl—accomplished, beautiful, and of your noble House. We agree on that matter, and I doubt not that we could agree on others.”

Dorset was not displeased. He was himself a member of a great house, but none but a fool like Surrey would refuse a chance of linking himself with one of the Seymour brothers. It was said that young Thomas was biding his time. He was the King’s favorite, and the King would not be a minor for ever. He had already married the Dowager Queen. The Princess Elizabeth was being brought up in his household. Obviously Thomas Seymour, Lord Sudley, was already a power in the land, and was going to be of even greater importance.

Dorset was flattered.

“How so, my Lord Sudley?” he asked.

“The affairs of this country need to be closely watched, Dorset; and it is for such as you and myself to do the watching. It is ever so, when a boy King is on the throne. They are already disputing one with another in the Council.”

Dorset was becoming excited.

“I should like you to know,” went on Thomas, “that I am your friend. And as a token of friendship I should like the wardship of your daughter.”

“Why so?”

“The Queen loves her, as you know. We have often spoken of her future, and we should like to have her under our care so that she might be brought up in a royal manner, and that we might have the means of matching her.”

Dorset’s eyes glistened with excitement. “You have a match in mind, Sudley?”

“I have, sir.”

“And the future husband of my daughter would be…?”

“Cannot you guess? They love each other already. I doubt not they have made up their young minds to it.”

“You mean…the King?”

“I do, my lord.”

Dorset smiled.

“She is worthy of the match,” went on Thomas. “I know of none more worthy.”

“I have heard that the Lord Protector would match his own daughter with the King.”

“His ambition…and his wife’s, drive him hard. My lord Dorset, you might wonder that I work against my brother. But I would work first for what I believe to be right for this realm. The King has said to me—for as you know, he is my friend and I am his best-loved uncle—he has said to me that he will not have Jane Seymour, and that it is Jane Grey whom he loves.”

“You could further this match?”

“If I had the wardship of the Lady Jane, if the Queen could direct her studies…Marry, I doubt not that you will one day see her wearing the crown.”

“My Lord Sudley, I could not refuse an offer which would bring so much good to my daughter.”

The bargain was struck, and Dorset’s hopes ran high. Thomas Seymour, Lord Sudley, was his friend, and he was pleased with himself. So was Thomas who saw there would be little difficulty in bringing about this match. He was determined that he was not going to let his brother usurp the power he had with the King, by marrying him to young Jane Seymour.

Nay! The King should remain the pet of his dearest Uncle Thomas; he should continue to adore his stepmother; and the King’s bride should be a girl who was guided by Lord and Lady Sudley, and one who would love them and help them to keep in power.

So Lady Jane Grey came to live under the roof of the Admiral and the Dowager Queen.

THAT YEAR PASSED QUICKLY for Katharine. It seemed to her that her happiness had made wings which it set to the days.

Summer, autumn—and then the winter was upon them.

She went occasionally to court and spent hours in the company of the King. He had changed a little since his accession; he was growing firmer, and the Tudor in him was becoming apparent; there were occasions when he reminded Katharine of his father.

The little boy, whose mother had died when he was born, and who had known only stepmothers, and most of them briefly, had looked to the last of these for affection, and Katharine would always be his beloved mother. He had not looked in vain to her, and if he adored Uncle Thomas and was stimulated by his sister Elizabeth and loved little Jane Grey, he idolized his stepmother.

He wrote lovingly to her when they were apart and, if he was particularly pleased with some Latin verses he had written, it was his stepmother’s opinion for which he was most eager.

Katharine knew that the Duchess of Somerset was her greatest enemy, but she was too happy to worry very much about her enemies.

And when Christmas was past and Katharine was sure that that for which she had scarcely dared hope was to come to pass, she believed herself to be the happiest of women.

Thomas was delighted.

“It will be a boy,” he said.

Her face clouded, for those words brought back such terrible memories.

But Thomas understood, and he was all tenderness at once.

“But if it should be a girl,” he assured her, “then we shall doubtless discover that a daughter of my Lord and Lady Sudley is worth the son of any other pair.”

“Thomas, you are the dearest person in the whole world.”

He laughed his great booming laughter. “By God’s precious soul, I believe I must be, for you are a wise woman, Kate, and you say it.”

She took his hand and kissed it fervently. “I can never thank you enough for all you have given me. You snatched me from the dark pit of despair, of horror, and you set me here in the sunshine.”

“Speak not of those terrible days. The past is done with, Kate. Think of the future.”

She said: “I shall tell Elizabeth first. She will expect to be told. Why, she is like a daughter to us.”

He was silent then; he went to the window and stood there, looking out over the gardens of Seymour Place.

Katharine went to his side and slipped her arm through his. “Of what are you thinking?” she asked.

He was silent for a while, then he turned to her and swept her into his arms. “I love thee, Kate. I love thee…thee only,” he said.

THE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET found at this time that she also was going to have a child. She was delighted.

“I should be delivered a few weeks before your brother’s wife,” she told her husband. “It is strange, is it not, that we should both be in this condition at this time. I would not care to be in her place. This will be her first child…and she is not young.”

“It may well be dangerous at her age to have a first child,” said the Protector.

“Mayhap your brother has thought of that,” said the Duchess slyly.

Somerset looked askance at his wife. She was always bitter against Thomas, but since her pregnancy her venom seemed to have increased; she delighted in making the wildest accusations against Thomas and his wife.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

“If she died in childbirth, he would be left free for higher game.”

“You mean…the Princess Elizabeth? The Council would never allow him to marry her.”

“I was not aware that he asked the Council’s consent to his marriage with the Queen.”

“The Queen was not as important to the Council as the Princess would be.”

“It was disgraceful. Why, had she got with child a little earlier, some might have thought it was the King’s.”

“But she did not, Anne; and no one can suspect this child of being fathered by any but Thomas.”

“He plans to destroy you, Edward. You see how he plots with Dorset. He will do everything to thwart your plan of marrying our Jane to the King.”

“Yes, that he has already done, and the King grows obstinate. He grows up; he declares he will not have our daughter.”

“So Thomas plans to bring forth Dorset’s girl, and meanwhile he and the Queen are bringing her up in the way they wish her to go! Very clever! They will have both the young Queen and the King doing all they ask of them. Edward will obey his dearest Uncle Thomas…as will Jane Grey. We shall see that the most important people in this realm will be my Lord High Admiral and his Dowager Queen.”

“I believe he has done this deliberately to frustrate us.”

“Of course he has.”

“It is a sad thing when brothers cannot work together.”

“But you are the elder, Edward; and he, because he has a way of charming women and children, believes he should have your place. He thinks that the manners of Master Admiral are of greater importance to this realm than the cleverness of you, my darling.”

“Dearest Anne, calm yourself. It is bad for you to become excited.”

“I am not excited, my love. I only know that I shall not stand by and see Lord Thomas play his tricks on us. The King shall have our Jane, and Jane Grey is to marry our boy. As for Master Thomas, if he becomes too dangerous…”

“Yes?” said the Protector.

“I doubt not that you, my lord, will find some way of making him…less dangerous.”

Her eyes were wild, and her husband was at great pains to soothe her. Such excitement he knew to be bad for her condition.

But while he soothed her, he told himself that there was a good deal in what she was saying. Thomas was working against his brother, and that was something which no wise man, if he were Protector of the realm, could allow.

EARLY MORNING SUNSHINE coming through the window of Elizabeth’s bedchamber in Chelsea Palace, shone on the Princess who lay in her bed.

She was startled. She had been awakened from her sleep by the sound of the opening of her door. She would have leaped out of bed and run to her women in the adjoining chamber, but she saw that she was too late. She heard the low laughter and, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, she waited with an apprehension which was tinged with delight.

The bed curtains parted and there, as Elizabeth had known there would be, was Thomas Seymour, clad only in nightgown and slippers. He was smiling down challengingly at Elizabeth.

“How…how dare you, my lord!” she demanded. “How dare you come thus into my bedchamber!”

He drew the curtains farther apart and continued to smile at her.

“Come, Elizabeth, you know you expect me to pay this morning call. An I did not, you would be most offended.”

“It is customary, my lord, to put on conventional garb before calling on a lady.”

“What are conventions…between friends?” His eyes looked saucily into hers.

She said haughtily: “Pray go, my lord. My women will hear you. Yester-morning they were shocked because I had to run to them for protection against you.”

“And this morning,” he said, “I was determined to catch you before you could. And, my lady, am I right in believing that you were determined to be caught?”

“I will not endure your insolence.”

“What cannot be prevented must be endured.” He came closer to the bed. “May I not look in to bid my stepdaughter good morning?”

“Nay, you may not!” But she knew the sternness of her words did not tally with the merriment in her voice.

“Your eyes invite, Elizabeth,” he said; and his tone was no longer one he might use to tease a child.

“My lord…”

“My lady…”

He was kneeling by the bed, and Elizabeth laughed uneasily. He caught her suddenly and kissed her heartily on the check and sought her mouth. Elizabeth made a pretense of struggling, and this only served to encourage him.

The door opened suddenly and her stepmother came in.

“Thomas!” ejaculated Katharine.

Elizabeth dared not look at her; she knew that her face was hot with shame; she felt guilty and wicked.

Imperturbably Thomas said: “What a wild-cat is this daughter of yours, my love! Refuses to be kissed good morning by her old father. I declare she was ready to leave the mark of her nails on my face.”

Katharine laughed—the easy, pleasant laugh which Elizabeth knew so well.

“Elizabeth, my dear, my lord but meant to give you good morning.”

Elizabeth raised her eyes to her stepmother’s face, and she decided to be wise.

“That I know well,” she answered, “but I would be accorded more respect. It is not the first time he has come in, clad thus…in nightgown and slippers and drawn the curtains of my bed to laugh at me.”

“It is wrong of you both,” said Katharine, smiling lovingly from one to the other. “Tom, you behave like a boy of sixteen.”

“But hark to the child, my love. She talks of her dignity. What dignity hath a chit of thirteen years?”

“I would have you know, my lord, that I am nigh on fifteen years old.”

He bowed over her, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “I beg your pardon, Madam. You are, of course, of a great age and…”

“Tom, pray do not tease her so,” pleaded Katharine.

“God’s precious soul, but I will tease her!” He seized the bedclothes and pulled at them, while Elizabeth screamed and clung to them.

“Help me, Kate! Help me!” cried Thomas. “We’ll show this chit that she is but our daughter. We will teach her to give herself airs.”

Thomas pulled and Katharine helped him. In a few minutes the bed was stripped bare, and Elizabeth lay uncovered except for her nightdress. All three were romping in childish fashion; Katharine artlessly, the other two with a secret purpose behind their looks and actions.

“She is very ticklish, I vow,” said Thomas, and they tried to tickle her. Elizabeth wriggled. Thomas held her firmly and bade Katharine tickle her until she should beg forgiveness for her haughtiness.

Kat Ashley came in to see what the noise was about, and so the game was broken up.

“It is time you were up, Elizabeth,” said Katharine with mock severity; and she and Thomas went out, laughing together.

As for Elizabeth, she lay back in bed, smiling at Kat Ashley, who was preparing to scold her for her unseemly behavior.

“MY LORD ADMIRAL,” said Kat Ashley, “may I speak to you?”

“What, again?” said the Admiral.

“My lord, I must tell you that there is gossip about the Lady Elizabeth and…”

“And whom?”

“And yourself.”

“This grows interesting. What tittle-tattle have you heard?”

“That you and the Princess are more fond of each other than is seemly.”

“Have you then, indeed! And how many bastards are we two said to have brought into the world? Tell me that.”

Kat Ashley flushed. “My lord, there is talk that the Princess has given birth to a child.”

“Who told these lies? They shall lose their heads for this.”

“It is not known. I had it from a gossip who had it from another gossip who had heard it in the streets.”

The Admiral laughed.

“There will always be such talk, Kat. I’ll warrant our little King has fathered many a bastard, if you can believe what you hear in the streets.”

“My lord, it is not good that the Lady Elizabeth should be evilly spoken of.”

“Next time then, catch the slanderers and bring them to me.”

“And you, my lord…dare I ask that you will be a little more…restrained…in your manner to the Princess?”

“I? Indeed I will not. By God’s precious soul, I will tell my brother, the Protector, how I have been slandered. I will not curb my fun. No, I will not; for, Mistress Ashley, I mean no evil; nor does the Princess.”

And he strode away, leaving poor Kat Ashley disconsolate and wondering whither this romping would lead, and dreading that the Dowager Queen might eventually understand its real meaning. Then, she was sure, much trouble would await her reckless little Princess.

THE RUMORS CAME to the ears of the Duchess of Somerset.

She was great with the child she was expecting in August. June was hot and it was difficult to move about, so she contented herself with making plans for the future of her family.

She was growing more afraid of her husband’s brother. How she hated him, he who had charmed the King and advanced himself by marrying the Queen.

She sent for one of her serving women to come and sit beside her; she had trained this woman to keep her eyes open when in contact with the servants of her brother-in-law’s household. She was wondering whether, if it were proved that immorality was going on in that household, it would be possible to remove little Jane Grey from the care of the Sudleys and have her brought up by the Somersets.

What she had heard so far was promising.

“What heard you this morning, Joan?” she asked her woman.

“My lady, they say that the Princess and the Admiral are acting shamefully…more so than usual. He goes to her bedroom, and sometimes she runs to her women, pretending she is afraid of him, and…sometimes she does not.”

“It disgusts me,” said the Duchess with delight.

“Yestermorn he tore off her bedclothes and she lay there without them, my lady.”

“I can scarcely believe it.”

“The Queen was there. It was a game between the three of them.”

When the woman had left her, the Duchess thought a great deal about the rompings which went on in the Admiral’s household. Was he wishing that he had not married Katharine Parr? It was clear that he had hopes of the Princess. Suppose Katharine were to die, which she might well do, bearing a child at her age, and suppose the Admiral wished to marry the Princess. Suppose he asked the King’s consent. The King would refuse his beloved uncle nothing that he asked.

Her husband, the Duke, was too occupied with his parliaments and his matters of state, thought the worried Duchess, to realize what was happening. But matters of state were often decided in bedchambers. It had been so with the last King. There was no doubt that the Admiral would try for the Princess…if Katharine Parr were to die.

She would give Joan further instructions. The woman must become even more friendly with the servants in the Admiral’s household. Nothing that happened there must fail to reach the ears of the Duchess of Somerset.

BOTH ELIZABETH AND THOMAS felt that this strange, exciting and most piquant situation could not continue as it was. It must change in some way.

Katharine, who was now heavy with her child, moved about ponderously and some days kept to her bed. The glances between the Princess and the Admiral had become smoldering; each was waiting for the moment when change would come.

It happened on a hot summer’s day when they found themselves alone in one of the smaller rooms of Chelsea Palace.

As Thomas stood watching her, a deep seriousness had replaced his banter. They were no longer merely stepfather and daughter; they were man and woman, and neither of them could pretend it was otherwise.

Elizabeth was a little frightened. She had never sought a climax. She wished to go on being pursued; she wanted to remain provocative but uncaught.

She said uneasily, as she saw him shut the door and come toward her: “There are rumors about us two.”

“Rumors,” he said lightly. “What rumors?”

“They are whispering about us…here…at court…in the streets. They are saying that you and I are as we should not be…and that you come to my bedchamber.”

“What! By morning and in the presence of the Queen!”

“You must desist…or it will be necessary for me to leave your household.”

He caught her and held her fast. “I will not desist. I mean no evil.”

“If you will not desist, I must leave here.”

“You shall not go.”

“My lord…” she began weakly.

But he interrupted passionately: “Elizabeth, why did you say me nay?”

She was alarmed, and she sought to hold him off. “You loved me not,” she said shrilly. “If you did, why did you go straightway to the Queen on my refusal? Did you not turn over in your mind whether or not you could hope even for little Jane Grey? Did you ask my cofferer the extent of my possessions?”

“You know I love you,” was his only answer, “and you only.”

“I thought I was to you but a wayward child.”

“You lie, Elizabeth. You know full well what you are to me.”

“And all the rompings and teasings?”

“Were just that I might be near you…touch you…put my lips close to yours.”

She felt weak—no longer Elizabeth the Princess with her eyes on the throne, but Elizabeth in love.

She put her arms about his neck, and they kissed fervently, passionately.

Katharine had quietly opened the door and found them thus. She stood, incredulously listening to the words of love.

Suddenly they were aware of her.

Katharine, awkward in her pregnancy, her hands hanging at her sides, her eyes bewildered, stood there trying to understand this sudden disintegration of her happy existence.

Thomas was abashed; but already he was planning what he would say to her.

As for Elizabeth, even in that moment of fear and humiliation, she knew that this discovery had saved her from herself and the Admiral.

THE QUEEN PACED her apartments. She seemed almost demented. She wept, and there was nothing Thomas could say to soothe her.

She despised herself, marveled at her folly; she, who had known the agony of life with a callous murderer, had allowed herself to be deceived by a lighthearted philanderer.

“Sweetheart,” declared Thomas, exerting all his charm, all that plausibility which had never yet failed him, “’twas nothing. ’Twas but a moment of madness.”

But she would not listen. She looked at him sadly and remembered so many occasions when the truth had been there for her to see. She had held the Princess while he had cut her dress; she had helped him pull off the bedclothes; she had laughed, simply, foolishly…like a child, while those two had deceived her. And that was what they did when she was present; she had now discovered something of what they did when she was not with them.

It was too much to be borne.

Once, when she had lived near to death, she had passionately longed for life; now that she had tasted the perfect life—which had been quite false—she longed for death.

Her feelings for her husband were in a turmoil. Poignant love and bitter hatred alternated.

She did not hear his words, those glib explanations which rose to his lips so easily. She knew that some of the rumors at least were true; he had wished to marry Elizabeth and, failing the Princess, the Queen had suited his ambitions.

She begged him to leave her, and he, seeming eager to please her in all things, obeyed her wishes.

Calmness was what she needed, indifference. She must think of the child she would have; yet even such thoughts were tinged with bitterness, for so often had she pictured them all together—herself, her husband and the child. That false man, that philanderer, had always dominated any pictures she had made of the future.

When she had married the lords Borough and Latimer, she had not expected an ecstatic life; but those lords had not deceived her. When she had married the King, she had known that her life would be filled with dangers; and she had not been deceived in that. But now, that marriage which was to have brought glorious fulfillment to her life, which was to have made everything that had gone before worth while since it was to have led to perfection, was proved to be utterly false, a fabrication, a fantasy which did not exist outside her own imagination.

She must be calm. She would be calm.

KATHARINE SENT for the Princess.

Elizabeth came, shamefaced, expecting abuse. But the Queen smiled at her, not coldly, but, as it seemed, with indifference.

I cannot blame a child, Katharine was thinking. He is more than twenty years older than she is, and the fault lies with him.

She looked at the girl—this girl who stood near the throne—and she marveled at the folly of her husband. If he had seduced the Princess and there had been tangible consequences of that seduction, he would almost certainly have lost his head. He had known that, and yet he had not hesitated to run risks. Was the attraction so strong? Was the temptation irresistible?

Katharine said: “In view of what has happened, I have no alternative but to send you away.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth.

“I would prefer you to leave as soon as possible.”

Elizabeth bowed her head.

“How soon can you be ready to go?”

“In a few days’ time.”

“Then let it be done. I shall not expect to see you or any of your household by the end of the week.”

“It shall be done,” said Elizabeth.

“That is all. You may leave me now.” Katharine turned her head to look out of the window.

Elizabeth bowed and went toward the door, but there she paused.

“Your Grace,” she murmured. “Mother…”

There was an appealing note in her voice that once would have affected Katharine deeply.

Now she deliberated: Is she wondering what effect all this has had, and will have, since the King loves me as his mother? Perhaps she is going to ask me to say nothing of this to His Majesty. She need not trouble, for I doubt not that the King has heard what the whole court has heard, and that even the people in the streets are laughing at the simplicity of Katharine Parr.

She continued to stare out of the window until she heard the door quietly shut, and knew that Elizabeth had gone.

Little Jane Grey came to her as she stood there, and Katharine was glad that she had this girl with her. She put her hand on the curly head, and suddenly the tears began to fall down her cheeks.

Jane looked at her with great pity.

“Your Majesty…” she began, and she too started to cry.

The child’s tears sobered Katharine. “Jane, Jane, what is this? Why do you weep?”

“I weep to see Your Majesty so sad.”

“Then I must stem my tears, for I cannot bear to see yours. It is folly to cry, Jane. What good did tears ever do? We should be brave and strong, ready to face anything that is coming to us. Come, dry your eyes. I command it.”

And she held the girl against her while Jane began to cry wildly.

“Jane dearest,” said Katharine, “we are going to Sudley Castle. We shall stay there until my child is born. I have a desire to be a long way from the court…to live very quietly for a while. You shall be my constant companion…always with me, my little comforter. How will you like that, Jane?”

Jane put her arms about Katharine’s neck, and kissing the tearstained cheeks Katharine found some small comfort.

ON A HOT AUGUST DAY the Duchess of Somerset gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.

She was delighted. It seemed to her significant that she and the woman whom she hated more than any other should be having a child in almost the same month, for Katharine Parr’s child was due very soon.

She embraced her boy while she visualized a great future for him; but she would feel more sure of the greatness of that future if her husband did not possess such an ambitious brother.

Joan had brought her interesting news: Katharine and her household had left for Sudley Castle, where she intended to stay until after the birth of her child. The move in itself was not so strange. To what more beautiful spot than that castle could a woman retire to await the birth of her child? The strangeness was not in the going, but in the manner of going.

“My lady,” Joan had said, “there has been great trouble in the Queen’s household. It concerns the Admiral and the Princess Elizabeth.”

“That surprises me not,” said the Duchess. “The wonder is that the stupid woman did not discover, long ere this, what the rest of her household seemed to know so well. Did you hear how she took the discovery?”

“Most bitterly, my lady. Her servants said that she became hysterical, as she did before…when the King was her husband and so many thought he would have her put away from him.”

The Duchess smiled and suckled her baby.

Later she talked to her husband.

“I shall never be happy while your brother lives,” she declared.

“Would you wish his death then?”

“As I would the death of all who stood to harm you, my lord.”

“And the Queen?” he asked.

“The Queen is a foolish woman. I fear her influence, but not herself. They say she is a bitter woman who cares not whether she lives or dies. Oh, my lord, a woman in her state and of her age…who has never before had a child…”

“Yes, my love?”

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders. “I do not know. But it would not greatly surprise me if she did not survive the ordeal before her.”

“That is what you hope.”

“I like her not. But it is your brother whom I fear.”

“My dear wife,” said the Duke, “even if we proved a case against him, the King would put up a fight for his beloved uncle.”

“The King! He is but a feeble boy.”

“Feeble in body, but not so in mind. He puts on dignity with each day. If he is but a boy, he is a Tudor; and you know well the strength of his father.”

She was silent for a while, then she said: “If the Queen were to die, and it could be shown that the Admiral had helped to bring about her death, the King might not feel so kindly toward his favorite uncle.”

“Thomas bring about her death! Nay! He is a philanderer, but he would not murder his wife.”

“She is sad, I hear. She cares not whether she lives or dies. This is due to her husband’s treatment of her.”

The Protector bent over his wife to look at his newborn son.

He smiled at the Duchess, and their eyes were alight with a kindred ambition.

IN HER LYING-IN CHAMBER at the Castle of Sudley, Katharine lay, her body torn in agony. But no bodily agony could compare with the distress of her mind.

All through those pain-dazed hours she was aware of the cloud about her; she was aware that the happy life, the thought of which had sustained her through all her miseries, was nothing more than a myth and an illusion.

Thomas, waiting for the birth of his child, paced back and forth from room to room.

“No news yet? No news?” he demanded. “By God’s precious soul, how long…how long?”

Some of those who loved the Queen longed to tell her of his distress, but they knew that she would have no faith in it. She no longer believed in him; all his protestations had failed to move her. He had lied to her; he had deceived her; and she would never trust him again.

It was on the last day of August, when the heat was stifling, that Katharine’s daughter was born.

“A girl!” The words spread through the Castle.

It was a disappointment; everyone had confidently hoped for a boy. The astrologers had prophesied that there would be a son for the Admiral. He had believed that prophecy; he had gone about boasting of the son he would have, a finer, stronger, more handsome boy than the one just born to his brother’s wife.

And now…a girl!

But Thomas would not show his disappointment. Full of remorse for the hurts he had inflicted on Katharine, he longed to assure her of his love and devotion.

Elizabeth was far away at Hatfield now, and he would think only of Katharine, his beloved wife. He would make her understand that it was possible for a man such as himself to be fond of more than one woman at a time. And what, he asked himself, was his lighthearted desire for Elizabeth compared with the deep-rooted tenderness he felt for his wife?

He went to her chamber; he kissed her tenderly, and most solicitously he inquired regarding her health. He took the child in his arms and paced the apartment with her.

“Why, bless us, Kate, I’d rather this girl than all the boys in Christendom.”

But the magic failed to work now; the charm was useless. It was like a pretty tinkling toy, and she had grown out of her desire for such.

She watched him with solemn, brooding eyes.

He knelt by the bed: “Get well, Kate. Get well, sweetheart. There is no joy for me in this life if thou sharest it not with me.”

And she watched him coldly, with disbelieving eyes.

A strangeness had come to her since the birth of her child. There was a fever upon her, and she who had so passionately longed for the child, seemed now to have forgotten its existence.

She lay listless, staring about her with eyes that seemed to see nothing, to have no interest in anyone or anything.

In vain her women tried to rouse her from this terrible lethargy.

“Your Majesty, look at the beautiful little girl. See, she has your eyes. That much is obvious already.”

But she did not answer. She lay there, staring before her as though it were another woman’s child they held out to her. Little Jane Grey came to her bedside, but she did not seem to know Jane.

“What ails her?” asked the little girl.

“By my faith,” said one of the women, “I fear she will die of her melancholy.”

The doctors came, but they could not rouse her. They could do nothing to disperse her fever.

A FEW DAYS AFTER the birth of the child, Thomas came into the bedchamber, his brow wrinkled, all jauntiness gone.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “how fares it with thee now?”

She did not answer him.

“Kate…my dearest Kate, it is Thomas. Look at me, my love. Smile at me. Tell me you love me.”

She turned her head from him.

She spoke suddenly, but not to Thomas. “Lady Tyrwhit,” she cried out, “is that you?”

Lady Tyrwhit, who had been in attendance since the birth of the child, came to the bedside. She knelt and took the Queen’s burning hand in hers.

“Lady Tyrwhit, I fear such things within me that I do not think I shall leave this bed.”

Thomas knelt and took her other hand. She turned her head to look at him, but she did not seem to recognize him.

“Lady Tyrwhit,” she continued, “I am not well-handled. Those about me care not for me. Oh, I am most unhappy, Lady Tyrwhit, because those I have loved, love me not. They mock me. They laugh at my love. Mayhap they laugh now at my grief. They wait for my death that they may be with others. The more good I do to them, the less good they would do to me.”

“Sweetheart, sweetheart!” cried Thomas. “I would do you no harm.”

She spoke to him then. “I do not think you speak the truth, my lord.”

“Kate…Kate…have you forgotten how we have loved?”

“No, my lord, but you have given me some very shrewd taunts. My Lady Tyrwhit, I do not think I shall live. I do not wish to live.”

The Admiral turned appealingly to Lady Tyrwhit. “How can I comfort her? How can I assure her of my devotion?”

Lady Tyrwhit was sorry for him, even while she remembered that his conduct with the Lady Elizabeth had brought his wife to this pass.

“I shall lie on the bed beside her,” he said. “I will pacify her. I will bring back her peace of mind. I will assure her…”

“Nay,” said Katharine. “It is over now. I shall die. There is no need for me to live longer.”

“What of the love you have for me?” he cried. “What of our child?”

But she looked bewildered, as though she did not know of what child he spoke.

“I will lie beside you, sweetheart,” he said.

“No,” she said fearfully. “No!”

“She must not be disturbed so,” said Lady Tyrwhit.

Thomas stood back, helpless, filled with wretchedness and remorse.

Katharine closed her eyes.

“Leave her to sleep,” said Lady Tyrwhit. “That will restore her peace of mind better than aught else.”

And Katharine lay, listening to the voices about her. She seemed to hear whispering voices everywhere. She seemed to see the flushed face of the youthful Princess and her husband’s eyes gleaming as they looked at the girl.

She thought she heard voices which told her that the rumors were true. He had wanted Elizabeth; Elizabeth was the greater prize; but he had accepted the Queen…temporarily.

Temporarily he had accepted the Queen. And later…he would take Elizabeth.

The voices went on and on in her imagination.

She no longer wished to live. She believed herself to be unloved and unwanted; and the tragedy was that, no matter what might happen in the future, no matter what assurances were made, she would never believe them. She could never believe in anything again.

She had set up an idol and worshipped it; she saw now that it had feet of clay.

There was darkness near to her; it beckoned, offering peace.

“Come,” it seemed to say. “It is what you need. It is what you wish for yourself. It is what he wishes for you.”

And she felt that she was drifting forward into that peace.

ON A SUNNY SEPTEMBER day the gentlemen and esquires of the Queen’s household carried the leaden chest, in which lay Katharine Parr, into the little chapel attached to the Castle of Sudley.

The walls of the chapel were hung with black cloth, and on them, to remind the assembly that this lady had been a Queen, were not only the arms of the Seymours, but also those of King Henry the Eighth whose sixth wife she had been.

After the birth of her daughter she had died, having, some said, no wish to live. Others went further and said that she had been hastened to her death.

Lady Jane Grey, one of the Queen’s chief mourners, listened to the service conducted by the Queen’s cofferer and recalled what she knew of the life of this lady whom she had loved; she remembered those alarming days when she had been the King’s wife, and the strange good chance which had led Nan to the courtyard when Wriothesley had dropped the all-important paper; and it seemed to Jane that God preserved some men and women from disaster whilst He guided the footsteps of others toward it, so that it seemed that each had a destiny to fulfill here on Earth.

What of herself? she wondered fleetingly; and in the stifling atmosphere of the chapel she shivered. Her father was ambitious, and there were plans being made to encircle her head with a crown. How could she, a young girl, know what fate awaited her?

Dear Queen Katharine! she thought. I shall never see her again. Never hear her gentle voice…never see her sweet smile…

Now they were carrying the coffin out of the chapel. Soon they would bury it, and it would be goodbye…goodbye for ever to Queen Katharine Parr.

THE RUMORS WERE spreading all over the land. How did Katharine Parr meet her death? There were unpleasant stories which came from those intimate with the Queen’s household and who knew of her husband’s light behavior toward a royal Princess who had lived under his roof.

Why did the Queen die?

The Princess Elizabeth would be an excellent match for the ambitious Admiral.

The stories grew in wildness. Some said that a midwife had told a tale of being led blindfold to a quiet house that she might deliver a baby. She knew the mother must be a person of high degree, though she could not say more of who she was, except that she was young, fair and imperious. She might well have been a Princess.

The Duchess of Somerset listened to these stories. They amused her; more, they delighted her. But the story she liked best was that which insisted that the Lord High Admiral had decided to rid himself of his wife by poison, and that this was the explanation of her sudden death.

For, as she said to her husband, although the King would be loath to sign the death warrant of his beloved uncle whom he idealized, if he could be convinced that his idol had poisoned the beloved stepmother, he might be more ready to put pen to that necessary document.

It was easy to spread such rumors. They ran through the capital, through the provinces, through the countryside, like fire that is unchecked.

Katharine Parr, the sixth wife of Henry the Eighth, is dead. She married a fourth husband. Was that wise? The Admiral was such an ambitious man. And what part had the Princess Elizabeth played in this affair?

So men and women stopped to talk in the streets of this matter.

“Queen Katharine Parr is dead. Her husband killed her…for the sake of the Princess Elizabeth. He waited until the child was born…then he poisoned her.”

He poisoned her! That became the simple cry which emanated from all the rumors.

The words held a menace, and the shadow of the ax deepened over the heads of those who had lived close to the King’s sixth wife.

THE END

About the Book

KATHARINE PARR married young to an older gentleman. Again in her second marriage, the caring Katharine nursed an elderly husband. Now in her thirties and a rich widow, Katharine longs to marry again—this time for love. The handsome and exciting Thomas Seymour promises Katharine a life of romance and happiness, and she eagerly accepts. King Henry VIII, meanwhile, is lonely after “putting away” his fifth wife, and begins to look for another. It is Katharine Parr who catches his eye—and is thrown into a life of danger and intrigue as the sixth wife of the fickle and ruthless Henry VIII.

Katharine’s skills as a nurse serve her well with the ailing king, who relies on her to make him comfortable. But as the years pass, no sons are born, and no amount of nursing can distract the restless king from the knowledge that the time to produce more heirs is growing short. Amid religious strife in the court and the country, Katharine’s Protestantism makes her vulnerable to powerful nobles who would remove her from the throne, standing ready to provide the king with grounds to arrest the queen. Katharine and her companions live in constant fear of the king’s displeasure, which they know could lead quickly to execution. As Henry’s health worsens, they dare to hope that the queen will once again be a widow, and once again be free.

Katharine Parr’s story is one of forebearance and fear, of hope and heartbreak. When at last the queen is free to reunite with Thomas, she can finally let down her guard and begin the life she has longed for. But Katharine, who has survived constant threat of arrest at court, is finally undone by the man who has vowed to protect her.

Questions for Discussion

1 Katharine urged her second husband, Lord Latimer, to downplay his religious convictions in order to avoid the king’s punishment. How far does she follow her own advice to keep dangerous opinions quiet from the court? Does she become bolder as her years with Henry pass? Why?

2 Katharine and her sister Anne agree that the wedding ring around Katharine’s finger is akin to a noose around her neck. Does this overstate the case? Does Katharine also derive benefits from the throne? Based on Katharine’s experience, is marriage to Henry a survivable state—or was it luck that saved her in the end?

3 In describing Henry’s style of leadership, Plaidy says that Henry threatens the nobility and courts the commoners. The reader experiences Henry’s reign through the eyes of the court. How do you imagine a commoner would view Henry VIII?

4 When Katharine asks the king for favors, Henry is pleased to be able to grant her that which he himself quietly wants, allowing him to feel at once benevolent and relieved. Do you think Katharine is aware of this dynamic? Does she orchestrate this dialogue to any degree, or is she sincerely appealing for favors on her own behalf?

5 Do Mary, Elizabeth, and Edward—bound by their relationship to the king but by little else—consider themselves a family? How would you describe their life in the palace? Having seen Henry’s queens come and go, why do you think the royal children allow themselves to become so attached to Katharine Parr?

6 Discuss Katharine’s friendship with Jane Grey. Why is the queen so fond of the young girl? Is Katharine a good role model for Jane? If Jane were to become Edward’s queen, what lessons from Katharine would help her in her role? Are there any ways in which Katharine’s example would be detrimental to the pair?

7 Dr. London’s plot to forge documents implicating Katharine as a heretic is foiled when Katharine takes a hand in her own fate, sending a message to those who would destroy her that this queen will not easily be put away. Does this bold and intelligent image ring true throughout Katharine’s reign as queen consort?

8 The author often takes us inside Henry’s head to witness the suspicions, longings, and justifications that lead him to act so unpredictably. Does this narrative device work to make him more sympathetic as a character, or more dangerous? Do his feelings about conscience and fraternity with God sound like insanity, or are they understandable as the musings of a man accustomed to great power?

9 Elizabeth has many of the characteristics that made her father a strong and respected ruler. Does she also have qualities that could lead her to repeat Henry’s cruelty? What do you see as weaknesses?

10 Anne Askew is in many ways a dangerous friend for Katharine to have. Why does Katharine risk so much to help her? Does Katharine relate to her friend’s religious zeal, or is she just trying to help a friend in need? Is she in any way responsible for Anne’s fate?

11 Henry VIII is described as a man of many moods and a fierce will. Henry himself repeatedly declares, “A king is still a man.” Amid his many personas—sensualist, sovereign, diplomat, conqueror, husband, patient, father—can you identify one “real” Henry? How would he describe himself? What might Henry the man have been like if he were not king?

12 After reading Wriothesley’s warrant for her arrest, Katharine despairs until Thomas Seymour urges her to fight for her life. Why does she not fight before this? Does she realize her advantage in having found the lost scroll, or could she have made more of the opportunity?

13 What does Thomas find so alluring about Elizabeth? How big a part of the appeal is her place in line for the throne? Without her political stature, would Thomas have risked so much to seduce her? How do Katharine and Elizabeth compare in his eyes?

14 Why does Surrey deliberately provoke the king with his words and actions? Is he motivated by the same kind of reckless delirium that Katharine sometimes feels—or is something else driving him? Does he harbor a real desire to take power from Henry, or does he court danger out of restlessness?

15 By her fourth marriage, Katharine is an experienced wife—but naïve in the ways of romance. Why does she not see hints of Thomas’ indiscretions earlier? Is she foolish to trust him? If she had known about his proposal to Elizabeth, do you think she would have married Thomas? How could she have saved herself?

Contents

Title Page

The Betrothal

The Bridegroom

The Thistle and the Rose

The Curse of Sauchieburn

The Wild Knight

The Reckless Marriage

The Deserted Queen

Daisy, Marigold, Pomegranate and Rose

The Unfaithful Husband

Margaret and Albany

The Queen’s Lover

The Queen’s Third Marriage

The Last Days

Bibliography

In an apartment of that royal palace which recently, by the command of the King, had had its name changed from Shene to Richmond, three children were ranged about a blazing fire. Outside the January wind buffeted the octagonal and circular towers, threatening to sweep away the little chimneys which looked like inverted pears.

The eldest of the three—a girl just past her twelfth birthday—had taken off the net which held her beautiful reddish golden hair, so that she could have the joy of letting it fall over her shoulders and down to her waist. The boy, who had the same rosy complexion and bright gold hair, watched her sullenly. She was delighted with herself; he was displeased. As for the other child, a little girl not quite six, she was intent on watching the pair of them, very conscious of the fact that on account of her age she was of small account in the eyes of her twelve-year-old sister, Margaret, and ten-year-old brother, Henry.

“The fact is,” Margaret was saying, “that you are angry because I am to have a marriage and because I shall be a queen before you are a king.”

“Queen of Scotland!” sneered Henry. “That barbarous land! Nay, my sister, I tell you this: I am displeased because it seems to me unfitting that my sister should so demean herself by such a marriage.”

Margaret burst out laughing. “What airs you give yourself, Henry. I declare that since you became Prince of Wales you believe you are a king already. And think of this, brother: Had our dear Arthur lived you would never have been a king at all.”

Henry scowled. It was like Margaret to take an unfair advantage. She was telling him that he showed too much pleasure in his new state and not enough sorrow for the death of their brother.

“It matters not how or why a man wears a crown,” he muttered. “It only matters that he does.”

“So you are glad Arthur is dead!”

“I did not say that.”

“You imply it.”

“You lie.”

“I do not lie.”

Mary began to whimper. She hated quarrels between her brother and sister; they were always threatening to arise, partly because Margaret and Henry were so much alike. If Margaret’s hair were cut off—which she would never allow because it was her greatest beauty and she was very proud of it—and she were dressed like a boy, there would be Henry all over again. And it was not only in appearance that they resembled each other. They were both headstrong, willful, loving to indulge themselves, furious with any who opposed them. Mary secretly took Henry’s side because he made much of her. He often told her how pretty she was and that she was his favorite sister.

“Now you see what you have done,” complained Henry. “You have frightened Mary. Come here, Mary. I will sing to you if you like. I will play my lute.”

“Oh yes, please.”

Margaret regarded them scornfully.

“And you must say none sings like he does, none plays the lute to compare with him, and you are the luckiest girl in the world to have such a brother. That is the payment which will be asked of you for his attentions, little sister.”

“Heed her not,” Henry reassured the little girl. “She is angry with us because she has to leave our beautiful Court for that of a barbarian.”

Margaret lost a little of her bravado. She had her qualms. It could be an ordeal at twelve, when you had not a great experience of the world, to be called upon to leave your home for that of a husband you had never seen.

Henry saw the change in her demeanour and made the most of his advantage.

“I never cared for Scottish alliances.” He imitated the tone of one of his father’s ministers and stood ponderously, long legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, an expression of wisdom on his round, rosy face.

“I wonder you do not discuss this matter with the King,” Margaret put in sarcastically.

“I might do so.” Henry was playing for Mary; it was possible that she would not find it difficult to imagine her wonderful brother already advising the King.

“Go and seek an audience at once,” Margaret suggested. “I am sure our father will be eager to listen to your counsel.”

Henry ignored his sister; he began to pace up and down before the fire. “In the first place,” he said, “I like not these Stuarts. I like not their lax morals. You will be going to a man who has had a host of mistresses and, some say, married one of them. A pleasant state of affairs, madam, for a Tudor!”

Margaret folded her arms across her breasts and laughed gaily. She was aware of mingling apprehension and excitement; she had become conscious of her body at an early age; her governess and nurse said of her: “She should marry young.” It was different for Henry, who was as eager for manhood as she was for womanhood; they were lusty people, these young Tudors. They must have inherited that quality from their maternal grandfather; they had often discussed gossip they had heard about him. Great Edward IV—handsome, tall, golden and very like them in appearance—whose greatest pleasure had been the pursuit of women. His daughter, their mother, was mild and docile; their father lusted after gold and possessions so exclusively that he had no lust left for anything else. So, thought Margaret, Henry has undoubtedly inherited his tastes from his grandfather. Have I? She believed so; and that was fortunate, for it meant that in spite of certain natural fears she could look forward with excitement to marriage with a man noted for his sensuality.

It was amusing to see Henry in this mood. His little mouth was prim; because he liked to be the center of attention, and since, as this was her marriage which was about to take place, she must necessarily be, he was going to show his displeasure by disapproving of the morals of her bridegroom.

“He will have to give up his mistresses when I arrive,” said Margaret.

“If he would not do so while negotiating with our father for the marriage, depend upon it he will not when he has achieved his purpose: alliance with the Tudors.”

Henry said the last sentence as though he were making an announcement like a herald at a tournament. He had become very insistent on the homage due to the Tudors since he had become the heir to the throne.

Of course, Margaret thought, that had changed everything. He was surrounded by sycophants, all eager to be friends with the boy who would one day be King; and Henry did not appear to see what their flattery meant—but perhaps he did though, and loved it so much that he would accept it eagerly no matter what lay behind it.

Little Mary was watching him with adoring eyes. It was easy enough to be a hero in the eyes of a five-year-old little girl.

“Our grandfather had many mistresses, and he was a great King,” Margaret reminded Henry.

“But these Stuarts! Even their castles are drafty.”

Margaret shivered. “So are ours.”

“And the winters are hard, north of the Border.”

“I shall know how to keep myself warm.”

“And”—Henry narrowed his eyes and his mouth grew tight— “I remember—though others do not—that your bridegroom has been overfriendly with a certain traitor.”

“A traitor!” squealed Mary. “Oh, Henry, what traitor?”

“You are too young to remember, but two years ago Perkin Warbeck was a prisoner in our Tower of London, and there he was tried and found guilty; after which he was taken to Tyburn and hanged by the neck until he died. Do you know what this traitor planned to do? To pass himself off as the Duke of York, our mother’s brother, thereby claiming that he had more right to the throne than our father. Vile traitor that he was. And this James, whom your sister is so proud to marry, received him in Scotland, gave him honors and allowed him to marry his own cousin. There! Do you understand now why I see no matter for rejoicing in this marriage of our sister?”

Mary turned solemn eyes to Margaret. “Oh, Margaret, is it indeed so?”

“Do you doubt me then?” roared Henry.

“Oh no, Henry. You are always right!”

“He is not,” snapped Margaret. “And that is all ancient history. Perkin Warbeck deceived James Stuart as he did others. It is over and nothing to do with my marriage.”

“I beg leave to say that it has a great deal to do with your marriage.”

“Then I am surprised you do not forbid our father to consent to it,” Margaret mocked.

Henry’s face flushed scarlet. “When I am King…,” he muttered.

It was unfortunate for Henry that at this moment the door was flung open and his words were overheard by the last person he wanted to hear them.

The King had entered the room with his wife and a few attendants. King Henry VII was no lover of ceremony; his clothes were a good deal plainer than those of many of his courtiers; his face was pale and shrewd, and no one would have suspected he was the father of those pink and gold children who were clearly disconcerted to be so interrupted.

Henry thought scornfully that a king should make his entrance to a fanfare of trumpets; his garments should dazzle with their magnificence; he should tower above his followers. When I am King…, his thoughts went on, for that was their persistent theme since the news of Arthur’s death had been brought to him.

He bowed to his parents, and the girls curtsied.

“That time is not yet, my son,” said the King coldly, “though it would seem you are unbecomingly eager for it.”

“Sire,” began Henry, embarrassed, “I was but explaining to my sisters…”

The King lifted a hand. “I rejoice in your healthy looks,” he said, “and would that your mind kept pace with your body. You should pray that the time will not be yet for, my son, you are an infant in princedom and have much to learn of kingship.”

“I know this, Sire,” murmured Henry, “and I will endeavor to learn quickly—so to please you.”

“My daughter,” said the King; and Margaret came forward.

Her father did not smile—he had rarely been seen to do so—but his glance was approving.

The vitality of these children of his never failed to delight while it surprised him. He had lost Arthur and Edmund, it was true, but the ruddy looks of these three reassured him. If the child the Queen now carried had this same blooming health, and it were a boy, he would cease to mourn for the death of Arthur. There was, of course, no reason why there should not be more and more. Both he and the Queen were young enough to add to their brood.

He went on: “The Scottish nobles are now arriving at the Palace. You should be ready to receive them. This is no time for nursery games.”

“No, Sire,” murmured Margaret.

The Queen stepped forward and took her daughter’s hand. Elizabeth of York tried to hide the apprehension she was feeling. It was only a little more than twelve years ago that this bright girl had been born to her in the Palace of Westminster; she remembered the November mists which hung over the river and seeped into the room; she remembered holding the tiny child in her arms and rejoicing in her, forgetting the disappointment in her sex which it seemed must overshadow all female royal births. A sister for Arthur—a healthier baby than her little brother.

And now soon there would be another. The present pregnancy worried the Queen. She was filled with foreboding perhaps because she, more than any, knew the weakness of her own body. Childbearing had taken its toll and, although she could remain fruitful for several years to come, she thought with dread of future pregnancies.

There was none to whom she could confide this fear. Her daughter was too young to understand; moreover could she complain to her of a fate to which, by very nature of her own position, Margaret could herself be condemned? It was a great responsibility to be a royal princess, one whose duty it was to provide sons—a task which seemed extremely difficult for royal princesses and amazingly simple for humble subjects. Could she explain to her husband? Henry would never understand that anything could be of importance except the piling up of wealth, the strengthening of the country, so that the Tudor, who sat somewhat uneasily on his throne, should maintain his place. There was reason for disquiet. The recent affairs of Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck had shown that; but with his usual sound good sense Henry had dealt with those impostors in a manner befitting his kingship. But such matters were disturbing to him.

And now…a match with Scotland. An excellent proposition. Perhaps that would mean an end to the senseless border warfare which harried their peoples. Perhaps the Alliance would so strengthen the friendship of the two countries that they would live amicably together during the years ahead.

And my daughter Margaret would be responsible, pondered the Queen. Pray God that she may be a wise counselor to her husband.

She would speak with Margaret, try to impress upon her the importance of her duty.

“Come and prepare yourself to meet the envoys from the Scottish Court,” she said.

“The Prince of Wales should also grace the assembly with his presence,” said the King with a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth to imply mockery.

Margaret glanced at her brother. Now was the time for him to declare his dislike of the match, to state boldly before his father what he had told his sisters.

Henry’s lower lip jutted out slightly. He opened his mouth as though to speak; but when he looked up into his father’s stern face, he changed his mind. He was not yet King of England.

In the Queen’s great chamber in Richmond Palace a dazzling company of men and women had assembled.

With the Queen were her daughters, the Princess Margaret and the little Princess Mary. Margaret, in her state robes, looked slightly older than her twelve years; her naturally rosy complexion seemed even more dazzling than usual and her eyes shone with excitement. Everyone in this assembly was aware of her, for in the ceremony which was about to take place she would be the central figure.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded as the King, accompanied by the Prince of Wales, entered the chamber. Such a fanfare must have satisfied even young Henry. He looked smug, Margaret thought, and well pleased with himself. Had he already forgotten how much he disapproved of the Scottish match, or was he going to make a formal protest? No, he never would. There was one person at Court of whom Henry went in great fear, and that was his father. He might strut like a young bantam before his sisters and his friends—but in the presence of Henry VII he never forgot for one moment that he was but a ten-year-old boy who must mind his manners.

With Henry and his father were the Archbishops of Canterbury and York; and they were immediately followed by the Scottish lords who also had their parts to play on this occasion.

Margaret’s gaze rested on Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, who was to stand beside her and take the vows; for he had been chosen to act as proxy for his master. There he stood, accompanied by the Archbishop of Glasgow and the Bishop Elect of Murray, a poor substitute, she was sure, for the King of Scotland, who she had heard was possessed of great charm and handsome looks.

Now that they were all gathered together, the purpose of their meeting was ceremonially announced and the Archbishop of Glasgow opened the proceedings by turning to Henry VII and asking: “Does Your Grace know any impediment on your part to this wedlock, other than is here dispensed withal?”

The King replied that he did not.

Then the same question was asked of the Queen who gave similar answer.

It was then demanded of Margaret whether she knew of any reason why she should not make an alliance with the King of Scotland.

“I know of none,” she answered; and as she spoke she could not resist flashing a look of mockery at her brother. He knew of reasons, if he had been speaking the truth to his sisters when they were alone. But Henry was solemnly staring ahead and pretended not to notice her glance.

Now it was the turn of her father to ask the same questions of the Scotsmen. Margaret caught her breath. Was it really true that her prospective bridegroom had contracted a marriage with his mistress? What if one of the Scottish lords spoke up and said so? Would that be an end to this marriage?

But the Scots were assuring the King of England that there was no impediment to the marriage, and the Archbishop of Glasgow turned once more to Margaret.

“Are you content, of your own free will and without compulsion, to marry my master?”

Margaret spoke the words which she had rehearsed with her mother. “If it please my lord and father the King and my lady and mother the Queen, I am content.”

“It is our will and pleasure,” pronounced the King.

Now her hand was laid in that of Patrick Hepburn who was declaring with the utmost earnestness: “I, Patrick Earl of Bothwell, procurator of the right high and mighty Prince James, by the Grace of God King of Scotland, my sovereign lord, having sufficient power to contract marriage per verba presenti with thee, Margaret, daughter to Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth Queen of the same, do hereby contract matrimony with thee, Margaret,…”

Margaret’s gaze had strayed once more to her brother; she was flashing a message to him: Why did you not speak when there was time? It is too late now.

But the young Prince of Wales refused to interpret her glances. He was showing a great interest in everything that was going on and endeavoring to look as pleased with the proceedings as his father did.

The Archbishop of Glasgow was attracting her attention and whispering: “Repeat after me.”

She nodded slightly and, following him, began: “I, Margaret, first daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince and Princess Henry, by the Grace of God King of England, and Elizabeth, Queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November which be past, contract marriage with the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince James, King of Scotland, for the person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, is procurator; and I take the said James, King of Scotland, unto and for my husband and spouse, and all others for him forsake during his and my lives natural; and therefore I plight and give to him in your person, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.”

As she completed those words there was a sudden burst of music from the royal trumpeters and in an adjoining chamber minstrels began to play.

Princess Margaret of England had now become the Queen of Scotland.

Life was exciting for Margaret—full of color, full of splendor. It was rarely that King Henry encouraged extravagance at his Court but this was, after all, the occasion of his daughter’s marriage and he must impress the Scottish visitors with the wealth and power of England.

“A waste of good money,” he told his Queen. “Banquets…jousts! I did not know until this time what a feckless band of courtiers were mine. They welcome the opportunity to flaunt their wealth in senseless pageants.” His eyes narrowed and Elizabeth guessed that he was noting the spendthrifts and devising ways in which the wealth they were so eager to throw away could be diverted into the royal coffers.

Poor fools, to spend more than was necessary. Did they not yet understand the manner in which their royal master’s miserly mind worked? Constantly he was thinking of gold for his exchequer. Taxes, fines, they were good methods of swelling it. He wanted more and more gold; he would never be satisfied; just as he wanted more and more children, that he might bargain for concessions from the royal houses of Europe. The Scottish marriage…then marriages for Henry and Mary and all the others who would follow.

Oh no, no, she thought. There could be no more. But how could she explain to him? Her duty was to provide him with children—counters for bargaining in state politics, in the same way that it was for his ministers to devise laws for diverting his subjects’ wealth into the royal exchequer.

She knew that she was looking ill; her sister Katharine had told her so. But Henry would not notice. She must go on unfalteringly doing her duty as he did his.

“A few more days of this jousting,” she said to soothe him, “and the celebrations will be over.”

He shook his head sadly. “We must not give the impression that we are a poor nation. There will be reports circulated as to how we celebrated our daughter’s marriage. But, since her husband will be eager for her to join him in Scotland, we might cut short the merrymaking.”

Elizabeth shivered. “She seems so young. Not much past her twelfth birthday. We shall miss her.”

“Yet I fancy she is old for her years.” The King dismissed the matter comfortably. “And you’ll soon have another to take her place. Pray God this time it is a boy.”

“I trust it will be so.”

The King gave her one of his rare smiles. “And if it is another girl, we’ll not despair. There’s time ahead of us.”

She turned to glance out of the window. She could not trust herself to look at him lest he see the fear in her face.

It had been a great day of jousting. Margaret had sat in a place of honor, the Earl of Bothwell beside her; she had applauded the skill of Charles Brandon and the Duke of Buckingham, while young Henry watched broodingly. In his imagination he was jousting with the knights, surprising them all with his skill. It was a great trial to be but ten years old and a looker-on.

Margaret had become grown up since that ceremony in their mother’s chamber. He noticed that she was treated with a new deference; he was envious; and when his father was not present he acted as though he were already the King. All his friends indulged his whims; after all, was he not Prince of Wales, destined one day to be King? If he wished to anticipate that day it would be a foolish man who gainsaid him.

Little Mary was delighted with the jousting. She sat with her brother and asked eager questions while he looked after her tenderly; but all the time he was watchful of Margaret who had temporarily usurped the place of honor which he felt should rightfully be his.

After the jousting there was a banquet, and it was Margaret who again sat in the seat of honor, who was Queen of the pageant.

Henry could not understand his father who, in his drab garments, did not look like a king, and sat a little apart from the company with a tired expression in his eyes as though he found all the splendor and fun rather silly.

The Queen sat beside the King and she looked as though her thoughts were far away, and although she was smiling, the smile was forced.

Oh, how different it will be when I am King, thought young Henry.

Margaret, with a dignity new to her, distributed the prizes to the champions of the joust. There were silver bowls and golden cups; and the victors bowed low and kissed her hand when she presented them. She looked very lovely with her young face glowing, and clearly enjoyed being a Queen.

As soon as the prize-giving was over, the pageant began; and because such scenes were rare at the Court of Henry VII they seemed especially delightful. Never it seemed had morris dancers danced with such zest; the ballet was an enchantment, particularly as the six ladies and six gentlemen who took part were all masked and there was the fun of guessing their identities.

And when it was over, the time had come for the King to present gifts to the Scotsmen, and there was an awed silence as the magnificence of these was revealed. For the Archbishop of Glasgow there was a cup of gold and six silver pots, twenty-four silver bowls and a basin and ewer of the same precious metal together with a receptacle for holding hot ashes for the purpose of keeping the feet warm.

It was clear how it hurt the King to part with such treasures, but he did so with an air of resignation as though to say: This much would I do for the good of England. More cups of gold were presented together with crimson velvet bags full of golden coins; and many of the King’s courtiers marveled that the King could part with what he loved best in the world.

The Queen looked on through a haze of pain. It can’t be long now, she was thinking. I never suffered like this before. What is going to become of me?

For a few seconds the great hall faded from her sight; she moved forward in her chair; but everyone present was too intent on the magnificent gifts which the King was bestowing to notice the Queen. And when these were all presented she was sitting upright once more, very pale and exhausted—but she had looked ill for some time and her looks surprised none who happened to glance her way.

It was late January when the Queen’s barge was rowed along the river to the Tower of London. She was determined to have her lying-in at the palace there, and eagerly she awaited the birth of her child.

Her sister Katharine was with her; this was the one person who could give her most comfort.

“Stay with me, Kate,” she said. “You remember the days when we were young. They are not really so very long ago, are they, and yet how distant they seem! I shall shortly be thirty-seven—not a great age, and yet when I think of the days when our father fought for his throne, and of how our little brothers disappeared in the Tower and Uncle Richard took the throne, it seems as though I have lived a hundred years.”

“You should not brood on the past, dear sister,” Katharine told her. “Think of the future. When your little son is born he will bring you great delight. You are fortunate in your children.”

“I often wonder what their lives will be like. My little Margaret…how will she fare in Scotland, with a husband who is twice her age and already an experienced lover by all accounts?”

“His age, although twice that of Margaret, is not great…she being so young.”

“That’s why I tremble for her. She is so young and headstrong.”

“I do not think you need fear for your children, Elizabeth. They are all strong-willed and well able to care for themselves. Margaret…Henry…and even little Mary. They remind me so much of our father.”

“I am glad of that.”

“And the new child…I wonder if he will resemble them.”

Elizabeth caught her breath in sudden pain. “I think we shall soon be able to judge,” she said. “Kate, my time has come.”

It was Candlemas and the Queen lay in her state apartments in the Palace of the Tower of London. The King was at her bedside; he was disappointed. He had been certain that this time they would get a boy. But at least the child was alive, and that was a good augury for the future.

“A girl,” he mused, “and we have two girls already. Pray God the next will be a boy.”

And I still abed with this one! thought the Queen. But she did not protest; she had never protested against the King’s desires. He had been a faithful husband and, if he had rarely shown her the warmth of affection, he had never shown her the coldness of cruelty.

“I should like to call her Katharine after my sister,” she said.

“Katharine let it be,” murmured the King. “It is as good a name as any.”

She looked up into his shrewd face. What did a name matter? Elizabeth, Jane, or Katharine—whatever she was called the little girl would have to play her part in the destiny of England when she was called.

Margaret had ceased to be the center of attraction. The jousts were over; there were no more banquets. A gloom hung over the royal palace.

From a window of her apartments at Richmond she had watched the barges sailing along the river; many sailed down to the Palace of the Tower.

Henry came and stood at her side; even he was subdued. “Is she very ill, do you think?” he asked his sister.

Margaret nodded.

“Skelton told me that Dr. Hallyswurth is now at her bedside.”

Margaret was suddenly afraid. Her mother was grievously ill and her illness was due to the birth of their little sister; and the bearing of children was the direct result of marriage.

First came the jousting, the banquets, the feasts and the dancing; and then the nuptial rites; and if one were fruitful—and one must pray that one might be—this terrible ordeal, which often resulted in death, was the next step. Not once only must it be faced…but again and again.

Her mother was very ill—many believed she was dying—and it was because she too had had a wedding, as Margaret had, and because it was her duty to give her husband children.

It was a sad thought when one was twelve years old and just married.

She felt envious of her brash young brother, who would one day be King in his own right—not because of a marriage he had happened to contract—and who would not have to suffer as their mother had.

“I wish I were a man,” she said vehemently; and she watched the slow satisfied smile spread across her brother’s face.

A barge stopping by the stairs caught her attention and she said: “Look! Someone is alighting. He may bring news from the Tower.”

They ran from the room and down to meet the messenger, but when Margaret saw the expression on his face she felt sick and wished that she had stayed in her apartments, because before he spoke she knew.

“My mother is dead,” she said in a whisper.

The messenger did not answer, but bowing, stood humbly before her; and in that moment Margaret was too filled with sorrow for the loss of her kindly mother to harbor fears for her own future.

So the Queen was dead and it seemed that the little Katharine would not long survive her. The King had shut himself away to be alone with his sorrow, but those who knew him believed he would already be making plans for a new marriage. It was not that he did not appreciate his Queen who had been a good and docile wife to him; he would never forget that through their marriage the White Rose of York and the Red Rose of Lancaster had mingled harmoniously. It had been a good marriage, but it was over, while the need to provide England with sons was still present. Young Henry was a fine healthy boy—but now that Arthur was gone he was the only boy; and death could strike quickly and suddenly as he knew well.

There was mourning throughout the Court where there had been gay wedding celebrations; and on the day when Elizabeth of York was laid in her grave the scene was in sad and bitter contrast to that of a few weeks before.

Through the city, from the Tower to Westminster, rode the melancholy cortege, and the newly wed Queen of Scotland knew that many of her father’s courtiers watched her furtively and asked themselves whether this was not an ill augury for her wedding. On the other hand, was that a certain relish—equally furtive—which she detected in the eyes of the Scottish lords? Were they telling each other that only young Henry stood between Margaret and the crown of England now? And since Elizabeth of York could no longer give the King of England sons, that was a matter of some moment for those who had the good of Scotland at heart.

Was there a little extra deference in their demeanor toward her?

If so, Margaret did not notice. During those sad days she forgot that she was a newly created Queen; she was merely a twelve-year-old girl sorrowing for a mother who had never shown her anything but kindness.

One could not mourn forever. That long winter was passing and with the coming of May the King sent for his eldest daughter.

“Your husband grows impatient for his bride,” he told her. “It is time you joined him.”

“Yes, Sire,” answered Margaret.

“Preparations shall begin,” the King told her. “Make yourself ready. In June we will leave Richmond together, for I plan to accompany you on the first stages of your journey.”

Fear showed itself briefly in Margaret’s eyes. Now that the time of departure was coming near she did not want to go. It was pleasant being a queen in her father’s Court where she had spent her childhood, teasing Henry, flaunting her new importance before little Mary; but to go away to a foreign land was a different matter.

The King did not notice her fear. His mind was on other matters. He wanted a new wife, more children for whom advantageous marriages should be arranged. When he looked at his daughter he did not see a tender young girl so much as a means of keeping the peace with the tiresome warlike people who had made trouble at the Border for as long as any could remember.

The marriage pleased him; therefore Margaret pleased him.

“You may go now,” he told her gently. “Remember what I have told you.”

She curtsied and left him; then she hurried to her bedchamber.

She told her attendants that she had a headache and wished to rest, and when she was alone she began to weep silently.

“I want my mother,” she murmured into her pillows, for now, when she would never see the Queen again, she realized that from her alone could she have received the comfort and understanding of which she was in such need.

So Margaret, remembering that she was a bereaved little girl, forgot that she was also Queen of Scotland; and for a long time she lay sobbing because she had lost her mother.

To the Court, however, she showed a brave face, and on the sixteenth day of June, riding beside her father, acknowledging the cheers of the people who had come to watch her pass, she left Richmond Palace on the first stage of her journey to Scotland.

James IV of Scotland was not awaiting his bride with any great excitement. His counselors had advised him that the marriage was for the good of Scotland and he must needs agree to it.

And so, he thought, I must take this child to wife.

Not so long ago he would have refused to do so, no matter that she was the daughter of the King of England and peace between the two countries was desirable. He had been in love and had made up his mind whom he would marry; and so deep had been his feelings that he would have insisted on having his will.

But passions ran high in Scotland and lives were cheap.

I should have taken greater care of her, he told himself again as he had a hundred times before. Then he would have been the husband of another Margaret.

But the deed had been done and there was no going back. He had now to think of greeting this child whom they were sending him from over the Border, for it was no fault of hers.

They were saying that England and Scotland were united at last; and the Rose and the Thistle could now grow happily side by side. But could that ever be achieved? Was even the union of Tudor and Stuart capable of working such a miracle?

James stroked his auburn curling beard, and his hazel eyes were momentarily melancholy.

He had lost the Margaret he loved, and now must endeavor to make a success of union with her namesake.

And even as he prepared himself for the journey which would end in his meeting with his bride, he was thinking of his first meeting with that other Margaret at Stobhall, her father’s mansion on the banks of the Tay.

The banks of the Tay! The wild water cascading over the rocks; the sound of birdsong, and the trees in bud! And beside him, Margaret. Never had he believed such happiness existed in the world.

To be fifteen again…and in love for the first time. For the first and last time, he had told her; for she was the only one he would ever love.

She had listened earnestly, believing him. Then he had been a handsome youth. Not dark like his father; not yellow-haired like his Danish mother. It was said that he had inherited the good points of each, and the result was auburn hair which shone as gold in the sunshine; and hazel eyes that could be serious but more often merry; the sensitive mouth of a poet, sensual as a lover’s; and a hint of recklessness in the expression which hinted he would be brave in battle.

Margaret was tall and golden-haired and all the world seemed as beautiful as the banks of the Tay to the lovers.

In the beginning they strolled among the trees while he talked to her of his childhood which had been a strange one. He tried to explain to her how he and his brothers had lived almost like prisoners in the Castle of Stirling.

“Whenever I see Stirling I shall remember. What a prison! There it stands on that precipitous hill, and my brothers and I used to look down from our windows on to the Forth. We were always expecting our father to come. We talked continually of him. I remember so well that whenever a stranger came to the castle and he was tall and handsome we would run to him and ask him if he were our father. ‘Please, please, sir,’ I used to say, ‘tell me you are my father.’ And always I was assured that he was not.”

“Poor James. How strange it must have been.”

“My mother tried to console us. We were fortunate in her.”

“The King has behaved badly not only to you, James, but to the whole of Scotland.”

Had anyone else made such a statement he would have been shocked, for he and his brothers had always been taught that kings should not be judged by their subjects; but since she was Margaret who could do no wrong, he listened.

“I have heard it said that it is no easy matter to be a king,” he replied with a hint of melancholy.

“You will be the best King Scotland has ever known.”

She gave him such adoring looks that he believed her.

“Queen Margaret,” he said, and kissed her hand.

He saw her eyes shine with the excitement he shared; at fifteen it had been pleasant to play their game of make-believe.

“It may be soon that you are crowned King of Scotland, James.”

“Nay, my father has many years before him.”

“But the nobles have risen against him.” She was well aware of that because her father was one of the rebel leaders, and it was for this reason that they had brought the heir to the throne from Stirling to Stobhall.

“It is not good that there should be civil war in Scotland.”

“It will not be for long.” She was repeating what she had so often heard. “And the King spends too much of the nation’s wealth on his favorites, and has mixed brass and lead in silver money and passed it off as pure silver. That is a bad thing to do.”

James shrugged his shoulders and, putting an arm about Margaret, kissed her; there were more pleasant things to do on a sunny afternoon than talk of the misdeeds of his father.

“You must not forget that you will soon wear the crown.”

They sat down on the bank and James thought fleetingly of his father.

“Perhaps he was led away by the company he kept. My mother told me that his greatest friends were a musician, a tailor and a smith at one time, and that he set great store by his astrologers.”

“He believed all they told him,” Margaret affirmed. “That was why he was afraid of you and your brothers as well as his own brothers.”

“I remember my mother telling me that when I was born the position of the stars and planets showed him that harm would come to him through me. As if I would ever harm him!”

“You would never harm anyone. You are too kind and gentle. You will be the greatest King Scotland has ever known.”

They kissed once more and as he laid his hands on her shoulders, he was trembling with excitement, but he did not know what he wanted to do, so he dropped his hands and stared at the river.

“He had a dream,” he said, “and when he asked his astrologers to interpret it, they replied that the royal lion of Scotland, in course of time, would be torn by its whelps. That was why he lived in fear of me.”

“A father—and a king—in fear of his son!” scorned Margaret. Then she touched his cheek with her finger. “And such a son.”

He caught the hand and kissed it. He was overcome by a gust of passion but, acutely conscious of his inexperience, he hesitated. There was a bitter sweetness in fifteen-year-old love that would never be equaled at another time of his life, he knew. She drew away from him. “They will find a bride for you from some foreign country,” she said sadly. “They will need to make some useful alliance.”

“They have found brides for me before.” He snapped his fingers. “That for their foreign marriages! When I was very young it was decided I should marry the Lady Cecilia, second daughter of King Edward IV of England, but when Edward died his daughter was no longer considered a worthy consort. There was a new king on the throne—Richard III. I know because my mother insisted that I learn what was happening in other countries and particularly in England.”

“It is a necessary part of the education of one who is to be King,” Margaret reminded him.

“And Richard had a niece, the Lady Anne Suffolk, and he was eager for her to marry me. But it was not long before the Tudor Henry VII had ousted Richard from the throne and then Lady Anne, like Lady Cecilia, was no longer a worthy match for me. Foreign marriages! They often come to naught.” He boasted: “When I am King I shall choose my own bride and I know who she will be.”

Margaret sighed and leaned against him. Why not? She was after all a Drummond and an ancestor of hers, Annabella Drummond, had married Robert III of Scotland.

“Oh, James, would you indeed?”

“You may trust me,” he assured her. “I would I were King now…But no…I don’t.”

His brows were drawn together. He wanted to see his father, to tell him what nonsense it was to think that he, his eldest son, James, who wished to live in peace with everyone, would ever dream of harming him. James was imagining a pleasant scene when he would be brought face-to-face with his father and would heal the rift between him and his nobles; then he would take Margaret by the hand and say: “Father, this is the lady I have chosen to be my bride.” There would be great rejoicing throughout Scotland, for the discord would be healed by this marriage; Stirling would be the scene of joyous festivities and he would ride through the streets to Edinburgh, and there would be tournaments in the fields about the Castle and Holyrood House.

It was such a pleasant dream that it was a pity to wake from it. But he did not wish to be King since that must mean his father would be dead. He hated the thought of death; it would always remind him of the death of his mother.

Margaret understood; she pressed her lips tightly together because she knew it would hurt him if she said what was in her mind; she must not repeat what she had heard her father and his friends say, which was that it would be a good day for Scotland if James III were dethroned and his son set up in his place.

Everyone at Stobhall talked of it. She had discussed it with her sisters, particularly the younger ones—Anabella, Eupheme and Sibylla. It was for this reason that her father had brought the young heir to the throne to Stobhall, that he might be here in the hands of his father’s enemies when the need arose.

“I hate death,” whispered James. “And my father would have to die before I could be King.”

It was only about a year ago that his mother had died, and he was still aware of the void that had made in his life. It had changed the tenor of his days and he could still wake in the night and shed tears for the loss of his kind and tolerant mother.

And when she was no longer there his father’s enemies had decided to make him their figurehead. He should have protested, he knew; but Lord Drummond had brought him to Stobhall and here he had found Margaret.

She was impatient of the course the talk was taking, for she did not wish to make him melancholy.

“Let us take off our shoes,” she said, “and dabble our feet in the water.”

She cried out in mock dismay as the cold water splashed about her ankles; she held her skirts above her knees, as James splashed into the river after her and she pretended to run from him.

He caught her, as she intended he should.

“Why, James IV,” she cried, “how bold you are!”

“Is that your opinion then, Queen Margaret?”

They embraced there, while the water played about their ankles, and were astonished by their sensations. They were fifteen and people of their age who lived in the early sixteenth century in Scotland were invariably sexually awakened. They had both led more sheltered lives than most young people, and they felt in that moment impatient with their innocence. They seemed bound more closely together because they must lead each other, because they must explore together.

He drew her from the water and they lay on the bank together.

“This is the happiest day of my life,” said the future James IV of Scotland.

But even as they lay there on the bank they heard the sound of urgent voices calling the Prince.

“Heed them not,” whispered James. “They will go away.”

But the voices came nearer and Margaret struggled free of his arms and leaping to her feet smoothed her hair, straightened her rumpled gown.

He rose and stood beside her, and thus the messenger from Stobhall found them.

“I implore Your Highness to return to the house without delay,” James was told, and he caught the excitement in the voice of the man who addressed him.

Important events were close; he could not guess how important; but as he walked back with Margaret he sensed that the idyll on the bank of the Tay had been more than temporarily interrupted—perhaps it would be lost forever.

He felt the remorse even now, looking back over the years. What should I have done? he asked himself, as he had so often. Should I have refused?

But Margaret’s father was among those who pointed out his duty, and Margaret herself stood by with shining eyes watching him, telling him by her glances that he was no longer a boy.

They were persuading him where his duty lay and among them were some of the most powerful lords of Scotland: Angus, Argyle, the Humes and the Hepburns. And he gave way. Many a time he had said to himself: “I was but a boy of fifteen.” Yet he could never forget that he had allowed himself to ride out with them, while the red and gold banner of his ancestors had been held over his head.

There was one point on which he never ceased to thank God that he had insisted. “None is to harm my father,” he had declared. “If the battle goes in our favor he is to be brought to me.”

They had soothed him with gentle words, telling him that he was their leader and his word was law.

And thus he had ridden to Sauchieburn which was but a few miles from Bannockburn, the very spot where, nearly two hundred years before, the Bruce himself had defeated Edward II of England and restored independence to Scotland.

The horror of the battle of Sauchieburn stayed with him. Somewhere among the opposing army had been his father, the man who had shut himself away from his son because he believed that he would one day do him harm. Had this old prophecy been fulfilled? James wanted to cry out: But if you had been a natural father to me, if you had let love, not fear, govern the relationship between us, we would not be here this day at Sauchieburn fighting against each other.

He heard that his father had sent to Edinburgh Castle and ordered that the sword which Robert the Bruce had carried at Bannockburn should be brought to him, that he had said: “As it served the Bruce then, so shall it serve me now.”

And he had ridden into battle on the fleetest horse in Scotland, the Bruce’s sword in his hand.

James believed then that Sauchieburn would haunt him all his life; and it was true that his dreams were even now disturbed by the sound of the trumpets and the clash of spears. They had not allowed him to enter the thick of the fight—nor had he any heart for it—but he sat his horse fearfully watching, as he had in those days in Stirling Castle, for a man of noble bearing who might be his father.

And when they had come to him and told him that the enemy was routed and the victory was his he had felt the childish tears well into his eyes and he wanted to cry out: How can I rejoice when my victory is my father’s defeat?

“Where is my father?” he demanded.

But no one knew.

“It would seem, my lord, that he left the battlefield before the end. He may well have escaped to the Forth and left Scotland in one of Sir Andrew Wood’s ships which were waiting there to help him in such an emergency.”

“I must know what has happened to my father,” James insisted.

He asked that he might be alone. Then he knelt in the privacy of his tent and prayed that his father might be safe, that they might meet and all differences between them be dissolved.

He was in Stirling Castle when Lord Drummond and others of the rebel lords brought a stranger to him. This was one of the most handsome men James had ever seen—tall, with an air of fearlessness.

James went forward eagerly holding out his hands.

“Sir,” he cried, “are you my father?”

When the man put his hands over his eyes to hide his emotion, Drummond said sourly: “Nay, my lord, this is Sir Andrew Wood. He has come ashore because his friends have hostages of ours for his safekeeping. He has been sheltering our enemies on his ships in the Forth.”

Sir Andrew removed his hand and said firmly: “I am not Your Highness’s father, but I am his true servant, and I shall continue to be the enemy, until I die, of those who are disloyal to him.”

Drummond said: “If you know where the King is, it would be well for you to say.”

“I know not,” was the answer.

“But some of my father’s men have found refuge in your ships?” James put in eagerly.

“That is so, my lord.”

“Are you sure my father is not among them?” asked the boy pleadingly.

“Yes, my lord. Would to God I could tell you that he is safe with us, but he is not and I know not where he is. If I knew I would tell you; but I fear the worst, and I trust that one day will see the hanging of the traitors who have cruelly murdered him.”

“Murdered!” cried James, his face turning pale with horror.

But the lords had seized Andrew Wood and hustled him from the apartment.

Murder! pondered James, and then the remorse began.

Some days passed before he learned what had really happened to his father at Sauchieburn, and he felt sick with horror when the tale was recounted. His father had left the battlefield before the end, being advised by his generals that he should escape to the Forth where, while there was yet time, he could find shelter with Wood’s fleet. To stay would be to die in the field; to escape would be to live to fight another day.

A few miles from the battlefield, near a millstream, he met a woman with a pitcher which she had come to fill. Seeing the horse and rider making straight for her, and fearing they would trample her under foot she dropped the pitcher and ran. The pitcher rolling under the horse’s hoofs so startled the terrified animal that it shied and stumbled, its weary rider was thrown and lay unconscious in the dust while the horse went galloping on.

The story had been slowly pieced together by the people who had witnessed it. James heard how workers had come from the mill and carried the King inside, how he recovered consciousness and when the miller’s wife—a forceful woman—had asked his name, answered: “James Stuart is my name, and this morning I was your King.”

“Saints above us!” the miller’s wife had cried. “We have the King under our roof. And dying maybe. A priest! Fetch a priest for the King.”

She dashed out of the mill and began to run to the priest’s house, but before she reached it she saw a rider coming from the direction of Sauchieburn. “Stop!” she cried. “The King is in our mill. He is sorely hurt and needing a priest.”

The man drew up and said: “I am a priest. Lead me to him.”

The miller’s wife led him back to the mill, shouted for a boy to take his horse and then took him into the mill where the King was lying on the floor.

“I am a priest,” said the man, kneeling beside the King.

“Welcome,” murmured the King.

“Are you mortally wounded?”

“I think not, but I wish to confess my sins and to ask pardon for the faults of a lifetime.”

Then, so quickly that none of those about him realized what was happening until it was done, the man drew his sword and, saying, “This will give you pardon,” plunged it into the King’s body.

Withdrawing it, he walked out of the mill, took his horse from the boy who held it, mounted and rode away. And none ever knew his name.

Young James was in his apartment at Stirling Castle when the nobles came to him. He was astonished by their solemn looks.

“What news?” he asked.

Lord Drummond was kneeling before him as he heard the shout which resounded through the room: “Long live the King!”

James recoiled. “My father…?” he began.

“Sire, you no longer have a father. Long live James IV of Scotland and the Isles.”

It was then he heard the story of his father’s end; but he could not share their joy. He could only tell himself that never again would he look into the faces of handsome strangers and wonder whether at last he was face-to-face with his father.

Already he seemed to feel the crown weighing heavily on his head. His father defeated by his enemies and murdered by them! Not until that moment had he understood how they had involved him in their treacherous conflict, and there was deep sorrow in understanding. His father had died and it might seem that he himself bore some responsibility for that death.

I believe I shall never know complete peace again, he told himself.

In the weeks that followed his accession, so great had been his remorse that he had even forgotten Margaret. Night and morning he had prayed for the soul of his father in the Chapel-Royal at Stirling Castle.

“How can I atone for my father’s death?” he demanded of his confessor.

“Pray…pray for forgiveness,” was the answer.

But he found only brief comfort in prayer, and soon afterward he took to wearing an iron belt about his doublet, which was heavy and caused him great discomfort.

But he felt happier wearing it. It was a way of doing penance for the murder of his father.

That had happened long ago and one could not grieve forever. He had quickly discovered that it was pleasant to be a king. His friends, important men such as Argyle, Hailes, Lyle and Hume, were eager for him to enjoy life and to leave tiresome state matters to them.

“Why,” they said, “you are the King; and living as you did in Stirling Castle, what chance did you have of enjoying your life?”

He changed; he was no longer retiring, but discovered himself to be a high-spirited boy, and there was hunting and hawking over the glorious countryside; there were balls and banquets to be arranged; dancing to be watched and indulged in. His father was buried in state at Cambuskenneth Abbey and lay there with his wife, so there was nothing more his son could do for him, except to wear the iron belt now and then to remind himself and the world that he still regretted the manner in which his father had died.

There had been days when pleasure had been constantly with him; he remembered the occasion when Margaret Drummond had joined him at Linlithgow Castle and he had ordered gold, azure and silver cloth to make her a gown which would dazzle all who saw it; and when she sat with him in the place of honor at the table, the masked singers, luters, and harpists performed for them alone.

Had he followed his own inclination he would have married Margaret then as he had promised to; but there were jealous men about him who were determined that the Drummonds should not become too powerful and, although Margaret and he were allowed to enjoy each other’s company in the weeks immediately following his succession, excuses were made to part them.

And he had allowed it to happen—just as he had allowed his father’s enemies to place him at their head. He could always make the excuse: “I was but a boy.” To become a king would naturally overwhelm one so young; it was understandable that he should find life more absorbing than it had been in Stirling Castle or at Stobhall. He became interested in the governing of his country; and the lords of Scotland were too quarrelsome ever to live in peace with one another, so there was continual strife. Was it for that reason that he allowed himself to drift away from Margaret? Or was it because he had discovered that the longings she had aroused within him could be stimulated—though not with the same tenderness or delight—by any pretty woman? Now that he was King there were so many to smile on him.

Women—more knowledgeable than Margaret—beckoned him continually. He hesitated for a while, remembering his first love; then he hesitated no longer and he knew that, of all the sports and pastimes which delighted him, nothing would appeal to him quite so strongly as making love to women.

His advisers laughed at him. They would not have it otherwise. Let him chase women who would keep him occupied, preventing him from dabbling in state affairs. What could better suit their purpose?

“’Tis kingly in a man to love women,” they told him. “A habit of all good kings—and a custom the Stuarts ever observed.”

So there need be no remorse. He forgot to sigh for Margaret; he even forgot his remorse for his father’s death. Those were the carefree years.

Women! A succession of women—highborn ladies and tavern wenches. He had changed from that inexperienced boy who had dallied with Margaret Drummond on the banks of the Tay.

Yet being sentimental, he looked for one particular woman. Women there would always be, but among them he sought always the perfect mistress. He thought he had found her in Marian Boyd, the daughter of the Lord of Bonshaw—comely, witty, a charming mistress. He had been faithful to Marian for months, and she had borne him two children of whom he was very proud. He gave Alexander and Catherine the name of Stuart, for he was not ashamed to recognize them as his own. He took time from his state duties to visit them often, for he loved playing with children and he was determined that his children should never be treated by their father as he had been by his.

Marian might have remained his chief mistress had it not been for Janet Kennedy.

Janet was different from any other woman he had ever known. Redheaded and tempestuous, already she had been the mistress of Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, known as the Great Earl and Bell-the-Cat, one of the most notorious of all Scottish lords. It had been an achievement therefore for James to take her from Angus, even though he was a king and Angus a mere earl.

Angus had always been a leader in the country’s affairs, and had earned the nickname Bell-the-Cat, by which he was always known, some years before when the English had threatened to attack Scotland and certain of the nobles refused to stand with James III to repel this enemy. When James had been preparing to march to the Border, certain of his own countrymen such as Huntley, Angus, Lennox, Gray and Lyle were gathering together an army to pursue the King’s and present certain demands to him before they joined forces with him against the English. When they were deciding who should present the demands, Lord Gray told the fable of the mice who planned to put a bell about the cat’s neck to warn them of its approach. All very well, was the answer, but who should bell the cat? It was Angus who spoke up: “I will bell the cat,” and forever after he was known by that name. Shrewd, brilliant, Angus never failed to seize an opportunity which would advance the Douglases.

After the death of his wife he became enamored of redheaded Janet, daughter of Lord Kennedy, and she remained his mistress until she became the King’s.

They were thrilling days and nights James spent in Janet’s company. She combined ambition with passion, and her possessiveness was a little alarming, for James was a man who liked to live on good terms with all about him. He wanted his own way and where women were concerned there was a compulsion within him to take it, but he continually endeavored to extricate himself from a difficult situation by diplomacy rather than by quarrels.

He was deep in his love affair with Janet Kennedy when Margaret Drummond came back into his life.

It was some twelve years since they had dallied on the banks of the Tay, and Margaret had grown into a serene and beautiful woman. She had never married, she told him, but there were no reproaches; she understood perfectly that a king could not marry where he wished, but the boy who had made his promises at Stobhall had not. She had never ceased to love him. “Why,” she said, “I shall always remember that I once had your love…your first love, and that is enough to make me happy for the rest of my life.”

Now James saw what he had lost, and that Margaret could make him happy as neither Marian nor Janet ever could. Serene, disinterested, she could be passionate, giving wholeheartedly of her love and never demanding any favors in return; which was, he saw now, the only way to love. It had taken him years of experience to discover this. They were no longer very young, since they were both approaching their twenty-seventh birthdays.

“Nothing shall ever separate us again,” declared James vehemently. “I am King now and shall not be diverted from my purpose.”

It was Janet who temporarily diverted him. When he tried to explain to her, she faced him with a blazing desire which he was unable to resist and that which was meant to be a brief farewell was a night of such wild passion that he began to wonder whether even Margaret could free him from the spell Janet Kennedy had cast over him.

“Can she love like this?” demanded Janet.

Janet was wily. That night their son was conceived. A lover of children could not be indifferent to his own child.

He continued to see Janet, and Margaret did not complain. She was the perfect mistress; always kind, always understanding.

I will keep that promise I made all those years ago, James told himself. I will marry Margaret.

And so they had moved slowly toward that tragic climax. He was going to marry Margaret Drummond. She had already borne him a daughter who was named after her and who James insisted should be known as the Lady Margaret Stuart. Janet’s son was born two years after Margaret’s, and James loved these two children so dearly that it was difficult for him to say which he loved the more. And if he could not discard a mistress, how could he discard a child?

Memories of his own childhood were often with him. He was not going to let his little James suffer as he had. Therefore he must pay visits to his son, and it was natural that the boy would be with his mother; so during those years of indecision, both Janet and Margaret continued to hold sway over him—Janet by the violence of her emotion, Margaret by the serenity of hers.

But it was Margaret whom he loved; and he decided that before his marriage with her he would make a clean break with Janet.

When he visited her and told her of his proposed marriage she veiled her heavy-lidded eyes and threw back her flaming hair, but she did not look at him.

“I am determined,” he told her. “And this must be the end between us.”

“And our son?”

“Do not think I shall ever forget him. He shall be created Earl of Moray; and you shall not be forgotten either. I shall bestow on you the Castle of Darnaway and the forests surrounding it. It shall be yours unless you marry or live with any other man. In which case it would revert to me.”

Janet closed her eyes and nodded. The Earldom of Moray. The Castle of Darnaway. It was a good reward.

She said quietly: “I believe there is good hunting in the forests of Darnaway.”

He smiled. Let her believe that he intended to hunt there and visit her when he did so. Better not to say he intended never to see her again when he was married to Margaret Drummond.

“It is indeed good.”

Then she threw her arms about him and laughed in her wild way. Well, there had to be a last time and he had been prepared for this. What was one more night among all the rest that were left to him?

Farewell Janet, he had said to himself when he had ridden away next morning.

He often wondered afterward what part Janet and her family played in the tragedy that followed. But he could not be sure and Janet might have been guiltless, for there were others to oppose the marriage.

When the news was brought to him he remembered the long-ago occasion when he had heard of his father’s death.

Margaret was at Drummond Castle, making preparations for her wedding. Her four-year-old little daughter, Lady Margaret Stuart, was with her there; so were two of her sisters—the two youngest: Eupheme who was married, not very happily, to Lord Fleming, and Sibylla who was unmarried.

The three sisters sat down to breakfast one morning; a few hours later all three were dead. One of the dishes which had been served to them contained a deadly poison.

So grief struck him for the second time. I shall never forget Margaret, he mourned; as once before he had told himself he would never forget his father’s death. He was distracted by his grief, but his first thought was for his child, and impetuously he set off for Drummond Castle and took the little girl to Edinburgh Castle. He himself would watch over her.

He often wondered who had done this foul murder, but there was no means of knowing. There were some who declared that Lord Fleming, heartily sick of his wife Eupheme, had intended to dispose of her and had carried off her two sisters at the same time.

No one really believed that. There were so many who were opposed to the King’s union with the Drummonds. Already there was a faction who believed that Scotland could best be served by a marriage with Margaret Tudor, the daughter of the King of England. Such ruthless nobles would not care that in killing Margaret they had to kill her two sisters also.

Lurking in James’s mind was the thought of the Kennedys. Was it possible that wild Janet and her family had found some means of destroying the woman who had displaced her? Did they plan to put Janet in her place?

He did not care; he was not a vindictive man. Nothing he did now could bring back Margaret.

He listened with indifference to the arguments which were put before him. A political marriage was the duty of a king. He must contemplate the good which could come to Scotland if there were means of making peace with the old enemy across the Border.

Nothing brought peace between countries as easily as marriage in the royal houses.

He knew they were right. Let the negotiations with Henry VII go forward.

This had been done and now, mourning Margaret Drummond as he believed he would do all his life, he prepared himself to meet that other Margaret who was journeying north to share his throne.

On a sunny June day, four months after the death of her mother, Margaret, Queen of Scots, set out from Richmond Palace accompanied by her father. Crowds had gathered in the countryside through which the cavalcade was expected to pass, and Margaret could not hide her delight to find herself the center of such pageantry.

She was young and beautiful. She still mourned her gentle mother, but she had seen little of her during her lifetime and it seemed to her quite a long time ago that Elizabeth of York had died. So much had happened in between; there had been all the excitement of preparing her wardrobe—and how she loved those silks and damasks, those purple and crimson velvets! How she enjoyed the homage which was paid to her! Life was too good for mourning.

Let young Henry purse his little mouth and tell her she was frivolous; she could not care. He would have been equally excited if all the pother was for him.

She had heard stories of her husband and she liked what she had heard. She was longing to be with him. He was handsome and fearless; he loved hunting and the tournament; he was devoted to music.

“He has everything that I would ask of a husband,” she told her friends.

Riding out of Richmond, she did not look back once, nor did she ask herself when she would see those towers and turrets again. She was certain that life in Scotland was going to please her, and that she was going to feel no regrets for the past.

She was a charming figure in her riding dress of green velvet edged with purple tinsel; and when the people saw her on her white palfrey they cheered heartily for their lovely young Princess who was already a queen and whose marriage was going to bring peace to the country. Margaret smiled, acknowledging the cheers. Like Henry she was never bashful but delighted to hear the applause of the people.

There was a litter for her when she should tire of riding; it was magnificent, being covered with cloth of gold and trimmed with gold fringe; on it were embroidered the royal arms of England. She also had a chariot which brought gasps of admiration from all who saw it. It was lined with bearskins and painted with the arms of England, and the trappings of the horses and the hammer-cloths were of black and crimson velvet. Her litter-men wore the Tudor colors, green and white, and painted on them were the combined arms of England and Scotland.

They came by easy stages to Colleweston in Northamptonshire where the King planned to take leave of his daughter. This was the seat of Margaret’s grandmother, the Countess of Richmond, after whom she had been named.

The Countess had prepared a great banquet to celebrate the arrival of her beloved son and granddaughter; and here there was revelry for over a week.

But it was soon time to continue the journey and there, in the hall of Colleweston, Margaret bade farewell to her father and grandmother. All the nobility who had accompanied them, and those who had assembled for the occasion, watched the ceremony of farewell.

The King embraced his daughter and gave her words of advice; he also gave her an illuminated book of prayers in which he wrote: “Remember your kind and loving father in your good prayers. Henry R.”

Margaret was moved by this gesture, and in that moment she remembered that she was leaving her home and, in spite of all the pomp and pageantry which surrounded her and the fineness of her wardrobe, she felt apprehensive.

How could she know what this new land to which she was going would be like? Her father and family would be far away and she would be at the mercy of her Scottish husband.

But when they had left Colleweston and the journey began again she found that, now that her father was not present, she was treated with even more respect, and, her fears being dispersed, her spirits quickly rose.

All through England she was given homage. In every town and village the bells rang out as she approached. The lords of the districts greeted her and bade her welcome, and everywhere she went she was treated as a queen.

All marveled at her beauty and her charm, her brilliant Tudor coloring, her vitality, good health and high spirits. On through Lincolnshire to Yorkshire, here to be greeted by the High Sheriff, Sir William Conyers, by Sir Edward Savage, Sir Ralph Rider, Sir John Milton, Sir John Savile and Lord Scrope—all the worthies of the district who must come and pay homage to the daughter of their King. When she reached the City of York the gates were thrown open and the Lord Mayor marched at the head of the citizens to greet her, while the Earl of Northumberland magnificently attired in crimson velvet, with jewels glistening at his collar and on his sleeves, led the nobility. The trumpets sounded and minstrels sang to welcome her.

She reveled in the ceremonies which awaited her in that ancient city. In cloth of gold, wearing a girdle encrusted with precious stones, not only encircling her waist but falling to the hem of her gown, she visited the Archbishop of York in his palace where she heard mass; and afterward the nobility was presented to her. She would have liked to linger in the beautiful city, but she had to remember that her bridegroom was waiting for her.

It was a wonderful journey with homage all the way; a perfect horsewoman, she could ride for hours without feeling the least tired; and if she wished for a change there was her splendid litter or her even more sumptuous carriage ready for her.

And at last they reached the Border.

This was an important moment. The people here cheered more wildly than anywhere else, for it was comforting to see sparkling processions instead of ravaging hordes of savage men determined on destruction.

“Peace forevermore!” That was the cry. And this beautiful girl—no more than a child—with her round, rosy face and her glittering, golden hair, was the reason for it.

“Long live the Princess Margaret,” they cried. “Long live Margaret, Queen of Scots!”

She had learned how to receive the acclamation of the crowd, for she was a gracious lady now, not a shy young princess.

Lady Darcy, whose husband was the Captain of Berwick, received her at the gates; she was feted and flattered and a banquet was prepared for her. There was music and dancing for her entertainment; there was sport, and wild dogs were brought out to fight great bears. Later Margaret prepared herself for her entry into her husband’s country.

Sparkling with jewels, her eyes as brilliant as any gems, her cheeks scarlet with excitement, she was a lovely sight on her white palfrey; and the ceremonial moment had come; the gates were flung wide and Margaret passed out of England into Scotland.

She looked about her eagerly. The country of which I am Queen! she told herself. It was exciting to see it for the first time. This was the scene of many a bitter fight. How wonderful to contemplate that now it was a scene of rejoicing.

The first halt was at Lammermuir, and the curious people came out to look at their Queen and gasp with admiration at her youth, beauty and finery.

She was greeted at Lammermuir by the nobles of the district and although they could not have been more loyal she noticed that their clothes lacked that magnificence which had been a feature of those of the English lords. There was no gold or tinsel on their doublets, although the material of which they were made was of a good quality velvet or camlet.

Here she received a present from her husband—fruits which he believed she would find refreshing during her journey. Margaret, who was young enough to be hungry in any circumstances, devoured them with pleasure; and although it was now necessary to say goodbye to the English nobles who had escorted her from their Northern domains across the Border, she did so without regret; and her journey continued to Fastcastle. This meant passing through wild scenery such as Margaret had never before seen; and from her apartments at Fastcastle she could look down on the bay below to St. Abb’s Head, from the jagged rocks, black and unscalable, to the Wolf-Craig rising high and forbidding above the castle. It had been a slow journey, for the crossing of Lammermuir had been dangerous; Margaret had been warned of the bogs which lurked on the rough heath, and special guides had been hired to get them safely across.

Margaret felt that night that she was indeed in a strange new land in spite of the warm welcome she had received from Lord and Lady Home who lived at Fastcastle.

She spent only one night under that roof and the next morning took the road to Haddington; and before nightfall she and her cavalcade had reached the convent of Haddington where the Abbess was waiting to welcome her. Here she stayed for the night with her women, chief among whom were Lady Lyle, Lady Stanley, Lady Guildford and the Countess of Surrey; the men of the party could not, of course, stay at the convent so they were conducted to the Gray Friars.

The people of Haddington came out to watch the procession leave, and now there was an added excitement in the Queen’s suite; the meeting with the King must be close at hand and, although Margaret did not believe for one moment that he would be displeased with her, she was eager to look her best for the meeting.

They were to reach the Castle of Dalkeith by midday and as this was only seven miles from Edinburgh it seemed certain that on this day the meeting of the royal bride and groom would take place.

They were within half a mile of Dalkeith Palace when Margaret suddenly felt displeased with her appearance. She brought her palfrey close to that of Lady Guildford, who was known as her ladymistress, and said: “How do I look?”

Lady Guildford answered that she must have been aware of the admiration which she had aroused; it was well deserved.

“But I think I should look my very best, and I am not pleased with this gown. Who knows what will be waiting for us at Dalkeith?”

Lady Guildford saw the point of this. The first meeting was a great occasion, and it was just possible that the King would have ridden the seven miles from Edinburgh to meet his bride informally before he must do so in public.

“What does Your Grace propose to do?” Lady Guildford asked.

“Change here into my best gown and ride the rest of the way in the litter.”

“Change here on the road!”

“Why not?”

“Whoever heard of a queen changing her gown in her litter by the roadside!”

“They will after today,” said Margaret, “for that is what I propose to do, and I’ll have no interference.”

Lady Guildford pressed her lips firmly together. She had seen signs of obstinacy in her young mistress since they had begun this journey. Margaret resembled her brother Henry more than ever. Like him, she had a will of her own and had only been waiting until authority was hers to use it.

There was no gainsaying her; the procession was halted; the gown was brought from her baggage and her ladies surrounded her litter while she changed her traveling gown for one of dazzling magnificence.

Thus she rode into Dalkeith in velvet and tinsel, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, the flush of health and excitement on her rounded cheeks.

The Earl and Countess of Morton, castellan and castellaine of Dalkeith, were waiting for her and, as she passed through the gateway the Earl bowed low and presented her with the keys of the castle.

Lady Morton led her to her apartments and, when Margaret had expressed her pleasure in them and the loyalty of the Countess and her husband, she was left with her ladies to prepare herself for the banquet which was to follow.

While Lady Morton was receiving Margaret’s thanks there was a commotion in the courtyard below. Lady Morton turned pale and, forgetting she was in the presence of the Queen, ran to the window. Then she turned to Margaret and said: “The King is here.”

“The King…my husband!”

Margaret’s eyes were wide and she trembled a little. Then she thought of the magnificent sight she must present in her dazzling gown, and she could not resist throwing a look of triumph at Lady Guildford. There! Was I not right! she seemed to be saying.

She ran to the window, but he had already entered the castle.

“He will come straight to Your Grace,” murmured Lady Morton.

Margaret smoothed the folds of her gown; she put up a hand to touch her shining hair. There was no time to ask for reassurance that she looked her best, but she did not need it because she knew she did.

The door of the apartment was opened and there he stood. Her heart began to beat fast and a sudden joy came to her, for he was so handsome in his velvet hunting clothes, although there was nothing ornate about them, for he had come straight from the hunt, without ceremony, perhaps to let her know that this was an informal visit.

He is beautiful, she thought; and she believed that she loved him, so happy was she to be in Scotland and already his wife.

He was flushed from the chase and perhaps he shared in her excitement, for after all, was he not meeting his wife for the first time even as she was meeting her husband? His eyes were hazel, his hair dark auburn, and she now believed all those who had told her that he was the handsomest King in the world.

He was smiling—and it was the kindest and most tender of smiles—as he came toward here. She made a low curtsy and he raised her with both his hands, and drawing her to him, kissed her.

She could not take her eyes from him. He appealed to her senses in a way which was entirely new to her; it did not occur to her that there was scarcely a woman who came into contact with him who did not share her feeling in greater or less degree. She was inexperienced and had received so much adulation that she believed he shared every emotion she herself felt. She did not stop to ask herself whether a man past thirty—and such a man—might have had many adventures in love.

James, whose years of kingship had taught him that it was always wise outwardly to observe convention, turned from his bride to greet her attendants. He took all the ladies by the hand and kissed them and then accepted the greetings of the men with the utmost courtesy.

And all the time he was thinking: She is but a child. Poor little girl! So eager. So determined to do her duty. Little Margaret Tudor! Oh, why could it not have been that other Margaret? My Margaret!

Having greeted the company, it was now fitting for him to give his attention to his bride, and he returned to her, took her hand and drew her apart. Seeing his desire to talk with her, the rest of the company kept their distance, and James, smiling down at her, said: “But you are beautiful…more beautiful than I dared hope.”

“And all they said of you is true.”

“What did they say of me?”

“That you were the handsomest King in the world.”

He laughed. “I should have been afraid, had I known, that after such a glowing description I might disappoint you.”

“You do not disappoint me.”

Her eyes were glowing, her lips slightly parted. James—connoisseur of women—knew the signs. She would be no prude. It would be no hardship to do his duty. He was glad to discover in her a sensuality which might match his own.

“I trust,” he said, “that you will be happy in Scotland.”

“I know I shall…now that I have met my lord.”

“Do you always make up your mind on such a short acquaintance?”

“Always.”

“Is that wise?”

“I can only trust my inclinations, which rarely betray me,” she answered.

He took her hand and kissed it.

By sweet Saint Ninian! he thought. We must join the others, lest we come to the lovemaking before we have time to get abed.

He compared her with that other Margaret. This one would never be serene. He was uneasily reminded of Janet Kennedy, for he sensed a certain wild passion in this young girl—although it was not yet full awakened—which might equal Janet’s. That made him think of his Margaret, sitting down to her last breakfast with her sisters. Was it possible that Janet had had a hand in that? If he really believed that, he would never see her again. But this was not the time to think of that—nor was any time, for it was past and done with. But he did feel a little uneasy to be reminded of Janet by this little Tudor girl whom he had been obliged to marry for the sake of his country’s peace.

“Come,” he said, “we must not neglect our friends. And I’ll swear there is food and wine waiting for us.”

She sat beside him at the table, which was laden with good food and wine, and all the time she was conscious of him beside her.

“I must return to Edinburgh for the night,” he said, “and you must retire early to prepare yourself for the ceremonial entry into our capital.”

“I am sorry you must return to Edinburgh without me.”

He laughed and touched her hand lightly. This was in the nature of a caress. His hazel eyes were bright with tenderness; she did not know that this expression was invariably in his eyes when he looked at a woman—even though she were a fishwife in the market or a tavern girl.

“It was a little unseemly of me to come in this way,” he told her, “but I was so eager to see my bride. I wanted to assure her that she had nothing to fear.”

“I should never be afraid of you,” she told him. “You are kind and good, and the happiest woman in Scotland is the Queen.”

He smiled again and said: “You make prettier speeches in England than we do in Scotland. I trust our rough manners will not offend you.”

“You…rough?”

“You will see,” he warned her, but there was mockery in his gaze, and she was more deeply in love than ever.

She danced for him, taking Lady Surrey as her partner; she was eager to show him how accomplished she was. She remembered the occasion when she and Henry had danced together at the marriage of their brother Arthur and Katharine of Aragon, and how all present had said none danced in such a sprightly manner as they did. She remembered how her father and mother had watched them, with smiles of contentment on their faces, so grateful were they for their good health and spirits.

But then she had danced as a child, trying to outleap Henry; now she danced as a woman, gracefully, seductively.

The King applauded her and, when she returned to his side, told her he was charmed with his bride.

“But the hour grows late,” he said, “and I must return to Edinburgh; for remember we have not yet sworn our marriage vows to each other except by proxy. Until we have done so, alas, we must part.”

“Soon,” she answered, “we shall make those vows.”

“I am glad that you look forward to that occasion even as I do,” he replied.

When he said farewell, Lady Guildford wanted to warn her charge that she should not show her feelings so frankly, but that lady realized that it was not so easy to advise the Queen of Scotland as the Princess of England.

Margaret lay dreaming of the future. She was dancing before him with Lady Surrey, and suddenly he rose and partnered her himself, holding her tightly. His handsome eyes were ardent; he was telling her that he had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. Willingly she submitted herself to his embrace; she was growing very warm; she felt that she was suffocating.

Then she was awakened by a flickering light in her apartment and she was coughing because of the smoke.

She hurried out of bed as Lady Guildford ran into the room.

“Your Grace! Rise quickly. There is not a moment to lose.”

“Is the castle on fire?”

“I fear so.”

She was hurried into a gown and out of the apartment; there she was joined by her ladies, and she saw the Countess of Morton was with them.

“Come quickly down to the hall, Your Grace,” said the Countess. “Something terrible has happened. The castle is in danger.”

As they hurried down to the hall they heard shouts from without. Now the angry glow seemed all about them and they could hear the crackle of flames.

They were joined by the Earl and some of his men.

“It started in the stables,” he said. “I’m afraid they’re completely burned. But I believe we have saved the castle. There is no need to fear. We can remain here. The fire is under control.”

It was a wretched night, for although she returned to her apartment she did not sleep; she stood for a long time with her ladies at the window watching the smoldering remains of the stables, and when news was brought to her that her two white palfreys had been burned to death, Margaret threw herself onto her bed and wept like a child.

Her dear palfreys whom she had loved so much, who had carried her so far!

“I shall never have palfreys that I love so much,” she mourned.

But in the morning there came a tender message from the King. He had heard of the disaster which had befallen his bride and was much concerned. He was coming to see her that very day but first he suggested that, as Dalkeith had been unlucky for her and she could not be as comfortable there as it was his desire she should be, he wanted her to leave at once for Newbattle Castle which was not far off; and there she would stay until her entry into Edinburgh and their true marriage. “Only a few days it will be, long enough for me to court you in a fitting manner.”

She brightened up when she heard that message and immediately she and her train set out for Newbattle.

She was so far composed as to have settled into the new residence and was playing cards—which she loved to do—in her apartments when a visitor was announced.

She started up and cried out in delight to see him. Now he looked more like a king, in black velvet jacket with a crimson velvet border and an edge of white fur.

Margaret returned his kiss, and he sat down with her and commiserated with her over last night’s unfortunate occurrence.

She told him about her white palfreys and wept. “For they were dear beasts,” she said, “and I loved them.”

“My Margaret has a tender heart,” said the King. “But do not weep, for it grieves me to see you do so. There will be other palfreys and we should rejoice that you are safe.”

She blinked away her tears and said that he made her happy.

“Why,” he answered, “you know nothing of happiness yet. Only wait until we are married in the sight of my people.” He clapped his hands. “Could we not have a little music? I fancy, my love, that you like it, even as I do.”

The minstrels began to play and the King asked Margaret to dance for him with Lady Surrey as she had at Dalkeith, which Margaret was happy to do; and watching her radiant face, which such a short while before had been so sad, the King told himself that she was only a child after all.

Being a lover of music, he himself must perform, and this he did with great skill on the clavichord. Margaret clapped her hands and declared that she had never heard such playing. Then he took a lute and played to her so sweetly that she was completely charmed.

“I am sure,” said James, “that there are others in the company who can amuse us.” And Margaret signed to Sir Edward Stanley to play the clavichord and sing.

“A wonderful English ballad,” commented the King, and called one of the gentlemen who had accompanied him from Edinburgh to Newbattle. “The two of you sing together,” he commanded.

And they did so, harmonizing so perfectly that everyone present applauded with enthusiasm—not only for the singing but because that was a symbol of the new friendship between the two countries.

But once again James must take his leave. As he left he whispered to Margaret: “Would I could stay this night with you.” He almost meant it. She was so young and fresh, and he was tiring of the mistress he had taken since the death of Margaret Drummond. “Alas, kings and queens must conform to the rules laid down for them…much as they would wish otherwise.”

Margaret’s flushed cheeks and shining eyes told him that she shared his wish.

“A few more days…,” he murmured.

And she repeated: “A few more days.”

She insisted on accompanying him out to his horse, and he with his followers and she with hers left the apartment together.

He embraced her once more and then leaped onto his horse without putting his foot into the stirrup—a feat which everyone applauded. He turned, pulling off his hat, and bowed his head to Margaret before he galloped away.

These pleasant days of courtship were the happiest Margaret had ever known. The King would ride out to Newbattle; she would play for him on the lute and clavichord as he had for her; and everyone noticed how attentive he was, and how he always remained with his head uncovered in her presence.

Always there was conversation and music, and at last came that August day when she was to make her ceremonial entry into Edinburgh.

Her women were dressing Margaret in a gown of cloth of gold edged with black velvet; they were placing about her neck pearls and precious stones, when the Countess of Surrey came in to tell her that a gift from the King had arrived. This was two palfreys to replace those which she had lost in the Dalkeith fire.

Margaret clasped her hands in pleasure.

“Do you know,” she said, “I believe I have the best husband in the world.”

The ladies exchanged glances. It was true James was handsome, charming, courteous and kind; but they had heard certain scandalous gossip and they were inclined to believe it was true; and they did wonder how their high-spirited and headstrong little princess would act if and when she discovered there was truth in this gossip.

In the meantime it was well that she should enjoy her ignorance.

Riding in her litter, Margaret was met by James on the road to the capital. She was filled with delight when she saw him approaching, because he looked magnificent. His jacket was made of cloth of gold, and it opened to show that it was lined with purple velvet; about it was a border of black otter fur; his waistcoat was of purple satin and there were pearls and precious stones about his person, while his scarlet hose added an extra touch of color; and he looked very fine on a horse whose saddle and harness were of gold, and bridle and headgear of shining silver.

As he approached he sprang from his horse, and coming up to the litter, kissed Margaret. Then leaping onto his horse, he turned and rode beside the litter, while his gentleman-usher took out the sword of state from its scabbard of purple velvet and carried it before the King.

James was smiling at Margaret. “Are you prepared to enter your capital city?” he asked.

“I am longing to do so.”

“I am going to take you in on my horse,” he told her. “It is meet and fitting that I should do so!”

“You mean I shall ride pillion?”

“Why not? It is what I wish, and it is what the people will wish. Will you be afraid on such a fiery horse as mine?”

“I would never be afraid if you were there.”

“Ah, Margaret,” he told her “you are too trusting.”

He was frowning. “I would never forgive myself if you were thrown,” he went on. Then he shouted to one of his men to mount behind him pillion fashion to see how the horse reacted to the extra weight.

When it was clear that the horse was not pleased with the arrangement, the King said: “Nay, I’ll not risk this. Bring one of the Queen’s palfreys.”

The palfrey was brought and when the King had mounted and Margaret had been placed on the pillion, they prepared to journey into Edinburgh.

But there was much to be seen before they reached the city, for the King had determined that his people should show his bride a royal welcome. In a meadow about half a mile from the city they must pause and watch a joust between two knights, which had been staged for their benefit; when this was over a tame deer was released and a greyhound set to chase it.

It seemed that all the citizens of Edinburgh had come out to see the fun, for the roads were lined with people who cheered the King and Queen.

They were met by the Gray Friars who carried with them the cross and some holy but grisly relics which the King and the Queen kissed. Then as they approached the entrance to the city the trumpeters, whom Margaret had brought with her, blew a fanfare and the Scottish minstrels and trumpeters joined in with the triumphal music.

An “angel” appeared and presented the keys of the city to the new Queen; Margaret took these with a smile and turned to see that the precious relic, the arm of St. Giles, was being presented to her to kiss.

When this was done they entered the city where more pageantry awaited them; Margaret felt dazzled and found the quiet of the church of Holyrood, to which James had led her, rather pleasant. Here she knelt with James at the altar and afterward was presented to the great nobles of Scotland, among whom were such famous people as Huntley, Argyle and Lennox.

The ceremony was almost over and the King had brought his bride to his Palace of Holyrood.

They did not dine together, but later the King came to her apartments to see if she were comfortable, and there was music and dancing.

Margaret heard the city bells ringing; she knew that the streets were hung with tapestry and that all the nobility of Scotland were in Edinburgh because the following day she, Margaret Tudor, would be married to the King in the church of Holyrood.

This was her wedding day.

Margaret stood by the font, in the church of Holyrood, a dazzling figure in a gown of gold and white damask, the border of which was crimson velvet; on her head was a glittering crown, and her rippling golden hair on which she could sit with ease hung loose. About her neck was a collar of pearls. Her ladies who accompanied her were almost as richly dressed; on her right stood the Archbishop of York and on her left the Earl of Surrey.

The King was approaching, slowly, ceremoniously, accompanied by nobles in brilliant costume. He looked so handsome that Margaret could not resist the temptation to gaze at him. The white damask and gold suited his tawny coloring; and the black velvet border of his jacket and the crimson satin slashes on his sleeves, matching his scarlet hose, gave a touch of startling color. When he saw Margaret he removed his black velvet bonnet, in which glowed a great ruby, that his head might not be covered in her presence and all could therefore see the respect in which he held her.

His eyes, as they rested on her, were above all reassuring. And she thought: This is the happiest moment of my life. I am to be married to him in very truth at last, and I know this to be but the beginning of all my joy.

They stood together before the Archbishops of York and Glasgow, and the ceremony of marriage was performed. Then the bulls from the Pope, consenting to the union, were read aloud; and when this was done the trumpets blared forth in triumph.

Margaret and James were married.

They sat side by side at the banquet and the King commanded that the Queen should be served before he was.

In spite of her ecstasy Margaret could still feel hungry, and she tackled the boar’s head, brawn and ham and all the other delicacies with a zest which seemed to amuse her husband.

When the banquet was over the company left the dining hall for another room that was hung with tapestries and cloth of gold, and here the King and Queen led the company in the dance.

And so the evening passed until it was time for the King and Queen to retire together.

Margaret was happy; the King was well content.

She was young and beautiful and, as he had guessed, had been an apt pupil in those arts in which he had long excelled. It was pleasant to find a sensuality which matched his own, and if he had not continued secretly to mourn for Margaret Drummond he could have been a happy man.

Margaret with all her Tudor egoism, never doubted for one moment that the King was as delighted with her as she was with him. He had given her on the morning after the wedding night the domains of Kilmarnock as a morrowing gift.

During the weeks which followed she devoted herself to pleasure with an energy which those who had followed her from England had only seen surpassed by her royal brother. Each day she held a council of her ladies to discuss what she should wear; she danced and sang, she hunted, practiced archery; and always she was eager for those hours when she could be alone with her bridegroom.

After some weeks of this merrymaking James intimated that the celebrations should come to an end and it was time he showed the people of Scotland their Queen. Then began the royal tour. From Edinburgh to Linlithgow and from Linlithgow to Stirling, to Falkland, Perth, Aberdeen and Elgin. Each night they would come to rest in some mansion, convent or abbey where there would be dancing, music, card-playing or religious ceremonies.

One of the greatest difficulties was the transport of Margaret’s wardrobe, for the purpose of which special carters had to be employed.

“Do you need so much?” asked James gently.

“Indeed I do,” Margaret firmly told him.

Many would have been exasperated; not so James. He merely shrugged tolerant shoulders and the carters were engaged.

By Christmas they were back in Holyrood Palace where Margaret threw herself into arrangements for Christmas festivities with all her youthful enthusiasm. Holyrood should see festivities such as it had never seen before. There should be pageantry and dancing such as she and Henry had often longed for during the Christmas celebrations which had taken place in their father’s Court. It was wonderful to escape from that miserly caution which had been a part of her early life. Margaret was determined to have gaiety, no matter what the cost. Harpers and luters, fiddlers and pipers, trumpeters and dancers filled the state apartments with their music.

And when the Christmas feasting was over, there was the New Year.

James’s present to his wife on the first day of the New Year was a heavy ducat of gold weighing an ounce, with two sapphire rings; and the second day of the New Year he gave her two crosses studded with pearls.

To Margaret’s chagrin the New Year festivities were brought to an abrupt end by the death of James’s brother, the Duke of Ross; and when the burial ceremonies were over, James told his bride that he must leave her for a while. She must understand that as King he had certain duties to his country. He would write to her and she must write to him, but for a few weeks they must be parted.

Margaret embraced him tearfully and implored him not to stay long from her side. He assured her that he would return as soon as it was possible for him to do so. The first of the King’s absences had begun.

During the periods when he was absent from his Queen, James sent her letters and gifts. He deplored the fact that they could not be together, and Margaret occupied herself in hunting and archery and sometimes in the woods she would run races with her attendants. The days passed pleasantly enough but she yearned for James.

When he returned he was as affectionate and charming as ever, but during a visit to Stirling Castle, Margaret made a discovery.

James was always eager to go to Stirling, and she had said to him: “I believe this to be the favorite of all your palaces, and this surprises me since you spent so much of your childhood there. So your memories cannot be unhappy ones.”

“Do I love Stirling best?” he mused. “I wonder. At this time I do. Next week I may love Linlithgow or Holyrood House or the castle of Edinburgh. I fear I am a fickle man.”

“As long as your fickleness is only for your castles I care not,” laughed Margaret.

She did not notice that he looked momentarily melancholy.

The next day she saw a little girl in the hall of the castle. The child was beautiful and in the charge of a highborn lady. Margaret called the little girl to her and asked who she was.

Her lady guardian seemed confused and said that she was lodged in the castle temporarily.

“My name is Margaret,” the child told the Queen.

“Margaret! How strange. So is mine.”

“You are Margaret too! What else? I am the Lady Margaret Stuart.”

“That is a name which arouses my interest,” answered the Queen.

“She is such a prattler, I fear, Your Grace,” said her guardian. “And, I fear, a little spoiled.”

“I am not,” answered the child. “My father says I am not.”

“And who is your father, my child?”

“My father is the King,” was the disconcerting answer.

Margaret knitted her brows and looked at the woman, who lifted her shoulders and murmured: “She is but a child, Your Grace. You know how children prattle on…without sense.”

“Then if your father is the King, who is your mother?” asked Margaret suddenly, ignoring the woman and addressing the child.

“She was Margaret too,” the child told her. “I am named for her.”

“Is the child’s mother here?” asked Margaret.

“No, Your Grace. Her mother is dead.”

“She is not,” declared the child. “My father says she is not dead, and will never die.”

“Oh come…come…you weary Her Grace.”

Margaret did not seek to detain them; she watched the woman take the child’s hand and lead her away.

She went immediately to the King, who was in his own apartments playing his lute. Imperiously she said: “James, I wish to speak to you…privately.”

James regarded her somewhat lazily and, seeing that she was truly agitated, signed to his friends to leave him.

“Well?” he said when they were alone.

“There is a child here—Margaret—who says she is your daughter. I know that this is not so, but I like not that she should proclaim herself to be. I want you to stop this.”

James was silent for a while; then he strummed a few notes on his lute. The time had come. He would have to explain.

“The child speaks the truth,” he said. “She is my daughter.”

“Your daughter! But…”

“I was to have married her mother, but she…died. She was poisoned with her two sisters when at breakfast.”

Margaret’s blue eyes opened wide and the color flamed into her cheeks. He noted that the fact that his mistress had been poisoned did not shock her so much as that she had existed.

“So…you had a mistress!”

“My dear Margaret! What do you expect? Not one…but many.”

“And…a child!”

“Children,” he corrected her.

She was angry. She had been hoping for signs of her own pregnancy and there had been none. And now he…her own husband…admitted not only to having had mistresses…but children.

“I am glad you know,” he said. “I visit them often. They are after all my own flesh and blood and I have always promised myself that my children should never be treated by their father as I was by mine—perhaps in the hope that they will never have to suffer the remorse I did for the part I played in my father’s end.”

Margaret stood up and went to the door. She was so angry that she knew she must escape because she had a great desire to fly at him and fight him with all her strength. She had been cheated. She saw that she had been young and foolish and that her naïveté must have been apparent to him. She felt insulted and her Tudor pride was in revolt. She had loved him too deeply, too trustingly.

He did not attempt to detain her. He shrugged his shoulders and turned idly to his lute. He strummed without hearing; the recent scene had made him think of that other Margaret and the longing for her was almost too great to be borne.

Margaret could not rest until she discovered more about her husband’s premarital love affairs. She insisted on her Scottish ladies’ telling her all they knew. So the King had been so enamored of Margaret Drummond that he had wanted to marry her against the advice of his ministers; and she had borne him a daughter, that child, Lady Margaret Stuart, who was so petted and pampered at the King’s command. And there were two children by a certain Marian Boyd: Catherine and Alexander; and the young Earl of Moray—who had been given this title when he was scarcely two—was the King’s son by Janet Kennedy.

What a family! And he so proud of them—sneaking off to visit them on the pretense that he was engaged on state affairs! And what was worse, leaving his wife in order to do so!

All her amour propre—which was very strong in the young Tudors—was in revolt.

She now saw her husband in a new light. He was not the person who in her girlish imagination she had believed him to be. This marriage of theirs could well be one of convenience to him. She had been cheated.

Yet when he came to her again—tender and kind, yet not repentant—her wounded pride was submerged by her need of him. He had aroused in her that latent sensuality which must be appeased no matter how hurt her pride.

She was passionate in her demands; and there was a new determination within her; she must have a child; and her child must be more important to him than any of his others, for the son she bore would be the future King of Scotland.

James was sorry that his wife was hurt by her discovery of his illegitimate family, and he blamed himself for not having broken the news more gently to her. He could not be sorry that he had these children, for he doted on them and it was a matter of great disappointment to him that, so far, Margaret had shown no signs of pregnancy. When she did, he assured himself, she would be more serene.

One of his greatest pleasures was to visit his children, and he planned to have them all together in one nursery, acknowledged as his, so that he could supervise their education and give them honors which as royal Stuarts he believed should be theirs.

Meanwhile he decided to compensate Margaret for the shock she had suffered and, since she was such a child and there was nothing that pleased her more than balls, plays and ballets, there should be more of these entertainments.

He brought a gift of jewels—that could always delight her—and told her that he was arranging a ball in her honor and asked how she would like that.

She clasped her hands in ecstasy and her young face lighted with pleasure.

“And you will be there, James?” she asked eagerly.

“Indeed I shall be there.”

“For it would be no pleasure to me if you were not.”

He embraced her and thought happily: She has recovered from the shock. She accepts the children as natural.

At the same time he wondered what she would say if she knew of those lapses from fidelity which had occurred since his marriage. She was so naive in many ways. Probably it was due to the fact that her father had been a faithful husband; it was said that Henry VII was a cold man—well, James IV was not. Women were as necessary to his comfort as money was to Henry VII’s.

Margaret would have to learn this, but he trusted she would not have to make the discovery until she was ready to. In a few years’ time she would become accustomed to the fact that he must have his mistresses. He would try to explain that they in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife and it was their duty to get children. But ever since he had been a very young man he had made no effort to curb his sexual desires; and he could not begin now. He was gentle and tolerant with her and would remain so as long as she did not attempt to restrain him.

Then they began to plan the entertainment. There should be masked dancers because it was always such fun to watch disguised performers. And there should be a play. There was one of the Queen’s attendants who was a past master at coaching players. This boy, who had come with Margaret from England, was called English Cuddy by the Scots.

“I shall command English Cuddy to begin making arrangements at once,” declared Margaret.

“So much energy you have, my little one,” said James. “But it is such fun to play for a masque.”

“When you have children you will think of other things.”

He looked at her searchingly. Was there no sign? Her face darkened because she was thinking of those other children and how she would like to banish the Lady Margaret Stuart from the Court.

“I intend to have many children,” she said. “And when my son is born I am going to ask a favor of you. Will you grant it?”

“I think I should be ready to grant you any favor when you give me the heir to the throne.”

“I shall want him to have all that is best in Scotland.”

“That is easy. So he shall.”

“And I do not think he should have to meet the children of…harlots.”

James looked puzzled. “What mean you?”

“Margaret Stuart for one…and I know there are others who might try to force themselves into his company.”

James’s face was a dull red; for the first time in her life Margaret saw that he was angry.

“Do not dare to say that again,” he said. “The Lady Margaret Stuart’s mother was a great lady. She was possessed of many qualities which are lacking in the daughters of kings.”

Then he left her.

Margaret went into her bedchamber and threw herself onto her bed where she wept violently, for her emotions were invariably violent.

Her fit of sobbing did not last long; she roused herself and tried to remove the stains of weeping. Tears were futile; one day she would have her own way, but first she must learn how.

When next she was in the company of her husband, Margaret behaved as though the scene had not taken place. James was relieved and ready to meet her more than halfway. He reminded himself again and again that she was but a child and he expected too much of her.

He gave her more presents; rich damasks and velvets to make the clothes with which she enjoyed adorning her person—and the result was enchanting, he had to admit. He should congratulate himself on his good luck, for he had a beautiful young wife who was overflowing with love for him while so many kings had to marry plain and even deformed women for the sake of their kingdoms. He merely had to remind himself that she was a self-willed child and that he was some seventeen years older than she was, which should make him tolerant.

So those celebrations were particularly gay, James playing the clavichord with his wife and singing with her as they played their lutes. They led the dancing together; they laughed uproariously over English Cuddy’s play; and when at last they retired they made passionate love; and Margaret was so happy that she forgot to be jealous of those children.

Wait, she told herself. Surely soon I shall be pregnant. Then I shall not care how many illegitimate children he may have had in the past.

There was no reason why the fun should not continue. English Cuddy and Scotch Dog (a certain James Dog whose talents were similar to Cuddy’s) put their heads together and devised more original and brilliant entertainments.

It was during one of these days when entertainment followed entertainment that a messenger arrived at the Palace and asked to be taken to the King.

The man was brought to James when he was playing the lute to the Queen, and seeing how travel-stained and agitated the messenger was, James immediately laid aside his lute. One of his most endearing characteristics was his immediate sympathy with any in distress, however humble they were, and his concern to do all in his power to help them. It was this quality which had made him the most popular of the Stuart Kings.

He therefore made the man sit in his presence, and sent for wine to refresh him.

“And while it is being brought, tell me what brings you here.”

“I come from Darnaway, Sire,” said the messenger. “My mistress, the Lady Bothwell, commanded me to come and tell you that she is sick unto death and begs that you visit her on her death bed.”

James gasped with dismay. The Lady Bothwell was his fiery Janet Kennedy on whom the Bothwell estate had been bestowed in exchange for all the lands her lover Angus had given her. Janet…who had been so vital…sick unto death! It was unthinkable, and what of little James, their son?

“I shall go to her without delay,” said the King.

Margaret had risen and stood beside him. She laid her hand on his arm.

“Who is this Lady Bothwell?” she asked. “And why should she send for you in this way…as though she were a queen and you her subject?”

James looked at her coldly and said: “She may be dying.”

Then he turned and strode from the apartment.

Margaret had to shake the woman to get the truth from her. The foolish creature was trying to pretend she had no notion who this Lady Bothwell was.

All the Tudor fury was in flame.

“Who is she? Tell me that!”

“I…I…”

“It will be the worse for you if you do not say.”

“Your Grace…Your Highness…she was Janet Kennedy.”

“Janet Kennedy? And what is she?”

“The daughter of Lord Kennedy, Your Grace.”

“What is she to the King? That is what I mean?”

Silence. But silence could tell so much.

“You know!” shrieked Margaret. “And how many sons did she bear him? Tell me that.”

“It was only the one, Your Grace…only the little Earl of Moray.”

Margaret slapped the woman’s face in fury.

“And he goes to see her now. He leaves me, to go to see her. The wanton creature. I hate her. I hate them both, I tell you!”

She turned and ran to her apartments.

And there once more she flung herself onto her bed and wept. Lady Guildford came to her. “Your Grace…Your Grace, this is not the way to behave.”

She did not answer. Instead she raised herself and clenched her fists, pummelled her pillows, with an expression which showed that was how she would have liked to beat Janet Kennedy.

“You must remember that you are a queen, Your Grace.”

“A queen…ah! And a woman. A woman deserted by her husband! Do you not think I understand the meaning of those absences? And all except me knowing…I alone in ignorance. I was not enough for him. He must have these sluts. I would kill them. I will not have him in my bed again.”

“Hush! Hush! There will be those to listen. There will be those to carry tales.”

“I care not.”

“But you must care. Remember, my dearest, you are the Queen of Scotland.”

Margaret’s face crumpled suddenly and she began to cry softly. Lady Guildford put her arms about her shaking shoulders and sought to soothe her.

“I loved him so much,” sobbed Margaret. “You could not understand how much.”

During the months which followed, Margaret appeared to be resigned. She had lost her innocence and those about her said: “She is growing out of childhood.” A certain hardness had crept into her expression. She was no longer in love with the King; the romantic ideal had gone but the need for sexual satisfaction was as strong as ever and that side of their relationship appeared to have undergone no change. But both James and Margaret were deeply affected by the knowledge which had come to her. Margaret was on the defensive, but James was more lighthearted because he had never enjoyed deceiving his wife and could not help being glad that the need for deceit was over. He was a man whom no one woman could hope to satisfy, and the sooner his wife realized this, the better for them both.

The absences from home were more frequent, but during them he never failed to write tender letters inquiring after his wife’s health, and these were often accompanied by some charming and costly gift.

Margaret would say to herself with that grim cynicism which had developed since her discovery: “He must indeed be enjoying the woman to suffer such qualms of conscience.”

It was not a situation which could be endured forever by a proud Tudor, but as yet Margaret—still so young—saw no way for her except endurance. But, that some way would be shown to her, she had no doubt.

It was not that she wanted revenge; she wanted only to restore her pride in herself. She discovered that she did not care enough for James to desire that revenge. To her he was merely the means of satisfying a need which was becoming more and more important to her as she grew more mature. Let him then supply this need. She would use him for this purpose and wait until she knew what she must do to establish herself in her own right—as a woman, as a Tudor Queen.

This was the time of growing into maturity. She was wise enough to understand that. Foolishly she had been prepared to adore her handsome husband; from now on she would never forget that nothing in her life could matter so much as Margaret Tudor.

Outwardly she appeared to be a high-spirited girl, not cowed but wisely accepting what could not be prevented. James was delighted with her, and when he came home from his travels the reunions were gay and pleasant occasions. The apartments of Holyrood House rang with laughter and music—which they both enjoyed; there were occasions when James entertained in his own apartments and Margaret in hers, but if James found an entertainer of talent he would send him or her immediately along to entertain the Queen. A female minstrel who was known by the name of Wantonness was an example of this. Wantonness had amused James; therefore Margaret must enjoy her singing. It was the same with O’Donnel, an Irish harper, and a luter known as Gray Steil.

James took advantage of his wife’s complacency to have Margaret Drummond’s daughter, Lady Margaret Stuart, brought to Edinburgh Castle, but when Margaret heard that the child was there her restraint broke down temporarily, and before her English attendants she demanded to know how she was expected to deal with such an affront.

Lady Guildford suggested that she might remonstrate with the King, provided she remained calm enough to do so.

“He dotes on that child,” retorted Margaret. “And I know why. He still remembers her mother. He believes that had she lived he would have been faithful to her! As if he would! As if he could ever be faithful to any woman!”

“Your Grace should remember that it is better not to show your anger.”

“That’s one lesson I’ve learned,” retorted Margaret grimly.

Still, she could not resist talking to the King.

They were planning a masque and were discussing the merits of English Cuddy and Scotch Dog and whether Wantonness should be summoned to sing with the other minstrels, when Margaret said suddenly: “James, do you think it wise to have Margaret Stuart at the castle?”

“But why not?” he asked, surprised.

“I know how devoted you are to her, but she is still a bastard.”

James said coolly: “I have decided that she shall be acknowledged as my daughter, and I swear by St. Ninian that nothing shall deter me.”

“But…”

He had become a king suddenly and Margaret was aware that however courteous he was he would rule Scotland alone. Then she knew that there was one thing she wanted to do; that was rule Scotland herself. She understood in that moment of revelation that if James had taken her advice she could have readily forgiven him his philanderings. But he would not be advised; his gentle demeanor was a shield which hid a man determined to have his way. He was no husband for a strong-minded woman. She thought enviously of her brother Henry who on their father’s death—which could not be long delayed—would be absolute ruler of England.

“I think little Margaret finds it lonely at the castle,” went on James, “and I have for some time believed that it would be an excellent idea to gather my family together under one roof. I am therefore having young Alexander Stuart brought to the castle…temporarily of course. In time I intend to send him and his brother, Moray, abroad to be educated. I have a great respect for Erasmus and I want him to take charge of their education.”

Margaret could not remain calm. She laughed aloud suddenly. “Alexander Stuart, bastard son of Marian Boyd and the King of Scotland—a mere boy, and Primate of Scotland! Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous, James?”

James gave his lazy smile. “One favors one’s own flesh and blood, my dear. Parents are notoriously fond and foolish.”

“Such fondness and foolishness can have dangerous results when employed by kings.”

“I see no harm done. Wait until you give me a son. For him there will be the crown of Scotland.”

“I might have more opportunity of doing so if you did not fritter your manhood away on other women.”

James laughed aloud and, reaching for her, held her in an embrace, which was mocking yet tender.

“Why, my dear, I had thought we gave ourselves the opportunity many a time; but if you feel we should be more assiduous…”

She wished that she could be aloof, make conditions; but how could she when her sensuality demanded to be assuaged?

She felt herself laughing, growing slack in his arms; and when he made love to her she was willing herself to be fruitful.

At last it had happened.

The whole Court was delighted, but no one more than the King. Margaret was seventeen and healthy, and James had proved that he could sire strong children. Now he would have a legitimate child and, if it were a boy, a new prince for Scotland; and if it were a girl…well, there would be boys to follow.

He was now spending more time with his wife; during his occasional journeys, letters came even more frequently than they had before; gifts were showered upon her, and Margaret was happier than she had been since the first weeks of her marriage.

James had insisted that she pass the months of her pregnancy in Dunottar Castle, in the county of Kincardine, which was more like a fortress than a residence, set on a rocky plateau which jutted over the sea. He often visited her there and made sure that she was surrounded by entertainers who could keep her amused; her minstrels, luters and harpers were commanded to make her days lively; and English Cuddy and Scotch Dog were in residence to make plays for her diversion.

There was a certain amount of unrest in Scotland at this time and some of the dissatisfied lords were contemplating rising against the King; therefore, said James, it pleased him to know that his Queen was in a safe place.

Margaret wondered how much time he devoted to state affairs and how much to his mistresses. There was a new name which was being whispered throughout the Court: the Lady of A. Previously Margaret would have exerted her ingenuity to discover the identity behind that sobriquet. Now she did not bother. What did it matter with whom the King dallied? The Lady of A could cause her no more qualms than Janet Kennedy or the dead Margaret Drummond.

She was longing for the birth of her child because she felt that when she was the mother of the heir of Scotland her position would be strengthened. She looked into the years ahead and saw herself making that son entirely hers. And who knew, when the time came for him to rule, he might be more ready to listen to Margaret Tudor than his father was.

She lay on her bed in agony.

So this was giving birth. How long had she lain in this state chamber at Holyrood House while the pains beset her body and the heir to Scotland refused to be born?

She was thinking of her mother who had lain in the Palace of the Tower of London, who had suffered so much pain, which had been the prelude to death.

But her mother had been twenty years older than she was; and she, Margaret, had many years before her…if she survived this ordeal.

She heard whispering; her women were talking of her in hushed, reverent tones. Were they the voices of people who knew themselves to be in the presence of death?

The pain was coming again, so fierce that she lost consciousness, and when she regained her senses it was to hear the cry of a child.

“A boy!” She heard the joyous cry throughout the apartment; and, ill as she was, a great exultation came to her.

James was delighted. He showered presents on all her women; he stared down with reverence at the boy in the cradle.

Then he came to kneel at his wife’s bedside.

Margaret looked at him dazedly. She was not sure where she was and imagined she was with her brother and sister in Richmond Palace.

“Henry…,” she whispered, “you are not yet…”

James was alarmed.

“The Queen is ill,” he said. “She should be rejoicing now, her ordeal over, her son in his cradle. What ails her?”

He sent for the physicians and implored them to use all their skill. He was filled with remorse for the manner in which he had neglected her. He demanded to know what ailed her and why she, who had been in such rude health before and during her pregnancy, should be so ill now that her ordeal was over.

“It is a malady which occurs often after childbirth, Sire,” said the doctors.

“And she will recover?”

They tried to reassure the King, but he saw through their pretense.

If she died he would be stricken with remorse. He remembered how he had suffered at the death of his father; he did not want to suffer so again.

He would travel to the shrine of his favorite saint at Whitehorn in Galloway, and there plead for his Queen’s restoration to health.

Footsore and weary, James arrived at the shrine of St. Ninian. The journey, made on foot, had been rough, and he was glad of this. If Margaret died he would feel some remorse for his infidelity. Poor child, she had been wounded by it in the beginning. He would begin to wonder whether her loss would be the punishment for his sins.

He remembered afresh the regret he had suffered after his father’s death. He did not want to endure the like again. If Margaret recovered, and this would be due to St. Ninian, he would go into retreat for a while with the Gray Friars at Stirling. There he would fast, pray and meditate for a few weeks, and come out feeling purged of his sins.

He never regretted building that monastery, for it had often provided his tortured conscience with the balm it needed.

Margaret and his courtiers were never very pleased when he went into retirement. He feared his Margaret was a little pagan at heart; he had seen how her attention strayed during religious services, and he noticed that if she could gracefully avoid attending them she did so. As for his friends at Court, they were too fond of gaiety to enjoy those seasons when, out of respect for the King’s temporary monastic existence, they too must live soberly.

He had taken with him on this pilgrimage only four of his favorite minstrels; he enjoyed traveling about his country informally, because he believed it gave him an opportunity of discovering the true state of affairs. He had always wished to see things as they really were, so that he could improve the lives of his subjects.

He often thought ironically that he would not be a bad king but for certain failings which he found it impossible to conquer. He was never the worse for drink; he never indulged in gluttony; he would devote much of his time to the study of laws which could benefit his country; then he would meet a woman and forget duty to state, wife and all, in his pursuit of her.

Often he said to himself: “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed,” as he used to say: “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.”

He was a man of contrasts—deeply sensual yet spiritual; logical in certain matters, extremely superstitious in others; going alternately to the monastery and the bed of one of his favorites; capable of wisdom and folly.

Having reached the shrine, he made his offerings and asked that Margaret might be restored to health; then because he and his little band were so weary he commanded that horses be hired to carry them back to Holyrood House.

He was noted for his friendliness to those who surrounded him, and he was always pleased to throw aside dignity whenever possible; so the minstrels rode beside him and they all chatted in an easy fashion.

One of them said: “I hear, Sire, that Bell-the-Cat is paying court to Lady Bothwell again. They say that he is prepared to offer her marriage.”

“Is that so?” said James.

“Why, yes, Sire. The Earl has suffered pangs of jealousy on the lady’s account, so I’ve heard tell.”

James was silent, thinking of Janet Kennedy—red-haired and fiery. They had had good times together and he would never forget Janet as long as he lived; his memories of her were as evergreen as those of Margaret Drummond, though for a different reason.

He wondered if she remembered that he had given her Darnaway on condition that she did not take another lover. He had been harsh. As well imagine himself without a mistress as Janet without a lover.

And yet…he still hankered after her; and he still visited her—to see the boy, he would say, when he set out; and he did go to see the boy; he doted on his son; but it was meet and fitting that the boy’s mother should live with him, so when he saw the boy he saw her too.

James smiled, thinking of arriving at the door of her house, of her sweeping down the staircase to greet him—mocking, her eyes blazing with the passion they both could not help arousing in each other; the vitality sparkling in her.

They would talk for a while of the boy’s future; the boy himself would be sent for; and after a while he would be sent away because the need to be alone together would be too much to be gainsaid.

And now Bell-the-Cat was paying court again!

He imagined the old fellow, who must be some twenty-five years older than himself, calling on her, bribing her with offers of land…and honorable marriage. James had to admit that there was a virility about the Earl which, in spite of his age, remained with him.

Janet…with a lover!

Memories surged in and out of his mind. Janet’s red hair and white naked body; Janet’s eyes that looked green in passion. No, he would not lightly let her go to Bell-the-Cat.

He decided to make a divergence; they would not yet return to Holyrood. He had made his pilgrimage for the sake of his wife; now he must indulge himself by a visit to a mistress whom he could never entirely forget.

Margaret’s health began to improve—so it was said—from the moment James had reached the shrine of St. Ninian, so she owed her recovery to that saint, and when she was well enough must pay him the homage he would look for.

As the baby had been baptized with great pomp and christened James, Margaret left him to the care of his nurses while she traveled along the coast of Galloway to the shrine of St. Ninian. Her husband accompanied her, riding on horseback beside her litter; she must travel thus for, although she was no longer in danger, she had not yet regained her good health.

She found the journey trying, and when she returned to Stirling, continued to feel weak; this was particularly alarming because James hated to see her sick and went even more often on his travels. He was seeing Janet Kennedy very frequently now as well as the Lady of A; and Margaret had learned that another woman, Isabel Stuart, daughter of Lord Buchan, had borne him a daughter whose name was Jean.

It was true that she had her own little James now, and it was a matter of great contentment to her to remind herself that of all the King’s children, her little James in whom his father delighted was the one who was of real importance.

But the rude health which Margaret had hitherto enjoyed seemed to have deserted her. There were days when she was obliged to keep to her bed; she felt resentful of this, but Lady Guildford assured her that the ordeal of childbirth had been so great that she must expect to take a few months to recover.

She could not of course prevent James from taking mistresses; but Margaret was becoming wily; she was not sorry that there were several mistresses; if there were one only she would need to feel anxiety.

Christmas came and was celebrated with music and dancing at Holyrood House; and if the Queen was less energetic than before, the King was more assiduous in his desire for her comfort. Wantonness, Gray Steil, English Cuddy and Scotch Dog were at their best, and the King’s fool, Currie, with his wife Daft Ann, set the King and Queen laughing uproariously.

Thus time passed until that February when the little Prince James was one year old.

The Court was at Linlithgow Palace. James had returned from hawking and was ready for the feast which lay waiting for him in the great hall.

Margaret, with her women, greeting him and his companions on their return, was a little sad because she no longer felt well enough to accompany him on such expeditions.

The great hall looked magnificent, prepared as it was for the evening’s entertainment. Tapestries from Holyrood had been hung on the walls, and the logs blazing in the huge fireplace crackled and spat comfortingly. The silver platters, the goblets and bowls on the table shone in the firelight, and in the minstrels’ gallery sweet music—which was never lacking in the King’s presence—was being softly played by his favorite minstrels.

The table was placed on a dais at one end of the hall exactly opposite the minstrels’ gallery, and under the place where the King and Queen would sit was a carpet, although the rest of the hall was strewn with rushes. Servants were scurrying in and out of that door which led to the kitchens and butteries, and the smell of appetizing foods was everywhere.

James looked with appreciation at the Queen, who greeted him so warmly and asked him how he had fared at the hunt. He took her hand and led her to the table where one of his servants was waiting with a bowl that he might wash his hands.

Margaret and he seated themselves and the feast began.

One of the noblest of James’s courtiers carved for the royal pair. Margaret ate heartily but James, sitting there taking the pieces of meat in his fingers as his carver handed them to him seemed more interested in the minstrels’ music than in food.

It was always thus at table; James was no great trencherman; nor did he show much interest in the wine which was placed before him.

Wantonness began to sing, and it was clear that her song charmed him; he turned to Margaret and asked her opinion.

Margaret replied that Wantonness never failed to please; she was wondering whether during the hunt he had paid a visit to one of his women.

They were washing their hands after the meal when a messenger from Stirling Castle, where the little Prince was staying, came into the hall and made his way immediately to the King and Queen.

Margaret and James grew immediately grave when they heard what he had to say. The little boy had become fretful and his nurses could not comfort him. Now it seemed that he had a fever.

James said: “We will leave at once for Stirling.” Within an hour they were on the road.

Margaret was brokenhearted.

“Why,” she demanded angrily, “should this happen to me! His bastards flourish and my son must die. Why should I be unfortunate?”

Lady Guildford tried to soothe her. “Your Grace, many children die in Scotland and England. The little Prince had every care. And you are young. You will have other children.”

During the weeks that followed the death of the little heir of Scotland, Margaret refused to be comforted. It was so unfair, she kept proclaiming. The children of his mistresses were full of health and vigor, and the thought of them was a continual torment to her; and when her own son had been born she had found some comfort…but that was no more.

James mourned the loss of his son with her, but reminded her that no railing against fate could bring him back to them. They would have more children and in time they would forget this unhappiness.

He sought to comfort her in every way he could; he spent time in her company; he suggested that she should arrange entertainments to divert her. Let her call together Cuddy and Dog; let Gray Steil write a new song for Wantonness to sing.

Margaret could only shake her head and mourn; but she clung to him and within her was a faint exultation. At least she was keeping him away from his women.

Political affairs were taking up a great deal of the King’s attention. The King of France was anxious for his friendship and, since the marriage between Scotland and England, had tried to woo James with prophecies of the advantages a friendship between their two countries could mean. James knew that Louis was eager to break the Scottish alliance with England; and, because France and England were perennial enemies, that put Scotland in the enviable position of being of great importance to both these countries.

Louis had written that he was sending an embassy to Scotland which would bring certain plans to lay before the King.

James had left the Court to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Ninian; this was becoming a habit and, although it was known that St. Ninian was the King’s favorite saint, it was also known that he made a habit of combining this practice with a visit to Janet Kennedy.

Margaret was delighted to find that she was pregnant again; at the same time her being in such a state meant that she saw less of the King, which did not please her.

It was while she was with her women, listening to their chatter but picturing all the time what James and Janet Kennedy were doing, that a messenger came to tell her a certain English gentleman, who had come from her father, was below and asking if he might have audience with her.

Margaret, always eager to have news from home, commanded that the man be brought to her without delay.

The Englishman accordingly appeared, and Margaret dismissed her attendants because she felt that what he had to tell her might be of some secrecy.

“I am Dr. Nicholas West, Your Grace,” she was told when they were alone. “I come on instructions from your most noble father.”

“To see me?”

“To see Your Grace and the King. Alas, I have been waiting long at Berwick for a safe conduct, but since this was not granted me I have taken the risk of coming to Edinburgh and presenting myself to you.”

“The King has had much to occupy him,” said Margaret. “It may be that your plea has not reached him.”

Dr. West bowed his head. He did not believe that. He knew that the French were sending an embassy to Scotland and that the King of Scotland was eager to welcome it.

“My master, your most noble father, is not pleased with the way in which matters stand between this country and his.”

“Is that so?” said Margaret, who had never bothered herself with political matters.

“Your Grace will know that His Grace, your royal father, arrested the Earl of Arran and his brother, Sir Patrick Hamilton, when they attempted to pass through England on their way to France without first having obtained a safe conduct.”

“I did not know,” said Margaret.

“This matter has incensed the King of Scotland.”

Margaret thought resentfully: He never tells me anything. Am I not the Queen? He treats me as he does one of his mistresses. He forgets that I am the daughter of the King of England.

“But,” went on Dr. West, “there was naught else to be done. When these gentlemen passed through our country without first having asked for a safe conduct, and we knew they were on their way to France, naturally we arrested them. If I could have an audience with the King and explain this matter to him, I feel sure I could make him see the justice of what we have done.”

“I am sure the King would understand.”

“But, Your Grace, I cannot obtain an audience with the King. I come to ask you to plead my cause—and that of your royal father—for me. Your father has asked me to tell you that he knows you will remember you are his daughter and do all in your power to work for the good of your native land, and seek to dissuade your husband from accepting the friendship of your father’s enemies.”

This was a new role for Margaret—political adviser to the King. Why not? She was after all the Queen. She must show James that she was not as one of his light-o’-loves—there to enjoy a night or two of passion. She was the Queen.

She said: “You may tell my father when you see him that he can trust me to remember that I am an English Princess and the daughter of the King of England.”

Dr. West looked about him a little uneasily.

“Speak low,” said Margaret. “I understand what you have to say is for my ears alone.”

“It is important, Your Grace, that the embassy which the King of France is sending, should not succeed. I come to ask you to use your influence in every way in order to make it fail.”

Margaret nodded slowly.

James came riding back to Edinburgh. Exuberantly he came to his Queen. He had brought velvet and damask for new gowns, and jewels for her to wear with them.

Margaret expressed her delight, while the King gently stroked her swollen body.

“And how is my Queen and her little bairn?”

“Your Queen has been a little sick and very lonely.”

James embraced her, determined to banish self-pity. “Then she shall be so no longer. I want you to help me plan entertainments such as we have never had before. We have visitors coming to see us and they pride themselves on their skill at the joust. We shall have to show them that in Scotland we are no mean performers.”

“The French?” she asked.

“The French. You will be amused. Such handsome men; and such charming manners!”

“Is it fitting that you should receive the French,” asked Margaret, “when my father’s ambassador has been waiting a long time for an audience with you?”

James raised his brows in a puzzled way. “Do not tell me that my Queen is turning her attention to politics!”

“Why should she not?”

“For many reasons, one of which is that dancing and music and showing my Court how elegant and beautiful she is, becomes her better.”

“I am no longer a child, James.”

He laughed. “You grow old. Eighteen, is it?”

She shrugged impatiently. “You must realize that I am not merely a woman with whom you may amuse yourself, and who has the privilege of giving you legitimate children. I am the Queen.”

He rubbed his finger along her cheek. “A charming queen of whom any king would be proud.”

“Therefore you should talk to me of more serious matters than the plays Cuddy and Dog devise.”

“But are these not serious matters?”

“James, you know they are not. Why cannot you receive my father’s ambassador and mend this silly quarrel with England?”

He was at once withdrawn and the obstinacy showed in his face. He would be gentle and kind, he seemed to imply, but always he would be the ruler. She must understand that.

“My dear Margaret, this pretty head of yours must not be troubled with such tiresome matters. I have no wish to see Dr. West.”

“Why?”

“Other matters occupy me.”

“You are ready to dance and joust, to hunt and hawk. Why cannot you meet the ambassador sent by the King of England?”

His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “I do not care that my subjects should be arrested and made prisoner. It is an unfriendly action.”

“Dr. West wishes to explain this matter to you.”

“I will tell you this much,” he said. “Sir Patrick Hamilton has escaped out of England, though his brother Arran remains there. They have not been well treated in your father’s domains. That does not please me. And if your Dr. West is here to attempt to persuade me not to receive the French embassy, you may tell him he is wasting his time. I understand he has seen you. Now let him return to his master and tell him that in Scotland it is the King who decides what shall be done; and when his subjects have been maltreated he is not to be won over with soft words.”

“You are cruel to me,” cried Margaret. “And I in my present condition!”

James laughed softly. “Nay, when was I ever cruel to you? Everything in reason that you ask for is yours. You shall have pleasure, fine clothes, precious jewels. But you must not meddle, my love, in matters which do not concern you.”

He left her then, and when he had gone she stared sullenly before her. Again she had been insulted. In England, they would know that not only was her husband unfaithful to her, but he would not discuss matters of state with her. She was nothing more than a doll to be played with and set aside—she was there merely to become pregnant as soon as possible so that he might dally, in good conscience, with his mistresses.

Some might be content to accept such a position; not so a proud Tudor.

James was always remorseful when he disappointed his Queen. She was so much younger than he was that he forgot she had left childhood behind. He always saw her as the girl of thirteen she had been when she first came to him.

He sought therefore to placate her with childish amusements. He spent a great deal of time with her discussing the entertainments, but she was listless because it seemed wrong to her that these pleasures should be planned for the visiting French embassy who were enemies of her father.

To please her, James brought two Moorish girls to her who had come to Scotland from Portugal. They were very beautiful girls and their dark skins and flashing eyes attracted a great deal of attention among the Scots.

“They wish to become Christians,” James told her. “I am going to give them into your care.”

For a while Margaret was interested in the girls. She took them into her household and they were baptized—one as Margaret and the other as Ellen. Margaret grew fond of them—particularly of Ellen who became generally known as the Queen’s Black Ellen. They appeared at the jousts, where they attracted attention, and the Queen took great pleasure in dressing them in gold and scarlet to show off their extraordinary dark beauty. No tournament was complete without the Moorish girls; they would be placed near the Queen, and their desire to serve her was apparent to all.

But Margaret could not be long content with the services of these two lovely girls; she wanted power, the first place in her husband’s affections and councils.

James, watching her, began to wonder whether he knew his Margaret after all, and to placate her he did see Dr. West, and he allowed the Queen to attend a meeting at which Sir Patrick Hamilton was present and at which he declared on oath that his brother Arran had been ill-treated in England.

After the meeting, James took his Queen by the hand and led her to her apartments; when they reached them he kissed her gently on the brow.

He said little but his meaning was clear. There, he was saying, you see, you should not meddle in politics if you are wise. What can a young girl—albeit she is a queen—know of what is happening at the courts and in the countries of her husband’s enemies?

When my child is born, thought Margaret, when I hold my little son in my arms, then everything is going to be different.

The people of Edinburgh had rarely seen such splendor as they did that June when the French embassy was welcomed to Scotland.

The Castle and Holyrood House were the scenes of banquets, masques and plays; in the courtyards of Holyrood House a play, written by English Cuddy, was performed; but what delighted the people more than anything were the brilliant jousts in which Scotsmen tested their skill against the French. These took place during the warm summer days and they were accompanied by all the pageantry and color that could be devised.

To the tournament came the Queen’s Black Ellen, in a litter carried on the shoulders of fourteen men, from the Castle to the scene of the tournament. The people applauded her and marveled at her exotic beauty; the strangeness of the French delighted them also and the people declared their loyalty to a king and queen who could give them such pleasure.

Margaret was especially cheered whenever she made her appearance. Her pregnancy was very noticeable now, for her time was near and the people were sure that she carried the heir of Scotland. She had lost her firstborn but that sorrow was forgotten now that she showed signs of giving Scotland the heir.

All through the day it seemed the minstrels played and the trumpets sounded. The French knights acquitted themselves well and it was all the Scotsmen could do to hold their own against them. This was disconcerting because they had been inclined to underestimate the skill of these lithe Frenchmen whose clothes were far more dandified than their own, and whose manners were almost effeminate by Scottish standards.

The Scotsmen would have been defeated but for the sudden appearance of a stranger in their midst. They did not know who he was, but he wore the Scottish emblems and he defeated the first of the French champions with an ease which set the crowd roaring with delight.

He jousted again, and again was the victor.

Soon everyone was talking of the man whom they called the Wild Knight, who appeared every day at the jousts, and one by one challenged the French champions, all of whom went down before him.

The French muttered together that this was no man; it was a god of some kind; it was impossible to beat him at the joust, for he was unconquerable.

At the end of the last day of the jousting, the King announced that there was to be a grand feast which he was calling a Round Table of King Arthur.

This was the climax of the brilliant entertainment. Margaret, seated beside the King, was to give the prizes for those who had won honors in the jousts, and the citizens of Edinburgh crowded into the Palace to watch their King and his guests and to marvel at the splendor they saw.

Margaret was happy, for there was little she enjoyed so much as these displays and there was no question now of her importance. She was the mistress of the revels, the Queen, who would give the prizes and proudly carried the heir to the throne. The heat was overpowering and she could wish that her confinement was behind her and she already the mother of a healthy boy; but she could not complain of the homage all—including the King—bestowed on her. If only he had been a faithful husband! If only he respected her intellect as he did her beauty, how contented she would be! But she must enjoy life while it was good.

The King whispered to her: “What think you of my Round Table?”

“A fitting end to all the pageantry,” she answered.

“Let us call the child Arthur.”

“Why, yes!” she cried. “And whenever I look at him I shall remember this day.”

When it was time to present the prizes all declared the first prize should have gone to the stranger, the Wild Knight who was the conqueror of all; and, said the French champions, they felt they should not take their prizes while he, who excelled them all, did not come forward to take his.

There was a hush in the hall, for it seemed that the event for which all were waiting—the prize-giving—would not take place unless the identity of the Wild Knight were revealed.

Then James rose and addressed the assembly.

“My friends,” he said, “since you insist on my revealing my identity, I will do so. I am the Wild Knight, and I trust our guests will not think hardly of me for the injuries I may have inflicted upon them.”

His words were cut short by a great cheering which shook the hall.

Margaret turned to him, her eyes shining, as the child moved within her.

If he were but my faithful husband, how happy I should be, she told herself.

Margaret was brought to bed in the middle of sultry July. The last weeks had been difficult ones, and she feared that she was a woman who must suffer more than most at the time of childbirth.

Her ladies were about her bed; but the King did not come near her; he could never bear to look on suffering.

“But when my son is born,” murmured Margaret, while her women wiped her brow with a kerchief smelling of sweet unguents, “it will all be worthwhile.”

At last, after much travail, the child was born.

Margaret heard the whispers in the apartment and her heart sank.

“A maiden bairn.”

“Alas, alas, Her Grace so longed for a son.”

The child lay in her arms and James came to stand by her bedside, to smile at her, to soothe her; and to try to pretend that he was as delighted with the birth of his daughter as he would have been with that of a son.

There had been only time to christen the baby before she died. Melancholy brooded over Holyrood House. The lutes and harps were silent; the Queen was desolate and James the King went about with an expression of sorrow on his face.

It was Margaret who tried to comfort him.

“There will be other children, James. We have been unfortunate, but that cannot continue.” Then she burst out passionately: “I have seen the common people in the streets. Mothers with children at their skirts and at their breasts. Why should this happen to us!”

James buried his face in his hands. “Sometimes I think I am cursed,” he said. “Never shall I forget that day at Sauchieburn when I fought on one side and my father on the other. What an unnatural son I was! To go into battle against my own father.”

“James, you were but a boy.”

But he shook his head. “I was old enough to know what I did. And for this I am cursed…cursed with failure to give my country an heir.”

Margaret put her arms about his shoulders; it gave her a certain pleasure to see him thus. At least he laid no blame on her for their ill luck, as many a man would have done. And he was very eager for the comfort she could give.

“Why,” she told him gently, “we shall get ourselves an heir.”

“But see how these births affect your health. Remember how ill you were last time…and this…”

“I am young, James, and strong; I shall soon be well.” A cunning look came into her eyes. “Perhaps it is because you squander your manhood on other women that you cannot give your lawful wife a child who will live.”

“Nay,” was the answer. “My father loved many women, yet he had sons. It is because of my ill deeds at the time of Sauchieburn. There is a curse on me.”

Margaret put her arms about his neck.

“We will defeat the curse, James. With our love for each other we will defeat it.”

He held her tightly as though he were asking for her protection. Margaret felt strong then, with an infinite faith in the future.

It was April and there was a promise of spring in the air. Margaret sat at a window of her apartments looking out on Arthur’s Seat, and she laid her hands on her body and rejoiced because once more she had conceived.

This time all would be well. She was certain it was a boy she carried. She wondered why she had been so unfortunate and why it was that her children did not live. She herself was so strong and healthy—or she had been until she had suffered so from her ordeals. James was strong and lusty. Why could they not get healthy children?

Before the birth of her daughter, who had died so soon, she had spent some months at Lochmaben Castle where Robert the Bruce had been born. James had said: “Go there, stay there for a while; it would be well if you lived during those waiting months where my noble ancestor drew his first breath.”

She had agreed to go; yet while she was there she had spent as much time wondering with whom James was dallying as she had thinking of the effect the great Bruce might have on her child.

Perhaps last time they had concerned themselves overmuch; perhaps those women, whom she saw in the streets with their children at their heels, did not fret during their pregnancies. They might even regret them. Could one long for something so fervently that fate perversely denied it?

Thus she was musing when Lady Guildford came to tell her that messengers from England were below and they brought letters from her father’s Court.

“Bring them to me without delay,” cried Margaret, and when the letters were brought to her, she read them several times before she could fully grasp their significance.

Her father…dead…and her brother King!

When she had last seen Henry he had been not much more than ten years old—a swaggering, boastful boy with the words “When I am King” continually on his lips. Well, now he was King. He was also a man. And her father, who for all his coldness had been a good father, was dead.

She put her hand over her eyes. This was real sorrow. She felt apprehensive, a little frightened and alone; and she realized that, all through the years which had been lived in Scotland as James’s wife, she had thought of her father on his throne—all-wise, all-powerful, always there in case she should need him.

Now her brother Henry was in his place. She wondered what effect this was going to have on her and James—on England and Scotland.

James came to her, for he too was excited by the news.

“What difference will this make, James?” she asked. “Who knows? Your father was a wise man—not always easy to deal with, but one respected his sound good sense.”

“And my brother?”

“He is as yet untried. You knew him. Do you think he will follow his father’s cautious ways?”

Margaret saw him clearly in her mind’s eye—rosy-faced, flushed, little mouth prim; the arrogance in his strong young body, the love of flattery and finery.

“I do not think he will be like my father,” she said. “He writes to me in most friendly fashion.”

“I am glad of that. For I could not be happy if Scotland and England were not good friends.”

“Ah,” said James lightly, “you should not grieve for such a matter. You are no longer English, remember; you are the Queen of Scots. If there are differences, you should not take them to heart.”

“I trust you will not allow your friendship for the French to stand between you and friendship with England.”

James patted her hand gently and made no answer. Instead he said: “Your brother is going to marry Katharine of Aragon, so I hear.”

“But she was my brother Arthur’s wife!”

“Henry sees no reason why she should not be his also.”

“She is older than he is and I remember she was rarely at Court. She lived aloof from us with her Spaniards. I am surprised.”

“I have heard that your brother’s ministers were not eager for the marriage, but he is a young man who will have his own way.”

Margaret smiled. That was true. In the old days people had said they were alike—not only in looks but in temperament. Lucky Henry to be able to say, “I will have this” and “I will do that”—and have none who dared gainsay him.

In October of that year Margaret’s son was born, to wild rejoicing.

With great pomp he was christened Arthur and declared Prince of Scotland and Lord of the Isles.

Margaret suffered a difficult labor as usual but because the child was alive she came through this in good spirits and quickly regained her health.

She delighted in the child who was named in memory of Arthur of Britain but also of Margaret’s favorite brother, who had died so tragically at Ludlow Castle soon after his marriage to that Katharine of Aragon who was now Henry’s wife and Queen of England.

This reminded her that Arthur had left her certain jewels in his will, for he had been as fond of her as she of him; but she had never received them. It had been exceedingly difficult to persuade her father to part with anything of value and he had always had some excuse for not sending jewels from England into Scotland; but now he was dead and Margaret did not see why she should not ask Henry to let her have what was hers. She received an affectionate letter from Henry, but he said he could not send her jewels to Scotland. He believed that her husband was very friendly with the French, and the French were no friends of the King of England. If he sent the jewels, how could he be sure that the King of Scotland might not sell them and use the money to make war?

Margaret showed the letter to James whose face darkened with anger.

“It would seem,” he said, “that we shall not live on such peaceful terms with your brother as we did with your father.”

“But Henry is eager to be friends with you,” Margaret insisted.

“My dear, you do not understand these matters. Your brother is a young king in possession of the great wealth your father amassed over long and careful years. ’Tis my belief that he intends to spend lavishly…on pleasure and mayhap war. I hear that he is already planning a campaign against the French. It is easy to see that relations between our two countries will be less cordial than they were during your father’s reign.”

“Henry is only a boy,” insisted Margaret. “He is new to kingship and anxious that everyone shall know how powerful he is.”

“Power is dangerous in the hands of boys,” was James’s comment.

Margaret ceased to think of politics, for after a few months of life little Arthur followed his brother and sister to the grave.

This was too much to be borne, and the King and Queen were prostrate with sorrow.

James was certain now that he was accursed, and he blamed himself afresh for the part he had played at the time of his father’s death.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I should go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I begin to fear that we shall never have a son who will grow up to be King after me.”

But Margaret refused to despair.

She put her arm about him. “We have been unfortunate, but has not my brother’s wife met with the same misfortune? We will try again, and this time our son will live. I know it.”

“You are right,” James told her. “It is foolish to fret.”

Hope came to them when, shortly after the death of little Arthur, Margaret was once more pregnant.

“Now,” said James, “we must take every precaution. I will go at once to St. Ninian’s shrine and there ask him to take especial care of you.”

“It might be well if you paid no visits on your way back from the shrine,” said Margaret shrewdly. “Mayhap St. Ninian feels it is disrespectful of you to go from him to your mistress.”

James was thoughtful; he decided that he would not visit Janet Kennedy on this occasion.

Now the King and the Queen, together with the whole Court, thought constantly of the importance of the coming birth. Every precaution was taken to placate any supernatural influence which might prove hostile. Relics were brought to the Queen to kiss; some she kept with her at all times. But James and Margaret devoted themselves to prayer and meditation. With only one or two lapses James was the faithful husband. He devoted himself to naval affairs and spent a great deal of time in the company of Sir Andrew Wood watching the building of a new ship which was to be greater in every way than the two—named the James and the Margaret—which had been recently built. Often he would stay the night on board; and during the first months of her pregnancy, Margaret often joined him there.

If she could only have been sure of producing a healthy child and did not suffer sickness and the disabilities which were always her lot at such times, those would have been the happiest months of Margaret’s life. Never since those early days of her marriage had James been so completely hers.

One of the happiest days of all was that in October when the great ship was launched and she stood with James listening to triumphant drums and trumpets as the ship rolled into the harbor of Leith.

It was a day of rejoicing. The Queen pregnant; the greatest ship any of them had ever seen, successfully launched! It must be celebrated with worthy entertainment; and on the arrival of the royal party at Holyrood House a play was performed.

When it was over and the King and Queen had expressed their pleasure, Margaret called the principal actor to her in order to compliment him. This was a young man named David Lindsay who was known as Lindsay of the Mount; he was a poet and had been for some years in the royal household. The King had made him equerry to his first heir, the little Prince James who had died when he was about a year old.

David Lindsay was greatly respected throughout the Court, being a man without any ambition except to live a good life; he was devoted to literature rather than to position and wealth; and both Margaret and James had an affection for him.

“I want to thank you for your performance,” Margaret told him. “It was a pleasure to watch.”

Delight shone in David’s gentle face. “’Twas a good part, Your Grace,” he said.

“And your play coat of blue and yellow taffeties became you well,” Margaret added. “Pray, tell me the cost, that you do not pay it from your own pocket.”

“It was three pounds, four shillings.”

“A goodly sum, but it was a goodly performance you gave us and well worth the sum.”

James turned to him and added his praise to the Queen’s. “Why, Davie, you are indeed a credit to our Court.”

“You were usher and equerry to my firstborn son who died, alas,” said Margaret. “I intend to ask the King to make you the same to this child which is soon to be born.”

James cried: “’Tis a good choice. None could make a better.”

“I thank Your Graces,” murmured David. “I assure you I will never betray the trust you have placed in me.”

“Do this then,” said James. “Pray for a safe delivery for the Queen and a healthy boy for Scotland.”

“I shall continue to pray thus, Your Grace.”

When he had left them James said to Margaret: “He is a good man, that Davie, and one whose prayers may well find favor. We cannot have too many prayers.”

It was April again and Margaret lay at Linlithgow. Her time had come and in the streets the people stood about and asked themselves what would happen this time. If the Queen failed again, they would say that there was indeed a curse on their royal family.

Some months before, a comet had appeared in the sky—it sent out beams as though it were a sun; and thus it had remained for twenty-one nights.

A warning? A sign of evil? A bad omen?

Now the people remembered it and asked themselves these questions.

There were services in all the churches; there were prayers throughout the country.

A son! A son for Scotland.

Margaret lay groaning on her bed.

“This time a son,” she prayed. “This time he must live and he shall be called James after his father.”

“A boy!”

The triumphant words rang through the Palace, through the streets of Linlithgow; they were carried to Edinburgh and all over the country the people rejoiced.

The King came to his wife’s chamber and demanded to see his son. There he was, lustily crying, a strong little boy with a down of tawny hair on his head and, so said the women of the bedchamber, already a look of his father.

“Let the bells ring out!” cried the King. “Let Scotsmen rejoice, for this child will live.”

Margaret, exhausted but happy, slept and when she awakened she was refreshed and declared that this was different from her other pregnancies.

As soon as the Queen was able to leave her bed, there must be a feast such as there had never been before. Lindsay of the Mount must come and take charge of the little boy’s nursery. The child must be watched over night and day to ensure that he continued in perfect health.

Margaret was now the triumphant mother assuring herself that her little James showed none of the weakness of his brothers and sister. Healthy, lusty, his voice could be heard in his nursery when he crowed and clucked, as though he was determined, as his parents and attendants were, that he should stay alive.

Preparations were made for the feast. Four wild boars were roasted with four oxen; there were ninety-four pigs, thirty-five sheep, thirty-six lambs, seventy-eight kids, seventeen calves and two hundred and thirty-six birds besides pies and cakes of all description.

The wine ran freely and the sounds of rejoicing resounded not only in the Palace, but throughout the country.

James, Prince of Scotland and the Isles, had come to stay.

Little James prospered in his nursery and delighted all who beheld him, though none more than his father and mother; but now that they could believe he was in truth a healthy boy and they need not continually fear he was going to be taken from them, it seemed unnecessary to observe such rigorous piety as they had before his birth.

Margaret no longer prayed for long hours each day; as for James, he had been a faithful husband too long, and abstinence from his favorite game was too much to ask of him.

He was off on his travels once more, and it was whispered that not only did he visit the old mistresses but had added several new ones to those who pleased him.

Anger flared in Margaret’s heart. She had been so contented during those weeks of pregnancy when he had been constantly at her side. And now that she had produced a healthy boy, he felt it was enough to visit her occasionally, to share her bed that they might do their best to get more children—one heir not being enough.

She looked about angrily for a diversion.

There was politics. She remembered a conversation which had taken place between herself and her brother Henry before her marriage; then he had deplored the Tudor–Stuart alliance; he did not like what he had heard of her husband. And now that he was King, he seemed to remember that dislike. There was trouble brewing between Henry and James; and it seemed an insult to her that her husband should be more inclined to favor France than the country of his own wife. This is characteristic of the way he has always treated me! she told herself.

It was only reasonable that she should be on the side of her own countrymen and her own brother, and she was going to do everything she could to ruin the chances of the French and advance those of the English. If she did, Henry might give her the jewels which Arthur had left her. But it was not for that reason that she had decided she would dabble in politics.

She was a woman of spirit, so how could she stand by with indifference while her husband openly visited her rivals.

There was another interest in her life. She was young and beautiful; and now and then she found the eyes of some of her husband’s courtiers resting on her, and their looks were meaningful.

She had come to Scotland prepared to love her husband, and she would never have given a thought to any other man had he been faithful to her. But he had wounded her pride—always strong in the Tudors—so, she asked herself, could she be blamed if she, like James, found others interesting?

She had never allowed her fancy to go beyond glances and the imagination. When she bore children she must be sure they were Stuarts of the royal house; but for that, it might have been a different story. She needed restraint in those days—restraint to curb her irritation, her wounded pride and most of all her natural impulses.

James was on a visit to St. Ninian’s shrine, which meant of course a sojourn with Janet Kennedy; and as Margaret sat at her window in Linlithgow Palace looking out over the loch, she was not admiring the sparkling stretch of water but picturing those two together.

There was a boat on the loch and in it were a young man and woman. Margaret watched him plying the oars while the young woman played the lute. It made a charming picture. She guessed the man to be about her own age, although he might have been a little younger.

I believe childbearing has aged me, thought Margaret ruefully.

She turned her gaze to the men and women who were sauntering at the lochside, but her attention went back to the man in the boat.

She rose and called to her woman. “I have a fancy,” she said, “to go on the loch. Go and tell them to prepare my boat for me.”

In a very short time she was lying back in her boat, her lute in her hands, her hair showing golden beneath her headdress; the excitement which had come to her making her look very young indeed.

“Who is that in yonder boat?” she asked Lady Guildford who had accompanied her.

Lady Guildford tried to hide a faint alarm which, knowing her mistress so well, she could not help feeling. So far Margaret had behaved with decorum, although it had to be admitted that she suffered some provocation.

“It’s young Archibald Douglas, Your Grace.”

“A Douglas! Old Bell-the-Cat’s son?”

“Grandson, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes, I see he is very young. And who is the lady with him?”

Lady Guildford’s mouth was a little prim. “That, Your Grace, is his young wife.”

“Indeed. And who is she?”

“She is Margaret, daughter of Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell.”

Margaret began to laugh. “There seem to be so many Margarets at the Court of Scotland.”

“It is a charming name, Your Grace,” murmured Lady Guildford.

Margaret did not answer, but she continued to watch the young man. She had always had a liking for Old Bell-the-Cat because he had sought to rival James in Janet Kennedy’s affection. And this was his grandson. How handsome he was! Gazing at him, she realized that her husband was beginning to look his age. All the Stuart good looks and charm could not give him eternal youth; and what a pleasant thing youth was. He must be near my own age, thought Margaret, possibly younger.

She turned her attention to his wife. Insipid, she decided, and unworthy of him.

Now their boats were close together and the young Douglases were aware of the proximity of the Queen.

“It is pleasant on the loch today,” Margaret called in a friendly fashion.

“It is indeed so, Your Grace.” His voice was melodious, as she had known it would be; and now that she was closer she could see how fresh his skin was, how bright his eyes. She liked the way his hair curled about his neck. By sweet St. Ninian, she thought, using her husband’s favorite oath, if Old Bell-the-Cat had half the good looks of his grandson, James must have found a formidable rival in him for the wanton Janet.

She played her lute as sweetly as she knew how and the lute in that other boat was silent.

When she had finished there was a round of applause in which he joined most heartily.

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of the applause.

Lady Guildford ventured: “There is a breeze arising, Your Grace. Should you not consider your health?”

“Row us to the shore,” Margaret commanded; and she turned to smile at the occupants of that other boat.

Trouble had flared up between Scotland and England. James was still smarting under Henry’s refusal to let Margaret have the jewels which were rightly hers, when news was brought to him that the English had seized certain Scottish ships and in the fight which preceded the capture an admiral of Scotland, Sir Andrew Barton, had been killed.

Margaret found him pacing up and down his apartment in an anger which was rare for him.

“I’ll not endure this,” he cried. “It is not a matter which can be settled over a council table. This is an act of war.”

Margaret wanted to know of whom he spoke, and when he retorted, “The English!” her resentment rose afresh. Why would he not take her into his confidence? Surely he realized that she could procure concessions from her own brother which his ministers could not hope to achieve.

“I doubt not,” she said tartly, “that there were faults on both sides.”

James regarded her thoughtfully.

“This quarrel goes back to the days when my father was on the throne,” he explained.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it, James? Don’t you see that because I am English I might be able to help?”

“You must admit that your brother is headstrong and hardly likely to listen to advice. But this is what happened. One of our merchants, a certain John Barton, was taken prisoner by the Portuguese and put to death. This happened, as I said, in my father’s reign. His family wanted vengeance on his slayers and, since this was denied them, they put to sea in an endeavor to destroy all the Portuguese ships that came their way. This was a dangerous thing to do, for pirates are reckless men and when there were no Portuguese ships available they sought to make prizes of ships of other nations. Some of these happened to be English. That was how the trouble started. The Howards fitted up ships and set out in search of the Bartons. This is the result.”

“It would seem to me that the Bartons deserved their fate, and what has happened is no reason for enmity between you and my brother.”

“The English have no right to destroy Scottish ships.”

“Nor have Scotsmen to act as pirates against English ships.”

“It is certainly a matter which must be brought to a stop. And as a result Lord Dacre and Dr. West will be arriving in Edinburgh shortly to discuss some sort of settlement with me.”

“I think you should listen to them in a friendly spirit,” said Margaret.

“Do not forget that your brother holds valuable property of yours which he will not give up.”

“I am sure if I were to plead with him I could make him understand that this strife between our countries is foolish and dangerous.”

“Strife is always dangerous, but I do not trust your brother, Margaret, and I never shall.”

“Yet you are ready enough to trust the French.”

“I have no reason to do otherwise.”

“And with the English…”

“Why, you yourself know he will not give up your jewels.”

“James, when Lord Dacre and Dr. West come to Edinburgh, will you allow me to see them?”

James hesitated. Then he said, “Very well, you shall have your interview with them. Then perhaps you will understand where the fault for this enmity lies.”

Margaret received Dr. West and Lord Dacre in her apartments in Stirling Castle. Her son was with her there, for she did not care that he should be far from her and she always found great pleasure in visiting the nursery where David Lindsay was already in charge.

David seemed to be acting as nurse to the boy. He it was who carried him about in his arms, and in spite of young James’s age he was already aware of the devotion of this man and apt to be fretful when he was not present. David Lindsay watched over the child with the utmost care and had at last, after several failures, discovered the perfect wet nurse for him in a buxom Irish woman.

David could scarcely wait for the boy to grow up, so eager was he to introduce him to music and poetry. But he never for one moment forgot how important to the country was this young life; and in those early days he gave his attention to his bodily needs. It was a great pleasure for Margaret to visit his nursery, and hear from David how her son was progressing. He was a beautiful baby, full of good health; and while this was so, other matters seemed of far less importance.

All the same Margaret did want to make peace between her brother and her husband. She had thrown herself into this project with great zest, partly because she was a woman who would always want to rule; partly to take her mind from young Archibald Douglas whom she saw frequently and of whom she was thinking far too much.

When she received the English ambassadors she greeted them with warmth and asked many questions as to the health of the King and Queen of England. His Grace, her brother, she was told, was in fine good health; the Queen, due to her recent disappointment, a little less so.

“My poor sister!” said Margaret with feeling. “I beg you, when you return, tell her that I pray for her continually and I hope with all my heart that in due course she will be as happy as I. Now tell me, have you brought me news of my legacy?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The King, your brother, will most willingly send it to you.”

“Ah,” cried Margaret, “I knew he would. Then when will it arrive?”

“His Grace makes one condition. It is that the King of Scotland makes solemn promise to keep the peace with England and to sign no treaty with France.”

Margaret was startled. She knew that James would not consider such conditions, and she was as far from receiving her jewels as ever; and moreover, relations between her native land and that of her adoption were going to suffer greater strain.

“And if my husband refuses to accept these conditions…?” she began.

Dr. West answered: “Your Grace, it grieves me to say this, but I repeat the words of my master. If the King, your husband, is determined on a state of war between England and Scotland, the King, my master, will not only keep the legacy but take the best towns of Scotland also.”

Margaret was fearful; she could almost hear her brother’s blustering boastful voice.

She was seeking for some rejoinder when James entered the room to see how the interview was progressing. She was glad that he had not heard those last ominous words.

It seemed imperative to Margaret that she heal the breach between her brother and husband. This dabbling in politics brought a new excitement to her life at a time when she needed it.

On several occasions in the dance she had found herself partnered by young Archibald Douglas, and she was thinking of him more frequently.

James was inclined to listen to her, but she knew that this was due to his natural courtesy rather than to any desire for her opinions. James was headstrong and believed in making his own decisions; if he would not always take the advice of his ministers it was scarcely likely that he would listen to that of his wife, who must necessarily lack their knowledge and experience.

“Why, James,” said Margaret, “it is possible that I might persuade Henry to bestow on our little James the title of Duke of York. Poor Katharine of Aragon seems unable to give him male heirs—so why should not our child benefit?”

James was dubious. He had never trusted Henry; he never would. And every day he was receiving the French ambassadors and making excuses to avoid the English.

Margaret was doubly disturbed. News had come to her that her brother Henry had already sailed for France to make war on Louis XII, leaving his wife, Katharine, as Regent during his absence.

How like him to be so impetuous! thought Margaret. He had sought to win from James a promise of peace that he might go to France without thought of an enemy’s attacking from the North; but since he could not win this, he had acted without it.

Henry with the flower of his army in France! What would James do now?

She soon discovered. James was longing to make war on his insolent brother-in-law and naturally this was the ideal time to do so.

He was closeted with his ministers who were, Margaret was thankful to realize, not so eager to plunge the country into war as their King was.

James must be persuaded to remain at peace. He must understand that Henry was new to kingship; he had for long been subdued by his father and, now that he was King, was determined to be master. He had always seen himself as a leader of men, so it was natural that now he wanted to see himself as a conqueror. Margaret, who had known the boy Henry so well, believed that the man was not so different. Let him try his wings in France; then he might not be so eager for battle. That was what she wanted to explain to James.

But James’s chivalry was touched from an unexpected quarter.

The Queen of France, Anne of Brittany, had written to him to tell him that when her husband’s embassy had returned to France they had recounted to her and the king how they had been entertained in Scotland, and how at the jousts there had been one known as the Wild Knight who had beaten all comers. She had often thought of the Wild Knight, a great gentleman; in fact she had thought of him as her knight, and she was sending him a token of her regard.

The token was a ring of enormous value. She begged him to wear it for her sake.

She was sorely distressed at this time because the English troops under the brash young English King were on French soil, and she was, in truth, appealing to the chivalry of her Wild Knight. Would he consider helping a lady in distress?

James put the ring on his finger and thought of the French Queen who wrote to him so eloquently. He pictured her at her table writing to him, the tears in her eyes; and his heart was softened. He believed that it was in his power to bring great joy to her, and to himself, by defeating the English.

He answered this appeal immediately by sending his ships—the James and the Margaret—to the French coast, and he put the Earls of Arran and Huntley in command of them.

Then, because it was against his idea of true chivalry to declare war on a country whose King was absent, he dispatched his Lord Lyon in full herald’s dress to Henry’s camp at Terouenne to announce that he was declaring war on Henry for the following reasons:

Henry had taken Scotsmen prisoner; he had withheld the legacy of Margaret, Queen of Scotland; he had slaughtered the Scottish Admiral Andrew Barton; and by these deeds he had broken the peace existing between England and Scotland.

Margaret was dismayed. She had so longed to show her brother the influence she held over her husband. And without telling her what was afoot, he had made himself the knight of the Queen of France, giving way to her, while his beautiful young Queen was ignored.

Margaret awoke. It was night and, stretching out her hand, gently she touched the sleeping body of her husband. So near, she thought, and yet so far away.

She remembered then riding into Scotland and how she had changed her dress on the roadside because she had wanted to look her best for him; then she had fallen deeply in love with him and for a time had believed herself to be loved.

It seemed now that the whole of her married life had been an affront to her pride.

She began to weep.

“What ails you?” It was James’s voice in the darkness.

“Oh, have I awakened you? I crave pardon for that.”

“But tears! Why?”

“It was an evil dream.”

James, who was almost as superstitious as his father had been, was alarmed. He believed fervently in the significance of dreams.

“What was this dream?”

“I dreamed that you were standing at the edge of a precipice and, while I watched you, men came running. They were soldiers and they seized you and threw you down.… I saw your body mangled and battered, and I could not bear it.”

James put his arms about her. “You are overwrought,” he soothed.

“Nay, but this dream was vivid. And it did not stop there. I was sitting in my chamber looking at my jewels—my coronet of diamonds and my rings; and as I watched, my diamonds and my rubies all turned to pearls. And pearls are the sign of widowhood and tears.”

Being aware of her desire to turn him from his purpose, James was not as impressed by this dream as she had hoped he would be. “It is clearly a meaningless nightmare. Go to sleep and forget it.”

Margaret withdrew herself from his arms and sat up in bed.

“What I tell you is of course of no account,” she cried bitterly. “Now if I were the Queen of France you would listen to me. Alas, I am but the Queen of Scotland…your own wife whom you have constantly deceived and ignored.”

James was tired; he disliked such scenes at any time but at night they were doubly distressing. He lay down and began breathing as though he were sleeping.

“Oh, you can pretend to sleep,” stormed Margaret. “Let us hope you have pleasanter dreams than I. Let us hope that you dream you are reading love letters from the Queen of France…fighting her battles for her like her own true knight.”

“Margaret, be silent. You will arouse our attendants.”

“What matters it? They will only hear me say what they know already. Do you deny that you have made yourself the knight of the Queen of France? I wonder you did not go to France instead of Lyon. Then you might have had a chance of sharing her bed.”

James did not answer, but Margaret was not going to be silenced.

“The Queen of France!” she cried scornfully. “Twice married by means of divorces! A fine lady to arouse the chivalry of her Scottish knight. But she must be served while the mother of your son is cast aside.”

James rose quickly and seizing her pulled her down beside him.

“Be silent!” he commanded, and there was an angry note in his voice.

“I will not! I will not!” she sobbed.

“You are being foolish,” said James gently.

“Why? Because I have loved you too well? Because I have wanted to have a share in your life?”

“Have you not had a share in my life?”

“I have had my moments…and then I have been forgotten. I have been here merely to bear your children. Your mistresses have had more of you than I. And now this woman…this Queen of France…beckons you and against the advice of your ministers you are ready to do her bidding. This old woman—and everyone knows she is in a decline—says, ‘Be my Knight,’ and you are ready to serve her.”

“Surely you cannot be jealous of an old woman who is in a decline?”

“I can be jealous of all who take you from me.”

“Oh, Margaret, why cannot you be calm…serene…?”

She cried out: “Like that other Margaret. She was always so calm, was she not? She was so understanding! Well she might be! Grateful for the attentions of a king. But I was the daughter of a king before I was the wife of one…and I demand…I demand…”

She was choking on her sobs again; he stroked her hair and laid his lips on her forehead, and for some minutes they lay silent.

Then at length she said: “James, you are really going to march across the Border?”

“Yes.”

“My sister-in-law, Katharine of Aragon, will gather together an army to meet you.”

“That is very likely.”

“James, when you go south, let me come with you. Let me meet my sister-in-law. Together we will talk and make peace. There is no need for war.”

James remained silent.

“James,” she went on, “will you let me come with you? Will you let me talk to Katharine? She will not want war any more than I do.”

“Nay,” agreed James, “she will not want war. Nor will your brother. They would prefer to wait until he returns from France with the full strength of his army. Then, wife, they will not hesitate to march across the Border. By sweet St. Ninian, have you forgotten that he has declared he will take the best of our towns for himself if we break not our alliance with France?”

“You should have broken your alliance with France. You should never have sent ships there.”

“I see,” he said ruefully, “that you are an Englishwoman still, and the English were always enemies of the Scots.”

“Should I be an enemy of my husband…of my son?”

“Poor Margaret! It is sad that your brother and your husband should be at war. But for this you must blame your brother.”

She was angry again. “Nay,” she cried, “I blame my husband. My husband who, because the French Queen flatters him into becoming her Wild Knight, turns from his true wedded wife to give her pleasure.”

“Nay, Margaret, this is not so. Never should I have taken up arms against your brother if he had treated me as a friend.”

“I could have made friendship between you.”

“Never!”

“You would not let me try.” She sat up in bed and abused him for all that he had made her suffer. She taunted him with his infidelity—the lies and subterfuge during those first months of their married life when he had feigned to be occupied by state affairs and was in truth with his mistresses.

“What sort of marriage is this…for the daughter of a king!” demanded Margaret.

She was a little hysterical, because she was afraid. She had related a dream to him which had not occurred that night, but her sleep had been uneasy of late, and although her dreams had taken no definite shape they had been filled with foreboding.

She could not analyze her feelings for this man. There were times when she hated him, others when she loved him. She loved him for his virile body, for his graceful and expert lovemaking; but she could never forget that he, who had awakened her to the full sensuality of her own nature, had deceived her, had made her foolish in her own eyes. She had dreamed of an idyll; if he had only seemed a little less perfect during the first days of their marriage it would have been easier to bear. She would have come to a sense of reality before she had built a romantic ideal. She believed that as long as she lived she would feel cheated—and he had done this.

She wanted to tell him so now, because she had a notion that this was the time to tell him. Perhaps she hoped to make him relent toward her, to take her with him into battle. For suddenly she was terrified to let him go.

He had taken her trembling body in his arms and the intensity of her passion communicated itself to him. There could only be one climax for them in such a situation.

When they lay silent and exhausted side by side, Margaret stared into the darkness.

She was certain that that night she had conceived again.

The King was preparing for the march south. The Queen was subdued and silent.

She had taken the young prince to Linlithgow and James was with her; but he would not stay long. The country was ready for war.

She did not plead again to be allowed to accompany his army, because she knew it would be fruitless. He was particularly kind and gentle but adamant on that point.

“I feel our son will be safe with you,” he told her. “I shall make you Regent of my kingdom and guardian of our heir while I am away.”

She nodded sadly and lowered her eyes for fear he should see the resentment which she did not believe she would be able to hide.

He told her that he had called a council to be held in the Palace and that during it he hoped to complete his plans.

“It will not be long before I am back with you,” he said. “I pray you take counsel with English Cuddy and Scotch Dog. I shall expect good entertainment on my return.”

English Cuddy! Scotch Dog! As though she were a child to be amused with their trifles.

But she did not give up hope of persuading him.

Help came from an unexpected quarter, when the Earl of Angus, old Bell-the-Cat, presented himself to her.

Margaret felt stimulated at the sight of the old warrior because she was interested in the Douglas family for two reasons: one that this man was a rival with James for the affections of Janet Kennedy; and the other that he was a grandfather of his namesake,Archibald Douglas, who had so caught her fancy and whom she could not get out of her mind.

“Your Grace,” said Bell-the-Cat, “I have heard that you sought, most wisely, to turn the King from his intention to attack England, and I have come to ask your permission to work with you in this endeavor.”

Margaret flushed with pleasure. “You are very welcome, my lord,” she told him. “I am sure your experience and reputation should be of great help in changing the King’s mind.”

“That is what I wish to do, for I am of the opinion that this is not the moment to engage in war.”

“I will ask the King’s permission to go with you to him now that you may talk to him.”

The old man bowed his head, and Margaret called to one of her attendants to go to the King and ask if he would receive her and the Earl of Angus who had come on a mission of great importance.

James sent a reply immediately that he would be pleased to receive them in his apartment, and when the Queen presented the Earl, he regarded him with distaste.

He could not help picturing him with Janet, and he knew that Angus felt the same about him. They were rivals—and they always would be, for Janet was a woman whom it was difficult to forget.

Angus too suffered from tormenting jealousy. The Stuart was one of the handsomest fellows in Scotland. Such looks and charm, and a crown to go with them! No wonder Janet had been tempted,

“What is it you wish?” James asked.

“To add my pleas to those of the Queen on this matter of war,” Angus told him.

“My mind is made up,” replied the King coldly.

“Sire, the English have always been a formidable enemy.”

“I am well aware of the strength of my enemy, my lord. But as it happens the flower of the English army is at this moment engaged in attacking my friend and ally, the King of France. And this seems an opportune moment for me to wipe out old scores. As you doubtless know, I have already declared war on the King of England.”

“Sire, will you not call together your old counselors?”

“Your friends?”

“They will set their reasons before Your Grace, as I will do.”

The King shrugged his shoulders. “I am in no mood to listen to your advice, Angus. My plan shall go forward.”

“At least,” put in Margaret, “Your Grace should listen to what these tried and trusty men have to say.”

“Very well,” replied James. “I will hear you. Let there be a council meeting of those who share your views, and I will attend it; but I warn you, I shall not agree with your arguments and you are but wasting your time and mine.”

“Your Grace is good,” murmured Angus. “I will bring to the Palace certain members of my family and my friends who share my views, that we may parley with Your Grace.”

“As you will,” said James, but his lips were set in the obstinate lines which Margaret understood; and she knew that he had already made up his mind.

The Douglases came to Linlithgow in their strength. Margaret met the eldest son of Bell-the-Cat, George, Master of Douglas, who was the father of Archibald. She had a glimpse also of the younger Archibald himself, and there was an opportunity of exchanging a word with him.

“I rejoice to see your grandfather at Linlithgow,” she told him when she met him as if by chance on his way to the council meeting.

“I thank Your Grace,” murmured the young man, bowing over her hand.

“I pray that he will persuade the King from this enterprise.”

“I will add my prayers to those of Your Grace.”

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled at him in a manner which embarrassed him slightly because he was not sure of the meaning behind her looks.

It was said in the Palace that the Queen and old Bell-the-Cat were allies, more because of Janet Kennedy than the English.

But there was another thing which was said, and that was that there was a party in the country opposed to war; and this became known as the Queen’s and the Douglas faction.

James listened to the objections to war and swept them all aside. He had made up his mind. He was going to march against England.

The King had gone to the Abbey Church of St. Michael with some of his ministers to pray for a successful enterprise and was attending vespers in St. Katharine’s Chapel there when an extraordinary incident occurred.

James was kneeling in prayer when, out of the dimness of the chapel, a strange figure appeared. This seemed to be an aged man dressed in a blue gown, with a roll of white linen tied about his waist; his hair hung in yellow locks about his face and fell to his shoulders.

His voice rang through the chapel so that all could hear: “James, King of Scotland, listen to me and take heed. Sir King, I charge you—do not go where you plan to go. If you ignore this warning, you will not fare well—nor shall any that follow you. Beware. Follow not the counsel of women. Do this, Sir King, and you will be confounded and brought to shame.”

There was a brief silence and before any had time to detain the man he had disappeared.

James rose to his feet. “Who spoke then?” he cried.

His friends were clustering about him.

“Did you see a figure…a strange figure in blue and white?”

“I thought so.”

“Where is he now?”

“He was there one moment…and gone the next.”

Frightened glances were exchanged. None was as eager to go to war with England as the King was.

James said: “Bah! A madman.”

“Perhaps so, Sire, but where did he go?”

“We have other things with which to concern ourselves than the antics of madmen,” said the King.

Margaret awaited the return of her servant.

He was trembling, for he had feared he would not escape. He had planned what he would say if he were caught; he would tell the King that the Queen had commanded him to act as he had; and he knew the King well enough to believe that he would shrug his shoulders and laugh aside the incident.

But he had not been caught. The Queen had planned carefully. It had been possible to emerge from the shadows to say his piece; to step back; to slip behind the curtains and out through the little door at the side of the altar to the privy stairs which led to the Palace.

“Well done,” said Margaret.

She waited now to hear that her husband and his friends had been shaken by what they must have thought was a supernatural vision.

But she was disappointed.

James had gone to Edinburgh, there to supervise his artillerymen who were bringing the military equipment from the Castle where it had been stored. Among this was the great cannon which the King had recently had made and which was known as the Seven Sisters.

It was at this time that the second strange incident took place.

The army was now assembled on the plain of Borough Moor near Edinburgh, ready to march, when at midnight a voice was heard ringing out, it seemed, from the Market Cross.

“These men are summoned to the Bar of Pluto within forty days!” cried the voice. Then there followed a roll call of the names of certain illustrious men who were following the King into battle.

Many of the people of Edinburgh lay cowering in their beds as they listened to the voice; but some ran out into the streets and, although they made their way to the Market Cross, they could not discover whence the voice came.

This was an evil omen, they said. They had heard how a strange figure had appeared when the King was at his devotions. Clearly he was being warned against going to war.

When the King was awakened from his sleep at Borough Moor and told of the voice at Market Cross he merely yawned. “There are some who are misguided enough to attempt to divert us from our purpose,” he said, and he smiled, somewhat tenderly thinking of one.

Was she responsible for the voice, as he was ready to believe she had been for the mysterious figure in the chapel? He knew of the door beyond the curtain which led to the Palace. His Queen was a woman of imagination and she believed that she could unnerve him through his superstition. But he was only superstitious when he felt he had acted unworthily; and the more he contemplated the war into which he was plunging his country, the more right and logical it seemed to conquer the old enemy at a moment when, by conducting this foolish war on the French, he was at his weakest.

Of course it was a war against his own brother-in-law and Margaret could not bear that her husband and brother should be in conflict. It was a natural feeling. But there was no blood-tie between him and Henry, and if ever Scotland had had an enemy that enemy, he was convinced, was Henry VIII of England.

He would forgive Margaret her little essays into the supernatural. He knew them for what they were, and they were not going to move him one inch from his purpose.

On a hot August day the Scottish army began to move toward the Border. Margaret went with it, riding beside the King at the head of the cavalry. She had accepted the fact at last that it was useless to try to persuade him to give up the campaign. The light of battle was in James’s eyes and nothing would deter him now.

With James rode his son by Marian Boyd, Alexander Stuart, a handsome youth in his teens who had already been appointed Archbishop of St. Andrews. Glancing at this handsome youth, Margaret was glad that her own small son was safe in the care of David Lindsay at Linlithgow; but Alexander was glowing with health and high spirits, eager to prove himself in battle, and there was no doubt that James was delighted to have his son with him.

They arrived at Dunfermline where they stayed the night. It had been decided that Margaret should go no farther but return to Linlithgow to be with the young Prince.

That was a tender night which Margaret was to remember. James had said to her: “Margaret, let us forget all rancor. Let it be as it was when you first came into Scotland.”

She had been gentle too; and as they lay clasped in each other’s arms James let her know that he bore no grudge against her for the tricks she had played on him; nor had he told anyone of his suspicion that she was involved in them. “For I know,” he said, “it was but wifely concern which prompted you to act so. And, if all should not go as I hope, I have left orders that you are to be tutrix to our heir as long as you remain a widow.”

Margaret cried out in horror: “Do not say such things. It is unlucky.”

“Ah,” he murmured, “it is you who are the superstitious one now.”

“We are all superstitious where our feelings are concerned,” she told him; and she wept a little, not only because he was going to leave her, but because he had never been all that she had once believed he was.

He comforted her with soft words and told her that he would be back victorious within a few weeks. “Why, the land will be undefended. A few battles—and England conquered forever, a vassal of Scotland. And then, my love, in years to come it will be said: ‘That was the work of James IV of Scotland…and his Queen, Margaret Tudor, who was a good wife to him.’”

“And to whose counsels he paid no heed!”

“When this is over I will pay heed to all you say.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “when this is over!”

Then they made love, first tenderly, and then with rising passion.

As though, thought Margaret, they who had done these things so often now did them for the last time.

So Margaret returned to Linlithgow and James continued the march south.

It seemed that James had been right. The Border was unprotected. The flower of English chivalry was indeed in France with the King. All along the line the Scots were victorious and all through those preliminary skirmishes James kept Alexander Stuart beside him and rejoiced in his young manhood.

He wished the boy had been his legitimate son. What a king he would have made!

He told Alexander this and was delighted to see the horror dawn in the young face. “But if I were your legitimate son how could I be King while you lived? And if you are to die, I would as lief die with you, as take your crown.”

Wonderful words from a son to a father. And thus it would have been with my father, thought James, had he treated me as a father should, as I have sworn I will behave to all my children.

Those were glorious days, and James felt young again. Each morning to ride to fresh conquests, teaching his son to make war as a man, with victory crowning all their efforts. Pleasant too to watch old Bell-the-Cat fighting as one would expect such an old warrior to fight, but sour because he had not believed in the war.

He was too old for battle, too old for lovemaking. Perhaps Janet had realized that by now.

And so the war went as Scotsmen could wish. Then they came to the frontier castle of Ford.

The castle stood on the east bank of the Till stream in the north of the county of Northumberland. Alexander, riding beside his father, said: “It’s a grand place, but it’ll fall to us as easily as the others.”

James looked toward the two towers at the east and west fronts of the edifice and replied complacently: “More easily, my son, for the castellan is already our prisoner. He is Sir William Heron who now lies in a dungeon at Fastcastle for his part in the murder of one of our Scottish knights. I do not think this castle will hold out long against us.”

“Then here is yet another conquest!” laughed Alexander.

They were right. There was little resistance at Ford Castle. Into the courtyards rode the Scots, where the defenders of the castle were on their knees begging for mercy.

James, always a generous conqueror, called to them to have no fear, for they would not be harmed unless they acted treacherously toward him and his army. He merely wished to take the castle and rest here for a night before proceeding.

“Take me to him who is in charge,” he cried.

He stepped into the great hall where, her head high, the color flooding her cheeks, dignified yet unafraid, stood a woman and with her a young girl.

The woman was remarkably beautiful; the girl fresh and charming, scarcely out of her childhood. James’s expression softened immediately, and the gallant took the place of the soldier.

“Madam,” he said, “I could wish we had met in happier circumstances.”

She did not answer but regarded him steadily.

“Have no fear,” James went on gently. “It is not our custom to harm women and children.”

“We must at least be grateful for that,” she answered.

“My men are hungry and thirsty. Could you give them refreshment?”

“We are at your mercy,” she replied gravely, and, turning, signed to her servants that they must lay the great table and feed the conquerors.

James was at her side: “While this is being done, may I have a word with you in private?”

She led him into a small parlor, and as he followed her he saw with pleasure that Alexander was seeking to reassure the frightened girl as he, James, intended to reassure her mother.

When they faced each other in the parlor James brought forth all his charm, and he could not hide the speculation in his eyes as, connoisseur that he was, he noted the beauty of her face, her slim waist, her white bosom, her rounded hips. She was a beauty and it was a pleasure to be in her company.

James laid a hand on her arm. “First,” he said, “I must teach you not to be afraid of me.”

She lifted her enormous black-fringed eyes to his face and smiled suddenly. “No,” she said, “I do not think I shall need to fear you.”

James laughed. “Now,” he said, “we are friends?”

“Friends? My husband a prisoner in one of your castles! Our own home besieged and conquered!”

“Look upon this as a friendly call,” James urged.

“Listen to the soldiers in the courtyard. This is war, and however kind the King of Scots may be, nothing can alter that.”

He took her hand and before she could withdraw it—and he was quick to notice, being so practiced in these matters, that she had not in truth hurried to do so—he had kissed it.

“There are compensations in all things,” he answered, “even in war. Would it be possible for wine to be brought for me here, and would the lady of the house share it with me as though we were friends…which I hope we soon shall be?”

“You are in command,” she said.

“But nay!” he answered promptly. “I would not force my company upon you. I shall wait for you to invite me to share a goblet with you.”

She left him in the parlor, and in a short time returned with a servant who carried wine and two goblets.

“Serve first the King of Scotland,” Lady Heron ordered. “And then serve me.”

So they sat in the parlor and talked. He spoke of the horrors of war; the need for one country to take up arms against another; and how in the wretched business of wars there were now and then interludes which made of it a glorious adventure.

The soldiers lay about the castle grounds glad of a rest; Alexander had found the young girl a pleasant companion, and she was as attracted by him as he was by her.

Meanwhile the King grew more and more enchanted with the company of Lady Heron. She was young, beautiful, and was learning to trust him.

“You without a husband, I without a wife,” sighed James. “It would seem that we might offer comfort to each other.”

Lady Heron was not coy; she admitted that she found the King of Scotland charming even as he found her, and by nightfall their friendship was progressing so rapidly that it had all the appearance of courtship. The pursuit of a woman had always been a more fascinating project than that of any enemy, and quite irresistible to James.

By sweet St. Ninian! he thought. How glad I am that we came to Ford Castle, and what great good luck that Sir William Heron is imprisoned and so not present to spoil the fun.

James had a feeling that he would not sleep alone during his night at Ford Castle.

He gave instructions that the Lady Heron and her family and dependents were to be treated with the utmost courtesy. He and his men were guests in the castle, he would have them know, and any brutality would be severely punished. He asked the Scots to remember their chivalry. Lady Heron was to be free to come and go as she wished in the precincts of the castle; there was to be no suggestion of making any prisoners.

The long day was coming to an end and the friendship between the King and the Lady of the castle now seemed moving toward an inevitable climax. Alexander, who admired his father more than any man on Earth, sought to emulate his manners and habits by pursuing the daughter of the house with the same gentle yet persistent charm as his father used in pursuit of her mother.

Old Bell-the-Cat saw what was happening and gnashed his teeth in rage. The King seemed to forget that they were engaged in war. Since he had set eyes on Lady Heron he had behaved as though he were a friendly neighbor paying a visit.

Well, they would leave a few troops in Ford tomorrow and march on. But the amorous nature of his King—reminding him as it did of their rivalry—was galling to the old man, both as a soldier and a lover of Janet Kennedy.

Lady Heron looked out from the window of her apartment over the darkening countryside. She was excited because as a born intriguer and a woman of light morals, she found the position exciting.

She was expecting a message, for she believed this would surely come to her if the King of Scotland arrived at Ford Castle. She was hoping for it; it was going to give her the excuse she needed; but even without it she would not forgo her night’s pleasure.

He was certainly attractive and would be an accomplished lover. She would feign reluctance…at first. But she would have to act with skill because, for all his outward charm, he was not without shrewdness and insight.

Her maid came to tie her hair and, as she passed the comb through those long curls, she bent close to whisper.

“The messenger is below, my lady. He came with stores for the castle, and he is not to see you for fear of arousing suspicion. He has told me what I must say.”

“Then say it,” said Lady Heron.

“The Earl of Surrey asks your help. He cannot be ready for several days. He wants you to hold the Scotsman here until he sends word that he is ready to meet him. If the Scots march south tomorrow they will find no real resistance, but a few days will alter that. So it is imperative that they are held here.”

Lady Heron nodded slowly. “You’re a good girl,” she said. A lascivious smile played about her lips as she murmured: “What is asked of a poor woman in the service of her country!”

They were delighted with each other.

“Is there to be just this one night?” asked Lady Heron, her great eyes filled with brooding melancholy.

“I am at war,” laughed James.

“You are conquering all before you…the castles of England, the women of England. Must you go so quickly?”

To leave Ford Castle and Lady Heron, now that he had discovered what pleasure she could give him, would indeed be a blow. It had been a night of exciting discovery; yet he felt he had more to learn of the beautiful and willing lady of Ford.

What could one more night matter? He pictured the army camping that night in some cheerless field and he shivered with disgust.

No, as he had told her, it was episodes such as this one which made war a great adventure.

“Perhaps we might tarry one more day and night,” he murmured.

She laughed delightedly. It was so pleasant when one could combine the service of one’s country and the satisfaction of one’s bodily needs. Surrey would be pleased with her.

And if he could dally one night, why not two and three?

So in the castle courtyards the Scots soldiers lay about playing dice, or following the royal example and flirting with the maidservants. They were happy enough in the delay.

Old Bell-the-Cat stormed into that apartment which had been set aside for the use of the King.

“Your Grace,” he cried sternly, “this is folly. We dally here while the English are mustering their forces to come against us. Already much precious time has been lost.”

“Nonsense!” retorted James. “The rest and relaxation we enjoy here are preserving our strength so that when the time comes to fight we shall be ready.”

“We are frittering away our strength on senseless pleasures,” retorted Bell-the-Cat, who was too disgusted with his King to mind his words. “I tell Your Grace, we are giving the English that which they most need: time. Had we gone forward we could have attacked them while their numbers were small.”

“I would be ready to fight the English if they were a hundred thousand more in numbers.”

“Your Grace, you could return to Scotland now. You have shown the English your warlike intentions. You have taken certain of their castles. That will suffice to keep your oath to the Queen of France. I implore you either to go forward now…or return. I have reason to know that the Earl of Surrey is gathering more and more men to his banner every day.”

“The Earl of Surrey is a friend of mine. You forget, it was he who escorted the Queen to Scotland.”

“He is now Your Grace’s enemy, and he serves his King well.”

“The King of England is fortunate to have such good servants.”

“If Your Grace will either go on to attack or return to Scotland, you will find as good servants as those of the King of England.”

“You forget, Angus, that I am the commander of my own armies.”

“I’ll not stand by and see the crown of Scotland placed in jeopardy.”

James’s eyes blazed with an anger rare to him. Then he looked at Angus and saw before him an old man. Was he a little jealous of the pleasures shared by the King and the Lady of the castle? Did this remind him of what the King had taken from him when he had taken Janet Kennedy?

James shrugged aside his anger.

“If old Bell-the-Cat is afraid of the English, then let him return to Scotland. I doubt not that we will win victory without him.”

“Bell-the-Cat was never afraid of the English, but he’ll not stand by and let them take the time they need.”

“Then…goodbye.”

The old soldier bowed and retired.

Next morning he set out for Scotland; but he left behind his two sons so that, when the King went into battle, there should be Douglases to fight for Scotland.

Surrey’s herald had arrived at the castle.

Lady Heron, seeing him come, knew that the brief love affair between her and the King of Scotland was coming to its end. She had done her duty. Surrey had gathered his army and was waiting.

The herald was taken to the King and there gave him greeting from the Earl of Surrey, together with the request that he would name a day for the battle.

This James declared himself delighted to do; and although his generals assured him that it was important they should surprise the English and mow them down with Thraw-mouthed Meg—which was another name they had given to their “Seven Sisters” cannon—James would have none of this. He was determined to go into battle as he went into the joust. He was the Wild Knight, who must conquer through fair play.

On the morning of the ninth of September the armies prepared to meet at Flodden.

James was exultant. Beside him—on foot as he was—stood his son Alexander. “Keep close to my side,” he warned. “And if you are in difficulty remember I am nearby.”

“Yes, Father,” was the answer.

James loved the boy—loved his shining youth, his vitality.

Oh, he thought, if I had but stood beside my father as this son of mine now stands beside me, there would have been a different story to tell of Sauchieburn.

He could see the English banner fluttering in the breeze. It would soon be over, this decisive battle which would mean the end of strife between England and Scotland forevermore. Henry would return from France to find his country lost.

He heard the roar of the cannon as the two armies met at the foot of Brankston Hill.

The Scottish army was divided into five divisions with Home and Huntley leading the vanguard; in the rear were Lennox and Argyle; while James, with Alexander, was in the center; in the rear was the reserve under the command of the Earl of Bothwell.

At four o’clock in the afternoon the battle started and at first it seemed that the English were losing ground, when Sir Edmund Howard, who led the English, lost his banner and his men were quickly in confusion; but Surrey had, on account of the time which had been allowed him, gathered together a strong army, and others were ready to step into the breach and take the place of Howard’s men.

James was in direct conflict with Surrey’s section where the fighting was at its most fierce. All about them was the noise of battle; the clash of spears, the roar of the cannon and cries of wounded men and horses.

James was conscious of Alexander beside him and for the first time wished that he had commanded him to stay at home, for he had caught a look of startled horror on the face of the boy who had so far experienced nothing but light skirmishes and had dreamed of war which had not been like the reality.

This was no joust. This was war to the death. The enemy was determined to drive the Scots back beyond the Tweed and the Cheviots; and the Scots were determined to go forward.

“Alexander, my son…”

James felt a sob in his throat for his beautiful Alexander had fallen and there was blood where there had but a moment before been the freshness of youth.

“Oh, my son…my son…”

Mercifully there was little time for remorse. He did not see the man who struck him. James was dressed as an ordinary soldier for he had determined to go into battle as one of his men; he had wanted no special treatment. He was a soldier just as they were.

So he fell, as men were falling all about him.

The battle raged; and it was only later when the fighting was done that the terrible truth was known. On that day of glorious victory for the English and bitter defeat for the Scots, ten thousand Scotsmen lay dead or dying on Flodden Field and among them was their King.

The Queen had shut herself in that turret of Linlithgow Palace which was known as Queen Margaret’s Bower. She sat alone on the stone bench which surrounded it and looked out of the window hoping and praying for the coming of the messenger.

When she had heard that James was dallying at Ford Castle with Lady Heron her anger was greater than her fear. Each night she was tormented by vague dreams; each day she came to her bower to watch and wait.

There she relived so much of her life with James. This very bower itself had been created by him for her pleasure. It was reached from his dressing room by means of a staircase, and James had had a stone table erected in the center. She remembered so well the day he had shown it to her. How charming he was, how tender! And how difficult it was to remind oneself that he had been as charming and tender to other women perhaps the day before he was showing so much solicitude to her.

News was brought to her frequently. She had learned of all the successes, until they had come to Ford Castle. She knew that Old Bell-the-Cat had left the army in disgust; and she trembled. But then she remembered James, the Wild Knight at the joust. He could not fail. Yet his success would mean disaster for her brother, and she had not known until this time how strong were the ties of blood.

What did she want? Peace, she answered. That is what I want. Peace between our two countries, and my husband at my side.

She had known before the messenger spoke that he had brought disastrous news; and as she had listened to his words a numbness took possession of her body. Dead! On Flodden Field.

She thought: So I shall never seen his handsome face again, never listen to his voice; never again shall I ask myself with what woman he is spending his time now. His beauty has gone; his virile body is but a corpse; and I, his wife, have become his widow.

She went to the nursery, where her little son, who was riding on David Lindsay’s shoulders, shouted with joy to see her.

David Lindsay lifted the boy from his shoulders and stood him down; he saw from the Queen’s expression that she had had bad news and, because he knew that the messenger had come from Flodden Field, he guessed the nature of that news. He was filled with horror and his first thoughts were of what this would mean to his young charge.

“Davie,” said Margaret, “this is a woeful day for Scotland.”

“Your Grace…Your Grace…”

She knelt down and with tears in her eyes embraced her son.

“He is now your King, Davie.”

“This cannot be!”

“Alas, it is so. James IV has died at Flodden and now this little one is King of Scotland and the Isles.”

“So young…and tender,” murmured David.

“I trust all will remember it,” Margaret answered bitterly. “David,” she went on, “in a few months’ time he will have a brother or sister.”

David nodded slowly.

Young James was impatient of this solemnity. He wanted to play.

“Carry me, David,” he cried imperiously.

And solemnly David Lindsay lifted the King of Scotland onto his shoulder.

The whole of Scotland mourned the King. Nor did it mourn him only, for the flower of Scottish manhood had fallen at Flodden and there was scarcely a noble family in the land which was not touched with sorrow. James had won the hearts of his people as few kings had ever done before him. His handsome looks, his great charm, his sympathy with the troubles of all, his chivalry and brilliant performances at the jousts had made of him a public hero. It was forgotten that he was to blame for this terrible defeat against which so many of his advisers had warned him, that it had been unnecessary to fight at all and, having embarked upon the campaign, it had been criminally negligent to jeopardize the lives of so many and the cause of Scotland while he tarried with Lady Heron. They remembered only the hero who had delighted them with the entertainments he had given and in which they had had their share; they remembered only that he whom they had loved was dead.

Old Bell-the-Cat was a brokenhearted man. He had lost two sons at Flodden—his eldest, George, Master of Douglas, and Sir William of Glenbervie; with them had fallen two hundred gentlemen of the name of Douglas. There could rarely have been a disaster to Scotland and the Douglases to compare with that of Flodden. He no longer had the heart to join in public affairs; he was too old, too sad. All his vast possessions would now go to his grandson Archibald, son of George; and Bell-the-Cat retired to his Priory of Whitehorn in Wigtownshire to set his affairs in order, for he did not think he had long to live—nor did he wish it otherwise.

But there was no time to waste. Scotland was defeated; and she had left the flower of her army rotting on Flodden Field. What next? asked those who were left.

The days following the defeat were some of the most anxious the country had ever passed through, until it was realized that Surrey was in no position to march on Scotland; the main army of England was abroad with the King, and the battle of Flodden had been one of defense for England. The Regent, Queen Katharine, was very loath to conduct a war against her husband’s sister; all she wished to do was preserve England from invasion during her husband’s absence. This had been magnificently done; and Katharine was ready to offer Margaret a truce.

As her numbness left her, Margaret realized that she was now in possession of a certain power—and power was something she had always wished for. James had made her Regent and guardian of their son before he went away, and the nobles of Scotland were anxious to respect his wishes.

First she removed the little King to the strong fortress of Stirling Castle; then she called Parliament, that the will of James IV might be read. There was some murmuring concerning the passing of the Regency into the Queen’s hands, for the tradition of Scotland was that this should be a masculine prerogative, yet because the King was so recently dead, none raised a voice against his wishes. A Council was to assist her, and this was made up of old Bell-the-Cat, the Earls of Arran, Huntley, Glencairn, Argyle, Lennox, Eglington, Drummond and Morton; with Beaton, the Archbishop of Glasgow and Elphinstone, Bishop of Aberdeen.

Only twenty days after the death of his father, little James was taken to Scone where, what was called throughout the land, the Mourning Coronation took place. Over the brow of the child was held the crown of Scotland and he was solemnly declared King.

It was the most extraordinary coronation ever witnessed for, as the trumpets sounded, those about the young King burst into loud lamentations; and James was proclaimed King of Scotland and the Isles to the accompaniment of tears and sobbing.

Thus the power for which Margaret had longed was to some extent hers. Jealousy, the most persistent emotion of her life, had been removed. What did all those women who had tempted James from her side matter now? She had heard that Anne of Brittany, who had roused her anger as much as any, had died a few days after the defeat at Flodden. So, thought Margaret, she did not live long to gloat over what she had persuaded him to do.

Margaret herself was now twenty-four years old; she had had many years’ experience of Scotland and of the Scottish, and as the weeks following her son’s coronation began to pass, her grief passed with them. She forced herself to remember the unhappiness rather than the happiness James had caused her; and once she had given birth to his child she would be free.

She began to think with increasing excitement of freedom.

She was not at this time aware of the feelings of certain members of the Council toward her. They could not forget, first that she was a woman and second that she was English. It was true her nationality meant that the King of England was more likely to show leniency to the Scots while his sister was their Queen; but in spite of the lack of funds in the exchequer and the terrible loss of manpower at Flodden, Scotland was still not eager for friendship with England.

The pro-French party was strong and there was continual and secret correspondence between this party and the French.

There came that day when the Bishop of Aberdeen suggested to the Council that the Queen’s task was too much for her strength. It seemed to him that she needed help in her task of Regent; and he proposed that they should invite the Duke of Albany—who, after Margaret’s son, was next in the line of succession—to come to Scotland and share the Regency with her.

This was agreed to be an excellent suggestion. Albany, uncle of James IV, should be told of their decision, and they would invite him to tell them what his inclinations were.

Meanwhile the Queen was pregnant and in no fit state to conduct affairs, so first they would approach Albany in secret.

John Stuart, Duke of Albany, was riding round his estates with his friend Anthony d’Arcy de la Bastie when the messenger from Scotland arrived at the château.

John—always known as Jehan—had almost forgotten that he was a Scotsman, although de la Bastie, who had visited Scotland, often talked of his stay there and did his best to arouse Albany’s interest in that country. But Albany had been brought up in France by a French mother; French was his native language; he had been in the service of the King of France; and he had married a Frenchwoman. He was now just past thirty and he had been four years old when his father had died, and that had severed, so he thought, all links with Scotland. He was on excellent terms with the French Court; he had been made a knight of St. Michael and Admiral of France for services to the King. He was happily married to his cousin, Anne de la Tour, a rich heiress who had brought him these Auvergne estates. He passed the time pleasantly between Court and the country; so he was perfectly content with his life.

It was natural at such a time that they should be talking of Scotland. The news of Flodden was fresh and de la Bastie could not forget what it meant.

He was saying: “Had you met him you would have felt this as deeply as I. He was so vital; so charming to look at and pleasant to be with. I remember his masquerading as the Wild Knight, and then seeming loath to take the glory he had won. And now…he is dead.”

“A fate which must overtake us all,” mused Albany philosophically.

“But not in the prime of our lives, let us hope.”

Albany was silent for a while, then he said: “They are a wild clan, these Stuarts.”

“All of them?” asked de la Bastie with a smile.

“My Stuart blood has been tempered by that of the French. I boast that I inherited logic and sweet reason from my French mother.”

“And nothing from your father?”

“Heaven help me, not his genius for falling into trouble, I trust.”

“None could say you had inherited that. Here you are, a friend of the King, a brilliant courtier and a happy countryman. What more could you ask?”

“Very little. I was not complaining. I have no wish to live as my father did.” He smiled. “I don’t remember him; but my mother talked of him continually. The last years of his life were almost too fantastically adventurous to bear the stamp of truth.”

“He was indeed a strange man, and an unhappy one—I should think—to quarrel with his brother.”

“Oh, he was ambitious, and when you are ambitious it is not good to be born the second son of a king. It was natural that such a man should long for the crown, and when his brother became James III the trouble started. I would rather live in peace than in the center of revolution. I tell you, I follow my mother rather than my father.”

They had turned their horses toward the château when de la Bastie said: “Look, there are visitors.”

“You are right.” Albany spurred his horse and the two men broke into a gallop which soon brought them to the gates of the château.

Several of the servants had seen their approach, for they had been watching for it; and grooms ran forward to take their horses and to gabble that foreigners had arrived.

Inside the great hall Albany’s wife, who had been the Comtesse de la Tour before she married, was graciously acting as hostess to the foreigners and as Albany went forward, with de la Bastie a few paces behind, he felt a slight apprehension because he saw that the visitors came from Scotland. Moreover they came on an important mission, for the man who faced him was the Lyon King.

He knew, almost before he heard, what the visitor had to say. It was the logical outcome of recent events. An infant king; a woman regent; and he a grandson of King James II.

Never! he thought. Why should I? Here I am at peace. Here I am happy. Why should I leave all this for the strife which would naturally be mine in that strife-ridden country?

But he listened courteously to the Lyon King and gave no hint of his distaste for the mission.

His guests must be royally entertained; Anne would see that they were. She too was looking uneasy. She need not fear. Their life together was not going to be disrupted.

He sat thoughtfully in his private chamber remembering the stories he had heard his mother tell him.

His father had lived a colorful life, but surely happiness, peaceful pleasure, were more to be desired than adventure which had ambition as the spur.

His father, Alexander Stuart, Duke of Albany, had always been in the thick of intrigue, so it was natural that when his elder brother James came to the throne, he, Alexander, and his younger brother, the Earl of Mar, should begin seeking honors and glory. Scotland had been tortured by revolution, due to them; and when Albany and Mar had come into conflict with those Border barons, Home and Hepburn, James III had seized the opportunity to imprison his troublesome brothers. Mar had died mysteriously in prison; some said as the result of an accident when a physician had bled him; others that the King had ordered his veins to be cut that he might bleed to death. In any case that was the end of Mar.

Albany had determined that no such misadventure should befall him, and as he had allies in France, he planned his escape. This took place with a drama that characterized all his adventures. It was arranged that two casks should be sent to him in his prison in Edinburgh Castle; these casks were presumed to contain Malmsey; one did, but the contents of the second were rope, which would make escape possible, and instruction as to where the French ship, which would carry him to France, was moored in the Forth.

Albany made plans with his chamber child, a young attendant who acted as valet during his imprisonment. First he invited the Captain of the Castle to come to his apartment and share the wine which had so generously been sent to him.

The Captain arrived and when he had taken rather more than he was accustomed to, Albany drew his sword and ran it through his body. Then he sent his chamber child to tell one of the guards that the Captain of the Castle was drunk and needed help; and as soon as the guard came into the apartment, Albany killed him. This was repeated twice and in a short time there were four dead men in Albany’s apartment.

Albany then commanded the chamber child to descend by the rope, and he himself would follow immediately. The boy was lowered over the walls of the castle, but the rope was too short and he fell, breaking his thigh. Realizing what had happened, Albany drew in the rope, lengthened it and himself descended. Although in imminent danger of discovery he picked up the child, carried him to a house nearby, commanded the people there to have his wounds attended to, telling them that if any ill befell the child they would have to answer to Albany, and then made his way to the French ship which was waiting to carry him to France. His treatment of the child aroused the sympathy of the people and he was fast becoming a legend throughout the land. He made his way to the French ship and when he arrived in Paris was treated with respect by the King of France, given estates and a bride—a French heiress, Anne, daughter of the Comte d’Auvergne et de Boulogne.

He had had no wish to settle down in peace, and before long had returned to England where he had entered into an intrigue with Edward IV to oust his brother James III from the throne of Scotland and take the crown himself. The price Edward asked for his help was that Albany should, on gaining the throne, put away his wife and marry Edward’s daughter Cecilia. Albany was not one to trouble himself with such details. He had already been married before he left Scotland to his cousin, Catharine Sinclair, by whom he had had three sons and a daughter. He had divorced her on the grounds of propinquity, so legally the present Duke, his son by Anne de la Tour, was his heir.

What strife had been caused in Scotland by Albany’s actions! There had been many nobles who were dissatisfied with the King, and they only needed Albany’s banner to join in the revolt against James. Bell-the-Cat was at the head of this revolutionary faction and there had been perpetual strife.

Eventually Albany had found it necessary to escape from Scotland and once more sought refuge in France, where his death was as dramatic and unexpected as his life had been. Attending a tournament he was accidentally killed by a splinter from a lance when he was not even engaged in the joust but merely a spectator.

A life of adventure. Had he found it as satisfying as his son found his?

Perhaps it had contented him, for it was the life he had chosen.

“But this,” said his son, “is the life for me.”

De la Bastie was going to be disappointed in him. He knew what his friend wanted. He would like to accompany the new Regent to Scotland because he had undoubtedly become enamored of that strange, dour land.

Why not send de la Bastie to act as his proxy? It was a good idea. He would go at once to his friend and lay the proposition before him. It would be better than a blunt refusal. He would say: “My affairs make it impossible for me to leave France at this time, so I send you my friend who is also a friend of yours, to act for me until such time as I may come to you.”

Until such time as I may come to you?

He was faintly apprehensive and excited.

Was there something of his father in him? Did the thought of ruling a country excite him after all?

He had made up his mind. Not yet…but there might come a time when he would wish to go.

How different was that Christmas, spent within the Palace of Holyrood, compared with the last! Margaret had always suffered during her pregnancies, and this one was no exception; and eager as she was to give her little James a brother, she wished that at such a time she could have felt energetic enough to deal with state affairs. She was well aware that there were many noblemen who looked askance at her Regency; she knew that letters had been sent to France and that, since Albany was there, it was logical to suppose certain of her counselors would wish to see him take over the Regency, or if not completely, to govern with her.

Her fears that this was the case were confirmed by letters from her brother Henry, who had now returned from France.

He was not pleased with the way matters were going in Scotland. There was a truce between the two countries, but he would have her and the Scots know that he agreed to this mainly because he did not wish to make war on a country of which his own sister was Regent. He knew that those about her were putting out feelers to France, and contemplating bringing Albany over. Why, the fellow was a Frenchman at heart and called the King of France his master. Therefore Henry of England would frown on such a man’s holding the post of Regent in cooperation with his sister. It must be avoided at all costs. They might seek to marry her to the fellow. It was true he had a wife living, but Henry had heard that she was not strong and might not live long; in any case she was his cousin, so it would not be difficult to dissolve the marriage. He wanted this avoided at all cost.

Margaret sat down and wrote to “her dearest brother, the King.” She implored him to suppress his hostile feelings toward Scotland and begged him not to harm her little King, his nephew who was very small and tender, being only one year and five months old. She reminded him that she was soon to become the mother of a posthumous child. She could only be happy if she had his goodwill.

Henry replied that if the Scots wanted peace they should have it, and if they wanted war they should have it. As for Margaret’s husband, he had fallen by his own indiscretion and rashness and foolish kindness to France. He added that, even so, as a relative, he regretted his death. He went on to say that he liked not to see French influence in Scotland and that if this should be strengthened he would be greatly displeased. He warned his sister of plans to marry her to Albany, repeating that she must avoid this at all costs.

Margaret brooded on this and when she saw young Archibald Douglas among the courtiers at the Palace an idea occurred to her—a wild idea. But was it so wild?

She sent for him and, when he arrived, she told him that she wanted to give him her sympathy, for she had heard that his young wife had recently died in childbed.

He thanked her and said it was a marvelous thing that his Queen, who had suffered so many sorrows, should remember those of her humble subjects.

“Nay,” she answered, “we have both been bereaved and in a similar manner. It would seem that we should sympathize with each other.”

Archibald bowed his head and she felt a surge of jealousy wondering how deeply he grieved for his young wife.

And when he had passed on, she thought: It might be possible for us to comfort each other.

But I must wait until after my child is born.

There was gloom in the priory of Whitehorn in Wigtownshire where the Douglas clan had assembled at the summons of the head of their house.

Old Bell-the-Cat lay on his deathbed; he had never recovered from the disaster of Flodden Field, that battle which, before it had begun, he had declared was foolish, unnecessary, and doomed to disaster.

He had lost two sons on that field with some of the bravest members of his clan. When it was over he had retired from public life and found that he had no longer any great wish to live. Now he knew that the end was near and he did not shrink from it.

He had summoned to his bedside his two remaining sons, the priest, Gavin Douglas and Sir Archibald Douglas of Kilspindie; there was also his grandson and heir, son of the Master of Douglas who had been killed at Flodden: the Archibald Douglas who had caught the Queen’s fancy and who, when the old man died, would be Earl of Angus and head of the House of Douglas.

“Sons, grandson,” muttered the old Earl, “my time is running out. It is a sad time to go when the affairs of Scotland are in such confusion. There’ll be work for you to do and I trust you’ll do it in the manner of the Douglases. Grandson, you’ll shortly inherit a great title. How old are you now?”

“Nineteen, Grandfather.”

“Alas, ’tis over-young. You will need to heed the counsel of your uncles. My sons, look to your nephew, for very soon he will be the head of your clan. And you, Grandson, are recently widowed. You must marry again and soon. Now it is your duty to get sons for the House of Douglas.”

Young Archibald bent over the old man. “Be at peace, Grandfather,” he said. “I am courting a lady whom I hope to marry.”

“Who is this?” asked Bell-the-Cat.

“Lady Jane Stuart, daughter of the Lord of Traquair. She is young, beautiful, and of good birth. I knew I should have your approval of the match.”

“I know her well. A fitting bride, and I rejoice. Marry her soon, Grandson. Life is too short to spend overmuch time in mourning.”

“Give me your blessing, Grandfather.”

The old hand was laid on the young head, and the dying man looked to his sons.

“Let there be no strife in our house. Care for your nephew, as though he were your son.”

“We will, Father,” his sons answered.

“My blessing on you all. Long life and prosperity to the Douglases.”

He lay back on his pillows, exhausted, and the men exchanged glances. It could not be long now.

They were right. In a few days old Bell-the-Cat was dead and young Archibald had become Earl of Angus.

The new Earl of Angus lost no time in going to Traquair with the news, where Lady Jane was eagerly awaiting him for she guessed that his grandfather could not live long, and she knew what a change this would make in the fortunes of her lover.

They walked beside the Quair Water together and talked of the future.

“I have his blessing, Jane,” Angus told her. “He said that it was folly to waste time. We should marry without delay. Are you ready to do so?”

“I am ready,” answered Jane.

“As soon as a few more months have passed then. It would be a scandal to marry so soon after the death of my poor Margaret and my grandfather. It is useless to expect people to understand how I loved you from the moment I saw you. If we married now they would say we had intrigued during Margaret’s lifetime. Who knows what else they might say? They are ready enough to blacken a man’s character…and a woman’s. I’d not care to subject you to that, Jane.”

“We can wait a few more months,” said Jane serenely. “The time will seem long, but I know that you will long for it to be over, even as I shall.”

“Oh, Jane…how long the waiting will be! We’ll not make it too long.”

“No,” she answered. “When you have done mourning for your grandfather…when the summer comes perhaps.”

“Oh, how I sigh for the summer!”

From Traquair Angus went to Stobhall, as his maternal grandfather, Lord Drummond, had sent for him.

Lord Drummond, who had once hoped to take a large share in the government of Scotland when he had believed his daughter Margaret was going to marry James IV, had been deprived of his dearest ambition. He still mourned the death of his daughter—not so much for the loss of her person, but for the honors she might have brought her family had she become Queen of Scotland.

He had hoped for much from his family. His daughters had been recognized as among the most beautiful women in Scotland. But that fateful breakfast had carried off three of them—Margaret, Eupheme, and Sibylla. Elizabeth, who fortunately had not sat down to that meal with her sisters, had lived to marry the heir of Angus, eldest son of old Bell-the-Cat; she had had numerous children and the eldest was young Archibald, who as Earl of Angus would be a powerful man in Scotland, and because he was so young he would need advice. Who better to give that advice than his grandfather? Now that old Bell-the-Cat was out of the way, that other grandfather, himself, Lord Drummond, should be the one to guide the head of the Douglas clan.

So he sent for the boy in order to impress on him the sudden importance of his rank.

As soon as Angus came into his presence, Drummond was struck by his resemblance to his mother and aunts. His was a family with more than its share of good looks. Angus ought to go far.

“Now, my boy,” said Drummond, “I trust you are aware of the great importance of your new position.”

“Yes, Grandfather. I have had it impressed upon me, I do assure you.”

“And rightly so. You are now the head of one of the most important clans in Scotland, and it is no good thing that you should have been thrust into such a position so young. Alas for Flodden! Would that your father had lived to pass on the title to you in good time. But what is, must be. While you are here I want to talk to you on Court matters and then I shall wish you to accompany me to Court. There I hope to bring you to the notice of the Queen, and I have little doubt that if you are wise you will do well there. You have good looks and a great name.”

“Thank you, Grandfather. I am ready to go when you wish.”

“That is well.”

“There is one matter of which I would wish to speak to you. My paternal grandfather advised me that I should marry soon, and that I wish to do.”

“Whom have you in mind?”

“Lady Jane Stuart.”

“Daughter of the Traquair,” mused Drummond. “Hmm. If you are wise you will shelve that little matter for a while. There are affairs of more pressing urgency afoot, I do assure you.”

Angus felt faintly alarmed. He had a notion that his ambitious grandfather was not quite sure whether Jane was a worthy enough match for the Earl of Angus.

Not that I shall be influenced! Angus told himself. I shall choose my own wife, and that will be Jane.

It was April when Margaret’s baby was born. She christened him Alexander, and he was given the title of Duke of Ross. He was a beautiful baby, promising to be as healthy as her little James, and she was delighted with him.

Although she felt weak after his birth, this pregnancy had been slightly less arduous than those she had previously suffered; she was glad of this for she was uncomfortably aware of the strife which was going on about her. There were certain members of the nobility who were determined to bring Albany over from France. His deputy, de la Bastie, had already arrived; and her brother Henry was urging that on no account must Albany be brought to Scotland, for he would not tolerate a French influence there. There was another scheme forming in the minds of the pro-French party and that was to marry her to Louis XII of France. Margaret shuddered at the prospect. Aging Louis did not appeal to her as a husband; but there was a grim amusement in thinking of marrying the widower of that Anne of Brittany who had once caused her so much jealousy.

When I marry, thought Margaret, it will be someone young and handsome, someone like young Archibald Douglas. He was the Earl of Angus now—quite a considerable title. Perhaps it would be less incongruous for the Queen to marry the Earl of Angus than young Archibald Douglas.

Lord Drummond, who held the office of Lord-Justiciary of Scotland, had written to her begging leave to present himself. He wished to bring his young grandson to her notice. The boy had recently acquired the title of Earl of Angus; he was still in mourning for his grandfather—and alas, he had been doubly stricken, for he had not long since become a widower—but he was a young man of spirit and yearned to be at Court that he might more assiduously serve his Queen.

Margaret replied graciously. Lord Drummond must come to Court at once. She had heard of the sorrows of the young Earl and the new responsibilities which had been thrust upon him. She wished to give him her personal sympathy.

Lord Drummond had not felt so excited since those days when he had believed his daughter Margaret had so enslaved the King of Scotland that he would marry her. He was certain that he had discovered a passion as intense, and for another member of his family.

Why did the Queen keep young Angus at her side? Why did she unsuccessfully endeavor to hide the pleasure his company gave her? Why did her eyes gleam with excitement when he stood beside her? Lord Drummond knew the answers to all these questions.

What a handsome pair they were! Margaret a young and lusty widow. Angus even younger, a widower in need of a new wife. The trouble was that Angus seemed to be willfully blind to the portents. That was because he was mooning about Traquair’s daughter.

By all the saints, Drummond said to himself, what this could mean to our family!

He smiled. Life was ironical. Once it had offered him a similar opportunity. A daughter of his to marry a king. That had failed, through some foul murderer; but now his grandson might be the husband of the Queen.

He considered the matter. Should he talk to Angus? The boy was only nineteen and foolish without doubt, imagining himself in love with Jane Stuart. This had to be handled with the utmost care.

He invited the boy’s uncles to call on him, letting them know that he had vital family matters to discuss with them; and when Gavin Douglas, the poet and priest, came to Drummond’s apartments accompanied by his brother, Sir Archibald of Kilspindie, Drummond lost no time in telling them what he suspected.

“The Queen is enamored of young Angus, and this is no surprise to me. I believe him to be the most handsome man at Court.”

“You mean she is his mistress?” asked Sir Archibald.

“Nay, nay. You go too fast. She is deeply conscious of her royalty. The pride of these Tudors is greater than that of the Stuarts, my friends. She is in love with him but I doubt she would be his mistress. Nor do we wish her to. But I see no reason why she should not become his wife.”

The Douglases were too startled to speak. “Why not? Angus has a great title. Why should not a Douglas share the throne? Have you two so little regard for your family’s honor that you would raise objections to this?”

“Why no, indeed,” said Gavin quickly, “but is it possible?”

“Why not? Providing we act with discretion.”

“How so?” demanded Sir Archibald.

“The Queen is a young woman. She has been without a husband since Flodden. She sees our young Angus and is enflamed with desire for him. Can you wonder? He is a fine figure of a man. I have watched her. I have seen the signs.”

“The Council would never permit a marriage.”

Drummond snapped his fingers. “Who cares for the Council! If there was a marriage between these two it would have to be made first and the Council told afterward.”

“It is not a year since the death of the King.”

“We cannot afford to waste time, or they will find a husband for her. They tried to marry her to Louis XII.”

“They cannot do that now.”

“Assuredly not, since the King of England, determined to have no union between Scotland and France, has married his younger sister Mary to Louis.”

“That we know,” put in Drummond testily, “but the Council would find what they deem a suitable husband for the Queen…and that husband would not be Angus. Imagine Arran, for one, allowing a Douglas to be put above him. Nay, if there is to be a marriage it must be done with all speed, while the Queen’s feelings are hot toward our Angus, and before the Council can intervene.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“That we summon our handsome young man and impress upon him the need to do his duty by his family.”

“I believe the boy to have betrothed himself to Jane Stuart.”

“Then he must un-betroth himself,” cried Drummond. “Nothing must stand in the way of this match. Have you thought what it would mean to the family? A bishopric at least for you, Gavin Douglas, a fine place at Court for your brother here.”

“And for my Lord Drummond?” inquired Gavin not without sarcasm.

“My dear fellow, all the family could expect to prosper. I want your support when I explain to Angus where his duty lies. He must act with speed and caution. He must let the Queen know that he returns her passion.”

“Which he does not?” questioned Archibald.

“Then he must learn to,” retorted Angus’s ambitious grandfather. “I was once cheated of seeing my daughter share the throne of Scotland; I’ll not stand by and see my grandson kept from it.”

“What do you propose to do?” asked Gavin.

“Summon Angus and, with your support, tell him what he must do. Do you stand with me?”

The Douglases eyed each other. They were ambitious men.

“We’d be fools not to,” replied Gavin speaking for them both.

Drummond clapped them both on the back.

“I knew I could rely on you,” he said. “Now…for young Angus.”

Angus was bewildered. He looked in anguish from his uncles to his grandfather.

“You see,” he explained laboriously, “Jane and I have plighted our troth.”

“Plighted your fiddlesticks!” snapped Drummond. “I never heard such nonsense. Marry that girl and you are finished at Court, I tell you. Margaret will see that all you hope for is denied you.”

“All I hope for,” replied Angus, “is to live peacefully with Jane. I don’t mind not being at Court. We’ll be perfectly happy at Whitehorn or Tantallan.”

“Whitehorn and Tantallan! You forget you are the head of the house of Douglas, my boy, and whether you like it or not your clan looks to you to act accordingly. It is your solemn duty to put honors in the way of your family, and how could you do this better than by becoming the Queen’s husband?”

“But she has not said she would marry me.”

“What a young fool you are! It is for you to sigh and simper and show how you would if you dared. She’ll be ready and willing enough. If you were half a man you would have read the signs in her eyes.”

“B-But what of Jane?” stammered Angus.

“If she’s a sensible girl she’ll understand and call you a fool if you missed your opportunity.”

“I have sworn…”

“As a Douglas you are pledged to your family, my boy. Now, no more nonsense. How many men do you think there are at Court who wouldn’t give ten years of their lives to be in your position? The Queen desiring you! Go to it. You’re not a simpering boy now, you know. You’re a man.”

“I will not…”

“God help us,” murmured Drummond; then his voice rose in a crescendo. “We are cursed with a Douglas who’s naught but a simpering ninny!”

“Grandfather,” began Angus helplessly.

Drummond took him by the arm. “I see,” he said, “that your uncles and I have to talk to you very seriously.”

Angus believed himself to be the most unhappy man at Court. Why, he kept asking, did his grandfather have to die? Why was he thrust into this position? How much better it would have been to have remained plain Archibald Douglas than become Earl of Angus. Then everyone would have said the match with Jane was a good one. Why had the Queen picked him out!

If he went to Jane and married her he would be continually reproached by his family; if he obeyed his family he would be forever reproached by Jane.

All his life he had been brought up to recognize the importance of belonging to a great family. In his family’s mansions like Whitehorn and Tantallan there were the Douglas arms and emblems in every room. Old Bell-the-Cat had played a big part in the history of Scotland; as it was deemed fitting that every head of the House of Douglas should do.

What can I do? he asked himself again and again.

He was in private audience with the Queen. His grandfather had arranged it, telling the Queen that his grandson Angus had asked it.

It was untrue; but now that he was alone with her he looked at her with a new interest.

There was no denying that she was beautiful. She looked particularly so today…eager and expectant, her eyes brilliant, her long golden hair flowing over her shoulders in a careless fashion that was very becoming. It was so long that she could have sat on it, and he was fascinated by its shining splendor.

She did not seem like a queen; indeed he fancied that she was trying to cast aside her royalty that they might appear as equals.

“My lord,” she said, “I hear you have something to say to me.”

“Your Grace…,” he murmured and did not look at her.

She held out her hand, which he took because there was nothing else he could have done; she drew him toward her so that he was standing close to her seductive body; he could see by the rise and fall of her breast that she was a little agitated.

“You are thinking that I am the Queen,” she said. “Pray, my lord, forget that.”

“It is impossible to forget,” he said quietly.

“Nay. I am a woman and you are a man.” She took his other hand and drew him closer. She lifted her face to his and there was nothing else to do but kiss her. The passion which he met overwhelmed him. She clung to him, her body pressed against his, her kisses fierce, demanding.

She was beautiful; she was desirable, and they were both young; it was not difficult to respond.

At last she withdrew herself, her eyes half closed; she looked as though she were fainting with ecstasy.

“Angus…,” she murmured. “My dearest Angus. Nothing shall keep us apart, I swear it.”

“Your Grace…”

She held up a hand. “I have sworn it. I have thought of this matter for a long time. They will attempt to stop us, of course, but we’ll not allow it. My dearest love, you must not think of me as your Queen. There shall be no formality between us two. How I long for you! The marriage must take place at once.”

“Your Grace, there is something I must tell you.”

“Not ‘Your Grace.’ Say ‘Margaret.’ I am Margaret to you now and henceforth. There will be opposition, but I have spoken to Lord Drummond who will arrange this matter for us. He is shrewd and wise. There is going to be no delay. Soon, my love, you and I shall be in each other’s arms.” She laughed. “How you deceived me! There were times when you convinced me that you did not care for me at all. Oh, how wretched you made me! But it is all over now.”

She threw herself into his arms again; the passionate embrace was repeated. And what could Angus do but respond? A man would have to be an eunuch not to, he told himself. She was so beautiful, so eager, and a queen withal! The situation had a piquancy to tempt any man’s fidelity.

She would not let him speak; she stopped his lips with her kisses; and who would dare explain his feeling for another woman when the Queen’s lips were on his? And afterward he dared not make an attempt. How could he tell her, when she had made such a confession of her own feelings, that he did not share them? How could he so insult a queen?

Margaret was grateful to the grandfather and uncles of her beloved. Lord Drummond had told her that he would arrange for the wedding ceremony to take place, and she could safely leave such matters to him. His nephew, Walter Drummond, was Dean of Dunblane and parson of Kinnoul, so the pair could be married in the utmost secrecy in his church at Kinnoul.

Margaret wanted to show her gratitude to these accommodating gentlemen, and she began by nominating Gavin Douglas as Bishop of Dunkeld. He overwhelmed her with thanks, and she replied that she would never forget his goodness and could wish to have bestowed an even greater reward. She hinted that when it was possible the Primacy of Scotland should be his.

The brothers and Lord Drummond consulted together. Drummond was triumphant. “You see,” he cried. “A bishopric already and a promise of the Primacy! I assure you, my friends, that in a short time the Douglases and their connections will be ruling Scotland. It is well that Angus is so young; he will be the more easily guided. But we must get this marriage made before our intentions become known. You are aware, as well as I am, that there are men in Scotland who would rise in civil war to prevent it if they knew what we planned.”

“Then…,” began Sir Archibald nervously, but Drummond silenced him.

“Nay, Sir Chicken-heart. We play for big stakes. We’ll take a risk or two. And if we did not go forward now I doubt not our warm-blooded Queen would do so without our help.”

On a warm August day, not twelve months after the battle of Flodden Field, Margaret married the Earl of Angus in Kinnoul Church.

She did not stop to think of the consequences of this marriage. All that mattered was that this handsome boy who had long occupied her thoughts was now her husband.

Her one desire was to abandon herself to the passion which obsessed her.

Later she could consider how she would explain her conduct to her people.

Margaret was as happy as she had been during the first weeks of her marriage to James. Angus gave no sign that he was not as deeply enamored of her as she was of him. He was caught up in the wave of her sensuality; she was more experienced than he, having lived for so many years with that expert lover, James IV; there was much she could teach him and he was lusty enough to be a ready pupil. It was too uncomfortable to think about Jane Stuart during those weeks, so he did his best to forget her. He discovered that he was growing up; he was no longer a romantic boy, and he began to realize how wise his grandfather and uncles had been in urging him to this marriage.

Margaret was so deeply in love that she was only happy when she was with him; she promised him all that he could wish. She showered presents on him. “I want to give you everything you could desire in exchange for all the pleasure you have given me,” she told him.

He replied that the pleasure he had given her could not compare with that which she had given him; and only occasionally did he feel a twinge of conscience on Jane’s account.

She would understand, he soothed himself. The Queen had commanded him to be her husband and none could disobey a royal command.

The secrecy which attended their marriage gave it an additional spice. Margaret believed that she had found lasting happiness; but it was foolish to suppose such a secret could be kept for long.

It was in October that the opportunity arose to bestow the Primacy of Scotland on Gavin Douglas, and Margaret carelessly threw the office to the uncle of her beloved husband.

There was an immediate outcry among the nobles. Why should the Queen select this hitherto somewhat insignificant prelate for such a great honor. Only recently she had bestowed on him the Bishopric of Dunkeld. What had he done to deserve it? Old Bell-the-Cat had headed many a revolt in his time. Were they going to stand by and see the Douglas clan leap into power again?

There was clearly some reason why the Douglas clan had come into sudden favor.

It did not take long for the secret to be discovered, and a Council meeting was hastily called. The lords assembled, their feelings outraged by the discovery. It was an insult to them and Scotland that the Queen had married without consulting them; and that she should have married Angus added to the injury. Who did this Tudor woman think she was? they asked themselves. Her only right to the crown was through Scottish James, and before he had been dead a year she had shamelessly remarried.

Lord Home addressed the assembly.

“Hitherto,” he said, “we have shown our willingness to honor the Queen, although it is against the custom of our country that women should rule. But because our beloved King and Sovereign, James IV, created her Regent, we have allowed her to remain so. All well and good while she retained her widowhood; but she is no longer a widow. I put forward the motion that we depose the Queen from the Regency, and once more ask the Duke of Albany to come to Scotland to act as Regent; and that we summon the Queen to our presence that we may acquaint her of our displeasure.”

This was agreed, and Sir William Comyn, Lyon King, was sent to deliver the Council’s message.

Margaret refused to be shaken out of her idyll. This, she told herself, was what she had longed for in the early days of her marriage to James. It had been denied her, but she did not care now; for now she was happily married; her husband was the most beautiful man in Scotland and she was fast teaching him to be the most erotic. She was completely satisfied with her private life and was prepared to forget, for as long as she would be allowed to do so, that there was another side to a queen’s existence.

She was at Stobhall, Lord Drummond’s mansion, shut away from the Court, with her husband, feeling young and joyous, trying to make each glorious day and night last for as long as she could.

Lord Drummond looked on well content and made sure that the lovers had every opportunity for solitude. He doubted Margaret had ever before known what it meant to live a private life. Each day she became more and more enamored of his grandson. They were indeed a handsome couple. Drummond believed that there must by now be a Douglas heir on the way—his great grandson. This was a time of glory for the Douglases, and for the first time since the tragedy he ceased to mourn the loss of his daughter Margaret.

When rumors came to Stobhall, Drummond did not allow them to disturb the lovers. Of course it was absurd to imagine that the secret could be kept forever, but let them go on believing themselves safe from controversy.

Then news was brought to him that Lyon King was on his way to Stobhall, and he realized immediately that he could not keep from the young couple the news that their marriage was no longer a secret.

He went to them and told them what was happening.

“Lyon King is on his way to bring a message to Your Grace,” he said. “He will summon you to appear before the Council.”

“For what purpose?” asked Margaret.

“To discuss Your Grace’s marriage.”

“My marriage is my own affair,” retorted Margaret, knowing that it was not.

Angus, who had ceased to be a somewhat timid boy in the last weeks, took her hand and kissed it. “It is our affair,” he said. “I’ll not allow them to insult you.”

She gave him a loving glance and turned to Drummond who added: “It will be necessary to receive Lyon King when he arrives, and I think we should make of it a ceremonial occasion to remind him that he is in the presence of the Queen of Scotland. Your Grace should wear the crown; and your husband should be beside you. I ask your gracious permission to be present also.”

“My dear Lord Drummond,” said Margaret, “it shall be as you advise, for I am sure you are right, now as always.”

Thus it was that when Sir William Comyn arrived he found the Queen with Angus and Drummond waiting to receive him.

Comyn came into their presence clad in the insignia of his office, almost as grand a figure as Margaret in her crown and robes of ermine.

His first words were enough to show her and Drummond the intentions of the Council, for instead of addressing her as his sovereign, Comyn began: “My Lady Queen, the mother of His Grace the King…”

Drummond, whose temper, always fiery, was more easily aroused when he knew himself to be in a desperate position, was seized with sudden fury. He had married his grandson to the Queen Regent; how dared Lyon-King-at-Arms address her merely as the mother of the young King!

Impetuously he boxed the ears of the Lyon King.

There was absolute silence which lasted for several seconds. Comyn had been solemnly crowned Lyon-King-at-Arms by King James IV and, since he represented the crown and state, his rank was as sacred as that of a royal person. Never in the history of Scotland had Lyon-King-at-Arms been treated, during the course of his duty, with anything but the greatest respect.

Comyn, startled into silence, was in those ominous seconds uncertain how to act. Then bowing to the Queen he turned slowly and walked from the room.

The silence continued. All three knew that this was an insult which would never be forgotten.

This was the signal for revolt, for it was hardly likely that the nobles of Scotland would accept such a state of affairs. The Queen Regent married in secret, to satisfy her lust, before her husband had been dead a year! The hated Douglases, to climb to the highest positions through young Angus! Lyon King himself insulted by the arrogant Drummond!

The first act must be to set before Albany the urgency of his immediate return; and the best person to convey the need for his presence in Scotland was the insulted Lyon King. He should set out for France immediately.

The Lord Chancellor, Beaton, Archbishop of Glasgow, gave expression to his disapproval of the marriage which had taken place when their beloved sovereign was scarcely cold; and Margaret, urged on by Drummond and Angus, decided that she would deprive Beaton of his office immediately. There were Douglases ready to take over all the most important posts in Scotland. So she sent Angus to Perth to arrest Beaton and take the Seal of Office from him.

The warlike lords lost no time in rousing trouble. The Queen’s supporters—mostly members of the Douglas clan and their hangers-on—were besieged in their castles by the anti-Queen-and-Douglas party. Gavin Douglas was one of those to suffer, and Drummond was in imminent danger of arrest. The Parliament stood against the Queen and it seemed that there were two rulers in Scotland; the Parliament in Edinburgh, and the Queen in Stirling or Perth.

Margaret was growing shrewd. She had immediately written to her brother Henry, telling him of her marriage to Angus and implying that the reason she had married with such speed was because she believed it was the plan of Parliament to bring Albany over and marry her to him. It was true he had a wife living, but she was not enjoying good health and moreover, as she was his cousin, Margaret believed a divorce was planned. She had realized how much against such an alliance her dear brother would be, for Albany was entirely French in sympathy and if he were ruler of Scotland he would never rest until he had brought war into her brother’s kingdom.

The reply from Henry was as Margaret had expected. The last thing he wanted was to see Albany in Scotland, so he gave his approval to the match with Angus and stated that he was happy to accept him as a brother-in-law.

Lyon-King-at-Arms was shipwrecked on his way to France, which caused great hilarity among the Douglases.

“God is clearly of our party!” Margaret said gleefully, and of course the Douglases shared her opinion.

But that did not mean that other messengers were not arriving in France and that Albany was being made aware of his duty to Scotland.

This was the waiting period. The trouble was confined to small skirmishes and had not erupted into civil war. The main reason for this was that Margaret was the sister of Henry VIII who would naturally be watching for any weakness in the Scottish defenses.

Scotland was in no state to withstand invasion from England.

The Duke of Albany had received a communication that the King would be hunting near his estates and proposed staying a night at his château, which threw his household into a state of tension only produced by a royal visit. François Premier, King of a few months, was a man who had already caught the imagination of his people, even as Henry VIII of England had his. Both these Kings were young, handsome, and lusty; and they had succeeded misers. Everywhere they went their dazzling magnificence delighted their subjects; and their reigns had as yet not been long enough for the people to ask themselves whither such kingly extravagances led.

Albany himself had been a friend of François for many years, all during that time when as Duc d’Angoulême the latter had lived in constant fear that Louis XII would produce a son who would oust him from the succession.

But there had been no son and now François was firmly on the throne; and he was honoring his old friend with a visit, which Albany knew meant that the King was going to give him some command.

Albany was eager to serve François, for the friendship between them was a true one; he enjoyed the witty conversation of the young King—the discussions on art, literature, and architecture, for François, lecherous and a keen sportsman though he was, prided himself first of all on his intellectual leanings.

He arrived at the château and was greeted with respectful affection by his friend. The banquet was almost comparable with those served in François’s own palaces and châteaux; and it was the next day, when they hunted together, that Albany learned the purpose of the King’s visit.

When they were riding side by side, François said: “My dear friend, I am afraid I am going to ask you to do something for France which may not be to your taste.”

“My liege, whatever was asked of me by François and France would immediately become to my taste.”

“Spoken like a Frenchman,” answered François with a light laugh. “You are more Frenchman than Scotsman, my dear Jehan. That is why it grieves me to ask this of you.”

“Sire, you are asking me to go to Scotland?”

Francois nodded mournfully. “I have received a plea from the Scottish Parliament. Your presence is needed there.”

Albany was silent, looking at the country about him which he loved, thinking of his wife whom he would have to leave behind, for her health was giving cause for great anxiety, and the rigors of the Scottish climate would surely kill her. He thought of the pleasures of his visits to Court which, now that François was on the throne, would be more enchanting than ever.

“My dear fellow,” went on François, “this is my sorrow as well as yours. I shall miss you. But see what is happening in your barbarous Scotland. The Regent Queen will be her brother’s vassal shortly. She has alienated the majority of the noblemen, but they dare not rise against her for fear of that young coxcomb below the Border. He is an irritant, that young cockerel. We can never be sure when he is going to strike, and the last thing we can afford is a harmonious relationship between England and Scotland; so it is necessary that Henry be in perpetual fear of attack from the North. Scotland must therefore be the friend of France and, if you were Regent, my dear friend, I could happily believe that you would never forget that half of you belongs to us. It is for this reason that I ask you to leave at once for Scotland, to take the Regency.”

“Sire, you have spoken. It is enough.”

“Thank you, my friend. I knew I could rely on you. The English Margaret must be stripped of her power, and the best way of doing this is to take the young King out of her charge. Let that be your first duty. Then, when you are the guardian of the little Princes, when you are Regent of Scotland, Henry’s sister will be powerless to move against us; and the friendship between France and Scotland will be firm.”

“I shall endeavor to obey my master’s wishes.”

“Faith of a gentleman!” cried François. “This might have been a most happy day but for this sad necessity. Would I could prolong my visit. But I must not delay you. You will have some preparations to make for your journey. This day I shall return to Paris and you will be making your way to Scotland. But we shall meet again…erelong.”

So now there would be no avoiding this unpleasant duty. Now he would not be able to send a deputy.

Within three days John Stuart, Duke of Albany, set out for Scotland.

It was on May 18 of that year, 1515, when Albany landed at Dumbarton.

Margaret had been forced to agree to his coming because, apart from the Douglases, she had scarcely any supporters in Scotland; and there was one great fear that had come to her, which was that when Albany took over the Regency he would attempt to take her children from her.

Margaret loved her sons devotedly and the thought of losing control of them terrified her. The Parliament had pointed out to her that, although James IV had appointed her Regent and tutrix of James V, he had not known that she would so insult his memory by marrying again before he had been dead a year.

In her anxiety for the future of her children she forgot her desire to cling to power. She was an emotional woman before she was a ruler. Her love for Angus had put her into this difficult position; her love for her children was now making her frantic.

One of her greatest enemies was that Border baron, Lord Home, and when Albany arrived it was Home who set out to welcome him accompanied by ten thousand horsemen of his clan.

Home was magnificently dressed in green velvet, and he believed that by greeting Albany thus immediately as he came ashore, he would find himself highly favored by the new Regent.

But before the meeting between Albany and Home, the Regent had received his old friend de la Bastie, for he was anxious, before committing himself to any promises or friendships, to hear what his deputy had to report of affairs in Scotland.

De la Bastie told him of the conflict which was raging throughout the land and suggested that he be particularly wary of Lord Home who was now eager to greet him, for like most Border barons he was capable of changing his coat at the first opportunity. It was whispered that Home had not supported the King as he might have done at Flodden; and it was because Margaret had voiced a suspicion of this that he had set himself up as the chief enemy of her and the Douglases. Albany would do well to beware of Home.

Thus, when the two men came face-to-face, Albany did not extend that cordiality which Home was expecting, and as Home rode forward with a smile of welcome, Albany’s gaze was cool.

“I’m Lord Home, Your Grace,” explained Home. “I have most humbly come to place myself and my men at your disposal.”

“Lord Home?” said the Regent. “I thought one so handsomely attired must be a king. Such a band of followers, such fine raiment, are scarcely suitable for a subject who wishes to display his humble desire to serve.”

With that he turned away, leaving Home discomfited.

Not that Home would accept such an insult. He rode back to his men, savage anger showing on his face.

He had made up his mind. In those few moments he had ceased to be the friend of Albany; and since he was Albany’s enemy he must be Margaret’s friend.

Margaret, in Edinburgh Castle, knew that she must make a pretense of greeting the Regent. She had agreed that he should come, albeit she had been forced to do so; but she must hide her rancor and pretend to welcome him. She wondered what kind of man he was. He was a royal Stuart—that much she knew—and they were notorious for their fascination.

She was faintly disappointed, though she would not admit this, in her handsome Angus. While they were enjoying their secret honeymoon he had been all that was wonderful; but now that he saw the strife their marriage had made all about them, he was beginning to be afraid, and instead of the conquering young husband there were times when he betrayed himself as a frightened boy.

He was vain enough and ambitious enough to enjoy being the Queen’s husband; but he did not enjoy finding himself at the mercy of powerful enemies such as Arran who quite clearly hated him because of his new position.

But Margaret refused to face this aspect of her husband’s character for she was still deeply in love with his handsome body.

At the same time she allowed the women who were doing her hair to chatter about Albany.

“They say he is a great hero in France, a friend of the King and noted for his bravery in battle. And there’s something else they say. He is furious because of Your Grace’s marriage.”

“My marriage is no concern of his,” declared Margaret.

The women laughed. “Oh, but he has seen Your Grace’s picture. And it has been said that he fell in love with it and hoped that there would be a marriage waiting for him in Scotland.”

“What nonsense! He has a wife. I have a husband.”

“But, Your Grace, he did not know of your marriage…and they say his wife is ill and cannot live long.”

“Well, even if he had such plans, they must come to naught.”

Margaret smiled at her reflection in the burnished metal of the mirror. She placed her hands on her stomach and reveled in the slight swelling there. His child, she thought, and mine.

She hoped for a boy who would look exactly like her handsome husband, but she could not but be sorry that with all this trouble rising around her she must also suffer the inconvenience of a pregnancy.

It was time for her now to ride out to greet Albany; and she had decided that she would be gracious, for he was her late husband’s uncle and a Royal Stuart; but she would be wary, and if he attempted to take her babies from her she would fight with everything she had.

When she saw him she was struck by his handsome looks. There was no doubt of the Stuart blood; that indefinable charm which seemed to be their birthright was there in the broad face with the humorous eyes; his hair and beard were dark, as were his eyes, and his manners were more courteous than those she had come to expect from the Scottish lords. He appeared to be in his midthirties, the prime of life, she thought.

“Welcome to Scotland,” she said; and he answered: “I thank my gracious Queen.”

Then they rode to Holyrood House where the Regent was to have his lodging; and later that day Margaret went back to the Castle.

For all his charm the Regent acted with sternness and speed. His first victim was Lord Drummond who was called before the Council and sentenced to imprisonment in Blackness Castle for his conduct toward Lyon-King-at-Arms. Gavin Douglas was also imprisoned for aspiring to the Primacy; and in fear Margaret awaited the next blow which she was certain would be the removal of her children from her care.

Those Scottish lords who saw the beginning of the downfall of the Douglases, deserted her, and the only supporters she now had were her husband, Angus, and the disgruntled Lord Home who might so easily desert her for the other side if she were to offend him in any way. Still, she must make the best of what she had, and if Home was untrustworthy he was also powerful.

Margaret herself went from the Castle to Holyrood House to plead for the release of Lord Drummond, an old man, she explained, who had acted impulsively when he had struck the Lyon King. Albany, eager not to alienate Margaret too strongly, at length agreed to pardon Drummond; this was done, and his estates were restored to him.

But Margaret was growing more and more uneasy because, when his powerful grandfather and uncle had been imprisoned, Angus had become really perturbed. He often thought with remorse of the way in which he had treated Jane Stuart; and he longed to see her, to explain how he had been carried away by his powerful family and the Queen’s insistence. Margaret sensed his lack of ease, and although not aware of his thoughts about Jane, she wondered how strong he would be in a dire emergency. She excused him on account of his youth—the very quality which so appealed to her. She comforted him and told him that all would be well for them if they were loyal to each other.

“As I shall always be to you,” she told him tenderly.

But the Regent and his Council were determined to take her sons from her care, and it was arranged in the Tolbooth that four peers should be chosen to go to the Castle and demand that the children be handed to them.

Margaret’s castle spy brought this information to her and, being warned, she was determined not to let the children go without a struggle.

She went to the nursery where young James was being amused by David Lindsay who was singing one of the old Scotch ballads known as “Ginkerton.” The young Duke of Ross was sleeping in his cot in a nearby room.

“My son,” she cried, “come here to me.”

“But Davie’s singing,” James told her.

“I know, my darling, but we’re going to play a game…you and I and your little brother. So David shall stop singing now.”

“I like ‘Ginkerton’ best.”

“Your Grace,” began David, who could see that she was in a state of tension, “is there aught I can do?”

“Yes, David. Go and tell the nurse to bring little Alexander from his cot.”

“It is his hour for sleep.”

“I know. I know. But this is important.” She drew him aside and whispered: “Albany is sending certain peers to the Castle for the children.”

David turned pale. “Your Grace…”

“Go and tell the child’s nurse to bring him to me. I am going to try to hold them off.”

“Why cannot Davie sing ‘Ginkerton’?” demanded three-yearold James.

“Because it is not part of this game.”

“I like ‘Ginkerton’ better than this game.”

“Never mind that now, my darling. We are going down to the portcullis. You will see a lot of people. You like seeing the people.”

James nodded and began to hum “Ginkerton.”

When the nurse had appeared, carrying the little Duke of Ross in her arms, Margaret said: “Follow me.” And she took James’s hand in hers and led the way down to the Castle gates.

She could hear the noises in the streets, for the four peers had set out from the Tolbooth and the townsfolk, guessing what was afoot, had followed them. On the way she was joined by Angus, looking very pale, and some of the ladies and gentlemen of her household. When they reached the portcullis Margaret demanded that it be raised, and when this was done, the four peers and all the people who had followed them saw the Queen holding the little King by the hand. A few paces behind her was the nurse holding the baby, while Angus and the members of her household formed a semicircle about her.

It was a charming and startling picture, and for a few seconds there was a breathless silence before the people of Edinburgh began to cheer wildly.

Margaret, her eyes seeming more brilliant than usual because of her high color, looked completely regal—but a mother as well; and as such she had on her side every woman in that crowd which had assembled, and almost every man. It was what she had hoped for.

The four peers were approaching, and she called to them to halt.

“I command you to state the cause of your coming before you take one step nearer to your sovereign,” she cried in a loud voice.

“Your Grace,” replied the spokesman of the four, “we come in the name of the Parliament to receive the King and his infant brother.”

There was absolute silence in the crowd as it watched the conflict of wills, as it speculated as to who would win this first round of a mighty battle—the Queen or the new Regent and his Parliament.

Margaret commanded: “Drop the portcullis.”

The great iron gate rumbled down between the royal group and the parliamentary representatives.

“The King, my husband, made me governess of this castle,” she cried in a ringing voice, “and I shall not yield it. But the Parliament of this country I must respect, and I ask that I be given six days in which to consider what they ask of me.”

Then turning, with her train following her, she walked back into the castle.

Angus was alarmed. The scene had been effective in the eyes of the spectators, but he was sure it had been an empty victory. When his grandfather and uncles had persuaded him to marry the Queen he had not visualized such alarming events. He had thought it was going to be all Court pleasures with himself at the Queen’s right hand.

He thought of the power which was massed against them, for it seemed to him that the only supporters the Queen had were the Douglases and the unreliable Lord Home. His grandfather seemed broken by what had happened to him, and well he might be, for he had come very near to losing all he possessed.

The thought of losing all his possessions alarmed Angus, so on an impulse he wrote to Albany telling him that it had not been his wish to take part in that affecting scene at the portcullis. He had wished to obey the Parliament’s mandate, and indeed had advised his wife to do so.

Sweating with fear, he called for a messenger and ordered him to take the letter to the Regent Albany with all speed.

Margaret could not rest. Her thoughts kept going back to an event in her family which suggested a parallel with the position in which she now found herself.

When Edward IV had died his widow, Elizabeth Woodville, had been asked to surrender the young King and his brother. This she had most reluctantly done and they had been lodged in the Tower of London. In that tower of many secrets they had disappeared, and none knew what their fate had been.

How could she give up her little James and Alexander? They were so young and tender. If they died, Albany could claim the throne. She had seen this man; his looks were noble, his manner chivalrous. Yet whom could one trust?

Six days to keep them while she pretended to consider handing them over. During those six days she forgot everything but the desire to keep her children with her.

On the fifth day she wrote to the Parliament telling them that if they would allow her to keep the little King and his brother in her care she would maintain them on her dowry, and that she would allow certain noblemen to share in their guardianship. She guessed of course that the Parliament would not agree to this and, on the fifth day, she told Angus that she dared remain in Edinburgh Castle no longer. “For they will come and take the children,” she said. “I know they will not accept my conditions.”

“Then there is only one thing you can do,” Angus insisted. “Give up the children.”

“Give up the children! I remember what happened in the case of other princes lodged in the Tower of London.”

“I believe Albany to be an honorable man.”

“I trust no man,” retorted Margaret, and she looked at him appealingly as though imploring him to allow her at least to keep her trust in him.

“You daren’t go against the wishes of the Parliament.”

“I dare!” said Margaret firmly. “We are going to leave for Stirling Castle tonight.”

Angus was now really alarmed. “What good will that do?”

“I do not know, except that I shall have a little respite in which to think. I have told my attendants to make ready. We should leave soon after dusk.”

“W-we…?” stammered Angus. “I would not come.”

“Would you not?” replied Margaret, her disappointment wounding her so bitterly that it subdued the fire of her anger.

“Nay,” said Angus, “’twill do no good and only anger the Parliament. I shall return to my estates until this trouble has blown over. I’d rather hear the lark sing in the open country than the mouse cheep in prison walls.”

“I see,” said Margaret, “that I must go without you.”

“’Tis better so,” answered Angus with a sigh of relief. “You have no chance against Albany, mark my words. He has the backing of the Parliament. He’ll be less harsh with a woman—being a Frenchman—than he’d be toward me. Do as you wish, but it would not be well if he thought I had any part in this.”

“Then goodbye…till we meet again,” replied Margaret.

That evening she and her attendants, with the children, came stealthily out of Edinburgh Castle; and as she rode through the night she was a frightened woman. What will become of my little ones? she asked herself. And she tried to forget that, in this desperate need, the man who should have stood beside her had deserted her lest through remaining with her he might hear the cheep of a mouse within prison walls.

He had been right, of course. What chance had she against a great military leader such as Albany? The flight to Stirling had been the one move left open to a desperate woman, and it could only mean delaying the inevitable climax for a few days—at best a few weeks.

On receiving Angus’s communication, Albany had been disgusted.

Poor woman, he thought, and a brave one too. How did she come to choose such a spouse, so childishly young, so ready to desert her side at the first sign of danger?

But for all his sympathy he had his duty to do; while Margaret kept the custody of the King she would be a formidable power; without him hers would be an empty title. Moreover he had to keep his word to the King of France whom he looked upon as his sovereign.

So he prepared to march to Stirling and slyly sent word to Angus that, as he wished to serve the Parliament, he should accompany the army which was about to leave for Stirling, its object being to secure the persons of the young King and his brother.

He felt a little less contemptuous when he received Angus’s reply that, although he wished to serve the Parliament, he could not join an army which was marching against his wife.

So Angus stayed on his estates while Albany marched on Stirling.

Margaret, deserted by her husband, knowing that she could not withstand a siege, decided that the only thing she could do was surrender to Albany; and then trust to her wits to bring her children back to her.

Thus, when Albany and his army arrived at the castle, Margaret ordered that the gates be thrown open, and she was revealed standing there with James beside her.

In his little hand he held the big keys of the castle and, walking up to the Regent Albany, as he had been told to do, he solemnly presented them to him.

Margaret’s sense of showmanship was superb; and as before the portcullis of Edinburgh Castle, all the spectators were moved to tears at the sight of that small and handsome boy, handing over the keys of the castle.

Albany knelt and took the keys, then he kissed the boy’s hand; and as though overcome by emotion he took him into his arms and embraced him while the watchers cheered.

James extricated himself and studied Albany intently. Then he said in his high, piping voice: “Can you sing ‘Ginkerton’?”

“I doubt that,” answered Albany with a smile.

“Davie can and so can I,” answered the young James, with the faintest sign of contempt; but he evidently liked the look of Albany, for he allowed his hand to remain in his as they walked to the Queen, when Albany bowed with all the respect that she could wish for.

Margaret was smiling, but she was thinking: I have surrendered my children. Shall I ever take them away from him?

Margaret had handed her children over to Albany in August, and she was expecting Angus’s child in October. As always during such times she suffered a great deal, and she was impatient with herself because she felt so weak.

While she planned for the arrival of the new baby she yearned for her sons and at times, frustrated as she was, she cried hysterically for them.

Again and again she recalled the fate of the Princes who had disappeared while in the Tower of London.

“How do I know that a similar fate does not await my own darlings!” she demanded. “Why has Albany come to Scotland? It is because he wants the throne. He is another Richard III. My little ones are in imminent danger.”

Spies flourished in such a situation, and there were many to report her words to Albany.

“She is accusing you of intending to murder the King and his brother,” he was told.

“Nay,” answered Albany, “do not blame her; she is a woman crying for her children. It grieves me that we must take them from her, but when she married young Angus she brought this on herself. Would that I could do aught to relieve her anxiety, but I cannot.”

In her calmer moments Margaret began to plan; and at last she made up her mind what she would do.

She was going to make a desperate attempt to recover her children and, when she had done so, to take them over the Border into her brother’s country where she would ask for refuge.

Angus had proved himself to be overweak; but there was Lord Home whose hatred for Albany was so intense that he was prepared to undertake any action against him. So she sent for Home and laid her plan before him.

“As you know, my lord,” she explained, “my time is coming near and my pregnancies have always caused me great suffering. I am therefore going into retirement at Linlithgow where I shall observe all the rules laid out by my grandmother, the Countess of Richmond, and thereby hope for an easy labor. At least that is what I wish everyone to believe; and I shall write to my brother telling him, for I know full well all the letters I write to him are seen by my enemies. While I am in Linlithgow I shall arrange for the abduction of my children and our escape across the border, and in this you shall help me.”

This was a project which appealed to Lord Home, for if he could bring about the rescue of the royal children it would be clear to Albany how foolish he had been not to cultivate his friendship.

He therefore threw himself wholeheartedly into the plan, and it was decided that Margaret should escape to Tantallan, the Douglas home near the Border, while Home’s Borderers should set fire to a small town near Stirling. Albany would then surely release some of the guards from Stirling Castle, where the royal children were, in order that they might defend the town. Home would then seize the opportunity to kidnap them and carry them to Tantallan where the Queen would be waiting to leave for England.

Now that she had a definite plan, Margaret’s spirits rose and she ceased to mourn, because she was certain that in a short time she, with her husband and children and the newborn little one, would be in the protection of her great brother Henry, where none would dare molest them.

She wrote to her brother the letter which she knew would be intercepted and shown to Albany and his ministers.

My dearest brother,

I write to you at this time to tell you that I propose to take to my chamber and lie in at my Palace of Linlithgow within this twelve days, for there are but eight weeks to my time. Matters go well here in Scotland under the new Regent and that is a great comfort to me at this time. I pray Jesus to send me a safe delivery and to have you, my dearest brother, in his good keeping…

She was smiling to herself, imagining Albany reading the letter, and his comments as he did so. He would congratulate himself that she had overcome her hysterical desire to keep her children with her; doubtless he would call her a woman of sound good sense.

Good sense indeed! she thought.

She had had the chamber at Linlithgow hung with tapestry and even the windows were covered with it, because her grandmother, the Countess of Richmond, who had had more influence with her son than any other person, had laid down a law as to how royal ladies should be treated in childbed, and one of the first rules was that all light and air should be excluded from the chamber; but the tapestry covering one window, however, might be placed so that it could be easily drawn aside, for in pregnancy women often had strange fancies which it was unwise to deny; and if a fancy for light and air should overtake an expectant mother, unwelcome as it was, she should be humored. All those who waited on her during her confinement must be women; therefore the tasks of chamberlains, pantlers, ushers, and sewers, which might at other times be allotted to men, must be done by women. Only in the case of dire need must a man be allowed into the chamber.

Such an atmosphere suited Margaret’s purpose. In her shrouded chamber in Linlithgow Palace she would work out her plan.

She was ready for the escape, but there was one matter which disturbed her. How could she leave Angus whom she sorely missed? She had already forgiven him his disaffection. He is so young, she told herself. It must have been a great shock to him to see his grandfather imprisoned. I doubt not that he is ashamed of his action by now; and he at least would not march against me.

She longed to see him; but she was supposed to be surrounded only by females, so how could she summon Angus to her? There was one way. If she were very ill and asked to see her husband no one would be very surprised if he came.

Very soon the people of Scotland were talking of the poor Queen’s sickness and the trouble which always attended her pregnancies. Poor lady, they said, she came near to death with the others even when she lived at ease. How will she fare now that she is in such sad state?

And they hourly expected to hear that the Queen was dead.

Angus came riding to Linlithgow in answer to her summons.

She received him in the tapestry-hung lying-in chamber. He was a little shamefaced, but she quickly set him at ease by embracing him, telling him how sadly she had missed him and how happy she was to see his dear face again.

Realizing that there were to be no reproaches, Angus’s relief was apparent. He returned her embrace and told her that he was happy now they were together again.

“And you will stay with me until our child is born,” she announced.

“Can that be so?” he asked. “Do you not wish to be surrounded only by women?”

She laughed. “That was my grandmother’s law. I make my own laws. I doubt not that our child will be born in England.”

Angus was aghast. “But how so?”

“Because, my love, tonight we are going to steal out of Linlithgow. We are going to Tantallan and there make our way across the Border.”

“But the Parliament…”

“Do you think I care for the Parliament? I am tired of the Parliament. I am the Queen of Scotland, whatever they decree. And I shall have my say.”

Angus was wishing that he had not come to Linlithgow, but now that he was in her presence he felt the force of her character. Her enthusiasms were always so great that he was caught up in them. Thus it had been when she had made him aware of her desire to marry him. He had wanted to refuse then and had been unable to; it was the same now.

She put her arms about his neck and brought her glowing face close to his. “It will be pleasant to spend a night together at Tantallan. As soon as we have escaped I shall send a message to my brother imploring him for sanctuary. I long to be at the English Court. I have heard it has become truly magnificent since my father’s death.”

“You cannot leave your sons in Scotland!”

“Nay, nay. They shall be with us.” She was laughing wildly because she was so happy to see his handsome face again; and she could tell herself that she loved him all the more because of his very bewilderment. She had the same tenderness for him as she had for her little James and Alexander. He was but a boy really. Younger than she was in years…and so much younger in experience.

“I will take care of you,” she said. “I will make you happy.”

“I-I had expected to find you ill,” he stammered.

“It was the only way to get you here without suspicion. I am not ill. The thought of outwitting my enemies makes me feel full of health and vigor. How I should love to see their faces when they discover that we have gone!”

She then told him of Home’s plan to make a diversion while he kidnapped the boys.

“This time tomorrow we shall all be at Tantallan,” she told him. “And then…on to the Border.”

“You are in no condition to travel. I cannot allow you…”

She patted his cheek. “My loved one, I shall be well enough for the journey. Our son will be born before we reach London mayhap. But we shall be together…my husband and my boys…as we were meant to be.”

Angus could see that nothing he could say would dissuade her. He would have to go forward, for there was no way back.

That night, when it was dark, cloaked figures slipped out of Linlithgow Palace to where saddled horses awaited them.

How exhilarating, thought Margaret, to ride through the night, her husband beside her, his child in her womb. And all the time she was thinking of Home in Stirling Castle, snatching up her beloved boys and riding through the night with them, as she rode with Angus.

Then she knew that, much as she longed for power, there was one thing that meant more to her than anything in the world: her own family. That must be so, for her greatest ambition at that moment was to have them all safely under her care even though she never saw Scotland again.

Margaret was exhausted when they arrived at Tantallan for the journey had been strenuous on account of her condition, but she did not realize this until they arrived, and she was impatiently awaiting the coming of Lord Home with her children.

When he came she went down to the great hall to meet him and, seeing that the children were not with him, she almost fainted in her dismay.

“My lord,” she cried. “The King and his brother…?”

“Alas, Your Grace, we were unable to carry out our plan. Albany must have guessed—or mayhap we were betrayed. We fired the town, but never a guard was called off from the castle, and it was impossible to have access to the apartments of the King and his brother.”

Angus put his arm about his wife to steady her. More than ever he wished himself out of this.

Margaret was speechless with misery and, now that her hopes were destroyed, all the discomforts of her condition returned.

Angus, with her women, helped her to her bedchamber where she lay on her bed in melancholy silence; he then dismissed all her attendants and sat by her bed, seeking words which would soothe her.

But she would not be comforted. She murmured: “My babies…my little sons…What will become of them?”

“They’ll be well enough,” Angus soothed her. “None will dare harm the King.”

“They dared harm Edward V when he was held in the Tower with his brother.”

“This is Scotland…”

“Ten times more barbarous than England.”

“I am certain the King and his brother will be safe.”

“You but say that to comfort me. There is no comfort for me. How dare they part such babies from their mother. Oh, God, why have you deserted me? Why are they not with me here this night as I had planned?”

“It was a plan doomed to failure,” began Angus.

She raised herself on her elbow and gazed at him dispassionately.

“Yes,” she said, “you would never have attempted it, would you? You would have preferred to go cap in hand to Albany.”

“The Douglases never go cap in hand,” Angus retorted.

“I rejoice to see some spirit left in you,” she answered. “But perhaps it is only there when you are facing a helpless woman.”

Angus rose and haughtily left her.

It was the first time she had spoken thus to him, but she did not care.

She wanted only her babies, for she was beginning to fear that she might never see them again.

Silently she wept, and she continued so until exhausted she slept; then her dreams were disturbed by two little boys—not her own two; these were older; and they were not in the apartments of Stirling Castle; they played together within the gray walls of the Tower of London.

There was no time to be lost. Now that it would be known that an unsuccessful attempt had been made to kidnap the King and his brother, and that the Queen was sheltering in Tantallan, an army would be sent to capture her.

She must escape into England; but dared she enter that country without first receiving permission from her brother to do so?

She had written to him of her dire need, but so far had had no reply. But to stay at Tantallan would be folly.

So early next morning Margaret and her party set out for the Border. Now that she knew her sons would have to be left behind in Scotland all the joy had gone out of the adventure, and everyone exclaimed at the Queen’s look of exhaustion.

Angus rode beside her, his handsome face somewhat sullen; and the party’s progress was necessarily impeded, for the Queen could not endanger the child she carried by traveling at greater speed.

It soon became clear that they could not go on, and as they were in the neighborhood of Coldstream Priory they decided they must rest there; and the Lady Prioress, who was related to Margaret’s Comptroller of the Household, did all in her power to make the Queen’s stay comfortable.

Messages had been sent into England that Henry might be made aware of his sister’s predicament and send that much desired invitation to his Court.

It was long in coming and meanwhile Margaret waited at Coldstream Priory.

What anxious days they were which Margaret spent at the Priory! The Lady Prioress made her welcome, but what comfort was there when every moment she must wonder how near her enemies were to the Priory and whether her brother would send that invitation before it was too late.

At last help came from England. Henry had sent a command to Lord Dacre to go to Coldstream and from there to escort his sister to his Castle of Morpeth, where she should remain for her confinement.

When Lord Dacre arrived at the Priory the birth was clearly very near, and it was deliberated which was the more dangerous: to face the strenuous journey in her state, or to remain and risk capture by Albany’s forces.

Margaret herself made the decision. “I would rather put myself at my brother’s mercy than that of my enemies in Scotland,” she said.

So the tedious and dangerous journey began.

Lord Dacre, as one of the lords of the North of England who, so far from the Court often made their own laws, was an arrogant man with a profound distrust and hatred of the Scots. He implied that he was ready to serve the Queen because she was an Englishwoman, but he was going to be very wary of her Scottish companions.

He told the Queen that Queen Katharine had sent comforts for her—clothes and goods which she would need for her confinement—to Morpeth, and these were awaiting her there; there were also letters from her sister-in-law who, having herself suffered the rigors of childbearing, was anxious that Margaret should face the ordeal as comfortably as possible.

So Margaret set out from Coldstream but, before she had gone very far, it became clear that she would not be able to complete the journey to Morpeth.

Dacre made a quick decision. They were not far from the Border fortress of Harbottle, and he decided they must halt there. Harbottle, being one of the English fortresses immediately on the Border, Dacre was determined no Scotsman should enter it. Therefore the Queen must say goodbye to her husband and all her friends who had accompanied her while she stayed in the fortress.

Fainting with exhaustion and already beginning to feel the first pains, Margaret knew that for the sake of the child she must have immediate shelter; so she allowed herself to be taken in, there to be tended by strangers.

She was scarcely aware of this for her agony had begun and, as was usual with her, her labor was long and painful.

Two days later, on October 5, she gave birth to a daughter whom she decided to call after herself. The Lady Margaret Douglas was a healthy child and, in spite of the trials which had preceded her birth, seemed as if she would survive.

For days Margaret was too ill to understand where she was; and when a gentleman of her brother’s bedchamber, Sir Christopher Gargrave, called at the castle with letters from Queen Katharine, Margaret could only hold them in her hands, for she was too ill to read them.

“I could not bring the stuffs Her Grace the Queen sent to Your Grace,” Sir Christopher told her. “There are too many robbers in the Border country, and the articles would never have made the journey from Morpeth to Harbottle in safety. But when Your Grace is well enough to leave Harbottle for Morpeth, you will find them waiting for you there.”

Margaret smiled her thanks, but she was too weak to care.

At that time she believed she would never leave Harbottle.

Slowly she began to recover, but then suffered so painfully from sciatica that she was unable to move from her apartment, and it was not until November was nearing its end that she left Harbottle for Morpeth.

When she arrived at Morpeth Castle Margaret suffered a relapse. All the excitement and uncertainty which had been hers at this difficult time had been too much for her; not only had she suffered from a difficult confinement but continually she worried as to the fate of her little sons.

She believed that, had they escaped with her, her high spirits would have helped her to regain her health; as it was she was sunk in wretchedness and forebodings of evil.

The ghosts of those other little Princes in such similar circumstances continued to haunt her; and as she lay in her sickbed at Morpeth it seemed to her—and those about her—that she would never leave it.

Angus, with the rest of her friends who had escaped into England with her, was allowed to come to her at Morpeth; and Dacre was inclined to view Angus with tolerance because his master Henry VIII did not disapprove of the young man. Angus, however, was far from happy. Continually he wondered why he had allowed himself to be caught up in such troubles. He believed that Albany would confiscate his estates; and he had no wish to live as an exile in England.

He often thought too of Jane Stuart. His conscience had never really ceased to trouble him about her; and because she was gentle and had loved him so much, he was sure that if he could go to her and explain, she would understand the predicament he was in and how, with the Queen desiring him so ardently, and his family desiring the marriage with equal ardor, he had been in no position to refuse it.

But he had not been happy—apart from those first weeks—though he need not tell Jane about those. Each day when he went to see Margaret she seemed more wan, more exhausted. His little daughter was flourishing so he need not worry about her; she had nurses to look after her now that they were at Morpeth, and all the good things which kind Queen Katharine had sent for her were being used.

There was no need for him to remain at Morpeth. Albany had written to Margaret that if she would return to Scotland she should enjoy all the benefits of her dower lands; and might take part in the guardianship of her children, provided she did not wish to take them from Scotland. Her friends should not suffer for the part they had played in her escapade.

It was that last sentence which appealed to Angus. He wanted to go back to Scotland, to live in peace on his estates, to go to Jane Stuart and explain to her why he had done what he had.

And why should he not return?

Surely if he did he could make matters easier for Margaret. The idea tormented him so much that he began to make plans.

That was a miserable Christmas for Margaret. Not only was she ill in body and disturbed in mind, and living in Morpeth Castle when she longed to go south to her brother’s Court, but terrible news was brought to her.

She was lying in bed, feeling too weak to rise, with her little daughter lying in her cradle beside the bed, sleeping peacefully; wondering why Angus looked withdrawn as though he were occupied with his secret thoughts, why he started to the window every time he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. If he were expecting a message from her brother why did he not say so? She too was constantly expecting such messages.

He was at the window now, staring moodily out, and Margaret called him to her bedside.

She wanted to tell him that they should be happy together. They should remember how they had loved each other in the first weeks of their marriage before their troubles had started. Because the country did not approve of their match, that was no reason why they themselves should not.

Angus had come to stand by her bedside, and she noticed that a fretful look marred his handsome features.

She held out a hand. “It will soon be Christmas,” she said. “A happy season.”

“Here in this place! ’Tis like a prison. Can Christmas be celebrated in a prison?”

“It is not a prison,” she replied. “It is true there are few comforts, but that is because it is really a Border fortress. Dacre is a good host, being commanded to be so by my brother. I doubt not that letters of goodwill, from him and Katharine, will be arriving erelong. Come closer, my dearest.” He sat down and she went on: “Do you so long to be back in Scotland?”

“I would we had never left it.”

“If we could only have brought my sons with us…I would be quite happy.”

He did not answer; and then suddenly was alert. He had heard the sound of horses’ hoofs below. Immediately he had risen and gone to the window. When he turned to her she saw the excited look on his face.

“Messengers,” he said. “I will go and see what news they bring.”

She closed her eyes. Invitations from Henry, she thought. He will be impatient for me to arrive at his Court. He will want to show me how magnificent he has made it.

She smiled, thinking of ten-year-old Henry, and asked herself: Has he changed much?

Then Angus returned with the messenger, and as she looked at the man who had obviously ridden hard—for he was very travel-stained and weary—her heart began to beat faster, for she knew that he brought news which would be unwelcome. Nor did he come from England, but from Scotland.

“You had better tell Her Grace what you have told me,” said Angus.

The man looked appealingly at Angus as though imploring him to help him in his difficult task.

But Angus was silent.

“Tell me quickly,” commanded Margaret. “You must not keep me in suspense.”

“Your Grace, the little Duke of Ross fell sick of a childish malady. He did not recover from it.”

There was silence in the room.

Margaret lay speechless; all the color had left her face. It was like waking to find that a hideous nightmare was no dream after all.

What she had feared had come to pass.

She was inconsolable. Her women tried to calm her.

“This is so bad for you, Your Grace. Children take these maladies…and often they die.”

“Had I brought him with me he would be alive today,” she asserted. “It is my enemies who have done this. They have murdered him as others murdered my uncles in the Tower. And my little James, what will become of him?”

“Your Grace, you have heard that he continues in fine health.”

“For how long?” she cried bitterly.

There was no consoling her. Her women reminded her of her weakness, but she took no heed of them.

She cried out: “He has done this, that black-hearted murderer. He has killed my little son. My child…dying, and his mother not with him. My little Alexander who was such a bonny child. And what of my James? Oh, this is a bitter day for me. Would I could lay my hands on that murderer. How did he do it? They say my uncles were stifled in their beds. Is that how my little Alex was murdered? You see, do you not, if he murders my little James as he has his brother, then there would be no one to stand between him and the throne.”

They were afraid that in the excess of grief she would do herself some harm, so they sent Angus to comfort her.

He sat by the bed and begged her to stop weeping, for it grieved him to see her thus.

“It is easy for you,” she cried. “He is not your son.”

“It is not easy for me to look on when you are so sad.”

That softened her. “Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “what should I do without you? But if only our plans had succeeded, if only with this dear daughter of ours I had my sons as well, I would ask nothing more. I swear I would ask nothing more.”

Angus knelt by the bed. “Return to Scotland,” he said earnestly. “Make peace with Albany.”

“Make peace with the murderer of my son!”

“You know he is no murderer. What sense does it make…murdering young Alexander while James lives? Had he wished to remove all obstacles to the throne he would have killed them both.”

“How do I know what will befall James now that his brother has been removed?”

“You must be reasonable. You are hysterical. Oh, I understand your grief…and indeed it is mine, but you know Albany has done no murder. He is not the man to commit murder, and it is my belief that he does not greatly desire the crown of Scotland.”

“It is easy for you. It is not your son who has died. Murderer! Usurper! He is another Richard III, I tell you. And my little one is in his hands.”

Angus laid his hand on her brow. He was wondering what she would say if she knew that he had written to Albany asking on what terms he could return, that Albany’s reply had been very favorable, and that he had almost made up his mind that he was going to Scotland whether she would come or not.

She was soothed by his touch but she had to give vent to her anger; she had to comfort herself in some way; she could not bear to think that she would never see Alexander again, and she must give way either to sorrow or anger.

But she did not believe in her heart, any more than Angus did, that Albany had murdered her son. Albany was no murderer of children.

She remembered him when he had taken the keys of the castle from little James—tall, upright, handsome, with a kindly tolerance in his eyes. And how gracious he had been to her—so that he had reminded her of James, her husband; and there were times, although this was another thing she was not yet prepared to admit, when she compared James with Angus and thought: Ah, but he was a king.

And Albany was a king’s son; he was a Stuart at that. And in his eyes there lurked that tolerance, that gallantry toward a woman which was almost irresistible.

Angus was convinced that Albany was no murderer, but although she secretly agreed with him, she continued to rail against the man because she was so sick with grief that she must relieve her feelings in some way.

Looking up at Angus, seeing the weak petulance about his handsome mouth, she found herself involuntarily comparing him with Albany and thinking: The Duke is a strong man.

After a few days it became apparent how the shock of this news had affected the Queen’s health. She was stricken with a fever and there was scarcely a person in Morpeth Castle who did not believe she was on her deathbed.

Yet even when the fever was at its height and she rambled incoherently, the incessant repetition of her son’s name was enough to indicate what was on her mind. She clung to the thought of that small boy as though he were a lifeline; and indeed it seemed as if he were and that Margaret would not leave this life while she believed her son needed her.

Outside the castle the bleak January winds came howling from across the Border; the bitter cold penetrated the castle.

Angus was impatient. His wife was dying, and if he waited for her death, Albany would say he had accepted his terms because there was no other way out for him. He dared not wait. He must show Albany that he deplored the conduct of his wife and that he wished to serve the Regent.

So on that bleak January day, when Margaret’s death was hourly expected, Angus with a few of his attendants quietly left Morpeth Castle and were soon galloping over the Border on their way to Edinburgh.

“Where is my husband?” asked the Queen. “Tell him to come to me.”

The woman went away to call him, but she did not return for a long time.

Margaret summoned another woman to her bedside. “Pray go and find the Earl of Angus and tell him that I wish to see him.”

The woman lowered her eyes and stood silent.

“What has happened?” demanded Margaret. “Why do you not do as I tell you?”

“Your Grace, the Earl of Angus is not in the castle.”

“Then where is he?”

“He returned to Scotland more than a week ago, when Your Grace lay nigh unto death.”

“Returned to Scotland!” she whispered as though to herself. Then: “I understand. Pray, leave me.”

She lay still, too numb with sorrow to weep or to rail against him.

She had lain near to death and he had deserted her; and this was the man for whom she had jeopardized the crown of Scotland.

Now she would no longer deceive herself. Her heart should accept him for what her mind had been telling her he was for so long. This is the end, she told herself. I shall never forget what he did to me in Morpeth Castle.

Her attendants were surprised at the calm with which she accepted his desertion. She rose from her bed shortly afterward and amazingly her health began to improve.

Through February and March letters were exchanged between Morpeth and the English Court; and with them came a warm invitation from Henry for his sister to come to London.

So with the coming of April Margaret began her journey south.

In spite of desertion by her husband and the loss of her younger son, Margaret felt excited during those April days in Morpeth when she was preparing for her journey south. Henry had written warmly; he was eagerly looking forward to seeing her at his Court, for it was good, he said, that sisters and brothers should meet even though their duties to their kingdoms must necessarily keep them apart for so much of their lives.

His wife, Katharine of Aragon, of whom Margaret had seen little during her childhood, was as eager to welcome her as Henry was. She had heard of Margaret’s difficult confinement, a matter regarding which she could offer the utmost sympathy, having suffered so much herself in that respect. The bond of motherhood united them, wrote Katharine, and she longed to see her sister’s little daughter, Margaret, who was but a few months older than her own dear Mary who, as Margaret would doubtless have heard, had been born in February.

“And as, my dear sister, you have a long journey to make, I am sending you by my equerry, Sir Thomas Parr, my favorite white palfrey with my own easy pillion which I trust will be of use to you on your way south.”

Margaret had heard that her sister-in-law was a gentle creature, deeply in love with her handsome husband, often sorrowful because as yet she had failed to give him the male heir for which he longed, yet filled with hope because, after several failures, she had produced healthy little Mary.

It would be comforting to talk with her sister-in-law, mused Margaret, for she knew that she was one who would understand full well her grief over the loss of Alexander and her great pride in little James.

She was beginning to believe that she had made a great mistake when she had allowed her infatuation for Angus to overcome her common sense. She had been lonely, she had craved that sexual excitement which had been so necessary to her; and therefore she had been prepared to rush into marriage with a handsome boy.

But experience made one wiser. If she could choose again she would not pick an impetuous boy; she would choose someone mature, a man, not a boy; someone like her first husband; for had he been faithful to her, had he treated her more as an intelligent companion, James would have been the perfect husband. She had not wanted to dominate; only to share.

She had lost James; she had failed to hold her place in Scotland. But it was no use looking back; she must go forward to Henry’s Court; she must have conferences with her brother and his ministers; she must, with their help, win back the Regency of Scotland and the right to have the care of the King, her son.

If she had not married Angus, and Albany had not a wife…that would have been a different story. She had raged against him, called him murderer; but she thought of him often, and she would have enjoyed more than anything meeting him and abusing him to his face. The thought excited her, but that might be for later.

Now there was nothing to be done but travel south to London.

There was great comfort on Katharine’s white palfrey, and Sir Thomas Parr was a pleasant companion, who told her that his mistress had instructed him to take good care of her sister.

Nor was that all; as a mark of his esteem, Henry had sent her, by one of his clerks of the spicery, many silver vessels for toilet and table use during the journey.

She was certain therefore of a good welcome, for Henry had also written a letter which accompanied the silverware to the effect that he was planning entertainments for his sister and her spouse when they reached his Court.

The countryside was beautiful in spring; the weather was clement; and Margaret, who was by nature strong, quickly regained her good health and with it her belief that she could win what she wanted.

They had passed through Newcastle and reached Durham, and she was resting in her bed one morning when the door of her apartment was opened and to her surprise Angus walked in.

Taken off her guard she gave a cry of great joy and held out her arms. He embraced her and she clung to him, hugging him in her delight.

Then she withdrew herself to look into his face. She laughed, for he had the look of a shamefaced boy.

“I heard,” he muttered, “that my absence grieved you.”

“And you came back because you did not wish to make me sad?”

“I never wished to make you sad.”

“Ah, my love,” she said, “how I have missed you! Do you not want to see your daughter?”

“In good time. First I wish to see my wife.”

She felt young again. It was spring and it was so long since she had seen him. They would make love and talk later, she indicated; and he was willing enough to obey.

The word went through the castle: The Queen is not to be disturbed. Young Angus has returned. They wish to be alone together for a while.

There were long faces among the Englishmen of the party. What did this mean? Was Angus going to try to persuade her to return to Scotland? Such an act would not please their master. They would not want to return to him and tell him what had taken place, for he had a kingly habit of blaming the bearers for the bad news they brought.

Angus was an ally of Albany; and Albany wanted to get the Queen back into Scotland, there to make her subservient to his rule which was, after all, the rule of France, the enemy of England.

They were right in their assumptions. Angus was saying: “Do you not see the folly of this journey to England? Come back to Scotland with me. Albany is ready to receive you.”

Her eyes flashed in anger. “Do you think I am eager to receive Albany!”

“Oh, come, what good can all this strife between you bring to anyone?”

“I have no wish to go back humbly to the murderer of my son.”

“Your son was not murdered. He died as young children do. It was no fault of Albany.”

“You plead too earnestly for your friend.”

“He will be your friend too.”

“Never. I hate him. But what is that to you? It seems you have his cause at heart rather than your wife’s.”

“Margaret, I beseech you…”

“Do not be foolish. The only way in which I can hope to regain what I have lost is through my brother’s help. Albany is afraid of Henry…even as his master, the King of France, is, and with good reason. Stop being so foolish. We are going to England.”

“We?”

“You and I, my dear, for my brother is expecting you.”

Angus turned sullenly away, but Margaret went to him and slipped her arm through his.

“Come, my love, you are going to enjoy the English Court. Our own is a poor place compared with it, I do assure you. My brother loves to masque and dance. He will be fond of you. You will be his friend. He says in all his letters: ‘Commend me to my brother-in-law, your good husband.’ And he is eager to meet you.”

Angus did not answer. Go to England? When Albany was prepared to make good terms with him? When Jane had said she understood how he had been forced into marriage with the Queen and that it made no difference to them? Leave Jane…now that they had come together again?

But he dared not tell Margaret all this. He stood silent, a little sullen, as though agreeing that she was right.

She gave him a little push. “Go now. It is time for my women to come and help me dress. I will join you soon; I shall so enjoy your company, my love, on the way to London.”

Angus was afraid. He would have to be very cautious or he would indeed find himself riding south in the Queen’s cavalcade, instead of north to Jane Stuart.

He nodded, kissed her and, when she murmured, “Soon I shall be with you,” he did not deny it.

He went straight from her apartment to the stables where his servants were waiting for him.

He did not speak until he was in the saddle; then he said: “It was a mistake to come. Now…let us ride…with all speed to the Border and into Scotland.”

Into Stony Stratford passed the Queen’s party, and all through England the people came from their houses to watch the cavalcade. They cheered the Queen of Scots because she was their good King’s sister and they knew that it was at his wish that she traveled south.

It was May by the time she reached Enfield, and there she was welcomed to the mansion occupied by Sir William Lovel, who was her brother’s Lord Treasurer.

She was now very close to London and she believed that in a short time she would see her brother.

It was a glorious morning when she left Enfield and, as she was coming to Tottenham Cross, she saw in the distance a brilliant cavalcade making its way toward her. Her heart leaped with pleasure for she guessed who this was and, as the party approached hers, she recognized him riding at the head of it. He was a larger, more glorious version of that young boy whom she had known. His doublet was of purple velvet; jewels flashed on his hands and garments, and there were rubies and diamonds in his feathered bonnet. He had grown so much that he appeared to be far taller than any of his companions. On his face was the flush of good health and his blue eyes were as sparkling as water in sunshine and as brilliant as flames.

This was her brother. There was no doubt about that.

And as she recognized him, so did he her, for the resemblance between them had not grown less with maturity.

He rode up to her, smiling.

“My King and dearest brother.”

He sprang graciously from his horse which his groom hastily seized. He came to her and, taking her hand, kissed it.

“This is a great joy,” he told her.

“Henry! How happy I am to be here.”

“We have long looked forward to your coming. But where is my Lord Angus?”

Margaret’s expression clouded. “He returned to Scotland.”

“Returned to Scotland! Why so? Did he not receive my letters of invitation?”

“He thought it wiser to make terms with Albany, I fear.”

The pleasure faded from Henry’s plump square face. His eyes narrowed, so that blue chinks shone through the folded flesh. He turned to his sister and gazed at her speculatively, and she knew that he understood full well that Angus had deserted her.

Then he gave a loud laugh. “Done like a Scot!” he cried. “He could do without us, eh? Then, sister, I tell you we shall do very happily without him.”

He remounted and brought his horse beside his sister’s.

“We will rest awhile at Compton’s house on Tottenham Hill,” he said. “Then we will ride into my capital.”

In the afternoon they started out from Tottenham Hill, Henry on his fine horse with its glittering trappings, a dazzling figure; and beside him Margaret rode pillion with Sir Thomas Parr on Katharine’s white palfrey.

The people now crowded the roads. Henry beamed on them, graciously and delightedly acknowledging their cheers.

How he revels in his new state! thought Margaret. He always said that things would be different when he became King, and so they are. And how the people love this merry England he has given them. What a king! How different from our father who was also a good king. And yet it is due to Henry VII that Henry VIII is possessed of the riches which make it possible for him to live in such style.

“To Baynard’s Castle,” cried Henry, “which I have set aside for your private residence, sister. But we shall not stay there. The Queen and our good sister are waiting to see you at Greenwich.”

So the cavalcade paused awhile at Baynard’s Castle on the north bank of the Thames below St. Paul’s; and Margaret, looking at those Norman towers and ramparts, was well pleased with the dwelling Henry had chosen for her.

Here she rested and changed her costume, for Henry had arranged that they should travel the rest of the way to Greenwich by barge.

Margaret looked about her eagerly; now and then her memory stirred. It was so many years since she had passed down this river on the way to Greenwich, and how wonderful it was to see and hear the people on the banks cheering the royal barge, to listen to the sweet music of the minstrels who played as they went along.

Now she saw the Palace with the brick front facing the river; she saw the tower in the park and the convent which adjoined the Palace.

“We have arranged good sport for you here at Greenwich, sister,” Henry told her gleefully; and she was conscious that all the time he was watching her to see how she marveled at the splendor of his realm.

They alighted at the stairs, and at the gates of the Palace the Queen was waiting to greet them.

Margaret was warmly embraced by her sister-in-law and the first questions Katharine asked, when she had ascertained that Margaret was well and had suffered no harm from her journey, were concerning the welfare of the little Margaret.

But there was another who came forward to embrace Margaret; this was a dazzling, beautiful young woman who was so like Henry that Margaret knew at once that this was her young sister, Mary, now grown to womanhood.

Margaret kissed her warmly; then drew away from her and looked into that radiant, laughing face.

“Mary! Why, can it be possible?”

“Would you have me remain a baby forever?” demanded Mary.

“How old were you when I went away? Was it six?”

“Well,” replied Mary, “you were about thirteen. None of us stand still.”

“And you have had adventures.”

Mary grimaced. “You too, sister,” she murmured.

Henry was impatient. He liked to see his family in amicable friendship, but he wanted them to remember that, no matter who came, or who met whom after how long an absence, there was one person who must be the center of every gathering: the dazzling King of England.

If she could have had her son James with her, if little Alexander were still alive, if Angus had been the husband she longed for, those would have been happy days for Margaret.

It was wonderful to be with her family again; Henry was eager to impress her with the superiority of the English over the Scottish Court, and one lavish banquet and ball followed another. This was a pleasure, for Margaret too loved gaiety. Katharine, kindly sympathetic, welcomed her as warmly in her way. As for Mary, she was full of high spirits, and delighted to be back in England at the gay and brilliant Court which her brother had made.

Margaret told herself that she needed rest and relaxation before she concerned herself with state matters. In good time she would impress on Henry the need for his help in regaining what was hers by right; but she understood her brother well. At this time he was bent on entertaining her; and had she tried to turn his mind to more serious matters he would have been greatly displeased.

She herself was not averse to a little lighthearted entertainment. Before she reached London she had sent messengers to Scotland to bring her dresses and jewels to her in England, for she would need them if she were to vie with the elegant ladies of Henry’s Court.

Albany, evidently eager that she should withdraw her accusations about the death of little Alexander, and perhaps sorry for her, had put no obstacles in the way of her clothes being sent to her; and they arrived in London soon after she had.

Her sister, Mary, was with her on the day her clothes came, and they dismissed their attendants and examined the clothes together.

Mary shrieked with delight as she drew one glittering object after another from the trunk. She pranced round the apartment in a pair of sleeves of cloth of gold lined with crimson velvet; she put a cheveron on her head and turned this way and that to her reflection in the burnished mirror, delighting in the flash of the jewels.

“You were fine enough in Scotland, sister,” she said. “I had always believed it to be such a gloomy land.”

Margaret sat on her bed, looking at a gold collar decorated with enameled white roses. She remembered the occasion when James had given it to her.

“My husband was a great king and a fine gentleman.”

“But old,” put in Mary, and her own face darkened. She shivered, and Margaret knew she was thinking of the old King of France to whom she had been married. Poor Mary! At least Margaret had not suffered in that way.

“Not old as Louis was. He was merely older than I…and I was very young, so that he was not really very old. He was in his prime. Do you know, Mary, I believe he was the handsomest man I ever saw.”

“Do not let Henry hear you say that,” laughed Mary.

“You are happy now though, Mary?”

Her young sister clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Ecstatically.”

“So it was all worthwhile.”

Mary pouted. “It need not have happened. What good did the French marriage do for England?”

“It made peace between the two countries, and that is always a good thing.”

“An uneasy peace! And for it I had to endure…that.”

“Not for long.”

“Oh, no. I could not have borne it. And then he died…and Charles came to take me home.”

“And he married you.”

“I insisted, Margaret. I was determined. Henry had promised me that if I married old Louis I should marry my own choice when he died. And Charles was my choice…long before I married Louis.”

“So you got your wish.”

“Oh, those were glorious days, Margaret. I’ll never forget them. Married to Charles…and both wondering what we should be called upon to pay for our boldness…and not caring!”

“It was a reckless thing to do. You might have been carrying the heir of France.”

“But I was not. And what fun I had, teasing François and his old mother that I was!”

“It seems to me that you found much to amuse you in this French marriage.”

“But only after my husband was dead, Margaret. What bold and lusty people we are. I wish I could have seen your Angus. He is very handsome?”

Margaret’s face hardened. “Handsome enough.”

“Why did he not come with you?”

“He preferred to stay in Scotland.”

“I know what I should do if I had such a husband.”

“What?”

“Rid myself of him and find another.”

“Easier said than done.”

“What! And you a Tudor. Did you not know that Tudors always find a way? I said I’d marry Charles Brandon—before they sent me off to France—and I have married him. We get what we want…if circumstances do sometimes make us wait for it. We’re three of a kind, Margaret—you, myself and Henry. Don’t you see it?”

“We’re strong, we’re determined; yes, I see that.”

“Sometimes I am a little sorry for the people who marry us. I was a little sorry for poor Louis. I knew he would not live long. He tried to be young, Margaret. That was a mistake. His pursuit of youth led him to the grave. And now this Angus…I am sure you will make him sorry for what he has done to you. And sometimes I look at Henry and Katharine and say: ‘Poor Katharine.’”

“But she is devoted to him.”

“Katharine is such a virtuous woman; she’ll always be devoted to him because he is her husband. Her religion tells her she must be. But there is a little friction between them already. He begins to wonder why she cannot give him a son.”

“But she has had several miscarriages, and now she has Mary.”

“Yes, but where are the boys, where are the boys?” Mary took up a silver pomander on a jeweled girdle and set it about her waist. “Nay,” she said, “I would not be the wife or husband of a Tudor…and displease them. If I were Angus, Katharine, or even Charles, I would be wary.”

Then she began to dance around the room, looking so vital, so lovely, that Margaret could well understand how the King of France in pursuit of youth had been hastened to his tomb by his desire for a Tudor.

There were pleasant hours spent with Katharine, and when they could be alone together they were two mothers fondly discussing their children.

The two little girls were so close in age that when Margaret was at Greenwich they shared a nursery; and it was the joy of the two mothers to visit them and send away their nurses and attendants that they might have the children to themselves.

Margaret, remembering what Mary had said about Henry’s growing uneasiness at Katharine’s inability to give him a son, felt herself drawn toward her sister-in-law, not only by affection and a common interest, but by pity.

And during those sessions in the nurseries, Katharine confided her great desire to bear a son.

“If I could but give Henry the son he so earnestly needs I should be completely happy,” she told her sister-in-law.

“You will,” Margaret assured her. “You have had bad luck, as I did in the beginning. There was my little James and my little Arthur, and they both died. Then the present James. Ah, if you could see my James! I never saw such a lovely boy.”

“I would I could see him. What a joy he must be to you.”

“If I could only have him with me.” Margaret was momentarily sad and Katharine was angry with herself for having reminded her sister-in-law that she was parted from her son. But she could not hide the envy in her eyes, and Margaret felt that it was she who should be sorry for Katharine.

“I do believe Mary has grown since we last saw her,” she said. “And my own Margaret thrives also. Poor child! When I think of her first seeing the light of day in that dreary Harbottle. So different from this little one…who was born in royal pomp in this very Palace of Greenwich.”

Katharine could not resist picking her daughter up in her arms. Mary, a solemn baby, regarded her mother serenely.

“I am sure she will be very wise,” said Katharine.

“She certainly has a look of wisdom,” answered Margaret, and she took her own daughter from her cradle; and the two mothers sat in the window seat, each holding her child in her lap.

Margaret asked Katharine to tell her of Mary’s baptism; and Katharine was happy, recalling that ceremony. She told how carpets had been spread from the Palace to the font in the Gray Friars’ church here at Greenwich; how her godmothers had been the Princess Katharine Plantagenet and the Duchess of Norfolk; how the child had been carried by the Countess of Salisbury with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walking on either side of her, and Cardinal Wolsey himself had been her godfather.

Margaret listened and cried: “How different from my little Margaret in Harbottle!”

And as they talked together, Henry came into the nursery, all aglitter in his green velvet spattered with jewels. He greeted them boisterously.

“Ha! The mothers in council, eh! And what bonny children.” He took Mary from her mother and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into those eyes which regarded him as serenely as they had Katharine.

“This is a clever child,” cried Henry. “She knows her father!”

Katharine smiled tenderly at the two of them.

“You must spare a glance for my little Margaret,” his sister told him.

He came over to her and peered down at the child in her arms.

“A bonny girl,” he said. He put out a finger and touched the little Margaret’s cheeks. “I fancy she knows her uncle,” he said.

Then he walked up and down the apartment, rocking Mary in his arms, now and then chuckling as he looked down at her.

When he had perambulated for a few minutes he came to stand at the window.

“’Twas ill luck about your little son, Margaret,” he said.

Margaret’s face clouded, and Katharine watched her anxiously. She would have liked to warn Henry not to talk of the matter, had she dared.

Henry’s face darkened. “’Twas that scoundrel Albany. By God, it would please me to see him sent back to France.”

“It is what I am hoping will happen,” Margaret replied. “If I can return, take the Regency and the guardianship of James, I shall forget past troubles and be happy again.”

“You are fortunate, Margaret, to have a son.”

The lower lip jutted out bellicosely, and the face had grown suddenly sullen.

“I am very fortunate in my little James. I would you could see him, Henry. Do you know whom he resembles most closely?”

“Who?” Henry demanded.

“Yourself.”

“Is that so!” The sullenness disappeared and his face was sunny again. “What color hair?”

“Tawny. Bright complexion. Eyes blue. Those who have seen you have said ‘How like his uncle he is!’”

Henry slapped his velvet covered thigh.

“Tell me more of this little fellow. Is he bright? Is he gay?”

“Did I not say he resembles you? It is not only in his looks, I do assure you. I believe he will grow up to be exactly like you.”

“Let us hope that he does,” put in Katharine fondly.

Henry regarded her affectionately, but his moods were always transient. Margaret could see he was thinking: Why do others have sons when they are denied to me?

It was a sunny day and crowds had come to see the tournament at Greenwich.

Margaret sat with her sister and sister-in-law in the balcony which had been set up for them. It was a brilliant scene; the ladies were gaily attired, and Margaret was secretly delighted that she could make as good a show as any of them. Her gown was as gay as Mary’s and as fine as Katharine’s. The latter of course lacked the love of display which was so conspicuous in Margaret, Mary, and Henry; whenever those three entered an assembly the brilliance of their garments would have betrayed who they were, even if their identities were unknown.

The balcony had been elaborately decorated with their devices. The daisy for Margaret, the marigold for Mary, the pomegranate for Katharine; and dominating them all was the rose of England which was Henry’s own emblem.

The shouts of the crowd, the warm sunshine, the brilliance of the knights in armor were exhilarating. It was a glorious occasion and Margaret was flattered that it should be in her honor.

Mary’s eyes were fixed on a tall figure among the combatants.

“Suffolk could be the champion of all, if he wished,” she whispered to Margaret.

“And why should he not wish so?” demanded Margaret.

“You have been away for a long time. Naturally he must not shine more brightly than one other. I said to him last night: ‘As you love me, take care in the jousts.’ ‘What,’ he answered, ‘do you fear that some agile adversary will slay me?’ ‘Nay,’ I cried, ‘but I fear you may outshine the King.’”

“So Henry still likes to be the victor, as he ever did.”

Mary laughed loudly. “It would go ill with any man who proved himself to be a more valiant knight. And we are still being punished for our marriage, you know. We have to pay Henry back for my dowry. We have to walk carefully. You should remember that, Margaret. Whatever you want from Henry, and I assume you want his help to regain your kingdom, you must always remember that, wherever he is, he must be supreme. Impress that on your mind so firmly that you believe it, and Henry will be your friend.”

“How can you speak thus of our brother?”

“Because I am his sister. Because I know him well. I love him, as he loves me; but I know him better than he knows me; indeed I know him better than he knows himself.”

Margaret thoughtfully watched the shining figures riding into the lists. There was truth in what Mary said; and if she were wise she would remember it.

“Who is the bulky knight now riding in?” she asked of Mary.

“Sir William Kingston. None could mistake his size and shape.”

“Well none will unseat him, I imagine.”

“It would depend,” replied Mary sagely.

Now the attention of the crowd was focused on two tall knights whose tabards were embroidered with golden honeysuckle, for it seemed that whomsoever these two knights tackled they were the victors.

Margaret noticed that Mary’s brilliant eyes never left them, and leaning toward her she heard her whisper: “Have a care, Charles. Be good…so good that all say how good you are…and then be just not quite so good.”

Margaret thought: Her stay in France must have changed her; it had made her grow into a cynic. Could that be the influence of young François? Margaret believed that was very likely.

Mary was crying excitedly “Look, Kingston is in the lists. And the tall knight with him. Kingston is falling…horse and all. It is the first time he has been unseated.”

Then she leaned back against the embroidered marigolds on her chair and began to laugh softly.

In the great hall the knights had gathered. Queen Katharine sat on her chair of state with Mary on one side of her, Margaret on the other; and one by one the knights came forward to pay homage to her.

Into the hall came one on whom all eyes were fixed. This was because he was the knight who had overthrown Sir William Kingston; and everyone was discussing that extraordinary feat.

“Now,” said Katharine, “we will discover the identity of this strange knight, for his helmet must be removed.” She called to him: “Sir Knight, we would speak with you. We would tell you that we were delighted with your prowess. ’Twas bravely and expertly done, I doubt I have ever seen such skill in the joust.”

Mary said in a voice in which, it seemed to Margaret, the mischief lurked: “The King will wish to challenge you, I’ll swear, Sir Knight. For he is proud of his own daring at the joust.”

The knight came forward, bowing before the Queen, and when his helmet was removed, Henry’s flushed and laughing face was exposed.

“So I deceived you, eh. You Kate and you Mary, and you Margaret! Well, you have been away, but Kate and Mary…well, methinks they should have known their King.”

Katharine said quickly: “But now we know the truth, we wonder we did not guess, for never have we seen such skill except that of Your Grace.”

“So you have a fair opinion of my skill, eh?”

“And the greatest pleasure this joust has given me,” went on Katharine, “is to learn that my King is the champion.”

“Well, well, ’twas done in your honor.”

And so the masquerade was played as it had been many times before and would be again and again.

Henry was in high spirits. At the banquet he drank freely and his voice could be heard above all others. He called for music and played the lute himself; and one of the singers sang a song of his composing.

How he loves his life, thought Margaret. How lucky he is. How different his fate from mine. And yet he lacks that for which he most longs; and although I am parted from him at this time, I still have my little James. And though he be in Stirling and I in Greenwich, he is still my beloved son.

The summer had come and Margaret was anxious, although she could never have enough gaiety, and the entertainment to be enjoyed at her brother’s Court delighted her. She missed Angus, and she believed that if he had come to her in England she would have been ready to forgive his desertion; she was longing to see little James; and she reminded herself that her reason for coming to Henry’s Court was not to pass the time in pleasure.

Henry, she had discovered, was not eager for friendship with Scotland; he knew full well that while Albany remained Regent, Scotland would be the close ally of France; he hated François as much as ever, being jealous of his successes in war and the reports he heard of his adventures both at home and abroad. His little mouth would grow prim at the mention of the French King’s amorous conduct; he often remarked that he did not believe God would long favor such a man. He was now seeking friendship with the Emperor Maximilian, for he believed that if the two of them stood together they could foil François’s ambitious dream of bringing Europe under his rule.

He was however deeply desirous of removing Albany from the Regency; and he wrote to the Scottish Parliament telling them that he did not care to see his nephew in peril; and that if any harm were to come to the King—as he regretted it had to his little brother—all men would suspect Albany. Therefore it was imperative that Albany should be sent back to France without delay.

The Parliament’s reply that the King was well, healthy, and in no danger, and that they had no intention of removing Albany, filled Henry with rage.

But Albany, whose great desire was for peace, wrote to Henry saying he believed that if he came to England he could convince Henry of his honest intentions.

When Henry received this note he came to Margaret’s apartments in Greenwich Palace and laid it before her.

“Ha!” he cried. “Once the fellow comes to England he will be at our mercy. Then I shall insist on his obeying my will.”

“You think the King of France will allow that, Henry?”

“The King of France!” Henry’s face grew a shade more scarlet. There was no name in Christendom that angered him more than that one. “Nay, sister,” he went on, giving her a baleful look which was alarming when she considered how much she hoped for from him, “I do not consider the wishes of the King of France. I will instruct my Lord Cardinal how he is to treat Master Albany when he sets foot in my realm.”

“You will act with your usual wisdom, Henry,” answered Margaret, “but I do not think that, when Albany considers this matter, he will come to your Court. He is a shrewd man.”

“I shall couch my invitation in honeyed words,” retorted Henry.

Margaret was right and Albany did not come to England. Instead he sent as his emissary a certain François de la Fayette, who promised that if Margaret would return to Scotland she should have her dowry returned to her, and that her husband, Angus, and his clan should retain their privileges as Scottish subjects— providing they did not revolt against the government.

The terms seemed fair enough, thought Margaret; and as that year passed she began to feel homesick for Scotland. She wanted to see her son; she was anxious to be with Angus again; she was not sure of her feelings for him and although she did not think of him very tenderly, she wanted to be in his company again so that she could analyze her emotions. Moreover, Albany would be there; she told herself that she hated that man, but she thought of him often and had a great desire to come face-to-face with him. Often when his name was mentioned she would abuse him, calling him the murderer of her child; but secretly she did not believe this.

Albany was a Royal Stuart; and ever since she had met her first husband, she had been fascinated by that clan. She wanted to see Albany again, to live close to him; perhaps to discover her true feelings regarding him.

Henry had put at Margaret’s service that palace known as Scotland Yard, which was the residential quarters of the Kings of Scotland when visiting London. From the bay windows of the Queen’s Treasury she could look out on the river. Not far away was Charing Cross and the Palace of Westminster where the Court was in residence.

Christmas was almost upon her and it was more than a year since she had left Scotland. Young Margaret, now over a year old, was a lively little girl with a personality of her own; it seemed long to be away from home.

Moreover she was in financial distress. She needed money for servants and for gowns since Henry still insisted that the entertainments he gave were in her honor, and she could not attend them wearing garments which had been seen many times before.

She had no recourse but to turn to Cardinal Wolsey and plead for money, which she found very humiliating; but she pointed out that if she could not get it from the Cardinal she must needs approach the King, and that she asked only for loans as, when she regained what was hers, she would pay back all that she had borrowed.

And although she did succeed in getting a portion of the money for which she asked, and that meant that she had more fine gowns which could always put her in good spirits, still she thought with nostalgia of Scotland.

“James will forget his mother,” she told her friends, “if he does not see her soon. He is over-young for such a long separation.”

She did not mention Angus but she wondered what he was doing during her absence. She did hear that he had entered into an alliance with Albany and was working with him.

There was news too of Albany himself. His wife’s health had grown worse since her husband’s stay in Scotland and she was said to be dying. Albany, who wanted to be with her, had stood up in the Tolbooth when Parliament was assembled there and explained with anguish his desire to be at the bedside of his wife.

“There is a husband a woman would be glad to have!” sighed Margaret, for how could she help comparing such devotion with the desertion of Angus who had left her when he thought her to be on the point of death?

But the Scots could not let Albany go at this point and, although it was agreed that he should return to France, it was pointed out that he must only go when the affairs of Scotland permitted.

So Albany remained in Scotland and Margaret continued to think yearningly of that land.

Christmas had come and was celebrated at Greenwich.

There must be entertainments in honor of his sister, declared Henry, for it seemed she would not be with them much longer.

So Margaret sat in state with her brother, sister, and sister-in-law while an artificial garden was wheeled into the great hall. It was, Henry whispered to them, keeping his eyes on Margaret all the time to make sure she was suitably impressed “the Garden of Esperance.”

At each of the four corners of this contraption was a tower, and the banks of the “garden” were covered with artificial flowers made of colored silks and brocades and leaves of green satin. In the center was a pillar set with jewels, and above it was a gilded arch of red and white roses. In the center of the arch was a huge posy combined of roses, marguerites, marigolds, and pomegranates. And in the garden sat twelve beautifully attired men with twelve women; and when the garden had been wheeled before the dais on which sat the King with his Queen and sisters, the men and women stepped from the garden and danced a ballet.

Margaret clapped her hands with glee and declared that she had never seen anything so exquisite!

“Nor will you in Scotland,” Henry told her with deep satisfaction.

No, she thought, but for all that I would as lief be there. I wonder how James has grown. I wonder what Angus is doing. I wonder if Albany is preparing to depart.

The winter had passed in revelries and the spring had now arrived.

Margaret had decided that in clement May she would set out on her journey to Scotland.

“Then,” cried Henry, “we must have some entertainments as a farewell. I would like them to be elegant and brilliant, so that when you are in Scotland you will remember how we manage such matters here in England.”

“You are very good to me,” Margaret told him.

“Ah, and ready to be more so, my dear sister. When you are back in Scotland you must see that that villain Albany is sent back where he belongs. He’s a servant of the French King, and it’s a scandal to have him there where you should be.”

Margaret feigned agreement which she did not feel. She was hoping now that when she returned to Scotland she would have an opportunity of speaking with Albany, of trying to make some terms with him.

It was while she was preparing to leave that the riot of the apprentices broke out in London. This was a revolt of Londoners against the foreign workers in their city; and houses were sacked and burned. The attack was particularly vicious against Spanish merchants living in London; it was said that since there had been a Spanish queen sharing the throne, these people had been particularly favored, and in such a manner as to jeopardize the livelihood of the English. The foreigners seemed to want to do nothing but work; the English like to work for a while and then enjoy themselves. Thus the foreigners prospered more than the natives, which caused great irritation that came to a head on that day which was afterward known as Evil May Day.

The Duke of Norfolk came to London to quell the revolt. Thomas More, who had been undersheriff of the city, risked his life to plead with the mob for tolerance toward the foreigners, pointing out that they could only bring trouble on themselves. Henry kept away from London; he hated any show of disapproval among his subjects; and although he was ready to take off the head of any member of his Court who did such a thing, he quailed before the mob. On that sad day 278 youths were taken prisoner, some mere boys of twelve or fourteen, and throughout the city gibbets were erected as a dreadful warning to any other subjects who were considering revolt against the King’s peace.

This put an end to the festivities for Margaret’s departure; she heartily wished that she had left London before she had had to encounter the sight of those gallows and the wailing women who called in the streets for mercy on their young sons.

She guessed that in his wrath Henry would be terrible; and she was right.

Katharine and Mary came to her apartments, and they could talk of nothing but this melancholy event.

Katharine, the gentler of the two, was very upset. “Mothers are sending petitions to me imploring me to plead with the King. It saddens me so. But what can I do? Henry will not listen to me.”

Mary shook her head sadly. “Henry is determined on vengeance. He has said that an example must be made and he is not inclined to show mercy.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” asked Margaret. “What if we three went together and pleaded for those boys? Henry loves to grant such requests.”

Yes, she thought, it reminds him of his power over us all.

“If it were in public…,” mused Mary, who understood her brother even better than Margaret. She stood up suddenly and laughed. “I have a plan. He will come to Westminster Hall to pass judgment; it will be a ceremonious occasion. The Cardinal, the Council, the Mayor and Aldermen will be with him; and so shall we, for you know how he likes to have us with him. Now if, when all are assembled, we take off our headdresses, let our hair fall about our shoulders and throw ourselves on our knees…Why, don’t you see…?”

“It would be as effective as a masque,” agreed Margaret.

On the high dais in the hall of Westminster sat the King; with him was the great Cardinal Wolsey whose magnificence and pomp rivaled that of Henry; there were the Council, the Mayor, and the Aldermen; and seated with the King and his family—his wife and two sisters.

Then into the hall the prisoners were brought—they were mostly youths, but there were some old men among them and even a few women. They looked wretched, dirty, and hopeless, bound by ropes with halters about their necks. Outside their families clustered, and the sounds of their weeping could be heard within. The ringleaders of the revolt had already been punished and were at this time hanging by their necks from the signposts outside their master’s dwellings; it seemed more than likely that the miserable prisoners would have met the same end before nightfall.

Henry stared angrily at the prisoners, his face scarlet, his frown so deep that his blue eyes were almost lost in the plump flesh about them.

The Cardinal had asked the King to show mercy on these prisoners, the majority of whom were little more than children, but Henry sullenly replied that the peace of his city had been violated and he could not tolerate such conduct; example must be made; he would have the citizens see what happened to those who defied the King’s law.

But it was clear to Margaret watching, that Henry was not as angry as he wished it to be believed; he was playing a part now as he loved to do in the masques: the great King, all powerful and terrible…yet ready to be moved to mercy.

Mary met her eye. It was the signal. They took off the headdresses which confined their hair, and it fell about their shoulders. The three of them were noted for their beautiful hair.

The King looked startled as they threw themselves at his feet and weeping asked him to show mercy on the prisoners. He stared sternly at those beautiful bowed heads for some seconds before he allowed his face to soften. Then the frown left his face and the little eyes shone bright blue.

“Aye,” he murmured, “they are indeed young. And how could I refuse to tender mercy when beseeched in such a manner?”

There was a silence in the hall, but it only lasted for a few seconds. Then the prisoners, understanding, took their halters from their necks and tossed them into the air.

The three Queens rose to their feet. Margaret and Mary were smiling at each other; but Katherine was weeping.

It is true, thought Margaret, that it is like a masque!

The farewells had been said and Margaret had started on her journey north. It was pleasant traveling through the green English country in the early summer days, and Margaret would have been in no hurry had she not so longed to see her son. She was excited too at the prospect of reunion with Angus; her feelings had changed toward him; she had often told herself during the last year that had he been with her she might not have passed such carefree days; but all the same she could not suppress her excitement as she came nearer to the Border. She was thinking too of Albany and wondering whether she might not make some terms with him; and contemplating such interviews gave the same lifting of her spirits as she felt at the prospect of meeting her husband again.

When she reached the city of York which greeted her with as much pomp on her return from the English Court as it had when she had passed through on her journey toward it, she found that a servant of Albany’s was staying there. This was Gaultier de Malines, and Margaret sent for him and asked him if he had news of his master.

“Yes, Your Grace, my master has departed for France after a long delay. He sailed from Dumbarton on the eighth day of June.”

“And my son the King?”

“He is well and happy, Your Grace; and since it was known that you were returning to Scotland he has been moved from Stirling to Edinburgh where he has his apartments in David Tower.”

“Ah! So he is well and happy. I rejoice. I hope soon to see him.”

It was good news; but she was a little sorry that Albany had returned to France. Not that she would betray this to anyone, for indeed, she only half admitted it to herself.

She learned that, before leaving, Albany had appointed a Regency which consisted of the Archbishops of St. Andrews and Glasgow and the Earls of Angus, Arran, Huntley, and Argyle with the Sieur de la Bastie who would of course guard his, Albany’s, interests.

Margaret was glad that Angus formed part of that company although it did mean that after her departure to England he had thrown in his lot with Albany. Perhaps it would have been foolish of him to have accompanied her to England; perhaps he was growing up to wisdom. But how much more contented she would have been if he had thrown aside everything to be with her, as she had when she had chosen to marry him.

And when she passed over the Border, there was Angus waiting to greet her—as he had been ordered to do by the Council—and when she saw him she forgot her disappointment. He was as handsome as ever, although he had aged a little. He was no longer a boy, having lost some of his innocent looks, but he was her Angus and still the most handsome man in Scotland.

Impulsive and warmhearted as she was, she thrust aside all rancor. Let them have done with the past. There he was, come to meet her, to welcome her back to Scotland.

He rode away from his men toward her, and she too advanced ahead of her party.

“Margaret—” he began.

But she interrupted: “Oh, my dearest, how long it has seemed without you!”

The smile that touched his lips was one of relief, but she did not notice this; she only saw that he was smiling at her, that his eyes were warm with admiration, for the year of luxury had restored all her vitality and she was young and beautiful again.

She held out her hand; he took it and his lips were warm against her skin.

“You are pleased to see me?” she asked.

He lifted his eyes to her face and it seemed to her that words were unnecessary.

So together they began the journey to the capital, and in those first days of reunion she did not notice that there was something sheepish in his manner; that often he failed to meet her eye.

She was happy to be back, for soon, she promised herself, she would see her little son. Angus was with her, her dear husband who had made his mistakes and was sorry for them.

Her friends wondered how long it would be before she discovered Angus’s secret; and those who loved her, trembled for her, because they knew how great her grief would be.

It was of paramount importance to Margaret that she should see her son as soon as possible, and she lost no time in making her intentions clear.

This had been expected and the lords of the Council had prepared themselves for it. It had been arranged that young James should be well guarded in Edinburgh Castle and that three Lords—Erskine, Ruthven, and Borthwick—were to take it in turns to live with him there as his guardian, each doing this service for four months of the year. The castellan, Sir Patrick Crichton, ordered twelve guards to watch each night outside the King’s bedchamber; and there were guards placed at all salient points, while a master gunner with six cannons was stationed on the walls. The Abbot of Holyrood had his quarters in the outer castle as an added precaution; and before anyone was allowed to enter the King’s apartments he or she had first to receive permission from the castellan to do so.

Thus when Margaret arrived at Edinburgh she was at first denied admittance. This infuriated her but, longing as she did to see her son, she restrained her anger and pleaded with his guardians that she was his mother and had been long without a sight of him.

“Take me at once to the castellan,” she pleaded.

She was taken to Sir Patrick Crichton, who was very uneasy.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I have my orders. I regret that they must be enforced even against you, but I fear I must do my duty.”

“I am the King’s mother,” Margaret retorted, “and I demand to see him.”

“Your Grace, I cannot allow you to enter the castle accompanied by so many attendants. Only twelve may enter and only four of those accompany you to the King’s apartments.”

Margaret flushed with anger but, determined to see her son, she again forced herself to control her feelings.

“Very well then,” she said, “it shall be as you say. Now, I pray you, take me to my son.”

She stood on the threshold of the apartment looking at him. He was sitting with David Lindsay and David was instructing him in playing the lute.

James stared at her for a few moments while David Lindsay rose to his feet.

“Your Grace…,” he began.

But James had dashed at her. “Davie,” he cried, “it is my mother. At last she has come.”

Then he threw himself into her arms.

She embraced him, kissing and holding him as though she would never let him go, while the tears fell from her eyes onto his tawny curls.

She saw David Lindsay wipe a tear from his eye and she smiled up at him.

“Oh, Davie,” she cried, “it is good to be here.”

Although Margaret was allowed to see her son, she was not permitted to spend a night in the castle. These were uneasy days made pleasant only by the company of her son and little daughter. She was beginning to notice a change in Angus and, guessing that his conscience troubled him for some reason, she believed this to be due to the friendship he had shown to Albany during her absence. Of course that created a rift between them; how could it be otherwise?

But the days spent at the castle brought her great contentment. James was a son of whom any mother would be proud. Every day she saw his father in him. There was intelligence in the blue-gray eyes; his abundant hair with more than a dash of red in it framed a face that was pleasant to look at; his nose would be aquiline when he grew up, Margaret decided, and it seemed likely that he would be another such as his father. She smiled to think of the jealousy his wife would feel; she would sympathize with her when the time came. Who could understand more than one who had suffered it all before? His tutors were delighted with his sharp wits; and besides David Lindsay, Gavin Dunbar, John Bellenden, and James Inglis all supervised his education.

But it was David Lindsay whom the young King loved more than any of his other tutors; this was probably because David was more of a playfellow than a tutor. David made himself the most exciting of companions; and to see them together was to be given the illusion that they were of an age.

David’s one idea was to make a man of the King and, even when James had been little more than a baby, he had dressed up as a grisly ghost to teach him never to be afraid, but to investigate any strange phenomenon and so discover the truth beneath it.

David was succeeding admirably.

But although she was allowed to see her son frequently, Margaret greatly desired to take part in his upbringing. David commiserated with her.

“They’ll always suspect Your Grace of trying to take him away from Scotland, down to your brother’s Court,” he told her. “You tried once, and they think you’ll try again.”

Margaret agreed; and she thought: Aye and I would, given the opportunity.

One day when Margaret arrived at the Castle, she was met at the outer gate by the Abbot of Holyrood.

“Your Grace,” he cried, “you must not enter the Castle.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“A child belonging to one of the attendants has the botch.”

“The botch!” Margaret cried in horror, visualizing the beautiful skin of her son covered in unsightly boils and swellings. “Not…James?”

“Nay, Your Grace, as soon as it was discovered that there was a case of botch in the Castle he was taken at once to Craigmillar Castle where he is now under the guardianship of Lord Erskine.”

Margaret turned to her companions.

“We are going at once to Craigmillar,” she said.

Lord Erskine made no attempt to prevent the Queen from visiting James at Craigmillar, which was only three miles from Edinburgh. It was strongly fortified but by no means the fortress that the Castle was. As she rode toward it and studied the lofty square keep, Margaret could not help thinking that it would be easier to bring James out of Craigmillar than out of Edinburgh Castle.

James was delighted with the move, as he was growing tired of living so long in David’s Tower at the Castle; and Lord Erskine was a lenient guardian.

If only, thought Margaret, Angus were not so strange. If only his aims were the same as mine!

There was no one to whom she could talk of her desires except David Lindsay; and when she hinted to him that she would like to have her son completely in her care, he was horrified at what an attempt to abduct him might mean.

“Your Grace,” he said, “if you took the child away from his guardians and carried him into England, many a lord would declare the time had come to dethrone James and crown Albany King.”

Margaret pondered this. It might be so. And although she was ready to forgo the right to rule, for the sake of having her family about her, she could not allow James’s future to be jeopardized.

She was suspected of plotting to carry him off, and when certain members of the Council heard how frequently she was permitted to enter Craigmillar Castle, they declared it was time James was brought back to Edinburgh.

No sooner was the city pronounced free of the botch than James was hurried back to his old quarters.

This was not the way, reasoned Margaret. While she visited James she would be watched and every movement she made would be suspect. She had once tried to abduct him and carry him to England, and they were expecting her to do the same again.

She decided then to leave Edinburgh and go to her Castle of Newark in Ettrick Forest and there quietly plan her next move.

She believed that, with Angus to help her, she could regain the Regency and the right to be the guardian of her own child.

She wanted to confide in Angus but something in herself prevented her from doing this. Since she had been back in Scotland their life together had been very uneasy. He made excuses to absent himself from her for long periods. He had his estates to look after, he told her; and he was constantly engaged in the work of the Council.

She realized that he had grown up during the year she had been away. He had made a niche for himself in the affairs of Scotland, and was quite clearly recognized to be a figure of importance. Arran’s hatred of him was enough to show that, if nothing else.

She must be reasonable. They must work together, for then they would have a good chance of success.

An event occurred which gave her an idea that she might put an important post in the way of Angus. That should please him and show him that he could lose nothing by confiding in and working with his wife.

The post of Warden of the Marches had been bestowed on his good friend the Sieur de la Bastie by Albany before leaving for France; a reward to a friend who had rendered him good service more than once.

Albany—and de la Bastie—could have had little knowledge of the wild Bordermen; otherwise the former might have thought twice before offering such a gift, and the latter before accepting it.

Lord Home and his brother William had mortally offended Albany and, although he had forgiven them again and again, at length he had decided to do so no more, and had ordered them to be executed. It was thus that the post of Warden of the Marches had fallen vacant.

Home was a turncoat, a wild and arrogant man; but he was a Borderer and, although the Border barons fought each other, they did not care to see one whom they considered a foreigner pass the death sentence on one of their kind. Moreover the Home clan considered it a duty to avenge their leader. Thus when de la Bastie went to the Border to carry out his duties he was set upon and murdered.

This meant that the post of Deputy Governor which had been de la Bastie’s was vacant.

Why should not Angus fill it? Margaret asked herself. Then, with Angus as Deputy Governor, it would not be difficult for her to regain her old influence, for her husband would surely support her.

She laid this suggestion before the Parliament.

They would not consider it for a moment.

Disconsolate and lonely—Angus was away, engaged on one of his numerous duties—Margaret brooded on the estate to which she was reduced. She was too impulsive where her emotions were involved. She knew this but she could not restrain herself. How could she sit alone at Newark, brooding on the fact that she was not allowed to direct the upbringing of her own son; that when she—the Queen—suggested a post should be bestowed, she was ignored?

As always at such times she found pleasure in making wild plans.

James was the center of these plans.

He was back in Edinburgh Castle and it was going to be difficult to get him out of that fortress, but she was not one to consider impossible that which was difficult.

Then she remembered that one of her husband’s brothers, George Douglas, was the Warden of the Castle.

Now the days had some meaning. George Douglas was eager to serve his Queen and sister-in-law.

He wrote to her. Yes, as Warden he had a certain power within the Castle. He had access of course to David’s Tower, and could give her news from time to time of the King. He implied that he knew it was more than news she wanted; and he was ready to help give her that too.

“Dear George Douglas!” she murmured.

She was determined to be careful. She would take no one into her confidence, and was rather glad that Angus was away because it would have been difficult to keep this secret from him.

She might do what she had intended to do before she went into England. That had been a good enough plan. If only Lord Home had been able to divert the attention of the guards he would have rescued the two princes.

Then, she thought angrily, I should have had two sons today, for I am sure my little Alexander would not have died if he had been with his mother.

It was pleasant there at Newark, making plans, waiting for the secret messenger from George Douglas, assuring herself that she could not be unlucky this time.

Perhaps they could substitute another child for James. It would not be discovered until they were away…almost at the Border. Henry would be eager to welcome his dear sister and her little son who was so like himself. Perhaps James would marry the little Princess Mary; then Henry could be relied on to send an army to Scotland, subdue her enemies and place James securely on the throne, there to rule, when he was of an age to do so, with Mary beside him; but in the meantime his mother would be the Regent of Scotland and the guardian of her son.

It was a pleasant dream. To make it come true she would need all the money on which she could lay her hands.

The forest of Ettrick itself yielded four hundred marks a year, which was no mean sum. She wondered how much of it had come in, and sent for her steward.

When the man stood before her and she made known the reason she had sent for him, he seemed surprised.

“Your Grace,” he said, “the rents have been collected and given to my lord Angus in accordance with his instructions.”

She studied the papers which he had given her, and all the time her anger was rising. How dared Angus appropriate this money! There should have been a goodly sum accumulated by now and she needed it badly.

“I see,” she said; and dismissed her steward.

When she was alone she paced up and down the room. Where was Angus? He must come to her at once. She needed an explanation.

She sent for a man who had been in attendance on her husband.

“Urgent business has arisen,” she told him. “I need the immediate presence of my lord Angus. Do you know where he is?”

The man hesitated and his furtive looks alarmed Margaret.

“Come,” she said testily, “where is he?”

“Your Grace…I cannot say. I do not know…”

She thought: He knows and he is lying.

She wanted to command him to answer, to threaten him with a whipping if he did not speak.

But no, she thought. Let it wait. I will think on this; and I shall discover all in good time.

That very day news was brought to her which made her forget temporarily Angus’s perfidy over the rents of Ettrick.

A messenger had arrived from Edinburgh and asked to be taken immediately to the Queen.

He fell at her feet breathless, travel-stained from the journey.

“Your Grace, the Warden of Edinburgh Castle has been arrested and thrown into prison.”

She stood still, her eyes half closed. Another scheme foiled!

She said quietly: “Why so?”

“Sir Patrick Crichton declared he could not hold himself responsible for the King’s safety unless the Warden was removed. He had discovered an intrigue…”

She did not need to ask what. She knew.

“So he is no longer at the Castle, Your Grace, and the Earl of Arran has been set up in his place.”

Margaret did not speak. She was thinking: Did ever a woman have such ill luck as I?

Where was Angus? Never with me, she thought, when I need him.

No wonder he seemed guilty. How dared he appropriate the rents which were hers? Because she had married him, did he think he could rule her…the Queen!

She sent for the servant to whom she had spoken before. “I believe you know the whereabouts of my lord Angus,” she said. “I command you to tell me what you know.”

“Y-Your Grace…” stammered the man. “I know nothing.”

“I will have the truth!”

The man had turned pale but he did not speak.

Wearily she studied him. What was the use of venting her anger on one who was merely trying to be loyal to his master?

She dismissed the man and for some days she was sunk in despair. Her plot with George Douglas was known—to his cost, and to hers most likely. They would watch her more closely than ever. They would probably prevent her from seeing her son.

She felt desperate and alone.

Then Angus returned. As soon as he came into her presence she opened her attack.

“You have been long absent, my lord.”

“I had business to attend to.”

He came to her and placing his hands on her shoulders, drew her toward him, but she withdrew herself impatiently.

“There are certain matters I wish to discuss with you. First…the rents of Ettrick.”

A faint color showed under his skin. “What of these?”

“I think you are aware of my meaning. I have discovered that these have been passing to you.”

“And why should they not?”

“Because they do not belong to you.”

“You once said that you would give me all I desired.”

She laughed bitterly. “That was long ago. You once said that you would always be faithful to me.”

Had she not been so angry she would have noticed the apprehension leap into his eyes.

“And,” she went on, “I shall never forget how you deserted me when you believed me to be dying, how you ran as hard as you could to make sure of a welcome in the opposite camp. And now I discover that during my absence you have appropriated money which belongs to me.”

“I am sure you gave me Ettrick in those early days,” he mumbled.

“I should have remembered,” she said. “I remember too much of those early days. I know now how ready you are to deceive and desert me, that you give your allegiance to others.”

He misunderstood her, believing her to have discovered more than she had.

He muttered: “I was betrothed to her before we married.”

“Betrothed,” she murmured.

“I would have married her,” he went on sullenly, “had I not been forced to marry you.”

She thought she must be dreaming. What was he talking about? Betrothed? Forced to marry?

“So,” she said, “these absences of yours…”

“Of course. What do you expect? You ran away, did you not? What was I supposed to do all that time?”

“Some husbands would have accompanied their wives,” she retorted, but she was not thinking of what she said; she was trying to grasp his meaning.

“Most husbands,” he replied, “are masters in their own houses.”

“Not all aspire to marriage with a queen,” was her proud answer.

“In which case they may call themselves lucky.”

He was off his guard now. She would get the truth of what lay behind this. “How long has she been your mistress?” she hazarded.

“Since you went into England.”

“I see,” she said bitterly. “And I’ll dare swear all the Court is aware of this.”

“There are always gossips.”

“And it seems this time there is strong foundation on which to base the gossip.”

“What did you expect?” he cried.

“Fidelity!” she answered. “Respect. Gratitude for all I have done for your family. Affection for your wife and daughter.”

“I look upon her as a wife, and I have given her daughter my name.”

Margaret could find no words to express her grief and rage. She felt as though she had lived through this scene before. She was back in those early days of her marriage with James when she had discovered that he had illegitimate children. She remembered the pain of discovering that he chose the society of other women in preference to hers.

Why must I suffer this disillusion twice? she asked herself. Why must my second husband treat me as did my first!

She looked at him—the handsome Angus with whom she had planned to live in love all her life. She felt cheated now as she never had when he had deserted her at Morpeth.

She could see it all so clearly; his betrothal to a woman with whom he was in love; the pressure of his family when it was known that the Queen delighted in him; his reluctant agreement to follow the wishes of his family and his Queen.

It was too humiliating to be borne.

“Leave me,” she cried. “I would be alone.”

So now she had the details. He had been betrothed to Lady Jane Stuart, the daughter of the Lord of Traquair; he had deserted her to marry the Queen, but he had never forgotten her, and when his wife left Scotland he made haste to rejoin Lady Jane. He took her away from her family; he insisted that she travel with him wherever he went, as though she were his wife; and her family made no protest. This was not merely Archibald Douglas who had made their daughter Jane his mistress; it was the Earl of Angus, the husband of the Queen.

Jane had borne him a daughter who was known as the Lady Jean Douglas, and it seemed that her mother, and he too, would make this child’s position comparable with that of his daughter born in wedlock to the Queen, the Lady Margaret Douglas.

This was not to be tolerated.

Then she made up her mind what she would do.

Angus had been betrothed to Jane Stuart before his marriage to the Queen. Could this be grounds for divorce?

Very soon the news was out, as she intended it should be.

The Queen no longer lives with Angus; she is contemplating divorce.

James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, was on his way to see the Queen. Arran was a proud man; through his mother, Princess Mary, the daughter of James II, he had royal blood in his veins and he never forgot it. It was for this reason that he had been so angered to see the rise of the Douglases through the Queen’s marriage with Angus. That he, Arran, who might become a claimant to the throne of Scotland, should have to take second place to that pretty boy was unendurable. There was one person in Scotland whom Arran hated above all others, and that was Angus.

Thus when he heard of the friction between the Queen and her husband he hastened to plead for an interview with Margaret, that he might place himself and his power at her disposal. He was ready to stake his future on this; and he was determined that if she wanted a divorce from Angus she should know that all the influence of the Hamiltons was behind her.

Margaret received the Earl who wasted no time in opening up the subject which was of such importance to them both.

“I come to commiserate with Your Grace,” he told her, “and to place myself at your service.”

“I thank you, my lord.”

She signed for him to be seated and she marveled that a man who was an enemy one day seemed to become a friend the next.

“It is a matter for rejoicing among those who are Your Grace’s friends that you should have decided to cast off the Douglas. Madam, we have long been aware of his unworthiness.

“I alas have remained blind too long,” answered Margaret; at which Arran bowed his head in assent.

“But now,” went on Margaret, “I see him for what he is and, believe me, my lord, I shall not rest until I can no longer call myself his wife.”

“A divorce should be arranged with all speed. The Douglases should be stripped of the power which came to them through this marriage.”

Margaret looked at him and smiled wryly, thinking: That it may be bestowed on the Hamiltons?

Hamiltons, Douglases, Hepburns, Homes—they were all ambitious men, all seeking favors which would strengthen their families and make their clans the strongest in the land. Still, she must try to look to her own advantage as they did to theirs. The Hamiltons were certainly one of the most powerful families in Scotland, and Arran stood at their head. She must use them as they would, if they had the opportunity, use her.

She, who could love fiercely, could hate with the same passion; and now, almost as great as her desire to have the care of her son, was that to rid herself of the husband who had put her in the difficult position she now occupied, and then had rewarded her with his infidelity.

“There is little opposition in the land against the suggested divorce?” she asked.

“There is great rejoicing, Your Grace.”

Yes, she thought, among the Douglases’ enemies. She could imagine the consternation the matter would have brought about in her husband’s family.

“Why, Your Grace,” went on Arran, “when you are free of the Douglases, I doubt not that your friends will wish to see you restored to that position which was yours before the unfortunate marriage. I have discussed the matter with the Earl of Lennox who is of my mind; and the Bishops of Galloway and Argyle are as eager to see the bond between you and Angus severed. Your Grace would find yourself supported by many powerful friends.”

“I find that reassuring,” answered Margaret.

“Have no fear, Your Grace. This is the best step you have taken since you entered into that marriage; and in truth I come on behalf of your friends to tell you of the pleasure this has given them.”

They talked awhile of the affairs of Scotland, and Arran asked after the health of the little Lady Margaret Douglas.

Margaret, who could never resist showing her pride in her children, sent for the child that Arran might see for himself what a bonny creature she was.

Arran confessed himself delighted and charmed; and when little Margaret had left them he began to talk of his son with deep affection—and Margaret sensed the implication behind his words. He was telling her that his James, who would one day be Earl of Arran, had the blood of Royal Stuart in his veins; and since one day it would be necessary to find a husband for the Lady Margaret Douglas, the son of Arran should not be considered unworthy.

Margaret allowed him to see that she had grasped his point and was not displeased by it.

When Arran left her Margaret congratulated herself that with the influential lords to back her she stood a very good chance of regaining the Regency, which would mean control of her son; as for Arran, he saw in this the downfall of his enemy Angus.

There were two factions in Scotland now, one under Arran, the other under Angus. The Douglases rallied to the support of the head of their House, and among them were men made influential by the honors Margaret herself had showered on them at the time of her infatuation with her husband.

It was believed by many that the return of Albany was imperative to restore order; and news was carried to him of the trouble between two of the most powerful families in the land and of the Queen’s determination to divorce her husband; moreover the suggestion of a betrothal of Margaret’s daughter and Arran’s son was alarming, for it could unite Douglases and Hamiltons against him.

But the political position had changed, because there was now a rapprochement between France and England. François and Henry had decided to meet and were making preparations for the Field of the Cloth of Gold; and Henry’s daughter, the Princess Mary, had been betrothed to the Dauphin. Although François wished Albany to return to Scotland in order to safeguard French interests, he knew that Henry was eager that the Duke should remain in France. It was not the moment to antagonize Henry.

Meanwhile the news of Margaret’s intentions to divorce Angus reached the English Court.

Henry grew scarlet when he read his sister’s letter.

He could not believe it. He went to his wife’s apartment, his eyes ablaze, and signed to her women to depart. Katharine, terrified at his appearance, hurried to him and begged him to tell her what ill news he brought.

“T-That a sister of mine,” he stuttered, “could so far forget her duty…her honor…to suggest such an action!”

“Your Grace, Mary…”

“Nay, not Mary. Margaret. Listen to this: ‘I am sore troubled with my lord Angus, since my last coming into Scotland, and every day more and more so. We have not been together these last months…’” Henry stopped; it was as though the words choked him.

Katharine said gently: “Alas, so she is not happy in her marriage. Poor Margaret! I am sorry for her.”

“Whether she be happy or not, it is not for her to talk of…divorce!”

“Divorce!” cried Katharine, and she began to tremble with horror.

“I said divorce. Angus does not please her so, look you, she plans to divorce him. She will dishonor her marriage vows. She will disgrace us all. A sister of mine to talk of divorce!”

“Oh, Henry, we must persuade her how wrong this is.”

“Persuade her! I shall forbid her. I shall make her see her duty to her family—if she has so far forgotten her duty to God and the Church. I’ll not have divorce in my family, I do assure you. No, Kate, you will sit down and write to her at once. And so shall I. You will tell her how she has wounded you, shocked you beyond belief. While I…I will remind her that I am the King of a great country, and not only that, the head of a great House. There shall be no divorce in my family. I’ll not stomach the disgrace.”

“Henry, how right you are…as always. Divorce! It is too dishonorable to be thought of.”

“Go to, Kate. Write to her, and I will do the same. Then our letters shall be sent by special messenger, that she may profit from them and put an end to this disgraceful plan before it goes too far.”

When Margaret read the letters from her brother and sister-in-law she shrugged aside their advice. It was all very well for them to be so self-righteous; they did not know what it meant to be entangled in an undesirable alliance.

She was surprised that she could hate anyone as fiercely as she now hated Angus. There was anger against herself in that hatred. How could she have been so foolish as to lose all sense of proportion merely because of a momentary infatuation for a handsome boy?

How different had been her first marriage. James had at times humiliated her, but in public he had constantly shown her respect. She remembered how he had always uncovered his head in her presence. He only asked that she accept his infidelities which, being the sensual man he was, he could not curb. He would never have deserted her when she was dying. And he had conducted his love affairs with a certain dignity. He had tried to make up for his shortcomings by giving her extra pleasure; Angus had stolen her rents.

She hated Angus and, even if she had to admit that this was largely because he was a living reminder of her own folly and the source of all her troubles, that did not make her hate him less.

There was one who reminded her a little of her first husband; that was Albany. They had some quality, these Stuarts, which was unique. No, she had never seen others with quite the same charm of manner. James had had it to a large degree; Albany slightly less; but he was certainly a charming, courteous man.

If one were a queen it was necessary to marry wisely. Suppose she and Albany were free to marry—there could not be a wiser match in Scotland, for marriages were often the links which bound countries together, and made friends of enemies. A marriage between herself and Albany—and there would have been no conflict in Scotland; she would never have been cut off from her son; she and Albany would have been joint guardians of the young King. What a happy state of affairs compared with what now confronted her!

And was not too late to put matters right.

She was determined to divorce Angus no matter what difficulties were put in her way; and she was sure there would be difficulties. She could imagine her brother Henry sending off deputations to the Pope, asking him not to grant a divorce to his erring sister, for the sake of the honor of the Tudors. She would have to fight for her divorce; but she would get it in the end. And then if Albany’s wife died—for how could she live long; the poor woman had been ailing for some time—he would be free too.

She closed her eyes and pictured him. Black eyes alive with passion. Poor man, married to a woman who for so long had been an invalid.

Arran was persuading her to join with those who were urging Albany to return, because Arran had long decided that when the Duke came to Scotland he would favor the Hamiltons and become the enemy of the Douglases.

She had listened thoughtfully to what Arran had to say; she had nodded when he enumerated the reasons why the return of Albany would be good for Scotland. And all the time she had been thinking of him—black-eyed, black-bearded, the courteous knight with all the charm of his Stuart ancestors.

She said: “I will write to Albany and join my pleas to yours. I think that he might be willing to help me in my divorce. He should stand well with Rome, as I believe his master does. Yes, my lord, I am convinced that you are right. Scotland needs Albany at this time.”

She thought: And it may be that Scotland’s Queen does too.

It was not easy to obtain a divorce. There were too many people of influence who were against it. Time passed and still Margaret remained unsatisfactorily married to Angus.

Henry and Katharine had crossed the Channel and had had a meeting with the King of France in circumstances of most reckless extravagance, with each King trying to outdazzle the other.

François, mischievous in the extreme, using every means at his disposal to disconcert the King of England, having in his possession at this time the letter which Margaret had written to Albany, thought it would be amusing to show Henry how his sister was working against his wishes and was warmly inviting Albany back to Scotland.

Henry read the letter and quietly handed it back to the King, but when he was alone his choleric anger broke forth.

By God, he thought, this shall be the end of the help she gets from me. What has become of my sister! She shows herself to the world as a wanton. Divorce indeed! She disgraces the name of Tudor and then…she deceives her own brother by inviting his enemy to Scotland!

The Scottish matter rankled in his mind during all the balls and banquets, jousts and wrestling matches of that brilliant excursion.

He confided to his wife: “When we return to England, you shall send a priest to Scotland. Choose him with care for I want him to impress upon my sister that if she persists in attempting to obtain this divorce from her lawful husband, she places her immortal soul in danger.”

Katharine replied that Henry as usual was right. There were few matters which could be so dishonorable, so lamentable as divorce.

It was a summer’s day when Father Bonaventura arrived in Scotland.

Margaret was then in Perth, and he traveled to her there. He was a gentle priest who had lived away from the world, and Margaret received him kindly when she heard that he had come from her sister-in-law, Queen Katharine.

“It is good of you to have made this long journey,” she told him. And when they were alone together she tried to impress on him that though she appreciated his good services, he was wasting his time if he thought to divert her from her purpose.

“I have come to pray with you,” he told her. “Your Grace will find the answer to your problem in prayer.”

Margaret, who had never been deeply religious, was a little impatient; but she was courteous to the priest and told him gently that her mind was already made up.

Father Bonaventura tried to reason with her and she continued to listen patiently, but he realized that he was making no headway and eventually, disappointed and reluctant, he prepared to leave.

Father Bonaventura had no sooner returned to London than Henry decided to send a man of his choosing. No gentle priest this, but a man whose preaching had often set sinners shivering with fear.

Henry Chadworth, Minister General of the Friar’s Minor, was summoned to Henry’s presence.

“You will go to the Queen of Scotland,” Henry told him, “and not return until you have wrought in her a change of mind. Tell her that I shall not look on in silence and see a sister of mine lose her immortal soul. Tell her too that I shall hinder her cause in Rome and I shall let all know that those who help the Queen of Scotland to her divorce, help themselves to the enmity of the King of England. Now away with you, and…as you value my friendship, let nothing stand between you and your duty.”

Henry Chadworth set out for Scotland, fiery phrases revolving in his mind, determined that he would return in triumph to the English Court. Indeed, how dare he do otherwise?

How the man ranted! Yet Margaret dared not further incense her brother by sending him away. There was a certain magnetism about him; perhaps this was because he appeared fervently to believe in the horrors which he said awaited the damned.

He stood before her, his eyes burning with fanaticism. “Your immortal soul is in peril. Repent before it is too late. Take this step, and you have bought eternal damnation. It is the Devil himself who is whispering in your ear.”

At first she closed her ears and thought of other things while he ranted on; but his picturesque descriptions of the fires of hell caught her imagination and she found herself involuntarily giving him her attention.

“Life on Earth is short,” he thundered. “It is the trial through which we all must pass to show ourselves worthy of eternal bliss or eternal damnation. Madam, your reputation is in danger; your soul is in danger. Think on these things before you are past redemption.”

She dreamed of the friar; his words haunted her nights. “I come to warn you,” he had told her. “For the sake of your comfort in this life and the next, pay heed to my words.”

And she found that she was paying heed to his words.

She dreaded his coming and yet found herself looking forward to it. She dreaded hearing his account of the torments which had been devised for the punishment of sinners; and she could not resist listening.

A month passed and still Henry Chadworth visited her each day; indeed his visits grew longer; and she did not seek to curtail them.

Two months after Henry Chadworth had come to Scotland he had achieved his end. Margaret agreed to return to Angus.

The Douglases were triumphant, the Hamiltons furious.

The Bishops of Galloway and Argyle came to Margaret accompanied by the Earls of Arran and Lennox.

“Your Grace cannot mean that you will so demean yourself by returning to Angus,” cried Arran.

“I have been persuaded that it is my duty to return to him,” answered Margaret.

It was difficult for Arran to restrain his wrath.

“Madam, this is the most foolish thing you ever did. Depend upon it, if you return to Angus you will never gain the guardianship of the King.”

“He is my husband,” was Margaret’s retort. “My duty lies with him. I must try to bear my troubles; and I have sent word to him that if he will give up his light behavior and be a good husband to me, I will return to him.”

She appeared to be as fanatical as her brother’s priest, who had already returned in triumph to his master.

Arran and his friends left her presence, cursing the folly of women and the power a priest could have over them. They would wage even fiercer warfare against the Douglases who, they knew, were now chortling with glee while Angus wrote to his dear brother-in-law thanking him for his timely intervention in his matrimonial affairs.

As Margaret was riding toward Edinburgh, which was in the possession of the Douglas faction, the words of Henry Chadworth were still ringing through her mind. She must be reconciled with the man she had married because, whatever he had done, he was still her husband and they were bound together until death parted them. She was apprehensive, wondering how they would greet each other, what their life could be together after all the wrong he had done her, after the abuse she had flung at him.

He met her, riding at the head of four hundred horses, and never had he looked so handsome. He had changed since she had seen him on the loch before Linlithgow Palace and had been struck by his beauty. He had become a man; and he was still the most handsome man in Scotland.

With him rode the Archbishop of St. Andrews and the Bishops of Dunkeld, Aberdeen and Murray. The Earls Argyle, Huntley, Ruthven, Morton and Glencairn were also there with Lord Glamis who was Earl Marshal. A distinguished assembly, and she had to admit that none bore himself so well nor looked so fine a man as Angus.

He rode ahead of the party and she did the same. When they met he took her hand and kissed it.

“So, Margaret, we are to have another chance.”

“I have decided that we should make an effort to live happily together, since we are man and wife,” she answered.

“It shall be so,” he replied; and their two parties joined and followed them into the city.

For a week she believed she had recaptured to some extent the ecstasy of the honeymoon which they spent at Stobhall. How wrong she was, how easily deluded! Then she had believed in an ideal; there had been no doubts in her mind. She had believed then that his devotion to her had been as undivided as hers to him. After the first passionate days of reunion she began to picture him, indulging in similar passion with Jane Stuart. When their daughter was with them she pictured him with Jane and her little Jean. No, it was not possible to go back. She quickly began to realize that.

She soon discovered that he did not intend to alter his way of life, and was as devoted to Jane Stuart as he had ever been. He was not going to be denied her company. The inevitable scenes followed.

“I dare swear you have been visiting your mistress,” she taunted him, after one of his absences which hurt her the more because they reminded her of the deficiencies of her first husband.

“And if I have?” He was insolent, believing himself to be in command of her. He knew how the hellfire preacher had played upon her superstitions. She had returned to him because she was afraid of jeopardizing her soul if she continued with her plan to divorce him.

“I came back to you on condition that you gave up your light living,” she answered.

He smiled. “You came back because you feared to put your soul in danger by not doing so.”

“I could change my mind.”

“Your brother would not forgive you if you did.”

“I do not have to obey my brother.”

“You do not have to, but your wisdom tells you that it would be folly not to.”

“So you will not give up this woman?”

“Come, you take these matters too seriously. How many men in Scotland do you think there are who have a mistress or two besides a wife?”

“That may be so, but they are not married to the Queen of Scotland.”

“Should a man be penalized for marrying the Queen of Scotland?”

She saw that he had grown cynical.

She did not answer him, but she thought; I was a fool to take him back, and we cannot go on like this.

There were spies from the Arran faction in the Queen’s household who watched how matters went, who listened at keyholes and secreted themselves in the Queen’s apartment to discover how the reunion of Margaret and her husband was shaping. They had good news to send to their masters.

Arran laughed to himself. The reconciliation would not last. He knew Margaret well enough to realize that; she had been momentarily alarmed by the prophecies of the preacher, but she had never been superstitious, at heart, and she was tired of Angus.

One of the women said to the Queen when she was helping her dress: “Your Grace, I heard from my brother who is with my Lord Arran, that his lordship is sorely grieved that he can no longer serve you.”

The woman had spoken so low that no one else in the apartment heard, and Margaret looked at her swiftly. She had not been long in her service and indeed had joined at that time when Margaret had been friendly with the Arran faction. Margaret wondered if this woman was a servant of Arran, as she admitted her brother was.

“He could serve if he wished,” she retorted. “Alas, I fear he is my enemy.”

“He is ready to be your friend.”

“He has not always been a loyal servant,” Margaret retorted, turning away.

Margaret wondered how many of her servants carried news of her affairs to her enemies, and later that day she sent for the woman and made sure that when she came no one else was in the apartment but the two of them.

“Have you a message for me?” asked Margaret.

The woman looked surprised. “Your Grace?”

“You spoke of a brother in the service of my Lord Arran.”

The woman flushed and murmured: “Nay, Your Grace, I have no message.”

“Yet you brought one to me, this day.”

“I, Your Grace?”

“From your brother who is with the Earl of Arran.”

“Oh…’twas naught, Your Grace. It was merely that…”

“Pray continue.”

“That I have seen the manner in which Your Grace is treated by my Lord Angus, and methought it was no way in which to treat a queen.”

Margaret’s lips tightened a little and her eyes hardened. She was angry, but not with the woman. It was true; she was humiliated again and again. There was not a servant at her Court who did not know of her husband’s intrigue with Jane Stuart, of the manner in which he ignored her wish that it should be discontinued.

She said impulsively: “You have a brother in the service of the Earl of Arran. Doubtless you could pass a message to him which he in his turn could place in the Earl’s hands.”

The woman caught her breath. “I could do that, Your Grace.”

“Very well.” She went to her desk and wrote.

It was suppertime in Edinburgh Castle and Margaret sat with the lords of the Douglas faction while they were served, and the minstrels played softly as they ate.

She was trying to appear serene, but she felt far from that, as she looked about the table at those ambitious men. They were smug because they believed they had triumphed over their enemies, led by the Hamiltons; they were going to have a rude shock before the night was out.

But as yet they must suspect nothing; though it was difficult to act as though she was not all impatience to rise from the table.

There were six people besides herself in the secret…three men and three women; all her attendants. They too were alert, waiting for the signal.

Yet she must sit there as she would at any suppertime, listening to the music of the lute and the songs of the favorite singers.

At length she yawned and rose, and when one by one the lords took their leave of her, some of her women accompanied her to her bedchamber.

Seeming sleepy, she bade them good night; but no sooner had the door shut and their footsteps died away than she called to those three of her women—one of them that woman who had a brother in Arran’s service—and said: “Now. The time is come. Bring my riding gown and cloak; and we will escape.”

Her eyes were shining and she looked very young, for a plan such as this could always delight her and give life a new zest.

She had made up her mind that she had been a fool to come back to Angus, to place herself in the position of a deceived wife who must accept the vagaries of a husband. Master Chadworth could go to hell—a place with which he considered himself well acquainted by his accounts of it—for all she cared.

She had changed her mind. She would not stay with Angus; she was going to let the whole world know that she had too much pride to remain with an unfaithful husband who had gained his power through her. She had been forced to endure the unfaithfulness of James IV; but Angus was no Scottish King.

She was in her riding clothes and ready.

“Come,” she whispered. “By the spiral stairway…down to the courtyard.”

One of her women led the way; she followed; the other two came behind.

In the courtyard the three men were waiting.

They led the way cautiously, to where, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, dark shapes were waiting under a clump of trees; Margaret heard the neighing of horses.

Then a voice: “Your Grace, the Queen?”

“I am here,” she answered.

A man had ridden forward; he was leading a horse.

He dismounted, and taking her hand kissed it.

“James Hamilton,” he said, “at Your Grace’s service…now as ever.”

She saw his eyes gleam in the moonlight. He was tall, handsome and so like Arran that she guessed this was the son of the Earl—the natural son of whom she had heard and who was known as the Bastard of Arran.

He helped her mount and then, swinging himself into his saddle, brought his horse beside hers.

“Now,” he cried. “Away!”

It was a glorious experience to be riding through the night, a handsome man beside her, whose every look and gesture assured her of his respect for the Queen, and his admiration for a beautiful woman.

“My father is waiting for you at Stirling,” he told her. “I begged for the honor of taking you to him.”

“’Twas well planned,” she told him.

“I have thought of nothing else since I knew you would come.”

“Then you are indeed my friend.”

“So much so, Your Grace, that I would willingly do murder for you.”

“Nay, do not talk of murder.”

“Thoughts of murder will enter the mind when rumors of the ill treatment of our Queen disturb it.”

“Ah…that is over.”

“Nay, I shall never forgive it, even if Your Grace does.”

She would not discuss her husband, and she was silent. Being quick to sense her mood, he too was silent and there was no sound but the padding of their horses’ hoofs as they rode on to Stirling.

Yet memories of that night stayed with her. Arran’s bastard during that ride made her feel young again, desirable, so that the wounds which she had suffered from the treatment of Angus—and perhaps that of her first husband—were soothed; and she began to think that perhaps one day she might find someone who would love her as a woman, not as a queen.

That person was not James Hamilton of course; but she would always be grateful to him for reminding her that such a person might exist.

With the desertion of Margaret, Angus’s position deteriorated, and Arran persuaded the Queen that the way in which she could best obtain her divorce was by joining her pleas to those of the lords who wished Albany to return to Scotland.

Margaret had her own reasons for wishing to see Albany in Scotland and she fell in with Arran’s proposal, so that in the letters sent to Albany were some from her, and they were very cordial.

Angus, furious at the manner in which she had left him, and realizing that now any number of priests preaching hellfire would not be able to bring her back to him, wrote to Henry, telling him of Margaret’s friendship with Albany and that she had again gone so far as to join with those who were urging him to return.

Henry was furious; he was all for disowning a sister who was not only a friend of the French but planning to divorce her husband, but Cardinal Wolsey managed to persuade him to more diplomatic action.

Why not offer to support her with an army so that she might regain the Regency and the care of her son? For that was clearly what she wanted. Offer her this on condition that she returned to Angus and gave up all plans for a divorce.

When Margaret read Wolsey’s letter and understood all it contained she shut herself up alone in her apartments and thought about it.

To be the guardian of young James. That was what she deeply desired. To regain the Regency, which would mean that she would be in a position to guide James and teach him to rule wisely. What more could she ask?

But the price was high. Return to Angus! Accept his infidelity! To feel again the desire for him which she had never been able to curb. It was too humiliating. It was asking too much.

But how she longed to have young James living with her!

The offer was tempting; but the price was too humiliating.

“Nay,” she said aloud, “I shall not demean myself by returning to a husband whom I despise. And I shall go on fighting for my son.”

In the château of Auvergne, Albany sat at the bedside of his sick wife. She could not live many more weeks, he told himself, yet he had been saying that for a long time. She had grown frail in her infirmity and it was astonishing that a woman in her condition could go on living.

“Jehan,” she murmured, and stretched out a hand. He took the hand and looked down at it. It was like the hand of a skeleton.

Poor Anne! It was long since she had been a wife to him and on the rare occasions when he had been unfaithful to her it had grieved him. He had had a happy life with her until this sickness had come upon her, this lingering sickness which would not let her live the life of a normal woman, yet would not release her from a life grown irksome.

She was gentle and patient in sickness as she had been in health; and he would sit with her each day and tell her where he had hunted that day and what game he had brought home.

But she knew that he could not stay with her forever. He was a man of action with duties at Court and perhaps far away across the sea.

Scotland! It was never far from her mind, nor from his. They were importuning him now to return, and Margaret the Queen was now adding her pleas to those of the lords who had been his supporters; and that was an astonishing thing, because previously they had been enemies, rivals for the Regency.

He often thought of her—a fine woman, handsome, perhaps overproud, too much like that brother of hers who caused so much trouble in Europe.

He would not tell Anne, but he guessed that erelong a summons would come from François; then he could delay no longer. There had been a time when François had not wished him to go to Scotland, but that was when he was feigning a certain friendship with England, when the Kings had had that uneasy meeting, which had proved both costly and meaningless to them both, when the Princess Mary was betrothed to the Dauphin. But the political scene had changed. The new Emperor, Charles V, had visited his aunt Katharine in England, and England was inclined to friendship with the Emperor; which must mean that the brief amity Henry had professed with France was at an end. Wolsey was responsible for English foreign policy, and he undoubtedly had his eye on the Papal crown; doubtless he believed that the Emperor would now have more influence in that quarter than François. Thus France would need to court Scotland again.

Anne turned to him and said: “Jehan, are you thinking of Scotland?”

He nodded. “Every time I hear the sound of a horse’s hooves in the courtyard I wonder whether it it a summons.”

“And you will go?”

“I fear François will command it.”

She was silent, thinking of herself, a helpless invalid, and of him—tall, strong, vital. We have become an incongruous pair, she thought. He is not a man who should spend his time at a sickbed. Nor would he for long. The messenger would come; she was certain of it.

She was right. Within a week the summons came from the Court of France. Albany’s presence was needed in Scotland. He should prepare to leave without delay.

When Albany rode toward Stirling the people had come out of their houses to line the roadside and cheer him. They looked to him to put an end to the petty strife between the Douglas and the Hamilton factions which continually threatened to break into civil war. Only the Douglases and their friends had no welcome to offer. They feared the great soldier and his men, for they knew that not only had he come at Arran’s invitation but the Queen’s.

Margaret was waiting to greet him at Stirling Castle, dressed in her state robes of purple velvet lined with ermine, and she wore her golden hair loose, because in that way it was most becoming.

Albany bowed over her hand and his eyes told her that she was beautiful.

What a man! she thought. Why was I ever impressed by the looks of Angus? He is like a pretty boy compared with Albany.

This was a man who had been victorious in battle; a strong man, a man who was born to govern. He had the blood of kings in his veins even as she herself had. He was a king in all but name—a fitting mate for a queen.

The banquet she had ordered to be prepared was sumptuous; he sat at her right hand at the table on the dais, with his feet resting on the carpet. She noticed his gracious manners, his courteous smiles, the way in which he took his meat from the carvers, eating with a delicacy never seen in Scotland, so that he spilt no fat on his garments and only his fingers were greasy. These he delicately washed in the bowl halfway through the meal instead of waiting until the end.

French manners! thought Margaret. And I like them well when they are combined with manly strength.

He gave her his full attention; he behaved as though she and only she was of real importance to him. He told her that he had indeed been happy to come to Scotland when he received her letters of invitation.

“My lord,” she answered, “I see full well that since you are come we shall have peace in the land.”

“My one desire is to keep the King secure and happy.”

“Then we share the same desire.”

Margaret’s eyes were shining. He would allow her to be with her son; he would understand how important a mother could be to a growing boy. Oh, how glad she was that he had come! His proximity excited her.

She said in a low voice which was faintly hoarse with emotion: “I see that there will be friendship between us.”

“It is my earnest hope,” he answered.

The musicians played and they talked of music; they discovered similar tastes. Later he and she led the dancers and, although they talked no more of the purpose of his visit but gave themselves up to the joys of the dance and the masque, she believed that a bond had been established between them.

And when she retired that night she found it difficult to sleep. She was like a young girl who had been to her first ball.

What has happened to me? she asked herself. And she knew that she felt thus because hope had come back into her life.

They left Stirling together and set out for Linlithgow. Here Albany was entertained royally; there was more feasting, more dancing, and Margaret was like a young girl in her newly found happiness.

Albany was thinking: Why not? It would be a solution. Yet he was glad that as yet no decision could be reached. Neither of them was free. He had a wife who was sick and could certainly not live much longer; she had a husband from whom she was trying to obtain a divorce.

She was a beautiful woman; Albany was a lusty man. None would blame him for a little dalliance. He was fond of his wife, but he was far from home and even Anne was realist enough not to expect complete fidelity in the circumstances. All that she would ask was that he should never desert her while she lived; and that he would never do.

So he allowed himself to follow whither Margaret beckoned and if people were watching them and spies were taking an account of their conduct to the English Court, what did that matter? It was his duty to sow discord between the Scottish and English Courts.

As they danced in the hall of Linlithgow Palace he said to her: “We will go together to visit the King at Edinburgh. If I come with his mother he will know I come as his friend.”

“That will give me great pleasure.”

“Then I shall fulfill two desired objects at the same time…See the King and please his mother.”

She lowered her eyes that he might not see the desire for him which she could not hide. It was long since she had been so happy.

The next day they set out for Edinburgh and, as they rode into the city to the cheers of the people, their eyes fixed on the Castle rising ahead of them, Margaret said: “I wonder if James is at a window watching for us. He will be so excited, but not more so than I.”

“He must be yearning to see his mother.”

“I believe he is, but not more so than she is to see him.”

As they rode up to the Castle gates the Captain of the Castle came out and kneeling presented the keys to Albany.

He took them, and turning to Margaret, gave them to her.

This was a moment of great triumph because it was tantamount to saying: The freedom of the Castle is yours.

She did not know how to thank him; she wanted to tell him what a difference his coming had made to her; so she made the gesture which could imply her full trust in him. She shook her head and answered: “Nay, it is you who should hold the keys of the Castle.”

He took them and they entered.

Margaret stood by with tears in her eyes while Albany paid homage to her little son. Then she knelt down and embraced James and he put his arms about her hugging her, telling her that he had long waited for her coming.

“This is indeed a happy day,” said Margaret.

They danced late into the night.

Margaret said to him: “I fear we cause some comment.”

“There will always be comments directed against people who are placed as we are.”

“You understand that I cannot live with Angus.”

“I understand full well.”

“He has not been a good husband to me, and in some ways a traitor to Scotland.”

“We have a way of dealing with traitors. He is already under arrest.”

Margaret caught her breath. For an instant she had a picture of Angus going to his death. She shuddered; she would be haunted forevermore by his beautiful body stark and dead. There had been times, following Flodden, when she had had bad dreams of James. It was a divorce from Angus she wanted; not his death. She had always hated the thought of death, and she hoped never to have the death of any man or woman on her conscience.

She explained this to Albany who listened thoughtfully.

“I see you have a tender heart,” he said.

“I loved him once,” she answered. “He is a foolish, reckless boy…nothing more. He does not deserve death. I long to be free from him, but I should never rest in peace if I thought I had a hand in causing his death. Help me to divorce him and you will make me a happy woman.”

“Have I made it clear that I would do all in my power to make you a happy woman?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “I have longed to hear you say that.”

He realized that she was taking his compliments with the utmost seriousness. He shrugged his shoulders. Why not? The wine and the dance had excited him; she was a very beautiful woman, and who could say what the future held for them? When they were free, as he doubted not they must be erelong, a match between them would be a good political move, one which he knew would delight his master, François, and probably put her brother Henry in such a rage as he had rarely known before.

“We will send him to France as an exile,” he said. “Never fear. I will give orders that he is well treated there, but go he shall.”

“And you will help me in Rome?”

“You may depend upon it; I shall do all in my power to help you in that direction.”

“Oh, how I long to be free of that man!”

“You soon will be. I am sure of this. As for myself…”

She moved nearer to him. “Soon we shall both be free,” she whispered. “But there is now…”

It was an invitation which it would be churlish to refuse.

That night they were lovers.

Those were happy months. There was scandal concerning them, but she did not care. She wrote glowingly to her brother; she wanted to make peace between Henry and Albany, as she had once tried to reconcile the two countries during the lifetime of James.

Henry was furious when he read the letters. He growled that she was shameless and that it mortified him because he had a sister who could so forget all decent behavior.

He wanted to write to her, ordering her to abandon the Regent and return to Angus. Angus was his protégé and he was ready to make that young man the head of a faction working for England in Scotland. He was even more angry concerning the divorce than he had been when he had first heard of it. He was beginning to believe that he would never get sons from Katharine and that there was a curse on their marriage. As he could not imagine how he could have offended God, he looked for some fault in his Queen and was reminded that she had been his brother’s wife before she had been his. His conscience concerning his marriage began to worry him and he too was thinking of divorce.

A pretty state of affairs, he thought, for a brother and a sister to be asking Rome for a divorce at the same time. Therefore Margaret must stop her importuning; she must return to Angus.

That was the very thing Margaret was determined not to do.

Since her friendship with Albany had begun to bloom she was permitted to see a great deal of her son. James was affectionate by nature and fascinated by his lively mother; as she understood that he was as contented with their reunion as she was, her happiness was complete.

So each day she saw James; soon she would be divorced from Angus and she was constantly in Albany’s company. When she and Albany were free their union would be legalized to the glory of Scotland and the delight of its Queen.

Angus, having made his promise to leave for exile, was granted freedom to do so; but once free he snapped his fingers at Albany and continued to stay in Edinburgh.

There could be no peace while Angus was in Scotland, and Albany was certainly not the man to see his orders disobeyed.

When he was told that Angus still lingered in Edinburgh he took off his bonnet and threw it into the fire—a habit of his when enraged. No one ever made any attempt to withdraw the bonnet from the fire and Albany would stand glaring at it, watching flames curl about fine velvet. It was thus that he managed to curb his anger against those who offended him; and by the time the bonnet was consumed he was his equable self again. His friends had seen many a good bonnet destroyed in this way.

All the same he had no intention of allowing Angus to flout his authority.

Knowing that Angus frequented a certain wine shop, he sent for the owner of the shop, and said to him: “My Lord Angus is a patron of your shop, I believe.”

“That is so, my lord. When his lordship is in Edinburgh he often comes in with a member of his clan. They’re fond of the wine, my lord.”

“Hmm,” said Albany. “Now listen carefully. When next he comes in, I want you to send a message to my guards. Then you are to slip a potion which will be given to you into the wine of my Lord Angus and any companions he may have with him. Is that clear?”

The man said he understood full well and the Regent’s orders should be carried out.

It was some nights later when Angus entered the wine shop in the company of his brother George, and called imperiously for wine which was immediately brought to him—but not before the potion had been slipped into it and a message sent to the guards.

While Angus and George sat drinking, Angus was boasting that neither his wife nor the Regent would get him to leave Edinburgh. He had as much right in Edinburgh as they had—and more so, for Albany was half French and Margaret was an Englishwoman.

George applauded his brother. George was faithful, although the more sober members of the family had deplored the conduct of the head of their House. Gavin Douglas had called him “a witless fool, running on his own mischief by the persuasion of wily and subtle men.”

Their uncle, who had died of the plague in London, had been an old man, Angus told George now. Such men were well enough in their day, but times changed and it was young men who knew how best to live in modern times.

George agreed with his brother, as always; and they drank freely of the drugged wine.

“Why, George,” said Angus at length, “you seem to have grown witless indeed. I declare you have drunk too well.”

George nodded slowly as he slumped forward over the table.

Angus tried to rise, but his legs had become woolly.

“Landlord,” he began, “this wine of yours is potent stuff…” Then he too fell back.

It was time for the guards to enter the wine shop. This they did and, with the ropes which they had brought with them, they bound the Douglases and carried them away.

Outside the shop, horses were waiting and the bodies of the two men were slung across these; the guards mounted and, taking the drugged men with them, they made off with as much speed as possible to Leith.

When Angus and his brother opened their eyes, they were on a boat, bound for France.

When he heard how Angus had been banished from Scotland and that his sister continued to live in the utmost amity with Albany, Henry was furious. His own marriage was causing him great concern, and that affair which was becoming known as the King’s Secret Matter was already being whispered about, not only in England but abroad.

It seemed to him an act of unfriendliness on Margaret’s part to allow Angus to be banished and to continue to sue for a divorce, a relief which he himself now craved.

His fury broke out and without consulting Wolsey he ordered that every Scotsman living in England was to have a white cross marked on his top garment and leave England on foot without delay. The distress this caused was terrible, particularly as the Border barons, who never needed much excuse, immediately engaged in savage warfare against each other.

To Margaret this seemed only a minor irritation. She was now in residence at Stirling Castle, and the young King was with her. She herself supervised his lessons and each day marveled at his intelligence, declaring again and again that here was his father all over again.

The Regent had matters of state to attend to but they spent much time together and, despite her brother’s efforts to prevent the divorce being granted, Margaret had great hopes that she would succeed.

It was pleasant to think that Angus was out of Scotland and that he was not being ill treated in France. Quite the contrary, Albany assured her, for he had given orders that Angus and his brother were to be given honors in accordance with their rank.

The coming of Albany and the banishment of Angus naturally restored internal peace to Scotland; and this, thought Margaret, is a foretaste of what life here would be like if he and I were married and ruled together until James is of an age to do so.

Then one day as she was passing from her apartments to the great dining hall, and noticing that one of the pages was lying on the stairs in a state of collapse, Margaret went to him and asked what ailed him. The poor boy was too ill to rise and Margaret laid a hand on his hot forehead.

“I will send some of your companions to take you to your apartments,” she told him.

Next day the alarming news was brought to her. There was smallpox in the castle.

Margaret’s one thought was for the King.

She was on her way to his apartment when she remembered that she had seen the page on the staircase, that she had touched his brow.

She stood still with horror. It might be so. How could she tell?

She went back to her apartments and summoned one of her women.

She gave orders that the King was to be removed to Dalkeith Palace without delay. She herself intended to follow but not until she knew it was safe to do so.

How glad she was a few days later that she had acted as she did.

The King was safe and well; but Margaret had fallen victim to the dread smallpox.

During the weeks which followed, once more she faced death, and those who cared for her were certain that this time she could not survive.

Margaret, tossing on her bed, often falling into unconsciousness, was not always aware of what was happening about her; when her mind was lucid she asked about her children. Reassuring voices told her that they were well and happy and she had nothing to fear. The King had escaped the smallpox; the Regent sent her friendly messages; and all she must do was concentrate on getting well again.

There were letters from Wolsey written on behalf of Henry, pointing out the desirability of bringing Angus back to Scotland, and there were hints of an almost threatening nature in these letters. Henry wanted her to know that in becoming Albany’s friend she had become her brother’s enemy.

She did not care. Henry was far away. Let him rule his own country and leave her alone. When she and Albany were married they would live happily together, and because Albany was a wise man, and a strong one, there would be peace in Scotland and the English would be obliged to look to their own affairs on the other side of the Border.

At last, she assured herself, I have come to peace and happiness; and this was the thought which was helping her to live through these terrible weeks. She had the love of her son; she had her dear little daughter; and when she married Albany there would be more children.

She was moving near to that for which she had always longed: the happy family life. The husband on whom she could lavish her passionate devotion; her children whom she could guide, comfort and love.

It has been long in coming, she thought. I had to live through two marriages to reach it. But it is waiting for me now. Albany’s life with Anne de la Tour is almost over; he has been devoted to her and would never cause her unhappiness by attempting to divorce her, and I honor him for that. But she cannot live long. As for Angus, the divorce cannot long be withheld and then…to contentment.

A letter came from Albany. He must return to France to collect men and ammunition, as Henry was becoming more and more aggressive and the Border warfare was threatening to break out more seriously than hitherto.

He asked for an audience before he left; he wanted to assure her that he would soon return.

She immediately felt better.

“Bring me a mirror,” she cried. “I must see how I look after this long illness.”

The woman whom she had asked looked at her in dismay; through her illness she had been too sick and feeble to care for her appearance.

“Why do you stand there?” demanded Margaret. “Did you not hear my command?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then go and fetch me a mirror.”

The woman stammered: “Y-Your Grace…I have received orders…”

“What orders? Who gives orders here…?”

“The physicians have said to wait until you were stronger.”

Fear touched Margaret then. She was to wait until she was stronger before she was allowed to look into a mirror. What can this mean? she asked herself. But she could guess.

She must know the truth…whatever it was.

“Bring me a mirror,” she again commanded. “I order you to do so, no matter what the physicians have told you.”

The woman went away and, in a short time, came back holding the mirror, which Margaret snatched from her hand.

“Oh…no!” The words escaped her as she stared in horror. That was not Margaret Tudor who looked back at her. The lovely skin, pitted, the eyelid drawn down over one eye. “It cannot be!” she whispered.

But there was no evading the truth. Gone were her glowing good looks. The face which looked back at her seemed hideous and repulsive.

The woman threw herself by the bed, her arms outstretched for the mirror, which Margaret would not relinquish.

“Your Grace, it is early yet. The physicians say you will recover…”

Margaret did not answer; she continued to stare at the wreck of her beauty.

“The Queen is too ill to see the Duke of Albany before he leaves.”

That was the message she sent to him.

So he sailed away and she was almost glad that he had gone, because she could not have borne that he should see her as she was.

Her physicians assured her that when she recovered her health the effects of the pox would be less disfiguring; her women comforted her that she was growing more like her old self every day.

But in her heart she knew that she would never again be desired for her beauty; and she wondered apprehensively what would happen when Albany returned to Scotland.

That dreary winter was over and spring had come. The physician’s comforting assurances had had some small foundation, for as Margaret’s health improved so did her appearance to some extent. Gone was the glowing skin which, with her abundant shining hair, had been one of her greatest attractions; the deformation of her eyelid remained although it had ceased to look grotesque. And as the weeks passed she became more reconciled to the lessening of her beauty. She dressed herself even more richly than before; and even when she lay in bed recovering from her illness, she would have her attendants bring out her gowns and hold them up before her. She took great pleasure in them and her jewels; and she persuaded herself that, once she was able to leave her bed, they would do much for her.

Naturally resilient she soon grew to live with her changed appearance, reminding herself that she had a great deal for which to be thankful. Albany would return to Scotland; and although his wife still lived and she herself had not yet obtained her divorce from Angus, soon they must be free. When she was well enough she would be with James again; while she was ill she had received tender messages from him, and there was no doubt that he dearly loved his mother. To be loved by husband and child could compensate for so much, and Margaret began to look forward to the future with hope.

It was inevitable that, among those who surrounded her, were spies put there by those who deplored her friendship with Albany and were in secret working for an English alliance. Angus was no longer in Scotland but the Douglases were a numerous and powerful clan with their tentacles widespread. If Albany’s wife died, if Margaret obtained her divorce, the Douglases would indeed be in decline. Therefore every effort would be made by them to turn Margaret from Albany and toward Angus.

A piece of information came to the ears of the Douglas group and they decided that it must be brought to the Queen’s notice as quickly as possible. They did not want to mention it themselves, as that would be to earn Margaret’s scornful disbelief. But if it were whispered to her as a piece of gossip, she would not rest until she had proved it to be false or true.

Thus it was one of her women who slyly passed on the information to her by introducing the Flemings into the conversation.

“Oh, the Flemings, Your Grace. They always gave themselves airs. Lord Fleming hated his wife, they say, and that was why she died at breakfast with her sisters. And now of course his sister is becoming arrogant.”

“But why so?” asked Margaret idly, thinking of James, never ceasing to mourn Margaret Drummond who had died at that same fatal breakfast with her sister, Lord Fleming’s wife.

“On account of my lord Duke, Your Grace.”

“My lord Duke?”

“My lord Duke of Albany, Your Grace.”

Margaret lowered her eyes to hide the fear in them. “And what of him?”

“Well, Your Grace, ’tis said that he is a man who has been unable to live with his wife, she being an invalid, and that it is natural that he should take a mistress. The Flemings were always a family to look to their advantages, and doubtless they persuaded her to it.”

“To what?” demanded Margaret, meaning to whisper yet finding herself breaking into a shout.

“Fleming’s sister is the mistress of the Duke of Albany, Your Grace. Well, he is an attractive man and she was nothing loath. As for her family, they could see nothing amiss in being so linked with the Regent.”

“It is idle gossip.”

“Nay, Your Grace, I…”

“I tell you it is.”

The woman was silent; but she was satisfied that she had done her duty to the Douglases and the mischief had worked.

Margaret would not rest until she had discovered the truth, and there was no doubt at all that during his last stay in Scotland Lord Fleming’s sister had been the mistress of the Duke of Albany.

She lay in bed and held the mirror before her face. Her eyes were hard and brilliant; they were burning with the tears which her pride would not let her shed. She was no weak creature to weep and sob because once again she had been cheated.

It was like some cruel pattern. All the men she loved were unfaithful to her. She gave them passionate love; she was ready to give them devotion; but, alas, they turned elsewhere; and always they deceived her. Others knew of their infidelity before she would have deemed such infidelity possible.

It was too much to be borne in silence; and if her love could be passionate so could her hatred.

She hated Albany for so deceiving her. She realized now that she had been the one who had set their love affair in motion; she had invited him and he had courteously accepted her advances, when all the time doubtless he had preferred the embraces of the Fleming woman.

She hated the whole Fleming clan. Nor could she curb that hatred. She began to refer to Lord Fleming as the murderer of his wife and sister-in-law. It was reviving an old slander which had almost been forgotten; but now it was being remembered again, how James IV had desired to marry Margaret Drummond, and she had died after taking breakfast with her two sisters, one of whom was Lord Fleming’s wife.

By whose hand did they die?

Could it be true that Lord Fleming, wishing to poison his own wife, had mistakenly poisoned her sisters with her?

To revive that old story was small revenge, Margaret felt, for the wrong which had been done her.

How unhappy she was during those warm summer days.

Never again will I put my trust in men, Margaret told herself.

Now she would devote herself to her son’s interests. The boy was in his eleventh year. He was bright, intelligent, and very fond of his mother, who since her friendship with Albany, had been a great deal in his company.

David Lindsay was still his constant companion; the man would have died for the boy. James knew this and loved him dearly.

David had recently married a young girl named Janet Douglas who was a seamstress of the King’s household earning ten pounds a year; but his marriage had made no difference to his duties. James had inherited a love of music from his father and David fostered this, so many long hours were spent in singing and playing the lute and clavichord. David had also taught the boy to love and care for animals and it was their pleasure to play with these in Stirling Park and attempt to teach them tricks; although David would never allow the slightest cruelty, but was very anxious to make the boy understand that, while he took great pleasure in them, he must never forget that it was his duty to care for and protect them.

It was true, Margaret decided, that he was but a boy; but he was also the King, and he was old for his years. Poor child, it seemed that since his father’s death he had been in a kind of captivity, never allowed to go where he wished, nor to meet his friends unless he had the permission of others to do so. A pretty state of affairs for a king to find himself involved in!

Why should not the King be released from this semiconfinement? Why should he not be placed at the head of a party—as a nominal head of course—and as he was so ready to trust his mother, why should she not be the real power behind that party?

She would never trust a man again; she had done with men; she was now going to devote herself to politics and restoring herself to the Regency and her son to that life which was due to him as King of Scotland.

She went to Stirling Castle and found James in his apartments with David Lindsay.

When James saw her he greeted her with exclamations of delight.

“It is my mother, Davie,” he cried. “She will be delighted with our papingo.”

“I am sure she will,” replied David, and Margaret saw that on the boy’s wrist, as though it were a falcon, was a brightly plumaged parrot.

“She was sent to me as a gift,” James chattered. “Is she not beautiful? Have you ever seen such a bird? And Davie says that she may even learn to speak. He is teaching her to whistle.”

“Which she does very well,” added David, as excited as the King.

Margaret’s mind was full of her plan, but her interest was caught by the parrot, for she had never seen such a bird before and the idea of its being able to whistle seemed to her fantastic.

When she had marveled at its oddities and listened to James accompanying David’s singing on the lute, she intimated that she would like to be alone with her son, and David retired.

“Why, Jamie,” she said, when they were alone, “what a strange life it is that you live, and you a king!”

“Strange, Mother?”

“Why, here you are almost a prisoner. Had your father lived, how different it would have been!”

“Then I should not be King.”

“Oh, Jamie, how sad it was that your father should die and you become a prisoner of ambitious men.”

“Yes,” said James slowly, “I suppose I am a prisoner…of a sort.”

“Indeed you are, for if you wished to leave Stirling Castle you would be prevented from doing so. Poor James, you remember little else, so how can you guess what freedom means? And you a king. There are times when I feel very angry with those who cause you to live as you do. The King should be free and, although you are of no great age, still you are a king.”

James was thoughtful. Then he said: “Who is it who insists on my being kept a prisoner?”

“The Parliament—and the Parliament is led by the Regent.”

“The Duke of Albany? I liked him well. I thought he was my friend.”

“Your friend?” Margaret laughed. “He has a charming manner, has he not? Such manners are cultivated by those who plan to deceive us.”

“So he has deceived us?”

Margaret’s eyes narrowed, and James stared at her wide-eyed.

“He is the most deceitful man on Earth!” she muttered.

“Indeed he must be,” answered James, “for he had led me to believe he was my friend.”

“It is necessary to be cautious with men such as he is. But, James, I have made up my mind that you shall not be treated in this way much longer. It is my wish that you should leave this prison and take your place in the country of which you are King.”

James’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “How so, Mother?”

“As yet I am unsure. I believe your uncle would help us—now that I have discovered the perfidy of Albany. It might be necessary for us to escape over the Border and throw ourselves on his mercy for a while. Then he would send an army and overthrow the Regent Albany and all he stands for.”

“When, Mother?”

“Oh, there is nothing settled yet, but it is as well to be prepared.”

“Then one day I shall escape. I shall go to my uncle’s Court, and then we will gather together an army and I shall be in truth King.”

Margaret looked into his eager young face. “How I wish you were older,” she sighed. “But we will be patient. Say nothing to anyone of this—not even David. It is our secret. I want you to remember though that you are the King and that it is not right that you should be treated as you are.”

“I will remember it,” replied the King.

The parrot began to whistle suddenly, and his earnest look left him as he broke into a smile.

“Listen, Mother,” he cried. “You see how clever she is! Is she not a wonderful papingo?”

He was a child at heart, thought Margaret. But he should not remain so. He was, before all, the King; and she was determined to set him up, that she might the better rid Scotland of one who had poisoned the love she had given him so that it was fast turning to bitter hatred.

The only way in which she could live through those months of bitter disappointment was by making wild plans. She must be in the thick of intrigue to stop herself brooding; so she retired to Perth, where she felt she could act more secretly, and immediately renewed her correspondence with her brother.

In her letters she gave vent to wrath against Albany; she reported his liaison with Fleming’s sister and added that she distrusted the Fleming clan, for Lord Fleming himself had murdered his own wife—a mysterious event which had taken place before she, Margaret, came to Scotland—and, with his wife, two of her sisters.

Always ready to listen to attacks on Albany and his French connections, Henry was interested in his sister’s change of front. He implied that if she offered to stop agitating for a divorce and became reconciled to Angus, she would have the wholehearted support of England.

But hating her latest lover as she did, Margaret had no intention of rejoining one who had deceived her even more cruelly. That was one point on which she was adamant. Never would she go back to Angus.

Meanwhile Albany’s friends, having an inkling of what was happening, wrote to him and told him that his presence was urgently needed in Scotland and it was unwise for him to delay his return; but Albany, on account of his wife’s sickness, was in no hurry to come.

Meanwhile Margaret had succeeded in obtaining terms from the English for a truce between the two countries, and she returned to Edinburgh determined to bring forward young James and allow him to speak for himself in the Tolbooth, demanding, as Scotland’s King, the right to go where he would throughout his kingdom.

James, being a fearless boy and well coached by Margaret, entered the Tolbooth that day in a kingly fashion and even the cynical lords were impressed and a little awed. Many of them told themselves that they must have a care how they behaved toward him; he was young yet, but he would one day be King and he looked sharp enough to remember those who offended him.

James spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I am your King and I will no longer be your prisoner. This realm is of goodly size but it will not contain both me and the Duke of Albany.”

Several of the lords spoke, respectfully explaining to the King that he was accompanied by guards for his own safety. They had no wish but to serve him, and this they had sworn to do.

James was looking at his mother for his next cue; but at that moment Gaultier de Malines, who had entered the Tolbooth immediately after the King was in his place, came forward to say that he had a message from his master the Duke of Albany and he believed that now was the time to deliver it.

“My master,” he said, “thanks you for your support of his rule during his absence. He is on his way to you and he has good news for you. Sir Richard de la Pole will shortly be arriving with an army for the invasion of England; and he knows that you will recognize as enemies to Scotland those who have tried to bring about a truce between the two perennial enemies. Let the King remain in Stirling Castle with certain trusted lords as his guardians; but give him license to hunt if he so wishes.”

Margaret, listening and watching the effect of these words on the lords, felt so frustrated that she could scarcely restrain her tears, for anger could make her weep more easily than sorrow. The King had made such a good impression and but for the coming of Gaultier de Malines she would have won James his liberty.

She cried: “This is no way in which to treat your King. He may be young in years, but see, he is indeed a king.”

But she knew she could not move them with her pleas, so she asked that she might choose the King’s guardians and that Lords Borthwick and Erskine might be these, with help from the Abbot of Holyrood and the Bishop of Aberdeen.

The Parliament agreed that Lord Erskine should be the King’s guardian but rejected the others.

James, seeing his mother’s grief, stamped his foot and cried: “Do you forget, gentlemen, that I am your King?”

The lords were taken aback. None of them dared meet the King’s eye, but they reminded themselves that he was only a child; and they had seen how his mother changed her policy according to her whim. They remembered how she had married Angus scarcely a year after Flodden, and how honors had been heaped on him and his family; now she had nothing but bitter hatred for Angus and his clan. Then she had been friendly with Albany, and now her regard was turned to a venom almost as potent as that which she felt for Angus.

Margaret was governed by her emotions and it was dangerous to follow such a woman.

Still, the boy was the King and he was reminding them of that.

It was proposed then that, if Albany did not return within two weeks, the King’s guards should be removed and he be allowed to go wherever he wished; moreover the terms set out by the English for the truce would be again considered.

It was not utter defeat, thought Margaret, as she and the King left the Tolbooth.

Albany had arrived at Dumbarton.

When Margaret received the news she dismissed all her women so that she might be alone to think. She took up her mirror and studied her face. She had grown used to the change now, but it would strike him forcibly. She thought of all the gowns she possessed and which became her most. But since she hated him, why should she care what he thought of her? Yet, she told herself, I must curb my feelings; never must he know how he has wounded me. If I have shown my interest in him, it must be believed that I considered him a worthy match for me—when we both became free—which he would be.

It was important that she should see the King immediately to discuss with him what the return of Albany could mean, to coach him in what he must do and say; and she was thankful that at least her son had such a regard for her that he was ready to obey her in all she asked of him.

She set out for Stirling, and there was warmly welcomed by James. She saw that he had changed; he was no longer malleable; she had made him realize the power which could be his and already he was surrounded by companions who were eager to humor and flatter him. But he was as affectionate toward his mother as ever and she was delighted with him.

David Lindsay however was disturbed and sought to speak to her in private, but she had little time for David Lindsay now; she was grateful to him for his past care of the boy, but he was essentially a companion for a child. James, however, had not changed toward his old friend, although he spent less time with him, there being so many new interests in his life. He liked to hunt with companions a little older than himself, though seeming the same age since he was old for his years.

He had taken the opportunity to hunt every day, and was clearly going to be a great lover of the chase. He had grieved a little because his beloved papingo had escaped into the park where it had been attacked and killed by the wild birds there; but that event had made him throw himself more eagerly into his new pastimes that he might forget his precious bird; and when he was with David he always remembered.

Margaret told him that Albany was in Scotland and they must be wary.

“He will doubtless come to you with soft words, but we must remember he is a very deceitful man.”

James listened carefully, and she rejoiced because his regard for her was so apparent.

He wanted to show her his new household; many of his old servants had been replaced, and when they sat down to a banquet she made the acquaintance of a merry young man, handsome in a brash way, who was the King’s Master Carver.

He was very bold, this young man, and he did not seem overawed by the presence of the King or Queen. In his livery of silk, his doublet of crimson satin and his red hose which were furred with black budge he was quite a dazzling figure.

He carved for the King and the Queen on that occasion, and kept them amused by his merry wit.

“Tell me,” said Margaret to her son, “who is this young man who seems so pleased with himself and life?”

“I will get him to speak to you himself,” answered James, and beckoning the young man, added, “Her Grace the Queen would speak with you.”

The young man bowed low and opened his eyes wide with pleasure. He murmured: “The Queen wishes to speak with me! This is the happiest day of my life.”

“Tell me your name,” said Margaret.

“It is Henry Stuart, Your Grace.”

Margaret smiled. “A goodly name and one which is not unfamiliar to me. Tell me to which branch of the family you belong.”

“My father is Lord Avondale, Your Grace, and I am his second son. My brother James is in the service of the King with me. We count ourselves fortunate to be in such good service.”

“And it would seem to me that you perform your duties in a commendable manner.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and murmured: “Your Grace, who could fail to…when serving the King? And now to enjoy the additional pleasure of serving the Queen…!”

There was something in the boldness of his looks which she found amusing. She signed for him to carve for her, which he did with alacrity and, when he held the meat for her to take, his eyes were on her in a manner which, though bold, she did not find offensive. He was young and he had made her feel young.

When she retired that night she felt more lighthearted than she had for a long time.

Albany was on his way to see her and she could not restrain her excitement. The fact that she knew he had had a mistress while he was making love to her could only grieve her, she supposed; it could not make her hate him. She had chosen her gown with the utmost care; her hair at least had lost none of its beauty, it was carefully dressed and she was adorned with jewels. But she could not completely hide the ravages of the smallpox, and he would notice how changed she was. Yet when she was at the height of her beauty he could not be faithful; neither could James, her first husband, nor Angus her second.

She had left the King at Stirling and returned to her lodgings in Edinburgh, for she knew that Albany was on his way to the King and she thought it fitting that she should not greet him in James’s presence. Her friends had told her how Albany had knelt before young James and sworn that he had returned to Scotland to lay down his life, if need be, for his sake.

And now he was on his way to Edinburgh and Holyrood Palace which he would make his headquarters.

She could hear the sounds of acclamation in the streets; he was immediately popular even though he did seem like a foreigner to the citizens of Edinburgh. It was the Stuart charm which was so irresistible and seemed to be possessed by everyone who bore the name. That young Master Carver of James’s had it. He was a bold fellow and perhaps she had encouraged him overmuch; but he had so pleased her; he had made her feel that she was young again and that her women were right when they assured her that the pox had made little difference to her looks.

Albany paused on his way to Holyrood to call on the Queen. She waited, her head held high, until he came and stood before her. He bowed and, when his eyes met hers, there was no sign that he noticed any difference in her appearance.

“So you have come back to Scotland!” she said.

“I should never have left, had it not been necessary.”

She wished that her heart would not beat so wildly, that she did not feel so absurdly glad that he had come. Yet mingling with her pleasure was a fierce anger against him. She wanted to say: And when do you propose to visit your paramour, the Fleming woman?

But their conversation was cool, as was becoming in the presence of others.

“How long will you remain in Edinburgh?” she asked him.

“For but a short while, I fear. I have matters to attend to.”

“On the Border?” she suggested, but he only smiled.

“Yet,” he went on, “I hear that my friends have prepared some entertainment for me at Holyrood. I could not enjoy it if the Queen were not present to make my joy in this return complete.”

She smiled. The desire to dance with him in the state apartments of Holyrood Palace was too great to be denied.

They led the dance as they had on previous occasions.

“It has seemed long,” he said.

“Doubtless you had much to occupy you in France.”

“So much—and yet it seemed long.”

“I was very sick when you left.”

“I did not know how sick, or I should never have been able to leave Scotland.”

“Nay,” she retorted “one mistress sick, what matters it? There was another to amuse your leisure hours.”

He was silent; then he gave her a remorseful look. “Alas,” was all he said, smiling wryly as he did so.

“My enemies told me,” she continued. “I would rather have heard it from you.”

“One’s flesh is weak,” he admitted.

“It seems a very hard task for a man to be faithful to one woman. I begin to believe it is an almost impossible one to fulfill.”

“That,” he said with a snap of his fingers, “is of no great moment. It is the affections, the tenderness, which are important.”

“I agree. To love would mean never to hurt the loved one by deed or word.”

“I beg you to understand that what happened in a moment of weakness need have no lasting effect on the relationship between us two.”

“Perhaps you are of a lighter mind than I, my lord. You may understand your feelings; you cannot understand mine. You gave no sign of your horror when you saw what illness had done to me…just as you gave no sign that you had another mistress. I congratulate you on your superb control. I should have liked you better had you displayed more human feelings.”

She could feel the anger rising now. She wanted to shout at him, to wound him as he had wounded her. She wanted to scream: Why do I have to love these faithless men? Why cannot I escape from my emotions as easily as they can from theirs?

He was watching her, and she wondered whether he knew how near she was coming to a hysterical outburst. He would know a great deal about a woman’s feelings, she was sure. He, with his devotion to a sick wife! Devotion indeed! No doubt he sat at her bedside and soothed her…when he was not visiting some new mistress. She believed she had the measure of him. He was a man who wanted peace; but he wanted to satisfy his lusts also. He did so in secret, keeping this from his sick wife, playing the faithful husband, as he played the passionate lover to each of his mistresses in turn.

She was praying now for calm and for courage. She must not obey the demands of her senses; she must cling to her pride; she must let Albany know that he could not treat the Queen of Scotland as one of his lights-o’-love and expect her to be willing and eager the moment he beckoned.

“I will make you understand…when we are alone,” he murmured.

She was fighting his allure with all her strength, and against her will she forced herself to say: “I do not know when that will be, my lord, for I have no wish to be alone with you.”

He looked regretful, but calm as ever. Why should he care that she would no longer have him in her bed? He would doubtless quickly seek solace with the Fleming woman.

Albany was only faintly disturbed by the Queen’s discovery of his infidelity. He believed that, if Anne should die and Margaret obtain her divorce, a marriage between them would be considered so desirable that she would succumb and marry him. Moreover he knew that she had been very loath to deny him her bed. He had read the anger in her eyes; he knew she was a passionate woman; that was jealousy he had seen tonight, and if she had not cared deeply for him she would not feel the fierce anger which she obviously did.

If it were necessary he would have no difficulty in regaining her affection.

But at the moment he had other matters which demanded his attention. He had men and arms at his disposal and he was going to wage war on the enemy of Scotland and his master, the King of France.

He spoke to the Parliament in the Tolbooth and he was very eloquent.

“Have you forgotten,” he demanded, “how your King and your fathers were slain on Flodden Field? How many Scottish towns have been destroyed; how many Scottish churches desecrated? How many Scottish homes, perilously near the Border, have been sacked? The time has come to defeat these enemies once and for all. We have the arms. What are we waiting for?”

The Parliament listened. It was true that they hated the English, and now Albany was back in Scotland with news that Sir Richard de la Pole, who called himself the Duke of Suffolk, was preparing an army which would invade England. The cockerel Tudor would be driven from his throne; there would be peace forevermore between the two kingdoms. No more fighting on the Border, no more fear throughout the land that the English were preparing to invade.

Very soon after his arrival in Scotland Albany was on the march, and when he reached the Border he sent a challenge to the Earl of Surrey to come on and fight.

Surrey however declined the invitation. He was ready to fight, he said, but he would do so on English soil. Let the Scots come to him.

But the weather had changed and the Scots were fearful of entering England. They murmured together, asking themselves why they should be living uncomfortably thus in camp when they might be at their own firesides. Albany declared his devotion to Scotland, but wasn’t he really fighting for France, and shouldn’t the French fight their own battles?

Albany was filled with rage against these Scotsmen, particularly as he had reason to know that the English were in no state to withstand an attack. They could have settled the old score; they could have healed the wounds they had suffered at Flodden.

But no, said the Scots. They were not crossing into England.

Well might he snatch off his bonnet and throw it into the camp fire.

Watching the flames curl about the velvet he felt, as ever, his anger burning out.

He was wearying of Scotland; he wanted to be at home in France. Anne needed him. He was tired of the virago Margaret, the cloying Fleming woman. What did they mean to him? Nothing compared with Anne.

He wanted to go back to her bedside, to sit with her, for he knew that the pain was less acute when he was there. He wanted to take her hands—those thin, transparent hands—and say to her: “Anne, they are nothing, those women…they satisfy the desire of an hour…and then there is the remorse. But you would understand. You know…and you have never reproached me.”

Holy Mother of God, how tired I am of this bleak land. How I long for Auvergne and the sickroom of my beloved one.

As soon as Albany had left for the Border, Margaret went to Stirling. She had made up her mind that she would not be separated from her son, and if any tried to do so they would have to use force.

Her indignation against Albany was growing. What had he cared because she had refused his advances? Any woman would serve his purpose, she told herself. And I, the Queen, demeaned myself by showing him how much he meant to me.

The only manner in which she could fight this ache in her body was to abuse him, to tell herself that she would not relent if he came begging on his knees.

“I hate him!” she told herself. “Let him go to his Fleming. What do I care?”

It was ridiculous, and if she had not been so sorry for herself she could have laughed at her foolish deception. Why could she not keep the men she desired, faithful to her? Were there no faithful men in the world? Was it because the men she chose were desirable to so many women? James, Angus, Albany! She admitted that they must be three of the most attractive men in Scotland.

What balm to be with young James who was so eager to see her. At least, she told herself, I have an affectionate son. It was the same with her daughter, Margaret. Her children returned her love, and in that she was fortunate.

Whenever she was with James she thought of her brother Henry who was growing more and more apprehensive every day because he had no son—except one bastard. Poor Henry! It was pleasant to be able to pity him when she considered her wrongs.

She talked to James again and again of her distrust of Albany.

“Why, my son,” she said, “it is a disgraceful state of affairs when you, the King of this realm, must wait upon the pleasure of your subjects!”

James listened eagerly; he was weary of restraint; he had begun to realize that as King he should not have to give way to the will of others. He longed to take what he considered to be his. This was no life for a king, and his mother assured him of this.

“Depend upon it,” she said, “we shall not long endure it.”

She was very conscious of the King’s Master Carver, and she was inclined to think that Harry Stuart was very conscious of her. Often she would look up to see his eyes fixed upon her, and there was a mixture of boldness and reverence in the glance.

She began to look for him as he did for her, and she would find her heartbeats quickening whenever he was near her. Sometimes at a meal their hands would touch and she was certain that the contact affected him as deeply as it did herself.

One day when she sat with the King, and Harry Stuart was among his attendants, she found him close to her and she bade him sit beside her.

This he did with alacrity and rather closer than he should. But she had always been attracted by his boldness.

He whispered: “Your Grace, I know your anxiety on behalf of the King’s Grace and the manner in which he is kept a prisoner. I wish to say that if there is aught I could do in the service of the King…in the service of Your Grace…willingly would I give my life.”

“Thank you,” she answered quietly.

“Your Grace, there are matters with which I would wish to acquaint you, but here…”

“You wish to see me privately?”

“If Your Grace would grant me such an honor…”

“Come to my apartments when I leave the King. I will arrange for you to see me alone.”

She could not entirely interpret his reception of such a favor. He looked like a young man in a dream—fearful yet ecstatic.

She caught his excitement and could scarcely wait for the moment when they should be alone. A notion had occurred to her that he was in love with her; she would have to deal with him very gently. All the same she was looking forward to listening to what he had to say.

He stood before her; then he knelt and taking both her hands kissed them.

“Well,” she asked, “what is this great secret you have to impart?”

He rose without her permission and, still keeping her hands imprisoned in his, he stood very close to her. She could see the long, dark eyelashes that set off his brilliant eyes; she saw the warm color in his cheeks. He was extremely handsome; so young and ardent.

“I dare not say it, now that I am in the presence of Your Grace, though I have rehearsed it a hundred times.”

“You had better speak,” she answered. “It would not please me to have granted this interview for no purpose.”

“Your Grace, I fear you may consider me overbold, but since you came to Stirling to be with the King I can neither eat nor sleep for thinking of you.”

“You are very young…,” she began.

“Your Grace is young also. And if you were in truth old it would make no difference to my feeling. To me you seem without age…You are a Queen and I but the second son of a lord who is not of the first rank. But I am a man for all that, and Your Grace, you are a woman and it is not as Queen and subject that we can speak together this night.”

His emotions seemed to overcome him; he put his hand across his eyes and turned away; she thought he was about to stumble from the room, so she put out a hand to detain him.

Immediately as she touched him he swung round; he lifted her in his arms, for he was strong; she was conscious of his virility and her senses demanded that she meet his passion with her own.

With his arms about her, his lips on her throat, she could not uphold her pretense of reluctance because he could read the signs of passion as easily as she could.

“This is…f-folly,” she stammered.

“What glorious folly,” he cried. “I would willingly die on the morrow following a night of such folly.”

She was trying to remember that she was the Queen; that she was being driven by her emotions once more; but she could remember nothing but her body’s urgent need.

“Where could we be alone?” he whispered.

“Here,” she answered. “I have given orders that I am not to be disturbed.”

“Your Grace…my love…”

“Oh, but you are a charming boy.”

“Not such a boy, as you shall discover,” he answered boastfully; and she was acquiescent to his demands, for they were her own.

And as they lay together she thought: Why not? There are some faithful men in the world. Why not this charming boy who is socially so far beneath me that he must always be grateful? He had been as passionate as any of her lovers; but a deal more reverent. He reminded her of Angus in the days at Stobhall—those days which she was longing to relive with a partner who would give love for love, fidelity for fidelity.

He said: “When can we be together again?”

“I do not know. We must be careful.”

“I feel reckless. I will take any chance rather than miss one minute of your company.”

“You are a foolish boy,” she told him fondly.

“Is it foolish then to love like this?”

“It would be if we were discovered.”

“Do you think I care what could be done to me? I would count death poor payment for the joy that has been mine.”

Such charming words from such charming lips! There should be many such meetings, she promised herself. The wounds inflicted by Albany were healing.

What did she care for Albany? Let him spend every night with the Fleming woman. She had a new lover; he was young, he was passionate, and he adored her. He betrayed it in every word and gesture.

Unsuitable? So far below her in rank? Young? Younger than she was?

What did she care?

The Queen was in love.

Albany had returned to Edinburgh and he had discovered that Margaret had become his enemy, that she was now seeking reconciliation with her brother and plotting for his, Albany’s, destruction.

He had made an enemy where he had had a friend, which was unfortunate. He longed to return home. The news of Anne was bad; he was furious with the Scots for refusing to carry war into England, and he was wasting his time here.

It was alarming that the Queen should be so often in the company of the King. He could see great danger there, for reports were constantly being brought to him that Margaret was inciting James to rebel against the restraint which was put on him.

He stood up in the Tolbooth and requested leave to go back to France where his wife was dangerously ill. This was denied him; he was told that his presence was needed in Scotland, and there lay his duty.

“Then,” he replied, “the King must be taken from the care of the Queen, for I see great trouble ahead of us if she is allowed to imbue him with ideas of rebellion against the restraint which we have been obliged to impose upon him.”

The lords of the Council agreed with this and it was arranged that Margaret should be separated from James, and his personal attendants replaced by others.

When the news was brought to Margaret, she was alarmed, and she did what was fast becoming a habit with her—she talked over her troubles with Harry.

Harry was proving himself to be more than a passionate lover; he clearly enjoyed giving her his advice and, as she wanted to please him as much as she possibly could, she always asked for it.

“What can we do?” she said. “Our enemies are so strong. I will not be parted from my son.”

“The King himself is reluctant to be parted from Your Grace; which is easily understood. We must be strong but wily. We must think about this very carefully and not act rashly.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, Harry, how good you are for me. You know that I can be a little rash at times. Yes, let us ponder this and decide together how best we can outwit that man.”

“It is said,” Harry went on, “that he intends to make Lord Fleming one of the King’s guardians.” He looked at her covertly, for he knew that not very long ago there had been scandal touching her and the Regent. “And Lord Fleming’s sister is Albany’s mistress. That seems to me a dangerous situation.”

“Why so?”

“Because Fleming has a bad reputation. It is said that he murdered his own wife and her sisters with her. He would like the Regent to be King, which he might well be if the King were dead.”

“Do not speak of such a thing!” cried Margaret in horror.

“My love, such a possibility fills me with horror as it does you, but we must not ignore such possibilities. Fleming would prefer to see his sister the mistress of a king than of a regent.”

“Oh, the vile creatures!” murmured Margaret.

“It may well be,” went on Harry, “that Albany has chosen Fleming for this reason: he wishes someone to do this evil deed for him, and Fleming could be the man.”

Margaret sat listening with narrowed eyes. She knew that to be false. She knew he would never connive at murder and that he had some affection for James; that he was not a man so ambitious that he would wish to see his young kinsman murdered for the sake of a crown.

But it was pleasant to revile him with Harry, knowing herself beyond need of him, knowing that she had a young and handsome lover who adored her.

The winds of December were battering the walls of Stirling Castle when Albany arrived there.

Margaret, with James, was waiting for him. As he entered she noticed how drawn he looked. He is getting old, she thought; and she rejoiced in her Harry who had helped her to recover from that bitter love affair.

James, primed by her and always ready to do her bidding, received Albany coolly. Albany on the other hand treated the boy with the utmost reverence.

Margaret stood watching, delighted that she could do so without emotion; and when Albany came to her and bowed, she acknowledged his greeting without warmth.

“I greatly regret,” he said, “that I have displeased you.”

“You have none but yourself to blame for that regret,” she retorted.

“Cannot we come to some amicable agreement?”

“It seems unlikely,” she retorted. “The King is in no mood to brook further restrictions. He feels them to be impertinent and an insult to his crown. In this he has the support of his mother.”

“I regret that His Grace should harbor such opinions.”

“Indeed my Lord, you seem to feel nothing but regrets.”

She smiled maliciously and she thought: Oh, Harry, my beloved boy, how happy you have made me! Let Albany do his worst. Let him go to France or the Fleming…what do I care, now that I have you!

“I hoped that I could turn you once more to friendship,” murmured Albany.

She shrugged her shoulders. She felt gloriously free. He no longer had the slightest power to move her. She had finished with him as she had with Angus; and when hatred turned to indifference, then could a woman call herself no longer the prisoner of her emotions.

Albany fretted as the weeks slipped by. He had come to no decision. The King was still with his mother in Stirling; he himself had made repeated requests to leave Scotland, and each time they had been refused.

He sat in his apartment looking out over the snowy landscape, thinking of that sickroom in the château. He had written to Anne promising that he would be at her bedside as soon as he could bring some order into the troublesome affairs of this country.

He knew that she would be thinking of him as he was thinking of her, and he longed to assure her once more of his devotion.

It was while he sat thus that messengers arrived from France with the sad news that Anne had died; she had blessed him before she did so and had wished to thank him for the happy life he had given her.

Albany covered his face with his hands when he heard the news.

I failed her, he thought; even at the end I was not at her side to bid her farewell.

There was whispering throughout the Court. The Regent was a widower; it only remained now for the Queen to obtain her divorce and they would be free to marry.

It was a situation to give rise to speculation.

Margaret heard it and smiled. Harry was quite obviously alarmed. She laughed at him when they were alone. “Nay, my love, do you think I’d take Albany now!”

“It might be considered a desirable match by the Council.”

“Do you think I will allow them to make a match which would be quite distasteful to me?”

“I greatly fear they will try to persuade you.”

“Then you are a foolish boy.”

“I live in terror.”

“My poor sweet Harry!”

She was delighted with him and so touched, yet sad because she was unable to give him all she longed to.

“I have not obtained my divorce from Angus yet, you know,” she said to comfort him.

“I rejoice in that, for at least you cannot marry Albany yet.”

“I never shall, I tell you. Though when I get my divorce I may marry again.”

“Your Grace…my dearest…but whom would you marry?”

“A certain young man.” She was reckless, but it was delightful to watch his face. She loved him too much to tease him for long. She went on: “His name is Harry Stuart.”

She watched the wonder dawn slowly in his eyes.

It had been necessary for Margaret to leave her son in Stirling Castle while she came to Edinburgh. She was restless and unhappy because this meant that not only did she have to say a temporary farewell to James, but to Harry also.

She was determined that it was a state of affairs which she would not endure and, when Albany invited her to meet him at the Gatehouse of Holyrood Palace, she went there eager to hear what he had to say to her.

Theirs was a private meeting which she found to her satisfaction, but when she heard the news he had to tell her, she was alarmed.

“I am afraid,” he warned her, “this will prove a shock to Your Grace. Angus has escaped from France and is on his way to England to seek refuge in your brother’s Court.”

Margaret was horrified. Since she had fallen in love with Harry she had been agitating more determinedly than ever for her divorce. She knew how delighted Harry would be, as she would, if she could openly claim him as her husband. She hated the present separation and all the subterfuge which, even when they were under the same roof, had to be put in motion before they could spend a night together. She, as much as he, longed to regularize their union. There would be great opposition to their marriage, she knew; but they would face that afterward. She had acted before on impulse and taken the consequences. If Angus had proved to be the husband she knew her dear Harry would be, she would have had no regrets. It was Angus’s perfidy which had caused her such sorrow, not her own impulsive action.

It had been pleasant to believe Angus to be well out of the way, and the thought of his return and all the trouble it could mean was alarming.

Albany watched her closely. “And your brother will offer him sanctuary and help.”

“I fear so,” she answered.

“Margaret, your brother is no friend to you.”

“I shall agree with you if he is ready to make Angus his friend.”

“That he is eager to do. Moreover, he would give Angus the help he needs to come back to Scotland and form a party to work for English interests and plot the downfall of the King. So you see, he is working against you.”

She was silent. There was so much truth in what he was saying.

“France would be a better friend to you,” went on Albany. “The King of France would grant you a pension; and if at any time Angus returned, and he made life difficult for you in Scotland, honors would be waiting for you in France.”

“Could I be sure of this?”

“I promise you it would be so, upon mine honor.”

“Your honor, my lord?”

“Come, I do not break my word. When did I ever swear to you that I had loved no other woman?”

“’Tis true enough,” she answered.

“We must be reasonable, Margaret. A marriage between us would doubtless do much to bring peace into Scotland. I am now a widower, and if you obtained your divorce you would be free.”

She did not speak; she was thinking how much she would have given such a short time ago to hear him say those words. Now she could listen to them calmly; and she was thinking: Never would I marry you. I have no wish to marry you. You are aging and jaded, and my Harry is so young and tender. He thinks it the most wonderful thing in his life that a queen should love him. When I am free, it is Harry who shall be my husband.

She pretended however to be persuaded. She would let him think that she would marry him; then she would show him how much he meant to her, in the same way as he had shown her.

Revenge was still sweet, so perhaps even now, with Harry’s caresses fresh in her memory, she still had some feeling toward this man.

She would go along with him, hide her true feelings; for if her brother was going to be the friend of Angus so that he regained his power in Scotland, her divorce might be delayed still further, and it would be well to see what France had to offer her.

“There shall be a bond between us,” said Albany. “I will have it drawn up and you will see what advantages will come to you through friendship with France.”

“Yes,” she answered, “let there be such a bond for me to see.”

Now that she was on friendly terms with the Regent, Margaret returned to Stirling to her son and lover. Albany had impressed upon her the need to obey the Council’s injunctions, which were that the King should be kept under restraint for his own safety. She listened quietly and had appeared to acquiesce, but she and Harry together discussed their plans, which were that as soon as the opportunity offered itself the King should be nominal head of the party which they themselves would lead.

That was an uneasy winter.

A quarrel flared up between Margaret and her brother, for her enemies arranged that a copy of the bond to which she had agreed with Albany should be sent among her papers to England.

Henry was furious. Whom could he trust, he stormed, if not his own sister? To think that she was considering making terms with France after all he had done for her.

Margaret shrewdly replied that she herself had had the bond sent to Henry in order that he might understand Albany’s intentions; but Henry was not mollified, because he did not believe her. He guessed that she had heard of his invitation to Angus and because of this was seeking friendship with France. It was a sorry state of affairs when brother and sister must quarrel, grumbled Henry, but he had done all he could to keep his sister from losing her kingdom and her soul; he saw that he might be forced to abandon her if she did not mend her ways.

All this seemed unimportant to Margaret, because of her love for Harry Stuart.

Meanwhile Albany was getting desperate because he was not allowed to return to France. He had written to his friends there, assuring them that it was impossible to persuade the Scots to fight against England. He could no longer serve France, and he begged permission to return.

At last he was allowed by France and Scotland to do so and, before departing for Dumbarton where his ship was waiting for him, he went to Stirling Castle for a last interview with Margaret and her son.

He asked to be alone with Margaret for a few moments so that he could say goodbye to her. She granted this request, exultantly recalling the last time he had left and the sorrow she had felt then.

“This is not goodbye,” he said to her, and he held out his hands.

Margaret pretended not to notice the gesture, and walking to the window, looked out.

“We are sorry to see you go, my lord,” she answered.

“I hope that soon you will be free,” he went on.

“I too hope, as I have for so long.”

“And then,” he added, coming to her and standing close, “we shall be able to make our plans.”

She inclined her head. Her plans were already made, but she was not going to tell him what they were. It would give her some pleasure to refuse his offer of marriage when it came, because, she realized now, she would never really feel indifferent to him.

“Margaret, my dear…”

She turned and smiled at him vaguely. “I must wait until I am free before I can make my plans,” she replied, and moved away from him.

“How you have changed toward me,” he said sadly.

“Time never stands still for any of us, my lord.”

He sighed and, realizing that it was no use talking to her as a lover, said: “Margaret, the state of a country is always uneasy when the King is not of an age to govern. There are too many ambitious men waiting to seize power. I pray you have a care.”

“The care of my son has always been my first and most important task.”

“That I know well, but it is necessary to act with the greatest caution. I beg of you, do not attempt to bring him out of his boyhood too soon.”

“You must trust me to study his welfare in every way.”

“Margaret.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. It was the gesture of a lover toward his mistress. “Let us part as friends.”

She smiled and, gently disengaging herself, offered him her hands.

“Farewell, my friend,” was all she said.

He drew her to him and kissed her with passion. He still had a slight power to move her. But she was thinking of Harry and their plan to make the young King head of a party which they would lead. All this would be possible, once the Regent had left for France.

Let him think that the kiss she gave him was the kiss of a friend. She could feel little rancor toward him now. Let him go. What did it matter? She was happy with her Harry; and thus she intended to remain for the rest of her life.

Now that Albany had left Scotland, the time had come to carry out that plan which Margaret had cherished for so long.

Closeted with her son and Harry Stuart she told them what they must do. “The King is coming into his own,” she declared. “I, no less than he, am weary of this delay. We must seize our opportunity, and as we have many friends it will soon come.”

Young James and Harry were enthusiastic, and their eyes shone with anticipation, because both saw through this a change in their present situation. James had his eyes on a future when he should be King in more than name. Harry was dreaming of the day when Margaret would keep her promise to make him Treasurer of Scotland, and give the Great Seal into his charge. Nor would that be all; as husband of the Queen great titles as well as honors would be his.

“When?” cried young James.

“As soon as I am sure that we can act with safety,” was the answer. “Now I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Ninian when in truth I shall be mustering the lords of Galloway whom I have reason to think will be faithful to our cause.”

“And soon,” cried James, “I shall leave this prison. Soon I shall show my subjects that I am in truth the King.”

There was a wildness in the tawny eyes that might have alarmed Margaret if she had not been so elated. She looked from her beloved son to her lover and put an arm about each of them.

“We are together in this,” she murmured, “and we cannot fail.”

There were many to rally to the Queen’s cause. Albany was gone and loyalty to him was waning as it always did when he was no longer in Scotland.

Moreover it was obvious that James would be a King who, in maturity, would make up his own mind and would not thank those who stood against him now. There was the future to think of. James was determined on freedom and would remember those who helped him to it. So there was very little opposition when the King decided to break through his guard at Stirling Castle. When he rode in triumph to Edinburgh his people came running from their houses as he entered the capital city.

“Long live the King!” they shouted. “We have a king to rule us once more.”

And indeed James had the look of a king. What did it matter that he was so young? Youth passed all too quickly. The boy would soon be a man. Another such, they said, as his father. And they remembered the bonny man; remembered how his eyes would gladden at the sight of fair maidens, and his handsome looks and the show he gave them at the jousts when he was always champion. They forgot that he had led their men into unnecessary battle; they forgot that he had died before his time on Flodden Field.

They only remembered his charm and beauty and they said: “James V is another such as James IV. Long live the Stuart. Long live the King!”

So James with his mother rode through his capital and came to the Palace of Holyrood; here they stayed because they had decided to use it as their residence while they remained in the city.

Harry Stuart swaggered about Edinburgh. Rarely had a young man risen so rapidly to power, and many were asking why.

What had this Harry Stuart to bring him such posts as Treasurer and Lord Chancellor? What of those able lords whose experience and rank entitled them to these honors? Why should these be given to a younger son of an obscure nobleman, who had only just begun to be noticed about the Court?

Of course he was handsome; he gave himself airs; he had a knowing look.

They remembered the rise of Angus, and asked themselves if this was an old story repeating itself.

So just as Margaret was beginning to win the respect of the lords she was doomed to lose it. Scotland was prepared to accept the boy King as their ruler; and since he was devoted to his mother and desired her to act as Regent, they were ready to acquiesce. But to set up this nobody—simply because he had a handsome face and a bragging manner—was unendurable.

There was not a lord at Court who was ready to knuckle under to the Queen’s paramour. They complained together of the Queen’s loose living and told themselves that they had not supported her that she might rule Scotland with the help of Harry Stuart.

Margaret was unaware of the grumblings. She was so happy to have her son and lover contented. They were three happy conspirators—all certain of success.

She wrote to Henry in England telling him that she had successfully flouted the restrictions placed on James by Albany, and that the boy was now in Edinburgh recognized as King. She thought that James should be turning his thoughts to marriage, for although he was as yet young, his betrothal was of great importance to him and to Scotland. Nothing would delight Margaret more than to accept her dear niece, the Princess Mary, as her daughter; and knowing her dearest brother’s affection for his nephew (who bore such a striking resemblance to himself) she felt that he would not be averse to accepting him as his son.

Thomas Magnus, Henry’s ambassador, arrived in Scotland with Henry’s reply to this proposal, and when Margaret heard that he was in Edinburgh she was eager to see him without delay.

James and Harry were with her when she received Magnus, who told her that his master was pleased to hear that James had freed himself from the restraint put on him by Albany and that he hoped that now there would be an end to the strife between their two countries.

“My brother must be assured that this will come to pass,” Margaret replied. “Pray tell me what was his comment on my proposal concerning the Princess Mary.”

Magnus glanced at Harry, but Margaret waved an imperious hand. “All that you have to say may be said before the Lord Chancellor.”

Magnus was clearly surprised that such a young man should hold the office, but he said: “My master, the King of England, declares himself to be overjoyed at the prospect of the match you propose. At this time a marriage alliance exists between the Princess Mary and the Emperor Charles; but this is a match which my master would be happy to see abandoned for the sake of one with Scotland.”

“This is news I have longed to hear!” Margaret told him.

“But,” interjected Magnus, “it would be necessary to keep the proposed alliance between Scotland and England a secret until that between England and the Emperor has been officially abandoned.”

Margaret nodded; she turned to James and Harry.

“I am so happy,” she said. “I have always longed for this. My son the true King of Scotland, and friendship between my native land and that of my adoption.” The glance she gave Harry was warm and secret. She wanted to say: And I love and am loved.

But of course he understood.

“I know,” she went on, “that my brother has my welfare at heart. He has not understood my desire for a divorce and has opposed me in this matter, but I feel sure, now that there is this understanding between us, he will no longer put obstacles in my way. I do not forget how he keeps the troublesome Angus in England, knowing how it would embarrass me if he returned to Scotland.”

And then, my love, her loving glances told Harry, there will be an end to this secrecy. I shall let the whole world know how matters stand between us two.

Magnus took out the letters and gave them to her.

She sat at the table with James on one side of her, Harry on the other; and while they were thus engaged there was a knock on the door.

Margaret looked up startled; she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed except in an emergency. She could not believe that she had been disobeyed.

“You may enter,” she called.

One of her pages opened the door, and a man with the stains of travel on his clothes stood there.

“You have news?” asked Margaret, rising.

“Yes, Your Grace, and I thought it should be brought to you without delay. The Earl of Angus crossed the Border this day and is now in Scotland.”

In the dark of night a band of horsemen was making its way toward Edinburgh. At its head rode Angus, his face grim with purpose. Beside him rode Lennox and Buccleugh; they had joined him because they were not prepared to take second place to Harry Stuart.

What a foolish woman she is! thought Angus. Again and again she throws away that which she values. First with me; now with this Stuart fellow. Thank God for a fool!

“We’re within a mile of the city,” he murmured to Lennox. “Who’ll go ahead and scale the walls and unlock the gates to let us in?”

“There’ll be plenty of volunteers for that duty,” answered Lennox.

Angus nodded. Circumstances had changed him from the young boy with whom the Queen had fallen in love. He was an ambitious man now, yearning to rule Scotland. And as the Queen’s husband—he was determined to hold out against the divorce—it was his place to control the Queen’s son.

He was determined to get James into his possession; then he could demand what terms he liked to make with Margaret.

He had heard that she constantly referred to him now as my lord Anguish. Let her. She would see that he could cause her anguish enough. He had Henry of England behind him; he had made sure while he was at the Court of England that Henry had understood his sister’s leanings toward France through Albany. Henry disapproved of Margaret’s obtaining a divorce; he had accepted Angus as his brother-in-law from the first, and continued to do so.

The walls of the city loomed ahead in the darkness and Angus called a halt.

Lennox gave a sign and several men dismounted and crept toward the walls. There was silence among those who waited which seemed to go on for a long time; then the gates of the city were thrown open. Dawn was beginning to show in the sky when Angus and his men marched into Edinburgh through the High Street to St. Giles’s Church.

There was an atmosphere of expectancy in Holyrood that night.

Margaret was conscious of it. It was due to the fact that Angus was in Scotland, and she could not feel safe while he was there.

Harry Stuart was in her bedchamber; it had become common knowledge that he was her lover, and Margaret’s passion was too ardent for her to submit to subterfuge. Her love for this young man was apparent in every look she gave him, and she knew it was no use attempting to hide it. Better to show it in—as some called it—a brazen manner. She was not ashamed of her love, nor was he.

“Harry,” she said, “I have not felt at ease since I knew Anguish had crossed the Border.”

“We’ll be a match for Anguish when the time comes,” Harry assured her.

She took his hand and kissed it. “My blessing,” she murmured. “What comfort you give me!”

“That is my great desire and always will be,” Harry told her.

He was very pleased with life which offered him so much honor and so much devotion from the Queen.

“It seems oppressive,” Margaret said, “in spite of the November cold.”

“Let us to bed,” replied Harry. “I promise to drive off the oppressive atmosphere and the November cold.”

She laughed and kissed him.

“Harry,” she said, as they lay in each other’s arms, “I fancy you have been quiet of late. Is there something on your mind?”

“It is not easy to keep troubles from you. Your eyes are so sharp.”

“Then something is worrying you.”

“I’m afraid, my love.”

“Afraid! You, Harry? I do not believe it.”

“Afraid of offending you. If I did, I think I should walk out of this apartment and leap down from the topmost point of the Palace.”

“Don’t say such things! I can’t bear it. Tell me, what has made you feel thus?”

“Something which happened long ago and of which I have not told you.”

“Someone you loved?”

“Or thought I loved,” he said. “I did not know love until I knew my Queen.”

“And this…someone you thought you loved?”

“I married her.”

“I see. So she is your wife. And you visit her?”

“Not since we told each other of our love. In truth she is no longer my wife. I have divorced her. It was easy enough.”

Margaret was silent for a few seconds, then she said: “Tell me her name.”

“You would not know her. She is Lady Leslie. My love, my Queen, you are angry with me for keeping this secret?”

“Oh, no, Harry, my darling. I could never be angry with you. And why should I be now? You married her before we met. You kept her existence a secret from me, fearing to hurt me; and you tell me now because she is no longer your wife.”

“Oh, Margaret…if you were the humblest maiden within these city walls, I would love you and count it an honor to be your husband.”

She lay against him. “Thank you for telling me, Harry. It is always so much better to be told than to discover. I have been hurt by the men whom I have loved. Let us swear now that we will never keep secrets from each other. If our love fails we will tell. If we are unfaithful we will tell. Do you promise?”

“There will never be occasion to tell.”

“I know, my love, but let us swear all the same.”

So in the quiet of that night they swore; they made love; and they slept. But not for long.

Margaret released herself from her lover’s arms as the disturbance outside her door roused her from her sleep. There was a faint dawn light in the room and she could hear the sound of shouting in the streets.

Hurrying into the antechamber, she called to her women who helped her to dress, their teeth chattering, their fingers fumbling as they did so.

Now there was a hammering on the door.

“Who is there?” called Margaret.

It was one of the guards. “Your Grace,” he cried, “my lord Angus is in Edinburgh. His men have scaled the walls and let the invaders in. They are already in the streets on the way to the Castle.”

Margaret understood. They would take the Castle. They would take James from her.

She ran from her apartment, calling the guards as she did so. “The invaders must not enter the Castle. Send a message at once to the guards that the cannon are to be fired on them as they advance.”

The quiet early morning was broken by the roar of the cannon.

Margaret stood tense, waiting. And after a while news was brought to her that the invaders were retreating from the castle precincts.

Angus and his friends, alarmed when the Queen had ordered the cannon to be fired on them, left Edinburgh and took temporary refuge at Dalkeith and then retreated still further to Tantallan.

As soon as the city was free of them Margaret made plans to leave Holyrood, and that night, with her son, led a procession by torchlight to the Castle. There, in that strong fortress, she felt safe, but only temporarily.

She knew that the Douglas faction was too powerful to be easily vanquished, and what she dreaded more than anything was that Angus should force her to return to him.

It was ironical to contemplate that the return of Angus had been made possible by her own brother; Margaret was very uneasy regarding the relationship between herself and Henry, and she decided that her first move must be to alienate Henry from Angus.

The situation was filled with dangers. Scotland was teetering on the edge of civil war. The Douglases were growing bolder than ever now that Angus was back and it was believed that he had the support of the King of England. They had already shown their intentions by murdering Lord Fleming on the very threshold of St. Giles’s, solely because Fleming was a friend of Albany’s and his sister the Regent’s mistress; the Douglas faction had determined to thwart the French, and for this reason alone would have had the support of the English.

Never had it seemed more true that a friend one day might be an enemy the next. Margaret, who had previously longed for peace between England and Scotland, was now wondering whether France would not be the more substantial ally.

It was all very well for Henry to offer the Princess Mary to James; but Margaret believed that Henry was contemplating divorcing Mary’s mother, Katharine of Aragon, because, as she had been the wife of his brother Arthur, her marriage with himself was invalid. Then would Henry offer a bastard princess to the King of Scotland!

Letters from France reached her. Albany had a suggestion. His wife’s niece, the daughter of the Duke of Urbino and Marie of Boulogne, was one of the wealthiest heiresses in Europe. It was true that Catherine de Medici was not royal, but Albany believed she would be a very good match for the King of Scotland.

Margaret feigned to consider this but James’s marriage could wait.

In the meantime there remained the menace of the Douglases; and it seemed to her that the most urgent matter of all was the need to obtain her divorce from Angus.

In exchange for a divorce she offered him a portion of her dowerlands which would bring him in a good income. He refused the offer and his refusal was ominous. The more so because the Parliament, realizing the power of the Douglas faction, had decided that he should be included in those selected to take over the guardianship of the King. It had been arranged that Angus and the Archbishop of Glasgow should have the guardianship of James for three months; Arran and the Bishop of Aberdeen for the next three; Argyle and Chancellor Beaton next, to be followed by Lennox and the Bishop of Dunblane. Thus it seemed that none of these ambitious and able nobles should have the King for too long a period in his care.

On a bleak February day the King was escorted to the Tolbooth in the state procession. With him rode his mother; and before them Angus solemnly walked, carrying the crown, while Arran held the scepter and Argyle the sword.

It was the first time in years that Margaret had seen her husband, and she found it difficult to look at him without emotion.

He had not lost his handsome looks for, although the freshness of youth was no longer his, he would always be extremely distinguished in appearance.

If he had been a faithful husband, she told herself, we could have found great happiness together.

She was aware of Harry among those riding with her. Poor boy! He looked apprehensive, fearing, she knew, that she might return to Angus. She wanted to comfort him. Never would she forgive Angus for the unhappiness he had caused her. No! She had given her love to Harry Stuart now, and as soon as she could she would marry him. He was to be her last love.

In the Tolbooth, when the ceremony of opening Parliament was completed, Margaret rose to tell the assembled lords that her greatest desire was for peace throughout the realm.

It was arranged then that a Regency should be formed, with the Queen as the principal member, which should be made up of lords temporal and spiritual. The latter consisted of St. Andrews, Glasgow, Aberdeen and Dunblane; and the former were headed by Angus, Arran, Argyle and Lennox.

On the surface it was a peaceful meeting, but there were many hard looks directed toward Harry Stuart; and several of the lords whispered together that although they accepted the Queen as a member of the Regency they would not accept her paramour.

The meeting over, the King made his way back to Holyrood with the Queen. Not far from Margaret rode Harry Stuart, very pleased with himself, and not in the least disconcerted by the curious and hostile glances cast in his direction.

Young James was uneasy, knowing that he was to be passed to the custody of Angus for the next three months, and because he adored his mother and knew how she hated her husband he was displeased. He would have preferred to be in the care of Lennox whom he liked best of all of those selected to guard him.

Margaret sought to comfort him.

“Never fear,” she said, “we will find some means of rescuing you. But I doubt not that he’ll be a lenient guardian. He’ll not dare be otherwise. You are the King and even though as yet you are a boy who must obey these men, it will not always be so and they’ll remember that. And while you are with him you can do your best to persuade him to the divorce.”

James said he would do his best; and while they were together Harry joined them.

“You are looking disturbed,” said the Queen tenderly.

“I have just been warned,” he replied, “that the Douglases have sworn to murder me and my brother James this night—if we remain in Holyrood.”

“Harry!” cried Margaret, and she began to tremble. “But,” she went on quickly, “they must not find you in Holyrood. You must leave at once.”

“Leave you and the King!”

“I know you would stay to defend us, but these Douglases are a ruthless clan. Harry, you must leave at once. Take your brother with you. I shall not know a moment’s peace while you are here.”

“But to leave you…”

“It is a command,” said Margaret firmly.

Harry looked from her to the King, who said: “Yes, Harry, you must go. My mother and I would be deeply grieved if harm should befall you.”

Harry bowed and retired, but Margaret followed him to his apartment and they remained some seconds in a close embrace.

“My love, how can I go?” demanded Harry.

“How can you stay when it might mean your death?”

“I would not care…”

“But I would. Nay, Harry, this is farewell but not for long. Go to Stirling and remain there. I shall be with you erelong, for I cannot bear to live apart from you.”

There was another passionate embrace which was interrupted by the arrival of Harry’s young brother James.

Margaret regarded him sadly—such a handsome boy!—then she kissed him on the brow.

“Take care of each other,” she cautioned. “And now…go quickly.”

They both kissed her hands and, when they were gone, Margaret was for a time cast down.

Her lover gone to Stirling; her son in the care of Angus. This was a day of mourning; but it was not her way to accept defeat.

She was certain that soon she would be divorced from Angus and married to Harry; soon the power of the Douglases would be overcome; soon her son would rule in truth with herself and Harry in the background to guide him.

The rule of the Douglases had begun.

When the period of Angus’s guardianship had elapsed, he simply refused to give up the King. He had by this time set the members of his clan in the highest posts and as Douglases from all over Scotland rallied to his banner his followers grew in number. Any ambitious man who hoped for honors placed himself in the service of the Douglas; Angus had the King, and although it was said that James V ruled Scotland now, the real ruler was Angus.

Margaret, angry and alarmed at her husband’s growing power, watched events from the shelter of Stirling where she had joined Harry and his brother. The subject which dominated her mind was the divorce. She longed for it passionately and she was desperately afraid that the growing power of Angus would enable him to prevent her obtaining it.

James himself was fast growing away from boyhood. He was going to be as handsome as his father; he was strong-willed; very skilled in the joust and the hunt, he surpassed his companions in these fields. In order that he should not allow himself to become a mere tool of ambitious men, Margaret had impressed on him his need to assert himself, and James had learned that lesson thoroughly.

He had learned also to hate Angus, and the arrogance of his stepfather did nothing to endear him to the young boy. Deeply he resented firstly being made Angus’s prisoner, for that was how he regarded himself, and secondly being obliged to give his assent to matters with which they scarcely bothered to acquaint him.

While he was under the care of Angus he was continually plotting as to how he could escape. He believed that, once he could rid himself of Angus’s rule and escape to his mother, he would rally the loyal lords against the Douglases who must be hated because they were feared so much.

When an opportunity came to speak to Lennox of his feelings he did so; and although Lennox was cautious there was a tacit agreement between them that when the time was ripe the King should escape from Angus’s care.

Angus made a habit of taking the King about the country with him; and on one occasion when they had traveled to the Border in order to suppress the robbers there, they were intercepted by two thousand men who, under a certain Scott of Branxton, made an attempt to kidnap the King and free him from Angus. This attempt was defeated.

Lennox was present when it took place, but he made no effort to ward off the kidnappers; and it was not due to him that they were repulsed.

Shortly afterward Lennox joined the Queen, who was always ready with plans for escape. They decided that next time an attempt to free the King should not fail, and they began to plan.

It was agreed that Lennox should ride to Borough Moor near Edinburgh with only a few horsemen, and take with him eight spare horses which would be for the King and seven of his trusty servants who would escape with him. It should not be difficult for a message to be conveyed to the King at Holyrood, and with the help of certain members of his suite, who were in league with Lennox, for James to make his way out of the Palace.

Margaret, with Harry, waited impatiently at Stirling to receive James.

“And once he is with us and we have raised the lords against Angus, the power of the Douglases will be no more,” she announced confidently.

James was at the window ruefully looking out at Arthur’s Seat. Each day he grew more restive. He often told his attendants that he would like to have Angus hanged on the nearest tree. How much longer was the Douglas going to be allowed to rule Scotland? Was there no one in the land who had enough love of his King to set him free?

He knew some who loved him enough to attempt it. There was his mother for one. There was Lennox for another. He knew now that Lennox was his friend. He could not long remain a prisoner. Then let Angus beware. He would hound him from Scotland. For, he thought, there will not be room in this country for Scotland’s King and the Earl of Angus.

One of his pages was plucking at his sleeve.

“Your Grace, there is someone at the door.”

James started up and said: “Who?”

But before the page could answer, the door was opened and a man burst unceremoniously into the room. His eyes were wild and, seeing the King, he came straight to him.

“Your Grace,” he said, “forgive this intrusion. I am the Master of Kilmorris and I come from my lord Lennox.”

“Speak on,” said James eagerly.

“My lord Lennox is at Borough Moor; he has horses waiting. If, under cover of darkness, you can leave the Palace and find your way to him, he will conduct you to safety and the Queen.”

“This is good news,” cried James. “Kilmorris, my friend, I shall remember this when I am free of Angus.”

“Your Grace, I serve you with my life.”

“I thank you. Now tell me of the whereabouts of Lennox, and I will summon those whom I can trust to help me.”

There was a commotion at the door and another of the King’s pages ran into the apartment.

“Your Grace,” he cried, “it is known that a stranger has entered the Palace. The guards are being called out. They are coming now.”

Kilmorris turned pale, guessing what his fate would be if he were discovered. James looked at him with horror, for he also knew. It was clear to them both that there could be little chance of escape now, but James was not going to allow the faithful Kilmorris to be taken if he could help it.

He looked about him eagerly and said: “Quick! Follow me.”

He ran from the apartment with Kilmorris at his heels; he slipped through a door and they ran down a spiral staircase. They were both breathless when they came to a door which the King pushed open. “This is the coining house,” said James. “You can get away through here. They will not think you could go this way. Go at once and I will return to my apartment.”

Kilmorris thanked his King and James hurried back to his apartment to find that Angus had already arrived with some of the guards. When the Earl saw the King he gave a shout of relief.

“Your Grace,” he cried, “thank God you are safe. I heard that our enemies had invaded the Palace.”

“Is that so?” answered James coolly.

“It was doubtless a false alarm. So eager are my men to preserve Your Grace’s safety that they are sometimes overzealous.”

James inclined his head and walked somewhat haughtily to the window.

He stood there looking out, glad that Angus could not hear how loudly his heart was beating.

He will have left the Palace by now, James was thinking. Now he will be safe.

But although Kilmorris escaped, Angus did not believe that it had been a false alarm. He doubled the guards about the King, and the result of that little escapade was that James was more of a prisoner than ever.

But James was not going to endure such conditions. Hearing that his mother had come to Linlithgow, he sent for Angus and told him that it was long since he had seen the Queen and he wished to do so.

Angus, realizing that his enemies were gathering against him and that Arran was only with him because he was the enemy of Lennox, decided that the King must be humored; and he gathered together a small army to accompany the King to Linlithgow.

On the road between Edinburgh and Linlithgow Angus’s army met Lennox and his, and a skirmish ensued. Lennox and his men were determined to take possession of the King; Angus and his were equally determined not to let James go.

“Keep the King in the rear,” Angus ordered, and the bridle of James’s horse was taken by George Douglas, whom Angus could trust as he could few others.

James, watching the battle, was looking for the opportunity to slip out of George Douglas’s grasp and make his way to the other side, when George, realizing this, laughed grimly.

“You should bide where you are, sir,” he warned. “For if they get a hold of you, be it by one of your arms, we will seize you by the leg; and we’ll pull you into two pieces rather than part with you.”

“I’ll not forget that, George Douglas,” said James.

“’Twill be well if you’ll remember it, sir,” was the answer.

Rarely had the young King known such fury as that which now gripped him. He, the King, to be so treated, to be told they would rather see him dead than in the possession of their enemy. Indeed he would remember this. As long as he lived there would be no place in his kingdom for a Douglas.

But when he heard that Lennox had fallen, his anger changed to sorrow. Lennox, the guardian he had loved, the man who he had believed would rescue him from the hated Douglases.

Angus, triumphant with victory, was riding toward him. The battle was over, and James was a prisoner still.

Margaret was in despair. The power of the Douglases was as great as ever, James remained in the custody of his stepfather, and the Douglases were in all the important posts of Scotland.

She hated the cold of December in Stirling Castle, and she was beginning to despair of ever attaining her freedom, proclaiming Harry as her husband and enjoying the company of her son.

Then the miracle happened, when dispatches from Rome arrived for the Queen.

From Rome!

Margaret cried out that the messengers should be brought to her without a moment’s delay.

She read the documents and felt the hysterical laughter rising within her.

It had happened at last. The Cardinal of Ancona, whom Clement VII had appointed to judge her case, had given judgment in her favor.

She had her divorce.

She was no longer married to Angus.

Those were wonderful weeks which followed. Harry was constantly in her company; they planned their future and her first act was to redeem her promise.

She and Harry were married.

But, she reminded him, there would be opposition to the marriage, for there was bound to be jealousy among the lords, and they must act cautiously. She remembered how disastrous life had become when she had secretly married Angus, and they agreed that they must be more cautious this time.

Her divorce was being discussed above and below the Border. Her brother Henry wrote of how the news had shocked him. He wanted her to remember that the divine ordinance of inseparable matrimony was first instituted in Paradise, and he could only protest against this shameful verdict which had been sent from Rome.

Margaret laughed hilariously.

“Do you know, Harry,” she said, “my brother Henry is the biggest hypocrite living. He is seriously thinking of ridding himself of poor Katharine. Of course he is going to say that he was never truly married to Katharine. Well, nor was I to Angus. He was betrothed previously to that woman of his. Henry should remember that.”

But she and Harry were too happy to care. The glorious thing had happened. She was free and she had married the man she would love as long as she lived.

Of course they could not keep the marriage a secret forever.

The news that her divorce had been granted reached her in December. In March she made a declaration to the country: “Now that I am free I have married again; and my husband is Henry Stuart.”

Angus was furious when he heard that Margaret had been granted the divorce, but when he learned of her marriage to Henry Stuart he could not control his rage.

“How dare she so demean herself!” he shouted. “She shall be sorry for this. It is an insult to me and to Scotland.”

He went to the King and asked him what he thought of his mother’s action.

“I do not presume to judge the Queen,” answered James coldly.

“Your Grace, she has lost all hope of keeping her place in the Regency.”

“Has it occurred to you that soon there will be no need of a Regency?”

“Indeed that is so, but just now there is need for a Regency, and we are going to Stirling to see that this upstart, Henry Stuart, receives his just deserts.”

“And what are those?”

“Your Grace jokes. He shall be thrown into prison. He has no right to marry the Queen.”

“But she gave him that right which was hers to give.”

“Your Grace is too young to understand the implications of this.”

“Ah,” retorted James. “It is the old story. I am always too young.”

Angus was so disturbed that he did not notice the King’s coolness. They must set out at once for Stirling, he said, and the King must accompany the party which should go, because it was in his name that Harry Stuart should be arrested.

How angry was young James as he rode toward Stirling. He thought of Lennox, dying from wounds inflicted by the hated Douglases. He thought of his beloved mother and his friend Harry Stuart. They loved and married; and because the Douglas had not wished them to do so they were to be parted.

If he were but King in truth!

He thought of all the things he would do. He would embrace his mother first, then Harry, and tell them he hoped for their happiness. And then he would cry: Throw that man in prison. And he would laugh aloud to see the astonishment on the face of Angus.

“I hate the Douglases,” he muttered as he rode along.

But power was still in the hands of the Douglases.

Angus strode into Stirling Castle and demanded to see the Queen.

She faced him defiantly, but when she heard his demand that Harry be brought forth, and when she saw his guards lay their hands on her husband, she was alarmed.

She cried out: “James, you are the King…”

James wanted to intervene but he knew it was useless; there was nothing he could do, and he could only stand by, black hatred of the Douglases in his heart.

So they took Harry Stuart and threw him into a dungeon.

And they left Margaret weeping for her newly married husband.

It seemed now that the country was completely in the control of Angus. He was the uncrowned King. The Queen, who had retreated to Edinburgh, was forced by him to give up the Castle. She so feared for her life that she hid herself on the moors and lived the life of a shepherdess, surrounded by a few faithful friends who adopted the same disguise.

Harry escaped from his dungeon and, when she received a communication from him, she joined him at Stirling and they made the Castle their refuge.

James was scarcely a boy now, for he would soon be seventeen. Time enough, he believed, for him to throw off the yoke.

The lords surrounding him watched his hatred of Angus growing and, ever ready to change sides, they believed that it would be wise to do so now.

Margaret with Harry and his brother James made a new plot, and messages were smuggled in to the King. Margaret let him know that she was taking the precaution of fortifying Stirling Castle so that very shortly it would be completely garrisoned; a good place for the King to come to and make a stand against his enemies.

She wanted him to know that there was none who worked more zealously for him than his mother and his stepfather, Harry Stuart; she hoped that when it was in his power to do so he would remember all Harry had done, and reward him. The Lordship of Methven, she suggested, would be a suitable honor. James should think of it.

James did think of it. He would be very ready to reward Harry, or anyone who could help him escape from his hated position.

Angus had moved him to Falkland Palace, and one by one James was winning over the servants to his side. He knew whom he could trust, and it would be a simple matter to slip out with the help of guards who had ceased to be the servants of Angus and wished to serve their King. Horses would be waiting for him; then away to Stirling.

It proved to be as simple as he had thought it would because he had been right when he had believed that there were few now who wanted to disobey the King.

So one night James walked out of Falkland, mounted the waiting horse and rode full speed to Stirling, where he was received with great rejoicing by his mother and her husband.

Next day the royal standard flew high over Stirling Castle. The King was a boy no longer; he had come into his own. He was ready now to rule Scotland. He was going to reward his friends—and woe betide his enemies!

How happy Margaret was now.

James, her son, was King in truth, and there would be no more separations; Harry had been rewarded and was now Lord Methven and Master of the Royal Ordnance; men were deserting the Douglases and rallying to the King; there was nothing to do but rejoice.

James, who would never forgive Angus for the years he had spent as his captive, declared his intention of throwing him into prison. But Angus was not easily captured, though he was put to the horn and declared a traitor in every town in Scotland and a prize of a hundred marks was offered to any who could bring him, dead or alive, to the King. His estates were seized and divided among the loyal nobles who were only too eager to receive them.

Yet none caught Angus, and news eventually came to Margaret that he had escaped into England. This was good news, except for one thing. He had taken their daughter, the Lady Margaret Douglas, with him, and Margaret’s hopes of regaining the guardianship of the girl were frustrated.

She was very anxious about her daughter until she heard that the Princess Mary had taken her into her household. Then she consoled herself that, as cousin to the Princess, she would be well treated. As for Angus he would be received well at Henry’s Court for Henry had always been his friend.

Well, she had lost her daughter, but she had her son, who showed in a hundred ways his regard for her; she had Lord Methven, her dear Harry; and there was no longer the need to plan James’s rescue because James was free and in his rightful place.

She had enjoyed intrigue, but she was growing too old for it. Perhaps now she would settle down happily to the life of wife and mother, for she was young enough to bear children. She would retire from the glare of public life and be content to shelter in the brilliance of her son.

She was no longer Margaret the Queen, fighting to retain an untenable position; she was Harry’s wife, contented and at peace.

The years of retirement passed in happiness as Margaret had known they would. She bore Harry a son and a daughter; and her only sadness was that her daughter Margaret was far away and becoming more and more a stranger to her mother as the years passed.

Yet young Margaret was well cared for, the friend of Princess Mary, and a favorite, it was said, of her uncle. She was by all accounts a rare beauty, and Margaret would have given a great deal to see her again.

But it was not possible to have all one wished in life and she must learn to be content with what was hers.

Harry was a devoted husband; she was very fond of his brother James who was so like him in every way. The King was an affectionate son; he was loving by nature as many young women had discovered. Ah well, thought Margaret, it was hardly to be expected that a son of James IV and herself would be otherwise.

There were few shadows in life up to that time when news came to Scotland that the King of England had married again and was asking acknowledgment of Queen Anne Boleyn.

James came to see Margaret to discuss the matter with her.

As usual when she saw him after a brief absence she was filled with pride as he entered her room at Methven Castle. He was startlingly like his father and every bit as handsome. His hair had never lost the reddish tinge; his eyes were bluish gray, long and alert; his aquiline nose gave dignity and manliness to a face which otherwise would have been almost feminine in its beauty. He was of medium height, slender and well-shaped—a son to be proud of.

He kissed her hand—so gracious and courtly—another reminder of his father.

“So my brother has at last freed himself of poor Katharine and married the Boleyn woman,” she said.

James laughed. “Well, you must admit he has been patient.”

“Patient! ’Tis something Henry could never be. He must have suffered torment. I pity those about him.”

James nodded. “He wishes us to acknowledge her as Queen of England.”

Margaret spread her hands. “Henry has made her his Queen. That is an end to the matter. But I know how he always loved approval. He could never be happy without it.”

“The clergy are displeased,” James told her. “They sent a friar to preach before me and, although he did not mention names, he made it very clear that what has taken place in England has deeply shocked him and his brethren.”

Margaret made an impatient gesture. “I am sorry for Katharine, but I always knew she was too meek. And she was very condemnatory of my divorce. It is all such nonsense. When a marriage is finished, it is finished and that should be an end to it.”

“As you proved with Angus. Mother, I am in agreement with you. I shall write to congratulate Henry on his marriage and to wish him and his Queen a fruitful union.”

“Do so, my son, but with discretion. There are too many people in Scotland who imagine divorce to be a major sin, and it is better not to offend them.”

“They will have to change their minds.” He hesitated for a few seconds then hurried on: “Mother, I have made up my mind to marry.”

“It is time, my son. Do you plan to visit France yourself to claim your bride?”

“No, I do not intend to go to France because I have no intention of marrying into France. I have chosen my wife and she is Scottish.”

Margaret stared at him in astonishment. “But you have been promised to the daughter of the Duke of Vendôme. What are you saying, James?”

“That I have decided to marry where I please, and I have chosen my own bride.”

“James! This cannot be so. Whom have you chosen?”

“Margaret Erskine. She has already borne me a son and I would make him legitimate if that were possible. He is a fine healthy boy and I love his mother as I could love no other.”

“But is she not married to Douglas of Lochleven?”

“We have just agreed that when a marriage is irksome it should be dissolved, have we not?”

“James, this is madness!”

“Was it madness when you divorced Angus?”

“I was only the mother of the King. You are the King.”

“Nevertheless I am determined to marry whom I will.”

“So it is for this reason that you congratulate my brother and his new Queen.”

James was silent, and Margaret felt peace slipping away from her. She tried to look dispassionately at that handsome face which was almost womanish. The aquiline nose could not altogether disguise the weakness of the chin. James was weak where women were concerned, as his father had been.

He must not make the mistakes that she had made. Looking back she saw that hasty marriage with Angus as the beginning of all her troubles.

In that moment she wanted to help James achieve his desire, but she believed that by arranging a divorce for his mistress, marrying her himself and by attempting to legitimize his bastard, he was, at the beginning of his reign, making trouble for himself. What of the French? How would he placate them for the insult done to them?

No, she must make a firm stand.

“It is impossible,” she said.

His brow had darkened, his lips tightened. He turned on her in a rage.

“It was well enough when you wished for divorce. So there is one law for you and another for me?”

“James…you are the King.”

“And you were the Queen. What did you care? So you will stand against me now. I had not believed it of you.”

She tried to explain but his impetuous nature was in revolt. All those who would not help him in this matter were his enemies.

It was the first quarrel they had had; and it was a bitter one.

Margaret was filled with grief; and that was the end of the peaceful years.

James did not marry his mistress. When the Parliament stood firmly against him he was wise enough to realize that he could only court disaster by doing so.

So he gave way and went to France, in the role of romantic lover, to court the lady who had been chosen for him. He was received with warmth in the Duke’s household, but he did not fall deeply in love with Mademoiselle de Vendôme. His thoughts were still with the mother of his son James on whom he doted although he had put aside his desire to marry her, for the sake of duty. It was not surprising therefore that he lacked enthusiasm for this woman who had been chosen to be his bride.

Traveling through France he was entertained at the Court of François, and there he met the young Princess Magdalene who had at one time been suggested as a bride for him. She was a delicate child who, no sooner had she set eyes on him, adored him.

As for James, all his chivalry was aroused by her fragility and her admiration of himself; and he confessed to her father that she was the lady whom it would delight him to marry.

The King of Scotland was a worthy parti. So the proposed marriage with Vendôme was put aside for the more desirable one with the daughter of the King of France.

James was delighted. Only this fragile child could compensate him for his inability to marry his dear Margaret and legitimize his bonny James. The Parliament of Scotland had no objections. A French marriage was what it desired, and a daughter of the King of France was more suitable than one of the Duke of Vendôme.

Margaret sighed with relief. Once James was safely married, all would be peaceful again.

News came from England that Henry, tiring of his second wife, had accused her of adultery and she had lost her head on Tower Green. He was now married to Lady Jane Seymour.

“He cannot blame me for having had three husbands,” commented Margaret, “now that he has had three wives.”

She was a little anxious about her daughter Margaret who by this time had become a prominent member of the English Court. In those days of intrigue one could never be sure who was going to arouse the King’s anger next. Henry VIII was a fickle man; his anger was terrible, and he had supreme power with which to make it felt. Who would have believed that the vital and dazzling Anne, for whom he had fought desperately over so many years, could in three short ones have passed from glory to dishonor and death? It was ironical that glory, honor, disaster and death had been dealt by the same hand.

And there, in the center of intrigue, was young Margaret. Her mother’s anxiety had increased because the girl had been favored by Anne Boleyn, which doubtless meant she had lost favor with her original benefactress, the Princess Mary. It must be impossible to live at the English Court and not take sides.

It seemed that no sooner was the anxiety concerning one child lessened than that concerning another must distress her.

She often lay awake at night, thinking of the dangers which could beset her daughter at the Court of her terrible brother. It was true that Angus, as a pensioner of Henry, was at that Court and, whatever else he was, he was fond of his daughter and would do his best to protect her.

Without doubt the peaceful era had come to an end.

But she was not prepared for the greatest blow of all.

During one of the rare journeys she made, she visited the home of the Earl of Atholl. A splendid banquet was prepared for her and she took great pleasure in wearing her most dazzling gown; her person sparkled with jewels as she sat at the table which was laden with beef, mutton, venison, goose, capon, swan, partridge, plover, moorfowls and every kind of food that could be thought of; with Malmsey and muscatel, white and red wine, beer and aqua vitae with which to wash it down. It was rarely, said Atholl, that he had the honor of entertaining the Queen.

Harry had been with her as usual and, as they sat together at the places of honor, a woman caught her eye. This was Janet, widow of the Master of Sutherland, and eldest daughter of the Earl of Atholl; in that moment it was as though some extra sense warned her to take especial note of Janet; and when she met Janet’s young son, a most engaging boy, she kept him at her side. There was something in the lad which appealed to her strongly.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“It is Henry, Your Grace,” he told her.

She smiled at Harry. “A goodly name,” she commented, “and one which I like well.”

Harry laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and it was almost as though a secret message passed between them.

Margaret turned her eyes to the Mistress of Sutherland who was watching them, and she noticed that the woman’s hands were slightly trembling.

She remembered then that she had heard of the death of the Master of Sutherland some years before. Could he have had a son of Henry’s age?

She mentioned the matter to her women when they were undressing her that night, but strangely they seemed reluctant to speak of the matter.

Then it was almost as though she had gone back in years and was reliving certain episodes, as though her life was a vast tapestry, the essential point of which was that the pattern should be repeated again and again. A stupid fancy, she told herself; and tried to dismiss the matter from her mind.

But the evil suspicions persisted, and she found herself watching Harry as she never had before. Emotions which she had long forgotten seemed to be stirring within her.

One evening when they were alone together in her apartments at Methven Castle she burst out: “What is the Mistress of Sutherland to you, Harry?”

As she watched the blood drain from his face, she knew. Had she not lived it all before?

So her life was shattered. She was no longer young, being nearly fifty. The pain was as great as it had been when she had discovered the infidelity of James and of Angus. Why, she demanded, was she called upon to bear this yet again? Why was it that her marriages always ended in this way?

Ended?

Yes, this was going to be the end of her third marriage. She was not going to be deceived and deluded again. She supposed that all the Court knew of her husband’s treachery as they had known of that of Angus and James before she did. Then she had given way to passionate weeping. But she was older now; her emotions were no longer so easily stirred.

Harry should be made to suffer though. All his honors should be stripped from him.

“You will be sorry for this, my Lord Muffin,” she said, using the contemptuous term which her brother Henry had bestowed on her third husband when he had first heard of the marriage, and had indeed persisted in calling him ever since.

There was one word which kept hammering in her brain: divorce.

Was there no end to trouble? News came from England that her daughter, the Lady Margaret Douglas, had incurred the King’s displeasure by betrothing herself, without his consent, to Lord Thomas Howard, the uncle of Anne Boleyn.

Young Margaret’s position had changed when the King had declared his marriage to Katharine of Aragon invalid. It had altered once more now that Anne Boleyn was disgraced. Since both the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were declared illegitimate, Margaret Douglas was heir to the throne if Henry did not beget legitimate children. It was true that King James of Scotland came before her; but Margaret had been brought up at the Court of England and had until now enjoyed the favor of her uncle.

Therefore to betroth herself to Lord Thomas Howard without the consent of Henry would be to bring his wrath down upon her.

Her mother’s fears were not without foundation.

Deeply wounded from the knowledge of Harry’s treachery, Margaret was distracted when the news came from England that her daughter and the girl’s lover were in the Tower of London, the King’s prisoners.

A little while ago she would have gone to Harry for solace. Now there was no one to whom she could turn. James had lost some of his affection for her when she had not helped him to win a divorce for Margaret Erskine that he might marry the woman he loved; moreover James was in France.

She paced up and down her apartment. She longed to have her daughter with her. She wept, remembering the girl’s birth in Harbottle Castle, which now seemed so many weary years away.

She stopped by her writing table and, taking up her pen, wrote to her brother imploring him not to be harsh with her daughter. “If you will send her to me in Scotland,” she wrote, “I will answer to you that my child shall never trouble my brother more.”

She did not seal the letter when it was written; she sat with her head in her hands, while a feeling of utter desolation swept over her.

Harry, whom she had loved and trusted, had betrayed her as he others had. And now she was no longer young and beautiful. Still, she was vigorous; she was a queen.

She began to think of young James Stuart who was so like his brother Harry and, she told herself now, of a less sly countenance. No, she could not marry her husband’s brother. She thought of Angus, whom when she had last seen him had changed from the callow boy she had married. Angus had been most reluctant to be divorced.

Suppose she went to England. Suppose she married Angus there and brought him back to Scotland. Then my Lord Muffin would so tremble in his shoes that his Mistress of Sutherland would be hard put to it to comfort him.

She picked up her pen and wrote once more.

“Dearest brother, I suffer much misery at this time. I have been very evilly used by Lord Methven and I am seeking now to put an end to my marriage…”

She put down her pen and found that she was weeping, for suddenly, sitting there, the full force of her desolation swept over her, because she realized that the peace and happiness had never truly existed outside her imagination. The complacent years were revealed to her for what they were.

No happy married life; all lies; all deceit.

Why has Fate set me this tragic pattern? she asked herself. Is there a reason?

James brought home his little Magdalene—a dainty creature, looking too fragile to be real. He adored her, which was comforting. Poor James, he needed to be happy for he had been denied the bride he had wished for and he constantly grieved because his bonny James must remain a bastard.

But he was happy for a while with the delicate child. How pretty she was in her closely fitting gown of white damask embroidered with gold, and the small round cap made of pearls and jewels set on her light brown curls. A fairy child, too delicate for the winds of Scotland.

She coughed and after coughing there was blood on her kerchief which she tried to conceal, and did for a while. It was soon discovered that Holyrood was too damp and low-lying for her comfort; she coughed a great deal there. But the Castle was too bleak and she coughed there for that reason.

Will this delicate creature bear Scotland heirs? asked the brawny Highlanders. Magdalene of France was the daughter of a great king, but would she give James of Scotland a son to compare with Margaret Erskine’s bastard?

James worried about the health of his bride, and was irritable when his mother told him that she intended to divorce his stepfather.

“A divorce at your time of life!” he cried. “Why, you would be a laughingstock.”

“You would take your revenge because I could not help you obtain a divorce for Margaret Erskine?”

What a tragedy that she and James were no longer the friends they once had been.

Magdalene had landed in Scotland in May; by July she was dead. Had she lived a few more days she would have reached her seventeenth birthday.

Scotland mourned her; but none more deeply than her young husband.

The Queen’s depression lifted a little when she heard that her daughter Margaret had been moved from the Tower to Sion Abbey. She had caught a fever while in prison and evidently the King did not wish her to die since he had agreed to her removal to a more comfortable place of confinement.

Margaret had written again to her brother imploring him to allow her daughter to return to her. If she came back to me, she told herself, I should have her future to plan. I would live again through her.

Occasionally she thought of Harry’s brother James. Dared she risk a fourth marriage? Sometimes she said no; at others she asked herself, Why not? The old pattern could not go on repeating itself. There must be a man somewhere who would be her faithful husband. James was handsome, but so young. And there would be an outcry if she married her husband’s brother.

Angus?

She thought often of Angus as he had been in the days of his youth. Scenes from the honeymoon at Stobhall often came back to her mind and made her feel young again.

But James continued to ridicule the idea of another divorce, and she could not marry again without one.

Take a lover? She craved for a happy and legitimate union. She was so lonely nowadays; and she found that she could not feel as angry with Harry as she had with Angus. Her pride had been wounded more than her emotions. Was this a sign that she was growing old?

Life went on about her. Her brother wrote jubilantly that he now had a son: Prince Edward. True, the child had cost his mother, Jane Seymour, her life; but he found it more difficult to get sons than wives.

Young Margaret’s lover had died in the Tower and she was freed because, with the birth of a prince, she was no longer of the same importance. In fact, Henry VIII did not care to have about him young people who might be said to have a claim to his throne, so he declared her illegitimate, adding that the marriage between her mother and Angus had been no lawful one.

Margaret’s rage was great when she heard this, and once more she planned a remarriage with Angus that they might fight together for her daughter’s legitimacy and for her place in the succession to the throne of England.

Yet nothing came of these plans. She no longer found intense excitement in plotting as she once had; and, looking into her mirror, she told herself that she was growing old.

“I am growing old,” she said one day.

She sat at her table, her pen in her hand, writing letters, a habit of hers.

She was very tired and felt vaguely unwell. Words would not come easily to her mind as they used to, so she laid down her pen and thought; and as usual at such times her mind went back to the past.

Her daughter Margaret was happy in England, she supposed, now that Henry had given her a place in the household of Anne of Cleves. James had married a French widow, Mary of Lorraine, and although the two children whom they had had, both died, they would have others.

Poor James! How hard it was for royal people to beget healthy legitimate children. His illegitimate ones were bonny creatures, in particular that young James whom he loved so dearly. What a pity that the boy had Margaret Erskine for a mother instead of a Queen of Scotland!

Her own children by Harry were not strong and their health gave her cause for concern, but there were so many anxieties, and she felt too tired to think of them anymore.

Instead she thought of her youth, of coming into Scotland and riding on the palfrey James had sent. She could see him now, so handsome, so beloved by his people, riding into his capital with his bride on the pillion behind him.

Her hands had begun to shake and she could not stop them. She stared at them in dismay and called for her attendants, but when they came running to her side, she could not see them clearly.

“Help me to my bed,” she said. “I feel ill.”

As they undressed her the palsy intensified; and when she lay on her bed she said: “I have never felt so ill before. Send to Falkland Palace for the King. Tell him of my state and that I should like to see him.”

Her orders were obeyed and she lay on her bed, waiting.

Soon he would come—her beautiful son whom she had loved so dearly. She would see him come striding into her chamber. But when she thought of him it was that other James she saw—the laughing, handsome husband with whom on her first coming to Scotland she had fallen violently in love.

She had forgotten that she was in Methven Castle, imagining herself to be in Holyrood with James standing before her while she accused him of deserting her for his mistresses. Then it was Angus who stood there…or was it Albany…or Harry? She was not sure. They were as one now. The men whom she had loved; the men who had deceived her.

She murmured so quietly that none heard: “If I had not been the daughter of a King should I have been loved for myself?”

She tried to rouse herself because there was so much she had to say.

“My daughter…the Lady Margaret Douglas…James must be good to her. Angus…Let James forgive Angus…Let him remember that he had suffered much…Peace…I want peace among them. Peace.”

Those about her bed exchanged glances. She had been well a short while ago. Could one be struck so suddenly?

It seemed so, for it was deemed advisable that the last rites should be administered. This was done, and when James arrived—although he had come to her bedside with the utmost haste—he was too late. Margaret, the Queen, was dead.

The Chronicles of Scotland. Robert Lindsay Pitscottie

King James IV of Scotland. R. L. Mackie.

Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies of Great Britain. Mary Anne Everett Green

Lives of the Princesses of England. Mary Anne Everett Green.

Lives of the Queens of Scotland and English Princesses. Agnes Strickland

Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland

A Short History of Scotland. P. Hume Brown (New Edition by Henry W. Meikle)

Memorials of Henry VII (The Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages). Edited by James Gairdner

British History. John Wade

The Dictionary of National Biography. Edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee

The National and Domestic History of England. William Hickman

Smith Aubrey

Henry VIII. A. F. Pollard

History of England: Henry VIII. James Anthony Froude

The Political History of England (1485–1587). H. A. L. Fisher

1 Henry VII sees his children, Margaret, Henry, and Mary, as bargaining chips in a political game. How does being used in this way affect each of them over the course of the novel? Do you agree with Mary’s assessment that the siblings are “three of a kind”?

2 James IV is obsessed with the what-ifs in his past. About his tendency toward infidelity, he muses, “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed.” In reference to his guilt over his father’s death, he thinks, “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.” How does his sense of guilt and lost opportunities affect his marriage and his ability to rule? What are Margaret’s what-ifs?

3 When Margaret requests the jewels left to her in her brother Arthur’s will, Henry refuses to send them on the grounds that James is too friendly with the French. What is Henry’s alleged fear about the jewels? Why does Margaret show Henry’s refusal letter to James, when she knows it will only cause a rift between the two men? Why might she be interested in antagonizing her brother?

4 Margaret pursues Angus fewer than twelve months after King James is killed at Flodden. Not only does she fail to notice that Angus is a reluctant partner in the seduction, but she fails to consult with her own Parliament about the suitability of the match: “She did not stop to think of the consequences of this marriage. All that mattered was that this handsome boy who had long occupied her thoughts was now her husband. Her one desire was to abandon herself to the passion which obsessed her.” Why does she act so recklessly? What self-serving reason does Henry have for supporting her in this plot?

5 Angus reveals his cowardice and duplicity early on by forming an alliance with Albany and the Parliament behind the queen’s back. Where else do you see evidence of Angus being twofaced? How does Margaret protect herself from this?

6 What causes Margaret to suddenly view Albany—who has always been a threat, a nuisance, and an enemy—as a potential lover? Does he recognize the shift?

7 Henry sabotages Margaret’s first attempt at divorce by sending Henry Chadworth to Scotland to terrify the queen with tales of hellfire and eternal damnation. Why is this method successful even though Margaret has never been a religious woman? Why is Henry so irate at the idea of a divorce in the family?

8 Margaret, Mary Tudor, and Katherine of Aragon combine forces to convince Henry to spare a group of prisoners arrested during the revolt of Evil May Day. What is their technique and why does it work? What is each woman’s motive in the scheme?

9 When little Alexander dies, Margaret accuses Albany of murder. What ulterior motive does Angus have for urging Margaret to return to Scotland and make peace with Albany immediately? Does she ever discover it?

10 Margaret’s unorthodox relationship with Albany so infuriates Henry that he orders a mass exodus of Scotsmen from England, fueling a violent resurgence of border warfare between the two countries: “To Margaret this seemed only a minor irritation.” Why is this turn of events ironic? Does either Henry or Margaret recognize it as such?

11 When Angus is banished for his betrayal of the queen, he simply refuses to leave the country. What solution does Albany come up with to send Angus packing? How long does this solution last?

12 Time and again, Tudor egotism prevents Margaret from seeing her devotion to a man outweigh his devotion to her. Thus, her partners’ extracurricular dalliances come as a fresh shock every time. Does her myopia in this area provoke sympathy in the reader? Why or why not? Which character from more recent literature or television does Margaret bring to mind?

13 The only male in Margaret’s life with whom she enjoys a dependable, loving relationship is her son, James V. What event finally breaks the bond between mother and son?

14 Margaret has a macabre talent for reaping the benefits of disaster. When her one-year-old son dies, she feels a “faint exultation” that the tragedy keeps James at her side. And when James is unstrung with emotion and guilt over memories of his father, “it gave her a certain pleasure to see him thus.” Are there other examples of this dark side of her personality? What do you make of Margaret in these instances?

15 Margaret tells herself that “when hatred turned to indifference, then could a woman call herself no longer the prisoner of her emotions.” Does she ever get there?

Contents

Title Page

The English Scene I: The Betrothal of Mary

The Rise of Charles

The French Proposal

The French Scene 1: Young François

François in Jeopardy

The French Scene II: The Unwilling Bride

The Queen and the Dauphin

Death of a King

Is the Queen Enceinte?

Triumph of the Queen

The English Scene II: The Return

The Family at Westhorpe

The Birth of Frances

Danger at the King’s Court

The Last Farewell

Bibliography

The English SCENE I

The Betrothal of Mary

ALTHOUGH THE WIND blew from the northeast, whipping the cold waters of the Thames, bending the rushes and long grasses on the banks and throwing itself, as though in anger, against the Palace walls, the barges continued to arrive, and great personages alighted at the privy steps.

The young girl kneeling in a window seat watched them with satisfaction.

“Why, Katharine,” she said, without turning to look at her sister-in-law, who sat sewing on her stool near the window, “my lord Dudley and my lord Empson are arriving now. Who next, I wonder.” She pulled at her plentiful red-gold curls. “And to think, Katharine, that they are coming to honor me!”

“Nay, Mary, you are over-vain. You should remember that it is not you they honor, but your father’s crown.”

“By God’s Holy Mother,” retorted Mary, “is it my father’s crown then who is going to solemnize its nuptials tomorrow in this Palace?”

“We know it is yourself who is going to do that. But the honor these men do is not for an eleven-year-old girl, but because she is the daughter of the King of England.”

“I am twelve, I would have you know,” retorted Mary. “Twelve and…” She began to count on her fingers. “Twelve years and nine months. Almost thirteen. So there!”

“That is not so very old, and it is unseemly that you should use such oaths, which are in truth blasphemy.”

“Oh, Katharine, you are such a dull creature.”

She jumped from the window seat and, running to Katharine, put her arms about her. “There, I did not mean that. But you are so good…and I can never be good. At least I don’t intend to be until I am so old that I must think of repentance. But you are not of that age yet, Katharine. Why don’t you stop thinking about what is right, and think more about what is amusing?”

She put her head on one side and regarded Katharine. Poor Kate! A widow already—and of some years’ standing. It must be…she tried to count again…six years since Arthur had died, and poor Katharine had been growing older and sadder ever since.

“We are not put on earth to amuse ourselves, Mary,” said Katharine quietly.

“But I was,” persisted Mary.

“You are young, and you are not as serious as you should be; but as a Princess you have your duty, and that is something you should never forget.”

“Duty!” cried Mary, and she swung round so that her tawny, damask petticoats showed beneath her green velvet gown. She pointed her toe and went on: “Oh, Katharine, have you tried the new dance? It goes like this. Henry showed me.” She danced awhile, her hair streaming out behind her, her round face pink with the exertion, her blue eyes brilliant. Katharine said a prayer for her. She was so beautiful, so passionate, so self-willed, so spoiled; for even the King, who thought of little but enlarging his exchequer, softened at the sight of his youngest child.

“And,” went on Mary, coming to a sudden halt, “I should like to remind you that Henry uses that oath, and if Henry does, then so shall I.”

“You should not imitate his bad habits.”

“Henry’s bad habits! He has none. He is my wonderful brother. Do you know, Katharine, I love him better than anyone in the world.” Her face darkened suddenly. “I should love Charles, I suppose, but he is not like Henry.” She ran to the picture which she had propped up on the window seat, and coming back, sat at Katharine’s feet holding it out before her. It showed the Prince of Castile, a boy with sleepy eyes and a heavy jaw; his mouth was slightly open, and it was scarcely a prepossessing face. “Now can you imagine anyone less like Henry?” went on Mary. “And that is Charles, my bridegroom. Oh, what a wonderful thing it would be if Henry were not my brother. Then I might marry him.”

“You are very frivolous and talk a great deal of nonsense,” said Katharine primly; but in spite of herself she was smiling. She thought: It is the same with us all. We tremble for her; we deplore her frivolity; and yet there is not one of us who is unaffected by her charm. After all, she is but a child. She will grow up. “Dear sister,” she went on, “tomorrow is a very solemn occasion for you. If you would like to pray with me…”

Mary shook her head emphatically. “I have said my prayers for the day, and you are quite wrong, Katharine. It is a joyous occasion. Did you not hear the bells ringing out this morning? There will be music in the streets and the people will make bonfires and dance round them. They are all so pleased because I am going to marry Prince Charles. There is nothing solemn about it. My father says it is a good marriage. So do all the old men from Flanders. They say that trade will flourish because of me…and that in marrying Charles I shall be doing my duty to England and my father’s House. So if I am doing all that, I’ll not be solemn too. How the wind howls! They say it is hot in Spain. Is it? You know, because it was once your home. Katharine, one day I shall be Queen of Spain.”

Katharine shook her head resignedly.

“My poor, poor Katharine,” Mary rushed on. “All this talk of marriage makes you sad. You remember your own marriage and poor Arthur. Oh, Katharine, I am sorry. But smile. You shall dance tomorrow. Did you know that there is going to be bull-fighting and bear-baiting? There’ll be hunting and hawking, and I’ll swear there’ll be jousting. It is going to be so exciting. Henry says that we do not have enough gaiety at Court, and when he is King…” She stopped and put her fingers to her lips. “But it really will be a very fine ceremony, Katharine, and you should enjoy it, with the rest of us.”

She heard the sound of laughter from below, and running to the window, she knelt once more on the seat.

“It is Henry,” she cried. “He is returning from the hunt. Henry! Henry…!”

She was tapping vigorously on the window, and the group of young men below looked upward. In their center was her brother Henry, already, although not yet eighteen, over six feet tall. He stood, legs apart, hands on hips, for the groom had taken his horse. He was soberly dressed, but only because his father deplored extravagance, and he managed to wear his clothes with a jaunty air; and indeed their very sobriety accentuated his dazzlingly healthy looks.

“Hey, sister,” he called; then he turned and spoke to his attendants who immediately burst into laughter, implying that his wit was irresistible.

He entered the Palace and in a few minutes had flung open the door of the room and was striding toward his sister.

She leaped up at him, putting her arm about his neck; he swung her round and she shrieked with delight. Katharine, quietly watching, thought how much they resembled each other and how pleasant it was to observe the affection between a brother and sister. It was particularly comforting to realize that Henry was capable of such deep feeling, because she hoped that one day she might be the object of his devotion. She saw in this young man her chance of regaining her lost dignity, and the humiliation of the last years had been almost beyond bearing. Had she not made a great effort to suppress her feelings, she could have hated the King of England who had treated her with such cold indifference since the death of her mother had reduced her value in the eyes of the world. But now her father, Ferdinand of Aragon, was no longer merely King of Aragon. He had enjoyed great successes in Europe and therefore his daughter had ceased to be as insignificant as she once had been. She knew it was solely for this reason that she was allowed to be the companion of the Princess Mary—still humble, it was true, yet no longer completely banished from Court.

When her mother was alive, this dazzling young Prince had been promised as her second husband; she still hoped that he might remember that promise. So in his presence she was nervous, eager to please and yet afraid that she would betray her anxiety to do so.

“I can scarce wait for tomorrow,” Mary was saying.

“Are you so eager to leave us then?” demanded her brother.

“Henry, I never want to leave you!”

His smile was sparkling. He loved praise and could never have enough of it.

“And you know,” went on Mary, “it is only a ceremony. I am not to go away for years and years…”

“Let us hope not,” cried Henry.

“Then you would have no sisters near you. You have already lost Margaret. Oh, Henry, I wonder what it is like in Scotland. Do you think Margaret ever misses us?”

“She has a husband to think of now, but they say Scotland is a dour country. I’d rather be here in Richmond.”

“Henry, perhaps Charles will come and live here, and I needn’t go away.”

“Is that what you would like, little sister?”

“Will you command him to do so?”

“I…command the Prince of Castile!”

“Indeed you must, because you will be able to command the whole world when…when…”

The sister and brother looked at each other for a few seconds, then Henry remembered the presence of Katharine. He turned to her and said: “My sister prattles, does she not, Madam?”

“Indeed, she does, Your Highness.”

“Katharine has been telling me I should pray more and talk less. I won’t, Henry. I won’t. I won’t.”

“You are a bold creature,” said Henry. “Now listen to me. When the ceremony is over there will be a banquet and afterward a great masque. We will show these Flemings how we can dance and sing. You and I…with a few of my friends…will slip away and disguise ourselves. Then we will return and dance before the Court. They will be enchanted with us and, when they are asking each other who we can be, we will throw off our disguises and show them.”

Mary clasped her hands together and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Henry, you think of the most wonderful things. I wish…oh, how I wish…”

“Tell me what you wish?”

She regarded him solemnly. “That I need never go away from you and, because being a Princess I must marry, I wish there was one who looked as you do, who spoke as you do, and was so like you in all ways that people could not tell you apart.”

Henry gave a bellow of laughter. He looked at Katharine as though to say: What do you think of my sister? Is she not ridiculous?

But he was contented that she should be so. He was indeed a contented young man. He believed that everything he wished for would soon be his. Every direction in which he turned he found adulation, and very soon—it could not be long because the old man was coughing and spitting blood regularly now—he would be the King of this country.

His friends paid him all the homage he could wish for; when he rode through the streets of his father’s cities he was cheered more loudly than any. He knew that the whole of England was eagerly awaiting that day when they could call him their King. He would have everything—good looks, good health, charm, gaiety…and all that great wealth which his father had accumulated so single-mindedly over the years.

Yet nothing pleased him quite so much as the adoration of this little sister because, knowing her well, he knew too that when she expressed her love she spoke from the very depth of her heart. Young Mary had never attempted to hide her love or her hatred; had he been a beggar she would have loved him.

He sensed too the yearning tenderness in the demeanor of the other woman, and he felt some regard for her.

This was a happy day for, although on the morrow Mary’s nuptials were being solemnized, it was only by proxy and she would be with him for some time to come. So he had not to think of parting with her yet.

Mary smoothed her skirts and tried to look demure. Katharine, who had been selected as her guardian for the occasion, was well pleased with her. In spite of her exuberance, thought Katharine, she was a Princess and could be relied upon to act with dignity whenever the occasion demanded that she should.

The girl looked beautiful and it was certain that the Sieur de Bergues, who had come as proxy for the eight-year-old Prince, would go back and report what a charming creature she was. Not that the bridegroom would be very interested at this stage. How lucky Mary was! It would be years before Charles was old enough to claim her.

Mary smiled at Katharine. “Dear Charles!” she said. “He is so much younger than I am. I expect I shall have to take care of him.” She sighed. “He looks delicate. That’s a pity.”

“When you were younger you were delicate and you grew out of it, so perhaps he will.”

“Assuredly he will; and he’ll grow as tall as Henry.”

“Few men grow as tall.”

She looked wistful. “I know. Henry’s bride will be so lucky, won’t she? Imagine being Henry’s bride and Queen of England.”

Katharine, who never ceased to imagine such an eventuality, did not answer; but Mary leapt up and kissed her suddenly because she knew exactly what was going on in her sister-in-law’s mind. Mary had always kept her eyes and ears wide open for Court gossip, and she coerced and bullied her attendants into keeping her informed. Secretly she wished Katharine luck, for she was very fond of her, although she was often irritated by all the piety and somewhat melancholy outlook. If she would but laugh more and pray less, thought Mary, Henry would be more inclined to view her with favor. Although of course royal princes and princesses could not choose their spouses and it would not rest with Henry whether he married her, unless…

She stopped her thoughts running in that direction. Hers was an affectionate nature and her father had never been unkind to her; but he had never been effusively loving as she would have liked him to be; it was simply not in his nature to be so. Yet he had shown that he was not entirely able to resist her, and it was exhilarating to know that she alone could make his lips quirk in amusement, could bring a note of softness into his usually harsh voice. But his Court was so dull, and Henry was always saying how different it might be.

She thought of her sister Margaret who some six years before had taken part in a similar ceremony when the proxy of King James IV of Scotland had come to Richmond and had married her in his master’s name. She could scarcely remember Margaret now, except that she had quarreled often with Henry. They had missed her though, because she was like they were—full of vitality, eager to enjoy life.

Arthur had not been like that; he had been more like their parents. Poor Arthur—such a sickly boy, and she certainly could not remember what he looked like. If he had lived Henry would not have been Prince of Wales but a member of the Church. Imagining Henry as Archbishop of Canterbury made the laughter come bubbling up. So perhaps it was all for the best…for Henry was surely meant to be King.

“Are you ready?” asked Katharine.

“Yes.”

“Then let us go, for they will be waiting for you.”

Mary looked about the reception room, which had been her mother’s and which had been draped with hangings of cloth of gold for this occasion, thinking: When next I see this room I shall be betrothed. I shall have a new title—Princess of Castile—and that rather vacant-looking little boy will be almost my husband. Poor Charles, I shall have to take care of him, I can see.

Thinking of him thus she felt tender toward him and was not at all displeased that he was to be her husband.

Katharine took her hand and led her into the great hall, which was hung with silk and decorated with ornaments and gold and silver plate. She saw her father standing with the Sieur de Bergues and, beside him, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Henry was there too. He was excited because all such ceremonies delighted him; he loved grandeur and it was his continual complaint that there was too little of it at the English Court.

He gave his sister a smile as their eyes met; this she acknowledged briefly because she knew many eyes were upon her, among them her father’s.

How ill he looked! His skin was growing more yellow, his eyes more sunken; and Mary felt a pang of remorse because she had been looking forward to the time when the Court would be gay, knowing that it could mean only one thing.

She smiled at him tenderly and the King, watching his lovely daughter, was unable for a second or so to control his features.

Now she was standing before the Archbishop of Canterbury and he was addressing the assembly. The dull old man! She could not concentrate on what he was saying. She was thinking of a long ago day, before Margaret went to Scotland and they had all been in Richmond watching the barges coming from the Tower. She remembered hearing that her mother was dead. There had been a baby sister who had died too; they had called her Katharine. Life could be sad…for some people. She did not believe it ever could be for her, but that did not prevent her from being sorry for those who suffered.

“Repeat after me.” The Archbishop’s voice sounded stern. How did he guess she had not been attending?

“I, Mary, by you John, Lord of Bergues, commissary and procurator of the most high and puissant Prince Charles by Grace of God Prince of Spain, Archduke of Austria, Duke of Burgundy…”

She was smiling at the Sieur de Bergues, who was looking at her with the utmost seriousness.

“…take the said Charles to be my husband and spouse…”

It was the turn of the Sieur de Bergues, but she was wondering what disguises she and Henry would put on after the banquet. Would they dance together? She hoped so. No one could leap so high and so effortlessly as Henry.

The Sieur de Bergues had taken her hand and was pushing the bridal ring onto her finger; then he stooped and, putting his lips to hers, gave her the nuptial kiss.

It was really a very simple matter—giving a solemn promise to marry.

From the Palace windows she could see the light of the bonfires, she could hear the sound of rejoicing. The people were going wild this day, and all because their little Princess had gone through a ceremony solemnizing the nuptials between herself and the Prince of Castile.

Inside the Palace the merriment was even greater. It was not often that Henry VII gave his courtiers an opportunity to be extravagantly gay. For this occasion noblemen and their wives had brought out their richest jewels. It was folly to do so because the King would note their wealth and set his cunning ministers, Dudley and Empson, to find means of transferring some of his subjects’ goods to the royal exchequer. But they did not care. They were starved of pleasure, they wanted to dance and masque, joust and hunt; they wanted to wear fine clothes and dazzle each other with their splendor; they wanted to vie with each other; and this was their chance to do so.

Mary was surrounded by a group of her women. They were all talking at once, so it was impossible to hear what they were saying, but she understood that they were to wrap themselves in gauzy veils, which would give them an oriental look, and there were masks to hide their faces, that they might mingle with the dancers and remain unrecognized. This was Henry’s idea and she thought it a good one.

Her women were exclaiming as she stood before them. “But I declare I should never have guessed! The Lady Mary is tall for her age. Why, no one would believe she was not yet a woman…”

“Hurry!” cried Mary. “I can scarce wait to be among the dancers.”

In the hall, with her ladies, she joined other masked dancers whom she knew to be Henry and his friends.

She heard whispers: “But who are these masked ladies and gentlemen?”

“I have heard they come from far off places to see the English Court.”

She laughed to herself as she picked out a tall figure. She was certain who he was and, going up to him, touched his arm.

“I pray you, sir,” she said, “tell me how you came here this night?”

He was trying to disguise his voice, she guessed, and she had to admit that he did it admirably. “Might I not ask the same question of you, Madam?”

“You might, but you would get no answer.”

“Then let us agree to curb our curiosity until the unmasking. Would you dance with me?”

“I will do so.”

So they danced and she thought: I have never been so happy. “This is the most wonderful ball I have ever attended,” she told him.

“And you must have attended so many!”

She laughed. “Are you suggesting, sir, that this is my first ball?”

“My lady, you put thoughts into my head which were not there before.”

“You speak in riddles, sir.”

“Then let me offer one plain truth. I’ll swear there is not a lovelier lady at the ball than my partner.”

“And I’ll swear there’s not a more handsome gentleman than mine.”

He pressed her hand. “Now we are pledged to stay together that we may prove our words.”

She sighed. “Indeed, it is a duty.”

And so it was, for even when the ritual of the dance parted them temporarily they came back to each other.

She wanted to tell him that he had put up a very good disguise, that the change in his voice was miraculous; even so he could never hide himself from her. But to have done this would have spoiled the masque. He would want her to express surprise when they unmasked—and so she would. It was all part of the game.

What a wonderful brother she had, who could remain at her side through the ball, for he was a young man and, she had heard, fond of women. He would be a little disturbed on her account perhaps, for she was over-young to move disguised among the dancers; so he was determined to stay at her side to protect her. Dear Henry! Beloved brother.

She delighted in his skill in the dance. None leaped higher, none could turn and twirl so gracefully. When they unmasked she would tell him how proud she was of him, how dearly she loved him.

When the time came for unmasking she stood before him, her eyes alight with pleasure, and as she took off her mask he cried: “By my faith, it is the Princess Mary.”

With a deft movement he removed his mask. She stared, for the man who stood before her was not her brother.

“But,” she began, “I thought…”

“I please Your Highness less unmasked?” he asked.

“You were so like…”

“His Highness the Prince? He swears he gives me an inch…but I am not so sure.”

“You must be the two tallest men at Court, so it is no small wonder that I was misled. But you danced as he dances…your voice is even a little like his.”

“I crave Your Highness’s pardon, but may I say this: Charles Brandon is as eager to serve you as he is to serve your brother.”

She began to laugh suddenly for she guessed that this man had known all the time that she believed him to be her brother and had done his best to impersonate Henry. She could always enjoy a joke, even against herself.

He laughed with her while she studied him carefully—large, blond, handsome, vital. In truth a man; a little older than Henry, a little more experienced of the world.

“I never saw a man to remind me more of my brother,” she said. “My mistake was excusable.”

He bowed low. “A gracious compliment from a gracious lady,” he murmured.

Later Mary thought: That night was the most important of my life up to that time because it was then I first became aware of Charles Brandon.

The merrymaking over, the Sieur de Bergues with his followers went back to Flanders, and the Princess must return to the schoolroom. It was true she had a dignified establishment with her own suite of waiting women, and the fact that she was known as the Princess of Castile did add somewhat to her dignity, but there were still lessons to be learned; there were Latin and French exercises to be completed and she must sit over her embroidery.

The Court too had returned to normal. The King was disturbed by the cost of entertaining the Flemish embassy and was more parsimonious than ever. He was often irritable because he was in great bodily discomfort and, knowing he could not live long, he could not stop himself wondering what sort of king his brilliant and vital heir would make. Young Henry was vain, too fond of fine clothes and gaiety; these cost good money and he was not sure now whether, in his attempts to imbue the boy with a reverence for gold, he had not given him an urge to exchange it for worthless baubles. He was eager to arrange a match for his son; it was a matter of great relief that his daughters were satisfactorily placed—Margaret was Queen of Scotland, and that was a match which pleased him; while Mary as wife of the Prince of Spain would marry even more advantageously. No, it was not his daughters who worried him. It was his son. As for himself he did not despair of getting more children although he was aware that as he was no longer in his prime he should act promptly. His thoughts were now on the Emperor Maximilian’s daughter, Margaret of Savoy, who was aunt to Charles, Mary’s affianced. But each day he felt a little weaker and because he was shrewd he knew that his courtiers were looking more and more to the Prince of Wales than to the old King.

One of his greatest pleasures was to watch his daughter as she went about the Court. He would study her when she did not know that she was observed; she was a wild and lovely creature and he often wondered how he could have sired her. She had a look of her maternal grandfather, Edward IV—all his surviving children had that look. It was a grief to him that out of a family of seven only three were left. But what a joy to think that his two daughters would be queens, and his son a king. When he looked back to the days of his youth he could congratulate himself; and that reminded him that there was one to whom he should be forever grateful. She was at the Court now, for whenever possible they were together and during those months since the nuptial ceremony they were often in each other’s company. This was his mother, the Countess of Richmond and Derby.

It was she who supervised the education of young Mary and did much to impress on her the importance of her position.

One March day, a few months after the nuptial ceremony, Mary sat over her embroidery, cobbling it a little, for she was impatient with the needle and preferred to dance and play sweet music; and while she worked she was thinking of the new song she would play on her lute or clavichord and of which she would ask Henry’s opinion. It was such pleasure to be with Henry and his closest friend, Charles Brandon, with whom she now shared a secret joke because she had mistaken him for her brother. Neither of them told Henry that; they sensed he would not be pleased that someone could really be mistaken for him, and that his own sister should fall into such an error might be wounding.

Sitting staring into space Mary did not notice the approach of her grandmother until the Countess was beside her, taking the piece of embroidery from her hands.

She started guiltily, and was sorry that her embroidery was so poor since it displeased her grandmother.

“This is not good,” said the old lady.

“I fear not, my lady.”

“You should work harder, my child.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Mary looked at the stern face before her, thinking how sad it was to be old, and that her grandmother was really ancient, because the King seemed an old man and he was her son.

“It would please your father if you showed more diligence. What will your husband think of a bride who cobbles with her needle?”

“He is but a boy, my lady,” replied Mary, “and as he is the heir of Spain and Flanders, I doubt he will weep over a piece of embroidery.”

“You are too pert, child.”

“Nay, my lady, I did not mean to be, for it is my opinion that Charles would as lief I had a strong healthy body to bear him sons than nimble fingers to embroider. There will be women enough for that.”

“And it may well be to perform both services.”

Mary looked startled. “Nay, Grandmother, I should never stomach a faithless husband.”

“That which could not be prevented would have to be endured. My child, you have much to learn. You remind me of your brother.”

“I am pleased to do so.”

“That is good. Tudors should stand together.”

“Have no fear, my lady. I should always stand with Henry.”

The Countess patted Mary’s hand. “It rejoices me to see this love between you. Always remember it, and when you are in a strange land do not forget that you are a Tudor and owe loyalty to your own.”

“I shall always be loyal to Henry.”

Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, took the needlework from her granddaughter’s hands and began to unpick the stitches. She was not particularly interested in the work but she did not wish those sharp bright eyes to read the emotion she feared she might betray. She was anxious on behalf of her son for whom she had lived since that day, over fifty years ago, when he had been born, a posthumous child; she had schemed for him, and the great goal of her life had been to see him on the throne of England. Few women could have seen such an ambitious dream come true; for it had been a great struggle and at one time it had seemed well-nigh impossible of achievement.

But there he was on the throne of England—her beloved son; and never would she forget the day when the news of what had happened on Bosworth Field was brought to her.

“Glory be to God,” she had cried; and often she asked herself, for she was a pious woman, whether then and on other occasions she had been guilty of idolatry; for never had a woman adored a son as she had her Henry.

He was well aware of it, being shrewd enough to know who was his best friend; and the woman who had been nearest and dearest to him during his years of struggle and of glory was his mother.

Now she was frightened, for she could see death creeping nearer and nearer; it had already set a shadow on those features, so cold and unprepossessing to others, so dear and beautiful to her.

How could she bear to go on living if her beloved son should be taken from her? What purpose would there be in life when for so long she had had only one ambition—to serve him?

He had shown her that she could still serve him, when he had read the thoughts in her melancholy eyes.

“Mother,” he had said, “you must stay close to the children to guide them, for they are young yet.”

“My beloved,” she had cried out in alarm, “they have the best of fathers to guide them.”

“They need their granddame. Henry is headstrong. I know full well that he approaches his eighteenth birthday but he is as yet a boy.” The King had sighed deeply. “I sometimes think that being so full of bodily vigor has made him over fond of useless pastimes. He is not as serious as I could wish. Margaret is in the care of her husband. And Mary…”

“Mary is like her brother—headstrong and greatly indulged by all.”

“She needs a strong hand. I have tried to wean her from her frivolity.”

“You love her too dearly, my beloved. She is sharp and knows well how to play on your feelings.”

“But, Mother, I have never been a tender father. At times I have watched children and their parents and I have said to myself: Mine never run to me in that fashion. Mine never laugh with me like that.”

“You are King and no child ever had a better father.”

“I have heard my wife tell her children stories of her childhood, of the gaiety of her father…and he was a king.”

“You have been a good father to your children, Henry.”

But he was sad. A sign that he was growing more and more infirm. He was remembering certain acts which had taken place during his reign, and was wishing they had not. He even regretted some of the methods by which he had extorted money from his subjects. As if it had not been important to build up a rich exchequer! thought his mother. As if he had not taken all for the glory of his country and never for himself! How much had he ever spent on fine raiment? Had he ever frittered away one golden crown on senseless pleasure?

She was thinking of this now as she picked at the stitches in Mary’s woeful work. Mary watched her in silence, sensing her mood and half understanding what had inspired it; but she could not help thinking: But if my father dies there will still be a king of England. And it was so much more pleasant to picture young Henry, resplendent in purple velvet and ermine, than old Henry, withered with disease.

“Mary, my child.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“The King suffers much in health.”

Mary nodded.

“He loves you dearly. Why do you not go to him and show a little tenderness?”

Mary’s lovely blue eyes were wide with astonishment. “Go to the King!” she cried.

“Forget he is the King for a while. Remember only that he is your father. Go to him, and when you have knelt and kissed his hand, put your arms about his neck, tell him that you have ever loved him dearly and that he has been a good father to you.”

Mary shrank away. Was her grandmother serious? Was she raving? One did not go to the King and put one’s arms about his neck. Even his favorite daughter could not do that.

“He would be a little startled at first,” went on her grandmother, “and then he would be so happy. Mary, your father is a great king; he took this bankrupt kingdom—which was his by right—he took it from the usurper Richard, and he made it rich and strong. Such a task was a great tax on his energies and he had little time to laugh and frolic. Perhaps this has made you feel that he is over-stern. But go to him and tell him how much you love him.”

Mary was pensive. It would not be easy, for she, who was always spontaneous, would find it difficult to play a part, and in truth she had no great love for her father.

Her grandmother put the embroidery into her lap and rising, kissed her. Then she went away as though in a great hurry.

Mary paused outside her father’s apartments.

“My lady,” said the page, “His Grace is with his ministers.”

Mary turned away relieved. She had been rehearsing what she would say, and it sounded false to her; she was glad the need to say it was postponed.

The King asked who was at the door, and when told it was the Lady Mary he smiled.

She had some request to make, he thought. What does she wish? Some new bauble? She grows more like her brother every day.

Yet he had a yearning to see the pretty creature; and if it were a new gown or even a jewel she wanted he would perhaps grant her her wish; but he must impress upon her the need for sobriety and explain that all the extravagant display, which had accompanied her nuptial celebrations, had not been for personal vainglory but to show to foreigners that England was wealthy, because wealth meant power.

He turned back to the task before him. He had decided that all those who had been imprisoned in London for debts of under forty shillings should be discharged.

He was beginning to be tormented by remorse when he contemplated the extortions, which Dudley and Empson had committed in his name; and now that his conscience was beginning to worry him on this score, he realized that he was a very sick man indeed.

There were cowslips in the meadows near Richmond and the blackthorn was in blossom. The air was enlivened by birdsong, and all this meant that it was the month of April and spring had come.

But in the Palace the old era was ending and the new one had not yet begun.

The fifty-two-year-old King lay on his bed and thought of his subjects; he wondered ruefully how many of them would shed a real tear at his passing.

Fifty-two. It was not really old; yet he had lived a full life and there was so much of it that he wished he had lived differently. He had recently pilgrimaged to Our Lady of Walsingham and to Saint Thomas of Canterbury, and there he had sworn to build a hospital for the sick poor.

Time! he thought. I need time. He hoarded time as once he had hoarded gold; he was fighting with all his strength to hold off death a little longer until such time as he could make peace with himself.

But death would not wait.

Mary came to his apartments, planning what she would do and say. She would go to his bed and put her arms about his neck. “I will not call you Your Highness, but Father,” she would tell him. “Oh, Father, we do love you…Henry and I. We understand that it was necessary for you to be stern with us. We love to dance and play and we often forget our duty…but we want to be good. We want to be the sort of children of whom you can be proud.”

Did that sound false? For false it was. Neither she nor Henry wanted to be anything but what they were.

“It is the Lady Mary,” said one of the pages to another.

“I have come to see my father.”

“My lady, the priests are with him.”

Holy Mother, thought Mary, is it then too late?

His body had been taken from Richmond to Westminster, but not with any speed for, although he died on the 21st day of April, he was not moved until the 9th of May.

There was reason for the delay. An image of him in wax must be made ready to be clad in his robes of state and placed in the coffin, and remain there during the funeral, holding the ball and scepter in its hands. The chariot which would hold the coffin had to be covered in black cloth of gold; and all those noblemen who lived far from Court must be given time to arrive for the ceremony.

It was to be a grand funeral. The King had left money to pay for masses which were to be said for his soul, as he asked, for as long as the world should endure. He had become very uneasy during his last days on earth when he had realized that he would not have time to make all the amends he had planned.

The new King had already left Richmond for the Palace of the Tower. That was well, because he found it difficult to hide his elation. His father was dead and he had been a good father; but what a stern one! And had he not treated his son as though he were a child?

Freedom! thought Henry VIII, dreaming of his future.

And Mary, while she prayed for the soul of her father, could not prevent her thoughts wandering as she considered what a change this was going to make to all their lives.

It was a great occasion when the funeral cortège passed through the capital. At London Bridge the Mayor and the City Companies received it and merchants mingled with apprentices in the crowds which followed it to St. Paul’s.

As was the custom with the dead, people remembered virtues rather than failings.

And when all was considered, his epitaph was as good as any king could hope to achieve.

“He brought us peace,” said the people.

Yet never had they cried: “The King is dead. Long live the King!” with more hope, more exultation than they did in those spring days of 1509.

The sorrowing Countess of Richmond sat with her grandchildren. She had an arm about the girl but her eyes were on the boy.

“It was your father’s wish that I should continue to guide you, Henry,” she explained. “My dear grandson, you will find the task before you not always a glorious one. There is more to kingship than riding through streets and listening to the cheers of the crowd.”

“I know it well,” answered Henry, not as coolly as he would wish, for he was still in awe of his grandmother.

“So I shall always be at hand to give you my counsel and, remembering your father’s wish, I trust you will consider it.”

Henry took her hand and kissed it.

He would always remember, he assured her.

And Mary, seeing the shine in his eyes, knew that his thoughts were far away in the future. He was looking at freedom stretching out before him—glorious, dazzling freedom. He was eighteen and King of England. At this moment he was too much intoxicated by the joy of being alive himself to think of anything else.

Oh, thought Mary, it will be wonderful now he is King! England will be merry, as she was meant to be, and all the country will be in love with such a sovereign.

A cold fear crept into her mind. And where shall I be? How much longer can I hope to remain in England? Am I forgetting that, over the sea, a bridegroom is waiting for me? But not yet…not yet.

She was too much of a Tudor not to live in the moment.

Mourning for King Henry VII could not be expected to last long when there was a young handsome man waiting to put on the crown.

Hope was high throughout London and the country. There would be joy such as had never been known before; gone were the days of high taxation. He had shown his intentions by throwing Empson and Dudley—those notorious extortioners—into the Tower; he had proclaimed that many debtors to the crown would be excused. He made it clear that he wanted the old days of anxiety to be forgotten, that the merry era might begin without delay.

He rode through the streets, this golden boy, and often the Princess of Castile rode with him; he so handsome, she so lovely; and the crowds cheered themselves hoarse for these charming young people.

There was another who rode with the King, for he had decided after all to marry his brother’s widow, and this was a match which found favor with the people, for Katharine was known to be meek and serious by nature; the fact that she was a few years older than her bridegroom seemed favorable too. She will steady him, said the people. For he is gay and over merry, bless him. It will be good for him to have a serious wife.

So the days of mourning were quickly over, for how could the people mourn when they were about to see their King and Queen crowned?

On the eleventh of June—less than two months after his father’s death—Henry married Katharine and the coronation of the pair was arranged for the twenty-fourth of that month.

Mary, who was then three months past her thirteenth birthday, must of course take a prominent part in the celebrations.

What a joy it was to ride in the procession from the Tower to Westminster, to see Archbishop Warham anoint the head of her beloved brother.

His open face shining with delight, he looked magnificent in his robe of crimson velvet edged with white ermine which fell away from his massive shoulders. Beneath it his coat of cloth of gold was visible and he looked even bigger than usual because he sparkled with diamonds, emeralds and rubies. Katharine was beautiful too in her gown of white satin, and her lovely hair loose about her shoulders.

“Did you ever see one so handsome as the King?” asked Mary.

Then she saw who it was who was standing beside her. In his fine garments, worn in honor of the occasion, he was strikingly handsome himself.

“Never,” murmured Charles Brandon, smiling down at her.

She studied him speculatively, and pictured him in crimson velvet and ermine, and she thought: There is one to equal Henry, and that is Charles Brandon.

And she was suddenly very happy to be in a world which contained those two.

A coronation must be celebrated with appropriate entertainments, and Henry assured his subjects that because he must mourn his father he was not going to cheat them of their pleasures. They must look forward not back; and the glittering pageants they would witness should be symbols of the future.

At the banquets Mary found herself seated close to her brother and his wife; and where Henry was, there was his good friend Charles Brandon. In the dances which followed the feasting Mary often found herself partnered by this man, and was dissatisfied when he was not at her side; she was sure that he knew this and endeavored to remain with her.

When she was alone with her women she would do her best to bring his name into the conversation, for the next best thing to being with him was to talk of him.

“Charles Brandon,” said one of her women, “why, there is a man to avoid.”

“Why so?” demanded Mary.

“Because, my lady, he is one of the biggest rakes at Court.”

“Doubtless he is much pursued.”

“That is likely so. What a handsome fellow! And what a roving eye! I’ve heard it said there are secrets he would rather not have brought to Court.”

“There will always be slander against one so attractive.”

The woman raised her eyebrows and looked knowledgeable. Mary understood such looks and knew that she must curb her tongue lest in a short time the rumor went through the Court that the Lady Mary, who was no longer a child, was over-interested in Charles Brandon.

When she next danced with Charles she said to him: “Is it true that you are a rake and a philanderer?”

He laughed, and she laughed with him because she was always so happy in his company that everything seemed a matter for laughter.

“My lady,” he replied, “I never intended to live the life of a monk; although, by some accounts, it would seem that monks are not all we believe them to be.”

“And if the tongue of slander can touch them,” said Mary, “how much readily will it busy itself over one so…so…”

He stopped in the dance; it was only for a few seconds but to Mary it seemed for a long time, because that was the moment of understanding. She had betrayed her feeling, not only to him but to herself. A great exultation took possession of her and it was immediately followed by a terrible frustration; for how could that for which she longed ever be hers?

She loved Charles Brandon. More than any other person in the world, she loved him and she could only be completely happy in his company; but across the water a boy with a heavy jaw and sloppy mouth, heir to great dominions, was waiting until the time when he should be old enough to send for her as his bride.

In the ballroom, with this knowledge bursting upon her, she understood the tragedy which befell so many royal princes and princesses, and knew that it was hers.

Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond and Derby, was very tired, for the coronation celebrations, following so quickly on the funeral, had exhausted her, and from the moment she had looked upon the dead face of her son she had known that life had lost all zest for her.

Her beloved son was dead; what reason had she for living? The children? He had wished her to take care of them; but they would answer only to themselves. She had known that for a long time. Neither of them resembled their careful father, and would go their own way, no matter what advice was given them by their grandmother.

She had lived for sixty-six years, which was a goodly span; and it was because she had been only fourteen years old when she had borne her beloved son that she had been able to take such a prominent part in his counsels; there was no great difference in their ages, and Henry had always been old for his years.

Now she could say: “Lord, I am ready. Let thy servant depart in peace.” She could look back on a life of piety. The universities of Oxford and Cambridge would remember her generosity for as long as they were in existence; nor were they the only beneficiaries of her good works.

She took to her bed before the coronation festivities were over and when she died peacefully, bringing the celebrations to an end, John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, declared: “All England for her death had cause for weeping”; and it was true that the news was received with sorrow throughout the land.

The old King and his mother dead! A new way of life was certainly opening out before the country.

Perhaps the new King was not quite so grief-stricken as he declared himself to be. Perhaps he felt the last of his bonds breaking. He was no longer in leading strings. Absolute freedom was his, and that was a state for which he had always longed.

And the young Princess? She wept for her grandmother, but the old lady was a figure of the past, and at this time of exultation and apprehension Mary could only look to the future, could only ask herself whether it was possible, if one were determined to have one’s will, to flout the whole Court, the whole world, to get it.

One could not deeply mourn the passing of a woman who had lived her life, when one’s own was opening out before one.

There was no room in Mary’s heart and mind for other thoughts or emotion.

She loved with all the force of a passionate nature. It was no use telling herself that she was not yet fourteen years of age. Her grandmother had borne a son at that age. She was a woman now, understanding a woman’s emotions; and because she had always had her way she did not believe she could fail to get it now.

Charles Brandon was the man she had chosen for her husband. She cared nothing for ceremonies which joined her to a boy whom she had never seen.

“I must marry Charles,” she told herself. And she added: “I will.”

The Rise of Charles

CHARLES BRANDON was well aware of the effect he was having on the Princess Mary. He was amused and flattered, for she was a charming creature and he—who prided himself on his knowledge in such matters—would have been ready to wager that not only would she in a very short time become one of the most beautiful young women at the Court, but also one of the most passionate.

It was a pleasant situation, therefore, to be the object of the child’s adoration.

Had she been anyone else he would have been impatient to exploit his advantage; but the King’s sister must be treated with caution; for the King’s sake, or perhaps more truthfully for his own.

He knew Henry well, as they had been together for years; there was a certain primness in Henry’s character which could make a man’s dalliance with his sister a dangerous occupation. Henry was as sensation-loving as his friends; he was not averse to a flirtation here and there; indeed he was just discovering the full delights of the flesh and, if Brandon was not mistaken, would gradually become a more and more eager participant in what they had to offer. But he had quickly discovered that, in dealing with the King, an element of caution must always be employed; and knowing Henry’s great regard for young Mary, it was obvious that he, Brandon, must enter with the utmost caution any situation involving her.

It was a pity. He was thinking of her constantly; and strangely enough he was becoming critical of his mistresses. They were not fresh and young enough. Naturally. How could they hope to compete with a virgin whom he knew to be but fourteen years old? He was as certain of the first fact as of the second. And there she was, as deeply enamored of him as any woman had ever been; and he must remain aloof, constantly reminding himself who she was.

A fascinating situation, yet one he must resist.

If she were not affianced to young Charles, would it be possible…?

Oh no, he was allowing the King’s friendship toward him to put preposterous ideas into his head. He had been very fortunate; it was up to him to see that he remained so.

So during the weeks which followed that moment of revelation Charles Brandon often thought back over the past and saw how luck had brought him to his present position and that he must not run any risk of jeopardizing his good fortune.

Yet what harm was there in seeking the company of this charming girl? A touch of the hand, an eloquent look, could mean so much; and even a cynical adventurer could not but be moved by the love of a young girl.

In her impetuous fashion Mary was falling deeply in love with Charles Brandon; and he, in his way (though it was not artless as hers was, for it was not without calculation and reservation) was following her lead.

Charles could remember the day he first came to Court. He had been very young indeed, but not so young that he could not understand what a great honor was being bestowed upon him. His mother had often told him the story of Bosworth Field.

“Your father,” she had said, “was standard-bearer to Henry of Richmond, and had been a faithful follower of his, sharing his exile in Brittany.”

It was a wonderful story, young Charles had always thought, and he could never hear it too often. As his mother told it he could clearly see Henry Tudor embarking at Harfleur and arriving at Milford Haven with only two thousand men.

“But my father was one of them,” Charles always said at this point.

“But when he landed, Welshmen rallied to his banner, for he was a Welshman himself.”

“But it was my father who was his standard-bearer,” young Charles would cry. “Tell how he rode into battle holding the standard high.”

And she would tell him how Richard III had challenged him to combat and how the brave standard-bearer had fallen at the hand of that King.

“So we shall always be for the Tudor,” Charles had announced. “Because it was the usurper Richard who killed my father.”

And when Henry, Earl of Richmond, became Henry VII of England he did not forget the brave standard-bearer’s family.

There are certain occasions which stand out in a lifetime and will never be forgotten. For Charles, the first of these was that day when the messenger came from the King.

“You have a son,” ran the King’s message. “If you care to send him to Court a place shall be found for him.”

What rejoicing there had been when that message came!

“This is the great opportunity,” he was told; “it is for you to see what can be made of it.”

In his own home he was an important personage; he was possessed of exceptionally good looks; he had strong limbs and already was tall for his age. His nurses and servants had said of him: “There goes one who knows what he wants from life and how to get it.”

He had been taught jousting and fencing and had excelled at these sports; it had been the same with wrestling and pole-jumping. There seemed to be none who could equal him. True, Latin, Greek, and literature were not much to his taste; he was the reluctant scholar, grudging every moment that was not spent out of doors.

He could remember clearly the night before he had left for the Court, how he had knelt with his mother and their confessor and had prayed for his future. They had asked that he should be courageous and humble, that he should always serve God and the King. His thoughts had wandered because he was picturing what the King would say when he came face to face with Charles Brandon.

He had been a little hurt when, arriving at Court, he had not seen the King for weeks, and then only glimpsed him; it seemed at that time an astonishing thing that Charles Brandon should be at Court and the King appear neither to know nor care.

But soon he was given his place in the household of the young Duke of York, and it was not long before he made his presence known there. He was glad that he had been assigned to the household of the younger brother, although it would have been a greater honor to have been in the household of the Prince of Wales. Arthur would never have been his friend as Henry was, for he and Henry were two of a kind. Henry was some six years younger than himself but they had not known each other long when both recognized the affinity between them. It was Charles Brandon who was selected to fence with the Prince and when they practiced archery and pole-jumping together, Henry was put out because Charles always beat him.

“I am bigger and older than you,” Charles pointed out, “so it is but natural that I should beat you.”

Henry’s eyes had narrowed as he had retorted: “It is never natural for a commoner to beat a Prince.”

Charles was young but he was shrewd. After that he let Henry win now and then; not every time; he did not wish the Prince to be suspicious that his vanity was being humored; and the occasional win pleased him better than if he had always scored. Charles was becoming a diplomat. He decided that the Prince should win more and more frequently as time passed, for then he would always want to play with his friend Charles Brandon.

He was beloved of Fortune, he knew it. Having been born a few years before his Prince, he was that much wiser, that much stronger in the early days of their relationship. They grew side by side, until the Prince was as tall as he was—blond giants, of a size, and not dissimilar in appearance, both ruddy, both with that hint of corpulence to come in later life, two sportsmen, so perfectly matched that all Charles had to do was make certain Henry appeared to be that fraction more skillful in their games; but only a fraction so that Charles might be the worthiest of opponents; he need only bend forward a little to give his Prince that extra inch; all he had to do was please his Prince and his fortune was made. He was indeed blessed, for when the Prince of Wales died, Charles was the devoted friend of the new holder of that significant title: the King-to-be.

It was small wonder that he found life an exhilarating adventure.

He remembered the occasion of his betrothal to Anne Browne. He had been attracted to Anne the moment he saw her, and because of his precocity, he longed to be married; but Anne was considered too young as yet. He thought of her standing beside him while they were ceremoniously betrothed; a fragile girl, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes meek—half eager, half frightened, he thought; she looked at the handsome boy beside her and her emotions were easy to read. She thought herself the luckiest girl alive, being betrothed to Charles Brandon.

It was not, of course, a brilliant match, for Anne’s father, Sir Anthony Browne, was merely Lieutenant of Calais; but the Brandons had not known at that time how Charles’s friendship with the heir to the throne would advance his fortunes.

Back at Court he continued to be that friend whom the Prince of Wales kept most often at his side. Sometimes when he and Henry rode out hunting together they would break away from the main party, tether their horses and stretch themselves out on the grass, talking of the future.

Henry said: “When I am King, my first task shall be to conquer France.”

“I shall be beside you,” Charles told him.

“We will go together. None shall stand in our way. You’ll be a good soldier, Charles.”

“At Your Grace’s right hand.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed, “you shall be at my right hand.”

“Your standard-bearer…as my father was to your father.”

Henry liked that; he was inclined to sentimentality.

Then they would talk of the balls they would give when they returned to England as conquerors.

“Fair women to wait on us,” murmured Henry, his little eyes shining.

“The fairest in all England to serve Your Grace, and the next fairest for me.”

Henry liked Charles to forecast the masques and entertainments and this Charles did, for his imagination was a trifle more vivid than his master’s, although not much more so. That was why they were in such accord. Charles only had to remember to be one step behind his master, and all was well.

When he told of his betrothal to Anne Browne, Henry was a trifle envious because he was longing to be married.

“But when I marry it will be to a princess, an heiress to great dominions.”

That was true, and in comparison little Anne Browne, for all her delicacy, for all her charm, seemed unworthy of the greatest friend of the Prince of Wales.

He began to picture Anne at the balls and tourneys. It was difficult to imagine her in cloth of gold and scarlet velvet. He could see her clearly in a quiet country mansion, at his table, in his bed. But at Court? Scarcely.

It then occurred to him that the delectable Anne Browne, disturber of his dreams, was no worthy wife for Charles Brandon.

It was in his grandfather’s house that he first met Margaret Mortymer. Margaret was a widow, ripe and luscious, resentful of her state. Her dark, smoldering eyes were ready to rest on any young and personable man, and when they discovered Charles Brandon her desire for him was immediate.

His grandfather lived quietly in the country not far from London, where Margaret had her home; the two young people were much together while they stayed under the roof of Sir William Brandon.

Margaret’s late husband, Charles discovered, was his grandfather’s brother, so there was a connection, while Margaret herself was distantly related to Anne Browne.

Margaret was well connected, being the daughter of Neville, Marquis of Montacute, and widow of Sir John Mortymer, but in the first weeks of their friendship Charles was more aware of her physical charms than of her family background.

She was older than he was, an experienced widow; and although he was no virgin he learned that he was as yet a novice in the art of lovemaking.

Afterward, those hot summer days lived on in his memory like a dream that would have been best forgotten, but from which he believed he would never quite escape.

His erotic nature was titillated to such a pitch that he was ready to attempt any act which might satisfy it.

“Soon,” she told him, “you will return to Court; and how shall I see you then?”

He did not know, but he assured her that he would find some means of reaching her bed.

“But what of my reputation?” she demanded. “Here it is easy. We are both guests of your grandfather. How can you, a young man, come frequently to my house. How can you stay the night? Only if you were my husband could we be happy.”

He told her of his betrothal to Anne Browne, adding: “If I were free, I would not hesitate to marry you. Why did we not meet years ago?”

Margaret knew the solution, which was that he must obtain a dispensation, which need not be difficult because she had friends in the right quarter who would arrange that it should be procured with speed.

Margaret was a forceful woman. She was not going to let him escape. He thought now and then of Anne with the gazelle eyes and the adoring smile; he knew that she would be bitterly hurt, and he did not want to hurt Anne. He began to suspect that in his way he was in love with Anne, the virgin, more than he could ever be with the flamboyant widow, although his physical need of the latter was greater.

He knew Margaret was a match for him; he knew that she would never allow him to evade her; so he consoled himself that the daughter of the Marquis of Montacute was a better match than that of the Lieutenant of Calais.

Anne’s gentle eyes continued to haunt him until he and Margaret were married, but for the first months he found his life with her all that he could wish, so that he rarely gave a thought to the girl whom he had jilted.

He could not, however, stay away from Court indefinitely and the Prince was commanding his friend to return. It had been amusing to go back, the married man, to confide in the Prince, to bask in the royal and avid curiosity concerning his life with a woman.

But when he returned to her, some of the magic had gone for it was inconceivable that one so lusty could remain a faithful husband and he had discovered that there were girls at Court who could give all that Margaret gave and not demand marriage in exchange. He began to wonder whether he had been a little impulsive, particularly when he saw Anne again, grown taller and no less fragile, reminding him of a pale daffodil. Poor Anne! Her eyes were tragic when they met his, though not reproachful.

His conscience worried him a little, for he feared she might die of a broken heart.

Once more he confided in his Prince. Henry’s response was vehement for the sentimentality of his nature was touched by the thought of little Anne Browne.

“You should have the marriage pronounced invalid and marry Anne,” he told his friend.

“But how so?”

“How so? Marriages are pronounced invalid. Why not yours? If Anne dies of a broken heart you will be her murderer.”

The more Charles thought of Anne the more he desired to marry her and rid himself of Margaret. He was weary of erotic and passionate women for a while; he wanted a pure virgin. He no longer wanted to be instructed, being ready now to act as instructor.

“Anne, Anne, how could I have done this?” he asked himself. “I was led astray. I was young and foolish…”

“There must be means of ending that marriage,” Henry told him. “There are always means of ending marriages which have become distasteful.”

Charles, gratified by the royal interest and setting himself to work on his problem, discovered that the Prince was right. There were always ways. Margaret’s first husband was the brother of Charles’s grandfather. Surely that placed them in the second or third degree of affinity? Then Charles had been betrothed to Anne Browne who was related to Margaret. He was certain that with a little help he could arrange that his marriage should be pronounced invalid on the grounds of consanguinity.

At this time he had another of those brilliant strokes of good fortune which were a feature of his life; Margaret discovered that she was as weary of the union as he was. She wanted a husband who was with her all the time and Charles’s place at Court made this impossible. She therefore would put nothing in the way of having the marriage dissolved.

When he was free, Charles at once sought out his first love and without hesitation married her.

Here was a different kind of wife! Here he had nothing to regret! Anne was meek and loving; she made no demands; she was thankful for any scrap of affection he gave her; and almost immediately she became pregnant.

Like his royal master Charles loved children and the thought of having a child of his own made him very happy. Moreover, Henry was interested in the coming child, and growing more and more impatient to marry and have children. Sometimes Charles feared that his master’s envy might in some way turn him against him; but it did not, and when Charles’s daughter—whom he called Anne after her mother—was born, Henry sent as rich a present as he could afford. Not that it was a handsome gift, as his father kept him very short, but it gave Charles and Anne great pleasure to bask thus in the favor of the man who would one day be King.

For a while Charles was content; he lived his life between the Court and his home where Anne and her little namesake were always waiting for him. There were several light love affairs at Court which was quite natural, he consoled himself, since he must in the course of his duty spend so much time away from the marital bed; and he placated his conscience with the thought that even had Anne known of these she would have understood.

In the course of time she again became pregnant, and little Mary was born.

Henry followed his friend’s married adventures with the utmost interest and chafed more and more at his own bonds which would not allow him to act as freely as Brandon did.

Anne died soon after Mary was born; Charles mourned, but not deeply; he had already begun to wish that he had married a more spirited wife, for life with Anne had been becoming rather dull. Charles began to think then that the humdrum life was not for him; he wanted adventure all the time. Here again he asked himself whether he was Fortune’s favorite, for Anne’s early death had saved him from the discomfort of discovering he had made a second mistake.

He was now free—a widower. It was true he had two little daughters, but he was fond of them and they presented no difficulty. They were well looked after and he visited them from time to time; his visits were the highlights in their lives and they adored him.

Life had taken a very pleasant turn. The old King had died and his friend was now in the supreme position; Henry had a wife of his own and was no longer envious of Charles’s married state. The friendship had not slackened in any way; in fact it grew stronger. At all the coronation jousts and tourneys it was Charles Brandon who was closest to the King. He had a rival in Sir William Compton, but there was nothing new in this because Compton had been a page of Henry’s when he was Duke of York, for the boy had been a ward of Henry VII. Compton was a kindred spirit and Henry was drawn to him, but he was no Brandon; he was neither as tall, handsome, nor as skilled in the joust. Compton had been a butt for them both. “Come on, Compton, you try now,” Henry would say; and he and Charles would look on, mildly contemptuous of the other boy. But Henry had a great affection for him all the same, and Charles had at times wondered whether the Prince might not feel more tender toward one who was far behind him than another who was his equal.

Henry did not forget his friends, and those who had been close to the Prince of Wales were now as close to the King. He at once appointed Compton Groom of the Bedchamber, and shortly afterward he was Chief Gentleman of the Bedchamber, then Groom of the Stole and Constable of Sudeley and Gloucester Castles. But there were equal honors for Charles. Immediately on his accession Henry made his friend Squire of the Royal Body and Chamberlain of the Principality of North Wales; later he became Marshal of the King’s Bench and the office of Marshal of the Royal Household was promised him.

It became clear that King Henry VIII was not going to keep those solemn old men, appointed by his father, in office; he was going to surround himself with the young and the merry. So Charles could look forward to great honors and a successful life at Court.

It was at this stage that Charles became aware that he had attracted the attention of the King’s young sister.

Charles knew that he must act with the utmost care. To be the chosen companion of the Prince of Wales was pleasant and diverting; to be King’s favorite could be dangerous. In those early days of kingship, Henry was a careless giant scattering handfuls of gifts on those he favored, but there were many ambitious men ready to scramble for the treasures he threw so lightheartedly, ready to kick aside those for whom they were intended. And for all his ready bonhomie, temper could spring up suddenly behind those merry blue eyes, turning a smile to a scowl in a matter of seconds.

And at every ball and banquet Charles was thrown into the company of the Princess Mary. She herself arranged this.

There was little of the Tudor caution in Mary; she belonged completely to the Plantagenet House of York. Thus recklessly must her maternal grandfather have conducted himself when he defied his counselors and married the beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, scorning political advantage for the sake of love.

She fired his imagination and his senses; he was certain that if he did not take care she would lead him to such great disaster against which he would be powerless to defend himself. He realized that in all his affairs with women he had never been so close to danger as he was at this time. He knew he should avoid her company. But how could the King’s favorite courtier and the King’s favorite sister, both of whom he loved to have beside him, keep apart?

Whenever Henry wanted to plan some entertainment—and in these early years of his reign he was continually planning them—he would cry: “Brandon! Mary! Come here. Now I would plan a masque.”

And the three of them would sit together whispering in a window seat, Mary between them, slipping her arms through theirs with a childlike gesture which completely deceived her brother.

Charles understood how very near he was to danger on an occasion when Henry summoned them both, with Compton, to his bedchamber.

Henry’s eyes were alight with pleasure. “News, my friends,” he said, “and I tell you before it becomes known to any others. My hopes are about to be fulfilled. The Queen is with child.”

Mary impulsively went to her brother and, putting her arms solemnly about his neck, kissed him. Henry held her tightly against him, tears glittering in his eyes.

“Dearest, I am so happy for you,” said Mary.

“God bless you, little sister. I told Kate you should be the first—outside ourselves—to know it.”

Charles took the King’s hand and kissed it. Then he cried: “God bless the Prince of Wales.”

“Your Grace,” murmured Compton, “there is no news I would rather have heard.”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry. “This is a happy day. You know how I long for a son. My heir…the first of them. Kate and I intend to have a quiver-full.”

“It is a good sign,” Mary told him. “So soon after your marriage.”

Henry pinched her cheek. “You talk like an old beldame. What do you know of such matters?”

“What I learn at your Court, brother,” murmured Mary with a curtsy.

Henry burst into loud laughter. “Listen to this sister of mine! She’s a pert wench and not chary of making this known to her King.”

“She is sure of the King’s love,” answered Compton.

Henry’s eyes were very sentimental as he put an arm about Mary. “Aye,” he said, “and she is right to be. Pert she is, and I fancy somewhat wayward, yet she is my sister and I love her dearly.”

Mary stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.

“You see,” said Henry, “she would use her wiles on me. It is because she is going to ask me for something, depend upon it. What is it, sister?”

Mary looked from Compton to Brandon and her eyes rested a second or so on the latter.

“I shall not abuse your generosity by asking for small favors,” she replied. “When I ask it shall be for some great boon.”

“Hark to her!” cried Henry delightedly. “And what think you? When she asks, shall I grant it, eh, Compton? Eh, Brandon?”

“Of a certainty,” answered Compton.

“Our friend Charles is silent,” said Henry. “He is not sure.”

“I am sure of this,” Charles answered, “that if it is in your Grace’s power to grant it, grant it you will. But the Lady Mary may ask for the moon, and that, even the greatest King in Christendom could not grant.”

“If I wanted the moon, I should find some means of getting it,” replied Mary.

“You see, our sister is not like us mortals.” Henry was tired of the conversation. “We shall have the foreign ambassadors to entertain this Shrovetide, and I shall give them a banquet in the Parliament Chamber of Westminster; afterward there shall be a masque. We shall dance before the Queen and it shall be in her honor. She herself will not dance. We have to think of her condition. When the banquet is over I shall disappear and you, Brandon and Compton, will slip away with me.”

“And I shall too?” asked Mary.

“But of course. You will choose certain ladies. Some of us will dress ourselves in the Turkish fashion—not all though. Edward Howard and Thomas Parr are good dancers; they shall be dressed as Persians, and others shall wear the costume of Russia. The ambassadors, with Kate and the rest of the spectators, will think we are travelers from a foreign land….”

“Oh,” cried Mary, “it is to be that kind of masque! I tell you this, I shall take the part of an Ethiopian queen. There will be veils over my face, and perhaps I shall darken my skin…yes, and wear a black wig.”

“Perfect!” cried the King. “None will recognize you. Charles, have Howard and Parr brought here. Fitzwater too. And let me consider…who else?…”

Mary was not listening. She was looking at Charles, and her blue eyes reminded him of her brother’s. She was thinking of herself disguised as an Ethiopian queen; in the dance she would insist on dancing with one of the two tallest Turks.

Charles shared her excitement.

How long, he wondered, could they go on in this way!

It was hot in the hall; the torch bearers, their faces blackened, that they might be mistaken for Moors, had ushered in the party, and the dance had begun. There was one among them who leaped higher and danced with more vigor than all the others, which excited cries of wonder from all who beheld him.

The Queen on her dais was indulgent. When the masque was over she would express great surprise that the Turk who danced so miraculously was her husband, the King. What a boy he was! How guileless? She, who carried their child in her womb, loved him with greater tenderness than he would understand.

Now the “foreigners” were mingling with the dancers and the Queen of Ethiopia had selected a tall Turk for her partner.

“Why, Charles,” she said, “you are much too tall for a Turk, you know. And so is Henry.”

“I fear so.”

“It is of no moment. Everyone is happy pretending they do not know who you are and who the King is. Do you think Henry believes he is deceiving them?”

“He wants to believe it, so he does. If he did not, the masque would have no meaning.”

“I am like my brother, Charles. I too believe that which I want to.” Her fingers dug into his flesh and the light pain was exquisite; he wished it were stronger. “But,” she went on, “I would not waste my energy pretending about a masque.”

“You would choose more serious subjects?”

“Charles, I tell you this: I do not believe I shall ever go to Flanders as the Princess of Castile.”

“It is a great match.”

“It is a hateful match. I loathe that boy.”

“It was once said that you loved him dearly.”

“My women used to put his picture by my bed so that it was the first thing I saw on waking; they used to tell me I was in love with him, that I could not wait for the day when we would be husband and wife.”

“And was it not so?”

“Charles, do not be foolish! How could it be? What did I know of love? I had never seen the boy. Have you seen his picture? He looks like a drooling idiot.”

“The grandson of Maximilian and Ferdinand could scarcely be that.”

“Why could he not be so? His mother is mad.”

“My lady, have a care. People are wondering what causes your vehemence.”

“Have I not reason for vehemence? To be given in marriage to a boy younger than myself…a boy whom I know I shall hate! If I could choose the man I would marry he would be a man. Tall, strong, excelling in the jousts. I have a fancy for an Englishman, Charles. Not an idiot foreigner.”

“Alas, matches are made for princesses.”

“I would I were not a princess.”

“Nay, you are proud. You are like your brother. Your rank delights you.”

“That is true, but there are things that delight me more. Oh, have done with talking round this matter. I know my own mind. I know what I want. Shall I tell you?”

“No, my Princess. It would not be wise.”

“Since when has Charles Brandon become such a sober-sides?”

“Since his emotions became engaged where he knows they should not.”

“Charles! Are you a puppet, then, to be jerked on strings, to be told: Do this! Do that? Or are you a man who has a will of his own?”

“My lady, I should ask you to give me permission to leave your side.”

“Charles, you are a coward!”

“Yes, my lady; and if you have any regard for me, you must see how misplaced it is, for how could you feel friendship for a coward?”

“Friendship!” He heard the tremor in her voice and he knew that she was near to tears. “I am not a child any more, Charles. Let us at least be frank with one another.”

He was silent and she stamped her foot. “Let us be frank,” she repeated.

He gripped her wrist and heard her catch her breath at the pain. In a moment, he thought, she would attract attention to them and the first rumors would start.

He drew her closer to him and said roughly: “Yes, let us be frank. You imagine that you love me.”

“Imagine!” she cried scornfully. “I imagine nothing. I know. And if you are going to say you don’t love me, you’re a liar, Charles Brandon, as well as a coward.”

“And you, a proud Tudor, find you love a liar and coward?”

“One does not love people for their virtues. I know you have been married…twice. I know that you cast off your first wife. I should not love you because you were a virtuous husband to another woman, should I? What care I, how many wives you have had, how many mistresses you have? All I know is this, that one day I shall command you to cast them all aside because…”

“My love,” he murmured tenderly, “you are attracting attention to us. That is not the way.”

“No,” she retorted, “that is not the way. You called me your love.”

“Did you doubt that I love you?”

“No, no. Love such as mine must meet with response. Charles, what shall we do? How can I marry that boy? Is it not a touch of irony that he should be Charles, too. I think of him as that Charles and you as my Charles. What shall we do?”

“My dearest Princess,” he said soberly, “you are the King’s sister. You are affianced to the Prince of Castile. The match has been made and cannot be broken simply because you love a commoner.”

“It must be, Charles. I refuse to marry him. I shall die if they send me away.”

He pressed her hand tightly and she laughed. “How strong you are, Charles. My rings are cutting into my fingers and it is very painful, but I’d rather have pain from you than all the gentleness in the world from any other. What shall I do? Tell me that. What shall I do?”

“First, say nothing of this mad passion of yours to anyone.”

“I have told no one, not even Guildford, though I believe she guesses. She has been with me so long and she knows me so well. She said: ‘My little Princess has changed of late. I could almost wonder whether she was in love.’ Then, Charles, my Charles, she put up the picture of that Charles. But I think she meant to remind me, to warn me. Oh Charles, how I wish I were one of the serving maids…any kind of maid who has her freedom, for freedom to love and marry where one wills are the greatest gifts in the world.”

She was a child, he thought; a vehement, passionate child. This devotion of hers which she was thrusting at him would likely pass. It might well be that in a few weeks’ time she would develop a passion for one of the other young men of the Court, someone younger than himself, for he was more than ten years her senior.

The thought of her youth comforted him. It was pleasant enough to be so favored by the King’s sister. He was at ease. None would take this passion seriously, and certainly he was not to blame for its existence.

If he attempted to seduce her as she was so earnestly inviting him to do, there would be danger. Henry might not respect the virginity of other young women, but he most certainly would his sister’s.

Charles knew that he was being lured into a dangerous—though fascinating—situation, but he believed he was wise enough to steer clear of disaster.

She was pressing close to him in the dance.

“Charles, tell me, what shall we do?”

He whispered: “Wait. Be cautious. Tell no one of this. Who knows what is in store for us?”

She was exultant. They had declared their love. She had the sort of faith which would enable her to believe the movement of mountains was a possibility.

She had already made up her mind: One day I shall be the wife of Charles Brandon.

When Henry’s son was born there was more merrymaking. The boy made his appearance on the first of January; he was a feeble child who struggled for existence for a few weeks, and by the twenty-second of the following month had died.

This was Henry’s first setback, his first warning that what he urgently desired was not always going to be his. He was plunged into deepest melancholy; and that was the end of one phase of his life. He had spent almost the whole of the first two years of his kingly state in masking, jousting, and feasting; but with the death of his son his feelings had undergone a change; he would never be quite the same lighthearted boy again.

He wanted to give himself to more serious matters. His father-in-law, Ferdinand of Aragon, had persuaded him to join him, with Pope Julius II and the Venetians, against France; and because Henry saw in war a vast and colorful joust in which, on account of his youth, riches, and strength, he was bound to succeed, he was ready to follow his father-in-law’s advice and promised to send troops into France.

War now occupied Henry’s mind; he was constantly closeted with his statesmen and generals; and while he planned a campaign he dreamed of himself as the all-conquering hero who would one day win France back for the English crown.

He was impatient because he could not collect an army without delay and go into battle; he had thought a war was as quickly organized as a joust. His ministers had a hard time persuading him that this was not so, and gradually he began to see that they were right.

The Court was at Greenwich, the King much preoccupied with thoughts of conquest; and one day when he was walking with some of his courtiers in the gardens there, Mary saw him and went to him.

She signed to the courtiers to leave them together and, because Henry was always more indulgent to his sister than to anyone else, he did not countermand her order but allowed Mary to slip her arm through his.

“Oh, Henry,” she said, “how dull is all this talk of war! The Court is not so merry as it used to be.”

“Matters of state, sweetheart,” he answered, with an indulgent smile. “They are part of a king’s life, you should know.”

“But why go to war when you can stay here and have so much pleasure?”

“You, a daughter of a king and sister of one, should understand. I shall not rest until I am crowned in Rheims.”

“Do you hate the French so much?”

“Of course I hate our enemies. And now I have good friends in Europe. Between us we shall crush the French. You shall see, sister.”

“Henry, there is one matter which gives me great cause for sorrow. You could ease my pain if you would.”

“Sorrow! What is this? I was of the opinion that life used you very well.”

“I do not wish to leave you ever, Henry.”

“Oh come, my dearest sister, that is child’s talk.”

“It is not child’s talk. It is woman’s talk, for I am a woman now, Henry.”

“What! Are you so old then?”

“Henry, as you love me, stop treating me as a child. I am sixteen years old, and I am begging you not to send me to that odious Charles.”

“What’s this?”

“You know full well. Against my wishes I was affianced to him. I am asking you to break off this match.”

“Sister, you are being foolish. How could I break off this match? The Emperor Maximilian is a good friend to England. He would not be, I do assure you, if I said to him, ‘There shall be no match between your grandson and my sister…because she has taken a sudden dislike to the boy.’”

“Henry, this is my life. I am to be sent away from home…to a strange land…to marry this boy who looks like an idiot…and his mother is mad, we know. So is he. I will not go.”

“Listen, little sister. We of royal blood cannot choose our brides and bridegrooms. We must remember always our duty to the State. We have to be brave and patient, and in good time we grow to love those chosen for us because we know it is our duty to do so.”

“You married whom you wished.”

“Kate is the daughter of a king and queen. Had she not been I should not have been able to marry her…however much I wished for the match. Nor should I have done so, because I have always known that to consider the advantages to the State is the first duty of princes.”

“Henry, something must happen. I cannot go to that boy. He is but a boy…and I thank God for that, otherwise I should have been cruelly sent away from my home and all I love, ere this. He is about twelve years old now. When he is fourteen they will say he is old enough to have a wife and then…then…unless you save me…”

“It is two years away, sister. Dismiss it from your mind. In two years’ time you will understand more than you do now. You will be reconciled to our fate. Believe me, a great deal can happen in two years. Why, at one time I repudiated Kate…then, when I was King, I married her.”

Mary stamped her foot. “Henry, stop treating me as a child.”

He smiled at her as indulgently as ever, but there was a sharp note in his voice. “Remember to whom you speak, sister.”

“Henry,” she said vehemently, “it is because I never want to leave England. Let me marry in England. Greenwich…Richmond…this river…this King…these I love.”

He patted her hand. “Methinks,” he said, “that I am over-soft with you, sister. It is because of the great love I bear you. I no more want you to leave us than you wish to. But I can no more keep you back than I could have kept Margaret.”

“You did not care that Margaret went.”

“I had no wish for her to go to Scotland. I love not the Scots.”

“And you love these Flemings, these Spaniards?”

“My wife is a Spaniard, sister, remember. Oh come, smile. Do not grieve about tomorrow when there is so much to make you smile today. I will tell you something. We will have a masque to beguile the time. You shall help me plan it, eh? And it shall be in your honor. How is that?” He turned and called: “Brandon! Compton!”

And it was when they were joined by these two that he noticed the look which Mary bestowed on Charles Brandon. She was too young to disguise her feelings and Henry believed he knew why she had suddenly become so eager to avoid the marriage with Charles of Castile.

So she had cast her eyes on Brandon. Well, Brandon was one of the most attractive men in his Court…the most attractive, with one exception. They were so much alike that when they wore masks one was often mistaken for the other. They could have some good sport with this resemblance.

Oh yes, he could quite understand the effect a man like Brandon would have on an impressionable girl.

It was nothing, though. A passing fancy. This happened with young girls now and then.

Brandon at the moment was unattached. It might be well to deal with that matter. When he had time he would remember. In the meantime he must keep Mary amused, for he was too fond of the child to be able to look on unmoved when she was unhappy.

She would have to go to Flanders or Spain at some time, but that time was not yet. He had to remember that she was a young girl with a young girl’s fancies.

All the same he would do something about Brandon.

Henry’s friendship with Charles was greater than ever during that year, and the King appointed his friend Keeper of the Royal Manor and Park of Wanstead and Ranger of the New Forest. Instead of Squire of the Royal Body he was now Knight of the same, and they were rarely out of each other’s company.

One winter’s day when they were returning from the hunt together Henry said to Charles: “I should like to bestow some title on you, Charles, and I have been turning this matter over in my mind for some time.”

“Your Grace has been so good to me already…”

“It gives me pleasure to honor my friends. But you who are so often in the company of your King should have a title. It has been brought to my notice that Elizabeth Grey is the sole heiress of her father, John Grey, Viscount Lisle. I propose to make the girl your ward. Then it is up to you, Charles; marry her and you will take over the title. Viscount Lisle! What think you?”

“I thank Your Grace.”

Henry slapped his friend’s arm. “Go to,” he said. “You have our leave to visit the girl. She has more than a title to offer you, Charles. There’s a fortune to go with it. Now go, and come back and tell me you have become Lord Lisle. It grieves me to see you without a wife.”

Charles renewed his thanks to the King and left Court, wondering whether Henry was more astute than he had imagined. But perhaps no great shrewdness was necessary. Mary, with her passionate vehemence, could so easily betray her feelings. Doubtless she had already done so to her chief lady-in-waiting, Lady Guildford, who had been her governess since her childhood; could it be that Lady Guildford had thought it her duty to inform the King?

If he were to prove that he was not to blame for the Princess’s passion, he must obey Henry’s command with speed. If there had been a hope of marrying Mary he would have worked with all his might to bring about that desirable end; but there was not. Why, he thought, even if she were not affianced to Prince Charles, she would never be allowed to marry plain Charles Brandon; and if Henry thought he had raised his eyes so high he would feel it imperative to slap him down. Who knew, that could be the end of the brilliant career which was opening out before him.

He arrived at the home of Elizabeth Grey to find a mansion which was an appropriate setting for a rich heiress. All this land would be mine, he thought. This house, a fortune, a great title. I trust she is beautiful.

He waited in the long hall for her servants to tell her of his arrival, but while he paced up and down he was thinking of Mary, picturing her fury when she heard that he was married. He murmured: “Mary, my Princess, it is useless. You would have had us both in the Tower.” She would answer: “Willingly would I endure imprisonment in the Tower, for I would rather be dead than married to Charles.”

She was a wild creature; she had escaped the discipline which had been enforced during the lifetime of her father; the restrictions Henry VII had imposed on his children could only make them more eager for freedom. The same was true of Henry, and, he was sure, of Margaret. They were headstrong people by nature; they called themselves Tudors but they had inherited none of the caution of Henry Tudor; they were Plantagenets, every one of them—adventurers who would demand of life what they wanted, and use all their tremendous willpower to acquire it.

He would have to explain to her that it was at the King’s command that he had married Elizabeth Grey. She would despise him, stop loving him; and perhaps that would be as well for her peace and his.

There was a commotion at the head of the great staircase, and he heard a shrill, imperious voice saying: “Must I see this man?”

“My lady, you must. It is the order of the King.”

Then she was coming down the stairs, lifting her skirts almost disdainfully; her little head high, as she looked straight ahead, walking regally like a queen in her palace. Brandon was astonished, for she could not be more than eight years old.

She stood before him and held out a hand. He bowed his tall figure a very long way and looked into her face. She was no beauty and her expression at this time was far from agreeable. Her governesses stood a few paces behind her.

Charles straightened up. “I would speak with the Lady Elizabeth in private,” he said.

For a moment the child’s face betrayed her fear; then she said: “Very well.” And to her attendants: “You may wait in the winter parlor.”

She was both imperious and apprehensive, as though she recognized that she was a very rich little girl, and that riches could mean power in some ways, disaster in others; Charles, who was fond of children, felt a little sorry for her.

When they were alone he said: “You know the King has commanded me to come here?”

“I know it,” she answered.

He took her hand and led her to a chair on which she sat while he drew up a stool and placed it opposite her, before seating himself.

“You should not be afraid of me,” he assured her.

“I trust not,” she answered.

“Then why does my presence worry you?”

“Because I know why you have come. The King has chosen you to be my husband.”

“And you like me not?”

“You are very old, and I do not want a husband.”

“It is because you are so young that you think me old. It is also because you are so young that you do not want a husband.”

“And it is because I have a large fortune that you want me for a wife.”

“My dear child, the King commanded me to come here. I did not seek this any more than you did. Shall we say we are victims of circumstances?”

“I am happy here. I have many people to care for me. My father is dead.” Her lips trembled. “But I have others to love me.”

“Do not be downcast. You are over-young to marry. You could not have a husband for at least five years.”

She looked relieved, and suddenly laughed in a merry fashion. “In five years,” she said incredulously, “why, by then…”

“I shall be quite ancient and beyond being a husband!” He laughed. “Not quite, my lady. But it may well be that in five years’ time you will have a different opinion of me from that which you have today.”

She was unconvinced, but clearly she did not find him such an ogre as she had feared he might be.

“The King has made you my ward,” he told her; “and as your guardian I must stay here awhile and make sure that you are being well cared for. It is the King’s wish that we should become betrothed to each other. But do not be alarmed. I do assure you that this will be only a simple ceremony; and we shall not be married until you are at least thirteen years old, which must be quite five years away. Come, show me the house and introduce me to your attendants. I promise you that in a few days you will recognize me as your friend.”

The little girl rose and put her hand uncertainly in his.

She said: “And if, when the time comes, I do not want to marry you…”

“Then I shall not force you to do so.”

Elizabeth Grey was clearly happier than she had been since she had heard that by the King’s command she was to become the ward of Charles Brandon whom Henry had chosen to be her husband.

As he learned the extent of Elizabeth’s wealth, Charles could not but feel gratified. Henry must indeed think highly of him to place such a prize in his hands. He was glad that the child was too young for marriage, because he would have time to prepare her for it; and since he could not have Mary, she would be a very good substitute.

She was an ungracious little creature whose confidence was not easily won, but he was sorry for her. Poor child! To lose her father and then suddenly find herself, on account of her position and wealth, offered to a stranger!

She would find that he was no brute. But how to convince her of this?

An incident occurred a few days after his arrival which made the little girl change her mind.

She and Charles were riding together through the countryside with a few of their attendants when, passing a river, they heard cries and, pulling up, saw a child of about three or four years struggling in the water.

Charles was the first out of his saddle and, striding into the river, grasped the child and brought her to the bank.

His handsome clothes were ruined by the water and the child was so still that she appeared to be dead.

“She is not dead,” cried Charles. “We must take her back to the house as quickly as possible. Give me your cloak, Elizabeth, and we’ll wrap it about her. Everything I have on is saturated.”

When the child was wrapped in the cloak, Charles remounted, and, holding her in his arms, took her back to the house. There he and Elizabeth looked after the little girl, who was suffering from shock and chill; but apart from this no harm had come to her and in a few days she was well.

When they questioned her she was able to tell them that she had neither father nor mother. Charles made inquiries in the village, where he learned that she was an orphan only tolerated by an aunt who had a brood of her own and did not want her. It was clear that this callous woman was far from grateful to Charles for saving the child.

“What shall we do with her?” asked Elizabeth.

Charles laughed. “I’ll not have made such an effort in vain. I came here to find one ward. It seems I have found two. I also have two daughters. I am going to send this child to be brought up with them.”

So Elizabeth found clothes for the child, who followed Charles wherever he went, rather to his amusement.

Elizabeth, who was not demonstrative and did not win the child’s affection as Charles had done, watched solemnly. She knew that Charles took pleasure in the child’s devotion, largely because he had saved her life.

Elizabeth said: “You are a kind man, but I think a vain one.”

“At least,” he answered with a laugh, “I have won some small approval.”

Before he left for Court he had persuaded her to make a contract of marriage with him, assuring her that this contract could be broken if, by the time she was of a marriageable age, she had no desire to continue with it.

He took with him the child he had rescued, and placed her with his own daughters, where she was to be cared for as one of them.

He was not displeased with that adventure. Now that he had the marriage contract he knew that Henry would create him Viscount Lisle; he would have the title in advance, and he had not to think of marriage for another five years.

When he returned to Court Mary demanded that he meet her secretly in the gardens of Greenwich Palace.

She turned on him angrily when he came to her. “So you are affianced to Elizabeth Grey!”

“At the King’s command.”

“Is it fitting that a man should have a wife found for him? I should have thought any worthy of the name would have chosen for himself.”

“I am not yet married.”

“But affianced…for the sake of her money and title, I understand.”

“For the sake of the King’s pleasure,” he retorted.

“And when does this marriage take place?”

He took her by the shoulders and shook her a little. “My Princess,” he said, “I am affianced to a girl of eight. It will be five years before we can marry. A great deal can happen in five years. When I entered into this contract I was playing for safety.”

She began to laugh suddenly, holding up her face to his. He kissed her and the passion in her delighted and alarmed him.

“Five years’ grace for you,” she said when at last he released her. “About two for me. Much can happen in five years…even two years. Charles, my mind is quite made up.”

“My dearest, do not allow your impetuosity to destroy us both.”

She threw her arms about him once more.

“Nay, Charles,” she said. “I’ll not destroy us. But I will find a way…and so must you.”

He wondered afterward whether his position had not in fact become more dangerous since his betrothal to little Elizabeth Grey.

The King was angry. His first foray into France had been a dismal failure, and the English were a laughingstock on the Continent of Europe. It was true Henry himself had not crossed the Channel but he was very put out because his soldiers had, as he said, failed him. His force, under the Marquis of Dorset, had landed in Biscay where they were to attack France while Ferdinand took Navarre. Ferdinand, however, had proved himself a questionable ally; he had promised the English Guienne, that region of southwest France which had come to England with the marriage of Henry II, and which the present Henry was eager to bring back to the crown. Ferdinand, however, had no intention of helping the English; all he wanted was for them to engage part of the French army so that he might be relieved of their attentions while pursuing his own goal. Consequently the English had lain at San Sebastian without provisions or arms and, because they drank too freely of the Basque wine, which they found a poor substitute for English ale, they contracted dysentery and, in spite of Henry’s orders that they were to remain at their posts, mutinied and came back to England.

It seemed to Henry then that God no longer favored him. He had lost his son; and now his own men had disobeyed him. He knew that Ferdinand was treacherous, and the fact that he was his own father-in-law did not soften that blow.

There was one way in which he could win back his self-respect. He himself was going to France.

Thus it was that in the May of the year 1513 he decided to lead his own army against the French.

The great cortège was on its way to Dover. An army of fourteen thousand men had already crossed the Channel and were awaiting the arrival of the King; and now Henry was setting out on the first great adventure of his reign.

He was determined that this should be a glorious occasion. He rode at the head of the cavalcade, his coat of gold brocade, his breeches of cloth of gold, his hose scarlet, and about his neck, on a chain of gold, a huge gold whistle encrusted with gems of great value. On this he blew from time to time.

The Queen and her ladies accompanied the party to Dover; and among this party was the Princess Mary, uneasy because Charles was going to war; and, although she loved the dazzling ceremonies before the departure, she hated the thought of the two men she loved so dearly going into danger.

The night before they sailed the four of them were alone together. Henry and his wife, herself and Charles; and she was envious of her sister-in-law who, like herself, was apprehensive, yet at the same time deeply content, because Katharine was pregnant and Henry was very affectionate toward her and had greatly honored her by making her Regent in his absence.

Lucky Katharine! thought Mary, who need make no secret of her fear and love.

Mary threw herself on her knees before her brother that night. “Henry,” she said, “you must take care, and not go into danger.”

Henry laughed aloud. “My dear sister, we are going to war. Would you have me hide behind the lines?”

“Why must there be this war?” demanded Mary.

“Come, come, that’s women’s talk. There must always be wars. We have a country to subdue. I promise you this: when I am crowned, you shall come to see the deed done.”

Mary murmured, her voice shaking with emotion: “Take care of each other.”

Then she turned away and stood at the window, staring out to sea.

Henry was studying Charles shrewdly. “Well, my Lord Lisle,” he said, stressing the title to remind Charles and Mary how the former had come by it, “my sister is deeply concerned for us. Methinks she loves us well.”

Then he smiled fondly at his meek wife who gave him no cause for anxiety. She would take charge of the realm while he was away, and on his return she might be holding their son in her arms.

Henry was delighted with his campaign. He joined his armies at Thérouanne where he found a timber-house with an iron chimney waiting to house him; and many tents were at his disposal, some of them as long as one hundred and twenty-five feet. It seemed possible to wage war in the utmost comfort, and when the Emperor Maximilian joined him, soberly clad in black frieze (for he was in mourning for his second wife), he came, he said, to serve under Henry as a common soldier. This delighted Henry and it did not strike him as strange that the seasoned old warrior should place himself in such a position. Inexperienced as he was, Henry believed himself to be godlike, as those surrounding him had been telling him he was, for as long as he could remember. So Maximilian, receiving a hundred thousand crowns in advance for the services of himself and his Lanzknechts, accepted pay (provided by Henry) like any soldier serving under his commander. Henry did not know yet that the Emperor wanted the capture of the twin towns, Thérouanne and Tournay, to facilitate trade for the Netherlands, and that he was ready to play the humble subordinate that they might be won at Henry’s expense.

And when the towns were taken—an easy conquest, for the French put up little resistance—and Henry wanted to go in triumph to Paris, Maximilian persuaded him to go with him to Lille and the court of his daughter, the Duchess of Savoy, where he could make the acquaintance of the Emperor’s grandson, Charles, who was betrothed to his sister Mary.

Henry was disappointed, and grumbled to his friends—Charles, Compton, Thomas Boleyn.

“Why,” he growled, “I had thought to go on to Paris, but it seems the Emperor does not advise it.”

Compton suggested that the French might put up more resistance for Paris than they had for those two border towns, and they had to remember that the autumn was almost upon them, and that the Emperor had warned them of the discomfort of Flanders’s mud.

Charles was overcome with a desire to see the boy who was betrothed to Mary and was not eager to continue with the war because, unlike Henry, he was beginning to see that Maximilian was not the friend the King so artlessly believed him to be; and it seemed that those two wily adventurers, Maximilian and Ferdinand, were of a kind, and their plan was to use Henry’s wealth to get what they wanted.

So he joined his voice to Compton’s, and Henry was not loath to be persuaded.

“I hear,” said Henry, “that the Lady Margaret is comely and eager to entertain us.”

The matter was settled. They would abandon war for the time being and give themselves up to pleasure in the Court at Lille.

The company was in high spirits. News had come from England that the Scots had been defeated at Flodden by what was left at home of the English army, and that James IV of Scotland had been slain.

Henry was jubilant even though James had become his brother-in-law by marrying his sister, Margaret Tudor.

“Never did trust a Scotsman,” he had often commented; and he was not displeased to have his doubts of them confirmed. For as soon as he had left England they had started to march against England. Well, they had learned their lesson. Conquests abroad; conquests at home; what better time for revelry?

And Margaret of Savoy had determined that there should be revels.

Margaret, twice widowed, was still young; being devoted to her nephew, the fourteen-year-old Prince Charles, who had spent much of his childhood with her, she was eager to learn something of the boy’s bride-to-be; and in any case it was always a pleasure to have an excuse for revelry.

When her father with his guests rode to the Palace she was waiting to greet them, her somewhat plump figure attired in regal velvet, her smile kindly; and with her was her nephew and the Emperor’s grandson, Prince Charles.

The boy was embraced with affection by his grandfather, then presented to Henry. Charles Brandon, standing behind his master, wondered if Henry was thinking the same as he was: Poor, brilliant, lovely Mary, to be given to such a weakling!

The boy’s picture, which Mary had come to loathe, had not lied; and he had changed little since it was painted. There were the prominent eyes and the heavy jaw, the mouth which did not close easily; there was the lank yellow hair, and the boy certainly seemed to have to concentrate with effort in order to follow the conversation.

And this was the greatest heir in Europe, the boy who would inherit the dominions of his Imperial grandfather Maximilian and his Spanish grandfather Ferdinand! The son of mad Juana!

Brandon’s indignation rose at the thought of Mary’s marriage.

Then he noticed that their hostess was smiling at him.

“My lord, Lisle,” she was saying in a soft and gentle voice, “it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to my Court.”

He took her hand and kissed it, and he fancied she lingered at his side just a little longer than was consistent with etiquette.

In the private apartment allotted to the King, Charles, with Compton, Parr and Boleyn, assisted at his toilet.

“The lady is not without charm,” commented Henry. “But the boy…! It’s past my understanding how Max can feel so pleased with him.”

“He looks to be an oaf, Sire,” said Compton.

“Looks, man! He is. Did you notice how he stammered?”

“He has a great affection for his aunt and a respect for his grandfather,” added Thomas Boleyn.

“The boy’s in fear of his future, I’ll warrant,” said Henry. “He clings to auntie’s skirts, wanting to stay the baby forever. Ah! Has it occurred to you that Max won’t last long? He’s getting old. Ferdinand’s getting old. Then that boy will be one of the greatest rulers in Europe. Louis is no longer young; I hear he suffers from the gout and diverse ailments. But he’ll be of no account because France will be ours. That’ll put the long nose of that Dauphin of his out of joint. Dauphin! I tell you this, Francis of Angoulême will never mount the throne of France. There’ll be two monarchs standing astride the continent. The oaf and myself. I tell you, my friends, that gives me cause for great pleasure.”

“Your Highness will do with him what you will,” cooed Compton.

“So this is a happy day for me to see that young fellow with no more brains than an ass.”

“I am sorry for the Princess Mary.” Charles realized that he should not have spoken.

He had broken in on Henry’s pleasant reverie because he had reminded him of the Princess’s passionate pleas; and as Henry was fond of Mary, his pleasure in the apparent stupidity of Charles was spoiled by the reminder that his sister must marry the boy.

He frowned. “’Tis the fate of princesses to marry for reasons of State.” Then his jaw jutted out and he continued coldly: “Methinks, my lord Lisle, you concern yourself overmuch with this matter.”

It was a warning.

Margaret of Savoy having been twice widowed was no coy virgin and she was young enough to think now and then of another marriage, although her experiences of matrimony had scarcely been comforting. When she was three she had been betrothed to Charles VIII and sent to Amboise to be brought up to be Queen of France. But in order to link France with Brittany the marriage had been repudiated and Margaret sent back to Maximilian while Charles made a match with Anne of Brittany.

Later she had married the Infante of Spain, only to lose him and their child within a short time of their wedding. And after that she had married the Duke of Savoy, uncle of François, who was now Dauphin of France.

Her marriages seemed doomed not to last, for he too was dead and she once more a widow.

But she assured herself that did not mean that one day she might not find a husband with whom she could live in peace and pleasure. I have married for political reasons, she told herself; why should I not now marry to please myself?

When had this thought come to her? Was it when she had welcomed the King of England to her Court and found that his close friend was one of the most handsome men she had ever set eyes on? Before his coming she had been eager to meet him because her agent at the camp of Thérouanne, Philippe de Brégilles, had written to her of Charles Brandon. “Lord Lisle,” he had written, “is a man who should interest Your Grace, for he is at the right hand of the King; and it is clear that Henry listens to what he has to say.”

And now he had come to her Court she found him the most interesting member of the party.

It was not difficult to arrange that she should be next to him at table or in the dance; she began by pretending that she wanted to question him about the Princess Mary.

“I ask you, my lord Lisle,” she said, as he sat beside her while the minstrels played and the food was served, “because I see how fond the King is of his sister and I feel his account of her might be affectionately prejudiced.”

“The Princess Mary is deemed to be the loveliest lady at the English Court, and reports do not lie,” Brandon told her.

“Then I am glad. But tell me, is she gentle and kind? You have seen my Charles? He will be gentle and a little shy at first. I hope the Princess will be ready to discover his excellent qualities which are not apparent to all at first.”

“I am sure the Princess will be patient.”

“Tell me, is she eager to come to him?”

Charles hesitated. “She is young…she is uncertain. She loves her home and her brother.”

“Poor child! Life is difficult for royal princesses. I remember my own fate.”

“It has made Your Highness tolerant?”

“I try to be. I am so anxious for the boy to be happy. He is a good boy and he will be a great prince. You do not believe me? Why, Lord Lisle, I had thought you would be a man to look below the surface. Charles is slow of speech because he does not speak without thought. Have you noticed that when he does say something it is worth saying? Do not underestimate Charles, Lord Lisle. And you should warn the King of England not to.”

“I will do so, Your Highness.”

“I am sure you will. Tell me of England. I long to hear what the Court is like. I have heard it is quite brilliant since the young King came to power.”

He talked to her of the jousts and entertainments while she listened avidly.

And when he and the King’s gentlemen were in Henry’s bedchamber that night the King said: “Did you notice that the Archduchess seems mightily taken with our friend Charles Brandon?”

Compton had noticed it; he tittered, while Henry’s laughter burst out.

“Well, well, he’s a handsome fellow, our Charles. A little different from theirs. The lady noticed it, I’ll swear. Why, my lord Lisle, ’twould be a goodly match for you if you could marry Margaret of Savoy!”

“Your Grace is joking. The lady was asking me about your Court.”

“She had her eyes on me, but she said to herself ‘He’s well and truly married.’ So she turns to you. You know you are a little like me, Charles.”

“I have heard that said, Your Grace, and it has given me great pleasure. I fear I grow a little more vain every time it is repeated.”

Henry smiled affectionately at his friend. “Well, ’tis true enough. We might well be brothers, and I’d suspect we might be, but for the fact that my father was a man who never strayed from the marriage bed.”

“As was meet and fitting in so great a king,” murmured Charles.

Henry’s lip jutted out; he had found some of the women of this country tempting and, because he had assured himself that what he called a little gallantry was an essential part of a soldier’s life, he had succumbed to temptation. He did not like to be reminded of this.

“’Tis true,” he murmured, “that my father was a great King…in some ways.”

“He never had the people with him as Your Grace has,” Charles said quickly, realizing his mistake a few seconds before, and Henry’s expression was sunny again.

“The people like a king who is a man also,” he said. “They have a fancy for you, Charles…particularly the women. So ’tis small wonder that Margaret looks on you with favor.”

Henry changed the subject then, but he was thoughtful. His friends did not take Margaret of Savoy’s interest in Charles Brandon very seriously. The daughter of the mighty Emperor could scarcely marry an English nobleman whose only title was that which he had taken from his ward whom he had contracted to marry.

But why not? Henry asked himself. He could with the aid of a pen give his friend a title which would make him worthy…or almost. An Earldom? A Dukedom?

Henry was uneasy now that he had cast his eyes on the young Prince Charles, for reports would be quickly carried back to Mary of his unattractive looks; she might even rebel. He did not want trouble there. He loved that girl; she was like himself in so many ways and she had always been his favorite sister. She and he had stood together against Margaret, that elder sister who had often been critical of her bombastic brother. Mary had never been critical. She had always been the adoring child looking up to one who seemed all that a big brother should be. No, if Mary shed tears and pleaded with him, she’d unnerve him. He liked to see her merry. He had noticed the looks she had cast at Brandon. Why did the fellow have to have this attraction for women? Even Margaret of Savoy was not unmoved.

If he himself were not known as such a virtuous husband it would be the same with him. Charles had not that reputation. It was well known that he had been married twice already and was on the way to marrying again; and only he knew how many women there had been between, and doubtless he had lost count. It was a pity Elizabeth Grey was only a child. He would like to see Charles married, because he believed that if he were, Mary might come to her senses. While he remained free she could be capable of anything.

Why should not Margaret of Savoy marry a man who was well known as the King’s best friend and right hand man?

He sought an opportunity of speaking to Charles when they were alone together. As they strolled in the gardens he made it clear that he wished to be alone with Brandon, and putting his arm about Charles’s shoulders affectionately, said to him: “I did not joke when I spoke of you and Margaret, Charles. If you could persuade the lady, I’d put nothing in your way.”

“Your Grace!”

“I see no reason why there should not be a match between you. I have a fancy that when she marries again it will be to please herself. Max can’t dictate to a woman of her stature; and she has married for political reasons already. By God, she has an eye for you. Methought she could scarce keep her hands off you.” The King burst into loud laughter. “Why Charles, it would suit us well to have an Englishman like yourself become the son-in-law of his Imperial Highness.”

“What thinks Your Grace His Imperial Highness would say to such a match?”

“Let the lady win his approval, Charles. I tell you you have mine.”

Henry slackened his pace and others joined them. Charles felt bemused. Ambitious as he was he had never looked as high as this.

Those were weeks of feverish excitement. He had no doubt that Margaret was in love with him. And he? Margaret was a comfortable woman, genial, friendly, worldly-wise; she had much to attract him. He knew though that he would never cease to think of Mary. If he were a simple country gentleman and Mary his neighbor’s daughter, there would be no hesitation at all; they would be married by now. If she were a village girl, a serving maid, she would be his and he hers, for his passion, although not matching hers because he held it in check so much more easily than she could hers, was for her. But she was a princess and to love her could mean death to ambition, perhaps death itself.

On the other hand Margaret was personable, charming, eager to be loved.

So they danced together and much conversation passed between them; and he told himself, If I can win her hand I shall be almost a king. He would take his stand beside her in the governing of the Netherlands; and he would work wholeheartedly for the advancement of English affairs.

“Have you ever thought of marriage?” he asked Margaret as they danced together.

“Often.”

“And would you marry again?”

“I married twice and I was singularly unlucky. Such misfortunes make a woman think a great deal before taking the step again.”

“Perhaps it should make her very hopeful. No one continues in such ill luck.”

He took her hand then and drew off one of her rings.

“See,” he said, “it fits my finger.”

She laughed and then said: “You must give it back to me.”

He did so at once and he thought: That is her answer. She enjoys playing this game of flirtation but she is not seriously contemplating marriage with me.

His manner was a little aloof and noticing this, she said: “My lord Lisle, I could not allow you to have a ring which many people would recognize as mine…not yet.”

He looked at her quickly: “Then I may hope?”

“It is never harmful to hope,” she answered. “For even if one’s desires are not realized one has had the pleasure of imagining that they will be.”

“It is not easy to live on imaginings.”

“In some matters patience is a necessity.”

He was very hopeful that night.

Henry wanted to know how his courtship was progressing and when he told him everything, he was delighted. “When we return to England,” he said, “which we must do ere long, I shall bestow a title on you; then you can return to the Low Countries and continue with your courtship of the lady in a manner commensurate with your rank.”

“Your Grace is good to me.”

“When you share the Regency of the Netherlands, my friend, I shall look to you to be good to me.”

When next Charles was with Margaret he talked of his marriage to Anne Browne and his two little daughters.

“I should like to see them,” Margaret told him. “I greatly desire children of my own.”

“I would I might send my eldest daughter to be brought up in your excellent Court.”

“I pray you send her, for I should have great pleasure in receiving her.”

He told her then about the child whom he had rescued from the river, and she said: “Poor mite. Send her to me with your daughter. I promise you that I shall myself make certain that they are brought up in a fitting manner. You see, soon I shall be losing Charles and I shall miss him greatly.”

It was a bond between them. While she had his daughter and his protégée at her Court she would not forget him, Charles was sure.

Henry was making preparations to return to England. He had completed a treaty, before leaving Lille, in which it was arranged that the following May he should bring his sister Mary to Calais where they would be met by the Emperor, Margaret and Prince Charles; then the nuptials should be solemnized, because the boy was fourteen and the Princess would be eighteen, and there was no need to delay longer. The Emperor was eager for heirs, and an early marriage should solve this problem.

Margaret asked then that, if the King should fail to have heirs, the crown of England should go to Mary.

Henry scarcely considered this. Not have heirs! Of course he would have heirs. Katharine was pregnant now. Simply because they had lost their first, that was no reason to suppose they would not have a large and healthy family.

One of his favorite reveries was to see himself, a little older than he was now, but as strong and vigorous, with his children round him—pink-cheeked boys bursting with vitality, excelling in all sports, idolizing their father; beautiful girl children, looking rather like Mary, twining their arms about his neck. Of course there would be children.

But he had no objection to agreeing to this condition. Moreover, in view of what was happening in Scotland, he had no intention of letting the throne pass to his sister Margaret and her son—whose father was that enemy who had attacked England while he, Henry, was in France, stabbing him in the back. Glory to God, the fellow had received the reward of such treachery on Flodden Field!

And so they returned to England.

The people had assembled to cheer their King who came as a conqueror. It was true he had only those two towns of which to boast but he planned to return the following year, and then it would be on to Paris.

Beside the King rode the Duc de Longueville, a very high ranking French nobleman of royal blood, whom he had taken prisoner at the Battle of the Spurs. The crowds stared at this disdainful and elegant personage, whom the King insisted on treating almost as an equal. Henry had become very fond of Longueville, largely because he believed that such a high nobleman, being his prisoner, added greatly to his prestige.

There must be balls and banquets to celebrate the return, but in spite of the splendor it was not a happy homecoming.

Katharine, who as Regent had used all her energies in organizing the defeat of the invading Scots, had exhausted herself in the process and consequently had had a miscarriage. This threw the King into a mood of deep depression, particularly when he remembered Margaret’s request that, should he die without heirs of his body, the crown should be settled on Mary; moreover Katharine had Flodden Field to offer him while he could only boast of Thérouanne and Tournay, and reluctantly he faced the fact that the greater glory had been won unostentatiously at home.

Then there was Mary to be faced. The truth could not be kept from her. Charles was present when the King told her that she must be ready to leave for Calais the following May.

She looked from her brother to the man she loved with stony reproach; her lips quivered, her eyes blazed; then she turned and, forgetting the respect due to the King, walked hurriedly from his presence.

Henry—and Charles—would have been less alarmed had she shouted her protest at them.

The situation needed careful handling, thought the King. Mary was sullen; she never ceased to reproach him. There were occasions when she refused to continue with preparations for her marriage.

It is Brandon, of a certainty, Henry told himself. She still hopes for Brandon. If he were out of the way she would be more inclined to reason.

He sent for Charles.

“My friend,” he said, “I propose sending you as my ambassador to the Netherlands. You should make your preparations without delay.”

Charles bowed. Now that he was back, now that he had seen her again, he had no wish to go. He felt himself being caught up in her wild hopes. He dared not be alone with her. She would be arrogant in her desire; and how could he be sure that he could persuade her that they could so easily destroy themselves?

In her opinion, all should be tossed away for the sake of love; but that was because she was an inexperienced girl. She had been pampered all her life; she did not believe that the world would ever cease to cosset her. Brandon was older; he had seen beyond the glittering Court; he remembered men who had been sent to the Tower for smaller offenses, and only walked out to the block.

It would be well if he escaped before he were drawn into that conflagration about which she did not seem to understand they were dancing like two moths round a candle flame.

“And, Charles,” went on Henry, “you shall go in such a manner as will add to your dignity. Lord Lisle will be no more. Elizabeth Grey is not for you. I fancy Margaret will smile more kindly on the Duke of Suffolk.”

Here was honor indeed; but his first thought was: If the Duke of Suffolk can aspire to the hand of an Archduchess, why not to that of a princess?

But he saw the purpose in his King’s eyes and made ready to leave for the Netherlands.

The French Proposal

BEFORE THE PRINCESS MARY were laid out the treasures which had been brought for her inspection. There were rich fabrics, velvets and cloth of gold, and miniver and martin with which to fur her garments; there were necklaces, coronals and girdles all sparkling with priceless gems.

She stared at them stonily.

Lady Guildford held up a chain of gold set with rubies. “But look at this, my lady. Try it on. Is it not exquisite?”

Mary turned her head away.

“Please allow me, my lady. There! Oh, but it is so becoming and you have always loved such beautiful ornaments!”

Mary snatched the trinket from her neck and threw it onto her bed, where Lady Guildford had set out the other treasures.

“Do not bother me,” said Mary.

“But the King has asked to be told your opinion of these gifts.”

“Gifts!” cried Mary. “They are not gifts, for gifts are given freely. These are bribes.”

Lady Guildford trembled, because the King had come into the room smiling, certain of the pleasure the jewels must give his sister.

“Ha!” he cried. “So there is my little sister. Decking herself out with jewels, eh? And how does she like them?”

Mary turned her face to him and he was startled by her pallor. Her blue eyes seemed enormous. Could it be that she had lost flesh and that was why she looked so?

“She likes them not,” snapped Mary.

Henry’s face crumpled in disappointment, and Lady Guildford held her breath in dismay. He would be angry, and like everyone else at Court, she dreaded the King’s outbursts of anger. But because this was his sister whom he loved so deeply he was only filled with sorrow.

“And I had taken such care in choosing what I thought would please you.”

She turned to him and threw her arms about his neck. “You know well how to please me. You do not have to buy costly jewels. All you have to do is stop this marriage.”

“Sister…little Mary…you do not understand what you ask.”

“Do I not? It is I who have to make this marriage, is it not? I assure you I understand more than any.”

He stroked her hair and Lady Guildford was amazed because she was sure that was a glint of tears she saw in his eyes. He forgave his sister her boldness; he suffered with her; it must be true that Henry loved nobody—not even his wife—as he loved his beautiful sister.

“Mary,” he said gently, “if we broke off this marriage it would mean our friendship with the Emperor was broken. He is our ally against the French. If I wrote to him and said there shall be no marriage because my sister has no stomach for it, there might even be war between our countries.”

“Oh Henry, Henry, help me.”

He held her against him. “Why, little one, if I could, I would, but even you must fulfill your destiny. We cannot choose whom we would marry. We marry for state reasons, and alas this is your fate. Do not be downhearted, little one. Why, you will charm your husband and all his Court as you charm us here. I doubt not that in a few months, when you are as loved and honored over there as you are here, you will laugh at this foolish child you once were. And you will not be far off. You shall visit us and we shall visit you. And, dearest, when you come to our Court we will have such a masque, such a banquet, as I never gave for any other….”

She jerked herself from his embrace, her eyes dark with passion.

“Masques! Banquets!” she cried. “Is that all the balm you have to offer for a broken heart!”

Then she ran from the apartment, leaving him standing there, bewildered—but miraculously not angry, only sad because he could see no way of helping her.

There was a further check to his plans. Charles Brandon, now the Duke of Suffolk, was ready to set out for the Netherlands where he would fill the post of Henry’s ambassador. And once he is out of England I shall feel easier in my mind, thought Henry, for it is because she sees him constantly at Court that she has become so intractable.

Before the newly created Duke set out, however, a courier arrived with a letter from Margaret to Henry.

She was deeply embarrassed. A rumor had reached her father that she proposed marrying Charles Brandon, and the Emperor was extremely angry. She therefore thought it advisable that before he set out for the Netherlands, Brandon should marry Elizabeth Grey to whom she knew he was affianced. This she believed was the only way in which her father could be appeased.

Henry stared moodily before him. Clearly Margaret regretted that piece of romantic folly, and when Brandon was no longer at her side she realized that marriage with him would be incongruous. She was telling him and Charles that that little episode was over.

He sent for Charles and showed him the letter, and the manner in which his friend received the news was in itself disconcerting, because it seemed to Henry that the fellow was relieved.

“What of marrying Elizabeth Grey?” he asked.

“She is but nine years old, Your Grace; a little young for marriage.”

Henry grunted.

“Then,” he said, “you must perforce leave for the Netherlands without delay.” He brightened a little. “It may be that when Margaret has you at her side once more she will be ready to snap her fingers at the Emperor.”

Charles bowed his head. He did not want the King to read his thoughts.

Henry said: “Then begone, Charles. Leave at once. There is no time to say your farewells to…anyone. I expect you to have left by tomorrow.”

So Charles left for Flanders, and the Princess Mary was more and more melancholy as the days passed.

The Duc de Longueville, guest, rather than prisoner, at the Court of England, found means of writing to his master Louis XII.

He did not regret his capture, he wrote, because it was so amusing and interesting to watch the young King of England in his Court. At the moment there was a great bustle of preparation for the Princess Mary’s marriage to young Prince Charles. The Princess was not eager; in fact, he heard on good authority that she was imploring her brother to stop the match. Not that her pleas were of much avail, although Henry was made very anxious by the importunings of his sister.

“He loves this girl,” wrote the Duke, “as, to my mind, he loves no other; and it does not surprise me. If my gracious liege could see her, he would understand. For she is of a truth the loveliest creature in the Court. Her hair, which is the color of gold, is abundant and falls in thick shining curls to her waist; she has a healthy complexion like her brother’s, and her eyes are large and blue—though at this moment somewhat melancholy. She is well formed and graceful, high spirited by nature, though downcast at the prospect of her marriage, seeming a little younger than her eighteen years. A delightful girl.”

Henry liked to ride out to the chase, the French Duke beside him, for the man was an elegant and witty companion and Henry enjoyed his company; in addition it was so delightful to contemplate that he had taken the Duke prisoner in battle.

Once as they rode back to Greenwich after a pleasurable but exhausting day, Longueville said to Henry: “Your Grace, do you trust the Emperor?”

“Trust him!” cried Henry. “Indeed I trust him. We fought together in Flanders and he served under my command.”

“A strange gesture from his Imperial Highness.”

“Oh, he is a simple man. He told me that he was old and I was young; and that it was a mistake for youth to serve age. It should be the other way about.”

“And he was paid highly for those sentiments, I’ll swear.”

“I paid him as I would pay any generals serving under me.”

“And won for him the two towns he wanted?”

Henry flushed scarlet. “You forget, sir, that you are my prisoner.”

“I forget it not,” answered Longueville, “although the gracious manner in which you have always treated me might make me do so.”

“I forget not your rank.”

“Then, Your Highness will perhaps listen to my opinions, for I was a confidant of the King of France, my master, and I could be of use to you.”

“How so?”

“Your Highness discovered the perfidy of Ferdinand of Aragon.”

“That is so.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that the Emperor and Ferdinand are now making a treaty with my King, while professing friendship with you?”

“I perceive,” retorted Henry, “that you believe yourself to be the ambassador of the King of France. I must perforce remind you that you occupy no such post. You are the prisoner of the King of England.”

Longueville bowed his head, but a sly smile played about his mouth. He knew that he made Henry very uneasy.

As he was given the freedom of the Palace, Longueville did not find it difficult to speak a few words to the Princess Mary, and one day he presented himself at her apartments to ask for an audience.

Lady Guildford was inclined to forbid it, but Mary heard the Frenchman talking to her lady-mistress and idly asked what he wanted.

He begged to be allowed to speak to her, and Mary told him he might. Lady Guildford hovered in the background while he did so.

“My lady,” said Longueville, “I have news which I think you should know. As you will guess, I receive letters from France and I know what plots are afoot. Prince Charles, who is betrothed to you, is now being offered a French Princess, and his grandfather, Ferdinand, has actually declared that if he does not take her and abandon you, he will leave his Spanish dominions to Charles’s younger brother, Prince Ferdinand.”

Her eyes widened and lost a little of their melancholy.

“Is this so?” she said thoughtfully.

“I thought you would wish to know, for you are too proud a lady to think of marriage where you are not wanted.”

“My lord Duke,” answered Mary, “I thank you, and I beg of you, keep me informed, for you are right when you say I have no wish for such a marriage.”

He left her, satisfied; and when he had gone she ran to Lady Guildford and began to shake the startled woman.

“Did you hear that?” she demanded. “Charles is being offered to a French Princess, and his grandfather Ferdinand wants him to abandon me. This is a happy day.”

“You must not excite yourself.”

“Not excite myself! Are you mad? Of course I shall excite myself. This is the best news I have heard since they betrothed me to that idiot. I’ll not marry a boy who does not want me.” She was laughing hysterically. Then she stopped and said: “Poor French Princess!”

Henry tried to shut his ears to the rumors. It was too humiliating. He had been duped by Ferdinand; could it be that he had met the same fate at the hands of the Emperor?

He refused to believe it. He thought of the man humbling himself before him, coming to him in black frieze, a widower mourning for his wife. “I will serve under you…and I must be paid as you would pay your generals. We will take these two towns….” He had not said that they were the towns he wanted. And what good were they to England? Had the Emperor been laughing at the King of England, as Ferdinand had, exploiting his vanity?

Henry would want absolute proof before he believed it.

Charles Brandon returned from the Netherlands where Margaret had been friendly, but cool. Clearly there could never be a question of marriage between them.

“All my plans are coming to naught,” grumbled Henry.

Mary sent for the Duke of Suffolk.

“Have a care, my lady,” warned Lady Guildford. “Remember the Duke’s reputation. He is not a man to be lightly invited to a lady’s private apartments.”

“You may leave this to me,” Mary retorted imperiously. “And when he comes I wish to be alone with him.”

“But my lady…”

“Those are my orders.”

He came and stood before her, and when Mary had dismissed Lady Guildford, who went most reluctantly, she put her arms about his neck and they stood for some seconds in a close embrace.

It was he who took her hands and withdrew them from his neck; they stood looking at each other.

“Charles,” cried Mary, “Margaret has refused you and Charles is going to refuse me. Was there ever such great good fortune?”

He looked at her sadly, and she shook her head in exasperation.

“You despair too easily.”

“Tell me for what you think we may hope,” he asked.

“I am eighteen and marriageable. I must be given a husband from somewhere. And if a Duke is worthy of Margaret of Savoy, why not of the Princess Mary? That is what I shall ask my brother.”

“He thinks you far more precious than Margaret of Savoy.”

“He must be made to see reason.”

“I beg of you, be cautious for both our sakes.”

She threw herself against him: “Oh Charles, Charles, who ever was cautious in love?”

“We must be…if we wish to survive.”

Her eyes sparked. “Do not think I spend my days sitting and dreaming. I have made a plan.”

He looked alarmed; she saw this and burst into laughter. “You will soon discover what it is. Very shortly you will receive an order to appear at the Manor of Wanstead. Then you shall hear all about it.”

“Mary…”

She stood on tiptoe and put her lips against his.

“Kiss me,” she said. “That makes me happier than talk. By the Holy Mother, there is so little time when we may be alone; Mother Guildford will find some pretext soon to come and disturb us. Oh, you are back…miraculously free…as I am! Charles, Charles, do not ever think that I will allow them to take you from me.”

He abandoned himself. How could he do otherwise? She was irresistible; he could even ask himself: What did it matter if this was the end of ambition? At moments like this he could believe he would willingly barter all he had achieved for an hour with her.

Charles was not the only one who was summoned to the Manor of Wanstead. Thomas Wolsey, Bishop of Lincoln, received a command to attend, as did the Bishops of Winchester and Durham.

When they arrived they found Sir Ralph Verney, the Princess’s Chamberlain, already there; with him was the Earl of Worcester who told them that, on the instructions of the Princess Mary, he was to take them with him into the great hall.

There Mary was waiting to receive them. She looked more than beautiful on that day; she was regal; she had put on a purple cloak which was lined with ermine, and standing on the dais she greeted them with the utmost formality.

When she had spoken to each singly, she begged them to be seated, while she addressed them.

She spoke in her high clear voice and, although now and then during her discourse her eyes fell on Charles, she gave no suggestion that she regarded him in any special light; and the impression she gave was that he was there because he was the Duke of Suffolk and for no other reason.

“My lords,” she said, “I have assembled you here to speak of a matter which touches my royal dignity, and I look to your loyalty to the Crown to support me. I know I can rely on you. It has been brought to my ears that the Prince of Castile and his family continually conspire against my brother and this realm. I am, therefore, resolved never to fulfill my contract with him.”

There was silence among the assembly, but there was one among them whose eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Wolsey had risen high in the King’s favor since the war, and he saw himself rising still higher. He had long doubted the sincerity of the Emperor, and that the alliance with the Prince of Castile should be abandoned suited his plans.

Mary continued: “I beg of you all to plead my cause with the King, my brother, who may well be displeased with me for summoning you hither.”

Charles watching her thought: How wonderful she is! There is no one like her. Who else, but eighteen years old, would have dared summon her brother’s ministers to her presence and make her will known?

He was exultant because he was beginning to believe that she must achieve her desires—and hers were his.

When Mary rode back with her attendants to Greenwich, the people came out to cheer her; they marveled at her appearance for, on this occasion with the certainty of victory in her eyes, she was so beautiful.

She had not been so happy since she had realized the difficulties which stood between her and the man she so ardently loved, and one of the reasons for her elation was that Thomas Wolsey had spoken to her when taking his leave.

“My lady,” he had said, “you may rely on me to do my utmost with the King to have you released from this match which is repugnant to you.”

Mary recognized in that man a spirit similar to her own.

“Wolsey is on my side,” she told herself.

Henry no longer had any doubt of the perfidy of the Emperor.

Envoys from France had arrived at Greenwich, ostensibly to make terms for the return of the Duc de Longueville and other prisoners whom Henry had taken at Thérouanne; in fact they came to bring a message from the King of France which was for Henry’s ears alone, and as he listened to it the veins stood out at his temples. Not only had Ferdinand renewed his alliance with France but the Emperor Maximilian was his ally in this and—behind the back of his comrade-in-arms, Henry of England—had made his peace with the French. It was however the wish of the King of France to make friends with England; and if His Grace would summon the Duc de Longueville to his presence, the Duke would lay before him a proposition from the King of France.

Henry summoned the Duke to his presence, and with him that minister on whom he had come to rely, Thomas Wolsey; and when the King heard what the Duc de Longueville had to say his eyes glistened with something like delight. By God, he thought, here is a way of avenging myself on that pair of rascals. Foxy Ferdinand and Imperial Perfidy will dance with rage when they hear of this.

The matter was settled and it only remained for the principal person concerned to be informed. Henry sent for his sister, the Princess Mary.

When she came to his presence Thomas Wolsey was with the King, and her warm smile included them both, for she believed Wolsey to be her friend.

Henry embraced her.

“News, sister, which will be most welcome to you.”

Her smile was dazzling in its satisfaction.

“We are breaking off relations with Maximilian, and a marriage between you and his grandson is now impossible.”

She clasped her hands together. Gratitude filled her heart, to Providence, to Henry, to Wolsey, to the Emperor for his perfidy. Her prayers were answered. She was free and in a short time she would cajole Henry into letting her have her way.

“Therefore,” went on Henry, “you should no longer consider yourself under contract to the Prince of Castile.”

“Most joyfully,” she answered.

“Do not think though that we have not your future at heart, dear sister. We have a dazzling proposition to put before you, for Monsieur de Longueville has brought us an offer from his master. What would you say if I were to tell you that within a few months you will be Queen of France?”

“Queen of France! But I do not understand…”

“Then let me explain. Louis XII, King of France, recently widowed, seeks a new bride. He has heard glowing accounts of your beauty and virtue and he offers you his hand and crown.”

She had turned pale; her blue eyes seemed suddenly dark. “No!” she whispered.

Henry came and put an arm about her. “Dearest sister, you are astonished. It is indeed a dazzling prospect. Louis is our friend now; he has shown us who our enemies are. Not for you the pallid Prince of Castile with the mad mother, but the great King of France. You will be crowned in Paris. Mary, you cannot understand yet what honors are about to be laid at your feet.”

Still she did not speak. She could not believe it. It was a nightmare. She had longed so fervently for her freedom, had prayed so vehemently for it, and she must wake in a moment, for this simply could not be true.

“He is driving a bargain, this King of France,” went on Henry with a laugh. “Have no fear. I can provide you with a dowry rich enough to please even him. Mary, you will be the means of cementing this bond which friend Wolsey here agrees with me, is of the utmost importance to our country.”

She spoke then. “I won’t do it. I won’t. I have been tormented with the Prince of Castile. I’ll marry where I will.”

“Why, sweetheart,” said Henry, “when you have heard what this means, you will be as eager for this marriage as we are. Queen of France! Think of that.”

“I’ll not think of it. I do not want this marriage. I do not want to leave you and England.”

“There, my dearest sister, partings are sad, we know well. But you’ll not be far away. I shall visit you and you shall visit us. We shall be rivals in splendor, for when you come to see us I shall have made ready for your entertainment such masques…”

“Stop! Stop! I cannot bear it!”

She turned and ran from the room.

She lay on her bed; she did not weep; this was a matter too tragic for tears. She stared blankly before her and refused to eat.

Lady Guildford and those of her women who loved her—and many did, for impetuous and hot tempered as she could be, she was a generous and goodhearted mistress—were afraid for her.

Henry was perplexed. He had expected a little resistance but he had not thought she would be so unreasonable. Had she not seen similar situations rising around her? Margaret had had to go to Scotland to marry a man whom she had never seen. Her own father had married her mother that the houses of York and Lancaster should be united. Did she not understand that, for all their wealth and privilege, they themselves had their duty to perform?

He went to her room and sat by her bed. Gently he talked to her, pointing out her duty. He would have saved her from this marriage if he could, but the personal desires of Princes must always be set aside for matters of state.

She burst out: “He is fifty-two and I am eighteen. He has had two wives and I have never had a husband.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “So you hold against him the fact that he has had two wives. I did not think you would do that.”

They did not mention Brandon’s name, but she understood the reference; for had not Charles himself had two wives and was he not even now contracted to a third?

“He is ancient,” she cried. “He is ugly and I do not want him.”

“Sister, be calm. Be reasonable.”

“I hate him,” she cried.

“How can you hate one whom you have never seen?”

“Because he will be the means of taking me from all I love.”

And as she lay on her bed, suddenly the tears started to flow down her cheeks. She did not weep noisily, nor sob, but just lay quietly there; and the sight so unnerved Henry that he turned aside, blinking away his own tears.

I have indulged her over much, he thought. I have loved her so well. I shall miss her as she will miss me. By God, were it not that so much was at stake. I would give her Brandon just for the sake of seeing her happy.

Then another thought occurred to him. “Why, Mary,” he said, “your bridegroom, as you say, will be an old man. I hear that he suffers much from the gout.”

“And for these reasons should I be doubly glad to marry him?” she cried angrily.

He put his face close to hers and whispered: “Why yes, sweetheart. He lives but quietly, retiring to bed early; he eats frugally; it is necessary for his health. When he sees his young and beautiful bride he will be excited, depend upon it. He is in a fever of impatience to see you. I hear that in his youth he lived well and was very fond of women.”

“You do not make him any more attractive to me.”

“Do I not? That is because you stubbornly refuse to grasp my meaning. Sister, if you become the wife of the King of France and so serve your country, I do not think it will be long before you are the widow of the King of France.”

She caught her breath. “And then…?” she asked.

“And then…you will be mistress of yourself, sister.”

She sat up in bed and caught at his coat with impatient fingers.

“Henry, if I marry the King of France to please you, will you, when I am a widow and free, let me marry where I please?”

He saw the hope in her face and it pleased him. He had to rouse her from her melancholy, for if he did not he would have a sick sister who would be unfit for any marriage at all.

“I promise,” he said.

Her arms were about his neck. “Swear, Henry. Swear solemnly.”

He stroked her hair with great tenderness. “I give you my word,” he assured her.

After that interview with her brother, Mary’s manner had changed. She rose from her bed; she ate a little; it was true she remained melancholy but those about her noticed that she had become resigned.

She had realized that as a princess she had her duty and must needs perform it.

She did not see Charles, whom Henry had sent from Court for a while because he knew that to allow them to be together at such a time might be like putting flame to gunpowder.

If only Mary would continue in this state of resignation until the nuptials were completed he would feel at peace.

Charles spent the days of his absence staying at the home of his ward.

Elizabeth had heard a great deal of gossip about him and at one time had thought he would be the wife of Margaret of Savoy.

She had never greatly desired to marry him but since that day when he had rescued the child from the river she had viewed their future union without the distaste she had first felt for it. She had come to believe that since she must marry she might as well marry Charles Brandon as any.

But when she had learned that he had gone to Flanders as Lord Lisle—the title he had taken through his connection with her—and using it had attempted to woo Margaret, her pride revolted; and when he arrived at the manor she greeted him without much warmth.

Charles was too immersed in his own problems to notice this in the beginning.

He was thinking along the same lines as those which Henry had put before Mary. Louis was an old man and it might well be that he would not live long; indeed marriage to a young and beautiful and vital girl would not help him to longevity. Could it be that it was only a matter of waiting?

To imagine Mary in the bed of Louis was revolting; but he would try to think beyond it. Their position had been extremely dangerous; they could not expect to have their desires fulfilled without facing bitter trial beforehand.

In time, he thought, we shall marry. It is only a matter of waiting and enduring for a while.

Elizabeth said to him one day when they rode together: “You have been thoughtful, my lord Duke, since you came here.”

He admitted he had much on his mind.

“I think I know what it is that makes you moody.”

He turned to smile at her.

“Why, my lord,” she said, “you are now the Duke of Suffolk and as such have no need of the title which you took from me. It was useful for a while when you paid court to the Lady of the Netherlands. Now, of course, as a noble Duke you need not concern yourself with the daughter of a viscount.”

He was silent, not really paying attention to her because he could not stop thinking of Mary, going to France, being crowned there, her meeting with Louis.

Elizabeth sensed his lack of attention. She said angrily: “Have no fear, my lord Duke. I have no intention of holding you to your promise. Let me tell you this: I have no intention of marrying you. Nothing would induce me to.”

He turned and looked blankly at her. Piqued and angry, for she sensed he was still not paying full attention to what she said, she whipped her horse and rode on because she was afraid he would see the tears which had started to her eyes.

Charles looked after her retreating figure. He did not pursue her.

She had spoken in childish anger, but he must accept her refusal, because he, like Mary, must be free for whatever good fortune could befall them.

He would return to Court in due course and, when an opportunity offered itself, he would tell Henry that Elizabeth Grey had rejected him and thus he was released from his contract to marry her.

The ceremony took place in the state apartments of Greenwich. Mary was solemn in her wedding robes. At her side was Louis d’Orléans, that Duc de Longueville who had played such a big part in arranging the match, and who on this occasion was acting as proxy for his master, King Louis XII of France.

As he took her cold hand and slipped on it the nuptial ring, as he put his lips on hers for the nuptial kiss, she was thinking: It will not be for long. I could not endure it if it were. What sort of a marriage is this, where the wife can only endure it because she hopes her husband cannot live long? What sort of a person have they turned me into, that I can long for the death of a man I have never seen, and that man my own husband?

She went through the ceremony mechanically, repeating words that she was asked to repeat, without thinking of their meaning; she only knew that, in place of the slack-mouthed boy, she had been given to an old man, and the only change for the better was that in the ordinary course of life the latter must die before the former.

The King of France had expressed the wish that the ceremony should be conducted with realism. “Having heard of the beauty of his bride,” the Duc de Longueville had confided to the King, “he can scarce wait to receive her.” Therefore he wished the marriage to be consummated symbolically.

It was a trying ordeal to be divested of her court gown by her women and put into her magnificent sleeping robes. With her golden hair falling about her shoulders, the robe about her naked body, her feet bare, she looked very appealing, particularly because she was so unnaturally subdued and there was a look of fear and resignation in her eyes.

As she lay down on what was called the nuptial couch, she saw her brother smiling at her encouragingly. Beside him was his Queen. Katharine, who understood, was trying not to weep in sympathy. And there was one other there. Suffolk had recently returned from the country, free of his engagement with Elizabeth Grey; he could not look at her, nor dared she look at him.

The Duc de Longueville approached the couch and, sitting down on it, gazed at the Princess; then he took off one of the red riding boots he was wearing; and, that all present might see, he lay down on the couch beside the Princess and touched her bare leg with his bare foot.

Symbolically the marriage had been consummated, and the Princess Mary was now the Queen of France.

The whole Court was talking of the impatience of King Louis. And who could blame him? He was an old man and he could not have many years left to him. He had a young bride, notoriously beautiful; it was natural that he should want her to be with him without delay.

Couriers were arriving at Greenwich every day, bringing gifts from the King of France. There were jewels and trinkets at which all those who knew the King marveled, because he was not noted for his extravagance; but so eager was he to show his bride the affectionate greeting which was awaiting her, that for once he forgot to calculate the cost.

Mary declared her intention to learn French; she had, of course, studied that language but she did not feel as yet proficient enough. “I should prefer not to disappoint my husband,” she said demurely. Henry knew that she was seeking to delay her departure by every possible means. She feigned great interest in a grammar which her French master, John Palsgrave—a Londoner who had graduated in Paris and spoke French like a Frenchman—was compiling for her. He must write the book for her, she said; for how could she perfect her knowledge of the French language without such a book? John Palsgrave worked too hard for her at his task, and she was not pleased when he told her delightedly that he had been writing the book for some time and would be able to present it to her in a week. This he did; it was called Éclaircissement de la Langue Française.

There was her trousseau to be prepared and it was decided that some of her dresses should be made in the French style out of compliment to her husband.

“My dressmakers should go to Paris to study the dressmakers there,” she suggested. “They should make absolutely certain that there is no mistake.”

But her brother knew, and Wolsey knew, that her great wish was to delay her departure; and, as theirs was to expedite it, her case was hopeless for they were more powerful than she.

Wolsey himself harangued the dressmakers. If they had not enough seamstresses they must find more…quickly. The sixteen dresses which comprised the Princess’s trousseau must be made in record time even though some were in the French style, some in the Italian—in order to please Louis who, as well as being King of France, was titular ruler of the Milanese. And some of the dresses must of course be of the English fashion, to remind all who saw the Princess that she was of that nation.

Mary would stand still in silence while the dazzling materials were tried on her, showing no interest in the clothes whatsoever, and her women, watching her, were sad because they remembered how excited she had once been over her gowns and her jewels.

As for the jewels, few of them had ever seen any collection so glorious as those which were being prepared for the Princess. Her carcanets were adorned with rubies and diamonds; there were gold bracelets set with priceless gems; there were glittering girdles and imitation flowers to be attached to her gowns—roses, marigolds (Mary’s own emblem) and fleur-de-lis decorated with every precious stone that could be imagined. Her litter was a thing of beauty adorned with the arms of her parents and her grandfather, King Edward IV. There was a canopy of a delightful shade of blue embroidered with the figure of Christ sitting on a rainbow, bearing the motto of the new Queen of France: La Volenté de Dieu me suffit.

Mary would stand like a statue while the necklaces were placed about her neck, while the girdles encircled her waist, and her women combed out her lovely hair and set the jeweled ornaments on it.

“Oh my lady, don’t you care that you have all these beautiful things? Does it mean nothing in the world to you that you have more honor done to you than any woman in England?”

She answered: “I care not.”

And she thought: “I would give up all the jewels, all the silks and velvets, if I could leave the Court this day with the man I love.”

During those melancholy weeks she was on several occasions ready to find her way to Charles, to say to him: Let us go away from here together…anywhere. What does it matter if we abandon rank, wealth, everything? I have proved that all these things mean nothing without love.

They would be outlaws, but what did she care?

She smiled to think of them, living in some humble cottage. They need not starve. She would take a few jewels with her—those which were her very own—and they would sell them and live on the proceeds for the rest of their lives, humbly perhaps, but oh, how happily.

They would never be seen at Court again.

And if they were discovered?

Now came the vision which made the dream impossible of fulfillment. They would take him from her. The Tower for him…perhaps for them both. She would be safe though for she knew Henry would never allow his sister to be harmed.

But what of Charles? She could not bear it. They would take him to Tower Hill. She could see his beautiful head held high in the executioner’s bloody hand.

“Here is the head of a traitor!”

No, not that.

She must go on with this. It was the only way. And each morning when she awoke the thought was in her mind: Louis cannot live long.

The cavalcade had come to Dover Castle. In her apartments there, Mary looked across the slaty sea. She could not see the land but beyond that strip of water lay her new home, and the man who was to be her husband was waiting for her there.

She was glad when the storm rose, because it seemed to her then that the elements were on her side and every day which passed now was a day nearer to freedom.

There was no gaiety in her apartments, although Henry, who had accompanied her, tried to make some in the Castle. She heard the sounds of the lutes but she had no wish to join the merrymakers.

Henry came to her apartment, unable to enjoy the dance because she was not there.

“Come, little sister, you’ll not be so far away. Smile. Join the company.”

“Leave me, Henry,” she said. “Go and dance and sing. There is no reason why you should share my misery.”

He stamped his foot with rage. “If you must be such a fool, be so alone,” he said, and left her.

But he soon came back.

“Would we could have kept you with us, Mary.”

She looked at him stonily. “You are the King,” she retorted.

“It is hard for you to understand all that is involved in important State matters.”

“It is as I thought,” she answered. “I am of no importance. Throw me to whichever dog best pleases you at the moment. The drooling young Prince of Castile today; the old man worn out by his lechery tomorrow.”

“Your tongue is too loose, sister.”

“Would it were looser, that I might tell you what you have done to me.”

Then she threw herself into his arms, for it grieved her to see his lips drawn down in pain.

He stroked her hair and soothed her, whispering: “It won’t be for long, Mary. It can’t be for long.”

“Holy Mother,” she said, “forgive me, for I pray for his death.”

“Hush, sister.”

“It’s true. If I am wicked, then fate has made me so. If I could have married where I pleased I should not have had these wicked thoughts.”

“Do not utter them.”

“Then repeat your promise.”

“What promise, Mary?”

“That if I should become a widow, I marry where I like.”

He could see that only by looking far into the future could she tolerate the present; and he repeated his promise.

Then he left her. At the door of her apartment he saw a very young girl who was but a child. He called her because he thought that it would be safer for one so young rather than someone older to be with his sister at this time, for Mary was in a reckless mood.

“Come here, child,” he said; and she came and curtsied prettily; then she lifted enormous, dark eyes to his face, and he was faintly amused by their lack of fear. “Are you waiting on the Queen of France?” he asked.

“Yes, Sire,” was the answer.

“Go to her now. Sit beside her. Comfort her. Bathe her face with scented water. Tell her the King sent you to soothe her. She is sad because she is going to leave our Court.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Stay. What is one so young doing here?”

“I am to go to France with the Queen, Sire. I am with my father.”

“Who is your father?”

“Sir Thomas Boleyn, Sire.”

“And you are?”

“Anne, Sire.”

He patted the dark hair. “You are a good girl,” he said. “Go to, and remember what I have said.”

She curtsied gravely. Henry was lightly amused for a moment; then he forgot the child; his concern was all for his sister Mary.

Early in the morning of the second day of October the wind dropped, and preparations were made to sail. The ships lay in readiness; the fine garments, the precious jewels had been put on board.

Henry took his sister’s hand and led her down to the shore. There he kissed her solemnly.

“My beloved sister,” he said, “I give you to God, the fortune of the sea and the governance of your French husband.”

“Henry,” she whispered, “you have not forgotten your promise to me?”

“I do not forget,” he answered. “Be of good cheer. I’ll swear ere long you will be back with us.”

Katharine was waiting to take her fond farewell, and Mary kissed her gentle sister-in-law with tenderness.

Somewhere among those assembled was Charles; she dared not look at him; she was afraid that, if she did, she would cling to him and refuse to go aboard.

The Queen’s fleet was not far out from Dover when a storm arose. Her women were terrified, but Mary remained calm.

“If this be the end,” she said to Lady Guildford, “then I shall at least be spared the months to come.”

“You are inviting death,” scolded her lady-governess.

“Why not, when life has lost its savor?”

“This is wickedness, my lady, and tempting Providence. Do you forget there are other lives in danger beside your own?”

Then the Queen became grave; and she knelt down and prayed that they might reach the French coast in safety. The storm grew wilder, separating the ships so that many were blown in the direction of Flanders, which, had events been different, might have been their destination. Others were tossed toward Calais; and the Queen’s vessel, isolated, was brought, not without much difficulty, into the harbor of Boulogne. At the entrance of this harbor it ran ashore, and for some time it seemed as though all aboard were in the greatest danger. The people of Boulogne, who had been awaiting the arrival of the Queen’s fleet for days, attempted to send out small boats to take the passengers from the ship, but even these could not be brought onto the beach.

Then one of Mary’s knights, a certain Sir Christopher Garnish, begged leave to carry her ashore; and he waded through the water holding her in his arms.

Thus Mary came to France.

Exhausted by her ordeal, Mary was lodged in Boulogne for several days; but messengers in the meantime had hastened to Paris to tell the King of her arrival. Delighted, Louis immediately sent the Ducs de Vendôme and de la Tremouille to welcome her and to bring her by degrees to Abbeville where he himself would be waiting for her.

All along Mary had been playing a delaying action. She could not leave Boulogne; she was too weary after her sea crossing; she must wait for the rest of her fleet to arrive, for they contained her wardrobe, and her bodyguard.

She was sorry when, sooner than she had believed possible, the missing vessels arrived in Boulogne; for then there was no longer any excuse to delay.

The journey southward must begin, and Mary rode out of the town attended by her archers and horsemen, her baggage and her chariots.

It seemed to her that she heard the notes of doom in the sound of the horses’ hooves for every hour now brought her nearer to the husband who could only bring her happiness by his death.

Within a few days the cavalcade would be in Abbeville; they had rested at the mansion of a nobleman who was eager to do the Queen honor as he had been commanded by the King.

Nothing must be spared in making her welcome, Louis had said; and he expected obedience.

A rich apartment had been allotted to her, the walls of which were hung with tapestries and cloth of gold; and as she was being prepared for the day’s journey she heard the sounds of arrival below, and a great fear came to her. Could it be Louis, impatient to see his bride, who had ridden here? They were within a few days of Abbeville, so it was possible.

“Holy Mother,” she prayed, “help me. Do not let me betray the loathing I know I shall feel. Let me forget for a while the beauty of my Charles, that I do not compare him with my husband.”

“Go to the window and see who comes,” she said to her women; and it was Lady Guildford who, knowing her mistress’s feelings better than most, apprehensively obeyed.

She stood for some seconds at the window, and Mary, suddenly impatient, joined her there.

It was an elegant company and the center of attraction was an extremely tall man who sat his horse as though he had lived all his life in the saddle. He was laughing and, suddenly, seeming to know that he was watched, raised his eyes and saw the two at the window.

He snatched off his hat and bowed. Mary could not take her eyes from his face because it was such an unusual one. He radiated vitality in a manner she had only seen equaled by her lover and brother; his eyes were dark as sloes, but his most arresting feature was a nose so long that it gave a humorous touch to his face.

Mary turned away from the window because she feared she had stared too long.

“It is not the King,” she said to Lady Guildford.

“Some noble Duke, I’ll swear,” was the answer, “sent to welcome Your Grace.”

The chatelâine of the mansion asked permission to enter.

She curtsied and lifting her flushed face to Mary said: “Your Highness, the Duc de Valois is below and asking permission to be brought to you.”

“Pray bring him to me,” said Mary.

When they were alone, Lady Guildford said: “Do you know who this is? The Duc de Valois is also the Duc de Bretagne and Comte d’Angoulême. Moreover he is the Dauphin.”

“I have heard much of him.”

Lady Guildford caught her mistress’s hand. “Have a care, my dearest lady. This man could be dangerous. He will be watching you. He may well be your enemy. Do not forget the crown of France is at stake. If you give the King of France an heir, this man will no longer be the Dauphin. He stands to lose a throne.”

There was no time for more, because the door was opened and in came François, the heir presumptive to the crown of France, his brilliant eyes amused, his long nose giving him a look of slyness, his sensuous lips curved in a smile.

He came to Mary and knelt; then he lifted his eyes to her face and there was nothing but intense admiration in his gaze; the slightly impudent eyes, traveling over her body from head to foot, implied a knowledge of the feminine anatomy and its potentialities.

He rose to his feet, towering above her—for he was as tall as Charles, as tall as Henry—and he said: “Madame, but you are enchanting. Rumor has not lied. The King of France is the luckiest man alive.”

Mary had caught something of her lady-governess’s fear, but she felt suddenly alive. She did not know whether this man was going to be her bitterest enemy or not; but she did know that he had driven away her listlessness.

François the Dauphin had entered her life, and she, like any other woman, could not be indifferent to his presence there.

The French SCENE I

Young François

SOME SIXTEEN YEARS before François, the heir presumptive to the throne of France, had his first meeting with Mary Tudor, he was in the gardens surrounding the château, which was his home in Cognac, with his sister, Marguerite, who was two years older than himself.

François, even at four, had an air of distinction. He was tall for his age, sturdy, healthy, handsome, and in addition to his physical perfections he had already shown himself to be quick-witted. He knew he was the most important person at the château; yet he did not make those about him suffer the tantrums of a spoiled child. He accepted the fact of his importance as naturally as he accepted the sun and the rain.

This was partly due to his sister, herself as handsome and even more clever—but that might have been because she had two years’ advantage. They did not quarrel as most children do. If she thought François needed correction, Marguerite explained gravely where he was wrong, and because he knew that everything his sister or his mother did was to his advantage, he would listen with serious attention.

Life at Cognac was quiet and well ordered, presided over by the children’s mother—good-looking, energetic and twenty-two years old. She was Louise, Duchess of Savoy, some two years a widow; her hair was of a light auburn shade, her eyes blue, her skin fair; she was not tall, as her children promised to be, but petite and dainty; she was marriageable, but so far had eluded the propositions which had been made for her. All her passion and devotion was for her children and, because one of these was a boy, because it was not inconceivable that a great future might be his, she had imbued her daughter, Marguerite, with her own enthusiasms; and the little girl was learning, as her mother did, to make the boy the center of her life.

So now in the gardens of Cognac Marguerite sat with François under a tree and read aloud to him while he leaned against her and watched her finger as it pointed out the words she read. He was contented because he knew that when he tired of the book Marguerite would tell him stories of her own invention; and the hero of these stories, who always faced great odds and overcame them, was a man of kingly bearing, of great nobility, for whom some sort of crown was waiting—but Marguerite never explained what crown—and he was dark, and saved from being effeminately beautiful by a long nose which somehow was very attractive simply because it was his. This hero had a variety of names; he might be Jean, Louis, Charles…but the boy knew that these names were disguises, and he was in truth François.

A pleasant occupation; lying in the hot sun, watching the peasants at work in the vineyards, thinking of his pony which he could ride when he wished, although he must take a groom with him, because his mother was afraid for him to ride alone. But that was only because as yet he was four years old and one did not remain at four forever.

Any problem, any fear he had only to take to Marguerite or his mother and they would lay aside what they were doing to put his mind at peace.

Life was good when at four years old one was the center of it. The peasants showed their respect for him. When he went by on his little pony they shouted for Angoulême. “Now that your father is dead,” his mother told him, “you are the Comte d’Angoulême and these people look to you as their master.” But because he was clever he knew how much he depended on those two who were always at his side; so he listened to them and gave them love for love.

There was not a happier family in France than that one at Cognac.

From a window of the château, Louise watched her children. There could be no more lovely sight for her. Her charming daughter, with the book in her lap and her adored one leaning against his sister. She often told herself that life had begun for her with his birth, and that while she could plan and scheme for him she would find it well worth living. His childhood should be happy in every respect; it should be quite different from that which she had suffered. Although had she suffered? Not really, because she had never been one to accept defeat. She had always believed that she had had a proud destiny; and she had learned what it was: To be the mother of François.

Now here at Cognac on a lovely spring day she thought of Amboise. There she was, a little girl walking discreetly with her governess in the grounds of the château. She could almost feel the heat of those stone walls against her back; she could clearly see the cylindrical towers and the great buttresses, the tall windows rising behind her; and, below the rocky plateau on which the château stood, the valleys of the Loire and the Amasse. She had been brought up with the Court by the eldest daughter of Louis XI, the Regent Anne of France, who ruled France until such time as her little brother Charles should be old enough to take the crown.

They had not been entirely happy days for one as proud as Louise of Savoy, because Anne had been a stern guardian. There were no fine clothes, no jewels, few pleasures. Louise must learn to be a serious young woman who would gratefully accept the husband who had been assigned to her. It was true that Louise’s aunt, Charlotte, had been the wife of Louis XI, but although she was Queen of France she had been of small account, and all knew that Louis had taken a malicious pleasure in bullying the poor woman until she almost lost her senses.

Therefore it was scarcely likely that Louis’s stern daughter should consider Charlotte’s niece of much account; yet, as a member of the family of Savoy, which through the marriage had been linked with the royal family, the child must be cared for.

What long days they had been, sitting quietly in one of the great chambers of the Château d’Amboise, working unobtrusively at one’s tapestry, keeping one’s ears open, taking in all and saying nothing. Yet Anne of France had not neglected her word; Louise must learn to play the lute, to dance in a sober fashion; she must study affairs so that she would not be a complete fool in conversation.

The husband Anne chose for Louise was Charles d’Angoulême, son of Jean d’Angoulême, who was a grandson of Charles V, and thus not without some claim to the throne.

Louise remembered, as a little girl of eleven, being betrothed to Charles, who was sixteen years older than she was and not very pleased to be given a child for his bride. His domestic affairs were a little complicated. He had a mistress, Jeanne de Polignac, who had given him a child; and he had installed her in his château at Cognac. Jeanne was a clever woman and had taken under her care two other illegitimate children of her lover’s; it was a pleasant easygoing household he had set up in Cognac, and Charles felt that an eleven-year-old wife would be a complication.

However the Regent Anne was insistent and the ceremony had taken place.

How well Louise remembered arriving at Cognac; a little apprehensive, eager to please her husband, determined to have a son; she could never forget her husband’s connection with the royal family, and she could not help being secretly delighted that the young King, Charles VIII, was malformed and possibly would not have healthy children.

At Cognac Jeanne de Polignac was in control as the chatelaine of the establishment; and with her was her daughter Jeanne (who was also Louise’s husband’s daughter) and the little Souveraine and Madeleine whom he accepted as his, although Jeanne was not their mother.

It was a cozy household, efficiently managed by Jeanne, herself completely contented because she knew that a Polignac could not marry a Comte d’Angoulême. She gathered the young bride in her maternal arms and treated her as another daughter; and Louise, shrewd, wise, understanding her husband’s devotion to this woman, and that as yet he had no need of herself, accepted the situation.

Later she was glad of that move, for the good-hearted Jeanne became her greatest friend and confidante and helped her to live more comfortably through those first years of marriage than she otherwise would have done.

Now, looking at her own children, she was thinking of all this. Jeanne was still in the château, as devoted to little Marguerite and François as she was to her own Jeanne and Souveraine and Madeleine. Jeanne was a wonderful manager, now as she had always been; and what they would have done without her, Louise could not imagine, for Charles was comparatively poor and had always found it a struggle to live as a man of his rank should. Therefore little entertaining had taken place at Cognac, and often a strict economy had been necessary; but all were ready and willing to serve the Comte for, as his men and maid servants reminded themselves often, in serving their master they were serving the great-grandson of a King of France.

Perhaps for this reason Jeanne had been happy to remain his mistress when she might have had a good marriage; it was certainly the reason why Louise was happy to be at Cognac and to be his wife; it was the reason why she dreamed of the boy she would one day have.

Eventually her triumph came; she was pregnant and she prayed for the son who, she was sure, when he was born would make her completely contented with her lot. But the first pregnancy resulted in a disappointment as the child was not the boy she longed for, but merely a girl. This child, however, was beautiful and healthy from the day of her birth and she named her Marguerite. Louise had been sixteen years old then and she came through her confinement with miraculous ease. A girl and a disappointment; but she had at least shown she could bear children.

With the coming of Marguerite there had been a subtle change in the château. Jeanne stepped into the background; the chatelaine was now undoubtedly Louise. Not that Jeanne resented this. No, there was another little one to take into her motherly arms, and as she said to Louise: “This one surpasses the others. I never knew a child so quick to notice what goes on around her. It was never thus with even my own little Jeanne.”

Louise was exultant. Soon, she must have her boy.

Impatiently she waited for the signs of pregnancy; but at Court certain events were giving her anxiety. The young King Charles VIII had taken Anne of Brittany to wife. In his childhood little Margaret, the daughter of Maximilian, had been intended for him, and Margaret had come to Amboise to be brought up as the future Queen of France; but eventually it had been decided that it was more necessary for young Charles to bring Brittany to the crown than to forge an alliance with the Emperor; so Margaret was sent home, and Charles betrothed to Anne of Brittany. It was an insult which Maximilian would take a long time to forget.

So now that Charles and Anne were married, the fervent desire of Anne of Brittany was to get a son.

When Louise had heard that the marriage had been consummated she had shut herself in her chamber because she was afraid that she might betray her anguish. Between her husband and the throne of France stood two men: Charles VIII, a cripple who might possibly be unable to beget a son, and Louis d’Orléans, son of Charles d’Orléans, elder brother of Jean d’Angoulême, Louise’s own husband’s father. When she considered that Louis d’Orléans had married the daughter of Louis XI, Jeanne de France, a poor malformed creature who had been unable to give him an heir, her hopes had been high—if not for her husband, for that son she intended to have.

But if Charles VIII and Anne of Brittany should have a son, that would be the end of her hopes.

She might be only a girl herself, but she had her ambitions even then. And what sorrow was hers when the news was brought to Cognac that Anne of Brittany had been delivered of a healthy boy. How Anne would laugh, for she was well aware of Louise’s hopes, and as determined that they should come to nothing as Louise herself was that they should be fulfilled.

Then Louise discovered that she was once more pregnant.

She could smile now, as she remembered journeying to Amboise that she might make a pilgrimage to the cave of François de Paule, known as the Good Man, who inhabited a cave on the banks of the Loire. It had become the custom for pregnant royal ladies to visit him, imploring him to intercede with the Saints and ensure the birth of a healthy boy. The Good Man was reputed to have lived for a hundred years; he scorned the jewels that were offered him in exchange for his services, and all he asked for was enough food to keep him alive.

He had given her holy candles to be burned in her lying-in-chamber, and she now laughed to remember the day. It was September and warm; and she had not thought her pains were near.

How like him, she thought. All impatience to be born! He did not need holy candles. Was it for that reason that he came before I was prepared?

She had been out of doors, some distance from the château—for Jeanne had advised her that a healthy young woman should not lie about during the months of pregnancy—when suddenly he had decided to be born. There had been no time to get back to the château so her attendants had helped her to a tree and there she lay back in its shade and under the September sky was born her love, her life, her François, her King, her Caesar.

And watching him now, with his sister, Marguerite, she said aloud: “And from that moment the world was a different place because he had come into it.”

She had rarely allowed him out of her sight; his robust looks were a perpetual delight to her; and it had been clear from the first that he was no ordinary child. “This will be a fine man,” Jeanne de Polignac had laughed, holding the boy high in the air. “I never saw such perfect limbs. See, his features are already marked. That is his father’s nose.”

Such joy; and it would have been complete if Anne of Brittany was not also rejoicing for the same reason.

Jeanne said to her: “I doubt the Dauphin has the looks of our young François. I doubt he can yell as loudly for his food.” And Louise answered that there could not be another in France to compare with François. And she asked herself how stunted Charles and Anne of Brittany, who was scarcely in rude health, could have a lusty child. But she knew that although the peasantry in Cognac and Angoulême might rejoice and drink themselves silly with the wine from their grapes, the fact that there was an heir of Angoulême was making little stir elsewhere—and all because Anne of Brittany had produced the Dauphin of France!

A satisfied smile curved Louise’s lips. François had leaned forward and shut the book on his sister’s lap. She knew he was saying: “Tell me a story, sister.” Marguerite’s arm was about him, and she was beginning one of her stories which were really brilliant for a child of her age. What a pair! They were incomparable; and if Marguerite had but been a boy she would have been as wonderful as little François. But what joy it gave her to see this love between them!

She laughed aloud suddenly. She could not help it; she was thinking of how Fate was on her side, and she was certain that every obstacle which stood in her way was going to be removed. For little Charles the Dauphin, son of malformed Charles and ambitious Anne of Brittany, fell suddenly sick of a fever and not even the prayers and ministrations of the Good Man could save him. His mother was prostrate with grief and Louise believed that as soon as she had recovered a little from the shock she thought of that little boy who was now sitting under the trees with his sister Marguerite, strong and healthy, never out of the loving care of his mother.

There was a hatred between the two women, which must keep them apart. Louise could not imagine what disaster might befall here if she were ever misguided enough to go to Court. She was too apprehensive of the welfare of her François to flaunt his superior beauty and strength before a sorrowing and bereaved mother.

“They will never get a healthy son,” she whispered to Charles, her husband. “And if they do not, it will soon be your turn.”

“Louis d’Orléans comes before me,” he had reminded her.

“Louis d’Orléans!” she cried scornfully. “Married to crippled Jeanne! He’ll get no son to follow him. I tell you it will be you first and then François. I can see him, the crown on his head; and I’ll tell you that none ever has worn it, nor ever will, with more grace.”

Charles gave her his cynical smile. “Why, wife,” he said, “I had thought you a shrewd woman. And so you are in all other matters. But where our son is concerned you are over-rash. Have a care what words you utter. It would not be well if they were carried to Court.”

She nodded. She had her precious François to consider. She believed he must be kept away from intrigue, brought up in the quiet of Cognac, so that others less fortunate than she was might not see him and envy her. He must be kept hidden until that time when he was ready to emerge and claim his own.

“So I pray you have a care,” Charles had warned her, “and do not betray your feelings when we are at Amboise.”

“At Amboise!”

“My dear, it is natural that his kinsmen should follow the Dauphin to his tomb.”

How disconcerted she had been. She must travel from Cognac to Amboise with her husband, to pretend to mourn; not that that perturbed her as much as being forced to leave François behind. She had been more thankful then than at any other time for the presence of Jeanne de Polignac at Cognac. “Take care of the children,” she pleaded with her, “and never let the boy out of your sight.”

Jeanne laid her hand on Louise’s. “You may trust me as you would trust yourself.”

How cold it had been that December! It was small wonder that the little Dauphin had not recovered from his fever. Yet François toddled through the great rooms of the château, cheeks rosy, oblivious of the cold; and Marguerite hovering, ready to catch him should he fall, also glowed with health. The bitter winds which carried off the infirm could not hurt them. It is their destiny to win great distinction in the world, Louise told Jeanne; and because she believed this, she left Cognac with an easier mind than she could otherwise have done.

But disaster coming from an unexpected direction was at hand. She and Charles set out with their attendants in that inclement weather, and when they left Cognac, Charles had seemed well. He was not an old man, being but thirty-six years of age, and the cold did not seem to trouble him; but by the time they had reached Châteauneuf he had begun to cough, and with each cough suffered such agonizing pain in his side that he could not suppress his groans. It had been impossible for him to remain in the saddle, and she had ordered that he be carried into a nearby house while she sent a rider with all speed to Cognac for the best physician to be found. What energy she had displayed in those two weeks which followed; she had never left Charles’s bedside; but even at that time of anxiety she had not forgotten to send messengers back for news of François. Praise be to Jeanne, François continued in good health, so that she could devote herself wholeheartedly to the fight for her husband’s life. While she sat at his bedside she visualized what his death could mean to her. She, a girl not yet twenty years of age, to be left alone to fight for her son’s place in society! She had the utmost confidence in her ability, yet she must remember that she was but a woman and that strong men would be ranged against her. Charles must live…for the sake of François.

But on that bitterly cold New Year’s Day Louise had become a widow. And a widow she had remained in spite of attempts to give her a husband. No one was going to marry her off. She had made one marriage for State reasons and out of that marriage had come her François; any other marriage might not be advantageous for her son; therefore there should be no marriage; he was enough for her from now on.

And now watching him from the window she thought: And so it shall be, my little love, until I see you on the throne of France.

François had leaped to his feet and started to run; Marguerite was immediately beside him, taking his hand. Something had happened to excite them. Louise left the window and hurried down to the courtyard.

Jeanne de Polignac joined her on her way down.

“I heard the horses,” she cried. “Someone has arrived, and I wondered who.”

“That must have been what the children heard,” answered Louise, and together they passed out of the château.

There was the messenger, but Louise’s eyes went first to the sturdy figure of François who was standing staring up at the man on horseback. She noted with pleasure that Marguerite was beside him, never for one moment forgetting her solemn duty; her restraining hand was on the boy’s shoulder, lest the bold little darling become over-rash.

François turned, saw his mother and Jeanne, and immediately ran to Louise to throw his arms about her knees. She lifted him in her arms.

“So my beloved heard the arrival of the messenger?”

“Beloved heard it,” he answered. “Look! See his livery. It is different from ours.”

Then she realized that the messenger wore the royal livery, and she signed to one of the grooms, who had hurried up, to take the man’s horse.

“Pray come into the château,” she said. “You bring me news from Court?”

“Yes, my lady.”

He would have told her there and then, but she was never one to forget her dignity.

“Come,” she said, though her heart was beating fast for it was a convention that messengers matched their expressions to the news they carried, and this one’s was very grave.

In the great hall she called to one of her servants to bring wine for the messenger and he, unable to contain himself, said: “Madame, the King is dead.”

“The King…dead!”

Instinctively she held François more firmly in her arms; the little boy did not wriggle even though the extra pressure made him uncomfortable. He always accepted the adoration of those about him with a meek resignation, as though he was aware that everything they did was for his good.

Even Louise could not now suppress her curiosity.

“Madame, his Liege had gone to watch a game of tennis with the Queen, and on his way through the château to the court he struck his head on a stone archway. He took little notice of this at the time and continued on his way with the Queen; but as they sat watching the game he was seized with a sudden fit. A pallet was brought for him to lie on, for it was feared to be dangerous to move him on account of his strange illness; and there he lay throughout the afternoon. He died just before midnight.”

“Died…and he so young!” murmured Louise. “God help the Queen. How is she taking this?”

“She is stricken with grief, Madame.”

Certainly she was! thought Louise. No husband! No son to follow him! It was understandable that that ambitious woman was stricken with grief.

The man stood back a few paces; then he proclaimed:

“Charles the VIII of France is dead. Long Live King Louis XII!”

“Long live the King!” said Louise; and all those about her echoed her words, so that the hall of the château was filled with the cry.

“Long live the King!” shouted François with the rest.

And Louise was thinking: My little love—only one now between you and the throne of France. Louis d’Orléans, thirty-six years old, yet no longer in the prime of life; he has lived his life without great care for the health of his body, and now it is said he must pay the price. Louis XII of France, married to Jeanne, the cripple. What hope have they of getting themselves a dauphin!

Very clearly could she see the crown on the head of her François.

Louis XII of France, who had been known as Louis d’Orléans until his cousin had walked into an embrasure at Amboise and died because of it, received the news of his accession with elation. He had always believed that he could give the French nation what it most needed, and naturally, since he was so near the throne, he had often visualized this possibility. Yet he had scarcely hoped that the crown would be his for who would have believed that Charles, who was so much his junior, would have died so suddenly.

What great good fortune that the little Dauphin had died not so long ago, for a Regency was never a good thing, and how much more satisfactory it was when there was a sober, serious-minded King ready to mount the throne.

As soon as he heard the news he summoned two of his greatest friends to his side in order to discuss the future with them. One of these was Georges d’Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen; the other was Maréchal de Gié, a celebrated soldier.

They came to him and knelt, but he shrugged aside their homage.

“Come, my friends,” he said, “let us dispense with the ceremony and concern ourselves with more important issues.”

He bade them be seated. They could see that this was the moment for which he had longed all his life; it was a pity it had come when he was no longer in good health. He sat painfully, being troubled by the gout; he looked much older than his thirty-six years, and that was not to be wondered at considering the life he had led. Being a rebel from his youth he had gone so far as to incite the country to civil war; but he had not come through his adventures unscathed and had suffered imprisonment. But already there was a change in him. The rebel had become the King and there was a serenity in his face—that of a man who has at last achieved what he has longed for since the days of his youth. He was wise; he would never desert old friends, nor forget those who had suffered with him; it was for this reason that these two whom he had summoned to his presence should be the chief advisers to King Louis XII, since they had proved themselves good friends to Louis d’Orléans.

He had never spared himself in the days when he was strong and healthy but had reveled in all sports and had indulged himself in all carnal pleasures; but it was different now. He was wise enough to know that he could only hope to go on living if he lived with care, and he did not intend to die yet; that was why he ate little, always had his meat boiled and retired early to bed. In fact he had put his days of dissipation behind him and would be more particular to do so now that the crown was his.

His friends, looking into his bright, over-prominent eyes, at his thick lips which were dry and parched, at his enlarged Adam’s apple, were concerned and they showed it.

Louis smiled. “Put your fears to rest,” he said. “I am alive and that is how I intend to remain.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll swear there’s rejoicing at a certain château in Cognac this day.”

“Madame d’Angoulême, I have heard, believes her boy to be already the Dauphin of France,” said the Archbishop.

Louis nodded. “And we must accept the fact that, were I to die tomorrow, he would be the next to mount the throne—unless the impossible happens ere long and I get me a son.”

“Sire…,” began Georges d’Amboise; then he stopped.

“Speak on,” said the King. “You need not weigh your words with me now, Georges, any more than you did in the past. You were about to say that to hope for a son is to hope for an impossibility.”

“And that,” put in the Maréchal, “is no fault of yours, Sire.”

“I know, I know. The Queen has been a good wife to me. At least she has been a docile, affectionate and uncomplaining wife; and because she is the daughter of Louis XI it was considered I had made an excellent match.”

“And so it would have been, Sire, had she been fertile.”

“Alas!” sighed Louis. He was thinking of poor limping Jeanne, with her pale face and shoulder which was so much higher than the other—her only asset, her royalty. Their marriage had never been fruitful and never could be. And a king should have heirs. He said the last thought aloud: “A King should have heirs.”

Georges d’Amboise hesitated, coughed and then said recklessly: “Sire, it is only possible if you find yourself a new wife.”

Louis’s eyes seemed more prominent than ever. “I had thought,” he said, “that it would be desirable to keep Brittany for the crown.”

The Maréchal caught his breath but it was the churchman to whom Louis was giving his attention.

“So recently a widow,” he whispered.

“Yet she has proved that she can bear children—sons. They did not live, it is true, but Charles was a weakling…like his sister Jeanne. If I were not married to Jeanne, if I could marry Anne of Brittany, I could perforce bring to my country all that as King I wish to. Brittany remaining in the crown; a Dauphin in the royal nursery.”

“It would be necessary first to divorce Jeanne,” the Maréchal pointed out.

“That’s true,” answered the King, still looking at Georges.

“If she would go into a nunnery,” murmured Georges. “If she would declare herself tired of life outside convent walls…and if Anne could be persuaded that there is nothing shameful in this divorce…it might be arranged.”

Louis laid his hand on Georges’s arm. “Think on it,” he said. “I know, my friend, that if you do, you will find the solution.”

In the royal apartments at Amboise, the Queen faced her husband. Louis had always found it difficult to look into her face because he was afraid that she would read there the repulsion he felt for her—and the pity. He was not a cruel man but in his youth he had been thoughtless. It had been a great shock to him when he was given this hunch-backed gnome for a wife; it had been small consolation to him that she had been the daughter of the King of France, and he later suspected that her father, the wily Louis XI, had married her to him to prevent heirs coming to the Orléans branch of the family and making trouble. It must have been a sore trial to him to see his only son, who had become Charles VIII, a malformed dwarf not much better than his daughter Jeanne.

It had not been necessary to remain at her side for long at a time, and he could never make love with her except in the dark. That was a fruitless occupation in any case for how could such a creature bear children? She had proved, as all had suspected she would, sterile.

Now she looked at him with affection for, oddly enough, she loved him. Poor Jeanne! She had been ready to love any who showed her kindness, and he had done that.

“Louis,” she said, coming to him with ungainly steps and looking up at him appealingly without touching him, for she knew that he did not care for her to do that, “I have heard rumors.”

“Rumors?” he repeated; and he felt a deep dismay. Had they already been talking of his proposed divorce? Had they already been linking his name with that of Anne of Brittany? He was regretful for two reasons. First that Jeanne must be hurt; and second that the proud Anne of Brittany might be shocked at the thought of marrying another husband so soon, particularly as he was a man who had to rid himself of a wife to marry her.

“I understand,” went on Jeanne mournfully. “I am of little use to you. I cannot give you a Dauphin and I see that that is what France expects of you…now.”

“You should not distress yourself,” he told her gently.

“But I do,” she replied. “You have always been kind to me, Louis, and I know how I have failed you.”

“There are many childless couples in France.”

“They are not the King and Queen.”

Then suddenly she began to weep. “Oh Louis, Louis, do not abandon me. I know I have nothing to offer you. Look at me! None would ever have married me had I not been a king’s daughter. And you do not need me. The crown is yours through your own line. I have brought nothing to you. You will cast me off, Louis. They will persuade you that it is your duty…”

He put his arms about her. “Jeanne,” he said, “set aside your fears. Why, I’d rather die without a son than hurt you.”

She slid to her knees and embraced his legs, alas looking sadly repulsive crouching there. He wished she would rise; he was hating himself because he knew that Georges d’Amboise was already preparing a plan to dissolve their marriage; and that she could not long be kept in ignorance of this. Her grief would be the greater because he had tried to soothe her with false words.

Louise of Savoy set out for Paris to see the new King. Jeanne de Polignac warned her to be careful, but Louise was full of purpose.

“Forget not,” she said, “that my position is different from what it was before the death of Charles. Am I not the mother of the heir presumptive?”

“All the more reason why you should act with care,” replied the practical Jeanne.

Louise laughed. “Do you think I ever forget that I am his mother and that he needs me! Set your fears at rest, Jeanne. I am going to have him acknowledged; and the best way in which I can do this is to get him the title which is his due and which will proclaim to all that the King regards him as the heir to the throne. Why, the title falls vacant, does it not, now that Louis has given it up to take that of King? François is going to be Duc d’Orléans—that royal title belongs to him now.”

“All I say is, Louise, take care.”

“And you, my dear, take care of the children while I am away.” She embraced her friend. “How I rely on you, Jeanne! I’d never leave him in anyone else’s hands.”

When François and Marguerite came to say farewell to their mother, she embraced the girl tenderly but clung to the boy as though she had almost made up her mind not to leave him.

“My precious will do what Jeanne and Marguerite tell him while I’m away?”

“Yes, dearest Maman, Precious will,” answered the boy.

“That’s my little love.” She looked appealingly up at Jeanne and Marguerite, and although she did not speak, her eyes told them that she was placing in their hands her greatest treasure.

François stood at the gates of the castle, Jeanne on one side of him, Marguerite on the other; Jeanne the younger, with Madeleine and Souveraine, stood behind him and a short distance from this little group were some of their attendants.

Louise turned to look back again. “I shall soon be with you. Take care while I’m away.”

They watched her until she and her band of attendants were out of sight.

“I should like to go to Paris,” François announced.

“You will one day,” Marguerite told him.

When he rode to Paris it would be in a purple robe and he would have a standard on which were the golden lilies. His mother had told him this, and the picture was clear in his mind. But it was not yet; and in the meantime he had to amuse himself.

Marguerite took his hand and they went to the nurseries where Madeleine and Souveraine were playing with their dolls.

They stood watching Madeleine who was dressing one of the dolls and talking to it as though it were a baby.

“Come along, Marguerite,” said Souveraine, “here is the little Papillon. See how dirty she has made her dress! Change it and scold her, will you? Tell her she will be in trouble if she cannot keep her dresses cleaner than that.”

Marguerite stared at the doll which was being thrust at her and said stonily: “How could that be blamed for making the dress dirty? It was Madeleine who did it.”

Souveraine looked as though she was about to cry. “Why will you never play our games, Marguerite?” she demanded. “I believe you laugh at us. And we’re older than you, remember?”

“You are too old to play with dolls,” said six-year-old Marguerite, “and so am I.”

François looked on with interest. He would have liked to join the game, only instead of being mother to the dolls, he would have been their King and they would have been his subjects.

“How silly!” said Madeleine. “Maman said that I was a little mother.”

(Both Madeleine and Souveraine called Jeanne Maman.)

“I would be a little mother,” said Marguerite, “if I had a real baby. But I would not play with dolls.”

She took François firmly by the hand and led him away. “I will read to you,” she said.

François allowed himself to be taken down to the gardens, and, when they were seated under a tree, Marguerite opened the book and began to read, but she had not read more than a few sentences when François laid his plump hand on the page and said: “Marguerite, I want you to be a little mother, and I want to be a little father.”

Marguerite shut the book and looked at him. “You want to play with Madeleine and Souveraine?” she asked reproachfully.

“No,” he answered vehemently. “They play with dolls. I want us to have a real baby.”

Marguerite was thoughtful. He looked so earnest and so certain that she could provide him with what he wanted that her great desire was to keep his high opinion of her.

She stood up and he was beside her, putting his hand into hers.

An idea had come to Marguerite. She began to walk resolutely away from the château grimly holding François’s hand. They were forbidden to leave the gardens but this was in a special cause; and she had only to walk to the cottage just beyond the castle gates.

François, trotting beside her, kept laughing to himself in an endearing way he had which meant that he was excited and happy. He knew he could always rely on Marguerite to make life both amusing and adventurous.

On a patch of grass before the cottage a baby was crawling.

François knew of course what was going to happen now. Marguerite had as usual provided him with what he wanted. She opened the gate and, going into the garden, picked up the baby, who was not very clean.

“And we shall not scold her,” said Marguerite, “for she is too young to know that she must be clean. This is our baby, François. We are not going to play with dolls.”

François skipped round his sister. “Shall I carry her, Marguerite?”

“No, you are not big enough. I’ll carry her and when we’ve cleaned her, you shall hold her.”

They entered the château without being observed and went up to the nurseries.

There they undressed the child and washed her; then Marguerite found some of François’s discarded garments and dressed the baby in them. It was a wonderful game, for the child had to be soothed when she whimpered; then it occurred to Marguerite that she was hungry, so they fed her with sweetmeats.

“Now you see, François,” said Marguerite, “how different it is to be a real father and mother from playing with dolls!”

“Dolls!” cried François contemptuously. “Who wants dolls!”

When they had dressed and fed the child they decided that it was time she was put to bed. So they put her in Marguerite’s bed, where she lay serenely laughing at them and kicking her legs as though she enjoyed the game as much as they did.

Madeleine came in and discovered them, and when she saw that they had a real baby she gave a gasp of wonderment.

“You go and play with Papillon,” commanded Marguerite. “This is our baby—mine and François’s.”

It was impossible to keep their secret. Madeleine told Souveraine and Souveraine told little Jeanne who told big Jeanne. Moreover the baby had been missed and her parents were distractedly searching for her.

Jeanne de Polignac came into the nursery where François and Marguerite, one on each side of the bed, watched the baby who was crowing contently at them.

“But what is this?” she asked.

“My brother wanted a real baby. He did not wish to play with dolls,” explained Marguerite.

“So you took her from the cottage! Her mother is searching for her.”

“She cannot have her,” cried François. “She is our baby…mine and Marguerite’s. We have to have her because we do not play with dolls.”

Jeanne went out and shortly afterward came back with the child’s mother.

“The young Compte and his sister have taken a fancy to the child,” she explained. “They want to keep her in the château for a while.”

The mother was relieved to see her child, and delighted at the interest of the children, because she saw advantages for her little daughter in this interest. She had several other children and if her daughter could be clothed and fed at the château she would be a fool to protest.

“It is a charming picture,” she said.

Jeanne laid a hand on her arm. “We will see that the little one comes to no harm in the nurseries.”

Marguerite spoke with grave dignity. “We will see that she is kept clean,” she said.

With one of his sudden impulses François knelt on the bed and kissed the baby as his mother kissed him.

The matter was settled. The children should have the baby for as long as they wanted her.

“What is her name?” asked Marguerite. “We could name her ourselves, but perhaps she has a name already.”

“It is Françoise, Mademoiselle,” said the child’s mother.

François solemnly got down from the bed and began to jump as high as he could. This was an expression of great pleasure.

He was François; the child was Françoise. She was truly his.

Louise returned to Cognac in dismay.

Once she had assured herself that her children were safe and well she shut herself up with Jeanne.

“I do not like what I discovered.”

“The King was gracious to you?”

“Hm. I know Louis. He is all soft words, but there are plans afoot.”

“He would not give François Orléans?”

“No, he would not. I think I know what goes on in his mind. He was evasive. François is too young yet, he says. He bids me wait a while. François is not too young to be the heir presumptive, I hinted; therefore he is not too young to bear the title. Jeanne, I am alarmed. I see that I have my enemies. I am but a weak woman…and I am the only one to protect my little King from all those who would work against him.”

“You’re no weak woman,” laughed Jeanne. “François couldn’t have a better protector, even if his father lived.”

“But listen. Louis is determined to get an heir.”

“He never will. Jeanne is incapable of bearing a child. She proved that when she was Duchesse d’Orléans; she can’t become fruitful merely because she’s Queen.”

“That’s the point, Jeanne. Louis doesn’t intend that she shall remain his Queen. He’s determined to have an heir, and he’s going to rid himself of her in order to do so.”

Jeanne was startled now, seeing the threat to François’s hopes as clearly as Louise did.

“Still,” she temporized, “Louis is scarcely a strong man.”

“Strong enough to get a son if he had a healthy bride. I’ve heard rumors, Jeanne. He wants something else besides a son, and he’s looking to a new bride to give it to him…Brittany!”

“No!”

“’Tis so.”

“Anne of Brittany will never marry a divorced man.”

“Not if he is King of France? You don’t know Anne. I understand her well, and I’ll tell you why. She and I share an ambition. We want to be the mother of the King of France. She is a determined woman, and so am I. And you know as well as I do that if I realize my ambition she cannot, and if she gets what she wants that is enough to make me lose everything I hope for. We’re rivals, Jeanne. We’re enemies. And if this divorce takes place, I shall not know a moment’s peace for years…not until Anne is too old to bear a son—and she is but a young woman. Do you wonder that I am uneasy?”

They were silent, thinking of all that this meant.

At last Louise spoke. “Louis, I am sure, is certain of ridding himself of Jeanne and getting Anne. He’s certain that she will give him a boy.”

“Anne wasn’t very successful with Charles—three boys all dead.”

“But boys, Jeanne. And Charles was a dwarf…little better than his sister whom Louis is now trying to discard. No. I am sure his hopes are high. That is why he would not give François the Orléans title. He suggested he should become Duc de Valois instead.”

The two women stared into space as though they were trying to peer into the future.

The King came to Cognac. He had a fancy to see the boy who, unless he could get a son, would follow him as King of France.

There was a bustle in the castle and throughout the countryside. All along the route the people lined the roadside to cheer the new King.

Louise greeted the sovereign while on either side of her were two of the most beautiful children Louis had ever seen. The girl with the clear, intelligent eyes was very charming; as for the boy, he was as robust as any parent could wish.

Louis took them in his arms and embraced them warmly. He was impressed with the girl, but his eyes kept straying to the boy, who greeted him without a trace of shyness.

“I have a dog,” the boy told him.

“Have you?” asked the King.

“Yes, and I have a pony. I ride on their backs. My dog is big.” The plump arms were outstretched as far as they would go. “And we have a baby, Marguerite and I. Her name is Françoise. She is a very good baby.”

Louis noticed that the little boy was allowed to take the stage. Well, he could understand the mother’s fondness.

I’d give half my kingdom, he thought, for a son like that.

François had put his hand confidently in that of the King.

“Are you a king?”

Louis admitted that he was.

“I shall be one when I grow up.”

“Is that so?” said Louis with a smile; and he thought: Not if I can prevent it, my little man.

“Yes, a great king,” prattled François. “And I shall have two queens—Marguerite and my mother.”

Louis looked at Louise who was faintly embarrassed.

“I see,” he said, “that your son already displays excellent judgment.”

He was conducted to his apartments and when he was alone with his own attendants he was very thoughtful. He could not get that boy out of his mind. What vitality! Why had they not married him to Louise of Savoy instead of poor tragic Jeanne!

He was unhappy every time he thought of his wife, so he tried to thrust her from his mind and look ahead to the days when he would be married to Anne. He was thinking a great deal about Anne. There was something about that woman. It was true she limped a little and was somewhat pale and certainly severe; but she was a Queen in truth, born to rule; and once they had dispensed with this awkward business of freeing him from one who was useless to him, she would be a good wife.

He could trust Georges to arrange things. Before he had come to the throne he used to say, when he was in a difficulty: “Let Georges do it.” He said that now. There was no one quite so wily, when dealing with delicate matters, as a man of the Church. Georges would find a reason, which would satisfy even Anne, why his marriage should be dissolved. He did not anticipate a great deal of trouble, because he was so sure of help from that quarter from which it was most essential. The Holy Father would be ready to grant the divorce in exchange for certain favors to his son. It was easy to deal with a Borgia, and Pope Alexander VI loved his son Cesare so deeply that it should not be impossible to strike a bargain. Trust Georges to arrange this matter.

In the meantime he had the importunity of people such as Louise of Savoy to contend with. She would not be quite so complacent about this merry little fellow on whom she doted when he and Anne, safely married, presented the country with their son. That would put that somewhat long though enchanting nose of Monsieur François out of joint. Not that he was aware of that yet—with his dogs, ponies and babies.

Louis enjoyed his sojourn at the château and spent most of his leisure with the children. He would go alone unannounced to the nursery, and he thought how delightful Louise’s two looked, bending over a chess board; he would sit beside them and watch the little fingers—the boy’s still showing signs of baby fat—moving the pieces with a skill extraordinary in players so young. There was a real baby, he discovered; and he was very amused to hear that François had demanded it and that his sister, Marguerite, had promptly left the château and found her imperious brother that for which he’d asked.

The boy will be spoiled, he thought, left to the care of women.

And women who dote on him to such an extent! He would consult with Georges at an early opportunity, for they must remember that, as yet, he was not even married to Anne, and that while this state of affairs persisted young François could be King of France. He should not therefore be tied to women’s apron strings, but brought up as a man.

During his visit he broached the subject with Louise.

“You are justly proud of two such children,” he told her. “I’ll swear that you will wish to put such a boy in the care of a great soldier, and that soon.”

Louise was startled. “I had no such plans, Sire.”

“He is so advanced for his age that one forgets how young he is. Such a one needs to be brought up with boys of his own age and under stern discipline. He must learn how to become a knight—to use a sword, how to conduct himself in combat. Remember, he could one day hold a very important position in this land.”

“’Tis true, Sire. But I would wish to remain in charge of his education. He must learn all that a man should learn, but that will come later.”

“You have too much sense,” said Louis with a smile, “to wish to leave it too long. I will speak to de Gié of our François. As you know he is one of the greatest soldiers in France, and I am sure, Madame, you will agree with me when I say that none but the best is good enough for François.”

Louise was trembling with apprehension but the King noticed the firm set of her lips, and he said to himself: There is a woman who will fight for her boy like a tigress for her cub. She is determined that one day he shall be King of France. Alas, Madame, you are doomed to disappointment.

He felt sorry for her and spoke gently to her when he took his farewell, complimenting her once more on her children, and adding that he believed she would never allow them to leave her care.

But when François knelt before him, looking so dignified that he brought tears to his mother’s eyes as she watched him, Louis stooped and picked the boy up in his arms.

“What a big fellow you are!” he said. “I’ll swear that when next we meet you’ll be showing me how well you can handle a sword.”

François’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “A sword…for me!”

“Well, you’ll be a man one day,” said the King. “You may need one.”

François was delighted. Now he wanted a sword.

The château seemed quiet after the King had left. Jeanne de Polignac sensed Louise’s concern and tried to soothe her.

“One thing is certain,” she said. “Louis does not believe he will ever get a son because he would not concern himself with the upbringing of François if he did not consider him to be the Dauphin.”

There was comfort in that thought.

“But I shall not allow anyone to take him from me,” said Louise fiercely.

When Georges d’Amboise sought an audience with the King there was triumph in every line of the Archbishop’s plump body.

“Alexander is willing, Sire,” Georges explained. “He is concerned at the moment for his son Cesare, and Cesare needs your help. Alexander says—most diplomatically and in that veiled language of which he is a past master—that if you will please him, you shall have your divorce.”

“What are his terms?” Louis asked.

“Cesare is tired of his Cardinal’s robes. He fancies himself as a conqueror. There is no doubt that he arranged the murder of his brother, the Duke of Gandia. You will remember, my Liege, that that young man’s body was found in the Tiber; he had been stabbed to death. Alexander loved that boy, but he has given up grieving now. He has another son, and so besottedly does he love his children that he now gives all his devotion to Cesare and his daughter Lucrezia. He seems to have forgotten poor Gandia now that he is dead—at least he forgives Cesare for murdering his brother.”

“It may be that he wishes to see the Borgias triumphant. Tell me what he asks for Cesare.”

“You will remember, Sire, that when Cesare became a Cardinal Alexander prepared documents which proclaimed him to have been born in wedlock. Now he has prepared further documents. Cesare is his bastard and therefore, being of illegitimate birth, cannot be accepted as a Cardinal. Cesare will leave the Church, and he plans to come to the Court of France; he wants you to help him to marry Carlotta of Aragon, and he would be pleased to accept a French dukedom. He wishes to make an alliance with you so that you may join forces in attacking Italy.”

“Alexander knows how to drive a bargain.”

“He does, Sire. But you have always greatly desired Milan and have had a claim to it. Cesare would come with the dispensation which will dissolve your marriage; and all we should have to do is have the case tried here before judges whom you would select.”

Louis was thoughtful. “You are an able man, Georges. You should have your reward too.”

Georges smiled. “I understand that Cesare will bring, in addition to the dispensation for you, a Cardinal’s hat for me.”

“The Borgia knows how to make a bargain irresistible.”

“’Tis so, Sire. And you need the divorce, unless we are prepared to sit back and see young François mount the throne of France.”

Louis nodded. “Have you put the case before Queen Anne?”

He waited nervously for the reply.

Georges was frowning. “She is reluctant. She feels that to marry so soon after the death of her husband would be a little unseemly.”

Louis beat his fist on his knee. “I am in no mind to wait.”

“You should have no fear on that account, Sire. There is one thing for which she longs and that is to be the mother of the King of France. I mentioned Louise and her François, and that was adding fuel to the flame. I am sure that Louise—and young François—are scarcely ever out of her thoughts. She sees Louise as her greatest rival. She cannot endure the thought of her triumph. I do not think we shall have trouble with Queen Anne, Sire, once you are free of Queen Jeanne.”

“I am sorry that I have to do this, Georges.”

Georges lifted his shoulders. “It is the fate of royal personages, Sire. I am sure she will understand.”

“Well, let us hasten on the affair. Have you prepared the case?”

“I have, Sire. You will swear that the marriage is impossible of consummation. The Queen is unfit to be a wife and a mother. That is good enough reason for a king to put his wife away.”

“Poor Jeanne, I fear she will take this sadly.”

“She will recover.”

“It is not strictly true to say that she is unfit to be a wife.”

“It is in this case, Sire.”

“There are times when I almost wish…” Louis did not finish his sentence. It was quite untrue of course. He was longing to be rid of Jeanne; he dreamed nightly of Anne who was becoming more and more desirable to him. He was certain that in the first weeks of their marriage she would conceive. But it was true to say that he wished he did not have to hurt Jeanne.

“It will be over very quickly, Sire. The physicians will ask to examine Queen Jeanne.”

“To examine her!”

“To ascertain her unfitness for marriage.”

“But she will never submit to such indignity.”

“Then all is well, Sire,” smiled Georges, “for then it will be assumed that she is indeed unfit, for if she were not, it will be said, why should she refuse the examination?”

Louis gazed at his friend; then he rose and going to the window looked out.

Yet it must be, he thought. There were demands of kingship to be served.

Jeanne could not believe it. Louis had always been so kind. It was true that he found her repulsive, but she had loved him dearly because he had always made such an effort to pretend this was not the case. He had been unfaithful to her; she had expected that. It was his kindness which had always made her feel so safe. He was also so genial, so logical—except when he was ill or anxious. Then he was inclined to be irritable, but that was natural.

And now he was assuring the Court of Enquiry that it was impossible to consummate the marriage, and on those grounds he was asking for a divorce.

She had wept the night before until she slept from exhaustion. Now her eyes were swollen and she looked uglier than ever.

“If only my brother Charles had not died!” she murmured. “Then Louis would not have been King. He would not have cared that I could not give him a son. And Anne of Brittany would not be free to marry him.”

The bishops came to her—one of them was the brother of Georges d’Amboise who she knew worked wholeheartedly for the King and had arranged this matter for him. They were determined, she knew, to give Louis the verdict for which he was asking.

Gently they told her that she was judged unfit for marriage.

“It is not true,” she answered. “Except that my back is crooked, my head set awry, my arms too long, my person unprepossessing.”

“Madame, you have but to submit to an examination. The royal physicians are ready to wait on you.”

Her thick lips, which did not meet, were twisted in a bitter smile.

“I’ll swear they know the answer to what they seek before they begin their examinations,” she answered. “Nay, messieurs, I will not submit to this further indignity. You—and others—forget, it seems, that, unwanted as I am, I am yet the daughter of a king.”

“Madame, it would be wise…”

“Messieurs, you have my leave to depart.”

When they left her she covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro.

This was the end of life as she had known it. The answer would be to go into a convent where she must devote herself to the good life and forget that she ever tried to be a wife to Louis.

She rose and picked up her lute. She had been a good lutist, and when she played men and women had been apt to pause and listen. They forgot then that she was deformed and ugly; they only heard the sweet music she made. Often she had found great comfort in her music and when she felt sad and neglected she had told herself: “There is always my lute.”

But one did not play the lute in a convent.

Deliberately she threw it to the floor and stamped on it; and looking down at what she had once loved she thought: Like the lute my life is broken and finished.

Louise, eager yet apprehensive, had moved with her family from Cognac to Chinon. Each day she was watching at her turret for messengers from the Court; and she would start up every time she heard the sound of riders approaching the château.

Jeanne comforted her as best she could. It was quite impossible, she pointed out, for the King to put away his wife. The Pope would never agree to a divorce. Jeanne, a king’s daughter, would never submit to such treatment; and Anne of Brittany would not marry until at least a year had elapsed since the death of her husband, for she would consider it quite indecent to do so.

“I know Anne of Brittany,” said Louise. “She wants to give birth to the heir of France. There is only one way in which she can do that, and that is by marrying Louis. She’ll take him if she has the chance. She is as jealous of me on account of my son as any woman could be.”

Louis traveled to Chinon with a great retinue and Louise’s anxiety increased, for there were plans to welcome a visitor to France, and this important personage was shortly to arrive in Chinon. His name was Cesare Borgia.

Why was the King so eager to do honors to the illegitimate son of the Pope? Louise anxiously asked herself.

François was untouched by her apprehension. From the window of the château, his mother beside him and Marguerite close by, he watched the Borgia’s entry into Chinon.

The little boy could not stand still but leaped up and down in his excitement.

“But look, look,” he kept crying, for he had never seen such dazzling color. The Pope’s son had determined to impress the French with his worldly possessions. His attendants were clad in crimson livery; his pages rode on the finest horses; his baggage, covered with satin in dazzling colors, was carried on mules brilliantly caparisoned. Thirty noblemen attended him, all magnificently attired and behind them, accompanied by Georges d’Amboise who had ridden out from the château to meet him, was the Borgia himself, lithe, dark and sinister, sitting his horse whose accoutrements glittered with pearls and precious stones of all colors, himself more dazzling than anything which had gone before. His person appeared to be covered in jewels, with rubies—such a foil for his dark lean looks!—in predominance.

Louise, catching at her son’s hand, wondered whether in one of those coffers with which the jewel-decorated mules were laden, was the dispensation which would enable Louis to marry Anne of Brittany.

She was soon to learn.

Louise was in despair. The King had obtained his divorce and Anne of Brittany had overcome her scruples. They were now married.

Louise lay awake at night thinking of them, indefatigably pursuing their efforts to get a child. They were both so eager. Could they fail?

“Holy Mother,” she prayed, “hear me. My little François was born to be a king. I beg of you let nothing stand in the way of his coming to the throne.”

Yet, she thought, Anne is offering her prayer to the Virgin with the same vehemence. But surely all must see that it is my François who should be King of France.

There was further cause for anxiety. Louis was growing more and more delighted with his bride, and consequently giving way to all her wishes. He knew that he had a wife on whose fidelity he could rely absolutely; Anne of Brittany might not be a beauty; she might walk with a limp; she might be pale and severe; but she was regal, intelligent, a Queen of whom a King—not very young himself, not very robust—could be proud. It was clear that Anne was going to have a great influence on the King’s actions.

Above all, she would not forget Louise and François. Although, no doubt, she prayed every night that she might be fruitful, that prayer had not yet been answered, so she wanted Louise where she could keep an eye on her.

Thus she persuaded the King that as, until they had a son they must, though reluctantly, regard François as the heir to the throne, they should keep him under surveillance.

Consequently Louise received orders from Court. She was to leave Chinon for Blois.

There was no help for it. The command must be obeyed, and Louise moved her household to Blois. But she hated the place with its nearby tanneries giving off foul odors which she feared might be harmful to the children. The great château, built on a rock, supported by buttresses, with its many underground dungeons in which deeds too horrible to be contemplated had been committed, seemed no place for her gay little François, for her beautiful Marguerite.

She felt as though she were a prisoner at Blois; and she never ceased to deplore the King’s marriage to one who, she knew, through envy of her François, was a rival and an enemy.

She wrote pleadingly to Louis, hoping to reach him without his wife’s knowledge. It was impossible. Anne was determined to rule with her husband; and he was so indulgent that he allowed this to happen.

So Louise of Savoy felt that Blois was like a prison, did she? Let it be. It was necessary to keep a sharp watch on that woman who was ambitious beyond reason.

But as the weeks passed Anne of Brittany softened toward Louise. If the woman hated Blois so much, let her go to Amboise.

Louise was delighted when she received permission to leave Blois, for Amboise would be more salubrious, and she was happier than she had been since she had left Chinon when, surrounded by her family and household, she rode into the little town and saw the conical towers of the old château which dominated it.

A royal château, she thought, a fitting place to house her little King.

But before many weeks had passed she lost her complacence.

News came to her from the Court. The miracle had happened. The Queen had conceived. She was taking every precaution regarding her pregnancy, consulting the holy men, making all the necessary pilgrimages, carrying many holy relics; she was doing everything possible to ensure the birth of a healthy boy.

There followed some of the most anxious months of Louise’s life. She questioned everyone who came from the Court as to the Queen’s health, until Jeanne trembled for her and begged her to desist. She remained for long periods on her knees, night and morning, beseeching the saints and the Virgin for their help. It did not occur to her that to plead for the death of an unborn child was unseemly, for she was incapable of seeing anything as evil which furthered the future of her darling.

Naturally François was unaware of his mother’s anguish. He liked Amboise; and when he passed through the town the people cheered him. Marguerite was his constant companion, and they had little Françoise with them. There had been talk of a sword though; he had not received that yet; and when he mentioned it, his mother—usually so eager to give way to his whims—shook her head and said that was for later.

When plague came to certain cities Louise left Amboise in haste for Romorantin, a quiet retreat in the heart of woodland country. Amboise had been unaffected but there was much coming and going there, and she could not allow François to run the slightest risk.

Louis had gone off to Italy to carry out his treaty with the Pope, while his Queen was patiently waiting for the end of her pregnancy at Blois.

When Louise sat with Jeanne one day while they worked on their tapestry, Jeanne tried to reason with her. “You are unlike yourself, Louise. You are over-wrought.”

“Once Anne has given birth to a girl or a still-born child I shall regain my composure. Although there could well be other pregnancies. But Louis is away at the wars. Long may he stay there. And if this child she is bearing should prove to be…”

Jeanne shook her head. “You must be more at peace. If the worst should happen…” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well then, François would still have a great future, I am sure.”

“A great future! There is no future great enough for him but that of kingship. He is a king from the top of his lovely head to his dear little toes. God bless him, my King, my Caesar.”

“Louise, forgive me, for I love the boy dearly, but I think that you could allow your devotion to him to drive you mad.”

“Mad! Then mad I would be. He is my life and my love. I would die tomorrow if I lost him. And I think that if another took the crown from him I should begin to die from that moment.”

It was no use talking to her. She was a woman besotted with love and ambition for the loved one.

“I hear the approach of horses,” said Jeanne, rising. “I wonder who comes this way.”

She went to the window and, looking out, exclaimed in such astonishment that Louise came hurrying to her side.

When she saw the litter which was being carried she caught her breath in wonder. There was no mistaking that litter. It was decorated with the golden lilies of France.

“Anne herself!” whispered Louise. “But what can this mean?”

“You should go and find out,” Jeanne told her.

Louise hurried down to greet the party. Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, noticeably advanced in pregnancy, was helped from her litter.

Louise knelt before her till Anne bade her rise.

The Queen looked down somewhat cynically at the little woman with the fierce blue eyes and the firm jaw.

“We are greatly honored at Romorantin,” said Louise.

“There is plague at Blois,” answered the Queen. “I dared stay no longer.”

“Madame, if we had but had warning…”

“There was no time to give it, but we knew that we could rely on Madame d’Angoulême.”

Louise’s sharp eyes swept over the Queen’s body. She looked tired. She was pale. The journey must have exhausted her. So there was plague in Blois. What if some of the party already carried it? My King, my Caesar! What if…It was unthinkable. But if the Queen herself were suffering, if the child…

She must banish her wild thoughts and give her attention to entertaining the Queen at Romorantin.

How ironic! So the Queen was to give birth to that all-important child under that very roof where Louise was living with her cherished heir presumptive.

What strange days they were! Anne kept to the apartments which had been hastily prepared for her. The Queen was in a dilemma; she longed to summon holy men to her, but she feared they might be carriers of the plague. She wanted to make her pilgrimages; but she felt exhausted and was afraid that a journey might harm the precious child she carried.

She was fully aware of the watchful eyes of Louise—blue, cold and calculating.

She hated the woman; she knew what was going on in her mind, and when she caught glimpses of that boisterous boy who seemed to run everywhere and take sudden leaps into the air in an excess of good health and high spirits she was overcome with envy.

“Holy Mother,” she prayed, “give me a boy such as that one and I will spend the rest of my life in good works.”

“How is the Queen today?” Louise asked Anne’s attendants.

“A little tired, Madame.”

“The saints preserve her.”

When the Queen’s women told her of the solicitude of Madame d’Angoulême Anne smiled graciously, but inwardly she was sardonic. She wishes me as much good will as I wish her, she thought. How I long for the day when my son is born!

It was a pleasant pastime, planning how she would summon Louise to her bedchamber and proudly display the heir to the throne, how she would thank her for all she had done to make her confinement comfortable.

Every night Louise paced up and down her own apartments. Jeanne was with her, attempting to comfort her.

“It cannot be long now, Jeanne. It must be soon. If it should be a boy…”

“Calm yourself, Louise. She may have her spies close at hand. If she knew what harm you wished her child it might amount to a charge of treason.”

“How she would like to see me and my little King in the dungeons at Blois! Praise be to the saints, we have a good King on the throne. He is her dupe, I know, but he would never be persuaded to murder us.”

“You are growing distraught and it is not like you.”

“Distraught! How can I sleep? How can I eat…until I know that she has failed.”

There was much running to and fro in the Queen’s apartments. The pains had started. The Queen had ordered her attendants to pray constantly, all through her labor, for a boy.

Louise sat calm, waiting. The tension was relaxed because now she soon must know.

Then from the royal apartments came the cry of a child.

Louise clenched her hands in an ecstasy of pain. “Why don’t they tell me!” she demanded. And yet she dreaded to be told.

Jeanne brought her the news, but as Louise looked into the face of her faithful friend she did not need to be told. Rarely had she seen such shining happiness in that well-loved face.

“A girl!” cried Louise.

Jeanne was laughing on the edge of hysteria.

“A girl, Louise!”

“Oh praise be to the saints. All glory to my King, my Caesar.”

“A sickly girl…I heard. But it may be false. I heard that she was deformed and may not live.”

The two women fell weeping and laughing into each other’s arms.

François in Jeopardy

THE CHILD WAS CHRISTENED Claude and when Louise saw her she realized that rumor had not lied. The little girl was unhealthy and as far as could be seen had a squint.

Louise brought François and Marguerite to see the child, and from her bed Anne watched them at the cradle with narrowed eyes; she could have wept at the sight of the boy’s sturdy limbs, his glowing dark eyes, the vitality which, on instructions from his mother, he was trying to suppress.

“What a little baby!” That was the boy’s shrill voice.

“She is but a few days old, my love.”

“Was I a little baby like that once?”

“You were never a little baby. You were always a big one.”

The boy had started to jump, and his sister laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Spoiled monster! thought Anne. He thinks the whole world was made for him. But if only I had one like him…

“I like our Françoise better,” declared François. “She is pretty.”

Louise had taken his hand and turned to smile at Anne. Such high spirits! And how can one so young and innocent be expected not to say what comes into his mind? You have to admit, the baby is sickly.

Would that I could call the guards, thought Anne, and have her taken down to one of the dungeons and kept there with her precious son.

She looks ill, Louise was thinking. She cannot take confinements lightly. She will have to take care of her health, and in view of the failure she has had with Charles, and now this weak little infant by Louis, it seems she may well continue to fail.

Louise stooped to François. “You will love the little Princess when she is old enough to run about.” That’s if she’s ever able to, she thought. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took sick and died.

Louise had come to the bed. “He loves playing with little children,” she said, her expression soft again. “Madame, you should see him with the little Françoise, this child whom he and his sister brought into the château because they wanted a baby to care for.”

Besotted fool, thought Anne. Does she think everyone is going into ecstasies of admiration at the childish doings of that boy?

“He is five years old, is he not? The Princess Claude will mayhap prefer to play with children of her own age.”

The Queen closed her eyes; it was the sign of dismissal. Through lowered lids she watched the little party leave. If she thought that boy was going to marry Claude, Louise was mistaken. If she could marry Claude to a foreign Prince, if her next child were a son—Madame Louise was going to find herself and her adored François very much less significantly placed than they were at this time.

Louis had returned from the war. He was not the most successful of generals and, although he had longed to bring Milan back to France, he knew that his real genius was for home government. He was never extravagant on his own account; but he was eager to see his people living in greater comfort, and during the first years of his reign, France prospered. His subjects were aware of his virtue and conceived a great affection for him. He became known as the Father of his People.

Genial, approachable, shrewd, he was loved by those who surrounded him; he was capable of moments of irascibility, but these all knew were only when he suffered pain or was anxious over some danger threatening the country. He was, however, deeply respectful to his wife and apt to give her her way in everything; and as Anne of Brittany was a forceful woman, France was governed as much by her as by Louis.

It was a source of great disappointment that they had only one child—little Claude, who was undersized, walked with a limp and was clearly never going to be strong.

Reluctantly he told Anne they must face the fact that François had a very fair chance of following him to the throne.

“In that case,” said Anne tartly, “he should be brought up as a man and untied from a woman’s apron strings.”

Louis agreed that this was so and, sending for Maréchal de Gié, told him that he was to go to Amboise and become Governor of the household of Angoulême, his special charge being the boy François who was to be brought up in all manly activities.

De Gié recognized the importance of this task and set off with a will.

Louise received him with great apprehension, although she realized that now François was seven years old he could no longer be regarded as a baby. As for the boy himself, as long as he was not separated from his mother and sister, he was happy enough to have a chance to fence and learn how to joust.

On the day before de Gié was due to arrive at the château Louise was alone with her son and daughter. She sat with one on either side of her and put an arm about each.

“My children,” she said, “you are growing up and you will find that we cannot go on in the way we have. Soon life in the château will change. They are going to make our François into a man—and they do not think his mother, being a woman, is capable of doing that.”

“But you will be here with us, dearest Maman?” asked Marguerite anxiously.

“Do you think that I should allow anyone to part me from you? Nay, my children. We are as one—we three. We are a trinity. Let us remember it forever.”

“I shall never forget,” said Marguerite.

“Bless you, my daughter. I know you love your brother.”

“And I love my sister,” cried François.

“You love each other; and I love you both; and you love me. My dear ones, there was never such love to the world as we have for each other. Let us remember it. And one day when you, my son, are King of France, you will know that there is none whom you can trust as you trust your mother and sister—because we are as three in one: A trinity.”

François liked the new life. Maréchal de Gié was determined to ingratiate himself with one who might well be a King of France, but at the same time he laid down rules which must not be broken. He explained to the boy that these were necessary; to acquire manhood one must never ignore discipline.

François was a good pupil. Being strong and healthy he loved the outdoor life; being quick-witted, and for so long under the surveillance of his brilliant sister, he was fond of learning. He was good-natured and strangely unspoiled by the devotion of his family; he loved his mother and sister almost as devotedly as they loved him and was anxious never to displease them nor cause them anxiety.

De Gié’s first act had been to replace François’s pony with a horse. Louise came out to the courtyard to see him mounted, and tears of emotion temporarily blinded her at the sight of that upright little figure perched on the tall horse.

She had a whip made for him of gold decorated with fleur-de-lis in enamel; he was delighted with the gift and would not abandon it even when he was not riding. One of the charms of François was that, indulged as he was, he could always feel enthusiasm for small delights.

It had been necessary now to send the little Françoise back to her parents. It was no task for an embryo knight to care for a child; and as Marguerite was growing too old for such pastimes and had to increase her studies, they must say goodbye to their little protégée.

They both had plenty with which to occupy themselves, and life at Amboise seemed to François like one adventure after another.

One day Louise was at the window watching his equestrian exercises under the surveillance of de Gié. François was mounted on a new horse and he sat it boldly, brandishing his whip.

She watched him taking a jump. What a horseman the boy was becoming! He excelled in everything he undertook.

“I verily believe,” she said to Jeanne who was with her, “that he is a god in earthly guise.”

Then she caught her breath in dismay. The horse had started to rear; it had the bit between its teeth and was galloping blindly over the fields, while François was clinging to it with all his might. De Gié, who was talking to some of the attendants, had not seen what was happening, and for some seconds Louise was unable to move. She saw her life in ruins; she saw them bringing in his mangled body—her beautiful one, her beloved…dead. She would die with him. There would no longer be any purpose in life.

“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed; and she dared not look at that madly galloping animal with the small figure still managing to stay in the saddle.

She rushed down the great staircase and out of the château, shouting to all who could hear as she did so: “The Comte’s horse is running away with him. Quick! All of you. Monsieur le Maréchal! Everyone! Help! The Comte is in danger.”

By the time she had reached the field in which François had been exercising his horse, de Gié had seen what was happening and, galloping after the boy, had brought the runaway horse to a standstill. Louise, watching, felt her knees tremble so violently that she thought they would not support her. The relief was almost unbearable; for there was François, laughing as though the whole affair had been something of a joke, being led back to the spot where his mother was waiting.

He took one look at her and saw the distress still in her face.

“It is unharmed, Maman,” he called reassuringly. “See, I have not broken it.”

He held up the whip for her to see; and the fact that he had believed she was concerned for the thing brought home to her that he was after all but a child.

She laughed, but the tears were very near.

It was fitting, said the Maréchal, that François should have friends of his own age. They should live at Amboise as his equals, because it was not good that a boy should believe himself to be superior to others until he had proved himself to be so.

Therefore he proposed to bring to Amboise certain boys, and they should play and fight together, as young boys will.

Louise did not raise any objection; she knew that it would be useless to do so; in any case she agreed with this decision and, as long as she was allowed to remain under the same roof as her darling, she was happy that the Maréchal should undertake part of his education.

Thus to Amboise came some boys of François’s age—all of noble birth, all willingly placed under the control of the Maréchal. François made friends with them, played games with them, learned to fence, hunt, joust and fight with them. They were Montmorency, Chabot, Montchenu, and Fleurange; they would sit together after the mock combat, talking of the real war, and longing for the days when they themselves would go into action. Although they knew that François would most probably one day be their King, they did not allow this to influence their attitude toward him; in fact they forgot it for days at a time; and François did not remind them. He was too intent on enjoying life as a growing boy to worry about the crown which was somewhat precariously held over him.

He would sleep deeply and dreamlessly each night, delightfully fatigued after his exercise. He would rise fresh in the morning, and drag his comrades out of their beds if they showed any desire to remain in them.

“Come on,” he would shout. “The sun is already up. I’ll race you to the stables.”

He was growing up.

Louise watched him often with delight, often in anguish. He was so like those other boys and yet so different, because he never forgot for one moment that he was part of that trinity; and friendly as he might be with Fleurange, dearly as he loved to tilt against Montmorency, his love for his sister and his mother was never dimmed in the slightest way.

De Gié, determined as he was to remain on good terms with Louise, yet tried to wean the boy from her. He would have preferred to have complete charge of François, to let him live entirely with male company; but he quickly realized that, short of a command from the King, he could not separate Louise from her son.

He tried means of persuasion.

Once he said to her: “It seems a sad thing that a lady—young and beautiful as you are—should remain alone.”

“Alone? I am not alone. I have my children.”

“You should have a husband.”

“I am content.”

“The King would arrange a match for you with Alfonso d’Este. It would be a good match.”

“Leave France! Leave François! Nay, Monsieur le Maréchal. That is something I shall never do.”

He looked at her sadly.

“Clever women can combine wifeliness with motherhood.”

“With the father of her children, yes. Alas, I lost my husband, and I am in no mind to take another.”

Later there was a rumor that Henry VII of England, recently widowed, was urgently looking for a wife and liked much what he had heard of Louise of Savoy.

“I have no mind to go to England,” was her retort to that. “My home is where my children are, and that happens to be in Amboise. There I shall remain.”

Such a woman! thought the Maréchal. And there were times when he felt almost tender toward her.

Who would take to wife a woman whose affections were exclusively occupied by another—even though that other were her own son?

So Louise clung to her widowhood; and François grew in stature so that he was taller than all his companions; he could almost always beat them at their sports. Each day, thought Louise, he grows more and more like a king.

Anne was pregnant once more, and there followed months of anxiety, until one day the news was brought from Court that she had given birth to a stillborn child. And that child had been a boy.

Then Louise went on her knees and cried: “I see, O Lord, that You are with me.”

And after that she was more certain than ever that the next King of France would be her son.

Louis despaired of getting a male heir.

His health was deteriorating rapidly and he was beginning to be exhausted at the least exertion. Moreover the Queen’s last confinement, which had resulted in the birth of a stillborn boy, had made her very ill and she showed little sign of regaining her former strength. He was afraid of what another pregnancy might do to her.

“We must perforce resign ourselves,” he said. “François will follow me. There is no help for it.”

Anne clenched her fists and her face was set in determined lines.

“And give Louise of Savoy what she has been dreaming of ever since she gave birth to that boy?”

“There’s no help for it. He is the next in the line of succession; and I suppose we should be thankful that he is so robust. He is being brought up as a king. Let us face it. We should accept him as the Dauphin.”

“While there is life in my body I never shall.”

Louis laid his arm about her shoulders. He admired her so much. She was so strong-minded, so intelligent; but her hatred of Louise of Savoy was almost unreasonable. It was surely natural that the mother of François should be ambitious for him; nor were her ambitions misplaced; when all was said and done the boy was the heir.

“We should affiance him without delay to our daughter.”

“Claude…to marry that…lout!”

“She is our daughter; we can at least make sure that she is Queen of France.”

“I am determined to have a son.”

“My dearest wife, I could not allow you to endanger your life.”

“It is my duty to bear a son.”

“No, no. Not when we have an heir in François. He is healthy enough to please anyone. The people are already interested in him. He has all the gifts that will appeal most to them. It is our fate and we must accept it.”

“He shall not have my delicate Claude.”

“If he is to be King she could not make a better match.”

“Could she not? I have decided that she shall have the grandson of Maximilian. Little Charles of Castile shall be for our Claude. I should like to see Louise’s face when she hears of that. Claude married to the Archduke Charles; and I to have a son. Where would Monsieur François be then…for all his mother’s ambitions?”

“Have you decided then?” he asked sadly.

“I have decided. François shall not have Claude.”

Louise laughed aloud when she heard.

“Does she think I shall mourn! Does she think I want that poor little insect for Caesar? It would be like mating a donkey with an Arab steed. Let the Archduke have her. Let him be promised to her. It won’t be the first time he has been promised in marriage.”

Yet she was annoyed, because the people would have been pleased by the match. And when a king is not a king’s son it was better that he married the daughter of a king.

Had Louis suggested the match she would have been pleased. She would have told François: “Marry the poor creature. It is your destiny.”

And François would have married her and, because he was François, would have provided France with heirs. She smiled thinking of the beautiful women who would count themselves honored to be his mistresses.

But she snapped her fingers. “Caesar shall have a princess for a bride—she will have beauty as well as rank.”

The King was ill and the news spread throughout the country that he was dying.

Louise was exultant. There would be none between François and the throne. He was not quite twelve years old, so there would have to be a Regency. Her mind was busy. She would impress upon him the need to keep his mother at his side.

She could scarcely contain herself. She paced up and down her room. Once again Jeanne de Polignac implored her to hide her exultation; if it were carried to Court that she had exulted because the King was dying she might be accused of sorcery, or at least treason. Had she thought of the consequences of that? She must not forget that Anne of Brittany was the Queen and her enemy.

“They’ll not dare harm the King’s mother. François loves me as he loves no other. He would not allow it.”

“François is yet a boy.”

“François will be King. Perhaps at this moment he is King. They will cry Le roi est mort, Vive le Roi—and they will mean Vive le Roi François Premier.”

“It is too soon to triumph.”

Louise embraced her good friend. “How wise you are to warn me. But I am so happy I cannot contain my happiness.”

Louise was downcast when the King recovered.

In the streets of Paris the people rejoiced because the “Father of his People” was still with them. But he was very weak, and it seemed that he could not live long.

Louise’s spirits were soon rising again. The King an invalid. The Queen an invalid. It seemed unlikely that they could produce a healthy heir, yet Anne would insist that they go on trying as long as there was life left in them both.

Anne, desperately afraid that she was going to lose her husband, decided that she would go on a pilgrimage to her native Brittany; and she left the King in the care of his physicians.

Louis lay limply in his bed and, when his Queen had been absent for some days, he sent for his old friend, Georges d’Amboise.

“Georges,” he said, “I fear my end is not far off.”

Georges was too wise a man to deny this, because he knew the King would not respect untruthfulness.

“At Amboise Louise of Savoy will be waiting for the moment when that boy of hers will mount the throne. It is coming, Georges, and the Queen and I shall not be able to prevent it. François Premier will follow me.”

“Sire, you are a little better. I had it from your physicians. There may be some time left to you.”

“I may get up from this sick bed, yes. But methinks I shall soon be back in it. I am worried about my daughter. I should like to see her Queen of France.”

“A match with François would be appropriate, Sire.”

“The Queen is against it.”

Georges looked at his master shrewdly. He saw the command in his eyes. It was the old cry of “Let Georges do it.” Georges d’Amboise must find a way in which a match between the heir presumptive to the throne of France and the King’s daughter should be made without delay.

Georges went away and considered the matter. The Queen was in Brittany. The affair should be concluded in her absence. Louis would have to answer to her when she returned and, as he hated to ignore her wishes, if one did not wish to displease the King there must be a very good reason.

Georges went back to his master.

“It is the will of the people,” he said, “that the Princess Claude should be betrothed to François.”

Once again, Georges had done it.

The two enemies watched the ceremony. Anne was sullen, but she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it, because the people of Paris had sent a deputation to the King begging that their Princess be married to their Dauphin.

Louise was not, in truth, displeased, although determined to hide this fact from Anne. But she could not prevent her eyes shining with contentment as they rested on twelve-year-old François, so tall, so handsome, so bright-eyed, every glorious inch of him a Dauphin, and turned to poor sickly seven-year-old Claude who looked as though she would not live long enough to consummate the marriage.

Louis was well pleased. He did not suffer from the same envy as Anne did, and could not help eyeing the boy with satisfaction. It was good that a branch of the royal family could produce a boy so worthy in every way of his destiny.

The King recovered his health in some degree; but his physicians warned him that he must take care. He should eat frugally, always have his meat boiled, and retire early, making sure that he did not tax his strength in any way.

He consulted with Georges d’Amboise and they decided that, now François was the King’s prospective son-in-law as well as his heir, he should be at Court under the eye of the King.

De Gié had disgraced himself when Louis had been dangerously ill by presuming that the King was as good as dead. He had made an effort to seize control, that he might have charge of the young Dauphin and guide him in all matters.

Louis had understood the Maréchal’s action and thought it not unwise in the circumstances. There was always danger to a country when a king died and his successor was a minor. But de Gié had attempted to restrain Anne of Brittany, and for that reason she insisted that he be punished.

Louis had to face his wife’s anger, and that was something he never cared to do. However he did save de Gié from execution, but the Maréchal lost his post and was sent into exile.

This was another reason why François, deprived of his governor, should come to Court.

“It is not fitting,” said Anne, “that wherever the boy is his mother should be. He must learn to stand on his own feet.”

Louis agreed with her; and as a result François was summoned to Chinon where the Court was in residence.

When he had left, Louise was desolate.

“For the first time in our lives we are apart,” she wailed.

Jeanne reminded her that it was because her son was accepted as Dauphin that he must go to Court; and was that not what she wanted more than anything else?

“But how dismal it is without him. There is no joy left in the place.”

François was an immediate success at Court. The King could not help being amused by his high spirits, nor admiring his energy. In addition he was already witty, so that he found friends, not only among the sportsmen, but among those who were interested in ideas.

Although but a boy he was already drawing about him his own little court.

“That is as it should be,” said the tolerant Louis. “As the old King grows more infirm it is natural that men and women should turn to him who will next wear the crown.”

Anne transferred her hatred of the mother to the son.

“Brash! Conceited! Altogether too sure of himself and his future,” was her verdict.

“Louis,” she insisted, “we must get a son.”

The King was weary. He would have preferred to let matters rest; but Anne was indefatigable. She herself was as weak as he was; she had never recovered from the birth of her stillborn son, and had never ceased to look back with great bitterness on that event.

When Anne triumphantly announced that she was pregnant, this news brought little pleasure to anyone but herself. Louis was alarmed, because he was aware of her state of health and wondered whether she would survive another ordeal like the last. He was so much older than she was that he had always believed she would be with him to the end; and the thought of losing her now that he was so infirm depressed him. He wished that she could have accepted François as placidly as he did. As for Louise, she was beside herself with anxiety. She had lulled herself to a sense of security of late, because she had been certain that Anne could not produce a boy. Yet she was capable of becoming pregnant, and Louise recognized in the woman a spirit as indomitable as her own. Such women had a habit of getting their own way; and when two such were fighting each other, Fate could take a hand and give the victory to either.

François himself was now old enough to feel apprehension. Life at Court suited him well. He was the darling of his set; and he accepted their adulation as gracefully as he had accepted that of his mother and sister. Not only had he good looks and charm but he was the Dauphin—the most important man at Court next to the King, and the King was old and ailing.

He had discovered too what he believed from now on would be the greatest of all pleasures: making love to women.

He did not want any change. To be Dauphin at the Court of France was a wonderful life.

One bright day Louise’s anxieties were miraculously swept away. The Queen had given birth to a child who lived, but the child was a girl and little Princess Renée could present no threat to François the Dauphin.

“And this must be the last,” Louise told Jeanne. “She can never manage it again.”

François pursued his way at Court, charming all. Marguerite was now married to the Duc d’Alençon. Poor Marguerite, she was a most reluctant bride; but she had been brought up to do her duty and, although she suffered so intensely that it was feared she might die of melancholy, she went through with the marriage.

François, to whom she confided all things, wept with her, for her sorrows would always be his. She was seventeen, François fifteen; and he was angry with himself because he was powerless to help her.

There was little point, he said, in being Dauphin if one could not have one’s way. He wanted to go out and kill Alençon so that the man could not marry his sister.

Marguerite, who had declared that she would rather be dead than have to live with the man whom they had chosen for her husband, forgot her own grief when she saw how upset her brother was.

“Why, my dearest,” she said, “I would marry ten such men rather than that you should be unhappy on my account. Smile, François. What does it matter whom I marry? I shall love one man until I die, and that is you, my brother.”

They embraced; they kissed; they mingled their tears.

“And you know, Marguerite, my pearl of pearls, I shall never love a woman as I love you.”

“I know it, for we are as one, beloved. We are part of that trinity to which I am honored to belong, while feeling myself unworthy.”

François assured her that she and their mother were the most wonderful of women, and when he was King of France he would do all in his power to make her the happiest woman alive. She should leave her husband; she should come to Court; they would be together always.

Marguerite was comforted. “No world could ever be desolate which contained my beloved brother,” she told him.

The Court was at Blois and François was in love.

He had seen the girl on her way to church; she was demure, keeping her eyes downcast and he had followed her. He did not want her to know that he was Dauphin; he wanted her to love him for himself alone, and he had come to suspect that many of the women at Court showed a preference for him partly because of his rank.

This girl was different. She was not of the Court. He did not know who she was, but he suspected she was the daughter of some not very prominent citizen.

After church he followed her to a house in the town; it was a humble enough dwelling from his viewpoint and he was only the more enchanted by this; it seemed incredible that one so fair and dainty could live in such a place.

For days he watched for the girl. He hung about near the house; and one day when she was going to church he waylaid her as she crossed the churchyard.

“I beg of you,” he said humbly, “stay awhile. I would speak with you.”

She turned and faced him. She was very young, and more beautiful seen closely than from afar. He was filled with happiness because he noticed that her gown, though tastefully made, was of simple material, and very different from the garments worn by Court ladies.

“What have you to say to me?” she asked.

“That you are beautiful and I have long desired to tell you so.”

She sighed. “Well, now ’tis done,” she said, and turned away.

He laid a hand on her arm, but she shook her head. “I know that you are the Dauphin,” she said. “It is not fitting that you should be my friend.”

“How did you know who I am? And I tell you it seems very fitting to me, because I am eager to be your friend.”

“I should always know you,” she replied. “You have changed very little. You don’t remember me though.”

“Pray tell me your name.”

“It is Françoise,” she said.

“Françoise!” He took her by the shoulders and peered into her face. Then he laughed aloud with pleasure. “Little Françoise! Our baby…grown into a beautiful girl…the most beautiful girl in France.”

Françoise lowered her eyes. He thought he had discovered her afresh; but she had seen him many times when he rode with the King or members of the royal party. She had thought him the most handsome, charming creature in the world, and when she had seen the women clustering round him, a great sadness had touched her. She had longed then to be young again—a baby whom he held in his arms. She had felt it was the greatest sadness in her life that he should be the Dauphin of France and she a humble maiden. If he had been a shepherd, or a lackey of the Court, how happy she could have been!

“Look at me, Françoise,” he commanded, and she obeyed. She saw the desire in his eyes, as he took her hands in his and pressed burning kisses on them.

But Françoise was frightened; she withdrew her hands and ran away.

François stood looking after her. He was smiling in a dazed fashion.

He was in love for the first time in his life.

He sought out Marguerite; he was so excited because he had found their little Françoise again.

“Dearest, do you remember our baby?” he cried. “Do you remember little Françoise? I have met her again and she is beautiful…the most beautiful girl in the world, except yourself. I am in love with her.”

Marguerite smiled at him indulgently. “I am glad, beloved, that you are in love. It is so good for you. Lust without love is a poor pastime. And you have found Françoise. I knew that she was here, because one of my servants is married to her sister. She lives with her family in the town. It is rather charming that you should love our baby.”

“Marguerite, tell me what I should do. She was a little afraid of me, I think. I spoke to her in the churchyard and she ran away.”

“Next time do not allow her to run away. Tell her of your feelings. She will be your mistress, and it is good for you to have a mistress. And Françoise is a good girl…a virgin, I promise you. I am delighted that this has happened.”

“You think that she will be my mistress?”

Marguerite laughed aloud. “Any woman in France would be honored to be your mistress.”

“You say that, who love me.”

“Beloved, you have all the gifts. You are young; you are charming, witty, and handsome. And you are the Dauphin of France. My love, you look to me like a king already. No woman would resist you.”

But Françoise, it seemed, was the one woman in France who would not become his mistress.

She avoided him, and again and again he was disappointed. She no longer walked across the churchyard, and it took him some time to discover that she now went to another church. When he had traced her, he told how hurt he was, but to his consternation Françoise implored him to leave her alone.

Disconcerted, he once more consulted Marguerite who herself went to Françoise to find out the real cause of her reluctance.

Françoise broke into bitter weeping when questioned by Marguerite. Indeed she loved François; she had loved him since she was a baby. Through her life she had gathered all the news she could about him. She would always love François.

“And he loves you too. How happy you will be,” said Marguerite.

But Françoise shook her head. “I cannot meet the Dauphin,” she said. “We are too far apart, and I would die rather than commit the sin of becoming a man’s mistress, whoever that man might be.”

Marguerite pointed out that this was folly. It was good to be virtuous, but to be the mistress of a king—and the Dauphin would one day be King—was not a disgrace but an honor.

“Madame,” answered Françoise, “to me it seems a sin whether it be a dauphin or a beggar.”

Marguerite shrugged her shoulders and went back to François.

“The girl adores you,” she told him, “and so she should. She talks of sin. You must have her abducted, seduce her, and then I’ll swear she will forget all about sin and you will both be as happy as you were intended to be.”

François was happy again. He could trust Marguerite to find the solution to all his problems.

They had brought her to him; she was pale and trembling. François was afraid they had hurt her. He had ordered them to be gentle, but she had obviously struggled.

She looked at him, and he felt that he would never be able to forget the reproach in those brown eyes.

“So,” she said, “you have trapped me.”

“But Françoise,” he replied, “it is only because I love you so much.”

She shook her head, and he saw the tears on her lashes.

He went to her then and took her roughly in his arms. She was small and he was so strong. He knew that he could subdue her.

“Now,” he demanded, “are you not happy because they brought you to me?”

“François,” she answered earnestly, “if you harm me, this will be something which your conscience will never let you forget.”

“Oh come, Françoise. You have been brought up too simply. At the Court people make love and do not call it a sin.”

“I know what is in my heart, François.”

“Do you hate me then?”

“I have confessed to your sister that I love you.”

“Why then…”

But she covered her face with her hands.

He put his hand on her breast and felt the tremor run through her body. She stood rigid, and he thought suddenly: But she means it. She calls it sin.

“Françoise,” he said. “Little Françoise, you must not be afraid of me. When we are lovers in truth you will understand that I would not hurt you for the world. Please, Françoise, smile and be happy.”

“I am in your power,” she said, and shivered.

He was angry and an impulse came to him to force her to do his will. Was he not the Dauphin? Had not Marguerite said that any woman would be honored to be his mistress? Any woman…except Françoise, the one he wanted.

He caught at the bodice of her dress. In a second he would have ripped it from her shoulders. But he did not do so. He thought of little Françoise, the helpless baby; she was as helpless now.

He loved her—not as he loved his sister and mother for he would never love any with that deep abiding emotion. But he wanted to protect her, never to hurt her, and he could not bear to see her frightened and to know that he was the cause of her fear.

“Oh Françoise,” he said, “do not tremble. I would not harm you. I love you too well. You shall go to your home now. Have no fear. You will be safe.”

She knelt down suddenly and kissed his hand; her tears were warm and they moved him deeply.

He laid his hand on her hair, and he felt grown up…no longer a boy, but a man.

And although he had lost Françoise, because he knew that to see her again would be to put a temptation in his way which he might not be able to resist, he was happier than he would have been if he had seduced her.

“I shall never forget you, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she said. “I shall never forget you…my King.”

“Nor shall I forget you, Françoise,” he told her.

She left him and, true to his word, he did not see her for some years, although he never forgot her and often made inquiries as to her well-being.

When he told Marguerite what had happened she was as pleased as he was by the outcome and said that he had acted with his usual wisdom. She had believed that Françoise would have been delighted by her seduction; but Françoise, it seemed, was an unusually virtuous girl; and by renouncing her he had acted like the perfect knight he was.

She was proud of her darling, as always.

Christmas at Court lacked its usual gaiety. There had been a humiliating skirmish with the English and, although the French had not taken the boastful Henry VIII and his army seriously, the result had been the Battle of the Spurs, and the border towns of Thérouanne and Tournay had been lost. The King of England had taken a few prisoners, among them the Duc de Longueville. It was rather depressing, particularly as Louis was in great pain with his gout, and his Queen was in an even more sorry state.

Anne had suffered a great deal since her confinements, and the fact that they had brought her but two girls made her very melancholy. She now had to accept the fact that she could not prevent Louise’s boy ascending the throne, and when she recalled that he was betrothed to her own Claude she was apprehensive.

“What sort of life will our delicate child have with him?” she demanded of Louis. “Already one hears constant talk of his conquests. And he affianced to the daughter of the King! My poor Claude! I fear for her. Would that I had my way and she had married the Archduke Charles who is, by all accounts, a gentle person. But this François has too much energy. He is too lusty. He is horribly spoiled. And this is the Dauphin! This is the husband-to-be of my poor Claude!”

Louis tried to soothe her. “He is a fascinating young fellow. Claude will be the envy of all the women. He’ll be a good husband.”

“A good and faithful husband,” said Anne sardonically.

“He’s too young for fidelity, but when he mellows he’ll be a good King, never fear.”

“But I do fear,” insisted Anne. “I fear for my delicate daughter.”

She persisted in her melancholy; and since the King retired to bed early and could eat nothing but boiled meat, it fell to the lot of the Dauphin to make a merry Christmas.

This he did with little effort, and already men and women of the Court were beginning to look forward to the day when the King of France would be young François Premier instead of old Louis the Twelfth.

Shortly after the New Year the Queen took to her bed; she suffered great pain and Louis, summoning the best physicians to her bedside, found that instead she needed the priests.

When, on a cold January day, Anne of Brittany died, Louis was distraught. He had been in awe of her; there had been times when he had had to resort to subterfuge in order to go against her wishes; but he had loved her and respected her. She had been such a contrast to poor Jeanne, his first wife; and because, when he had married her he had been past his youth and in far from good health, he had counted himself fortunate, in an age of profligacy, to have a faithful wife on whose honor he could absolutely rely.

He wept bitterly at her bedside.

“Soon,” he said, “I shall be lying beside her in the tomb.”

But the bereaved husband was still the King of France. He sent for his ministers. “The marriage of my daughter to the Dauphin must take place without delay,” he said. “Even the fact that we are in mourning for the Queen must not delay that. I do not think I am long for this world; I must see my daughter married before I leave it.”

So François was to prepare himself for marriage, and Louise, hearing the news, made ready to join her son.

“Ah, Jeanne,” she cried, “what happiness! My enemy is no more and I have heard that, by the looks of the King, he will not be long in following her. Then the glorious day will be with us. Caesar will come into his own.”

Even Jeanne de Polignac believed now that no more obstacles could stand in their way.

The two women embraced. Anne of Brittany could no longer produce an heir. The way to the throne was wide open and no one stood in the way of François.

Louise laughed in her glee. “All these years I have feared and suffered such agonies! Why, Jeanne, I need never have worried. All her efforts came to naught; and now my beloved is at Court and no one dares dispute his claim. How long has Louis left, do you think? I hear that the death of Anne upset him so much that he had to keep to his bed for a week. Well, Louis has had his day.”

They were joyful as they prepared to go to Court.

“But,” Jeanne warned her friend, “be careful not to show your elation. Remember we are supposed to be mourning for the Queen.”

“Louis knows too well how matters stood between us to expect much mourning from me. Louis is no fool, Jeanne.”

“Still, for the sake of appearances…”

“I will play my part. What care I? All our anxieties are over. The crown is safe for Caesar.”

François stood beside his bride, and all who had gathered to witness this royal marriage were struck by the contrast between them. François, tall, glowing with health, handsome and upright. Poor little Claude, who dragged one foot slightly as she walked, who was short, and now that she was in her adolescence beginning to be over-fat in an unhealthy way. François was gay; Claude, who had been brought up by her mother, was deeply religious. An incongruous marriage in some ways; but in others so suitable. It was understandable that the King, seeing another man’s son ready to take his crown, should want his daughter to share it.

François played his part well, and if he regarded his bride with repugnance, none noticed it; he smiled at her, took her hand, did all that was required of him as though he believed her to be the most beautiful lady in the land.

Claude adored him; and it was pathetic to note the way her eyes followed him.

All who had gathered in those apartments at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for the Royal wedding wondered what the future would hold for those two. Would Claude be able to give France heirs? There was no doubt that François would; but it took two to make a child.

There was an atmosphere of foreboding in that chamber hung with cloth of gold and silver, with the golden lilies of France prominently displayed. But then the Court was still in mourning—and the bride particularly—for the recently dead Queen.

Louis felt a great relief once the marriage ceremony was over; and much as he mourned Anne he found life more restful without her. He was living very quietly and was discovering that he felt better than he had for some time.

The Dauphin was becoming more and more important at the Court. Often Louis from a window would watch the young man with his companions. Claude was never one of them. François was showing a certain ostentation. For so many years he had lived in the shadow of doubt and now that it was removed he had become almost hilariously gay, which was scarcely becoming while the King still lived. He was most elegantly attired and wore many jewels.

On trust? Louis wondered. Is he borrowing against the time when he inherits what I have? Who would not be ready to let the future King have all the credit he asked for?

Louis liked his heir’s robust looks but he would have preferred him to be less high-spirited, less gorgeously attired, less obviously enjoying his position, more serious.

He thought of all the benefits he had brought to France, and he said to his ministers: “It may be that we have labored in vain. That big boy will spoil everything for us.”

His ministers replied: “Sire, he may not come to the throne yet, for you might marry again. And if your bride were young and healthy, why should you not give France an heir?”

Louis was thoughtful. He had been receiving information from his kinsman, the Duc de Longueville, whom Henry VIII had taken as a prisoner into England. The King had a sister—a vivacious and lovely girl. If France made an alliance with England, why should there not be a marriage between the two countries? Circumstances were auspicious. The King of France had become a widower; the King of England had a marriageable sister. Moreover, Henry of England was disgusted with the Emperor, to whose grandson his sister had been betrothed for years. Henry was hot tempered; he was young enough to enjoy acting rashly. He wanted now to show the Emperor and Ferdinand of Aragon that he was snapping his fingers at their grandson. Nothing could do that more effectively than a French alliance.

The more Louis thought of the idea, the more he liked it. A young girl, and an exceptionally beautiful one. If she were malleable—and she should be, for she was so young—he could perhaps delude himself that he was young again…for the time that was left to him.

The thought of having a son was exhilarating.

Louis rose from his bed and called for a mirror.

I am not so old that I am finished with life, he told himself.

He thought of his first wife, Jeanne—poor crippled ugly Jeanne! What sort of a marriage had that been? And Anne? He had loved Anne, admired her greatly and had been desolate when she died. But she had been a dominating woman. Why should he not start afresh with this gay young foreign girl? That would be an entirely different sort of marriage.

Besides, it was politically wise.

He called his ministers and his secretaries, and in a few days a message was dispatched to the Court of England.

Louise was in despair; Marguerite was horrified; as for François, for once he was completely bewildered.

The future was no longer secure. The King, who had appeared to be on his deathbed, had now revived; he was almost young in his enthusiasm for a new marriage. And a young girl was coming from England to share the throne with him.

Louise, tight-lipped, white-faced, shut herself in her apartments with Jeanne de Polignac because she dared not risk betraying her feelings outside those walls.

“So it is to begin again. And I thought it was over. Louis…to marry again, and this young girl who, by all accounts is strong and marriageable! Jeanne, if aught should go wrong now…”

Jeanne once more tried to soothe her as she had over the last twenty years. But it was not easy. Louis was fifty-two, still able to beget children; and a young girl was coming from England.

François was aware of the sympathy of his friends; the certainty had become a grave doubt. If he should fail to reach the throne now it would be the greatest tragedy of his life, and how near he was to that tragedy!

The King was looking younger every day; and a few months previously people were prophesying that he would be dead before the year was out.

Fate was cruel. To hold out the glittering prize so close and, when he felt his fingers touching it, to snatch it away!

“He’ll never get a son,” said François vehemently.

And how he wished he could believe it!

Louis was sending gifts to the Court of England every day. He could scarcely wait to see his bride. He was like a young man again as he listened delightedly to reports of the young woman’s charm and beauty.

The treaties were signed; a marriage ceremony had taken place at Greenwich with the Duc de Longueville acting as proxy for Louis; and the Earl of Worcester had arrived in France that a marriage by proxy should take place there. This had been celebrated in the Church of the Celestines and, although the Earl of Worcester spoke the bridal vows for Mary, Louis looked almost like a young bridegroom as he made his responses.

Marguerite, only less distracted than her mother because of her natural serenity, whispered that the bride had yet to cross the Channel. That stormy strip of water could present many hazards.

How they clutched at fragile hopes! Suppose her fleet was wrecked. Suppose she perished in a gale.

“It would kill Louis,” said Louise, her eyes glistening with hope.

But in spite of bad weather Mary reached Boulogne, and the King had had new clothes made, less somber than he usually wore. All who saw him declared that he looked younger than he had for many years.

He summoned François to his presence.

“It is fitting,” he said, “that my bride, the Queen of France, should be greeted by the highest in the land. I have already sent off Vendôme and de la Tremouille. Aleçon will be following. But you, François, must be the one who brings my bride to me.”

Thus it was that François rode off to Abbeville to greet Mary Tudor.

The French SCENE II

The Unwilling Bride

DRESSED IN A GOWN of white cloth of silver, her coif set with jewels, the Queen of France rode toward Abbeville. She sat on her white palfrey, which was magnificently caparisoned, looking like a figure from some fairy legend, and Lady Guildford, who had looked after her since her babyhood, thought she seemed like a different person from that gay, laughing girl whom she had known at the English Court. Mary Tudor had become a tragedienne in the drama which was going on around them; yet the change of role had not detracted from her beauty.

Such glittering magnificence to be the background for such sorrow! thought Lady Guildford. But she will get over it. Would she? Was that not rather a glib solution inspired by hope?

Had there ever been a young woman as single-minded as Mary Tudor? And had she not for years decided that the only man she could happily accept as her husband was Charles Brandon?

Her ladies—there were thirty of them—presented a contrast to their mistress. They were looking forward eagerly to life at the Court of France. Pretty creatures in their crimson velvet and jewels—ay and merry, a colorful foil for the white-clad Queen.

Several hundred English horsemen and archers rode on ahead of them, for although they came in friendship, Henry had declared that it was well to let the French know the mettle of English warriors. Following these were English noblemen, and side by side with them rode Frenchmen of similar rank. A pleasant sight for the people who had come out to watch the cavalcade and were more accustomed to seeing men march to war.

Lady Guildford felt a little uneasy when the young man on his spirited charger drew in close to Mary’s palfrey. This man had made her uneasy from the moment she had set eyes on him. One could not deny his undoubted attractions. He sat his horse as though he were part of it; and it was splendid enough to be. He was elegantly dressed; his was the type of face that impressed itself on the memory; it might have been the alert, humorous eyes, or that extremely long nose, which for some reason added to his charm.

What was going on behind that elegant and quite fascinating exterior? What could be going on in the mind of a man who must be ambitious, who had believed himself to be within a step of the throne and now saw, in the person of this exquisite, though somewhat melancholy girl, the frustration of all his hopes?

He must hate her.

If he did, he certainly managed to disguise his feelings; his dark eyes caressed her in a manner which, according to Lady Guildford, was most unseemly. He was reckless; that much was obvious. It would be interesting to see how far he dared go when the King arrived on the scene.

François, holding his horse in check, smiled at Mary.

“I could not resist the pleasure of riding beside you.”

“How good you are to me!”

“I would I had an opportunity to show you how good I could be to you.”

“I have been learning to speak the French language and to understand the ways of the French,” Mary replied with meaning.

She saw the smile curve his lips. He knew she was telling him that she was prepared for extravagant compliments and would give them only the attention they deserved.

“I will tell you a secret,” he said. “Since I heard we were to have an English Princess for our Queen I have been thinking a great deal about the English.”

“Then we do not meet as strangers,” she replied.

“That makes me happy. I should be desolate if I were anything but a dear friend to one who is surely the loveliest lady in the world.”

“You have traveled throughout the world?”

“One does not need to travel to recognize perfection.”

“Nor to flatter, it seems.”

“Madame la Reine, it would be impossible to flatter you, for if you were addressed in what appeared to be the limit of hyperbole, it would still not exaggerate your charms.”

Mary laughed for the first time since she had arrived in France.

“It is well that I am prepared,” she said. “Tell me, when shall I meet the King?”

“It has been planned that you shall do so in his town of Abbeville, but I’ll swear he will be too impatient to wait for you to arrive. Do you know, it would not surprise me if suddenly we saw a group of horsemen riding toward us, headed by an impatient bridegroom who could no longer wait for a glimpse of his bride.”

“If you should see such a party, I pray you give me warning.”

“You would not need it. You would hear the people cheering themselves hoarse for the Father of his People.”

“The King is well loved in France?”

“Well loved he is,” said François. “He has had a great many years in which to win his people’s affection.”

She looked at him sharply. His tone was bitter. Small wonder. He was certainly an ambitious man. Holy Mother, thought Mary, how he must hate me when my very presence here threatens his hopes.

To be hated by such a man would be stimulating; and for all his flattering talk he must hate her.

It was strange that contemplating his feelings for her made her feel more interested in life than she had since she had known she could not escape this French marriage.

At least, she thought, I should be thankful to him for adding a little zest to my melancholy existence.

François was not hating her; far from it. He was too gallant to hate a woman who was so beautiful; and she had spirit too; he sensed that; and she was far from happy at the prospect of marriage with old Louis. That was not surprising. How different it would have been had she arrived in France to marry another king. A king of her own age! What an ironic fate which had given this lovely, vital girl to sickly old Louis, and himself the weakling Claude.

What a pair we should have made! thought François. Life was a mischievous old sprite who loved to taunt and tease.

He continued to talk to her, telling her about the manners and customs of the French Court, asking her questions about those of England. His gaiety was infectious, and Lady Guildford was a little disturbed to hear Mary laughing again. She had wanted to hear that sound, but that it should be inspired by this dangerous young man could be significant. Not that Mary would be affected by his charm. There was some good coming out of her devotion to Charles Brandon. She would be faithful to her love for him, which meant that no Frenchman, however charming, however gallant, would be able to wean her from her duty to the King.

François, sensing her underlying melancholy, had managed to infuse the same quality into his own demeanor. He was implying that although it gave him the utmost pleasure to be in her company he could not forget that she was the bride of another man.

Lady Guildford made up her mind that at the first opportunity she must warn Mary that the French had a way of implying that their emotions were deeply engaged, when they were only mildly so.

The party was within two kilometers of Abbeville when, as François had prophesied, a party of horsemen came galloping toward them.

Mary felt her body numb with apprehension, for she knew that the moment had come when she was to be brought face-to-face with her husband.

“The King!” She heard the cry about her, and the horses were immediately brought to a standstill while Louis rode ahead of his friends and came to his bride.

Fearfully she shot her first quick glance and discovered a face that was not unkindly although its eagerness at this moment alarmed her. The eyes were too prominent, the lips thick and dry; and she noticed with repulsion the swollen neck.

She prayed silently for courage, coupled with the ability to hide her feelings, and prepared to dismount that she might kneel before the King of France.

“No, no,” he cried, “it is I who should do homage to so much beauty.” He left his horse and came to her side, walking rather stiffly. The Dauphin had dismounted and was standing at attention; and Mary knew that the young man was watching them, aware of every emotion which showed itself in their faces.

“God help me,” prayed Mary. “Do not let me betray my feelings.”

The King had taken her hand in his; she felt his kisses on her skin and steeled herself not to shrink. Now those prominent eyes were studying her face beneath the coif of jewels, her young yet voluptuous figure in the cloth of silver.

“So young,” murmured Louis. “So beautiful. They did not lie to me then.”

He seemed to sense the fear in her, for he pressed her hand firmly and said: “Be at peace, my little bride. There is nothing to fear, you know.”

“I know, Sire.”

“The people are lining the road between here and Abbeville,” he told her, “so eager are they to see their Queen.”

“The people have been kind,” she answered, “since I set foot in France.”

“Who could be anything else to one so lovely?” The King seemed to be suddenly aware of François. “And the Duc de Valois, I trust, looks after you in my name?”

“None could have cared more for my comfort.”

For a moment Louis turned his eyes on that tall, elegant figure, and he felt that he would willingly have given half his kingdom if he could have borrowed his youth and vigor. It was only now, when he was face-to-face with this beautiful girl, that he longed so desperately for his youth. And François, standing there, too sly, too clever, might well interpret his thoughts.

“That is well,” said Louis briskly. “I left Abbeville this day, telling my friends that I wanted to hunt. That was not true. My intention was to catch a glimpse of my bride, so great was my impatience. So I rode this way. But this is an informal meeting and I am going to leave you now because, when you ride on your way, I do not want my people to think they must cheer the King. I want their cheers to be for you alone.”

“You are so kind to me,” she murmured.

“Know that it shall be my chief task in the future to look to your comfort and pleasure.”

He mounted, then took off his hat and bowed his head; he seemed loth to turn away because that would mean taking his eyes from her.

The King and his horsemen rode off with a clatter of hooves; the Dauphin had leaped in the saddle and the cavalcade was ready to go forward.

“The King is enchanted,” murmured François, “as he could not fail to be.”

Mary was silent; her limbs were trembling so much that she feared it would be noticeable. She wanted to cry out: How much happier I should be if he had shown me indifference.

She could not forget those prominent eyes alight with desire for her. How far off was the marriage ceremony with the shadow of the nuptial bed hanging over it? One day? Two days? Could some miracle happen to save her even now?

In that moment she could almost wish that she had gone to Flanders, because she had heard that Charles was rather a simple-minded boy, a boy whom she might have been able to command; he would have been shy and inexperienced. But this old man who was her husband would never be shy; he was far from inexperienced; and his intentions regarding her had been apparent in his looks and gestures; even in that short time they had been together.

He looked ill. What was the swelling at his neck? She shivered. When he had ridden up he had not looked as though he were near death, decrepit and diseased as he was. Holy Mother, she thought, he could live for years. Years with those dry hot hands making free with her body…years of longing for the handsome virility of Charles.

She wanted to cry out her defiance; and she believed that she was saved from doing so by the sight of that tall figure beside her, whose alert eyes missed little and who, she was sure, knew exactly how she was feeling now. What was it he was attempting to offer? Commiseration? Consolation?

The town of Abbeville lay ahead. Mary felt exhausted, not with the physical exertion of the ride but with mental agitation.

The Dauphin was still talking; he did not wait for her answers; it was as though he understood her feelings perfectly—and was telling her: I chatter merely to give those about us the impression that all is well with you.

He explained how the King was waiting for her in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse which would be his residence during his stay in that town. The people of Abbeville were so honored that the official meeting between the King and his bride should take place in their town that they had decorated the streets and were preparing to show her their pleasure in the union.

“You have ridden far,” he said tenderly, “and this has been a great ordeal for you. Would you care to enter the town in your litter?”

Mary was grateful for the suggestion. In the litter she would feel less exposed; and it was true that she was tired.

“I will ride beside the litter,” François told her with a smile. “So you will not have lost your…protector.”

“Why, Monsieur le Dauphin,” she replied, “the people of France have shown me such courtesy that I do not feel in need of a protector.”

He grimaced in a manner which was charming. “I pray you do not rob me of my role for I have rarely found one more to my taste.”

He turned away to call a halt, when the litter was brought forward and Mary entered it. She made a charming picture sitting there, for the litter was a thing of beauty, being covered with cloth of gold on which was embroidered the golden lilies.

“We must have it open,” François pointed out. “The people will want to see their Queen.”

So, riding in the open litter, Mary came into Abbeville, and when those watching from the city walls witnessed the approach of the party, the order was given for a hundred trumpets and clarions to sound, that their joyous greeting might fill the air. But to Mary they sounded like the notes of doom.

She saw the excited people who called out to her that she was beautiful. Long life to her, the Queen of France. She looked so young sitting there, the cloth of silver falling gracefully about her, her golden hair showing under the jeweled coif. She was more than a beautiful Queen. Recently there had been war with her people; but that was done with, and this lovely young girl was a symbol of the peaceful days ahead.

Through the triumphal arches they went, Mary turning this way and that to acknowledge the greetings, to express wonder at the tableau which the people of Abbeville had erected for her pleasure.

At last they came to the Church of St. Wulfran, where the Queen was helped from her litter that she might be led to the altar in order to adore the host.

She lingered; there was panic within her which forced her to make everything that preceded her meeting with the King to last as long as she could make it.

François was close.

“The King will be impatient,” he whispered. “He is awaiting your coming at the Hôtel de la Gruthuse.”

She nodded pathetically and allowed herself to be led back to her litter, and the journey continued.

The Duke of Norfolk had now taken the place of the Dauphin; he it was whose duty it was to lead her to the King and make the formal introduction. Mary did not like Norfolk because she believed he was no friend of Charles’s. He was a man who was so proud of his rank that he resented it when other men were lifted up to be set on an equal footing with him. He was Norfolk. Why should a man who had nothing—except a handsome face and skill in sport—be given honors so that he could stand as an equal against men who had been born to dignity? Moreover he knew that the Princess Mary had fancied Suffolk, and he believed the fellow had entertained a secret hope that he might marry her. It gave Norfolk grim pleasure that both the Princess and Suffolk had been robbed of that satisfaction.

He would conduct this girl, who had so far forgotten the dignity of her position, to the King of France with the utmost pleasure.

Mary was aware of his sentiments and she felt more desolate than ever. She must face the truth that no one or no thing could save her from her imminent marriage.

Into the great reception hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse Norfolk led the Princess to the King who was waiting to receive her.

With Louis were the highest ranking nobles of France, the Dauphin prominent among them.

Louis embraced his bride and welcomed her to France. He wanted her to know that all those assembled wished to pay her the homage due to her.

He then presented the Dukes of Alençon, Albany and Longueville, with, among others, the Prince of Naples and de la Roche-sur-Ion.

The next stage of the ceremony was a banquet followed by a ball. Louis kept his bride beside him during the former, and when the dancing began he said that he knew she was longing to dance and he was eager to see her do so. It was a matter of chagrin that he himself was unable to do more than open the ball with her and dance a few steps. François was hovering, ready to do his duty as Dauphin; and Louis sadly watched the young pair dancing together. They were a little apart from the others—the most distinguished pair in the ballroom. Never had François looked so kingly; never had Louis felt so envious of the one whom he had come to think of as the Big Boy.

When the ball was over, Mary was taken to the apartment which had been prepared for her; and as, until she had actually undergone the ceremony, it was deemed unfitting that she should sleep under the same roof as the King, she was conducted along a gallery—erected for this purpose—to a house which had been made ready for her and which was on the corner of the street leading to the Rue St. Gilles.

Here Lady Guildford helped her to disrobe. When the jeweled coif was taken from her head, she shook her golden curls about her shoulders, and the robe of cloth of silver fell at her feet; she looked so young and desolate that Lady Guildford had to turn away to hide her emotion.

“So it is to be tomorrow,” said Mary.

“You did not think it could be very long delayed?”

“But tomorrow…it seems so near! Oh, Guildford, what can happen between now and tomorrow?”

“You can get a good night’s sleep, which is what you will need. You will be exhausted if you do not. You cannot hide anything from me, you know; and you have been sleeping badly since this journey began.”

“I want to feel exhausted. I want to be so tired that when I lie down I shall sleep. You see, then I do not have to lie and think.”

“All this honor for you and yet…”

“And yet I am not satisfied. No, I am not. I am most dissatisfied, Guildford. How much do all these jewels cost…all this feasting…all these ceremonies? They are extravagant, are they not? And they are all to honor me, perforce to give me pleasure. Yet how happy I could have been with none of them. What I asked would have cost them so little. Guildford, it makes me laugh.”

“No, no, my dearest. Be calm. We are here, and tomorrow you will marry the King. He seemed to be so kindly, and he loves you already.”

“He loves this face, this body, because it is young and he is old. Yet what does he know of me, Guildford? If he could look into my heart he would hate me, for I…”

Lady Guildford had put her hand over Mary’s lips.

“Hush! You do not know who listens.”

Mary laughed bitterly. “I am guilty of treason,” she whispered. “Treason to the King of France. What then? Shall I be thrown into a dungeon? Let it be. I’d as lief find myself in one of his dungeons as in his bed.”

She covered her face with her hands.

“Oh Guildford, I had hoped…I had never thought it would come to this. How can I bear it? You understand, do you not? There is Charles in England, you see, and here am I in France.”

“Others have borne it before you, my dearest.”

“Others have not loved Charles. If I had never seen him, if I had never known him…then perhaps it would have been easier to face this. But I have seen him. I love him, Guildford, and tomorrow night…”

“Hush, my lady. Hush!”

“Hush! Hush!” cried Mary. “That is all you can say? How can I expect comfort from you! What do you know of love? If you understood, you would find some way of helping me. I hate everyone and everything that keeps me from Charles. I should be going to him tomorrow. Do you not understand? Are you so blind, so deaf, so stupid, that you cannot comprehend one little bit of what it means to love as I love him…and to be given to this old man?”

“Come to bed. You need your strength for the morrow.”

“My strength.” She was laughing again, wildly, alarmingly. “I need my strength to face…that. You are right, Guildford.”

“Come, say your prayers. You should be asleep by now.”

“I’ll say my prayers, Guildford. And do you know for what I pray? I pray for a miracle which will prevent my having to go through that ceremony tomorrow, or when I have gone through it, will prevent my being with him through the night. That is what I shall pray for, Guildford. Now you are looking shocked…frightened too. I am weary of pretense and subterfuge. Guildford, you fool, do not pretend you do not know what I pray for is to be made a widow.”

It was Lady Guildford’s turn to cover her face with her hands, to stop up her ears, suddenly to run to the door to make sure none lurked outside, to ask herself in desperation if ever a woman had undertaken such a delicate and dangerous task as conducting this Princess to her husband.

Her terror sobered Mary.

“Be still, Guildford,” she said; “it would seem it is I who must care for you. Come, help me to my bed. I am fainting with weariness.”

“It is for this reason that you talk so wildly. You are overwrought. It has been such a long day.”

“Stop talking nonsense. I am not weary of the saddle, or the litter. I am weary of my fate. That is very different, Guildford. It is not physical weariness that exhausts me. I love and I hate and so fiercely do I both love and hate that I am weary. Come to bed.”

“And to sleep, my love.”

She lay in the bed, and Lady Guildford drew the coverlet over her. She herself would sleep in the same chamber. She was glad that she had dismissed the other attendants; it would have been dangerous for any of them to have witnessed such a scene. Fortunately she, who knew her Princess so well, had seen that coming; that was why she had dismissed them.

Poor sad little Princess—jewels without price were hers; lavish entertainments had been devised in her honor; few could have been fêted as she was; but few could have been more unhappy than she was that night. Yet a simple ceremony in an English church, with no jewels, no brilliant company, no crown, could have made her the happiest woman in the world, providing the right man had shared that ceremony with her.

But she asks the impossible, mused Lady Guildford, which was characteristic of her. She knew that Mary had gone on believing—in the face of circumstances—that this marriage would not take place; that a miracle would happen and that the man who stood beside her and spoke his marriage vows would be Charles Brandon.

Mary had preserved a childlike faith in her destiny; she knew what she wanted; and Lady Guildford was aware that when she achieved it she would be content. But how could she achieve the impossible? How could a royal Princess hope to marry the man of her choice when he was not of royal blood?

And because Mary had believed it possible, because she was capable of enjoying great happiness and knew so unswervingly what she wanted, tomorrow’s wedding would be all the more tragic.

Lady Guildford lay in her bed at the foot of the Princess’s, thinking of these things.

And when she rose to take a look at her charge who lay very still, she saw that she was asleep and that there was a solitary tear on her cheek.

Poor sad little Princess, thought Lady Guildford, so tragically sad, on this night before her wedding.

She was composed on the morrow. She had awakened to the melancholy knowledge that no miracle could happen now; and because she was a princess she must do her duty.

Lady Guildford was greatly relieved by her demeanor; she had had alarming dreams during the night that the Princess stubbornly refused to go through with the ceremony. Now here was the girl, subdued but resigned; and so young and lovely that sorrow had not set its mark on her; it merely seemed to change her personality, and as the King of France had never seen the gay young girl who had lived at her brother’s Court he would not marvel at the difference in this quiet young beauty who was preparing to take her vows with him.

In spite of her sadness, rarely had Mary looked as beautiful as she did in her wedding gown, which was cut in the French fashion and made of cloth of gold edged with ermine. Diamonds had been chosen to decorate it and she seemed ablaze with their fire and sparkle. Her long golden curls had been released from restriction and hung about her shoulders reaching past her waist, and on her head was a coronet made entirely of jewels.

Her attendants who clustered around her, themselves splendidly clad, could not take their eyes from her. Only Mary herself, when she was implored to look at her reflection, did so with blank indifference.

“The time has come,” said Lady Guildford apprehensively, scarcely daring to look at Mary lest she saw the resentment flaring up again.

But Mary only said quietly: “Then we should go.”

From her apartments she walked to the temporary gallery where her white palfrey was waiting for her; and with it were the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquis of Dorset.

She mounted the palfrey and Norfolk and Dorset walked, one on each side of her, as she rode along the gallery to the door of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse. There she dismounted and was led into the hôtel by the two English noblemen.

The ceremony was to take place in the great hall of the Hôtel de la Gruthuse, an impressive chamber made even more so for this occasion. Tapestries had been hung on the walls and the hangings were of cloth of gold; costly furniture had been brought in for the ceremony; and there was a lovely light which came from the colored windows on which were depicted the exploits of the town’s patron saint, Wulfran.

Slowly Mary made her way across the mosaic floor to where Louis awaited her. He looked well; there was a faint color in his face which was unusual with him, and her first thought was: He will live for years.

Then she was ashamed of the thought, for he was smiling so kindly and she was aware that he had great tenderness for her.

The Cardinal de Brie was waiting to perform the ceremony and two brilliantly attired French nobles advanced with the royal canopy, which they proceeded to hold over Louis and his bride. One of these was the Duc d’Alençon, and the other was François the Dauphin.

The vows were made, Louis had put the nuptial ring on her finger and the nuptial kiss on her lips. She was now his wife and Queen of France.

It was time to celebrate Mass and make their offering, but the King and Queen could not do this last in person; and it was the duty of the first nobleman of the land and the first lady—next to the King and Mary—to perform this on their behalf.

François made the King’s offering. Mary watched him on his knees, and she felt a faint pleasure that he was there because he seemed like a friend. Then her attention was drawn to the lady who made the offering on her behalf—a pale woman, who limped a little and appeared to be slightly deformed. Surely not the Dauphin’s wife! The woman rose, in somewhat ungainly fashion, and as she did so she looked at the new Queen of France. It was not exactly hatred that Mary saw in that face; it was too mild for that. Was it resentment?

Doubtless, thought Mary, married to that gay young man she has cause to be resentful. It is unlikely that he is a faithful husband. But that was no reason why she should resent Mary.

Mary had too many anxieties of her own to consider for very long those of Claude, Princess of France and wife of the Dauphin.

The sounds of trumpets rang through the halls of Hôtel de la Gruthuse. The solemnity was over; and the King was now ready to lead his bride to the banquet.

He took her hand gently, almost as though he believed she was a precious piece of porcelain that would break with rough handling. Seated beside him at the center table she partook very moderately of the food which was offered, and the King was concerned about her lack of appetite.

It was clear to all those present that the King was delighted with his bride. They had not for years seen him looking so young or so full of vigor.

There was the long day to live through, for the marriage had been performed at nine in the morning; and in accordance with the etiquette of France Mary retired after the banquet to apartments which had been prepared for her personal use, and there she entertained the Princesses of France, and ladies of the nobility.

Now she had an opportunity of making closer acquaintance with Claude and her young sister, Renée. The latter was pleasant enough and inclined to be excited by all the pageantry which had taken place; but the melancholy of Claude, which held a hint of reproach, was disturbing.

“It is my Father’s command,” Claude told her, “that I discover your needs and supply them.”

“There is nothing I need ask for,” Mary replied, “though I thank you.”

And in that moment Mary forgot her own troubles because she was suddenly overwhelmed with pity for this poor, plain girl, who was married to that extremely attractive young man.

She smiled, wanting to show this girl that she was ready to be friendly with her, and laying a hand on her arm said: “I am your mother now. It may be that we can be friends.”

Claude drew back as though she had been struck. “My mother is dead. It is not a year since they laid her in her tomb. No one else could ever take her place.”

She limped away, ugly color in her face and neck.

Someone else was at Mary’s side—a very beautiful, composed young woman a few years older than herself.

“Madame Claude still mourns her mother,” said the newcomer in a low and charming voice. “I also have tried to comfort her. At this stage it is useless.”

“They were devoted to one another?”

“They were. And the Princess is so like her mother in many ways. Queen Anne thought it was sinful to enjoy life, and brought her daughter up to think the same. A sad philosophy, do you not think so, Madame; and an unwise one?”

“I agree.”

“I knew you would. My brother has already told me of your conversations during the journey from Abbeville.”

“Your brother?”

“The Dauphin, Madame. I am Marguerite de Valois, Duchesse d’Alençon. You will remember my brother.”

Mary smiled. “Having met him I could never forget him.”

“There is no one like him at the Court…nor anywhere in the world, I am sure. François is unique.”

“I can see that you are proud of him.”

“Can you marvel at that? Madame, may I present you to my mother?”

Mary was looking into a pair of lively blue eyes, and meeting the intent gaze of a short but vivacious woman.

“The Comtesse d’Angoulême,” Marguerite explained.

“I pray you rise,” said Mary warmly. “It gives me great pleasure to greet you. I have already made the acquaintance of your son, the Dauphin, and now Madame la Duchesse d’Alençon.”

“We are honored by your notice,” Louise replied, and her bright smile belied her inner feelings. She felt sick with apprehension. This girl was beautiful beyond the glowing reports she had heard. If ever a woman could have an aphrodisiacal effect on Louis’s flagging desires it must be this one. Perfectly formed in every way, healthy, and with a look about her which suggested she would be fertile. At least that was how it seemed to Louise’s imagination.

She had seen her from a distance at the wedding ceremony, and of course she had looked exquisite. But who wouldn’t, Louise had asked herself, covered in diamonds and cloth of gold? Even Claude had looked tolerably handsome on her wedding day. But seen close at hand, that fine glowing skin which proclaimed good health, those clear eyes, added to her anxiety.

Marguerite, being fully aware of her mother’s chagrin, told her that the Queen had been enlivened with the company of François during her journey and Louise’s smile illuminated her face as she said: “He is at the right hand of the King. So occupied that his mother sees little of him nowadays. Not that I do not hear his name constantly mentioned. Who can be surprised at that?”

“I am sure,” said Mary, “that he is successful in all he undertakes.”

Other ladies were waiting to be presented to the Queen, and Marguerite and her mother moved away.

Keeping her hand on her mother’s elbow Marguerite piloted Louise out of the main salon into a small room. There she shut the door and said: “Maman, I fear you may betray your feelings.”

“That girl!” said Louise.

Marguerite looked over her shoulder significantly.

“That girl!” whispered Louise. “She is so young…and she’s beautiful too. They say Louis can scarce wait for the night and the blessing of the nuptial bed. How can you look so calm, Marguerite, when this very night our hopes may be blighted.”

“Louis is old, Maman.”

“He has taken a new lease on life.”

“It only appears so. The flush on his cheeks is not good health but excitement.” Marguerite took her mother by the shoulder, drew her close and whispered in her ear: “And excitement could be harmful to him.”

“He could die tonight…and the damage could already be done.”

“Dearest Maman, we have to be careful, not only of our words but our looks. Infatuated as Louis is becoming, he could be very susceptible to our slightest mood.”

“Oh, Marguerite,” sighed Louise, “you who have suffered so much with me must understand my feelings this night.”

“I understand absolutely, Maman, and my feelings are yours. We must pray and hope…”

“And watch. Watch the girl, Marguerite, and see that, when we cannot do so, those whom we can trust carry out our wishes. An alarming thought has occurred to me.”

“Yes, Maman?”

“Louis, as you suggest, may be incapable of getting her with child…”

Marguerite’s eyes were full of warning.

Louise hissed: “She is very desirable, that girl. She seems full of dignity but there is a smoldering fire within her.”

“I noticed it,” said Marguerite.

“So if Louis should fail, there might be others to…to…”

Marguerite closed her eyes; there was an expression of fear in her face, and Louise’s own fears were but increased to know that Marguerite shared them.

The King might be too old to provide the heir to France; but what if the young Queen took a lover, and what if he were young enough…virile enough…? A bastard could inherit the throne, and none be sure that he was a bastard. A bastard to appear at the eleventh hour and oust François from what should be his!

It was unbearable, the greatest of tragedies.

I never suffered quite so much through all the years of anxiety as I do at this moment, thought Louise.

The beautiful young Mary Tudor could cause her greater concern than Anne of Brittany had ever done.

The nuptial bed was being blessed, and the night which Mary had dreaded for so long was about to begin. She listened to the words of benediction. They were sprinkling holy water on the bed while they prayed that she might be fruitful.

She looked at the great bed with its canopy of velvet embroidered with the gold lilies of France. The silken counterpane had been drawn back; her women had undressed her and she was naked beneath the robe which enveloped her.

She thought of that other ceremony when she had lain on a couch and the Duc de Longueville had removed his boot and touched her bare leg with his bare foot. This would be very different.

Louis in his disarray looked older than he had at the marriage ceremony; she could see how swollen his neck was; it hung over the collar of his gown; there was still a faint color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright as they met hers.

In what a different mood from hers did he approach this nuptial bed; it was clear that he was growing impatient of the ceremony while she wished it would go on and on through the night. He was longing for that moment which she so dreaded.

And now it had come. They were in the bed together and one by one those who assisted at the ceremony departed from the room.

Mary lay in the nuptial bed. It was over, and it had been less horrifying than she had believed it would be. Louis was no monster. He had begged her not to be afraid of him; he told her that she enchanted him; that he had never seen anyone as beautiful; he loved her dearly already and it would be his pleasure to show her how deep went his devotion.

He must seem very old to her; he understood that. It was inevitable since she was so young. He could imagine how sad she must be to leave her brother’s Court and come to a strange land to be with strangers. But she would find here the best friend she had ever had in her life—her husband.

It was a comfort to discover that he was so kind. Had she been of a meek nature she would have been very grateful to him, and could have given him some mild affection. But Charles’s image never left her. She longed for Charles; she was capable of strong passion, but only for Charles. He did not know, this kind old man, how he was making her suffer. If he would be good to her there was only one course of action he could take: Leave her alone and then, as soon as possible, die and make her a widow.

But this was something which even she, who sometimes thought that she could endure her lot better if she could be perfectly honest and say what was in her mind, could not betray. She must be submissive; she must pretend that she was shocked by the consummation of the marriage because of her innocence and not because she longed for another man.

She could rejoice at the King’s infirmity when he lay beside her, exhausted.

“You are delightful,” he told her. “Would that you had come to me twenty years ago.”

That was an apology for his weakness. He need not have apologized. She loved his weakness.

And now he slept, and she lay wide awake, saying to herself: If it does not last too long, I can bear it.

The Queen and the Dauphin

BUT NEXT MORNING when the King had risen and she was with her attendants, she thought of Charles and wondered if he were thinking of her this day. Then it seemed to her that she was defiled, and a great melancholy came over her.

She whispered to Lady Guildford: “Send the others away.”

Lady Guildford did so, and when they had gone she took Mary into her arms and rocked her to and fro as she used to when Mary was a child and had needed comfort.

“My dearest Princess,” she murmured. “Tell Guildford.”

“Guildford, it is over.”

“And you are very unhappy?”

Mary nodded. “Because of Charles.”

“Tush!” said Lady Guildford. “And do you think he is weeping at this moment because of you?”

“He is very sad because of me, Guildford.”

“But the King was kind?”

“He is kind. If he were not I should doubtless kill him. And he is very old. He was soon asleep. But I did not sleep, Guildford. I lay there, thinking.…”

“And you are reconciled. I can sense it, dearest. I know you so well.”

“It won’t last, Guildford. That’s why.”

Then suddenly she threw her arms about Lady Guildford’s neck. It was the first time she had given way to such tempestuous weeping.

The King came in. He saw the tears; he saw the embrace.

Mary started to her feet, while Guildford rose and curtsied deeply.

Louis was smiling. “Leave us,” he said to Lady Guildford; and she went.

Mary, her cheeks wet, stood waiting for her husband to ask the reason for her tears; but he did not. She was to learn that it was a point of etiquette at the French Court to avoid seeing or talking of anything that might prove embarrassing.

“My love,” said Louis, taking her hands and kissing them, “I came to give you this.”

He took from his pocket a ring in which was set one of the largest rubies Mary had ever seen.

“Thank you,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”

“Let us try it on your finger.”

He put it on and held her hand admiringly.

“You do not like jewels, my little Queen?” he asked.

“They are very beautiful,” she answered.

“You must learn to love jewels. They become you so.”

He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it affectionately.

“They are planning a ball for this day,” he told her. “I shall enjoy seeing you dance. Why, you are as light as thistledown and as lovely as a spring day.”

The morning was over when Lady Guildford was able to visit her mistress. Mary took one look at her faithful governess and was alarmed, for Lady Guildford was no longer her calm self; her eyes were wild and there was a hot flush in her cheeks.

She embraced Mary as though she would never let her go.

“Guildford, what is it?” demanded Mary.

“It is goodbye, my dearest.”

“Goodbye!”

“I have had orders to leave for England at once.”

“But you cannot. I need you here.”

“The King does not think so.”

“You mean he has told you that you must go!”

“Not the King in person. But his wishes have been made clear to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He feels I have too much influence over you. He wants you to become wholly French. He saw you with me this morning, dearest. He did not like to see you crying in my arms.”

“I must speak to him. I won’t let you go.”

“He has made up his mind.”

“But we have been together since…”

“Since you were a baby, yes. But you are in no need of a governess now. You are a queen and a wife.”

“I won’t have it, Guildford. I tell you I won’t.”

Mary hurried to the door.

“Where are you going?” Lady Guildford cried in alarm.

Mary turned, her eyes blazing. “I am going to tell the King that I shall choose my own attendants.”

“Dearest, I beg of you, have a care. You will do no good to either of us.”

Mary ignored her and, with blazing eyes and flaming cheeks, ran from the room.

It seemed accidental, but it might not have been, that Marguerite, Duchesse d’Alençon, was in the anteroom through which Mary had to pass on her way to the King’s apartments.

“Madame,” cried Marguerite in alarm, “something is amiss?”

“My attendants are being dismissed,” cried Mary. “Lady Guildford, who has been with me all my life, is being sent back to England.”

“I am so sorry.”

Mary would have passed on, but Marguerite said: “Madame, I should like to help you if you would allow me.”

“Help me?”

“Yes. You are going to the King, are you not?”

“Certainly I am going to the King.”

“I beg of you, do not act rashly. The King appears to be mild but, when he has made up his mind, is very determined.”

“If he has made up his mind on this matter he must unmake it.”

“Madame, forgive me, but you have little experience of our Court. The King has already given orders that your retinue is to be reduced. If you asked him to allow your attendants to remain, he could not grant your wishes because he has already given this order. It would grieve all your friends that your first request to the King should be refused—but refused it would be.”

“I have found the King kind,” retorted Mary; and she went on her way.

The Dauphin and the Duc d’Alençon were with the King when Mary burst in on them. The three men looked surprised, for it seemed that the Queen was ignorant of French etiquette, since she came in thus, unannounced.

François was secretly amused and delighted to see her, as he told himself he always would be. She would have to learn the importance of etiquette at the French Court; doubtless in her brother’s, gracious manners were not of such importance as they were here.

Louis came to her and gently took her hand.

“I want Lady Guildford to remain with me,” she said.

“Lady Guildford?” Louis repeated gently.

“She has been my governess since I was a child. And now she is being sent away, and she tells me that others are going back to England with her.”

“Ah, yes,” said Louis quietly. “I live simply here, and you must perforce do the same. You will not need all the attendants and servants whom you have brought with you. So they must go back to their native land.”

“But…”

She looked from Louis to François, who had raised his eyebrows and was shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

She wanted to tell them that she cared nothing for their French manners. She was angry; she was desolate and she would let them know it.

“The arrangements have been made,” went on Louis, and although he smiled and spoke with the utmost gentleness she saw the purpose in his eyes.

“I was not consulted,” Mary complained.

“My dear little Queen, we did not wish to disturb you with such matters, and it is my custom to decide who shall remain at my Court.”

“Lady Guildford…”

The King said to François, “Have my daughter and your sister brought here. They will look after the Queen and show her that she has new friends to replace those who are going.”

“But I want…”

“You want these ladies to be brought to you? It shall be done.”

Mary suddenly felt gauche, young and helpless. She saw that Marguerite d’Alençon was right. She had been foolish to rush in in this way. She should have waited until she was alone with the King and then tried to persuade him. Now she had spoiled everything.

François, who had returned to the King’s side, was giving her a look which was both tender and a warning; and she warmed toward him because she believed that he was trying to help her.

Almost immediately the page was announcing the arrival of Claude and Marguerite. Claude looked sullen, Marguerite lovely and eager.

“My dears,” said Louis affably, “the Queen is feeling a little unhappy because some of her English friends have to leave for their home. I want you two to look after her, to take their places.”

“Yes, Sire,” said Marguerite, while Claude mumbled inaudibly.

“Go with the Queen back to her apartments and explain to her how useful you intend to make yourselves.”

Feeling foolish and frustrated, Mary left the King’s presence with her two new attendants.

Louis’s delight in his bride grew stronger, and, because he wished to compensate her for the loss of her English attendants, the next day he gave her a tablet covered in diamonds and a pendant of pearls.

Mary accepted the gifts with thanks but inward indifference. She had written at once to Henry and Wolsey telling them of her indignation over the dismissal of her friends, and imploring them to take up this matter with her husband.

But as those days passed she became slightly reconciled for two reasons. The first was that Marguerite had become her friend, and Marguerite was, in truth, much more interesting and entertaining than dear old Lady Guildford could ever be. Marguerite’s mother, Louise of Savoy, was also making herself agreeable and, as the Dauphin sought every opportunity of being in her company, she found that this fascinating trio were helping her through the difficult days.

The other reason was that the excitement of his wedding and the days and nights which followed had been too much for Louis. His gout had become worse and was alarming his doctors.

Louis called Mary to his couch one day and, when they were alone together, he took her hand and smiled at her regretfully.

“My dear,” he said, “I greatly desire to see you crowned and make your ceremonial entry into Paris, but as you see, I am confined to my couch, and my physicians tell me that it would be unwise for me to leave Abbeville for some days.”

“I fancy,” said Mary, “that you have been departing from your quiet life during the last days and this is not good for you. You must rest more.”

“But, my dear, I want you to know how pleased we all are to have you with us, and it is only fitting that we should make merry. It is my wish that the balls and banquets should go on.”

“But you should rest more,” said Mary. “I am your wife and I shall insist that you do.”

He was touched that she could be so concerned for his health, and Mary was quick to seize the advantage. She took on the role of a charming little nurse and gave orders in the King’s apartment.

“This afternoon you shall rest on your couch and I will sit beside you and talk to you if you wish. Or I can be silent.”

What an enchanting creature she was—so young and yet willing to forgo the pleasures of the hunt or the banquet for the sake of her husband.

He told her this, taking her hand and kissing it as he did so; and when she sensed that he was inclined to become amorous she raised a finger and put on a stern expression.

“I am going to command you in this matter. You are to rest; and there must be no excitements.”

He allowed her to take charge. He found it very pleasant to lie back on his couch, the delightful creature beside him, listening to her quaint accent which he found quite fascinating, while she occasionally soothed his hot brow with sweet unguents; and although she allowed him to stroke her arms she was very insistent that caresses should stop there.

“I have to consider what is good for you,” said the charming child.

It was so comforting to realize that she was young and inexperienced, that she accepted his shortcomings as a lover; indeed insisted that he should not exert himself.

Each day he gave her a jewel. He had put several trinkets aside for her, and he doled them out one by one—partly because he was a man who always liked to get the utmost return for what he paid out; partly because she expressed as much pleasure over one small jewel as she would have done over twenty.

He contemplated that rarely had he been so contented in his life, and his greatest regret was that when he had married Mary Tudor he was fifty-two instead of twenty-two.

He did not wish, of course, to allow life to become dull for her. He had dismissed her English attendants because he believed they had too much influence over her, and when she was upset he did not want her to cry in the arms of Lady Guildford but in his. That little disturbance was now settled, thanks to Marguerite de Valois who was as scintillating a companion as anyone could have.

He sent for the Dauphin. François came at once to his couch. Louis was not so pleased with François; there was something sly about the Big Boy. Outwardly he was too gay, and he could not be feeling gay. If Mary gave birth to a son—not an impossibility—that would be the end of François’s hopes; so what had he to be gay about?

Definitely the boy was sly. Now he was doubtless amused because an old man had become too excited over his marriage to a beautiful young girl and consequently had to take to his couch for a few days.

“My boy,” he said, “I have decided to delay leaving Abbeville for a few days. The gout is troubling me and my physicians say I need rest. I cannot therefore escort the Queen as I would like to, and I do not wish that all the balls and banquets should be canceled. As the nobleman of highest rank you should take my place at the Queen’s side.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“The Queen understands. In fact she is most charmingly solicitous of my health. I shall be present at the festivities, but you must lead the Queen in the dance and talk to her when I am weary.”

François bowed his head. It was duty he could contemplate with the utmost pleasure.

François was in love. This was not an infrequent occurrence, but in this case the situation held a certain piquancy.

He loved her golden hair and her perfectly formed body; he loved her English accent; but what appealed to him more than anything was that latent fire which he sensed within her. When aroused she would be a passionate creature, and François longed to be the one to arouse her. The fact that she was recently married to the King brought such an element of danger into the relationship as to make it absolutely irresistible to one of François’s temperament.

He had received no greater blow to his hopes than when the King had married; he had even felt—rare for him—depressed. He needed some glorious adventure to give life a new zest. A love affair in itself would not have been enough—he had had so many of them already; but a love affair with the recently married Queen, which could place them both in jeopardy, would give life the excitement which at this time he greatly needed.

He was constantly at the Queen’s side. A little touch of the hand, a burning intensity in the eyes, the caressing note in his voice, the words which were full of a hidden meaning…surely they were enough to tell Mary the state of his feelings?

She pretended not to understand these indications; and he was sure it was pretense. She was not as innocent as she would have them all believe. And the fact that he was not quite sure what was going on behind those beautiful blue eyes only added to her fascination.

He became angry if anyone else attempted to dance with her; he made it clear that, while the King was indisposed, it was the task and privilege of the Dauphin to entertain the Queen.

Mary was fully aware of his feelings, and she was grateful to him as she was finding these days at Abbeville so wretched on account of her longing for Charles; François’s attempt to involve her in an intrigue enlivened the days, particularly as she had no intention of becoming involved, while at the same time it was amusing not to let him know this.

She enjoyed showing wide-eyed innocence, as though his innuendoes passed over her head. She did not for one moment believe that the Dauphin’s feelings were deeply involved. They both needed excitement at this time; she because she was an unwilling bride; he because the marriage which had proved such a tragedy for her was one for him also. She could see that ambition was strong behind the insouciant manner and witty frivolity. François wanted to take revenge on Louis for marrying again, by making love to Louis’s wife.

Thus she was being caught up in an intrigue which amused her; and desperately she needed to be amused.

Louise sought out Marguerite. Louise was very apprehensive, and Marguerite mildly so.

“Marguerite,” cried Louise, “François is constantly with the Queen.”

“The King being indisposed, it is the place of the Dauphin to look after her.”

“I know my son well. He is becoming enamored of that English girl.”

“She is very beautiful,” Marguerite agreed.

“Have you considered what might come out of this?”

“Thoughts have entered my head.”

“Louis will never get a healthy son. But if those two were lovers…why, Marguerite, can you doubt what the result would be? It would be inevitable. And she would pass it off as Louis’s.”

“You mean your grandson and my nephew would take the throne from his father.”

“Unacknowledged! It would be a tragedy.”

“Maman, this is wildest imagination.”

“It could be fact. Admit it, Marguerite. François, bless him, is virile, as he should be. He is in love with the Queen, and can you doubt the Queen’s feelings for him! She pretends that she is unmoved. My dear Marguerite, could any woman remain unmoved by François? I tell you our beloved is in danger of losing the throne…not through Louis—poor impotent old man…but by his own actions.”

“Our François is no fool, Maman.”

“He is brilliant, I grant you. His wit sparkles and makes the Court a gay place. But his emotions are strong, as is natural in all young men. Let the Queen succumb…and how can she help it?…and we shall be hearing that she is pregnant. Louis, the old fool, will be beside himself with glee and within a year there will be a little dauphin in the royal nurseries. I tell you we are in danger…the utmost danger.”

“What do you propose to do, Maman? Point out the danger to François?”

“François has realized the danger. He must have. Do you remember how he always courted danger? He is daring—and I would not have him otherwise—but daring in this case could be fatal to his future. I remember the time when as a boy he let a bull loose in the courtyards of Amboise. He himself slew it…but he was risking his life and knew it. He loves risks. They are the salt of life to him. And now he is ready to take this one. I see it in his face. I know my François.”

“Maman, should we speak to him?”

“I am uncertain, daughter. He is no longer a boy. I know that he likes to make his own decisions and, although he would listen to us courteously as he always has, yet by pointing out the hazards we might increase the enchantment.”

“We must watch this affair closely,” Marguerite murmured.

“And you are near the Queen. You must take an opportunity of pointing out the dangers to her.”

Marguerite was thoughtful. But there was no denying that she was as anxious as her mother.

Mary had been riding and as she went up to her apartment Marguerite intimated that she wished to be alone with her, and the other attendants were dismissed.

“My poor little sister-in-law is not very happy,” Marguerite began. “It is sad for her that she is so different from my brother. They are not well matched. Do you agree, Madame?”

“They are not alike in temperament, but I have heard that people of different types are often attracted to each other.”

“Poor Claude! I fear it is inevitable that she should be a little jealous.”

“Is she of a jealous nature?”

“I believe that, like most of us, if she thought she had reason to be jealous, she could be so.”

“And has she reason?”

“Having recently acquired such a beautiful stepmother, only a year or so older than herself, must necessarily accentuate her own ungainliness, particularly when…,” Marguerite hesitated and Mary raised her eyebrows enquiringly, “…when her husband seems so very much aware of that stepmother’s charm.”

“You are telling me that Claude is jealous…on my account!” Mary’s surprise was clearly feigned, and she meant Marguerite to know that it was.

“François is so clearly attracted to you.”

“Then should you not speak to him? I can assure you that I have done nothing to make Claude jealous.”

“He is impetuous and reckless.”

“I see.” Mary turned her clear gaze on Marguerite. “I certainly think you should warn him in that case.”

Marguerite laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “If the King were to be aware of this…”

Mary said coolly: “I can set your mind at rest. There is nothing in the matter that I am aware of which could give the King the slightest cause for displeasure.”

She was reminding Marguerite that she was the Queen of France, and that she had no wish to discuss the matter further; but secretly she was amused because she had learned a great deal about the relationships of that family. Louise of Savoy had been tortured all through her life by fear that a son of Louis might follow his father to the throne. And now they had actually gone so far as to believe that she might be François’s lover and have a child which she would pretend was Louis’s.

In her present position it was good to have something to laugh at. François greatly desired the crown and yet the need to satisfy his sexual impulses was so demanding that he was prepared to risk the first in order to assuage the second! And the devoted mother and sister were fearfully looking on.

She might have said to them: François shall never be my lover. There is only one who could be that, and he is in England.

But the knowledge of intrigue around her was helping her through these melancholy days.

The royal party had been at Abbeville for almost a fortnight, and Louis was showing signs of recovery. Mary, still acting as nurse, watched him uneasily as she sat by his couch.

He took her hand and said: “Thanks to our ministrations I am beginning to recover.”

“You must be very careful not to exert yourself too much,” said Mary quickly.

“Have no fear. I think we shall be able to leave here within a few days, and our first stop shall be at Beauvais. I have a surprise for you.”

Mary opened her eyes wide in an endeavor to express excitement. A ruby? A diamond? She knew what his surprises usually were and she was beginning to dread them because she must pretend to show enthusiasm which she could not possibly feel.

“We shall have a joust to celebrate your coronation, and I thought that it would please you if we made it a contest between the country of your birth and your adopted one. It would be a symbol of the friendship between us. The people will remember that not long ago we were fighting each other in a real war. Now we will have a mock-battle and see who is the more skilled in the joust.”

“There are few Englishmen here who would be able to give a good account of themselves.”

“I know, and this must be a fair contest. So I thought it would please you if I wrote to your brother and asked him to send over some of his most skilled knights to challenge ours. This I have done.”

For a moment she found speech impossible. She was asking herself: Whom will Henry send?

“I can see that the thought of this match between the two countries please you more than jewels. I am content.”

“You are very good to me,” murmured Mary.

He laughed. “Remember though that you are a Frenchwoman now. You must support us, you know.”

“We shall see,” she answered.

They left Abbeville for Beauvais and as she rode beside the King, acknowledging the cheers of the people, Mary was asking herself the question: Is it possible? Would Henry send Charles?

Louis had said that he was asking that the most skilled men might be sent. In that case Charles must come. For the honor of England he must come. Henry would see to that. Yet, knowing the state of her feelings, would Henry consider it unwise to send Charles?

Rarely had she looked so beautiful as she did then; there was a suppressed excitement in her eyes which did not pass unnoticed by Marguerite.

The Queen is in love? she thought. Has it gone as far as that? Oh, François, beloved, have a care.

It was a golden October day when they rode into Beauvais; and as they reached the mansion where they were to stay for the night, Mary was alert for a sign of the English party.

A banquet had been prepared in the great hall, and she had taken her place at the center table, when the news was brought to the King that the English knights had arrived.

“Have them brought in at once,” was Louis’s answer. “We must give them a good welcome, for they come on behalf of my good brother, the King of England.”

And so the doors were thrown open and as the Englishmen came in, Mary caught her breath with wonder; for they were led—as was only natural that they should be—by Charles Brandon. And there he was coming to the center table, his eyes on the King, betraying only by a twitch of a muscle that all his thoughts were for the young woman who sat silently there, her cheeks aflame, her eyes sparkling as no one in France had seen them sparkle yet.

She must see him. Who would help her now? If only Lady Guildford were with her! But Louis had artfully removed all her English attendants except little Anne Boleyn who, he considered, was too young to influence her.

She dared confide in no one. Marguerite was a friend—up to a point—but only when by being so she could do no harm to her brother. And if she told Marguerite that the man she loved was in Beauvais and she must have an interview with him alone, Marguerite would immediately suspect that Charles might take the place of François in that wild drama she and her mother had conjured up. Therefore, Marguerite would never help her arrange a meeting with her lover—in fact, for the sake of François, might even betray her to Louis.

Perhaps it was natural that she should wish to receive the party from her brother’s Court. If they came to her she could flash a message to Charles who would be ready for it.

This was what she did when, headed by Charles, the Englishmen came to her apartment. Of course her French attendants were present. Nevertheless she must do the best she could.

How happy she was to see him kneeling before her, taking her hand in his, putting his lips to it. She was trying to communicate all her feelings to him, and she knew by the pressure of his hand that he understood.

“It pleases me to see you here,” she said.

He told her that her brother sent her affectionate messages and there were letters which he would bring to her.

“Yes…yes,” she answered.

She must receive the others; she must murmur platitudes to them. She must tell them how excited she was at the thought of the coming joust, and she hoped they would conduct themselves with honor for England.

Oh Charles, she thought, stay near me.

He understood. He was by her side. He said quietly: “Are you happy?”

“What do you think?” Her voice was sharp and bitter.

“You are more beautiful than ever.”

“I must see you alone,” she said. Then added hastily: “Come back in five minutes’ time after the party have gone. I will endeavor to be alone except for young Anne Boleyn.”

He bowed his head and she turned away lest Norfolk, who was with the party, should be suspicious.

Now she was impatient for them to be gone, and afraid that if they lingered much longer the King would come to her apartments.

But at last they went, and she dismissed her attendants, saying that she was going to rest for an hour; and to avoid suspicion kept little Anne with her.

He came back, as they had arranged; and she commanded little Anne to sit on the stool near the door of the main apartment while she drew Charles into a small adjoining chamber. If anyone came to the door, Anne was to tell them her mistress was resting.

It was dangerous, but Mary was ready to take risks. An interview alone with Charles was worth anything she might be asked to pay for it.

They embraced hungrily.

“My love,” said Charles, “I have lived it all with you.”

“Oh, Charles!” She was half laughing, half crying, as she touched his face with her fingers. “I can’t believe it, you see. I have to keep assuring myself that you are here.”

He kissed her urgently.

“We must be careful,” he said at length. “Did you notice Norfolk’s watchful eyes? That fellow hates me.”

“A curse on Norfolk.”

“I agree, my dearest, but he could do us much harm.”

“You mean he could tell Louis that I love you.”

“He could have me sent back to England.”

That sobered her. “Oh, Charles, we must be careful.”

“I should not be here. At any moment we might be discovered.”

“The little Boleyn will give the warning.”

“That child would not protect us. Mary…Mary…what shall we do?”

“When Louis dies and I am free I shall marry where I wish. You know where that will be.”

“But to talk of the King’s death…”

“Is treason, and we should die for it. Then I should not have to spend any more nights in his bed.”

“Hush, Mary. Was it…terrible?”

She shivered. “I lay awake all that first night thanking God and his saints that he was an old man. He apologized for his breathlessness, for his inability. I wanted to shout, Do not apologize to me, Louis. I want to sing Glory to God because of it.”

“And so…?”

“Do not ask me to speak of it. But he has been ill since. Alas, he tells me he is getting rapidly better. It will begin again. But it won’t be for long, Charles. I feel it won’t be for long. I am certain of it, and that is why I can endure it, because, Charles, I have Henry’s promise that when it is over I shall marry where it pleases me to do so.”

“You grow too excited.”

“Can I help that? The one I love is here and I am in his arms. Who would not be excited?”

“I must not stay. You may depend upon it we shall be watched. I don’t trust Norfolk.”

“But you are here…in France. Oh, this is the happiest day I have known since I came to this land. Stay near me, Charles.”

“I shall as long as it is in my power. But, dearest, let us be cautious…for the sake of the future.”

“The future, Charles. I live for it.”

Once more they were in a close embrace. Then he slipped out of the small chamber into the main apartment where the little Boleyn sat, her great dark eyes filled with dreamy speculation.

The royal cavalcade was now journeying across Picardy toward the capital. Louis no longer suffered so acutely and could take pleasure in his bride. Mary’s moods were variable. Sometimes she felt rebellious and there were occasions when she told herself that she could not endure her husband’s embraces; at others she was resigned, for afterward the poor man always seemed so exhausted. Then Charles’s presence in the party made her feel recklessly gay. Life was never dull because all the time she felt as though she were living on the edge of disaster, for with the man she loved so near, she believed she could not continue to control her feelings.

Those about her noticed the change in her. Her beauty had become more vital.

Marguerite, watching her closely, thought: There is a woman in love.

And because it was inconceivable to Marguerite that any woman could be indifferent to François, she naturally thought that Mary was in love with her brother.

François thought so too; and so did Louise. They all felt themselves to be on the verge of an inflammable situation, disastrous from the point of view of them all while it was yet irresistible to François.

Mary became more aware of those two women and, understanding the reason for their apprehension, an innate streak of mischief made her long to mislead them. After all they had first conceived the myth.

There was more than mischief in it; there was sound common sense, because presumably she had been unable to hide the fact that she was in love. No one could think it was with Louis, and they must not guess it was with Charles Brandon. Therefore they must believe it was with François.

Her manner toward the Dauphin was changing; she showed quite frankly how she delighted in his company.

The more nervous Louise and Marguerite became, the more hopeful was François.

And Mary was diverted enough to laugh secretly as she amused herself at their expense.

Louis would not be content until Mary was crowned Queen of France; and as he did not wish to enter Paris until she could do so as crowned Queen he was anxious for the ceremony to take place as soon as possible. He continued to present her almost daily with some jewel; and he told her that he hoped very much to regain his health so that he could be more like the husband she deserved.

She told him—fervently truthful—that she preferred him as he was; which he thought charmingly tactful. He discussed the coming celebrations with her, adding that he thought that tall Englishman would be a good match for the Dauphin.

“I look forward to see them in combat,” he added; “I hear that man is something of a champion at your brother’s Court.”

“I believe the Duke of Suffolk to be second only to my brother in the joust.”

Louis laughed. “A diplomat into the bargain, eh?”

Mary thought then that the French were often a little too subtle; perhaps that was why she enjoyed leading Marguerite and Louise a merry little dance.

“Now, my dear,” said Louis, “I shall be forced to leave you at St. Dennis for a few days, because I must go to Paris. There are matters of state to which I have to give my attention. Your coronation will take place here and then there will be your triumphant journey into the capital. The people of Paris are eagerly waiting to welcome you.”

“I trust they will be pleased with me.”

“They will love you as we all do. I have only one regret and that is that I must leave you.”

Mary kissed him gently on the brow. She did not want him to see the relief which she feared might show in her face.

The King had gone on ahead to Paris, and the coronation was to take place in a few days.

François joined the Queen as she rode out with her attendants.

“It is the only way in which I can have a word with you in private,” he complained.

“You deceive yourself. We are being watched now. Do you not know that we are always being watched?”

“What an evil fate is this? You come to marry the King of France, and I might so easily have been that King!”

“You are rash.”

“Driven to it by your beauty.”

“Do you forget that ears are straining at this moment to hear what you say to me?”

“Surely they do not need to strain. They must guess. What could I be expected to say to the most beautiful woman I have ever seen?”

“You might be expected to be a faithful husband and remember that I am the wife of your King.”

“That would be asking too much of me.”

“I do not think the King would be pleased if he knew that you speak such words to me.”

“It is not my wish to please the King.”

“François, you are very reckless.”

“You shall discover that I can be more so.”

“To what purpose?”

“When can I see you alone that I may explain to you?”

“I am listening now.”

“This needs more than words. If you would come to an apartment I know…”

“I…come to an apartment! I do not think I have heard aright.”

“Disguised of course. We should both be disguised. It can be done. It is always amusing to be incognito. Do you not agree?”

“I have had no experience of that.”

“There are so many delightful experiences waiting for you.”

“And you propose to be my tutor?”

“I should be the happiest man alive if I were that.”

She laughed and slackened her pace so that she was close to those attendants who had fallen back.

François was disappointed, but he was certain he had made some progress. He had met opposition only once, and that was with poor simple little Françoise. The only woman who had ever refused him! But she was a virtuous woman; there had been no fire in Françoise.

How different was this lovely, vital girl.

Passion was strong in her; and he was certain that she was in love.

In the Cathedral of St. Dennis, François, the Dauphin, took the hand of the Queen and led her to the altar. As she knelt on a cushion which had been put there for that purpose, from a quiet corner of the cathedral Louis watched her. He had not wanted the people to know that he was present, because this was her day and he had no wish to distract attention from her.

His eyes were a little misty as he watched her. Tears came easily in age as they had in extreme youth, and he was deeply moved by her beauty. She looked so young in her dazzling robes with that wonderful hair, which he loved to caress, falling about her shoulders. There could never have been a more beautiful Queen of France, and he would never cease to regret that she had come to him in the days of his infirmity.

Cardinal de Brie was anointing her, and she remained still as a statue while the sacred oil was poured on her head. Now the scepter was being placed in her right hand, the rod of justice in her left, the ring on her finger. De Brie held the crown matrimonial over her head; it seemed too massive for that feminine fragility and Louis trusted it would not cause a headache.

The ceremony of crowning her Queen of France was almost over, and she was moving toward the chair of state on the left side of the high altar. It was the duty of the Dauphin to lead her to it; and she in her splendor, he in his elegance, must surely make all consider how well matched they were.

Poor François! Poor Mary! Fate could so easily have given them to each other. If I had died a few months ago, mused Louis, there would still have been a need to make an English marriage. If my poor Claude had not married François, and he had been free…

But it was not so. Life did not work out as smoothly as that. And now this beautiful young girl was his wife, and poor misshapen Claude was united with François.

Louis shrugged his shoulders. When one was old one realized that all glories, all sorrows, passed away in time. In time, yes. For time was always the victor.

They were singing Mass and François had taken his stand behind the chair of state that he might hold the heavy crown over the Queen’s head to relieve her of its weight.

And afterward, to the sound of trumpets the party, accompanied by the leading noblemen and women of France, left the cathedral.

In the royal apartments Louis embraced his Queen.

“You are now truly Queen of France, my dear,” he said. “And it gave me great pleasure to witness your coronation.”

“It was an impressive ceremony, and I trust I did all that was expected of me.”

“You acted with perfect composure as you always do.”

She was momentarily moved because of his pride in her; and she was ashamed because of the many times she had wished him dead. She still did, but she was sorry that it had to be; and she had an impulse then to throw herself on to her knees before him and beg him to understand the motive behind her desires. She wanted to explain: It is not you personally, Louis, for you have shown me nothing but goodness; it is simply that, having been forced to marry when I love elsewhere, I cannot live without hope that I may one day be free.

He was shrewd, she knew; and often she wondered whether he understood more than he let her believe. Had he noticed the change in her since the arrival of the English party? Others had—Marguerite for instance. Marguerite was clever, yet like most people had her blind spot, and that was where her brother was concerned. She thought that every woman must be in love with him and ready to follow when he beckoned; and he had certainly beckoned to Mary.

Life was too complicated; and she was simple in her desires. She knew what she wanted—so few people did that—and when one knew so certainly, it was possible to make a straight path toward it. She was as certain of this as she was of being alive: one day she would marry Charles, because Louis must die sooner or later and, when he did so, she had her brother’s permission to marry where she would. It was this knowledge which helped her to live through these days.

She wished it were possible to explain all this to this kind, tired old man; but of course it was not. Louis was tolerant and indulgent—but not to the extent he would need to be to accept such a situation.

When they retired she said: “I am so tired tonight.”

“My dear,” he replied, stroking the long golden curls, “it has been an exhausting day for you.”

She lay down and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. He bent over her and kissed her forehead gently before lying down beside her.

Perhaps he was relieved; for he too was very tired. He was asleep almost at once. She was not. She lay breathing as quietly as she could, trying to propel herself into the future, reminding herself that every hour that passed was bringing her nearer and nearer to her heart’s desire.

And in the morning Louis left for Paris. He wanted to be there to receive her when she made her ceremonial entry into his capital.

The grand procession was moving toward Paris, led by a guard of Swiss archers, the heralds of France and England, and the peers of France. The noblemen themselves followed with the Princes of the Blood Royal leading; and it seemed that each had endeavored to outdo all others by the splendor of his equipage.

Mary herself rode in her litter; she was dressed in cloth of gold and on her head was her glittering crown; with her hair falling about her shoulders she looked like a fairy queen. Beside the litter, mounted on a magnificent charger, himself a-glitter with jewels, rode the Dauphin.

He chatted lightly with her as they rode along, but behind his conversation was the urgency of his desire. He told her that there had never been a queen or a woman in the world to compare with her; and she listened complacently, all the time wondering whether she would see Charles at the banquet and whether she could arrange to have him beside her.

“Since you have come to France you are more beautiful than ever,” he told her. “I ask myself why this should be.”

She smiled absentmindedly and he went on: “I think I know. You have become happier, since you have been in France, than you were when you arrived.”

“That may be so.”

“And that is due to some of us…or one of us?”

She smiled at the group of people who were calling greetings to her.

“When we are in Paris,” went on François, “it will be easier for us to meet.”

“In Paris?” she repeated idly.

“You shall see.”

“I shall see,” she echoed, and the Dauphin was satisfied.

They had reached the Porte St. Dennis on which a tableau had been set up, and there was a halt to admire it. It represented a ship in which were sailors who chanted a welcome to the beautiful Queen.

This was the first of the tableaux and what were called mysteries; at several points in the city they had been set up and at each of them the cavalcade must stop while praises were sung to the Queen. Thus the journey to Notre Dame was punctuated by many halts; and when the cathedral was reached and Mary was received there, and had attended the service in her honor, she was beginning to feel tired because it was nearly six o’clock. But the long day was by no means over. She would have supper at the Palais de la Cité, but this she must do in public and during the meal she would be the center of attention. She dared not show how weary she was. She must continue to smile; and all the time she was watchful because she knew that somewhere among the crowds who stared at her was Charles Brandon, and she would certainly see him at the joust, which would take place within a few days’ time, to celebrate her coronation.

Always the Dauphin was at her side; continually he whispered to her, waiting for her to give him that encouragement for which he sought and which he was certain he would soon be given.

Louis had taken up his residence at the Hôtel des Tournelles so that, he had said, all the attention should be concentrated on the Queen. Mary wondered whether he was glad to escape the ceremonies. At the Tournelles he would be resting in his apartment, eating simple food which had been specially prepared for him, and going to bed early, so that when she joined him he would be ready, as he said and as she dreaded, to be a good husband to her.

In the meantime she had some respite, and she strove to forget what the future held for her. Tonight she would be alone.

In the grande salle of the Palais de la Cité, Mary took her seat which had been placed on that tablet of marble from which proclamations were made. The room—which was two hundred and twenty-two feet in length—was hung with rich tapestry; and round the walls were effigies of the Kings of France, from Pharamond, that Knight of the Round Table who was said to have been the first King of France and reigned in the fifth century, to Louis XII himself.

Mary’s attendants were headed by Claude and Marguerite, and she was conscious of their watchful eyes, particularly when François was near. She felt sorry for poor Claude and wanted to tell her that she need have no fear, and that she herself had no intention of becoming François’s mistress. Not that that would prevent him from giving the poor creature cause for jealousy.

How different it will be when Charles and I are married! sighed Mary.

She was thankful on account of her good health that day, for it had been a long and trying ordeal; and as she sat in that magnificent hall she suddenly saw the English party among the diners, and with them Charles.

Across the assembly their eyes met, conveying messages of love and longing.

Mary was no longer weary; and none who had not witnessed the day’s pageantry would have guessed that she had been the center of it; she was gay, fresh and sparkling.

Many people watching her said to themselves: “The Queen is in love.” And because the Dauphin was never far from her side, because he too was unable to hide his feelings, it was whispered that a delicate contretemps was brewing.

“Watch the Dauphin and the Queen!” was the whisper that passed round the hall.

Death of a King

A HIGH STAGE had been erected in the park of the Hôtel des Tournelles and on this had been put a couch, for the King’s gout was troubling him again and he was too indisposed to be able to sit in one position for long at a time. Yet he must be present on this occasion, because the English had come over specially to test their skill in the joust against the French champions, and already the excited people of Paris were crowding into the Rue St. Antoine which adjoined the Park of Les Tournelles where the lists had been set up.

The noise was great as people wagered as to who would be the victor. The fame of the English Duke of Suffolk had been discussed and it was believed that he would challenge the Dauphin himself.

The people were jubilantly sure of the outcome for they did not believe there was an Englishman living who could rival the Dauphin.

The sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the royal party, and the King, looking very ill, mounted the stage with great difficulty. It was pleasing to see how solicitous the lovely young Queen could be with her husband. She was attended by the most noble of the ladies; and what a contrast she made with poor insignificant Claude. Marguerite, the Dauphin’s sister, was a real beauty, but it was the Queen with her wonderful golden hair and bright complexion who attracted the attention of everyone.

Louis lay on his couch smiling rather wanly as he acknowledged the acclaim of his people. The more sober ones were depressed by the sick looks of the Father of his People, reminding themselves that he had been a good King to them and life in France had been the better for his rule. The young ones, though, could not take their eyes from François, who was every man’s ideal.

Some studied the Queen’s trim yet voluptuous figure. It was too early yet to show any signs of pregnancy, but it was possible that she was in that state. Then the dazzling François would never reach the throne. It was an intriguing situation; and because of it the people’s interest in the royal family was even greater than usual.

Louis wanted to close his eyes. The shouting of the people, the blare of the trumpets tired him. What would he not have given for the quiet apartment, the hangings shutting out the light, the comfort of his bed…sleep.

But he must be present on this occasion; so he took pleasure in watching the excitement of his Queen.

He had come to believe that there was much he had to learn of her. He did not really know his Mary. She had been shy and shrinking as one must expect a virgin to be and she had remained so. He had thought that in time he might rouse her to passion for he sensed passion in her, latent, unawakened. Yet recently he had been aware of a change in her. There had been a suppressed excitement and she had seemed a different girl from the one he had known in the first days of their marriage.

He was not unaware of François’s greedy eyes which rested too frequently on her. Could it be? He could not be surprised if it were, nor could he blame Mary. He knew François’s reputation. But François would not be so foolish. The Big Boy might philander when and wherever he had a chance, but he would not be such a fool as to engage in a love affair with the Queen.

And yet…there had been that change.

Now the English party were riding into the arena, led by their champions, the Duke of Suffolk and the Marquis of Dorset. Suffolk was a fine figure of a man—as tall as François and broader. To see those two together would be worth a little discomfort.

The Queen had clasped her hands and was watching the riders who bowed on their horses as they passed the royal gallery, the plumes in their helmets touching their horses’ heads as they did so.

Her gaze was on the Duke of Suffolk; the King noticed how her eyes followed him round the arena.

Now it was the turn of the French who had been challenged, and they rode in, led by the Dauphin.

To be as young as that! thought Louis. To hear the applause of the people in one’s ears and to know it was because one was young and strong, a dashing, reckless hero. François doubtless had his trials to come, but Louis would have given a great deal to be the man in that glittering armor on that day.

And the Queen; she was applauded with the rest. It was strange that her eyes did not follow the French knights as they did the English.

She is hoping that her own countrymen are going to win the championship, thought Louis indulgently. It is natural.

Yet if she were attracted by François she must admire him more than ever in such a role as he now played.

Unless of course she was being cautious. But one did not connect caution with Mary.

She is young and innocent, he thought. She is unaware of François and, like a child, she wants her own countrymen to win.

Loudly the crowd applauded. They had to concede that the English were very skillful and even François could not quite match the tall Englishman who jousted as though he were inspired.

The Queen sat forward watching, the color in her cheeks heightened.

Of all the pageants I have had arranged for her, thought Louis, whose eyes rarely left her, none has pleased as this has.

She caught her breath with the thrill of the joust; once, when it seemed the tall Englishman was about to be thrown from his horse, she shut her eyes and shuddered. But all was well; it was only a feint and the man was once more victorious.

It was inevitable that the Duke of Suffolk should challenge the Dauphin, and when these two tilted against each other, Mary was clearly apprehensive.

There was, indeed, an atmosphere of tension not only on the royal stage but throughout the crowd, because thousands of Frenchmen wanted to see the Dauphin win.

Louis watched the Dauphin’s mother and sister and saw them craning forward, watched their apprehension—which was no greater than the Queen’s.

Sardonically Louis thought of the years when Louise had suffered every time his late wife had promised to bring an heir to the throne of France. What anxiety those ambitious women had endured on the Big Boy’s account; and still did. He could not take part in a game without their making a drama of it.

There was a sudden murmur of horror; Mary had risen to her feet and Marguerite and Louise were staring at the arena in dismay.

Louis wished his eyes were better. “What has happened?” he demanded, and for a few seconds those about him ignored him, forgetting that it was the King who had spoken, so intent were they on what was happening in the arena.

“François,” cried Louise. “My son…my son!”

François had been wounded in the hand and this was a blow to French hopes. Suffolk was about to prove himself the champion, and the honors were going to the English. That was the result of the first day’s joust. But there were more to come.

François appeared at the banquet which followed, with his hand in a bandage; ruefully he confessed that he would be unable to hold a lance, so was out of the tournament.

He talked to the Queen as they supped in the grande salle.

“Your Englishman took me off my guard,” he told her.

“Was that not what you would have expected him to do?”

“So you favor the English?”

“I lived all but the last few weeks of my life among them, remember.”

“Shame! I thought you had become one of us.” He leaned toward her. “’Twas my own fault. I was thinking of you when I should have been concentrating on my opponent.”

“Confess,” she retaliated, “your opponent was too good for you.”

“Nay, I’ll challenge him yet and defeat him.”

“I fancy he will be judged the victor of this tourney.”

“It was my devotion to you, not his skill, that gives him that victory.”

“It is not a good enough excuse! You went in to win and you found him a better man.”

“You are vehement in your praise of him. I grow jealous of this man…Suffolk, is it?”

“Charles Brandon”—she said his name slowly, loving every syllable—“Duke of Suffolk.”

“Something of an adventurer, I have heard. Do you know he tried to marry the Archduchess Margaret? The Emperor put a stop to that little game.”

“I do not think he played that little game as well as he jousted today.”

“I will tell you a secret,” said François. “Monsieur Suffolk is not going to be declared the champion.”

“How can you be sure of that, Monsieur le Dauphin?”

“Because I must avenge this.” He touched his bandaged hand.

“How so when you cannot hold a lance? And if you could not beat him before you were injured, how can you hope to now?”

“Madame, you are too triumphant. There is a German fellow in my service. He is even taller than I; he is the strongest man in France. He is unbeatable. I am going to put him up against Monsieur Suffolk, and he’ll have the fellow out of the saddle. You will see. It will be more than a bloody hand he’ll be nursing tomorrow.”

Mary turned away. She was afraid that in seeking his revenge François would do Charles some harm.

The Queen spent a sleepless night and her restlessness awakened the King.

“What ails you, my love?” he asked.

“I am well enough,” she answered.

“Yet you do not sleep. Perhaps you are overtired. It was an exhausting day.”

“And there will be another tomorrow. Louis, I heard that a German who has never yet been beaten is going into the joust. Is it true?”

“Oh, I know the man. One of the Dauphin’s servants, a great burly fellow. I’ve seen him turn men out of their saddles as though they were sacks of corn. Yes, it is true, none can stand against him.”

“Then he is the champion of France?”

“My love, he is not of the nobility so we do not often see him joust.”

“Then he should not joust tomorrow.”

“Ha,” said Louis. “Your Englishmen are too good. We have to throw in what we have in the hope of defeating them.”

“Yet it should not be.”

“How vehement you are! I promise you, you will see good sport.”

She was betraying herself; she knew it. She must be silent. Charles will not be harmed, she assured herself. Charles is invincible. He could always have triumphed over Henry, had he tried to.

Yet she was frightened; and when she slept she dreamed of disaster. She did not know what it was; but when she awoke it seemed to be hanging over her.

François was seated with the royal party on the stage—a spectator now that he could no longer be a participant. He was all eagerness for the moment when the German should ride into the arena to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the name of France.

François felt a little sullen. It so rarely happened that he was not the hero of such occasions. That Englishman had been too quick for him. It was true that he had been thinking of Mary, eager to shine in her eyes, tilting for show rather than with intelligence; and the Englishman had seized his opportunity and incapacitated him.

A poor showing for the Dauphin! He had disappointed everyone—his mother, his sister, the people—and most of all himself.

Mary? He could not be sure of Mary.

He looked at her, and in doing so caught Claude’s glance. She was looking affectionately maternal, trying to tell him that she did not care whether he was a champion or not; her feelings for him would not change. She herself had insisted on dressing the wound.

It was depressing to be so adored by someone who bored, to be so uncertain of another whom one longed to make one’s mistress.

Not a very auspicious day this, for François.

Mary was leaning forward in her seat. And now there was the German. What bulk! What strength! He was invincible. The Englishman would not have a chance.

The crowd was silent. It was like two giants meeting, as the pale November sunshine touched their armor when they rode toward each other.

Everyone was watching them intently, except two people on the royal stage—one of whom was the King, the other the Dauphin; and they could not take their eyes from the Queen, who sat upright, pale and tense, her hands clasped in her lap; and so absorbed was she in those two glittering figures that she was quite unaware that the eyes of both King and Dauphin were on her and that she was betraying herself.

Louis’s emotions were mixed and it was a long time since he had been deeply moved by them. Sorrow, regret and pity for her as well as for himself tormented him. So she loved the Englishman and, because she was vehement in everything she did, she could not hide that love. This was why she had changed since the English party had come to Court. It was obvious. Why had he been so blind as not to see it before?

Pictures came into his mind of their nights together. Poor child, he thought. Being vehement in love, vehement in hate, she would suffer deeply. Did she hate me? Sick old man—obscene, disgusting. And her thoughts all for that blond giant!

It was a tragedy which befell most royal people; they suffered; but they learned resignation. He remembered his first marriage, to Jeanne of France. He had been a young man then. But he could not compare the repugnance he had felt for his bride with the sufferings of Mary Tudor.

She was clenching her hands together, and had moved forward slightly, breathing quickly. My poor little one, he thought. If you stood up and shouted, I love Suffolk, you could not tell me more clearly what is in your mind. It is time I was dead.

And he had never loved her so dearly as he did at that moment.

François’s face had hardened. He too had read the secret. He was angry, for never had she seemed more desirable than she did now that he knew she was in love with another man. She had never taken his courtship seriously, but had fooled him as she had old Louis.

Beaten in the joust! Beaten in love! And possibly the Queen pregnant with the child who would oust him from the throne. Never had the Dauphin’s fortunes been so low.

“Foi de gentilhomme,” he swore, “what if she gets with child by Suffolk! Here’s a pretty state of affairs. Had it been my own son who robbed me of my rights, that would have been one thing—but that it should be an English bastard!”

Louis, the old fool, drooling over a beautiful girl, must be made to understand the significance of the danger which threatened.

In the meantime Suffolk must be defeated in the arena.

But it was not to be so. Suffolk was inspired. Never had he jousted in all his life as he did in the Park of Les Tournelles, and even the most partial of judges must declare him the victor.

The Queen had risen; she clasped her hands with joy. She could not wait to greet the champion; and all the time she was watched by the sad eyes of the King, the lowering ones of the Dauphin.

François was in the King’s apartment and they were alone together.

The Dauphin was decidedly uneasy and Louis made a shrewd guess as to why he had come to him. It was not easy to hint—for he would not dare say outright—what was in his mind; yet he had to convey to Louis the dangers of this delicate situation.

“And the hand?” asked the King.

“Almost healed, Sire.”

“You have healthy blood.”

“It was unfortunate that it happened so early in the joust, Sire. I regret losing the pleasure of unseating the Englishman.”

“Ah, my big François, he was too good for us, let us admit it.”

“The English method, Sire, is less polished than our own.”

“And more effective.”

François hesitated and then said: “The English—and in particular the Duke of Suffolk—seem to be highly favored at our Court.”

“It is necessary to entertain our guests.”

“True, Sire. Yet methinks there are some members of the Court who would be glad to see the English return to their own land.”

“The Queen delights to entertain her countrymen.”

“She has had many opportunities of doing so, Sire.”

That was as far as he dared go. He was right of course, mused Louis. The fellow should not be allowed to come and go as he wished. It was putting too great a temptation in the way of the Queen. He did not wish for trouble.

“The Court will be moving soon to St. Germain,” said Louis quietly. “We shall not expect the English to accompany us there.”

Poor child, he was thinking. But it is better so.

Charles had left for England and there had been no opportunity for a private interview. Mary was desolate, and desperately tried to hide this.

When shall I see my Charles again? she asked herself, and could provide no satisfactory answer.

The Dauphin seemed secretly amused; he had renewed his attentions which, she remembered then, had ceased for a while. Charles was going home covered in glory. Henry would be pleased with him. She pictured them together talking of her.

What would I not give to be sitting in Greenwich Palace between them as I used to!

The King came to her and put her lute into her hands.

“Play for me,” he said. “I am in the mood for sweet music.”

So she played the songs she had played for Henry, and the King, watching her, shared her melancholy. Her golden curls were held from her face by a band set with pearls, but they fell over her shoulders; her gown of violet velvet was cut away in the front to show a petticoat of amber satin which was decorated with a gold fringe, and about her white throat was a necklace of pearls.

This was folly, thought the King. She must forget England and her Englishman. She is the Queen of France now—a proud destiny which should be enough to satisfy anyone. If they could beget a child she would be contented.

A child? Why not? He was not so very old, and on his good days he felt almost young again.

He loved her; he did not see why they should not live together in amity. If there was a little dauphin she would care for the boy so much that she might come to love his father.

He came to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. The lute was silent.

“It does me good to watch you,” he said. “I feel young again.”

She tried to repress the shiver which ran through her, and almost succeeded.

He pitied her but told himself he must harden his heart. She was his wife; he had given her the crown of France; and in exchange she must give him a dauphin.

Louis refused to accept age. At St. Germain he hunted with his old enthusiasm. The Queen rode out with him, and he was at her side during the banquets. He partook of the rich dishes, forsook his boiled meat; and even tried a measure now and then; and when he retired with the Queen he assured himself that having a young wife had made him young again.

Gone was the old man of France.

He knew that the Dauphin with his mother and sister looked on sourly; inwardly he laughed at their discomfiture.

The most beautiful girl at the Court was his Queen, and he was man enough to rejoice in her.

The Court had returned to the Palais des Tournelles in order to celebrate Christmas and the New Year.

The Queen was feverishly gay. If the King wanted to prove that he was not an old man, let him. He must join her in the revels; and she would show them how Christmas and the New Year was celebrated at her brother’s Court.

The weather had turned bitterly cold; deep snow was in the streets and biting winds swept through the Palace. The Queen did not seem to be affected by the weather. Her mood became more hilariously gay as the days passed.

This is how she was meant to be, Louis told himself. She is getting over her infatuation with the Englishman. She is ready to enjoy her new status; it is a glorious thing to be Queen of France even if one must take the old man with it.

When she was with him Louis strove to be gay; he was constantly attempting to prove that he had regained his health and strength. He wanted to make that sly speculation on the face of the Dauphin a certainty. He wanted to send Louise’s hopes diving down to disaster. He was using all the means he could lay his hands on to give his old body a semblance of youth.

He opened the Christmas revels with the Queen beside him; he danced with her; he supped with her, and it was his wit which provoked her to laughter.

As for her, she seemed inexhaustible; it was as though she danced a wild dance and bewitched the King into sharing it with her.

On New Year’s Eve her gaiety seemed to reach its climax. The King never left her side.

When she rose to dance she held out her arms to him and François watching with his mother and sister had never felt his hopes so low.

“She is a witch,” hissed Louise. “She has breathed new life into him. He looks ten years younger than he did before his marriage. He was never so besotted with Anne as he is with this one, and Anne could lead him by the nose.”

“Oh, Mother,” sighed Marguerite, “who would have thought it would have come to this? Each night she is in his bed. There can be one outcome.”

“All our hopes…all our plans…,” moaned Louise.

“And at that time,” muttered François, “when the crown seemed about to be placed on my head!”

The trinity was in despair.

The Queen was aware of this. Mischief would lighten her eyes every time she met one of the family. Yet behind her gaiety there was a certain brooding, a watchfulness.

The heat of the ballroom had been excessive; outside the temperature was at freezing point.

They had danced and retired late to their apartments; the Queen lay in her royal bed, rejoicing. There could be no love-making tonight. He was too ill. He could not pretend to her as glibly as he did to others.

She had comforted him. “My poor Louis, you are so tired. You shall sleep. I shall be close to you…thus…and when you have rested you will feel well again.”

She bent over him and, looking up into her round young face, he longed to caress her; but she was right, he was too tired.

So he lay still and she lay beside him, keeping her fingers laced in his.

And she thought: It cannot be long now. Something tells me.

She was sorry and yet exulting. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask his pardon. She wanted to say: I wish you dead, Louis, and I hate myself for wishing it; but I cannot stop this wish.

It was long before she slept. She kept thinking of the heated ballroom, and she fancied she could still hear the sound of music mingling with the howling wind outside. Faces flashed in and out of her mind. François, lean and hungry…hungry for her body, half loving her, half hating her, since the tournament in which Charles had beaten him. Louise, alert and fearful, those glances which covered the whole of her body, speculatively fearful; and Marguerite so anxious that her brother’s way to the throne should not be blocked. The King…whose spirit yearned toward a greater amorousness than his body would allow.

She thought of Charles in the arena—the dreadful moment when she thought the German would unseat him and perhaps inflict some injury. Then she remembered him, victorious, receiving the prize from her hands.

How long? How long? she asked herself.

She did not have to wait for the answer.

She would never forget waking on the morning of New Year’s Day when the wintry light filtered into the bedchamber and on to the gray face of the man in the bed. She leaned over him in deep compassion and said: “Louis…you are very sick today?”

He did not answer her. He did not even know it was his beautiful Queen who had spoken.

Then she knew that the day for which she had prayed and yearned had come.

The door of the cage was opening; she would soon be free.

Yet when she looked down at that withered face, at the bleak, unseeing eyes, she could only murmur: “The pity of it!”

Is the Queen Enceinte?

DRESSED COMPLETELY IN WHITE, Mary sat alone in that room in the Hôtel de Clugny which was known as la chambre de la reine blanche. Here she was to remain, in accordance with custom, for six weeks while she mourned her husband.

Mary was relieved to be able to shut herself away in this manner. Her husband was dead but she knew that she was not yet free to make another marriage, and that there would be all sorts of opposition to her choice possibly not only from England but from France. She had come to understand that the English and the French would be wrangling over her dowry, her jewels, and all the costly appurtenances with which they had thought it necessary to load her before making her Queen of France. The fight was not yet over; therefore it was a pleasure to be shut away from the Court and be alone with a few of her attendants: six whole weeks in which to review the new life which lay ahead and to plan that she should not again be deprived of her heart’s desire.

The Hôtel de Clugny was situated in the Rue des Mathurins and had once been the home of Cluniac monks. It was small compared with Les Tournelles, but her own apartments were adequate; and somberly fitted out as a mourning chamber and lighted only by wax tapers, they gave her the feeling that she was shut away from the world; in such intimate surroundings she could think clearly.

Strangely enough she did mourn Louis, for she could not forget his gentleness and many kindnesses; and in spite of her relief she was a little sad because she had longed for his death; so while she exulted in her freedom she was a little melancholy; and now that he was dead she knew that she was not yet out of danger.

This was made clear to her during her interview with François; for although she was shut away from the Court her close relations were allowed to visit her; and of course these included François.

They faced each other and neither was able to suppress the excitement which burned beneath that solemn façade which convention demanded they should show the world. His future was in the balance, no less than hers, for whether or not he was to be King of France would be decided in a few weeks. Perhaps she could tell him now.

“My dearest belle-mère,” he murmured, using that name which he had always spoken with tenderness and an implication that it was ridiculously amusing that, through his marriage with her stepdaughter, one so young and beautiful should bear such a relationship to him. “These are sad days for you and I have been waiting impatiently to come to you and tell you that I am thinking of you every hour.”

A smile was upon her lips. Indeed you are! she thought. For on me depends whether or not you will be, in a few short weeks, crowned King of France.

“You have always been so thoughtful,” she murmured.

“I trust you are in good health…?” His eyes strayed about her body.

“In excellent health,” she answered.

“And not indisposed in any way?”

“I am as well as can be expected…in the circumstances.”

She saw the lights of alarm shoot up in his eyes, and a tremor of laughter ran through her. Serve you right, François, she thought. Did you not bring out the big German in the hope that you would unseat Charles? You might have harmed him…if he had not been so much better than your German.

“The circumstances…?” he began.

“Have you forgotten that I have recently become a widow?”

His relief was obvious. Where was his old subtlety? It had deserted him, so anxious was he.

“I feared the King’s health was growing steadily worse in the weeks before his death.”

“Yet there were times when he was so gay…almost like a young man. Why, only just before his death…”

François clenched his fists. He was longing to ask her outright: Are you enceinte? Yet it would be unseemly to do so, and if he could only curb his patience for a few weeks he would know.

He left her, no wiser about this important matter than before.

Louise and Marguerite embraced François when he came to them direct from the Hôtel de Clugny.

Louise looked earnestly into his face.

“Did you discover?”

François shook his head mournfully.

“She might not know yet,” suggested Marguerite.

“Surely if there were already signs she would have told you!” protested Louise.

“She would have been only too ready to make it known,” mused Marguerite. “She would be so proud to be mother of the King of France.”

Louise covered her face with her hands. “Do not say that.” She shivered. “If it were true I think I should die of melancholy.”

François went to his mother and put his arm about her shoulder. She gave him the smile which was kept for him alone.

“Dearest, we should still be together,” he said.

“And while the world held you, my King, there would be a reason for living. But that another should have that which is yours! I think I should be ready to strangle the brat at birth.”

“I doubt they would allow you to be present at the birth,” retorted Marguerite grimly.

“You must not despair,” said François. “I do not think Louis was capable.”

Marguerite looked at her brother steadily. “And others?” she asked.

“I think the Queen was…entirely virtuous.”

Mother and daughter showed their relief. At least François had not shared her bed, and they were inclined to think that Louis, who was even weaker than they had realized, must have been incapable of begetting a child.

“The point is,” said Marguerite precisely, “is it possible for the Queen to be enceinte?”

“It is certainly possible,” François said.

“But if she is a virtuous woman, unlikely,” went on Marguerite.

“In a few weeks we should know,” put in Louise.

“And even if we should learn that the Queen is enceinte,” added Marguerite, “we should not utterly despair, because it is just as likely that she might give birth to a girl as a boy.”

“Even you do not understand,” cried Louise. “For years I have been in torment. I have seen the crown so near and suffered the frustration. And now I know I am near the end of that dreaded uncertainty, but it might prove that all my worst fears will be realized. It has been too long….”

“Mother dear,” said François, “we shall soon be out of our misery. Let us remember that.”

She slipped her hand through his arm and laid her cheek against his sleeve while she looked up at him adoringly.

“Trust my King to soothe me,” she murmured.

“Whatever happens,” François reminded her, “we have each other. Remember…the trinity.”

“Yes,” said Louise fiercely, “but it must be a trinity with the King of France at the apex.”

“I have a feeling it will be,” said Marguerite calmly.

François smiled at her. “I share your view, my pearl. So much so that I am already thinking as though I am King of France. We must find a husband for Mary Tudor…in France.”

“You have discussed this with her?” asked Marguerite.

“It is as yet too soon. She is, after all, making a pretense of mourning Louis. But I have heard that her brother is already sounding Charles of Castile. Such an alliance would not be good for France. Moreover it would mean that we should have to return her dowry, and there would be the question of her jewels. Louis was constantly giving her trinkets and, as these by right belong to the crown of France, I should not want to see them leave the country. Therefore I have been thinking of a possible match for her.”

“In France, of course,” said Louise. “Oh for the day when Mary Tudor is safely married and no longer a threat to François!”

“I have two suitors in mind for her. There is the Duc de Lorraine, and the Duc de Savoy.”

“My beloved,” cried Louise, “what a King you will make! What a happy day it will be for France when you mount the throne!”

Marguerite, her eyes shining, knelt before him and taking his hand kissed it. The gesture meant that she was paying homage to the King of France.

“It must be so,” murmured Louise. Then her eyes narrowed and she added: “It shall be so.”

Mary was filled with despair. The walls of her mourning chamber seemed to her like a prison, and within them she felt herself to be doomed.

For six weeks she must remain here. She could have borne that if when she emerged it was to be to freedom. But there were plans to prevent this. To ambitious kings she was not so much a woman as a bargaining counter. François forgot his gallantry when he considered her future; was Henry going to forget his promise?

Fear was her companion. Little Anne Boleyn who, in spite of her youth, knew how to keep her ears and eyes open, had told her that there was gossip among the French attendants and that they were wagering who would have his way over the next marriage of Mary—François or the King of England.

Henry was in negotiation to renew the match between Mary and Charles of Castile which had been broken when she was affianced to Louis. François had other plans for her.

“I could not bear it!” Mary murmured into her pillows. “I will not endure it. Henry shall keep his promise to me.”

She became so melancholy that her attendants were alarmed for her health. She complained of toothache and headaches; and on one or two occasion she burst into loud laughter which turned into weeping.

“The Queen realizes that she has lost a good husband,” said her attendants.

Each day she arose, fretting against her incarceration in the Hôtel de Clugny, while at the same time she rejoiced in her seclusion because it gave her time to think. She would feel suddenly gay because she had gained her freedom from Louis; then the gaiety would be replaced by melancholy when she asked herself how long this freedom would last.

Marguerite, hearing of the Queen’s state of health, came to visit her in some concern. Her moods, reasoned Marguerite, could be due to her condition, and Marguerite was a woman who believed that it was better to know the worst and plan accordingly.

In the mourning chamber, Marguerite embraced her.

“You are looking pale,” she said anxiously.

“Are you surprised?”

“Indeed no. You have had a great shock. And, even though the King’s death was expected, when these things happen they shock nonetheless. Tell me about your health. I hear that you have headaches and toothache.”

“I have never had them before.”

“Have you any idea why you should feel thus…apart from your melancholy over the King’s death?”

Mary lowered her eyes. They were too insistent. In spite of her alarm for her future she felt the laughter bubbling up inside her. Had François or Louise sent Marguerite to question her? They had all three lost their subtlety in their great anxiety.

“I feel at such a time it is natural for me to be in delicate health.”

“Are there any other symptoms?”

“I felt a little sick this morning.”

Mary reproached herself on seeing the look of despair which Marguerite could not suppress. Poor Marguerite! She had always been very kind to Mary. It was a shame to tease her.

Mary went on quickly: “I think it was because I was upset. I had heard that my brother was already planning a new marriage for me.”

“And you do not favor such a marriage?”

“I was affianced to Charles of Castile before I came to France. He was not eager for the match then; I am not eager for it now. Then I was a Princess of England; now I am a Queen of France.”

“I’ll swear you have grown to love France during your stay here and have no wish to leave it.”

Mary stared dreamily ahead of her and Marguerite went on: “My brother is anxious on your behalf. He wants to see you happy. He would make a very good match for you here in France. Then you need never leave us.”

“I do love France, it is true,” answered Mary. “But do you not think that it is somewhat unseemly to think of marriage for me when…”

“When?” asked Marguerite, alarmed.

“When I have so recently lost my husband?”

“Marriages for royal people are invariably arranged with little consideration for their personal feelings.”

“Alas,” sighed Mary.

“And my brother would not wish to force you into anything that was not congenial to you.”

“At this time it is congenial to me to remain as I am.”

“That he understands, but he puts forward certain propositions to you that you may bear them in mind; and if your brother should become insistent, you can tell him that you have plans of your own.”

Mary smiled, secretively and in a manner which increased Marguerite’s despair. “I have plans of my own,” she murmured.

“The Duc de Lorraine, whom my brother had in mind for you, is affianced to the daughter of the Duc de Bourbon; but Charles, Duc de Savoy, would be an excellent match. Oh, Mary, please stay with us.”

With a gesture of affection Marguerite had thrown her arms about Mary. Were those caressing hands trying to discover whether there was any thickening of the girlish figure?

Mary returned the embrace but continued to look mysterious.

“I can decide nothing…yet,” she said.

“But your brother, I have heard, is sending an embassy to France. I think his wish is that you should return to England with it.”

“An English embassy! I wonder whom he will send.”

“I do know that it will be led by the Duke of Suffolk.”

All melancholy was replaced by joy. If Henry was sending Charles, it could mean that he remembered his promise. Was Henry saying: Now it is up to you!

This changed everything. Charles was coming. Nothing in the world could have made her happier.

She must hide her joy. Marguerite was too watchful; and a little sly, she had to admit, for Marguerite, while posing as her friend, was in truth her brother’s spy.

She knew full well that although Marguerite expressed her friendship and François constantly hinted that a closer relationship would please him, they were her enemies—in so much as they would not help her to marry Charles Brandon.

She was not so simple that she did not know the reason for François’s desire for a French marriage. He wanted to keep her dowry.

But Charles was coming! And this time she would not be cheated.

She walked to her couch and lay down on it.

“I feel a little tired,” she told Marguerite. “I think I shall have to rest a little more frequently…now.”

“You mean…?”

“Just that I do seem to be in need of this rest, my dear Marguerite. Thank you for coming to see me.”

She turned her face away and Marguerite must leave her, bewildered, frustrated, as deep in that dreadful uncertainty as she had been before her visit.

It was unseemly for a widow to be so happy. She could not help it. When she rose she wanted to sing: “Charles is coming to France.” It was her last thought before retiring each night.

Every day she waited for news of the English embassy. She would say to herself: “This very day he may come walking into the apartment.” She knew what she would say to him when he did come. “Charles, Charles, now. No delay. We must take no more chances. I have waited too long and will wait no longer. Take me now, for I am yours and you are mine for as long as we both shall live.”

Still he did not come. But she was not in despair. Perhaps he was waiting at Dover now. Perhaps the gales were too fierce. Oh, the perils of the sea! They alarmed her; they frightened her. But he would come through them safely. She was certain.

“Soon, my love. Soon I shall be in your arms,” she murmured.

And meanwhile the trinity were watching for signs of her pregnancy, and they would try to prevent her marriage to Charles Brandon, she knew, because their plan was to force her into marriage with Charles of Savoy.

I’d die rather, Mary told herself.

She was burning with impatience. She could scarcely endure the days, and life was so dull and dreary in the mourning chamber while she was waiting for Charles that she must try to infuse a little gaiety into her life.

She kept little Anne Boleyn at her side. The girl was discreet, she was sure; moreover she was English.

“Soon,” Mary told Anne, “we shall be going to England. I shall never marry here.”

Then she was afraid that she had been indiscreet and, taking the girl by her long black hair, warned her of the horrors which would befall her if she ever repeated what she had heard.

The serene black eyes were untroubled; Mary knew she could rely on the child, who was wise beyond her years.

She would have only Anne to help her dress and insisted that together they spoke English. And if Anne was astonished at the petticoats Mary insisted on wearing she gave no sign.

“There!” cried Mary. “How do I look?”

Anne put her head on one side, her black eyes disapproving. She was already fastidious about her dress, and a very fashionable young lady who could always be relied on to bring out the ornaments which looked best on certain gowns.

“Too fat, Madame,” said Anne.

Then Mary laughed and taking the girl by the hands danced round the room with her.

“So I look fat, do I? So would you, Mistress Anne, if you were as petticoated as I am. And I will tell you something; tomorrow I shall wear yet another petticoat; and I want you to find some quilting.”

“Quilting, Madame?”

“I said quilting. Those black eyes are very inquisitive. Never mind, little Anne. You shall discover. In the meantime not a word…not a word to anyone of petticoats or quilting. You understand me?”

“Yes, Madame.” The black eyes were demure, the lips turned up at the corners. The girl had wit enough to enjoy the joke.

Each day Mary was visited at the Hôtel de Clugny by Louise, Marguerite or François.

Daily her body seemed to grow thicker and each day as they left her they were in greater despair.

Mary’s eyes, sparkling with excitement, would be watchful. They knew that she guarded some secret, which gave her the utmost pleasure.

“There can be no doubt about it,” said Louise in despair. “Louis has left her pregnant.”

François beat his fist against his knee. “Months of waiting…then the birth. And if it is a boy…Foi de gentilhomme, why is Fate so cruel!”

Louise paced up and down her apartment.

“That it should have come to this. All the years and now…this. Who would have thought Louis capable!”

Only Marguerite had comfort to offer. “It may be a girl,” she said.

But even so there would be the months of uncertainty.

Mary had shut the door of her chamber and taken little Anne by the hands. She danced with her round and round until they were both breathless.

“Anne, did you see her face? Marguerite’s, I mean. Poor Marguerite! It is a shame. She has been a good friend to me.”

“She has been a better one to her brother, Madame.”

“Well, Anne, that is natural. As for Louise, I believe she would like to kill me.”

“And would do, Madame, if it were possible for the deed not to be discovered.”

“I know it well. That is perhaps why I enjoy my little joke.”

“The quilting has slipped, Madame.”

“I find it rather hot, Anne. Perhaps I will wear fewer petticoats tomorrow.”

“You must not grow smaller, Madame.”

“Not until the time is ripe,” was the answer. “Have you heard any rumors about the embassy from England?”

“No, Madame, only that the King has chosen the Duke of Suffolk to lead it.”

Mary clasped her hands together.

“My Charles, soon he will be with me.” She began to dance once more round the room, her arms held out as though to a partner. She stopped suddenly. “I should be mourning Louis. Poor Louis who was always kind to me. But I cannot pretend, Anne. How can I mourn when Charles is coming to me? And when he comes, this time I shall never let him go.”

Anne had run to her and was picking up the quilting which had fallen from her skirts.

Mary snatched it from her and threw it high into the air.

“When he is here, the joke will be over. I would not have him see me ungainly, I do assure you.”

Then she laughed and wept a little while Anne watched her with solemn eyes.

Marguerite, her eyes wide, her face pale, burst into her mother’s apartment.

“What is it, my dear?” demanded Louise, and François, who was with his mother, came swiftly to his sister’s side.

“I have just left the Queen,” stammered Margaret.

“And she has told you…,” began François.

Marguerite shook her head. “I can’t believe it, and yet…”

“My dearest, it is unlike you to be incoherent,” François murmured.

“Come, come,” put in Louise impatiently. “What is it?”

“I was studying her figure and thinking that it had thickened even since yesterday. She was seated and suddenly rose; I am sure my eyes did not deceive me, but it seemed that something beneath her gown moved.”

“Is it so far gone then!” cried Louise in panic. She began counting on her fingers. “They were married in October. Could it have happened then? Impossible. Old Louis would have been so proud, he would never have kept the secret.”

“Not a child,” said Marguerite slowly, “definitely not a child. It was as though something…slipped.”

The three looked at each other.

Louise spoke first. “It’s impossible. Would she attempt to trick us? For what purpose? What can she hope to gain from it?”

“Some amusement,” suggested François, and he began to laugh, partly with relief. For if what had entered his mind were indeed true then he would be a very happy man.

“We must find out,” declared Louise.

“How?” asked Marguerite.

“How, my dear! I shall go to her apartments. I shall see what it is she wears beneath her garments.”

“You cannot mean, Maman,” protested Marguerite, “that you will go to the Queen’s chamber and ask to see what she wears beneath her gown! Remember she is still the Queen of France.”

“My dear Marguerite, if your eyes have not deceived you as that girl is trying to deceive us, I am—at this moment—the mother of the King of France. I fancy my son would allow no one to criticize my actions. Is that not so, Sire?”

“Mother, if I ever forget what I owe to you I should never deserve to wear the crown.”

“Then I shall take this chance. Come with me, Marguerite. But wait awhile. We will prepare her for our meeting. Go, my dear, and send one of the pages to the Hôtel de Clugny to tell the Queen that we beg leave to call on her.”

Mary patted her body affectionately. A visit from Louise and Marguerite! When the former came she could always be sure of some amusement; she never felt ashamed of duping her, as she did Marguerite.

“How do I look, Anne?”

“Very enceinte, Madame.”

“What would you say, my child? Three months?”

Laughter bubbled to Anne’s lips. “It would seem, Madame, that you carry a large and healthy boy and have been doing so for more than three months.”

“And if I look larger than other women that is natural, Mistress Anne. Do I not carry a little king? Do I carry him high? They tell me that that is a sign of a boy.”

“Oh yes, Madame. But you are far too large.”

“We will leave it now, Anne. I shall remain thus until the English embassy arrives. See who is at the door.”

Anne came back, her eyes sparkling. “Madame d’Alençon with her mother, Madame.”

Mary went to her couch and reclined there, looking wan.

“How is that, Anne?”

“Excellent, Madame.”

“Bring them in. And then go discreetly into the corner and sit there with your needlework. You must look very serious. Remember that you are in a chamber of mourning.”

Mary might have been warned by the militant glare in Louise’s eyes, but she scarcely looked at her.

She smiled wanly and held out her hand.

“Welcome,” she said in a quiet voice. “It does me so much good to see you here. And Marguerite also. Welcome too, my dear.”

“We have been hearing accounts of your health which give us some concern,” Marguerite told her.

“My health? You must not be so anxious on my behalf. It is all so natural.”

“And how are you feeling, now, Madame?”

“A little tired. A little sick now and then. With diminished appetite, and now and then a fancy for some odd thing.”

“I trust your servants are taking good care of you.”

“The utmost care. The little Boleyn is a treasure.”

“I would,” said Marguerite, “that you would allow me to be with you more frequently.”

“At such a time I am happy to be with little Boleyn. I am in no mood even for your sparkling conversation.”

Louise had spoken little, but her sharp eyes never left the Queen’s reclining figure for one moment.

She came close to the couch and two spots of color burned in her cheeks, as she said: “I trust, Madame, that you did not catch the King’s complaint when you nursed him so carefully.”

“The King’s complaint?”

“Gout!” hissed Louise, as with a swift movement she leaned over the couch and touched that spot where the padding beneath Mary’s gown was thickest.

“Madame!” Mary began indignantly, leaping from the couch as she spoke.

Louise, so triumphant, so conscious of the fact that as privileged mother of the King she was in a position to act as familiarly as she cared to with the Dowager Queen, jerked up the Queen’s gown, exposing the layers of petticoats; and not content with that she probed further until she was able to pull at the padding.

Mary shrieked her protest but Louise was in command now.

“A new fashion perchance from England?” asked Marguerite, and there was laughter in her voice.

“Exactly so,” answered Mary. “Did you not like it?”

“It gave you the appearance of a pregnant woman,” went on Marguerite, for she saw that her mother was struck speechless by the mingling of delight and fury.

“Is that so?” replied Mary calmly. “Then that must have pleased some, while it displeased others.”

“Your royal body is more charming in its natural state,” went on Marguerite.

Mary sighed and put her hands on her hips. “I feel you may be right.”

By this time Louise had recovered her speech, and all the anxiety of years was slipping from her. But she had to make sure. She took Mary by the arm and shook her.

“You will tell me,” she said, “that you are not with child.”

Mary’s mischievous eyes looked straight into Louise’s. The little game was over. She had to tell them the truth.

“Madame,” she said, “I am not with child. I trust that ere long I may have the pleasure of greeting the King and saying, as all his subjects will wish to: ‘Vive François Premier.’”

Triumph of the Queen

HE SAT OPPOSITE HER in the mourning chamber. He was at his most handsome and insouciant. The anxiety was over; moreover it was a thing of the past because it had gone forever.

He was jaunty, sitting there, his long, elegant legs crossed, studying her with smiling eyes.

“I am honored,” she told him demurely, “to be visited by the King of France.”

“It is a marvelous thing,” he replied, “that I should have been a King before I was aware of it.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

He laughed suddenly. Then he said: “I trust you enjoyed the game.”

“It was the greatest fun,” she answered frankly.

“It gave my mother and sister much anxiety.”

“And you, I fear.”

“It would seem to me that you are a little méchant, ma belle-mère.”

“It is why I have always felt drawn toward you, mon beau-fils. We are alike in some ways.”

“All those weeks of uncertainty! I should have been crowned at Rheims by now.”

“But that is to come, Sire.”

“You should be trembling, so to have duped the King and his family.”

“So should I, did I not know that the King loves a joke—even against himself—as well as I do.”

“Nevertheless, this was beyond a joke.”

“Then, Sire, you are indeed angry. But I do not believe it. You still look at me with such friendship.”

François began to laugh and she joined in; she was thinking of young Anne, carefully padding her, and the expression on Louise’s face when she had studied her thickened figure.

“’Twas a good joke, Sire,” she said between her gusts of laughter. “You will admit that.”

“It did not seem so then,” he said, trying to look solemn; but he could not set his face into severe lines, and he was thinking: Why was I not given this girl instead of Claude? He was speculating too. He would marry her to Savoy and she and her husband should be at Court. He would carry on his flirtation with her and, when he was King and she was Duchess of Savoy, there was every hope of their little affair reaching its culmination. He might come to an arrangement with Savoy that the marriage should be one of convenience. Savoy need never be a husband to her and she could be the maîtresse-en-titre of the King of France. It was not difficult for a king to arrange such matters.

He could see a very pleasant future ahead of them, so how could he be angry with her?

“If you were not so beautiful,” he said, “I might decide you should be punished in some way.”

“Then I thank the saints for giving me a face that pleases the King of France—and a body too…although that did not once please him so well.”

“So,” went on François, “instead of sending my guards to arrest you and take you to some dark dungeon, I will tell you of the future I have planned for you. I shall never allow you to leave France, you know.”

All the gaiety left her face; she was alert now.

“My home is in England,” she began. “Now that I no longer have a French husband I should return to my native land.”

“My dearest belle-mère, we will find you a husband who will please you. In fact I have someone in mind for you.”

“The Duke of Savoy by any chance?”

“So you already had your eye on him. He will be a good husband to you.”

“When I marry, Sire, I should like to be the one who had decided on my partner.”

François slowly uncrossed his legs. He rose and came to her chair. There he stood smiling down at her.

“You are fully aware of my feelings toward you.”

“Oh yes. You forgive me my follies because you like my face and now my figure.”

He took her hands and pulled her up, standing very close to her.

“I have thought a great deal about our future,” he told her.

“Ours?”

“Yours and mine.”

“Yours is a great destiny.”

“I should like you to have a share in it. I think that together we should find great…contentment.”

“I to share your life? And your Queen?”

“Poor little Claude. She will do her duty in a docile manner, but she will not expect to share my life.”

“But she shares your throne.”

“Here in France it is the woman the King loves who is in truth Queen of France—not the one he marries.”

“You are suggesting that I become your mistress!”

“Do not look horrified. You have forgotten that I am now the King. Everything you wish will be yours. Savoy shall understand the position so that he will be no encumbrance to you.”

“I see. Is that how matters are arranged in France?”

“It is how I intend matters shall be arranged in France.”

He had his arms about her and she placed her hands on his chest, holding him off. He could see now that she was in truth afraid of him.

“François,” she said urgently, “you have always been my friend.”

“And always will be, I hope.”

“From the moment I saw you, although my coming could well have meant the death of all your hopes, you were good to me. More than anyone you made me feel welcome and comfortable in a new land.”

“That was my endeavor.”

“So now I am going to be frank with you. I am going to ask you to help me. I am fond of you, François. You see I speak to you as my friend—not as the King of France. But I shall never willingly be your mistress. Oh, it is not that I hate you, or find you repulsive. That would be foolish. Everyone knows you are the most attractive man in France. But François, before I came to France I loved, and I do not change. I shall love one man forever.”

“Suffolk?” said François.

“You know.”

“You betrayed your feelings at the tournament, when he tilted against the German.”

She had clasped her hands across her breast and was looking at him appealingly. François turned away. This was too much. After having played her tricks on him and his family she was asking him to help her make a secret marriage with Suffolk, so that the dowry and the jewels should not after all remain in France.

The impudence of this girl was past belief.

She was catching at his arm and there were tears in her beautiful eyes. “Oh, François, you who are so gallant, so wise, will understand. I shall tell you everything because you are as a brother to me…the dearest, kindest brother any girl ever had. I thought I should die of a broken heart when they told me I should have to marry Louis. And my brother promised me that if I did, on his death I should marry whom I pleased. That time has come, and I shall look to my brother to keep his promise.”

François walked away from her and pulled thoughtfully at the hangings.

He said, without turning to look at her: “I can tell you this. Your brother has no intention of keeping his promise to you. He is negotiating for the Prince of Castile as your second husband.”

“When I see my brother I can persuade him.”

“As you hope to persuade me?”

“I know that you are kind at heart and would always want to help a woman in distress.”

“You ask too much,” said François. And indeed she did, she who refused his embraces and had the effrontery to ask him to help her to enjoy a rival’s!

“Not of you…the King…the all powerful King.”

“The marriage of Princesses cannot be settled at the whim of one King.”

“Not even when the King proposes to make a princess his mistress after marrying her to a complaisant husband?”

François muttered: “It is the wish of my ministers that you remain in France.”

“But you will not allow your ministers to rule France, surely?”

She came to stand demurely at his elbow and when he looked down into her lovely young face and saw the purpose there, when he remembered how moved she had been at the tournament, he was touched. He admired women who knew what they wanted and determined wholeheartedly to get it. He believed—and he knew he would continue to do so all his life—that the two most wonderful people in the world were his mother and sister. They had always known what they wanted and would always be bold enough to fight for it. Mary Tudor was another such. So he had to admire her while deploring what might have been called her insolence. François was deeply affected by women; having been brought up by such a mother and sister, women had been his chief companions during the formative years of his life. He idealized them, preferred their company to that of his own sex, and could not bear to disappoint those for whom he had some affection. Women aroused all his chivalry, and as he had been ready to sacrifice his desire for Françoise, he was now ready to do so for Mary Tudor.

He took her hand and kissed it.

“I envy Suffolk,” he said.

She threw back her head and laughed, showing her perfect white teeth and plump, rounded throat. What I am losing! thought François regretfully.

“You!” she cried. “You envy none. You are the King of France which is what you have always longed to be—and you will be beloved by your subjects, particularly the females, so you should envy none.”

“None but Suffolk,” he answered.

“François, you are going to help me? You are going to allow me to see Charles when he comes? You are going to put nothing in the way of our marriage?” She leaped up and threw her arms about his neck. “François, how I love my beau-fils.”

He smiled down his long, humorous nose. “But not as you love Suffolk?” he asked plaintively.

She shook her head sadly and kissed his cheek. Then she knelt demurely before him and, taking his hand, kissed it.

“I shall remember you all my life,” she said, “as one of the best friends I ever had.”

Mary paced up and down her chamber. In that adjoining, the English embassy was dining, and among them was Charles. She had not seen him yet, but she knew he was there.

The six weeks since the death of Louis were not quite at an end, but the Duke of Suffolk, as emissary of her own brother, would be allowed to visit her.

Burning with impatience she had plagued young Anne and all her attendants. How weary she was of her white mourning! How she longed to put on something gay. They assured her that nothing could have been more becoming than her white garments, but she was uncertain and so eager to appear at her best before her lover.

François, who on the 28th of January had been crowned at Rheims, clearly intended to keep his promise to her, for he raised no objection to Suffolk’s enjoying a private interview with Mary; and it was for this that she was now waiting.

It seemed hours before he came to her; she studied him intently for a few seconds and then threw herself into his embrace.

“I thought I should never be free,” she told him.

He kissed her with both tenderness and passion but she sensed his disquiet.

“Why, Charles,” she said, “are you not happy?”

“I could be happy only if there was nothing between us two.”

“But we are both free now. Think of that, Charles! And François is my friend. He will help us. There must be no delay. I shall not allow you to leave me again.”

He took her face in his hands and shook his head.

“There is the King,” he said.

“Henry? But I have his promise.”

“He is making plans for your marriage, and they do not include me.”

“Then he must change his plans. You forget that he has given me his word. Why, dearest Charles, you must not be unhappy now. I have been so excited…waiting for this moment. And now it is here, I do not intend to be cheated again.”

“I had a long talk with your brother before I left England.”

“But Henry knows what will happen. He would not have sent you here to me if he had not approved of our marriage, for he must know that I intend to marry you.”

“I must tell you something, my dearest. Before I left England, Henry made me take a solemn oath.”

Mary stared at her lover with tragic eyes.

“And there was naught I could do but take it.”

“And what was this oath?”

“That I would not induce you to plight your troth to me, nor seize the opportunity which my presence here might give me.”

“Henry made you promise that! And you did?”

“My beloved, you know your brother. What else could I do? I should not have been allowed to come here if I had not made it.”

Mary stared ahead with narrowed eyes. Her lips were firmly set. “I’ll not be cheated again,” she declared. “I tell you, I will not.”

Then she was twining her arms about his neck, giving him kiss after fierce kiss.

“I’ll not let you go,” she insisted. “I kept my side of the bargain, and Henry shall keep his. Charles, if you love me you will not allow a miserable promise to keep us apart. Do you love me, Charles? Do you love me one tenth as much as I love you?”

“I love you infinitely.”

“Then why so sad?”

“Because, my beloved, I fear our love will destroy us.”

They could not remain alone for long. That they should have been given this short time together was a great concession. He must return to his embassy, she to her mockery of mourning.

But before he left she had shown him her determination. She was a Tudor and she would have her way.

She talked to Anne Boleyn of her suspicions. She was certain that many were jealous of her Charles.

“Why, look,” she cried, “he is handsome, so clever, so skilled in everything he does. He is my brother’s best friend. So they are jealous of him—men, such as Norfolk, seek to spoil the friendship between him and Henry. They have whispered poison into my brother’s ear so that he forgets his promise to me. But I do not forget.”

She liked to talk to Anne because the child never attempted to soothe her. She merely sat and listened, and now and then added a shrewd remark of her own.

“It is for this reason that Henry extracted a promise from Charles before he left England. But my brother also gave me a promise, and I have no intention of forgetting that, I tell you. The King of France will help. So I shall insist on Henry’s keeping his promise to me. For if my brother did not wish me to have Charles, why did he send him over here with the embassy?”

“It is said that he sent the Duke of Suffolk in order to lure you back to England, Madame.”

“So they are chitty-chatting about me and Charles, are they?”

“It is said that the Duke is a very ambitious man, Madame, and that, having failed to win an Archduchess, he will try for a queen.”

Mary pulled Anne’s long black hair sharply. “Do not speak of the Archduchess to me. Charles never had any fancy for her.”

“No, Madame.”

“And understand this, little Boleyn, that my Charles would never lure me back that my brother might marry me to that slack-mouthed idiot of Castile.”

The Queen’s confessor came to her apartments and asked that he might speak to her alone; and when Mary signed to Anne to go, the young girl went quietly from the room.

The friar was an Englishman—and that she should have a confessor from her own country was another concession from François.

“Madame,” he said, “I wish to speak to you on a most urgent matter.”

“Speak on,” Mary commanded.

“It concerns one of our countrymen who is here on a mission.”

Mary studied him through narrowing eyes. “Which man?” she demanded.

“His Grace of Suffolk.”

“And what of his Grace of Suffolk?”

“A most ambitious gentleman, Madame.”

“Is that so? I see nothing wrong with ambition. I doubt not that you have some of that tucked away behind that holy expression you show me and the world.”

“Madame, I come to warn you.”

“Of what and whom?”

“Of this ambitious man.”

The color was high in her cheeks but the friar ignored the danger signals.

He went on blithely: “It is said that Your Highness is inclined to favor this man, and I have been warned that I should make known to you the type of man he is. Beware of Suffolk, Madame. He traffics with the devil.”

“Who told you this?”

“It is well known that Sir William Compton has an ulcer on his leg which will not heal. Your brother, the King himself, has made an ointment which has cured other ulcers. Nothing cures Compton’s. And do you know why?”

“Yes,” Mary replied. “Compton has led too merry a life, and the ulcer is an outward sign of all his gaiety.”

“Your Highness misjudges him. Suffolk laid a spell on the man out of jealousy of the King’s friendship for him. Suffolk is a friend of Wolsey who, it is well known, is one of the devil’s servants.”

“They are my friends, also, sir friar. And you are not. You fool, do you not think I shall treat your lies with anything but what they deserve? If there is one grain of sense left in your addled pate, you would remove yourself from my presence without delay, for the sight of you so sickens me that I wish never to look on your silly face again. And I tell you this: If you repeat to anyone the lies you have told me, you will ere long have no tongue with which to tell even the truth, if so be you have a mind to it—which I doubt.”

“My lady Mary…”

She went toward him, her hand uplifted to strike him. The friar hurried from her presence.

When he was gone, she threw herself onto her couch. So many enemies, she thought. Powerful men against us. Where will it all end?

But not for more than a moment would she allow her confidence to desert her.

There was another interview with Charles.

She faced him triumphantly.

“I have the answer,” she told him. “Henry made you swear not to influence me. Well, you have kept that promise. You did not influence me. My mind has long been made up. He made you promise not to induce me to plight my troth to you. Well, have I? Did I need any inducement? Now, Charles, you have kept your promise. But I insist that you plight your troth to me. I command that you marry me.”

Charles shook his head sadly. “I fear it will not do.”

“But it shall do,” she insisted.

“And afterward?”

“Oh, let us not think of afterward. I will deal with that if need be. I will make known to Henry that I was determined to marry you and commanded that you should obey me. Oh Charles, why do you hesitate? Do you not want to marry me?”

“More than anything on earth. But I want to live with you in peace and comfort for the rest of our lives. I want us to be able to watch our children growing up. I do not want a few short nights and then a dungeon for us both.”

She took his hands and laughed up at him. “I would not think beyond those few short nights,” she answered.

Then his emotions seemed to catch fire from hers. He seized her hungrily and they remained close.

Then she said: “If you do not marry me, Charles, I shall go into a convent. I’ll not be thrown to that other Charles. Oh my dearest, have no fear. I will face Henry. He will never harm us. He loves me too dearly and has often said that you are his greatest friend. What do you say, Charles?”

“When shall it be?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.

“As soon as it can be arranged. François will help us.”

“Then,” said Charles, “we will marry. And when it is done, together we will face whatever has to be faced.”

“I promise you this, my love,” she told him solemnly. “There will be no regrets. As long as I live there shall be none.”

In the oratory chapel of the Hôtel de Clugny a marriage ceremony took place in great secrecy.

Only ten people were present, and the priest was a humble one who had no notion, when he had been summoned, of the people whom he was to marry.

And there Mary stood, blissfully content, for this was the ceremony of which she had dreamed over many years.

The nuptial ring, the nuptial kiss—how different this occasion from that other in the Hôtel de la Gruthuse—how simple this, how elaborate that!

She smiled to think of the cloth of gold she had worn, and all the glittering jewels; they served their purpose for they did hide some of the bitter dejection, the melancholy which was then in her heart.

Now there were no jewels and the ceremony was simple; yet she wore her exultation, her supreme happiness more proudly than she had worn the costly treasures of France and England.

And as she stood beside her bridegroom, one of the spectators, smiling down his long nose at the bridal pair, cynically told himself that he was a fool to pass over this radiant girl to a rival. Yet it gave him pleasure to contemplate his own chivalry, and he would always remember the grateful glances of the bride.

The ceremony was over, and Mary Tudor was married to Charles Brandon.

The King of England might be furious, but at least they had the blessing of the King of France.

The English SCENE II

The Return

THE COUNTRYSIDE was at its most beautiful when Mary and her husband returned to England, for the spring was well advanced. What a joy to be riding once more through the country lanes of her native land with the man of her choice beside her.

Charles was the perfect lover, the perfect husband, as she had always known he would be, simply because she had long ago decided that he was the only man for her. He was more uneasy than she was, particularly since they had crossed the sea. He was apprehensive, thinking of facing the King.

As they came near to London, she said: “Charles, whatever happens now, it was worth it.”

He turned to smile at her. Her recklessness amused and delighted him while it often startled him; and when he thought of the honeymoon and the singleminded passion of his wife, he could say honestly that it was worthwhile and he would do the same again.

“But,” he added, “having tasted bliss, I could not bear to give it up now.”

“Nor shall you,” she retorted. “I know Henry well. He wants us back at Court. He will speak sternly to us but that is not to be taken seriously. At heart he is rejoicing because we are coming home.”

Charles did not deny this. But he could not forget those noblemen who were his enemies and who would be ready to poison the King’s mind against him. If Wolsey had not been on his side, he felt, it would almost certainly be a cell in the Tower of London which would be awaiting him.

Wolsey had indeed been his friend, and it was he who had warned the Duke how to act. The King, Wolsey had told him, was extremely displeased with both his sister and her husband. It was a foolish—one might say treasonable—act to marry without the King’s consent, and so quickly after the Queen had become a widow. Wolsey trembled at the thought of the King’s anger, but knowing the great love he bore his sister he believed that His Grace might be slightly placated if Mary made over to him her French rents, which amounted to some twenty-four thousand pounds. Then there was the matter of the Queen’s dowry which François had promised to pay back to her. This was some two hundred thousand crowns. If the King was asked graciously to accept these monies, together with the Queen’s plate and jewels, he might show a little leniency.

Mary had laughed when she heard this. She had waved her hand airily:

“Let him have all my possessions. What do I care? All that matters is that we are together, Charles.”

“I doubt we shall be able to afford to live at Court.”

“I believe, sir, you have estates in Suffolk?”

“You will find them somewhat humble after all the splendor you have known.”

“I was never more unhappy than when I lived most splendidly, Charles. I shall be happy, if need be, in Suffolk. Not that I believe Henry will allow us to leave Court. Did he not always love to have us with him? Why, when he was about to plan a joust his first thought was: ‘Where is Mary? Where is Suffolk?’”

“That was before we had so offended him.”

“Nonsense! Henry is only offended with those he dislikes. He loves us both. We shall be forgiven.”

“At a great cost.”

“Who cares for the cost?”

“Twenty-four thousand pounds? Two hundred thousand crowns?”

“Oh come, Charles, am I not worth that?”

He laughed at her. She was worth all the riches of France and England…and indeed the world, he told her.

Now as they rode along she was remembering how she had left Paris accompanied by the nobility of the Court. François himself had ridden with her, a little sad at parting, she fancied.

She would miss him, she assured him. Evidently not as he would miss her, he replied.

“Why, François,” she told him on parting, “if there had not been such a paragon of many virtues in the world as Charles Brandon, then I think I might have loved you.”

François grimaced and when he kissed her in parting at St. Dennis he was very loth to let her go.

She had embraced Marguerite tenderly; she would always remember their friendship with pleasure, she told her.

Louise was affectionate, bearing no malice, because she was now a completely contented woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight and she seemed years younger, for she was a woman with a dream at last come true. Even Claude said goodbye as though she were a friend; but that might have been due to relief at the parting.

Then on to Calais, leaving that phase of her life behind her forever.

They stayed some weeks in Calais, and it was then that she had been aware of Charles’s fear. They dared not cross to England until they had Henry’s permission to return, and each day Charles had eagerly hoped for a messenger from his King.

Mary had been content to remain in Calais, for anywhere was a good place as long as Charles was in it; and she could not completely share his anxieties because she was certain that she would be able to win Henry to her side as easily as she had François.

And at last the message had come. Henry would receive them; but with his invitation, carefully couched, was Wolsey’s more explanatory letter. The King was displeased; it was necessary to placate him; the pair must come to England not as a married couple, but they might call themselves affianced and there should be a ceremony of marriage in England; but in the meantime Henry would receive them.

Thus they rode on to Greenwich.

Henry stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, studying the pair who stood before him. His eyes were narrowed, his little mouth was tight. Secretly he was glad to see them but he was not going to let them know it yet.

A pace or so behind him, her face set in lines of anxiety, stood Katharine, his wife. She would have liked to offer them a warm welcome, but she dared not until Henry gave her a sign that she might.

Mary smiled at her brother, but he was not looking at her. That is because we are not yet alone, she assured herself. When we are, he will be quite different. She glanced at Katharine. Poor Katharine! Her appearance had not improved in the last months and she was looking her age which was several years more than Henry’s.

Mary knelt and kissed her brother’s hand; she then paid homage to the Queen.

“I am so happy to be home,” she said.

Henry’s mouth slackened a little, as he took her hand and led her into the Palace, while Katharine followed with Charles.

“Henry,” whispered Mary as they walked together, “how well you look! You are taller than ever. I had forgotten how truly magnificent you are.”

“I hear that the King of France is tall.”

“Very tall, but lean, Henry.”

“I like not lean men.”

“And ’tis not to be wondered at. I have been longing to see my brother.”

He was softening visibly.

“You have behaved in a manner which I find truly shocking.”

“Dearest Henry, how can you, who have never had to leave your home, your country, your beloved brother, understand the desire to return to all that you love!”

“So you preferred the King of England to the King of France?”

“There can be no comparison.”

“I have heard he is a clever fellow, this François.”

“Not clever enough to see through my little joke. Oh, Henry, I must tell you how I duped them all. As soon as possible let us be alone, you, Charles and I…and perhaps Katharine. I could tell this only then, and you will laugh so much. You will tell me I am méchant…as the King of France did.”

“Now you are in England we shall expect you to speak in English.”

“A little wicked then, Henry.”

His mouth was already beginning to turn up at the corners. How good it was to have her home! How lovely she was—even more so than when she went away—with her French clothes and her way of wearing them. She made poor Katharine look a little dull. It was to be expected, he supposed. This was a Tudor girl, his own sister. They were so alike. It was small wonder that she glowed and sparkled as none other could.

She was looking at him slyly. “Henry, confess something.”

“You forget to whom you speak.”

“Forget I am speaking to my dearest brother, when I have thought of doing little else for so many months!”

“Well, what is it?”

“You are as glad to have me with you as I am to be here.”

“I am displeased…,” began Henry; but his eyes were shining. “Well,” he said, “I’ll not deny it. It pleases me to see you back here at Court.”

She was smiling.

Charles dearest, she was thinking, it is easy, as I knew it would be.

Henry had laughed uproariously at the farce of keeping the royal family of France guessing. The tears were on his cheeks. He had not laughed so much since Mary had gone to France.

“How I should have liked to see you prancing about with your skirts padded. I’ll warrant that long-nosed Frenchman was beside himself with anxiety.”

“And his mother, and his sister. And then they caught me, Henry. The little Boleyn had not padded me carefully enough. The padding slipped….”

Henry slapped his thigh and rolled on his chair. Katharine looked on a little primly; she did not entirely approve of such ribald clowning. Poor Kate! thought Mary fleetingly. She does not amuse him as she should.

“I would I had been there,” declared Henry.

“Oh that you had!” sighed his sister. “But now we are home and all is well.”

“Is all well?” Henry scowled at Charles. “You should not think, Brandon…nor you, Mary, that you can flout my wishes and not suffer for it.”

Mary went behind her brother’s chair and wound her arms about his neck.

“Suffer for it?” she said. “You would not hurt your little sister, Henry?”

“Now, sister,” said Henry. “Do not think to cajole me.”

“You promised me that if I married Louis I myself should choose my next husband.”

“And would have kept that promise had you trusted me. I meant you to have him, but you should have asked my consent. And to marry as quickly as you did was unseemly.”

“’Twas not Charles’s fault. ’Twas mine. I insisted, Henry.”

“Then Charles is a bigger fool than I thought him, if he allows himself to be forced into marriage.”

“There are ways of forcing, Henry. We loved so much. But he did not want to offend you. The fault was mine. I was so much afraid of losing him. Katharine is shocked, because I tell the truth, but it is something I am not ashamed of.”

Henry scowled at his wife. “You should not be shocked because a woman loves her husband, Kate,” he said.

“Not that a woman should love her husband, Henry, but that before they were married…it is not usual for a woman to insist on marriage.”

Henry laughed suddenly. He pointed at Mary. “That girl’s a Tudor. She knows what she wants, and she makes certain she gets it.”

“’Tis true, I fear,” agreed Mary. “Oh Henry, have done. Charles and I are married.”

“You have not been married in England.”

“But you cannot say we are not married. What if I should be with child—which I can tell you may well be the case. Now I have shocked Katharine again. But I am blatant, Katharine.” She went to Charles and put her arms about him. She sighed. “You must send us to the Tower if you will, Henry, but one boon I ask of you. Let us share a cell, for I never want to be parted from this man as long as I shall live.”

Watching them, Henry’s face softened. They were such a handsome pair and there was much love between them. Henry felt a little envious. Katharine would never be a wife as Mary was. Mary was a woman of passion and he felt more alive since she had come back. Let them pay him vast sums. That should suffice.

He laughed suddenly. “Well, you will have to be married in my presence,” he said. “It shall take place soon and we’ll have a tourney to celebrate it. Charles, I’ll challenge you. Perhaps we’ll ride into the arena disguised as knights from a foreign land….”

Mary threw herself into her brother’s arms.

“Oh, it is wonderful to be home,” she said.

Henry was constantly in the company of his sister and brother-in-law; and it was useless for Norfolk and his supporters to attempt to poison the King’s mind against them—they were home and he was happy. Moreover he had gained financially from their exploit, and if they were now not as wealthy as might befit their rank, Henry was secretly pleased at that because his sister would be all the more delighted with the gifts he intended to bestow on her.

Mary was his beloved sister, the person whom, at heart, he loved best in the world; Charles Brandon was his greatest friend. At the joust Charles was his most worthy opponent, brilliant enough to arouse the applause of the spectators, but never quite equaling the King. Mary’s laughter was more frequent even than in the days of her childhood. Never before had she been so merry; never before had she been so contented.

He took them Maying with him and Katharine on Shooters Hill, where they were intercepted by men disguised as outlaws who turned out to be gentlemen of the Court, and who had prepared a magnificent picnic for them in the woods—an entertainment after Henry’s own heart, made more amusing, more hilariously gay, because his sister and her husband were present.

Out of love for her he decided that she should launch the latest ship he was having built. Wherever she went, the people cheered her; they said she looked more like the King than ever, and there was not a more beautiful girl in England than Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen of France, nor a more handsome man than Henry VIII of England.

Glowing health and glowing spirits added to their natural beauty, and Henry, making merry in the new vessel which would hold a thousand men, dressed in cloth of gold, his great golden whistle hanging round his neck, was an expansive host; and his sister Mary in green velvet, cut away in the front to show an amber satin petticoat, her golden hair flowing freely about her shoulders, gave the ship the name La Pucelle Marie.

Those were happy days. There was no longer any fear of the King’s displeasure.

When they returned to Greenwich after the launching of the ship, Mary noticed that Charles was thoughtful, and because she was susceptible to all his moods was certain that something was disturbing him.

As soon as they were alone in their apartments she asked him what ailed him. “For it is no use your trying to keep secrets from me, Charles.”

He sighed. “I preceive that to be so,” he answered, and went on: “Now that the King demands such payments from us we are much poorer than others at Court. I have been wondering whether Court life is too expensive for our pockets.”

Mary smiled. “Well, then, Charles, if we cannot afford to live at Court we must perforce live elsewhere.”

“But you are a king’s daughter.”

“King’s daughter second. First I am the wife of a country gentleman with estates in Suffolk who cannot afford to live at Court.”

“How would you like to live in the country?”

“The country…the Court…what care I? If we are together one place will suit me as well as the other.”

“You have never lived away from a Court.”

“Then it will be interesting to do so. Charles, I have been thinking that perhaps I should enjoy life in the country. They say Suffolk is very beautiful.”

“You would find it very dull, I fear.”

“I have a craving for a quiet life. I did not mean to tell you…until I was sure.”

“Mary!”

“I think it may well be so. Oh Charles, I thought my happiness was complete, but when I hold our child in my arms I shall have reached the peak of content.”

“If it is a boy…”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “I shall not pray for a boy, Charles. I think of poor Katharine who constantly asks for a boy, and I am saddened by her disappointments. If my child is a girl I shall be quite happy. Yours and mine Charles—that is all I ask the child to be.”

He took her face in his hands. “You are an extraordinary woman,” he said.

“I am a woman in love. Is there anything so extraordinary in that?”

They sat on the window seat; his arm was about her as they talked of the future. Perhaps, when she was certain, he suggested, it would be advisable to retire to the country, where they could live without great cost in his mansion of Westhorpe. There she would be the Lady of the Manor and the people would love her.

“I should like the child to be brought up there,” she reflected.

“What would Henry say?”

“I shall tell my brother that we cannot afford to live at Court. He will know why.”

“We were fortunate to escape his anger. When I think of what we did…I tremble still.”

“Did I not tell you that all would be well? I know Henry. We shall see him often. He will insist on our coming to Court, so we shall not be entirely cut off. It would not surprise me if he traveled to Westhorpe to see us.”

“To entertain the Court would be costly.”

“Never fear, Charles. I shall make Henry understand how poor we are. And there is something I wish to ask you, Charles. You have two daughters.”

“Yes; Anne and Mary.”

“They should live with their father.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I am their mother now,” she went on. “Indeed I must be pregnant for I have a great longing for a large family. Yes, Charles, I want to leave Court. I am tired of all the masques and balls. I never want to disguise myself as an Egyptian or a Greek again. I never want to stand on the floor of the ballroom listening to the gasps of amazement when we unmask. I am tired of flattery and deception. I want to be in the country; I want to visit the poor and the sick and the sorry. I want to make them laugh and to show them that the world is a wonderful place. That’s what I want, Charles, with you and my large family of children growing up round me. What are you thinking? You look solemn.”

“I was thinking that you are a woman who has always achieved what she desired.”

She laughed. “This is the good life,” she said.

“And we are in our prime to enjoy it.”

“Well, Charles, I shall always be in my prime while you are beside me to love me.”

Then she embraced him, and laughing, talked of the baby which she was sure she would soon be holding in her arms. She was certain of her happiness; the only thing she was not sure of was the child’s sex; and that was a matter of indifference to her.

“Your thoughts run on too far,” Charles told her. “You are not even sure that you are pregnant.”

“And if I am not, I surely soon shall be,” she retorted. “And when I go to the country I want all my children there. Your two girls and my own little one. A large family you will admit, considering I have been married barely two months.”

“You can always be trusted to do everything on a grand scale.”

“And the girls will come to Westhorpe?”

“If that is what you wish.”

He then told her how he had rescued a child from the river and was bringing her up with his daughters.

She listened with shining eyes. “So I have three daughters already. I would that it were time for my own little one to be born.”

It was impossible, living with her, not to share her zest, her love of life.

The Family at Westhorpe

HENRY CAME to the Suffolks’ London residence in Bath Place, and went at once to his sister’s bedchamber, where he found her lying back on her pillows, flushed and triumphant, looking as though the ordeal had meant little to her. Her blue eyes sparkled although there were lines of exhaustion about them and her golden hair fell in a tangle of curls about her shoulders.

Henry came to the bed and stood looking down at her.

“Well done, sister.”

“Oh, Henry, beloved brother, it adds to my joy that you should come to my bedside.”

“Certainly I came. You’ve acquitted yourself with honors. Suffolk’s a lucky man.”

She called to her woman to bring the baby to the King, and as Henry held the child in his arms his face darkened.

“He looks to be a bonny boy,” he said; and watching her brother, Mary read his thoughts. Why should others have bonny boys when he could not?

Poor Henry. Katharine had at last given birth to a healthy child, but it was unfortunate that it had to be a girl. Katharine adored the little Princess Mary who had recently come into the world and the King was fond of her too, yet he could not hide his chagrin that after all their efforts they had failed to get a boy.

“They tell me he has the look of a Tudor already,” Mary said. “Some say they see you in him.”

“Is that so?” Henry’s scowl was replaced by a smile as he peered into the baby’s face.

“In any case,” Mary went on, “we have decided to call him after his uncle. That is if you raise no objection, brother.”

“Ha!” cried the King. “Young Henry seems to have a fancy for his uncle. See! He is smiling at me.”

He would not relinquish the child to his nurse but walked up and down the chamber holding him. The look of sorrow had come back into his face. Lately his thoughts had been more and more occupied with the desire for a son.

In the hall of the mansion in Bath Place stood gentlemen holding lighted torches which set a soft glow on the faces of the illustrious personages gathered there for a great occasion.

At the font, which had been set up for the purpose of christening the son of the Dowager Queen of France and the Duke of Suffolk, stood the King with Wolsey and the King’s aunt, the Lady Catherine, Countess of Devon, daughter of Edward IV. These were the baby’s godparents.

Henry watched the procession through half closed eyes, telling himself that he rejoiced because his sister’s marriage was fruitful; but what would he not have given if that young male child were his son instead of his nephew?

“Why do I not get a son?” Henry asked himself peevishly as he watched the child being carried by Lady Anne Grey while Lady Elizabeth Grey bore the chrysom, preceded by the bearers of the basin and tapers; and for the moment his resentment of his fate was so overwhelming that instead of the red and white roses of his House which adorned the crimson of font and canopy, he saw the pale, apologetic face of his wife, Katharine, and his rage threatened to choke him. What was wrong with Kate that she could not get a healthy boy? Mary had not been married long before she had one. His sister Margaret had a healthy son. Why should he be victimized? There was nothing wrong with the Tudor stock. Where could three such healthy people as himself and his two sisters be found? No, if there was a flaw in his union with Katharine it did not come from the Tudor side.

His lips jutted out angrily, and several of those who watched read his thoughts.

Now the ceremony was being performed and the blue eyes of the baby were wide and wondering. He did not cry. Wise little fellow. All Tudor, thought Henry.

“I name this boy Henry,” said the King; but the fact that he gave the child his name did not ease his sorrow.

Mary, fully aware of her brother’s resentment, was suddenly fearful that he might dislike the boy because he could not get one of his own. But this could not be so. Henry would never hate a little child. He was as fond of children as she was.

While spice and wine were served she stood beside her brother and thanked him for his gifts to her child, which included a gold cup.

“He will treasure it always because of the donor,” she told him. “I shall bring up my son, Henry, to serve you well.”

Henry took her hand and pressed it.

“The child has received many beautiful gifts,” he said.

“But none to be compared with yours.”

“You are fortunate,” he burst out suddenly. “Your firstborn…a son!”

“You will be fortunate too, Henry.”

His mouth was grim. “I see little sign of that good fortune as yet. You have your son; Margaret has hers, and I…who need one more than either of you, am disappointed time after time.”

“But you have your lovely Mary.”

“A girl.”

“But the next will be a boy.”

His expression startled her, because it betrayed more than resentment. Was it cruelty?

In that moment Mary had a longing for the peace of Westhorpe. She wanted to be in the heart of the country with her husband, her stepdaughters and her own little son.

She thought: When a woman has much to love she has also much to lose.

She remembered how, when Charles took part in the jousts against Henry, she was always afraid that he might be going to win. Now there was another to fear for.

Yes, she was certainly longing for the quiet of the country.

Westhorpe, which was close to the town of Botesdale, was a commodious mansion and Mary had loved it from the moment she saw it.

Here she and Charles lived in retirement with their little son. It had not been difficult to slip away from Court because Henry was short of money, and Wolsey had decided to call in certain debts. Since the marriage of Mary and Charles they were two of the King’s biggest debtors and, explaining to Wolsey that if they were to meet their commitments they must economize without delay, they took the opportunity of slipping away to the country.

As Henry was making a tour of some of his towns he did not immediately miss them, so no obstacle was put in the way of their leaving. As soon as Mary entered Westhorpe she brought an atmosphere of gaiety with her, and Charles was surprised, for the mansion seemed a different place from the one he had known before.

He had been afraid that Mary would quickly tire of the quietness, but he had a great deal to learn about his wife. She had always known that she desired to live in peace with her husband and family, and wanted nothing to threaten that peace; while she was at Court—much as she loved Henry—she would always be afraid that her husband might in some way anger him. There were too many people at Court jealous of Charles, and bold as Mary was, she could be nervous where her husband was concerned. She wanted to keep him safe from harm, and where better could she do that than far away from the Court, in his country house in Suffolk.

She declared herself delighted with the house. As soon as they arrived she made the acquaintance of the resident servants as though she were a squire’s lady instead of a Queen; and they who had prepared to be overawed were immediately captivated by her free and easy manner. Mary and Charles had brought with them a very small party from Court consisting of two knights, one esquire, forty men and seven female servants—a small retinue for a Queen. But she had insisted on it and had estimated that the wages which would be paid out at Westhorpe were no more than three hundred and twenty-seven pounds a year.

“This,” she had said, “we can afford; and, Charles, I intend that we shall live within our means.”

It was a great delight to her to play the chatelaine; there was so much to learn, she explained to the governor of the household, and when one was brought up to be a Queen, one’s education was neglected in many other ways.

She insisted that her little son sleep in her chamber; and she herself often attended to him. She was delighted with the new life—so different from everything she had known before, so much more intimate, so much more domestic.

“I do not envy Kings and Queens,” she told Charles. “They see so little of their husbands and wives, they might as well not be married!”

Her contentment spread throughout the manor, and this was a very happy household.

But she was already planning for the future.

“Your daughters must come to Westhorpe, Charles, as we arranged,” she said. “Also the little one you rescued from the river. I hope young Henry will soon have a little brother or sister. I told you I want a large family.”

“Mary,” said Charles soberly, “you know Henry will soon be back at Greenwich.”

Her face clouded.

“You think he will command our return?”

“He said the Court was not the same when we were away.”

He saw the fear in her eyes, and he went on quickly: “At the moment you do not wish to leave Westhorpe, but when the novelty has gone you will grow a little tired of our home where nothing much happens.”

“Something happens all the time. I am happy here, and that is the best thing that could happen to anyone. I shall never grow tired of it. I don’t want to go to Court. I am afraid….”

“Since when have you been afraid?”

She put her arms about him and held him close to her.

“Since I had so much to lose,” she said.

“Why should you lose that which you treasure?”

“Treasures can be easily lost in my brother’s Court, Charles. I want to stay here forever…because here I feel safe.”

He understood. But he did not believe she would be allowed to have her wish this time.

It was a happy day for Westhorpe when the little girls arrived. Mary and Charles watched them from the battlements—three somewhat bewildered children, the eldest not more than six years old.

Mary’s heart was immediately touched as she watched them dismount from their ponies, when the eldest took the two younger ones by the hand as though she would defend them from all the perils that might be waiting for them.

“Come,” cried Mary. “Let us go down to them.”

She ran down the staircases to the courtyard, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being able to act without ceremony, and still found it one of the most enjoyable advantages of her new existence.

She went to the little girls, and kneeling, embraced the three of them at once.

“My dear little daughters, welcome home!” she cried.

Anne, the eldest, who was the spokeswoman of the party, had been rehearsing what she would say when she was confronted by her stepmother who, she had had impressed upon her, was a queen.

She tried to kneel and glanced sternly at the others to remind them of their duty.

“Your Highness,” she began.

Mary laughed.

“Call me your mother not Your Highness,” she said. “I think it is difficult for a mother to be a Highness. Now which is Mary and which the little water nymph?”

The smaller child, who had already seen Charles and could not take her eyes from him, was pushed forward by Anne.

“She was nearly drowned,” said Mary.

“But my father saved her,” added Anne.

Mary lifted up the child and kissed her. “And how glad I am that he did, my little nymph.”

“Nymph is not her name,” Anne protested.

“But it shall be my name for her,” replied Mary, who was delighted with this child because of her obvious devotion to Charles.

“You do not look like a queen,” said Anne. “You have no crown.”

“I did wear one…once,” Mary told them.

“And you have lost it?”

Mary nodded and the faces of the young children puckered with sympathy.

“But I am not sorry,” Mary went on quickly. “It was very heavy, and very uncomfortable to wear, so methinks I am happier without it.”

The three little faces showed incredulity.

“It’s true,” said Mary. She turned to Charles and slipped her arm through his. “Is it not so?”

“I believe your mother to be speaking the truth,” he said.

“Is she indeed our mother?” asked Anne.

“I am indeed,” answered Mary.

“Mine too,” said the youngest child.

“Yours too, my little nymph. And now I want you to see your brother. He is young yet and may not appreciate so many new sisters, but he will in time.”

Thus Mary gathered her new family to Westhorpe and settled down to enjoy the golden days.

Before long distinguished visitors came to Westhorpe. The children, who were playing in the nurseries, were the first to see the approach of the party and ran down into the gardens to tell their parents.

Mary was in the enclosed rose garden gathering the blooms which she herself would arrange later; Charles sat on a wooden bench near the fish pond which was a feature of this garden, marveling at the enthusiasm with which his wife still performed all these simple tasks. He could not believe that she would continue to do so. He often felt that he wanted to live every minute of his new life to the full, because he was certain it must change. They would not be long left in peace.

Anne led the two little girls into the rose garden crying: “Dearest Father and Mother, there is a crowd of people riding on the road.”

The little one who had been given the name of the Water Nymph, usually shortened to Nymph, ran to Charles and was lifted up and placed on his shoulder.

“A party of riders,” said Mary placidly. “I wonder if they are coming to Westhorpe.”

“They look as if they are coming to Westhorpe,” said Anne.

“Then mayhap we had better go and see who our visitors are,” Charles said.

Mary held one of the roses to her nose. She had no wish for visitors. Visitors could mean the disruption of the peaceful routine, and this was the last thing she wanted.

“The scent of these roses is delicious.” She made them all smell in turn; and because the children were most contented when they were with Charles and Mary, they were as ready to forget about the visitors as she was.

But they could not ignore the sounds of excitement; and soon a servant, flushed of face and bright of eye, came to break the peace of the rose garden.

“My lord, my lady, the Queen’s party is here.”

“The Queen!” cried Mary. “And the King?”

The servant looked aghast, as though that would be too much to be borne. It was enough that the Queen alone was here.

Mary and Charles, the children following, made their way to the courtyard where, looking exhausted and weary with the long journey, was Katharine.

Mary embraced her and Charles knelt. Katharine was smiling. “I am so glad to be here,” she said. “The journey has been tedious.”

“And you are in need of refreshment and rest,” Mary said. “We are delighted that you should so honor us.”

With Charles on one side, Mary on the other, Katharine was conducted into the hall of Westhorpe.

“So this is where you are hiding yourself away,” said Katharine.

Then she saw the children who had run up, the Nymph clutching at Charles’s doublet, his daughters keeping behind their stepmother.

“Your Grace has seen my large family?”

“Your family! I had thought there was but the boy.”

“I always wanted a large family,” laughed Mary. “And you know my impatience. Well, I have four children already. Who could do better than that in such a short time?”

The children were presented to Katharine, who patted their heads tenderly.

She sighed and turning to Mary said: “I have just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham.”

Mary knew for what reason; Katharine was praying that she might bear the King a son.

When Katharine had rested in the apartments which had been made ready for her as soon as she entered the house, she wanted to see the nursery; and as Mary watched her bending over the cradle of her son, she felt a deep pity for her sister-in-law. Never, since her great happiness had come to her, had she felt as grateful as she did at that moment. How easy it was for the lives of royal people to go awry.

“Mine never shall,” she told herself fiercely.

Katharine, returning to Court, talked to Henry of the household at Westhorpe. Henry was amused; he laughed heartily.

“So she has become a simple country woman, has she? How long will she be contented with that life? Depend upon it ere long she will be requesting to come back to Court.”

Katharine was not so sure, but she rarely disagreed with the King’s opinion; and when Henry heard of the nurseries of Westhorpe containing three little girls and a bonny boy—Mary’s own son at that—he became glum.

He wanted to hear all about the boy, and Katharine was not sure which would have distressed him more, to have learned that his nephew was ailing or, the truth, that he was a healthy boy.

When Katharine told him: “Little Henry is growing so like you,” he was pleased but almost immediately disgruntled because he had not a boy to whom he could give his name.

“I feel so much much better since my pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham,” Katharine told him. “I am certain that she will soon answer my prayers.”

But of course she would, thought Henry. There was his good and pious wife. As for himself, did he not hear Mass regularly? Was he not as devout as God could wish?

He was suddenly good-humored. “We will have a merry masque,” he declared. “My sister Margaret will soon be with us. We must show her how we amuse ourselves here in England, for I believe the Scots to be a dour race. Now if we should have a tourney our champions must be there. Suffolk must come back to Court and Mary must greet her own sister.”

Katharine remembered, a little sadly, the country idyll she had disturbed, and imagined the messengers arriving there with the King’s orders.

Moreover she thought of Mary, the mother of a son, being at Court with Margaret who also had a boy. Henry would be delighted to have his sisters at his Court, but he was going to be very envious of them.

The Birth of Frances

WHEN THE KING COMMANDED, there was nothing to do but obey.

Reluctantly Mary said goodbye to the peace of the country. She left governesses and nurses in charge of the children with her own special instructions as to the care which was to be taken of them. Then sadly she rode away from Westhorpe.

Charles laughed at her melancholy.

“Once you are back you will realize how much you miss the pageantry and splendor at dull old Westhorpe.”

“Do you know me so little then?”

“But you used to love to dance, and did so more tirelessly than any.”

“That was when I thought it was an accomplishment to dance. If it is, I no longer care.”

“Do not grieve. You will soon be back again.”

“There is Margaret to entertain. And Henry may refuse to let us go. Oh, Charles, in the joust, you must take care….”

“I can face any who rides against me, you know.”

“The one I fear most is my brother. Never unhorse him, Charles. Always remember…he must be the victor.”

Charles laughed. “Dearest, you seek to teach me a lesson which I mastered years ago.”

She was silent. “I am growing a little afraid of Henry,” she said after a while. “He is changing. I loved him dearly…I still do. When he was a boy, and I seemed so much younger, I thought him perfect. But since he has come to power…”

“Ah. Power is not always good for a man.”

“And supreme power, Charles….” She shivered. “There are times when I am so sorry for Katharine. She was pathetic, Charles, when she looked at our little Henry and I fancy that my brother has not been kind to her, and has implied that it is her fault they have no son.”

“They’ll get a son in time.”

“They have been unlucky so far.”

“Well, they have Mary. Katharine can produce healthy children, it seems.”

“You understand now why I do not wish to leave Westhorpe. It contains all my treasures when you are there, and I want to keep them safe.”

“Safe! We’re safe enough. Henry is our friend.”

She shook her head. “He was Katharine’s friend once. Sometimes I doubt whether he still is. And when I remember her bending over our Henry’s cradle, when I remember the look of longing in her face…yes and fear, Charles, I am afraid too…afraid for you. So, dearest, as you love me, while we are at Court, have a care.”

He leaned toward her and touched her hand.

“You talk as though I were going into a den of lions.”

“Sometimes I think you are.”

“But you will be there, my love, to protect me.”

He might laugh, but she was serious. She would not be really at peace until they had done a turnabout and, instead of riding toward London, were on the journey back to Suffolk.

During that visit there was cause for uneasiness. Henry had been determined to show his sister Margaret the splendors of his Court, and had appointed Charles to select twelve gentlemen while he himself did the same. They were to make the opposing teams who would joust in honor of the ladies.

Mary had sat with Katharine and her sister Margaret watching Charles ride out in white velvet, with crimson satin, shaped like lozenges, making a splash of color on the white, his entire costume decorated with gold letters—M and C entwined; the King’s party were as dazzlingly attired and their letters were H and K.

Charles had been as clever as usual, arranging that his side should joust brilliantly and be only that fraction less skillful than the King’s. But there were times when some spirit of mischief would make him seem as though he were going to beat Henry; then Mary believed he remembered her and resisted the temptation.

She had sat with her sister and sister-in-law—both rather sad women at that time: Margaret because, having lost her first husband, the King of Scotland, she had recklessly married the handsome young Angus and was beginning to find him unsatisfactory. Katharine because, on account of her inability to bear a male child, she had begun to glimpse the cruelty of her husband. Only Mary was content with her state. Yet she must be fearful too, for Henry was changing, and no one was completely safe at his Court.

How delighted she was when she was able to return to Westhorpe; but it was not long before the summons to Court was repeated because Henry enjoyed the company of his youngest sister and her husband more than that of any others, and was not pleased that they should wish to live in retirement. Back to Court they went, and back again. Mary was in London at the time of the Evil May Day when she with Katharine and Margaret, who was preparing to return to Scotland, pleaded for those unhappy apprentices and secured their pardon. But the episode was an ugly one and gave her a further glimpse of the manner in which her brother’s anger could be aroused.

She was more urgently reminded that she, who had so much to love, had a great deal to lose, and she longed for the peaceful security of Westhorpe.

Henry was loth to let her go, but this time she had a good reason.

She told him about it as they walked in the gardens of Greenwich and he reproached her for wishing to leave him and his Court.

“I have indulged you much,” grumbled Henry. “You disobeyed me when you took Brandon to your bed. It was scarce decent. I might have had you both in the Tower. But I forgave you.”

“Like the beloved brother you have always been.”

“So beloved that you constantly wish to leave us.”

“Not constantly, only now, because Henry, I am in a certain state of health….”

“What! You are with child?”

“Yes, Henry, and I believe I should live quietly in the country while awaiting its birth.”

Henry turned to look at her, his lip jutting out. “You already have a healthy boy.”

“And you have a bonny girl.”

“I want boys.”

“They’ll come.”

“They’re being uncommonly shy about making their appearance.”

“You are too impatient, Henry.”

“Impatient! I am the most patient of men. You have a boy and another coming, like as not. Margaret has a boy and a girl. And I…the King…who must give my kingdom an heir…am frustrated. Why do you think it is so?”

“Because, brother, you are impatient. Kate will bear you many fine boys, I am sure.”

“I would to God that I were. Sometimes I think there’s a blight on my union with Katharine, Mary.”

“Nay, Henry. But you understand that I must leave the Court. I want the fresh air of the country and the quiet life at Westhorpe. In the circumstances you will let me go.”

Henry lifted his shoulders. “I like it not when you leave us. But I would not have your health suffer.”

Mary lost no time in leaving Court lest he should change his mind.

Mary did not stay at Westhorpe but took up her residence in another of her husband’s country mansions—Bishops Hatfield—while she awaited the birth of her second child; and here little Frances was born.

Looking down at the little one, Mary rejoiced that she was a girl.

“The child one has, always seems exactly what one wanted,” she told Charles. “That is the miracle of childbirth.”

“I know at least one child who disappointed her parents at birth,” Charles reminded her.

“My niece Mary. But Henry has an obsession for boys. Perhaps I should have said it is the miracle of contentment.”

“Strange,” said Charles; “you are his sister and in some ways not unlike him, in others so different.”

“Perhaps I was luckier than Henry. I knew what I wanted and I did not ask for what was impossible. I wanted you, Charles, and any child of yours would please me. Henry wanted sons—and that is for Providence to decide. You see I was wise in my desires.”

“We could so easily have lost this life together,” Charles told her, “and methinks Henry, in his desire for sons, was more reasonable.”

She laughed. “You’d forgotten I always get what I want.”

“And Henry?”

“I pray he will too.” She was sober suddenly. “For if he does not,” she added, “he will be very angry, and I believe, Charles, that when Henry is angry he can be very cruel.”

The christening ceremony of little Frances Brandon was less grand than that of her brother, Henry, although tapestries were hung in the church of Bishops Hatfield for the occasion, and the chancel was decorated with cloth of gold. Henry the King was not represented but Katharine had sent two ladies to represent her and the young Princess Mary. One of these was Anne Boleyn who had been Mary’s maid of honor when she was Queen of France.

Mary was pleased to see the girl again. She had always been interested in Anne. Such a composed little creature she had been and always so elegant. She was growing up to be a very distinguished young lady who had profited from her stay in France and wore clothes which must have been self-designed as they were so original; and she contrived to make the other royal representative, Lady Elizabeth Grey, look most insignificant.

But Mary’s thoughts that day were all for her daughter. It would be wonderful to have another child in the nursery. Perhaps their next would be a boy. Even if it were a girl she would not mind. She adored her little Frances already, being certain that she could detect in her—as she certainly could in little Henry—some resemblance to Charles.

How good the child was during the trying ceremony.

She lay blandly staring up at the canopy of crimson satin on which roses and fleurs-de-lis had been embroidered.

Dear innocent little baby, thought her mother. One day you will have to go to Court because, after all, my precious one, you are the niece of the King.

Christening was a time for good wishes.

May she find happiness in her husband as I have found it in mine, prayed Mary.

Danger at the King’s Court

THE YEARS WERE PASSING and the love between Mary and her husband was strengthened. She had always believed that theirs would be an ideal marriage; he had been too cynical to accept this view, but she had weaned him from his cynicism, and he substituted her creed for his.

He had begun by being mildly astonished; and now he had accepted his happiness as a natural state.

She was different from other women; she was unique. It was in her capacity for happiness and her genius for choosing those gifts from life which could give her true contentment.

Little Eleanor had been born. Another daughter. But it seemed that Mary had wanted a daughter. And as she said to Charles once, the fact that from time to time they must show themselves at Court only increased their appreciation of a quiet life in the country.

Rarely had Lords of the Manor been loved as they were loved. It was a strange situation, Charles often said: A Queen who longed to be a simple country lady; a Duke and Duchess who sought to retire from Court instead of making their way there.

He had watched her when Charles of Castile had come to England. Perhaps that was one of her most enjoyable visits to Court. Then she had seemed like the young Mary who had loved to dance and flaunt her charm. Charles of Castile had been betrothed to her and had sought another match; and how she delighted in letting him know what he had missed! She had set out to charm him and she had succeeded. Poor Charles of Castile had watched her open-mouthed, had sought every opportunity to be at her side, and was clearly furious with those who had advised him against marrying her.

Henry was amused at his sister. He laughed with his friends to see the poor young Prince of Castile fascinated by the girl who had once not seemed a good enough match for him.

“By God,” said Henry, “where Mary is, there is good sport. She should be at Court more often.”

Later they accompanied Henry to France for his extravagant meeting with François; and François, while his eyes followed the radiant woman who had taken the place of the beautiful girl he had known, was as regretful as Prince Charles.

It was as the King said—where Mary was there was amusement.

“You should be more often at Court,” he constantly repeated.

“Your Highness,” was Charles’s answer, “since I married your sister I have become a poor man. I cannot afford to live at Court, and my wife and I must needs retire to the country from time to time when we can live most cheaply.”

Henry scowled at his brother-in-law. If he thought he was going to be excused his debts he was mistaken.

But later he conferred with Wolsey, and one day summoned Mary and Charles to his presence; and as he greeted them his blue eyes were shining with pleasure.

“It grieves me to see you two so poor that you must needs leave us from time to time,” he said. “But do not think I shall excuse you your debts. I have been lenient with you, and it is not meet and fitting that my subjects should disobey me and be forgiven.”

Mary smiled at her brother. “Nay, Henry, we do not ask to be forgiven our debts. We are content to pay our debts.”

“Then you admit they are your debts.”

Mary smiled demurely. “I forced Charles to marry me, and you thought we acted without consideration of our duty to you. You therefore imposed fines upon us which have made us poor. You were kind to us, brother. You might have sent us to the Tower. So we do not complain although we do at times have to retire to the country.”

“I miss you when you are away,” said Henry. “But I’ll not let you off your debts for all that.”

“Most right and proper,” Mary agreed.

He dismissed them soon afterward, and as they were leaving he thrust some documents into Charles’s hand.

“Look at these and let me have your opinion,” he said.

Charles, surprised, bowed his head and Henry waved them away. When they were in their apartments Charles unrolled the documents while Mary watched him.

“What is this?” asked Mary.

Charles stared at the papers. “Buckingham had estates in Suffolk,” he murmured.

“Buckingham!” Mary’s face was set in lines of horror. She was thinking of the Duke of Buckingham whose claim to be as royal as the King had angered Henry. Poor Buckingham, one of the leading noblemen in the country, had been unlucky enough or unwise enough, to offend Wolsey. The result was that he had been sent to the Tower to be tried by his peers who dared do nothing but obey the King, and the proud Duke had been taken out to Tower Hill where his head was severed from his body.

Mary shivered when she thought of Buckingham, because his death was symbolic. In commanding it Henry had shown himself in truth to be a King whom his subjects must fear.

“Yes,” Charles was saying, “your brother gives to us estates in Suffolk which belonged to Buckingham. You understand?”

Mary nodded. “We were too poor to stay at Court, and it is his wish that we should be there more often. We can no longer speak of our poverty, Charles.”

She laughed suddenly, but it was not her old happy laugh. There was a hint of bitterness in it.

“So now we are rich, when we would rather be poor.”

She threw her arms about him and held him tightly to her. She was fanciful that day; she could imagine that the axe which killed Buckingham threw a shadow over Charles’s head.

For, she told herself, any who live near the King must live in that shadow.

Peace had fled from Westhorpe as Mary had known it would when Henry presented them with the Suffolk manors. There was no longer the excuse of poverty. It was no use for two people in such prominent a position to plead the need for retirement. Henry wanted them near him, and near him they must be.

It was always sad to leave the children, and one of Mary’s nightmares was that she was riding away from Westhorpe to London, looking back, waving farewell to the children who watched them, their faces puckered, holding back the tears which would be shed when their parents were out of sight.

To love was the greatest adventure life had to offer; but to love was to suffer.

At this time her anxiety was great, because England was at war with France and Henry had decided that the skill and experience of the Duke of Suffolk could be used to England’s advantage. Henry had no wish to lead his men to France so he would honor his friend Suffolk by allowing him to go in his place.

Mary remembered now that moment when Henry had made his wishes clear, how he had beamed on them both—his dear sister and his great friend whom he loved to honor.

They were expected to hear this news and fall on their knees and thank him for it. How little he understood! How impossible it was to explain! Mary had tried to.

“Henry,” she had said, “I am a woman who likes to keep her husband with her.”

Henry had smiled at her fondly. “I know you well,” he told her. “You made up your mind to have Suffolk and none other would do. And you continue in love with him, which pleases me. Having great respect for the married state, I like not unfaithful wives and husbands. And because I have your interests at heart I am giving this man of yours an opportunity to win great honors. Let him make conquests for me in France and you will see how I am ready to reward him.”

Impossible to say they did not want great honors, but only to be together. That would offend Henry, because when he gave he liked the utmost appreciation; and it was growing more and more dangerous to offend Henry.

So Charles had gone overseas, and so disconsolate had Mary become that she, being ill and longing for the quiet of the country and the children’s company, had at length gained Henry’s permission to leave Court.

But even at Westhorpe her anxiety did not fade. Each day she was at the turret watching for a messenger from London for she had given instructions that as soon as there was news it should be brought to her.

The children were continually asking when their father would be with them, and it had been sad explaining to them that he was in a strange country fighting the King’s war.

“Soon he will come,” she promised them; and often they would run to her and say: “Will he come today?”

News came that he and his men had captured several castles, and that the King was delighted with his progress; but there had been no news for some time and winter was approaching.

One misty day while she was with the children she heard sounds of arrival and she could not suppress the elation which came to her because she was constantly hoping that one day Charles would ride unexpectedly to Westhorpe, although this was what he would call her wild optimism, since it was scarcely likely that if the army had returned to England she would not have had some news of this before Charles had time to reach her.

It was a messenger from London and as she could see by his face that the news was not good, she sent the children back to their nurseries before she demanded to hear it.

The news was alarming. The armies had been disbanded; the Duke of Suffolk was at Calais, and among the dispatches which he had sent to the King was a letter which, he had instructed, was to be carried immediately to his wife.

“My dearest wife,” he had written:

This finds me in dire straits. Our position was untenable; the weather was such that to remain in camp would be disastrous. I asked the King’s permission to disband the army, but I had no reply to my request, and perforce was driven to act without that permission. I disbanded the army and started on my way home when a command to hold the army together and stay where I was reached me. It was, as you will understand, impossible for me to do this, and I greatly fear that I have incurred your royal brother’s displeasure by seeming to disobey his orders. You know full well what happened to Dorset. I now find myself in a similar case. Therefore I have gone to Calais because I feel that to return to England would be to place myself in jeopardy…

Mary let the letter fall from her hands.

She was remembering Dorset, returning to England after his campaign, a sick man who had been unable to walk ashore. She remembered her brother’s fury against him and how he had almost lost his life.

Now she feared that his hatred would be directed against Charles. Henry had changed since Dorset had failed abroad; he had become more aware of his power, and that awareness had awakened in him a latent cruelty. In the old days she had never been afraid of her brother; she was now…desperately afraid for Charles.

The little girls and their brother came running to her; they had escaped from their nursery, sensing that something important was about to happen. Little Eleanor came toddling in after them to catch her skirts.

She thrust the letter into the neck of her gown and picked up the baby, while the others made a circle about her.

It was Anne who spoke. “My father is coming back?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Mary firmly. “In time he will…but not yet.”

“When…when…?” They were all shouting together and she tried to smile at them.

“As soon as possible,” she answered. Then: “First I must go to see your uncle.”

“Uncle King?” asked Henry.

“Yes,” Mary told him. “And when I come back I hope to bring you news of your father.”

“Don’t go away,” said little Frances, catching at her mother’s skirts.

“Never, fear, little one,” Mary reassured her. “I shall soon be back…with your father.”

Henry glowered at his sister.

“So you thought fit to come to see us.”

“I would, Henry, that you could come to see us now and then.”

“I have matters of state to attend to and those on whom I should rely do not always serve me well.”

“Never was a king blessed with more faithful servants. If they could command even the weather to work for him they would do so.”

“I thought as much. You have come to talk to me about that husband of yours.”

“Who is your great friend and servant, Henry.”

“It does not seem so, Madam.”

“That is because you are not being reasonable.”

His eyes narrowed; his scowl deepened. “I pray you do not bring your rustic manners to Court, sister.”

She laughed and, going to him, boldly put her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek.

“All your scowls and harsh words cannot make you other than my big brother whom I have adored since I was a baby.”

It was easy to soften him. She was his little sister again.

“I was ever over-indulgent to you.”

“How could you be otherwise toward one who had so great a regard for you?”

“Methinks you are about to ask some boon, sister.”

“And you, being the wisest man in Christendom, know what it is.”

“I like it not when my orders are disobeyed.”

“But Henry, your orders would have been obeyed had he received them.”

“He did not wait to receive them. He has made me look a fool in the eyes of Francis.”

“Oh no, Henry. You could never look a fool. Dear brother, the men would not stay together. The weather, the conditions, everything was too bad.”

“So he has been whining to you. And now cowers in Calais, afraid to come home until his wife has pleaded with me to forgive him. By God, sister, you should have married a man, not a poltroon.”

Mary’s face flushed scarlet and she looked remarkably like her brother in that moment. “I married the finest man in England…” She added slyly: “Except one.” But Henry did not see the irony.

“So he is now skulking in Calais, eh?”

“Awaiting your invitation to return.”

“A pretty state of affairs when my generals take it upon themselves to disband my armies.”

“Henry, you have fought in France. You know the difficulties….”

His brow darkened; he was thinking of his exploits abroad when he had been fooled by wily Ferdinand and the Emperor Maximilian.

“So,” went on Mary quickly, “you will understand how Charles had to make this decision without your help. He made it too early, as we know; but he made it because he thought it the best way to serve you.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me to write to him…to bring him home. You know how you enjoy jousting with him beyond all others.”

It was true. He did miss Suffolk.

“You ever knew how to cajole me, you witch,” he said.

She waited for no more; again her arms were about his neck and again she kissed him; and as she did so she wondered how much longer she would be able to wheedle what she wanted from this brother of hers.

Henry had lost some of his enthusiasm for the joust. He would often be shut away with his ministers; his bad temper was very easily aroused, and when he was in certain moods even his dogs would sense it and keep their distance. Wise courtiers did the same.

Mary and Charles remained in the country and were delighted that they were not summoned to Court. Mary decided that the change in Henry was due to the fact that he was growing older and had naturally lost his zest for boyish games.

One day there came a summons to Court. Henry wished to honor his young nephew and namesake by bestowing a title upon him, and he had chosen the Earldom of Lincoln.

Mary was uneasy when she heard this and called to Charles to walk with her alone in the gardens of Westhorpe that she might discuss this new development.

“He is nine years old,” said Charles, “and therefore it is time that some honor was his. We should rejoice that your brother remembers him.”

“I do not welcome Henry’s interest in the boy,” replied Mary. “He will want him to be brought up at Court and that means we shall lose him. Perhaps it was a mistake to call him Henry.”

“But, Mary, we should not be displeased because the King honors our son.”

“I am beginning to be fearful of Henry.”

“You fear too much for your children, my love.”

“I would that I could keep you all safe at Westhorpe. You see it is so easy to offend Henry now, and when he is offended one cannot be sure what he will do. He is brooding on some matter, I feel sure, and it has changed him.”

“Let him brood,” smiled Charles. “Now we should call the boy and prepare him for what is about to happen to him.”

Young Henry was delighted at the prospect of going to Court, and the girls were envious. When the party rode out of Westhorpe for London the boy was beside his father and they chattered gaily of what was in store for him. Mary, watching them, delighted in their health and spirits, yet her very pleasure in them frightened her.

Her fears were not dispersed when she reached Greenwich, for there she discovered that the honor bestowed on her little son was not the main reason for the great festivities which had been arranged.

Henry Brandon was only one of the boys to be honored on this occasion; a matter of much greater significance was being settled. Henry Fitzroy, the King’s son by Elizabeth Blount, was to be given the royal title of Duke of Richmond, and Mary understood too well what this meant.

The King, despairing of getting a legitimate son, had decided to acknowledge his illegitimate one. Did this mean that he was prepared to make Henry Fitzroy the heir to the crown?

There must be feasting, balls and masques to celebrate the elevation of this boy who, the King would have his people know, was very close to his heart.

This was understandable, thought Mary; but what seemed to her so grossly cruel was that Katharine should be commanded to attend these celebrations. What must she feel to see her husband’s bastard so honored, and herself, unable to give him a son, forced to honor him? Where was the sentimental Henry of her childhood? thought Mary. He had certainly changed.

Poor Katharine, what would her fate eventually be?

What, wondered Mary, might be the fate of any of us who cease to please him—as she has ceased to?

They were riding into the arena—two giants who were the tallest men at Court. Mary sat beneath the canopy on which were embroidered her own symbol, the marigold together with the golden lilies of France. Beside her was Katharine, on her canopy the emblem of the pomegranate. Poor sad Katharine, how ironic that her emblem should be the Arabic sign of fertility!

But Mary had no thought for her sad sister-in-law now, for Charles and Henry had been the champions and it was time for them to meet.

She knew her Charles. He loved to joust and show his skill. There was a temptation every time he faced an opponent to do his utmost to win. And he could win easily. She knew it and she trembled.

“How well matched they are,” said Katharine, forcing a smile to her pale lips. “There is no one else who can match the King.”

“And Charles must not either,” murmured Mary.

Katharine had glanced at her clenched hands and understood. In that moment there was a deep sympathy between them; they were two frightened women.

Suddenly there was a shout. Katharine and Mary simultaneously rose in their seats.

“The King has not lowered his visor…,” cried Katharine.

Mary stared in horror, for Charles was riding toward Henry, his lance in his hand pointing toward the King’s forehead; and Charles, whose headpiece prevented him from seeing how vulnerable was the King, was advancing at speed.

“Charles! Stop!” cried Mary.

The crowd of spectators were shouting but Charles thinking they were applauding the King and himself, did not understand the warning.

His lance struck Henry’s helmet, a matter of inches away from his exposed forehead; it was shattered and only then did Charles realize how near he had come to killing the King.

Katharine put an arm about Mary. “All is well,” she whispered. “The King is unharmed.”

Henry came into the banquet hall, his arm about Charles’s shoulder. The trumpets sounded; the company rose and cheered.

Henry was happy. This was a scene such as he loved: The drama which had a happy ending, with himself as the hero!

He took his place at the table and cried: “This fellow all but killed his King this afternoon. He tells me he will never joust against me again. Methinks he suffered from the affair more than I!”

How bland he was, how blue the little eyes, asparkle with good humor, but ready at any moment to send forth the fire of anger; the thin lips were smiling but everyone was beginning to learn that they could curl in sudden anger.

“Nay, my brother,” he said, smiling at Charles. “We know that, had your lance entered this head, you would have been the most unhappy man in England this day. We know our friends. And I say to you, I hold this not against my brother, for the fault was mine. So eager was I to ride against him that I forgot to lower my visor. I could not have his head for that, could I, my friends?”

There were cheers and laughter.

Charles was shaken; yet not more so than Mary.

The King’s eyes might glisten while the suckling pig was piped to the table, he might command that one of his own songs be sung, he might smile benignly at the company when they applauded his music; but there were three very uneasy people at the banquet that night, and they were his nearest—his wife, his sister and his brother-in-law.

The Last Farewell

GOSSIP WAS RIFE, not only at Court but throughout the country. Even in the village of Suffolk there was whispering of the King’s Secret Matter.

Those days seemed too short for Mary; she wanted to catch them and make them twice as long. She had lost some of her health recently and had discovered a tendency to catch cold, leaving her with an ague and a cough which would not go. Charles was anxious because of her health and to relieve his fears she pretended that she felt as well as ever.

She often wondered what was happening at Court. At least there were not the same demands for her and Charles’s attendance there. There was a new set about the King—bright young people, clever young people who devised plays and masques of much wit for the King’s amusement. The leaders of this set were, strangely enough, her one-time maid of honor, Anne Boleyn, Anne’s brother George, and Thomas Wyatt.

It was pleasant to be left in peace.

Mary felt more and more remote from the Court, but she knew now that Henry was trying to cast off Katharine, and there were rumors that he was so enamored of Anne Boleyn that he wished to make her his Queen.

Mary was angry; she had been so fond of Katharine, although often irritated by her mildness; she believed that if she went to Court she would be unable to avoid quarreling with her brother; and he was in no mood for opposition.

Had she felt well she might have gone to Court, because she did want to comfort Katharine and tell her that she would always support her against that upstart maid of honor.

Yet when she considered her growing family, when she thought of Charles, she knew that they were all safer at Westhorpe. She had her own secret to keep too; she wanted none of them to know that she suffered often from mysterious pains; that she was often breathless; she had warned her maids that they were not to mention that her kerchiefs were sometimes stained with blood.

One day Charles came to her in some dismay.

“A summons?” she asked fearfully.

He nodded gravely. “The Papal Legate Campeggio is in London and I am summoned to the Court.”

“So it has gone as far as that. My poor Katharine!”

Charles took her hands and was alarmed because they were trembling.

“Your brother has determined to be rid of her,” he said.

“I know. And marry that sly wench. Marry her, Charles. How can he so demean himself…his throne…his name…by marrying one so far beneath him!”

Charles laughed and gently touched her cheek. “These Tudors have a way of forgetting what they owe their rank when they take a fancy to some low man or woman.”

“We were quite different.”

“Oh no, my love. And it seems that Henry is as determined to have this girl as you were to marry me.”

“Then…God help Katharine!” cried Mary. She clung to Charles. “Charles, have a care.”

“You may trust me.”

“Remember how precious you are to us all.”

“I will never forget, my love,” he answered.

So Charles went to London.

She was restless; she could not sleep; and when she did she would awake startled, her body bathed in cold sweat.

She had grown thinner and paler, more thoughtful, nervous, ready to be startled by a sudden sound.

One morning she awoke in great distress. If Henry could declare his marriage to Katharine invalid, because of Katharine’s previous marriage with his brother Arthur, what of Charles’s marriage to Lady Mortymer? She was still living. What if she herself were to die and her children be declared illegitimate?

She could not rest. There must be a dispensation from the Pope. She must make sure that her children were safe, when she was no longer there to protect them.

The case of the King versus the Queen of England dragged on, but Mary had no difficulty in receiving a confirmation of her marriage to Charles Brandon from the Papal Court.

When she knew that she had succeeded, Mary wept with happiness; and suddenly remembered that for the first time in her life she had thought of herself…dead.

That moment seemed significant, for in it she knew that each day she could spend with her children and husband would be even more precious, that she must live each one as though it might be the last.

She was her gay self and refused to be alarmed even when the people of Suffolk rose against the Duke. Henry, who was in need of money, had levied taxes which he commanded Charles to collect on his behalf, at which the people had risen and threatened Charles’s life. But Mary knew that Charles would know how to handle the people. And she was right; by good fortune and gentle persuasion he quelled the rising; in this he was helped by their immediate neighbors who had benefited from their residence at Westhorpe and the other Suffolk manors and were ready to defend them against those who did not know them so well. Mary had once more been obliged to lay the facts before her brother and plead for clemency; and at her request Henry decided he would not demand the tax and would pardon those who had risen against her husband, who was acting as his representative.

That danger had passed and Mary was determined that the troubles which had been set in motion by the King’s desire to rid himself of Katharine should not come to Westhorpe.

But it was impossible to hold them back. As well try to hold back the sea…or death.

Death? She thought of it now and then. Sometimes she fancied it was like a gray shadow at her elbow; and her great desire was that none should recognize it but herself.

She would not go to Court, and Henry did not insist. He did not need his sister to amuse him now. He had one far more amusing, far more beautiful, one whom he was determined to make his Queen.

“I’ll not go to Court,” declared Mary, “and take second place to my maid of honor. I can see her now, sitting on her little stool, staring into the future with those great brooding witch’s eyes.”

But it was not Anne Boleyn who kept her from the Court, so much as her own failing strength.

She would not be able to keep her secret much longer.

Only yesterday Frances had said to her: “Mother, are you ill?”

That was when they were in the garden and she had felt faint.

She had roused herself. “Nay, my love. I was falling asleep.”

It was easy to deceive a child; not so easy to fool Charles. There were times when she saw his brow furrowed as though with fear.

“My love,” said Charles, “a summons.”

“To Court?”

“Henry is taking Anne to Calais. He wants the approval of François for his marriage.”

“And he asks us to go?”

“He feels it is necessary to have us with him.”

She closed her eyes. How could she endure the crossing, the masques, the banquets? She felt dizzy at the thought.

“I shall not go,” she said.

Charles took her by the shoulders. “You do not deceive me, my dearest,” he said. “You are ill.”

“I am well enough, Charles. It is merely that I grow old.”

“Think how much older I am!”

“But you are as a god, Charles. You are immortal.”

“Do not suggest that I should go on living without you.”

She threw herself against him that he might not see the tears in her eyes.

“I’ll not go to Court, Charles. I’ll not take second place to Henry’s concubine. Why, if I went I should show my hatred of her. They say he grants her every wish. You must not make an enemy of her.”

“Mary,” he said, “I shall make your excuses to Henry. And while I am gone you must be the invalid. You must see the physicians.”

She nodded. She knew she could not much longer go on playing her game of make-believe.

The hot June sun shone on the rose garden of Westhorpe, and as Mary sat by the pond watching the fishes, she could hear the shouts of the children at play.

What happiness I have known, she thought, here in this house…in this garden. The children are growing up now. They will not need me as they did. And Charles? Where was he now? On the way to Calais? Was he paying homage to the Concubine? Oh, Charles, be careful.

He would be careful for her sake…as she would be for his. He had learned to love as she loved; and this garden, this house, was encircled by their love.

God keep them all, she prayed. And if in mourning me they should be sad, then teach them not to mourn.

She closed her eyes and when the children came running into the garden they thought she was asleep.

Charles came into the room as she lay in her bed.

“Charles,” she whispered.

He was kneeling by the bed. “My beloved.”

“So you came back…?”

“As soon as I heard that you needed me.”

“I needed you, did I not? Oh, how I needed you!”

“Mary….”

“Oh, Charles, you are weeping.”

“Stay, Mary. Do not leave me. We cannot be apart…you and I. You always said it.”

“This had to come, Charles. Take care of my little ones.”

“You cannot leave us.”

She shook her head and smiled at him.

“Charles, do you remember the chapel at Clugny?”

“For as long as I live I shall remember.”

“Do you remember how I told you that there would be no regretting…as long as we two should live?”

“I remember.”

“Charles, kiss me…for the last time, kiss me.”

He did so.

“There are no regrets, my love,” she said.

He stood up and stared disbelievingly down at her. He could not believe that the vital, beautiful Mary Tudor had left him forever.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Aubrey, William Hickman Smith, The National and Domestic History of England

Batiffol, Louis (translated by Elsie Finnimore Buckley), National History of France

Chamberlin, Frederick, The Private Character of Henry the Eighth

Fisher, H.A.L., The Political History of England (1485–1587)

Froude, James Anthony, History of England

Gairdner, James (editor), Memorials of Henry VII

Green, Mary Anne Everett, Lives of the Princesses of England

———, Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies of Great Britain

Guizot, M. (translated by Robert Black), History of France

Hackett, Francis, Henry the Eighth

———, Francis the First

Herbert, Edward, Lord, History of England under Henry VIII

Hudson, Henry William, France

Jackson, Catherine Charlotte, Lady, The Court of France in the 16th Century

Salzman, L. F., England in Tudor Times

Stephens, Sir Leslie, and Sir Sidney Lee (editors), The Dictionary of National Biography

Strickland, Agnes, Lives of the Queens of England

Wade, John, British History

Questions for Discussion

1 Mary and Henry maintain a subtle balance of power between them. Although Henry has the last word by virtue of being king, Mary has enormous emotional sway over him. Where do you see Mary affecting Henry’s decisions or intervening to calm situations that would otherwise prove disastrous? When does Henry first offer a glimpse of just how dangerous his temper can be, even with Mary?

2 Henry is so eager to become king that he joyfully anticipates his own father’s death: “Every direction in which he turned he found adulation, and very soon—it could not be long because the old man was coughing and spitting blood regularly now—he would be the King of this country.” And as Mary contemplates her brother Arthur’s death, she muses, “perhaps it was all for the best…for Henry was surely meant to be King.” Are Henry and Mary vultures or pragmatists? Do you think their attitude is a necessary product of life in the English court, or are they particularly cold-hearted?

3 Mary’s arrival in France as wife to Louis is a hard blow to “the trinity” of François, Marguerite, and Louise. Yet, ironically, it is François who is chosen by the king to greet Mary when she first arrives. How does this first meeting go? Does François have a soft streak, or is he a consummate actor? Mary asks herself, “What was it he was attempting to offer? Commiseration? Consolation?” What is the answer?

4 Early in his rule, Henry faces a series of setbacks. The death of a newborn son, a mutiny by English soldiers in France, and the treacherous teaming-up of Ferdinand of Spain and the Emperor Maximilian, all send Henry into his first serious slump. What changes do you notice in Henry from this point on? How do they affect his rule, and how do they impact Mary’s plans? How does his wife, Queen Katherine, accidentally add insult to injury?

5 The friendship between Charles Brandon and Henry is a vehicle for the most intense dramatic tension in the novel. What method does Charles find most effective for stroking the king’s ego and keeping him happy? Charles recognizes “a certain primness in Henry’s character”; what does he mean by this?

6 Why does Pope Alexander agree to dissolve Louis XII’s marriage to Queen Jeanne? What is in it for him?

7 Despite Charles Brandon’s passionate love for Mary, he seems to be quite content to adapt into whichever romantic union happens to come along. He is betrothed and then un-betrothed to Anne Browne, married to Margaret Mortymer, married to Anne Browne, betrothed to Elizabeth Grey, and comes very close to becoming betrothed to Margaret of Savoy. He is enthused at the beginning of each relationship, seeing it as a new lease on life, but soon becomes apathetic. What do you make of Charles? Is he fickle or just searching for true love? What makes the relationship with Mary stick?

8 From his cushy position as political prisoner in Henry’s court, the Duc de Longueville writes to Louis in France, describing Mary in glowing terms and reporting Henry’s deep love for her. What is the significance of this letter? What mischief is Longueville attempting to stir up? Does he succeed? Why does he find Henry’s court “so interesting and amusing to watch”?

9 Louise is tormented by the idea of Mary getting pregnant with the King’s child. Since she knows that Mary is desperately unhappy in the marriage, why doesn’t she encourage Mary to take a lover, thus creating a possibility that Mary will be discovered and ousted from the French court? What does Louise fear might happen?

10 What do you make of King Louis? He can see both the wild flirtation that goes on between Mary and François and the blatant love that Mary harbors for Charles Brandon. And yet, while it would be in keeping with the times to have her arrested for treason, he quietly suffers Mary’s indifference. He goes so far as to muse, “My poor little one…it is time I was dead.” Is he naïve, kind, self-loathing? What events in his life have led him to this point?

11 When Mary leaves France, she tells Marguerite that “she would always remember their friendship with pleasure,” despite the fact that Marguerite has spent most of Mary’s reign as queen trying to get rid of her. Is this Mary’s version of diplomacy? Has she recognized and sympathized with the trinity’s ambitions? Where else do you see Mary smoothing feathers, politically and personally?

12 A theme of silencing runs throughout the novel. In various ways, Henry silences Mary, Louis silences Jeanne, Mary silences Anne Boleyn, etc. Where else do you see this theme at work?

13 François’s first love is the devout, mysterious Françoise. Who is she? Why does she reject him? This is the first refusal François has ever experienced in his gilded life; how does he take it? Who suggests that he simply abduct and seduce Françoise against her will?

14 Men may rule France, but there is fierce competition among the women behind the scenes as they struggle to put their chosen men on the throne. Louise and Anne of Brittany blatantly wish death upon each other’s children as they jockey for position. Is there any female solidarity to be had in this novel? Where do you see the men picking up on this female competition and using it to their advantage? Which female character do you find most sympathetic?

15 At the age of eighteen, Mary calls a meeting with Thomas Wolsey, Bishop of Lincoln; Sir Ralph Verney, the Princess’s Chamberlain; the Earl of Worcester; and the Bishops of Winchester and Durham. She asks them to plead her case to the king, and help dissolve her betrothal to the Prince of Castile. How does she get away with this meeting without facing Henry’s wrath? Do they help her? What international debacle releases her from this dreaded betrothal?

Contents

AUTHOR’S NOTE

MARIA MANOELA

MARY TUDOR

ELISABETH DE VALOIS

Author’s Note

I feel it is necessary to add a brief explanatory note when writing of Philip of Spain, whose character has given rise to so much controversy.

From the extensive research which I undertook before writing this book, it would appear that two different men are being dealt with, so diverse and opposite are the appraisals of him. One is a conscientious lover of duty, a worthy husband, and a devoted father; the other is a cold-blooded monster, completely devoid of human feeling, without charm, gloomy, morose, and moreover guilty of several murders including those of a wife and son.

I quote examples which come from two contemporaries: The French Ambassador, who witnessed his farewell to his dying wife, Elisabeth, said that her death was “enough to break the heart of so good a husband as the King was to her.” But William of Orange, on the other hand, charged Philip not only with the murder of his son Carlos, but of this same wife Elisabeth, which crime he declared the King committed because he wished to marry his niece Anne of Austria, the richest heiress in the world.

I have come to the conclusion that the various judgments of Philip’s character have been greatly influenced in each case by the religion of the chronicler; and it has been my aim to clear my mind of prejudice, to cut away religious bias, and to discover the real man.

I acknowledge the invaluable help I have had in this from many sources, the chief of which I detail below:

The Spanish Calendar of Letters and State Papers: English Affairs of the Reign of Elizabeth. Edited by Martin A. S. Hume, FR Hist S.

History of the Reign of Philip II, King of Spain. William H. Prescott.

Spain, Its Greatness and Decay (1479–1788). Cambridge Historical Series. By Martin A. S. Hume. Revived by Edward Armstrong.

Philip II of Spain. Martin A. S. Hume.

The Spanish Inquisition. Janet Gordon.

Spain. Henry Dwight Sedgwick.

The Dream of Philip. Edgar Maass.

Queens of Old Spain. Martin A. S. Hume.

Cardinal Ximenes and the Making of Spain. Reginald Merton.

Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland.

King, Queen, Jack. Milton Waldman.

The Pleasures of the Torture Chamber. John Swain.

Two English Queens and Philip. Martin A. S. Hume.

British History. John Wade.

J.P.

MARIA

MANOELA

ONE

Crowds had gathered early in the Plaza Mayor of the city of Valladolid on that May day. Peasants had come in from the slopes and valleys of the Sierra de Guadarrama, and wandering gypsies from as far south as Toledo. There were many vagabonds and beggars looking for easy pickings; they were sure they would find these in plenty, for all true Spaniards who could make the journey on this day would wish to be in the ancient capital of Castile.

In the shadow of San Pablo they stood, but it was not the beautiful façade with its memories of Torquemada that interested them; nor could the exquisite traceries and canopies of San Gregorio attract them at such a time. They chattered, breathing onion-tainted odors at one another, but they did not notice such odors, which were as common as the heat of the sun at noon, the smell of goats, or that of the blood of bulls.

“How long?” was the frequently uttered question. “Surely her time is at hand. Will it be a son, think you? A prince for Spain?”

They hoped so, for then the great bells of San Pablo and Santa Maria la Antigua would ring out; there would be rejoicing in the town; the best bulls would be brought forth, and there would be processions bright with the purple and gold of royalty. There would be free wine for the people. Girls with flowers in their hair would dance—Castilians, Andalusians, and luscious gypsy girls. There would be feasting and merry-making throughout the country. That was what the birth of a prince would mean. So eagerly the people waited, asking one another: “How long?”

In the mansion of Don Bernardino de Pimentel, which was but a stone’s throw from the Church of San Pablo, a young man of twenty-seven sat alone in one of the great rooms. The room was dark and sparsely furnished, but the walls were hung with tapestry, some of which had been worked by Queen Isabella during her pregnancy.

The man stared moodily before him, his hands on his knees, his prominent lower lip jutting out as he stroked the hair on his chin. He was straining his ears for the cry of a child: he did not wish to go into his wife’s chamber until he heard it. There would be women everywhere—his wife’s attendants, and the ladies of the court, as well as those who had come to assist at the birth. It was too important a moment for him to be there, for to these people he was a legend. He was the greatest monarch in the world; he was hard and ruthless, and men and women trembled before him. Now he felt as he did before a great battle—strong, unconquerable, ready to efface himself if necessary for the sake of victory. He, Charles the First of Spain and the Fifth of Germany, would not disturb those women at their all-important task, any more than he would disturb his soldiers in the process of ravishing a town they had won.

He knew how to act, and what was more important, when to act. He was not the most feared man in Christendom for nothing.

He prayed now for a son—a prince, another such as himself, a great ruler who would combine the lusty strength of a Hapsburg with the subtlety of a Spaniard. He himself was all Flemish. He had been born in Flanders, and this land of dark, fierce-tempered people often seemed an alien land to him although he was its king. An accomplished linguist, able to converse in dialect with the subjects of his wide Empire, he spoke Castilian as a foreigner speaks it. He had inherited his love of good food from his Hapsburg ancestors; his fair, florid face was Hapsburg. He had great physical energy which he enjoyed expending on war, jousts, and plump German women.

He was, nevertheless, too clever to deceive himself. There were times when moods of melancholy would envelop him. Then he would remember his mother, Queen Juana, who lived out a poor mad existence in the Alcázar of Tordesillas, refusing to change her filthy rags, letting her gray hair hang in verminous strands (unless the fancy took her to have it dressed with jewels), screaming that she would kill her faithless husband (who had been dead more than twenty years) unless he would give up his six newest mistresses. She had been called a witch; the Holy Inquisition would have taken her long ago and have put her to torture and death by the flames, but for the fact that she was the mother of the Emperor.

The mother of the Emperor a raving lunatic! Such thoughts must bring with them considerable uneasiness when, in a nearby apartment, that Emperor’s son was about to be born.

Moreover, the Emperor’s wife, Isabella, was his first cousin, and she came from the same tainted stock. Could the child escape its heritage? Could it be bodily strong and mentally strong?

The Emperor felt the need to pray.

“Shut out the light. Shut out the light,” cried the woman in the bed.

Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas leaned over the bed.

“No light comes through the window, dearest Highness. All light is shut out.”

Leonor, plump and Portuguese, lifted the Queen’s heavy dark hair out of her eyes before she returned to her stool at the side of the bed.

“It must be soon now, your Highness. It must be soon.”

Queen Isabella nodded. It must be soon. This agony could not long endure. Her lips moved: “Grant me a prince. Let me delight my lord with a prince…a prince who will live in health to please him.”

This was more than the bearing of a child; she knew it well. This was to be the child—the boy—whom his father wished to rule the world. Never had she been allowed to forget her great destiny. As the daughter of Emanuel the Great of Portugal, descended from great Ferdinand and even greater Isabella the Catholic, it was meant that she should marry the man who, through his father, Philip of Austria, would inherit the German dominions of Austria, Milan, Burgundy, Holland, and the Netherlands; this wide inheritance, together with the Spanish crown, which came through the Emperor’s mother, mad Queen Juana, would, it was hoped, fall to the child as yet unborn.

Isabella was a bride of a year only, but there had been times, during her married life, when she had seen her burly husband lapse into deep melancholy. Then she had shuddered, remembering his mother; and she had wondered—but secretly—whether in the fanatical fervor of the great Isabella herself—Charles’s grandmother and mother of mad Juana—there had not been a seed of that which, fertilized in Juana, had grown to a lusty plant entwining itself about her brain and strangling her reason. For if Great Isabella had welded Spain together, she had also, with the help of her husband Ferdinand and the Holy Monk Torquemada, set in motion that mighty organization that brought out the sweat of all who dreaded its domination. Under Isabella the Inquisition had grown from a dwarf to a monster. New tortures had been invented, and from these none could feel entirely safe.

But such thoughts must not be hers at such a time.

The pain came and she could think of nothing but that. Tightly she pressed her lips together. She would not cry out; she dared not. Should the ruler of the world enter it to the sound of his mother’s anguish!

Leonor, large and comfortable, was leaning over her again.

“Highness…you should not restrain yourself. It is bad for you. Cry out. There is none but your ladies and those who love you who can hear.”

The long slender fingers closed about Leonor’s wrist.

“There, there, dearest Highness. There…there…”

Isabella said: “I will die, but I will not wail. Shall my son come into the world to the sound of his mother’s protesting cries? There must only be welcome for him.”

“He’ll not hear them, Highness. He’ll be fighting for his breath. He’ll not remember it against you. Cry out. It relieves the pain. It makes it easier, dearest lady.”

But the lips were tightly pressed together; the sweat ran down her face, but still she did not utter a cry. And the first that was heard in that apartment was the cry of the child.

Leonor took the baby in her arms, exulting, while Isabella lay back exhausted, yet contented. She had done her duty. She had given a boy to Spain.

The bells rang out. The people crowded into the streets. In the churches praises and thanks were chanted. All Spain was rejoicing in the birth of a male heir. They were bringing bulls into the town, for there must be bulls when any event was celebrated. On the way to the bullring, many would be trampled to death in the narrow alleys—relics of the Moorish occupation. Already bulls were struggling in the artificial lake, the water of which was tinged with the stain of blood, for men in boats and others swimming were prodding the bulls with daggers, goading them to fury; this was a new kind of bull-fight, a prelude to the great occasion. Girls with flowers in their hair were dancing the old dances, kicking up their tattered skirts, exposing their shapely yet dirty limbs. There would be much lovemaking under the stars tonight; beside the Puerta they would lie—in the Plaza itself—fighting for a flask of wine or a gypsy girl. Knives flashed; voices were raised. There was laughter; there were screams of anger; and all in honor of the new Prince.

Into the center of this revelry the rider came. He was stained and weary from a long journey; only his desire to be first with the news had given him the spirit and courage to ride so far and so fast in so short a time. Through the gates of the city he had ridden, right into the market square. He was making for the Palace, but the people had stopped him.

“What news? What news?”

“I seek the Emperor. If you detain me, it is at your peril.”

But these were the lawless ones, the robbers from the sierras, the beggars, the gypsies; they cared little for the Emperor’s wrath. They drew their knives and demanded news as they would have demanded a man’s purse when they faced him in a narrow mountain pass.

And when the news was told, they fell back; they crossed themselves—even the wildest of them—and they turned their eyes to the sky for a sign of vengeance. Silence had fallen over the alleys and courtyards.

“Holy Mother of God!” murmured the revellers. “What now? What an omen is this! God will be revenged. Holy Virgin, have mercy on us.”

Here was calamity, for shortly before the royal Prince was making his way into the world, Imperial soldiers had been sacking the City of Rome.

Surely the saints, surely the Holy Mother, surely God Himself would never forgive the outrage.

The Emperor Charles heard the news with horror. Hastily he crossed himself. He threatened to sentence the messenger to death in a cauldron of cold water slowly brought to the boil over a wood fire if the news should prove false. The messenger could only bow his head, tear his hair, and protest his innocence of any mischievous intent.

“I speak the truth, Imperial Highness. I have witnessed such sights with mine own eyes.”

“At such a time!” groaned the Emperor. “At such a time!”

He was accustomed to misfortune; but had there ever been such misfortune as this? The Holy City sacked, the holy virgin nuns dragged into the squares of Rome and publicly raped; and all the drink-crazed soldiers had been starving until they scaled the walls of the city under the command of that fool the Connétable de Bourbon. And Bourbon, who had rebelled against his sovereign lord, the King of France, was an ally of the King of Spain. Hence it would be said that these soldiers, who were guilty of surely one of the worst times in history, were Imperial troops.

“At such a time!” repeated the Emperor. “My son just born…my country celebrating his birth…and now, instead of banners of scarlet and gold, we must plunge our city into sack-cloth and ashes. Let this not be made known. We must keep this secret.”

But already he had heard the sound of wailing in the streets. He strode to the window and saw the people standing about, looking up at the sky, waiting for a sign from Heaven that the wrath of God was about to fall upon the land.

Charles dismissed the bearer of the dire news. He would be alone.

And when he was alone, he smiled slyly. The Pope had escaped to Castle Angelo and so saved his life. He was a prisoner there. There let him remain…the Emperor’s prisoner. In the greatest disaster—any soldier knew—there was often brightness to be found. The Holy City had been desecrated by Imperial troops and the displeasure of Heaven would be directed against Spain just when that land had thought itself blessed by the birth of a prince. Alas! that was a great misfortune. But it must be remembered that the Pope was virtually a prisoner of the Emperor, and that was not such a bad thing. The wily Medici Pope had given Charles much anxiety; well now it would be the turn of Master Clement to feel anxiety on account of Charles. Henry of England was urging Pope Clement to grant him a divorce from Catharine of Aragon; and Catharine of Aragon was Charles’s aunt. He believed that Clement would have granted the divorce in order to placate Henry; but now he would be obliged to reflect deeply. He must ask himself how he dared humiliate the aunt of a man whose captive he was.

Charles laughed his loud Hapsburg laugh. But he was sober almost at once. Melancholy was never far off these days; in the midst of pleasure and triumph it would overtake him.

Wily Clement was his prisoner, but the Holy City was desecrated, and many would mention his name—although he had had no part in it—when the Sack of Rome was recalled.

“Holy Mother of God,” he prayed as fervently as any in the streets below, “let this not prove an evil omen to my son.”

When the Queen heard, she had the child brought to her and held him fast in her arms.

Leonor, watching her with frightened eyes, made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved. “Holy Virgin, intercede for us. Let not the wrath of God fall on this newborn child. Strike not through him, Holy Virgin, Holy Mother of God.”

She rocked to and fro on her stool, weeping for this evil thing, which had fallen on Rome.

Queen Isabella touched the baby’s fair head and prayed. The baby cried for his milk. He was small and delicate, and everyone was now looking at him with trepidation. Any day the wrath of God would strike, and how could God strike more effectively than through the Prince?

But the weeks passed and the baby began to thrive; and now it was said in the streets of Valladolid that God did not intend after all to avenge the Sack of Rome on little Philip of Spain.

TWO

The little boy with the fair hair and the pale blue eyes looked wonderingly into the dark face of the handsome woman on whose lap he sat. He loved her—loved the warm comfort of her plump breasts, the kisses and caresses which she showered on him. He loved to be rocked in her arms, to smell the scent of her—wine, onion-flavored food, and the perfume of her body mingling with the perfume she used to disguise them.

Secretly he loved her better than anyone—better than his mother, better than his little sister, the Princess Maria. His mother continually impressed upon him the need to be brave and strong; but to Leonor he was not so much Prince Philip, the heir to Spain and the Empire, as the baby boy. When with her he could suck his thumb in comfort; he could cry against her breasts; he could tell her that he was afraid of the solemn-faced men who came to look at him and talk of the greatness of Spain, and the part he would have to play in keeping it great; he could show her the bruise on his leg, the cut on his finger, and she would cluck and tut-tut and kiss to make it better. She would call him her brave little baby; and if he shed tears that would be a secret between them, because the rest of the world must believe that the Prince of Spain could never be so childish as to cry.

It was Leonor who made it possible for him to be the possessor of two personalities. Alone with her he was Little Philip, however grave and silent he was in the presence of the grandees. He was two years old, not yet breeched, still a baby, yet a Prince.

Lately he had grown jealous. Leonor loved him, but there was another. He saw Leonor’s eyes soften when she held the new baby in her lap; she would laugh with pleasure when she held up her hand and the little Maria grasped her finger. “You love her most!” Philip would accuse her. But then her eyes would flash and she would swear by the saints that that was not so. “Never…never shall I be guilty of treason to my Prince of Spain.”

“But,” the little boy replied to that, “I do not wish to be your Prince, Leonor. I wish to be your Philip.”

Then Leonor took him into her arms and kissed him tenderly. What thoughts went on behind those pale blue eyes? she wondered. They had feared his brain might not be strong; but it was. It was calm and capable of reasoning, if it was a little slow. All the delicacy was in his little body.

“Maria,” she explained, “is but a baby, and women such as I am love little babies. They do something to us. Our hearts turn over to see their helplessness. Thus it was when you were a baby; now you are my prince as well.”

And as she watched the children, Leonor compared them one with the other. Maria already showed her temperament. She was gay while her brother was solemn. Maria was a Hapsburg. There would be little to fear from Maria. But Philip…he was another matter. His gravity might please his mother and the statesmen about him, but Leonor thought it unnatural. She would have liked to see him laugh more often, not to think first: May I laugh? Is anyone watching? That was not natural in one so young.

Yes. Leonor spoke truthfully when she said she loved her Prince the better. She felt that though he was a boy and heir to half the world, he was the one who needed her love and, as Leonor herself had said, it was helpless ones whom women such as she was must love.

She sat with her arm about the Prince while she held his sister in the other and she told him of the April day more than a year ago when the great Cortes of Madrid had paid homage to him. He listened, attentive and grave, because however many times he heard her tell of this, it always seemed to be the first time.

“It was to you they paid homage…to you…my little one. I was so proud. I stood there and the tears flowed down my cheeks. My little one, and all the great men bowing before him, kissing his baby hand…the little fingers that had curled about mine. They all swore that he was their Prince and that when he grew to manhood they would follow him to the ends of the Earth and they would serve him with their lives.”

“Did they then?” said the grave little boy. “’Tis a pity, Leonor, that I did not hear them.”

“You! You just blinked at them as though you did not think so much of them, for all their fine words.”

“And did I cry, Leonor?”

“Not you! Though you were tired out with it all, and there was a jeweled pin tormenting you. I found it later. But did you cry? Not you. You remembered that your great father would not have liked to see you cry.”

“And he was there, was he not, Leonor?”

“He was there, great and mighty, looking at you as though he cared more for you than all his kingdoms and his riches.”

“And my mother?”

“She too.”

“They love me dearly, Leonor.”

“They do, my little one. And the people in the streets, they love you too. You should have heard the shouts. But you did hear them, of course.”

“Did I, Leonor?”

“Yes, you did; and you did not cry. You lay there looking about you with those solemn blue eyes…a regular little prince.”

“What did the people say, Leonor?”

“‘Long live the Prince. Long live Philip.’ They then lighted bonfires in the streets, and they brought forth the best bulls. There was dancing and such goings-on in the bullring as never before. There was tilting with reeds, and such merriment…All that night and the next day, and the next night and the next and the next, the feasting went on. And it was all for you.”

“They love me, do they not, Leonor?”

“They do, my love.”

“But they love me as the Prince, Leonor. You love me as your Philip.”

He put his arms about her neck and kept his head on her breast, for he did not wish her to read his thoughts. It was good to be a prince; but the best thing in the world was to be Leonor’s little Philip.

His mother loved him too; but he wished that he did not know so much; he wished that he did not know she loved him so much partly because he had been born a boy, because he had not died—as everyone had expected—and because every time she looked at him she remembered that she had done her duty to her lord and to her country. Yet he felt that part of her love was his because he was her little boy.

She never petted him as Leonor did. Always when he saw her he must kneel before her and kiss the hem of her robe. He must remember ceremony before love.

Often she talked to him of his great duties.

“Never forget that you are a prince of Spain. Even if you have brothers, you will still be the heir to the crown. You must be more like your father than any.”

“Why do I never see my father, your Highness?” he asked.

“Because he is far away. Your father is not only the King of Spain; he is Emperor of almost the whole of the world. That means that he cannot stay long in one place. He must roam the Empire, defending it.”

“Why does my father own half the world, your Highness?”

“Because he inherited it…as you will. It came to him through his father and mother; and his father was called Philip as you are.”

The boy liked that. He wanted to know more of this Philip.

“He was called Philip the Handsome because he was beautiful. He was fair and many loved him. Your grandmother loved him very dearly…”

Isabella’s face altered when she spoke of Mad Juana, and Philip missed little. He had heard voices other than his mother’s change when his grandmother was mentioned. He wished to know more about the mystery which surrounded her, the Queen who had brought the crown of Spain to his father. But Philip did not ask the question point blank. He already knew that if he wished to take people off their guard it was better to approach a subject by devious means.

“And Philip the Handsome died, did he not?”

“He died long ago.”

“And my grandmother…did she die too?”

There was the faintest hesitation, which the boy was not slow to notice. “Yes; she is dead, my son.”

For dead she was, thought Isabella, dead to the world, living her strange existence in the Alcázar of Tordesillas, surrounded by those who were really her keepers, frenziedly gay at times, at others lost in the depth of her melancholy.

The little boy looked into his mother’s face. One day he would discover more of this strange grandmother whose name seemed to have such an effect on everyone who heard it.

“Tell me of my father and his wars,” he said.

She was eager to tell, for she knew that his father wished him to learn quickly all that was happening on the continent of Europe.

“Your father has many enemies, my son, for when a king and an emperor is rich in his rightful possessions there are many to envy him. Through his father—Philip, your namesake—he inherited Austria, and that means that he is continually at war with the German Princes who seek to take his lands from him. Through your grandfather, your father inherited the Duchy of Burgundy as well as Milan; and in France there is a wicked king who wishes to take these from him. So, as well as the German Princes, you father has to fight this wicked French King.”

“But my father always wins.”

“Your father always wins.”

The little brow was puckered. “Why does he not kill the wicked French King and the German Princes? Then he would not have to fight them, and could be here with us.”

“Once he caught the French King and brought him to Madrid. But kings do not kill kings. They make treaties. Your father sought to make peace with the French King so that all might be well between them; but the French King did not keep his word, and when your father released him, he went back to France and his little sons became your father’s prisoners.” Isabella smiled at her son’s eagerness to hear more of these French Princes. “Yes,” she went on; “little Francis and little Henry came to be your father’s prisoners in place of their father.”

“Your Highness,” cried Philip, betraying a little of his excitement, “if my father had been the prisoner of the King of France, would he not have taken him to France and should I not have had to go in his place?”

This was one of the moments when he betrayed his youth and his folly. His mother was looking at him in astonishment.

“Your father could never be the prisoner of anyone. Your father is the greatest ruler in the world.”

The little boy blushed a deep pink. It was so easy to make mistakes.

Now he could ask no more about the little French boys who had been his father’s prisoners. But he knew that his Aunt Eleonore had become their stepmother. He wondered if they asked their stepmother—who was his father’s sister—about their father.

His mother said, softening as she saw his dismay: “There is not only the King of France to plague your father; there is also the wicked King of England.”

He nodded. He had heard of that King. His father distrusted the King of England, who was making a lot of trouble by being unkind to Philip’s great-aunt, Queen Catharine.

“One day, my son, all these tasks will fall to your lot. One day you will have to face them as your father does now.”

He knew it. Always the talk came back to that. It was the recurring theme. Already, although he was not yet three years old, he must begin his preparations. Yet he could not understand why, if his father always won, he did not put an end to the strife. Why did he not kill all his enemies and thus win everlasting peace? Philip was silent; there was so much to learn.

“Now I will tell you a story,” said his mother. “Once upon a time there was a wicked man. He was a monk, and so he should have been a good man. But the Devil made him his own, and, with this monk, decided to destroy God’s Holy Catholic Church. Do you know the name of that monk, Philip?”

This was the oft-told tale. This was his nursery legend. He knew the story of the wickedest man in the world, so he answered promptly: “Martin Luther.”

She was pleased with him. “And what did he make throughout the world?”

He could scarcely pronounce the word; but he knew it and he would be able to say it for his father when he came: “Heretics.”

She took his face between her hands. “Yes, my son, this wicked monk has gone about the world preaching evil until it has spread through Germany, Holland…the Netherlands. The poor, simple people there listen to the bad man and they believe what he says to be the truth. One day it will be your task to fight these heretics. You will have to drive them from the world as your great-grandfather and great-grandmother drove the Infidels from Granada. They must not be allowed to live, because living, they spread their evil. You will drive them from the face of the Earth. You will have the might of your father to help you, all the might of the Holy Inquisition.”

He smiled, but he was tired. There was too much talk of what he would have to do in the future; he wanted to do something pleasant now. He wanted to play, but there was no one to play with, except his little sister Maria, and how could such a solemn boy play with a baby?

So patiently he listened while his mother continued to talk of the great tasks that lay ahead of him.

He was four years old—a baby no longer.

They had talked to him very seriously before they made the journey to Avila.

“Remember,” said his mother, “that all eyes will be fixed upon you. This is a solemn occasion. As you ride through the city the people will shout your name; they will be thinking: There is the Prince. There is the boy born to be King and Emperor. You must show no fear. You must show nothing but calmness…dignity and pride in your rank. How I wish your father could be here.”

Father, King, and Emperor. They were just names to the boy. He did not remember ever seeing the man. He visualized a giant, towering above all others, dressed in garments that dazzled the eyes—brave, beautiful, strong…the greatest man in the world. The thought of his father frightened him, for continually he was told that he must grow like him. How could he? He was not big enough—even for his age. He was inclined to be breathless. He was not clever enough; he asked a great many questions, but they were often the wrong questions.

He wished that he was more like his sister, who was now three years old. She laughed aloud without thought, never asking herself: Is it right for me to laugh? Everyone loved her. They shook their heads over her high spirits, for she too had her destiny prepared for her. If she knew, she did not care. She continued to laugh and play and charm those about her. “She’s all Hapsburg!” people said. “She’s her grandfather all over again.” Her grandfather was that Philip the Handsome, the husband of the grandmother whose name was spoken in whispers, the mysterious grandmother of whom Philip could discover very little.

“Leonor,” he said, “why must I go to Avila?”

“Because you are to be breeched, my love.”

“I am to wear the clothes of a man. Well, why cannot I do that here?”

“Ah, my Philip. It is because you are a prince. You have to forget you are a little boy now. You have to be the people’s Philip for a while. They wish to see you. They wish to say, ‘He is growing up, our little Prince. He is not a baby anymore.’ And they want to see the breeching done. They will be content with nothing less.”

He shivered. He hated ceremonies. He was afraid when he rode through the town on his little mule and the people stared at him and shouted his name. He was always afraid that they would be displeased with him, that they would catch him laughing or see a tear in his eye. If they did and they gossiped about it, he would be disgraced for ever.

It was summer when they set out on the journey south from Valladolid.

On his mule, whose saddle was richly jeweled, rode Philip; about him was the bodyguard of soldiers and holy monks with the nobles of the court who were not fighting with his father in the Imperial dominions. In litters hung with rich cloth rode the Queen and her ladies; among these was Leonor, with little Maria on her lap. Oh, to be a girl and not the heir of Spain! thought Philip. That was an ignoble thought, and he would have to confess, among his other sins, that it had come to him. But how could he help wishing it as he rode past the peasants’ hovels, and the ragged people came out to look at them with strange expressions in their glittering eyes! Sometimes he felt that they were preparing to snatch his saddle from under him because they were hungry and the sight of so much riches maddened them. He felt frightened, which was wrong, for a prince must not be afraid. He felt sorry for them, which was wrong, for a prince must feel nothing but the need to preserve the dignity of his high office.

Beside him rode a boy considerably older than himself, a dark-eyed, sleek-haired Portuguese boy. Philip was drawn toward this boy because there was a look of merriment in his eyes and a dignity, which did not change when he met the Prince’s gaze. He was courteous, yet not obsequious. Philip asked his name.

“It is Ruy Gomez da Silva, Highness.”

He was all Portuguese; Philip knew that. “Keep riding beside me,” said Philip.

Ruy Gomez said: “Your Highness is gracious.” And his eyes seemed to say that it was something of a joke that a little boy of four years old should be Highness to one of his great age and wisdom.

He did look wise. How old was he? wondered Philip. Thirteen possibly, or even fourteen. A great age, that seemed; and a good age too, for he was not so old that he was a man, yet he was free from the bewilderment of babyhood, which still hung about Philip. Ruy was at the age when he had cut his way through the maze of youth and was not too old to remember the difficulties of one still struggling through it.

“Look!” said Philip. “Look at the blue hills in the distance.”

“They are several miles away yet, Highness. When we reach them we shall know our journey is almost at an end.”

Philip looked shyly at the boy; he wanted to ask what those hills were, but he must not expose his ignorance to a subject.

Ruy read his thoughts as, it seemed to Philip afterward, he did so often.

“Those are the Sierra de Guadarrama, my Prince.”

“Yes,” said Philip hastily. “Yes.”

“They seem to recede as we approach them,” said the bold boy. “Many things seem like that, your Highness.”

How was that? Philip wondered. How could things seem farther away when they grew nearer. He would not ask. He must remember that a prince does not expose his ignorance to a subject. He turned away with a hint of haughtiness, but when he looked quickly back, the black eyes smiled into his.

Avila was built on a plateau, and as they climbed toward it the inhabitants came out to welcome them. Ahead rode the standard-bearers and the procession was a dazzling one to a people unaccustomed to splendor, but all eyes were on the four-year-old boy who, tired out with his journey, his little limbs stiff through the long hours in the saddle, longing for the soft lap of Doña Leonor, sat straight, bowing his head now and then in acknowledgment of the welcome, never for one instant letting any of them guess that he was weary and more than a little frightened.

The court rested in Avila before the great ceremony was due to take place, and during that time Philip’s friendship with Ruy Gomez da Silva began.

Never in Philip’s four years had he known such an interesting companion. Ruy was a clever diplomatist; he took charge of the Prince, while he never gave the slightest sign that he knew he was doing so.

And what tales he had to tell! They were such tales that Leonor had never heard. When they returned to the quiet of the palace in Valladolid it would be Philip who would entertain Leonor with his stories of the wonders of the world. He wondered if he might ask if Ruy could stay with him in Valladolid. He was desolate at the thought of losing him, though he would not show his grief if a parting were necessary; but how he prayed that this would not be so! Perhaps he could offer a prayer at the tomb of Torquemada or by the urn that contained the arm of St. Thomas Aquinas. Perhaps he could go to the Church of San Vicente and pray to that saint, and if he thought of the horrible death that had befallen him, and if he suffered in thought that which San Vicente had suffered in actuality, the saint might listen and intercede for him.

In the meantime, here was Ruy attending the Prince, which the Queen and Leonor allowed, being glad that this should be so, for they had much to concern them. Maria, being so high-spirited, encroached on Leonor’s time; and the Queen had many self-imposed tasks to perform. She must let the people see her; she must visit the tombs of saints and martyrs; she must distribute alms to the beggars who cried out at the gates of the palace, exposing their sores while they wailed of their misfortunes, as she must to the water-carriers who called out a blessing on her as they forced their mules through the narrow streets.

So Ruy would come to the Prince’s apartment and bathe his feet and dress him; and all the time he talked, and his conversation was as colorful as he himself was.

“Did you see the great boulders on the road as we came along, Highness?”

“Yes,” said his Highness. “I did.”

“Did you know what they were?”

“Boulders,” said the Prince calmly, but he was excited. Nothing was as it seemed, according to Ruy.

“So it would seem,” said Ruy, coming closer, making his gleaming eyes long, bringing his face close to that of the Prince so that the little boy’s heart began to beat fast with expectation. “But they are the tears of Christ.” Ruy drew back to watch the effect of these words, but Philip was impassive, waiting. “He lived in Spain…here in Avila. He wandered among the plains and mountains of Spain, and when He saw this poor land…so dry that nothing would grow, He wept bitterly and when his tears fell on the barren land they turned into boulders.”

“If they had turned into a river,” said the grave little Prince, “that would have been better. For what good are the boulders but to make the way more difficult?”

Ruy burst out laughing, but he did not tell Philip why he laughed. Philip wondered whether to command him to tell, but though he was a prince, he knew the etiquette between friends. Even a Prince could not command a friend.

“It may be, Highness,” went on Ruy, “that Christ did not pass this way, for surely if He had, He would not have added to the difficulties of this land.”

“We will pray for a miracle,” said Philip. “It would be good to turn the boulders into water. Perhaps my father could do it.”

Sometimes they talked of the Cid. Philip had not heard of that hero before; there had only been one hero in his life: his father.

“What!” cried Ruy. “Your Highness does not know of the Cid!” The black eyes gleamed. If the Emperor was a hero to his son, the Cid was an even greater hero to Ruy.

Ruy smiled and said: “We have the same name. He was Ruy Diaz de Bivar, el mio Cid Campeador. His real name was Rodrigo but he was called Ruy…as I am. And ‘Cid,’ that is an Arabic name which means Lord—the Champion Lord. He freed Spain from the Infidel.”

Philip’s brow was puckered. “My great-grandfather and my great-grandmother did that,” he said haughtily.

“Indeed yes,” said Ruy hastily. “But the Cid was the first to rise against them with any success. He lived long ago…long before great Ferdinand and Isabella.”

“How long before?”

“Hundreds of years…two hundred at least; and there was fighting all that time; and when your great-grandfather and your great-grandmother married they united Castile and Aragon; and that was the beginning of good times for our country.”

That was better. That was history as Philip knew it. But Ruy had many tales to tell of the Cid. He told of the hero’s love for the beautiful Doña Ximena, and how the Cid had had to fight a duel for her before he won her; he told of how she loved him and how broken-hearted she was when he must tear himself from her to fight the Infidel. From Ruy, Philip learned her prayer:

“Tu que atodos guias, vala myo Cid el Campeador.”

It was a prayer he might well say for his father. “Thou, who guardest all men, guard my lord and champion.” But his father did not need such prayers, since even the Cid could not have been so important in the eyes of God as the Emperor Charles.

Now Ruy was telling him of the Cid’s cleverness, how, wishing to raise money to pay his soldiers, he, with the help of his squire, filled coffers with sand and nails; these he showed to the Jews, telling them that they contained treasures he had won from the Moors, and proffered them as security for a loan. The Prince listened gravely. It seemed to him that sand and nails could not be worth very much, but he did not say so, as Maria would have done; he remained silent, waiting.

And the foolish Jews lent the money without opening the coffers which were heavily sealed. They dared not open them, for they knew that the Cid would be angry if they doubted his word. So…he got the money and the Jews got the coffers full of worthless sand and nails.

Philip had to question this. He cried: “But…how could the Cid keep the money when he had given nothing for it?”

“He rode away with their money, and it was too late to do anything about that when the coffers were opened.”

“But that is stealing,” pronounced the Prince. “And it is forbidden to steal.”

The merry black eyes were opened very wide. “I see I forgot to explain to your Highness. These were Jews…and Jews are infidels.”

“They are…heretics?” said Philip uncertainly.

“Infidels and heretics, your Highness…one and the same. Burn them all…torture them and send them to the flames…. That is the verdict of Holy Church.”

Philip dropped his eyes. All was well. The Cid’s honor was saved. He had stolen; but it was only from Jews.

Yet it did not say in the Scriptures: “Thou shalt not steal…except from Jews, infidels, and heretics.” He wondered why. Perhaps one day he would find out.

Ruy slipped Philip’s shirt over his head. When the little boy was naked he seemed stripped of his dignity. His body was so small and white. He guessed that Ruy’s was big and strong and brown. He felt that he was a very small boy without his clothes.

He said: “I wish that you could help me to dress with my new clothes. I wish I did not have to undress with so many people looking on.”

“That,” said Ruy, “is one of the penalties of being a prince who will one day be a king.”

“But to stand there…naked before them all.”

Ruy laughed his merry laugh. “Think nothing of it, Highness. It is no more than standing before me. There will merely be several hundred pairs of eyes upon you instead of one.”

“But…” began Philip.

“You will not be afraid,” soothed Ruy. “And when you wear the clothes of a man, you will have taken the first step toward becoming a man.”

Philip was silent. He thought of the Cid, fighting for the lady he wished to marry, cheating the Jews with his coffers full of worthless sand. He supposed it was given to some, like the Cid, to do great and glorious deeds, and to others to be quiet and grave and clever enough to hide their fears and their joys, to learn to become, not what they wished to be, but what others had decided they must be.

At last there came that hot day when they set out for the ceremony.

The Queen, with her son and little daughter, rode in state to the Cloister of St. Anne. About them were the soldiers of the King’s Guard, without whom the little Prince was never allowed to travel beyond the palace. The holy monks and nobles made up the procession, and all was pomp and ceremony of the most solemn kind.

Along the route the people had gathered. Philip was aware once more of thousands of eyes upon him. He felt smaller than he did in the privacy of his own apartments; he longed to be grown up, and as tall and strong as Ruy.

But Ruy was riding close to him. That gave him courage. He did not turn his head to look at his friend, but he was aware of him. He recalled his encouraging words: “Do not be afraid. There will be just several hundred pairs of eyes instead of one.”

The procession, this time led by the Queen, had reached the gates of the Cloister. There it halted, and one of the nuns, who had been waiting at the gate, said in a loud voice, which could be heard by the stragglers on the edge of the crowd: “Who would enter in?”

Leonor answered for the Queen. “It is Doña Isabella, Queen and Empress, with her offspring, Philip and Maria.”

The nun immediately made a deep obeisance and signed for the gates to be flung wide open.

How cold it was inside the Cloister! Philip dreaded the moment when he would be stripped of his clothes. If he felt cold he must not give the slightest sign. When he was stripped he must not shiver, for if he did, all would see, and what would they think of the one who was destined to rule them if they looked on a poor, shivering baby?

The Abbess had come forward to greet the Queen, and when the Prince was presented to her, she knelt before him so that her cold gray eyes beneath her hood were level with his.

They went along to the great hall where food was laid out for them, and the Queen sat at the head of the table with Philip on her right hand. Maria, who sat next to Leonor, did not realize the solemnity of the occasion.

“Philip!” she called. “Look at me!”

But he did not look at her. He gave no sign that he had heard her. How could he, heir to half the world, allow himself even to notice the frivolity of a careless child who, it seemed, would never understand Spanish dignity and Spanish solemnity. Leonor was smiling indulgently. They would all be saying: “Ah, but she is a Hapsburg. What can one expect?” Yet why should he not also be a Hapsburg? He had the same father and mother as Maria. But a prince who would one day be a king of Spain must be Spanish in every way. His father was a Hapsburg, but the people of Spain wanted a Spaniard to rule over them. Philip had no choice. He had to be a quiet, solemn little Spaniard. Philip of Spain must be what others wished him to be.

But in any case he would have been quiet on this day because he was frightened. This was his first big public ceremony, and it was devised for him. If there had been no Philip, there would have been no gathering of solemn people. He must not fail to play his part in the manner that was expected.

The meal was over and they left the table. His mother had taken him by the hand and was leading him through the cold corridors. He had become intensely aware of the cold; that was because he knew that soon they would take his clothes from him. He would shiver. He knew he would shiver; he would shiver with cold and fright. They would despise him and…his father would hear of it.

They had entered the chapel—surely the coldest in the world. Now he must stand on a dais. His mother had left him and he stood alone. The nuns came forward. He did not like their black, flowing garments; their cold, pale faces seemed to leer at him from their hideous cowls; they were like creatures from a nightmare.

His teeth began to chatter. He prayed to the Holy Virgin, to the saints, and to the Cid: “Help me to be like the Cid…like my father.”

The nuns laid their cold hands upon him; deftly they stripped him of his clothes; they took everything from him, even his shift. There he stood, with all those eyes upon him, a naked little boy, with the whitest of bodies, which in itself was somehow shameful among these brown-skinned people.

He knew that somewhere among the watching crowd was Leonor; and the impulse came to him to look for her, to run to her and to cry against her breast, begging her to take him away from all these people and give him back his clothes.

He lowered his pale eyes and looked at his toes. None would guess how hard he was fighting to hold back his tears, to prevent the frail body from showing, by its shivering, how frightened he was.

The moments of nakedness could not last forever, although it seemed to the little boy that they would never end. But at last the cold hands were laid upon him and clothes were being slipped over his head. He was turned this way and that. The tight hose were put on his legs and he was forced into the breeches—the kind worn by men. Now came the black velvet jacket and the feather-decorated biretta. He watched the nuns’ white fingers fix the jewel-encrusted dagger in his belt. He was tired with so much standing and he found it difficult to stand straight and still as he had been told he must.

And now that he was dressed the ceremony was not over. The noblemen and monks had come to the dais, and one of them began to enumerate his titles in a very loud voice. Philip had not known that there were so many. He tried to remember them, for he expected it was very wrong not to know them all. He discovered that not only was he heir to half the old world, but also to the new one. So many possessions and the tight new clothes were almost more than he could bear.

Then his eyes caught the face of his new friend, Ruy Gomez. Ruy smiled at him. Philip did not return the smile. He gave his friend a solemn stare, but he was happier suddenly.

He listened to the protestations of loyalty; he accepted the homage; he looked with indifference, as he had been taught to do, from the swathed figures of the Dominican monks to the helmeted soldiers of the guard. He might be Don Philip the Prince of Spain; but he was also the friend of Ruy Gomez da Silva; he was still Leonor’s little Philip.

Philip never forgot the day his father returned. That was the end of childhood.

He had changed considerably from that frightened little boy of four who had stood naked before the grandees and ladies of the court, the monks, the nuns, and the soldiers in the Cloister of St. Anne.

He was less delicate, though still small for his age; his hair was yellow now, but his eyes were still the same pale shade of blue. He was quiet, dignified, and if he was not brilliant, he was intelligent; the most unusual of his characteristics was his astonishing self-control.

Friendship with Ruy Gomez had continued. Philip liked to have the boy in attendance, and if at times he wondered whether Ruy’s affection for him was tempered by the knowledge that he would one day be the King, and a king’s friendship could be a profitable one, Philip did not hold that against him.

Each day the importance of his position was impressed on Philip anew. When his father’s letters arrived, they were read to him. Charles wished his son to follow the course of his campaigns in Europe; and Philip, always docile, always obedient had listened when he was expected to listen, and absorbed as much as he could. He could speak no other language than Castilian; he had not distinguished himself in any branch of learning; but he could discuss his father’s campaigns as intelligently as though he had taken part in them.

And it was at this stage that Charles found an opportunity to break away from his military life and visit his family.

Philip stood in the great hall waiting to receive his father. He was clad in black velvet according to the fashion, but he wore a blue feather in his biretta—chosen by Leonor because she said it made his eyes look more blue.

Philip was aware of the anxiety all about him. He knew that his mother wished he were a few inches taller, and that the blue feather was meant to add that extra blue to his eyes so that they did not seem weak. All those about him were apprehensive as to the effect of the Prince on his father, the Emperor.

Then came the sound of heralds, the clatter of horses’ hooves and the cries of welcome; and into the hall stepped the hero, the legend, Charles the Fifth of Germany, Charles the First of Spain.

Their eyes met—father’s and son’s.

Charles saw a little boy—a very little boy—and his heart leaped with compassion and tenderness. He whispered to himself: “So that’s my Philip. Holy Mother of God, give him a good life.”

Philip had looked at the god and taken in as much as he could before making his obeisance. He saw a heavy man who seemed large more on account of his girth than his height. There was yellow hair, not unlike Philip’s, a yellow beard, a broad forehead, and a large, aquiline nose. His eyes were bluer than Philip’s; his face was crisscrossed with many lines etched, not only by anxieties, but by wind and sun of Germany, Italy, and Flanders as well as Spain. His aspect would have been benign but for the heavy, jutting jaw, which implied that ruthlessness and cruelty would not be lacking if the occasion demanded it.

To Philip he seemed to fit the picture of his imagination. There was power in the man and it emanated from him.

Charles had eyes for no one but the boy.

“My son!” he cried. “My son Philip!”

Then he strode forward and, as the boy would have remained kneeling, he cried: “Come, let me look at you. So you are my son, eh? You are Philip?”

Then he laughed loudly—for he was after all a Hapsburg, and if he wished he would defy Spanish ceremony—and embraced the boy, and held him fast against him as though he would never let him go.

At length he released him, and the Queen came forward with Maria. Maria, who was six, was old enough for decorum, but she showed none. She threw her arms about her father’s neck and refused to let go when commanded by her mother. Over her fair curly head the Emperor’s eyes met the solemn ones of his son and he smiled with approval, for he saw in this boy one who would be loved by the people of this alien land.

Throughout the town there was feasting and revelry at that time. Philip heard the continuous shouting of the people in the streets; and later he must stand on a balcony beside his father while the people cried out their loyalty; and when they declared that they could not see the Prince, his father lifted him on to his shoulders while the people cheered more wildly.

There was a great banquet, and while his father laughed and talked with the great ladies and gentlemen of the court, Philip was aware that he was the one whom his father constantly watched. Philip was quiet; he spoke only when spoken to.

When his attendants had put him to bed, his father came into the apartment. He stood by the bed looking down on his son.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we will talk. We have much to say to each other.”

Philip immediately rose, for he knew it was wrong that he should lie down while his father stood, but Charles gently pushed him back on to the bed, saying: “No ceremony. We are alone. There are times when we may be just father and son. They have made a Spanish Don of you, I see.”

“It was not what you wished, Sire?”

Charles stooped and pressed the boy’s shoulder, noting how thin it was. “I am well pleased,” he said. “Sleep now. Tomorrow we shall have much to say to each other, you and I.”

Charles was delighted with his son’s knowledge of his campaigns in the dominions. He saw at once that although Philip might not be a brilliant scholar his sharp intelligence would doubtless stand him in better stead.

Already Charles was growing tired of his military career. He told Philip so. “There are many times when I long for my home and my family. Grow up quickly, my son, for my armies need a younger man to command them. Affairs of state too can be settled the better by fresh minds.”

When he took the boy on his knee Philip was at first shocked by such familiarity, but when they were alone Charles laughed at his solemnity.

“It is not always necessary to stand on ceremony, my son. Throw off the restraint when we are alone. Be yourself. Laugh. Drink. Enjoy good food. Good food…good wine…those are the real pleasures of life, and there is nothing to compare with them. Others besides great rulers can enjoy them; but that does not mean that great rulers should not also do so. Would I could live at ease with my family. I would like to see many brothers and sisters growing up with you and Maria. But when a man is always abroad how can he get children…legitimate children? It is impossible. And when an Emperor has such a son as you, he feels his first duty is to hold his dominions together. Duty! It is the bane of a ruler’s life. Oh, I sigh sometimes for freedom. Do you know what I would do, little son, if I had the free will to choose? Nay, you cannot guess. Become a monk, I think; give myself to prayer, keeping my soul safe for God, and saving the souls of others—for it is an easy thing for a wandering soldier to commit sins. Ah, you have a great task before you. I see great days ahead for Spain. We have made of it an industrial land. Who would have thought that possible? Think of Spain…the whole of Spain…Andalusia…Aragon…New Castile…Old Castile…all Spain. Think of the barren tablelands, the rocky, impassable sierras, the rushing rivers. Think of that. Or are you too young? You stand there looking so wise. Is it real wisdom, little son, or is it that you know when to hold your tongue? But perhaps that shows the greatest wisdom of all. You have learned to be silent. You will say: ‘But, my father, you have not this gift.’” Charles burst into loud laughter. “No, I have it not. And how can I be silent when I meet my son…my Don Felipe, Principe d’Espagne? I have thought often of these meetings. I have thought of what I would say to you. I want your way to be easy. I want you to profit from the mistakes your father has made.”

“You have made no mistakes, Sire.”

That made him laugh more loudly. “So they told you that, did they? Bravo! But you are too wise to listen to such tales. A great task is yours, and you will do it better if you read the thoughts behind men’s words, the meaning behind their smiles. I have had many defeats in my life, many disasters. I have made many mistakes, and you will not profit from them if you look the other way and call them victories. Oh yes, before the people we talk of victory, but alone together we will speak the truth. You understand?”

“I do, your Highness.”

“Then call me Father. I like that word better on your lips. Philip, my son, my little one, grow up quickly. I need your help.”

As Philip gazed into his father’s face an extraordinary revelation came to him. This Emperor who talked of defeat seemed a greater hero than the faultless image which had been put constantly before him. This Emperor’s struggles seemed more noble than the easy victories of that other.

“Yes,” went on the Emperor; “we have made this into an industrial country. People from the valleys of the Elbro and the Douro, from the Tagus and the Guadalquivir leave their unfertile land and come to the towns. In Seville the best silk in the world is being made; from Toledo come the finest blades. Wool and cloth are being sent to our colonies. You see what great good our adventures did for Spain when they brought new lands under our domination, for it is our silks, our wools, our wine, and our grain that are sent to our colonies. We will allow no others to send it. The New World…Mexico and Peru is ours, and for that we must thank our adventurers. A country’s greatness is measured not only by its native soil but by rich new lands that it has gathered to it; its foster-children are as important as its own, not only for the treasure they bring—the gold, the precious jewels, and the slaves—but for the commerce. You understand that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then your task will be to extend our Empire and to lose nothing that we hold, for there will be others eager to seize it. Fight to the death any who stand in your way…as I have fought France, England, and the German Princes.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And there is another enemy whom you must fight more relentlessly than any, for on that fight depends the salvation of Christendom. Do you know who that enemy is?”

Philip had the answer ready. “It is the heretic.”

The Emperor became a different man when he spoke of the heretic. The blue eyes lost their laughter and the jutting jaw showed how cruel he could be.

“The Holy Inquisition will join the fight with the chevalet, with the pulleys, with the red-hot pincers, with the wheel and the flames. It is your sacred duty to destroy them wherever you find them. If you hesitate to do so, you will destroy your own soul.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You must learn more of the holy work of your great-grandmother, she who is called Isabella the Catholic. You must learn how she worked with the holy monk, Tomás de Torquemada. You must learn more of the most sacred and holy Inquisition.”

“I have learned much of these, Father.”

“Then that is well. You cannot learn too much. You cannot hunt the heretic too zealously. And when you have found him, his torture cannot be too prolonged, his death too painful.”

“No, Father.”

“Now, my son, there is one thing that gives me some alarm. You have learned some of your lessons well, but in other matters you are not as learned as some of the Princes of Europe. You must speak French fluently, for who knows, one day I may find a French bride for you. Now, it would not be entirely necessary for you to speak with your bride in her own language, but it would not be amiss. Then you should understand Latin. You must speak Italian, German…Holy Mother of God, you must be able to speak with all your subjects. Nay, do not look downcast. The fault is not yours. You have not been given the tutors so to teach you. That shall be remedied without delay.” The Emperor grasped his son’s arm. “I should like to feel a little more flesh on these arms. I should like to see you shoot up faster. You sit a mule adequately, but a mule could not carry the Prince of Spain into battle. I should like to see you master a fiery steed. We must find a mount worthy of the Prince of Spain. We must find tutors. Have we not half the world in which to find them? You say little, my son. ‘Yes, Father.’ ‘No, Father.’ You are solemn for your years. Never mind. That is how I would have it. You will do well. I prophesy greatness for you. Go now, and later we will talk again.”

Philip bowed with dignity and left his father. He was excited by the interview, yet filled with apprehension at the thought of the future.

Don Juan de Zuñiga surveyed his pupil with some dismay. He had been courteous enough when the Emperor had brought them together; he had bowed with the ceremony Philip expected; he had walked at a respectful distance behind the Prince when they went into the stables; but as soon as they were there his manner changed.

The big man leaned forward and felt the Prince’s arm.

“Your Highness will have to develop his muscles.”

“If I wish to, I shall,” answered Philip haughtily.

“If you wish to ride a horse and learn to fence, you will, your Highness,” was the grim rejoinder.

Some princes would have lifted their whips and struck a servant for such familiarity; but Philip hesitated. His anger was cold. He would wait.

“Now mount,” said Don Juan.

The man had been Commendador Mayor of Castile and he had spent much of his time at court, so he should have known how to address a prince. The Emperor could not know what an insolent creature he was or he would not have entrusted him with this task. Philip ignored the command. He stood very still, and only the heightened pink of his cheeks showed his anger.

“Well?” said the intrepid Don Juan. “Did your Highness not hear?”

“I could not believe that you addressed me,” said Philip. “I am not accustomed to being addressed as though I am a serving-boy.”

“Then I crave your Highness’s pardon. It will, I fear, delay your Highness’s tuition if your Highness must be addressed by all your titles on all occasions. What if your Highness’s life should be in danger? Say the horse bolted? Must I crave your gracious permission to act before I aid you? Must I say, ‘Your Highness, I fear your horse has bolted. Have I your most gracious permission to…’?”

“Enough!” cried Philip. “My father has chosen you to teach me to ride as he thinks I should, to fence and to acquire those tricks that will enable me to take part in tilts and tourneys. For that reason I will allow you to teach me. But I will not endure your impertinence, and if there is more of it I shall ask my father to find me a new teacher, and the old one shall not go unpunished.”

“Your Highness has spoken.”

During the riding lesson the Prince’s anger was increased, though none would have guessed it as he sat his horse.

“Heels down. Back straight. Grip with your knees. Do you want a tumble?” Was that the way to speak to the heir of half the world?

“Saved you that time! A pretty pass if I had returned the Prince to his family with a broken nose, eh?”

Philip did not reply; but he had made up his mind.

And when the lesson was over the man had the effrontery to say: “Your Highness needs much practice. Why, you sit your horse like a bag of grain.”

As soon as he was alone with his father, Philip said: “Father, I must have a new teacher.”

“A new teacher! Why, Zuñiga is the best horseman in Spain. He’s a master fencer too. There could not be a better teacher for you.”

“But I cannot endure his insolence. He spoke to me as though I were…any boy learning to ride. He said I sat my horse like a sack of grain.”

Charles drew his son to him so that Philip could smell the garlic on his breath. “You were a boy learning to ride this morning, my son; and a prince learning to ride must learn all the tricks that any boy must learn. I saw you ride into the stables, and, Philip, you did look like a sack of grain.”

The boy did not speak, but his usually pale cheeks were fiery red. He felt that he would die of shame.

The restraint of the boy never failed to astonish Charles. He softened as he said: “Listen to me, my son. If Zuñiga were to flatter you and be only solicitous of ministering to your wishes, he would be like the rest of the court, and you would have one the less near you to tell you the truth—and a worse thing cannot happen to any man, old or young; but most of all to the young, for their want of experience does not enable them to discern truth from error. You are a wise boy and I rejoice in your wisdom. Do not be downcast. You have had a riding lesson this morning, but you have had too an even more valuable lesson. You have learned it well, I know.”

Charles was right. Philip had learned yet another lesson, and he knew that it was more important than the management of horses.

In a room of his own house in Salamanca, the Prince sat at a table listening to the voice of his tutor, the learned Dr. Juan Martinez Pedernales. Pedernales—which meant “flint”—was not a name likely to endear its owner to his pupils, so the professor had somewhat ingeniously latinized it, as so many learned men like to latinize their names, and so was always known as “Dr. Siliceo.”

He was fat, fond of good living, preferring to teach in comfort. It was, therefore, great good fortune to have been selected by the Emperor and his wife to tutor their son. What a change from teaching the poor boys of the University, who loved learning so much that they starved for it, begged for it, and came shivering with cold into the University of Salamanca, digesting knowledge in place of the food they could not afford to buy!

To this great seat of learning had come the Prince, riding in state to the town in the valley not far from the Portuguese border. Salamanca was one of the most notable centers of learning in the world, so that it was inevitable that Philip should be sent there. He could not, of course, be allowed to mix with the poor students or even the rich students. He had his own house in the town, with a full complement of attendants and guards.

With him had come his young cousin, Maximilian, who would one day marry Maria, Philip’s sister, and return with her to Vienna. There was also the Prince’s beloved friend, whom he was delighted to have with him—Ruy Gomez da Silva. These two boys took their lessons with Philip, and these lessons were made easy by Dr. Siliceo. In competition with these two boys—although Ruy was so much older and in any case by far the cleverest—Philip was always the one to be especially commended. The doctor made it his pleasure to see that Philip always knew the answers he was called upon to give; he never failed to compliment his royal pupil on his astuteness, his grasp of a problem or a translation.

The weak blue eyes would regard the doctor solemnly, and there would be no sign of pleasure in the pale face. Philip hid his thoughts, which were: But for Zuñiga’s treatment of me and my father’s comments on it, I verily believe I should imagine I am cleverer than Ruy and Max in spite of some evidence to the contrary. How right my father was! A prince, and especially one who is to be king, should be more ready to believe those who say harsh things of him than those who applaud.

Yet in his grave manner he accepted the compliments of Dr Siliceo, for he understood that in the scholar’s mind there was the ever-present reminder that one day this pupil of his would rule Spain; and, even while knowing this, Philip could not help preferring Siliceo to Zuñiga, who was still instructing him in physical exercise. This might have been because physical exercise did not greatly appeal to him and he found it easier to apply himself with keenness to learning than to fencing or the hunt.

History—and in particular the history of Spain—enchanted him. When he rode out incognito with Ruy and Max, as he liked to do, he would gaze with awe at the landscape, at the distant sierras—and they seemed ever-present, near or far, in whatever part of Spain he happened to be—and think of the times when the Romans had dominated the country, of the coming of the Visgoths; and chiefly he pondered on the great Mohammedan conquest. Then he would feel a fierceness rising within him, for everywhere in the country the influence of the Infidel was apparent. The name of his great-grandmother, Isabella the Catholic, was frequently mentioned; and as he sat there at the table, pale and impassive, inwardly he was swearing an oath, pledging himself to drive the heretics from the world as Isabella had driven the infidels from Granada.

The voice of Dr. Siliceo rose and fell in that quiet room as he spoke of the past.

“Spain was broken. Her children were exiled or dead. Her noble language was lost, and in the mountains and the plains was heard an alien tongue. Blackamoors were in command, and the slaughter was great. None was left to mourn save those women who had been taken as slaves to the foul Infidel.”

Philip clenched his hands, but he did not speak. He knew that the expulsion of the Moors had not been effected until nearly eight hundred years had elapsed. Everywhere in Spain was the mark of the Moor to bring humiliating reminders. Only the mountainous regions of the north and the northwest had escaped, but everywhere else it seemed the Moors lived on—in the buildings, in the customs and habits of the people, in the shape of a face and the slant of a pair of eyes. Arabs and Berbers had left their mark forever on the land of Spain.

The Cid had been a great hero, but it was not until the coming of Ferdinand and Isabella nearly four hundred years later that Spain had been freed, for that pair had conquered the Moorish stronghold of Granada itself. Isabella and Ferdinand had grown rich, and Spain had grown rich, and under them the dwarf Inquisition had grown to a monster.

Philip was stung into speech suddenly. He said: “And now we have the heretic. We will attack them as we have attacked the Moor and the Jew.”

Ruy looked at him with a faint smile curving his lips. He knew his friend well; he knew that beneath the grave calm a fierce spirit burned. It would be amusing to watch the great Siliceo pander to the Prince’s ideas.

Maximilian, thinking of the chase which he longed to join, smiled too. Now, he thought, the old man can marvel at the cleverness of our Prince. Let him. It means no questions for me to answer, and who cares about the Moors and Moriscos, the Jews and the Berbers nowadays? What does the past matter when there is the future before us? Let them talk, Maximilian would sit dreaming, not of the past, but of the forest…the boar hunt and himself leading the chase.

“Your royal Highness has found the root of the matter as usual. Now we have the heretic! And we must drive him from the Earth with all the strength we once used against the Infidel.”

“We have the Inquisition to help us,” said Philip.

“And for that we must thank your Highness’s great-grandfather and great-grandmother.”

Ruy listened to them. He thought of the members of the Inquisition, the monks in their black robes with the masks of anonymity over the faces. They came to a man’s house at midnight when all was quiet, and knocked at the door. They were admitted by trembling servants, for there was not a man or woman in Spain who did not know the alguazils—those familiars of the Inquisition—when they saw them. The victim would be dragged from his bed; he would be gagged with the Inquisition’s terrible gag—an instrument that had been made in the shape of a pear when shut, but which was put into the mouth and made as big as desired by means of a screw. This was the first taste of torture to come. And through the night the victim was taken to the underground prisons of the Inquisition.

Ruy broke out in a sweat as he thought of it. During the last years he had come to hate cruelty. He was no coward, but he would not dare to state his views. What good could he do by stating them? He did not like the methods of the Inquisition. He did not like men who came by night and worked in the dark. Moreover, the victims of the Inquisition were often the rich, for when a man was condemned his goods were confiscated and taken by the Holy Office.

Now he listened to the impassioned words of Siliceo and the Prince’s grave questions and answers.

Was it true, this history which they were teaching Philip? Had Isabella and Ferdinand been as devoted to the good of Spain as Dr. Siliceo implied? The Jews were the cleverest traders in Spain; and when they were condemned to death, the confiscation of their lands and goods had enriched the Catholic monarchs. But was it so wise to take the results of industry and destroy the source?

Such thoughts were dangerous, and Ruy was glad when the session was over. It ended as usual with the compliments of Dr. Siliceo to his Royal Highness.

After that it was time for the Prince’s fencing lesson. When Ruy was helping him to dress for this he smiled, and Philip demanded to know the reason why. Great was the intimacy between them, so Ruy told the Prince that he was thinking that he would not be so softly treated by Zuñiga as he was by Siliceo.

“Indeed not,” said Philip. “Zuñiga says what he means, but Siliceo what he thinks it behooves him to mean.”

Ruy thought how astonishing the Prince could be. While he was gravely accepting Siliceo’s praise, he knew it for gross flattery; and while with equal imperturbability he accepted the blunt words of Zuñiga, he knew them for truth.

A strange boy, this Philip. Young as he was, he made it difficult for others to read the thoughts behind his pale eyes; and as he grew older it would be even more difficult.

Ruy was tempted to go on: “And Dr. Siliceo’s assessment of the past, your Highness, do you feel that to be as tempered as his assessment of your aptitude for learning?”

Philip said slowly: “I doubt not that he flatters my ancestors as he flatters me. But one thing there is of which we can be certain: There are heretics in the world…even in Spain…and we must not rest until we have destroyed them.” The pale eyes had turned to a deeper shade of blue, which was due to the sudden bright color in the Prince’s cheeks.

“Your Highness has read the works of this Martin Luther?”

Philip looked at Ruy in horror. “Read the words of Martin Luther! But that in itself is a sin.”

“A sin, of a surety,” said Ruy quickly. “But can you judge the man’s teachings if you have read nothing of them?”

“This is a jest in bad taste,” retorted Philip haughtily.

Ruy saw him in a new light. Here was the shadow of the man-to-be seen passing across the face of the boy…a ghost from the future. The calm, clear mind would never be calm nor clear on this subject. Ruy must remember that.

“In great bad taste, your Royal Highness; and for it I crave your pardon.”

Philip smiled as he rarely smiled. He loved this Portuguese boy and because of that he would forgive him much.

“You love to jest,” he said. “I know that.” His eyes were a little stern as he added: “It is well that you make such jests only before me and not in the presence of others.”

“But I have no wish to jest in the presence of others.”

Philip gave one of his rare laughs. This was his true friend, and he had few true friends; he was quite aware, in spite of all the adulation he received, that he did not easily inspire affection.

“I shall be late for the fencing lesson,” he said, “and that will put Master Zuñiga into a bad mood to begin with. But Ruy, before I go, I will tell you this: While we were talking with Siliceo I made a vow. I determined that in the centuries to come the world should remember Philip of Spain for his services to Christ. I will establish the true religion throughout the world. That is my dream. It shall come true…so help me God.”

Ruy knelt and kissed his hand, but Philip hastily snatched it away. He was moved, and he was always embarrassed when he feared he might show his feelings.

He hurried to the fencing lesson, dreaming glorious dreams of the future.

Left alone, Ruy pondered. To be remembered for his services to Christ. But who should say which was the best way of serving Christ? Ruy tried to shut out of his mind his own picture of the grim torture chambers of the Inquisition, of the autos-da-fé, of mangled bodies in that yellow garment of shame, the sanbenito, with the flames scorching them while their cries of agony rose up to Heaven. He heard the voices of Dominicans chanting as they watched the flames; he saw their eyes gleaming through their masks. “In the service of God…in the service of Christ…” they chanted. Yet those martyrs, while the flames licked their bodies, had been known to cry: “I die in Christ. I die for the glory of God.”

Ruy’s dream of the future was different from Philip’s, and Ruy was thoughtful, for he knew that the threads of his life were inextricably woven with those of the boy who had just left him.

We are both dreamers, he pondered. We are both dreaming our different dreams.

Leonor had a new baby to nurse on her lap. Philip, with amusement, could watch her clucking over the child as once she had clucked over him; once he must have looked very like his sister Juana.

This child was the sequel of the Emperor’s visit, and before Charles left Spain there was yet another baby; this time the child was a boy.

Philip knew that the birth of his brother made him a little less important in the eyes of Spain. If he should become still more delicate, they would not be quite so anxious now.

Often he would steal into the nursery and look at the little boy in the cradle, imagining him, instead of himself, growing up, listening to the Emperor telling him of the dominions he would one day inherit.

The Emperor had returned to his dominions abroad, where his presence was urgently needed because of the menace of the Kings of France and England, and the spreading Lutheranism among the German Princes.

It was a year or so after his departure when Philip, on entering the nursery one day, found his little brother lying on the floor in a strange position. He thought at first that the child was playing some game.

“Get up,” he cried. “You will hurt yourself if you kick like that.”

Bending over the child, Philip saw that his face was distorted; his eyes rolled, showing the whites so that he looked grotesquely unlike himself. It was clear that he did not know his brother. He had bitten his tongue, and there was blood and foam at the side of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. A spasm seemed to pass through his body; he kicked furiously and lashed out with his arms. As Philip watched in horror, the little body became quite rigid and the breathing seemed to stop. Then the boy’s legs began to jerk spasmodically; he started to breathe again; his face became bloated and he was gasping for his breath.

Philip called out in horror and Leonor came running in. She took one look at the child and crossed herself.

“We must do something,” cried Philip. “What ails him?”

“Stand back!” cried Leonor. “The devils within him might leap out…and into you. That is what these evil-wishers would like. Stand back, I say.”

“But he will injure himself. Look, Leonor. How can we help him?”

“We can do nothing but pray…pray the saints to help us fight this evil. I have seen him thus before. It passes. The evil spirits tire within him…and they let him rest. But each time he grows weaker. Go! I beg of you, go…lest they leave him and enter you…which is what they are trying to do.”

Philip, obedient as ever, went to his own apartments.

Ruy was there, and Philip was glad of that. He sank on to a stool and told Ruy what he had seen.

“There are people here who wish me ill, who wish my family ill. Some witch has cast a spell upon my brother.”

Ruy said nothing for a while. He was thinking that they would soon begin to look for the ill-wisher. Their eyes would fall upon some person…someone whom they wished to accuse. That person would be taken before the Inquisition, his body—or hers—broken in the torture chambers until a confession was extorted. But the explanation was simple. Ruy knew it. Not far away in the Alcázar of Tordesillas was a mad woman; and could madness be passed on just as the color of the eyes and the hair was passed on? Philip had his father’s yellow hair and blue eyes. Why should not Philip’s brother have inherited his grandmother’s madness?

“What are you thinking, Ruy?”

Ruy spoke boldly. “It might be that someone has not put a spell upon him. He might have been born with this weakness.”

It was impossible to know what was behind the mild blue eyes, but the Prince was waiting for his friend to continue.

“He is not strong,” went on Ruy. “There are sicknesses of the mind as well as of the body. Sometimes the body wastes away, sometimes the mind. It might have nothing to do with witchcraft.”

“Why should my brother be born with weakness? My father is strong, is he not? My mother also is strong.”

“Yes, but…”

Philip knew. He had heard gossip about his grandmother. He knew now that she was not dead. He knew that there was a secret about her that was kept from him. He would not admit to Ruy that he did not know the nature of that secret.

He tried a shot in the dark. “You think of my grandmother?”

The shot hit its mark. Ruy bowed his head.

Philip tried to curb his curiosity. It would not become a prince to ask questions, concerning his own family, of a subject. But now he felt the shadow of his grandmother closer to him.

And when, a few weeks later, his brother died, it seemed closer than ever before.

THREE

Philip was twelve years old when his father, recently returned to Spain, broached the subject of marriage.

“You are twelve, my son. A fair age for a prince. We must get you a wife.”

Philip murmured his thanks. None would have guessed his apprehension. The duties of a prince were numerous. Now the burden of possessing a wife was to be added to them.

“I have a fine match for you,” said the Emperor.

Philip waited. There had been other matches that had come to nothing. That was how it was with the suggested matches of princes. Everything depended on politics, on war and peace. Events might throw him a lovely young girl or a woman three times his age; whichever came, he must accept her. That was part of his duty.

So he waited in trepidation for his father’s next words.

It was typical of the Emperor that he should produce a map of their country. Thus were brides chosen for such as Philip.

“Now here is our country. Here is Navarre, which we conquered and added to our realm. You see how it borders on Old Castile. Now here are the Pyrenees Mountains, and on the other side of them is a continuation of Navarre, which is at the moment a dependency of France. How much more satisfactory it would be if the entire territory of Navarre belonged to Spain! But the conquest was not completed. There is a King of Navarre, as you know, living on the other side of the mountains—a vassal of King Francis. Now, this King Henry of Navarre has a daughter who will one day inherit his kingdom, for he has no sons, and is unlikely to have them.”

“She is to be my wife, Father?”

“That is so. You do not seem pleased.”

“I was rather surprised, Father. A daughter of such a small state to mate with Spain?”

The Emperor laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You do well to wonder, my son. I will explain. Navarre is a small kingdom. It is not worth very much…in itself. But, Philip, it is the key to France. Give me a foothold in my enemy’s territory and I verily believe that before long we may add the kingdom of France to our Empire.”

“I see, Father.” He was longing to ask about the girl. He tried to remember all he had ever heard of Jeanne d’Albret. He must show no eagerness, no desire to investigate the human side of this marriage. That was unimportant to Spain; therefore it must be unimportant to him.

The Emperor said: “You are indeed fortunate. Your bride might have been an old woman. She might have been a widow. She might have been four times your age. But no! She is a young girl of twelve…your own age. She is a high-spirited, handsome creature, Francis’s own niece, the daughter of his beloved sister and that sly old fox Henry of Navarre. I’ll tell you something, Philip. Francis is against the match. Of course he is against the match. He may be fond of dallying with his poets and his painters and his women in their mirrored baths, but he’s no fool. He does not want me to have one foot on what he considers to be his land. He would like to get back our Spanish Navarre, I doubt not. You can depend upon it, that is a dream of his. I’ll tell you something else: I am in secret negotiations with Henry of Navarre for his daughter. Yes; but at the moment Francis keeps her a close prisoner at Plessis-les-Tours. Yet her father longs for the marriage with Spain. And who would not? Why, my son, you are the greatest catch in the world. There is not a father who would not rejoice to unite his daughter with us. Nor a mother…except, of course, Henry’s wife, Marguerite, who thinks only of her brother’s wishes. They are like lovers, Francis and Marguerite, and some say that the bond between them is actually closer than that of brother and sister. Nor would I be unwilling to believe aught of the King of France.”

“And the girl…Jeanne,” said Philip, “what does she think of the match?”

“She is eager. You can be sure of that. She, a humble daughter of Navarre, to be the Queen of Spain!”

“I would I could see a picture of her.”

“You shall. I’ll ask her father for it.”

“And the marriage…when would it take place?”

“As soon as the arrangements can be made. You are a man. You are twelve years old. Why should you wait, eh?” The Emperor looked down into the grave face of the boy. “Now that I am home, you and I will meet every day. We will talk of state matters. You must learn something of the difficulties of governing an empire. You must learn how to choose your counselors; how to use them so as to prevent their using you. They will try all sorts of means. They will flatter you. They will try to tempt you through women. There is much I shall have to say to you, my son.”

Philip nodded gravely. He was thinking: I am a man now. I am to have a wife.

He thought of her continually. He believed he was rather childish when he was alone. He talked to her sometimes, but not aloud. He would have felt deeply ashamed if any had heard him.

“Jeanne,” he said, “little Jeanne.” For, in his thoughts she was little; she was smaller than he was. It was a sore point that so many of his age were bigger. “Little Jeanne, you must not be afraid of the ceremonies and the grandees and the importance of all this. I know that you are but heiress to a small kingdom, and now you are a princess of Spain—to be its Queen one day—but do not be afraid, Jeanne. I will look after you.”

She would be dark, he thought, in contrast with his own fairness. Her skin would be soft, and she would be gentle and loving, so that when they were alone together they could say anything to each other. He could love her as frankly as, when he was a baby, he had loved Leonor.

Rides through the palace grounds or in the surrounding country had a new interest. He imagined Jeanne beside him. He seemed to grow taller; he was bolder. Don Zuñiga was pleased with him; he scored victories in the tiltyard, and he sat his horse with more grace and firmness than he ever had before. It was true that his thoughts wandered during lessons, but as Dr. Siliceo had decided that the Prince could do no wrong, that was unimportant.

Jeanne! Little Jeanne! He was impatient for her. He thought of protecting her by day and loving her by night.

In the quiet of his bed, he said to her: “If I should seem cold, do not believe that I am. I am by nature cold, it is true…but that is for others, not for you. Sometimes I do not think I am really cold. It is just that there is so much for a prince to endure, and he must not show his feelings. With you, you see, I am loving and warm.”

For strange, exalted weeks, Philip was in love with little Jeanne of Navarre whom he had never seen.

Then one day the dream was shattered.

The Emperor was in a fury. He was storming about the palace, and anyone who had good sense kept out of his way. The Emperor’s rages were terrible. He sent for his son. The boy stood fearful before him, but carefully hiding his fear.

“That rogue!” cried Charles. “That cheat Francis! Do you know what he has done? He has taken your bride from you. He has married the girl to Guillaume de la Marck. He is laughing at us…snapping his fingers at us. He has cheated her father. He has lured the Duke of Clèves—this Guillaume de la Marck—from his allegiance to me by a bride who is a bribe from Navarre?”

“But, Father,” cried Philip, for once forgetting his calm, for love was something which he had not yet learned to control, and even if he had been in love with a phantom Jeanne, he had been in love, “we cannot let this happen. We must lead an army to Paris. We must carry her off.”

“But, my son, she is already married. The girl was forced against her will. Ah, she had spirit, that Jeanne. She would have been a good Queen of Spain. She protested…defying her uncle…defying her mother. She was beaten to within an inch of her life, I hear. But Francis had his way. He has married her to that scoundrel of Clèves. Master Guillaume shall rue the day, for I’ll not rest till I have him on his knees.”

“They…they beat her!” cried Philip.

“Until they were afraid they would kill her with their whips. And what good would a corpse be to Francis or to Clèves? The girl had not a chance against them. But they’ll regret it. They shall regret it. Holy Mother! I’ll set out at once. I’ll take up arms against this upstart prince. He shall wish he had never been born to snap his fingers at me and side with my enemy.”

So the Emperor left Spain on a campaign of vengeance while Philip mourned the loved one whom he had never seen.

He dreamed of his Jeanne, beautiful and weak without her Philip to protect her. He wept in the quietness of his room as he seemed to feel the whips on his own soft body.

Jeanne! Poor little Jeanne! How brave she was. She had written her protests and taken them to the Cathedral, where she had read them to the bishops. She had defied her uncle, the King of France, until they had beaten her almost to death.

This sorrow was something he could not hide. But Ruy, his confidant and friend, seemed to understand. Ruy had some comfort to offer; he introduced Philip to women.

Could nothing happen singly? Must he lose not only the girl who was to have been his wife, but his mother also?

Queen Isabella was lying in her bed, and all the ceremonies which accompanied the dying of a Queen were now being performed. Leonor sat in the death-chamber, rocking to and fro in her misery. Philip must stand by the bedside impassively hiding his grief, as became the heir of Spain.

Isabella was not sorry to go. She looked at her son and felt proud of him. She had nothing with which to reproach herself. As a beautiful princess, she had come from Portugal thirteen years before—with a dowry as attractive as her person—to marry her cousin, the Emperor Charles. The marriage had not only brought riches to Spain, but friendship between Portugal and that country. They had been happy—she and Charles—and if the Emperor had been guilty of certain infidelities, that was natural enough, since he was forced to spend so much time away from her. He had always behaved with the utmost dignity and decorum when in his own court; and she must rejoice when she contemplated the fate of those two French Queens, wives of Francis, who had allowed their court to be ruled by his two chief mistresses, first Madame de Chateaubriand, then Madame d’Etampes; and even more so would she rejoice when she recalled the fate which had befallen Queen Anne Boleyn of England.

So she felt hers to have been a happy life because she had done her duty. This pale boy with the serious face was her gift to her husband; she had two sprightly daughters also. It was true that two other boys she had borne had not lived; but Charles had his heir in Philip.

She had been popular in Spain; she had made many pilgrimages throughout the country; she had led a life of piety and usefulness; she had given alms to the poor and supported the Holy Inquisition; she had worked diligently at the beautiful tapestry that would proclaim her patience and her industry to the world long after she was dead.

She would be happy to leave this life, and she knew that her time for departure was fast approaching.

Now her attention was caught by the slight figure kneeling at her bedside. There were no tears on his face, yet she knew that he was grieving. Was he thinking of the days when, as a small boy, he had played with the jeweled crucifix that had hung about her neck? She remembered that she had been jealous of his fondness for Leonor; but now she could be glad of Leonor’s devotion. Leonor would be a mother to him, and, in spite of his dignity, he was still a boy. She wanted to protect him, to stay alive a little longer. She wanted to talk to her husband about Philip. Perhaps she was being foolish, perhaps her mind was wandering a little, but she wanted to say something like this: “Do not burden him too soon. Do not make a king of him before he has been a young man.” When he had been a boy they had tried to make a man of him; when he had been a baby they had made of him a boy. He was like a delicate hot-house flower, forced, always forced to be older, wiser than his years allowed.

She struggled up from her pillows as she tried to say her husband’s name. “Charles…Charles…” she wanted to say, “he is but a child yet. Let him play. Let him learn to laugh and be happy. Do not make a king of him yet…”

Someone was putting a cup to her parched lips. “This is what your Highness is asking for…”

She shook her head and held out her hand to the boy. He took it, but as she smiled at him he seemed to fade before her eyes.

“Philip…” she tried to say, “be happy…be young.”

But he could not tell what she was trying to say to him. He stood stiff, fighting the tears, aware of black-clad men in the chamber whose eyes would be upon him. He must resist the impulse to fling himself upon her, to remind her that she was his mother and that he was only a little boy after all.

But there was too much ceremonial, too many solemn faces, too many important men to remind him that she was no ordinary mother; she was Isabella, Queen and Empress, and he was the most important boy in the world because it was hoped that one day he would rule all of it.

It was Philip who must lead the procession. His father had decided that this should be so. Charles had shut himself up in the monastery at Toledo, and there, with the monks, he was praying for the soul of Isabella while the cortège journeyed slowly across Spain to Granada that Isabella might be laid to rest beside great Ferdinand and Isabella, who were her own and Charles’s grandparents.

Philip’s eyes were hurt by the glare of the sun, for it was hot May and the way through the foothills of the sierras and across the arid plain was tedious. As they passed through the towns he saw black cloth hanging from windows; everywhere was the black of mourning. There were black-robed monks and the hearse was covered in black cloth; the soldiers wore black feathers in their helmets; and among the black shone the silver crucifixes.

Southward rode the solemn procession; it crossed the Tagus by means of the bridge of Puerta del Sol; it wended its way from the valley of the Guadiana, through the foothills of the Sierra Morena to the valley of the Guadalquivir. Peasants watched them as they passed; they wept for good Queen Isabella, saying prayers for the salvation of her soul. Philip was interested in the subjects of that kingdom, which would one day be his; he saw farmers, tanned by the sun, bent by long hours of toil in their unfertile land, pausing now to watch the cortège pass; there were girls leaving the clothes they were washing in the streams to kneel by the roadside. Muleteers stopped beating their starving animals to look and mutter a prayer for the departed Queen. There were gypsy girls who refused to be solemn and smiled on him as though they did not know he was the Prince of Spain. He saw beggars who looked wistfully at the jewels in his clothes; he noticed the speculative glances of would-be robbers.

And into Granada at last they came—that city where every stone seemed to have been laid by an Infidel. In the Capilla Real, they set down the coffin of Isabella. There she lay beside the great sarcophagus adorned with alabaster images of Ferdinand and that other Isabella.

It was a solemn moment. None realized this more than Philip. He thought of his great-grandmother Isabella, who had defeated the last Moorish King, the great Boabdil himself, and had forced thousands of Moors to become Christians on pain of death.

He knelt on the tiles; he listened to the chanting voices about him as the last funeral rites were performed. He thought of his father who was praying for his mother’s soul with the monks of Toledo; and he thought of the mother whom he would never see again.

The Emperor had insisted that Philip should undertake the journey to Granada without his company; Philip knew this meant that any childhood that might have been his was lost forever.

Life could not be all solemnity, and the Emperor did not wish that it should be. Yet he insisted that Philip should spend hours with him each day learning statecraft.

“I am growing old,” said Charles, “but I care not, for soon you will be ready to take over my burdens.”

Those were happy moments for Philip, but he was always disturbed lest he might not give the right answers to his father’s questions. He looked to the future with apprehension; he was afraid that when his time came he would be unable to make the right decisions.

His father watched him with quizzical eyes. He was intelligent, this Philip, but slow; he was afraid of choosing the wrong course; his decisions would be laboriously made; there was no flash of genius there. Philip would never have brilliant inspirations.

Yet, steadiness was a good quality, the Emperor reminded himself. An unswerving sense of duty was even better.

Again and again Charles warned Philip of the gentlemen of the court, the grandees and the statesmen. “Trust them not. Never act on the advice of one of them. Listen to what all have to say, and weigh their words. They are full of hypocrisy. They will utter fine words because you are a prince and they seek your favors. They are greedy. They look for advancement. Listen to their counsel but…decide for yourself.”

Philip listened eagerly. His desire not to disappoint touched the Emperor. On the whole, thought Charles, I am well pleased with this son of mine.

And when he left Spain once more, although Philip was only sixteen, he appointed him Regent, entrusting him with secrets that he would disclose to no other. He was to be guided in all things by the councillors whom Charles had chosen, but he, himself, was to make final decisions.

It was a test and, as it turned out, he came through it with honor.

He was indeed a man and, Charles decided, it was time he had a wife.

He was still the same sentimental youth who had loved Jeanne of Navarre. Now he loved another, and he prayed that this time he might not be thwarted.

He had her picture; he carried it beneath his doublet in a silver locket. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl with a soft mouth in a face as round as a baby’s. It was the bewildered childishness of her that made him know he would love her.

He had been mistaken in Jeanne of Navarre. She was a fiery girl of great spirit who would never have needed his protection as this baby-faced Maria Manoela would.

Twenty times a day he sought to be alone that he might look at the miniature. He must be young sometimes; he could not always think of matters of state. If he could not be a careless boy, he could be a lover, he could be a husband, for that was expected of him.

“Maria Manoela.” He murmured it to her picture. He said it before he went to sleep and when he awoke in the morning. “Do not be afraid, little Maria Manoela. These solemn-faced people can do us no harm. We will laugh at them when we are alone together. We shall be the happiest King and Queen Spain has ever known.”

He would tell her how he might have married Marguerite, daughter of the King of France, how he was allowed to choose between them, how he had looked at Maria Manoela’s pictures and begged that she might be his wife.

There were times when fears would intrude on these pleasant thoughts. The blood-tie between them was strong, for Maria Manoela was not only his first cousin through his father, but through his mother also. Some members of the court had said that the relationship was too close. They whispered Juana’s name—Juana, his mysterious grandmother. They spoke of the two little brothers who had been possessed by devils (for the second had died in the same manner as that one whom Philip had found writhing on the nursery floor). It was a strange thing, some said, that Juana should have been possessed and that these two children should have been also. They asked one another how God would view the proposed marriage between such close relations.

“The Pope will grant a dispensation,” was the answer to that. “The Emperor will see that he dares do no other.”

Philip trembled as he thought of all the marriages that had been arranged for him. How could he be sure that his little Maria Manoela would be allowed to come?

So the pleasant anticipation was tinged with apprehension.

The Primate, Cardinal Tabera of Toledo, brought the news to Valladolid from the Pope.

How difficult it was for a young lover to be calm, to sit on his state chair surrounded by the grandees and members of the council waiting while all the ceremonies took place, when he wanted to shout at them: “Well, what news? What says the Pope? Has he dared defy my father? Is she to come or am I to be disappointed again? I will have my Maria Manoela. I will.”

But he sat still, and only the white knuckles just visible against the pale skin of his hands showed his eagerness.

The great men would not be hurried. Philip looked from the Primate to the Duke of Alba, who was one of those against whom his father had warned him. “He is ambitious, sanctimonious, and hypocritical,” Charles had said. “He will try to tempt you by whatever means he has. But remember that he is a grandee. Do not let him have any share in the interior government of your kingdom. Make use of him in foreign affairs and in war. Those are his fields, and in them he is the best man we have.” Now, looking at Alba’s sly, aristocratic face, Philip thought: But this is not a matter of war, and if you try to prevent my marriage with Maria Manoela, Don Fernando Alvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, I’ll not allow it.

But it seemed that Alba was in favor of the marriage.

“Militarily,” he said to the council, “it is ideal. The peninsula of Spain and Portugal must stand as one country, and every tie which binds our two states together is for the benefit of both.”

Philip could smile realizing that Alba saw everything from the military angle.

That other councillor, Granvelle, whom Charles had brought to Spain from Holland, and who was now one of his chief advisers, supported Alba. “Spain and Portugal should stand together,” he said. “Nothing could be better for Spain.”

Then Cardinal Tabera rose. He bowed to Philip and spoke the words which the Prince had been waiting to hear.

“The Holy Father has decided to grant your Highness his formal dispensation for the marriage between your Highness and your first cousin, Maria Manoela…”

Philip heard no more.

He longed to open his doublet, to bring out the locket and gaze at the bewildered face of his Maria Manoela, whom he was going to make the happiest Queen of Spain.

All through September Philip waited impatiently. Disguised, he would ride out with his friend Ruy and his cousin Maximilian. It was the duty of a ruler, he believed, to go unknown among his subjects. How could he properly see them through the traditional haze of ceremony that surrounded a ruler?

He watched the gathering of the grapes and the making of the wine; once he had to fly for his life from robbers whom he encountered on a mountain path when he had ridden too far from home, too heavily disguised. Such adventures did not excite him as they did Ruy or Max. He preferred the successes he scored with his councillors, for he was once more Regent, since his father was again away from Spain. He knew that his father delighted to leave him in charge of the kingdom and that he sought to press more and more responsibility upon him. Every day came long dispatches from the Emperor: he was entrusting Philip with every secret, insisting that Philip should know every move that was made. And the reason? As Philip approached maturity, so Charles stepped nearer and nearer to the life of seclusion that he craved.

Philip was proud of his father’s trust, but how he longed—and particularly at this time—for a carefree life!

“When will she come?” he demanded impatiently of Ruy; and impatience was something Ruy had never seen him display before. “Do you think that even now they will make some excuse to keep her from me?”

“Can you love her when you have not seen her?” wondered Ruy.

“Is it not my duty to love her?”

“So it is duty, the need to marry young and provide heirs for the kingdom, that makes you yearn for her presence? So that is the reason for your Highness’s eagerness?”

Philip half-turned to his friend. But not even to Ruy could he explain his true feelings.

Toward the end of October news came that the Infanta Maria Manoela had left her native land in great pomp and with such lavish display that the eyes of all who beheld it were dazzled.

Philip scarcely slept during the nights of waiting. He longed to act without thought of ceremony and tradition! He wished he could have ridden out to meet her like some hero of old. He pictured himself inches taller than he was, dark and handsome as Ruy, covered in glory as was the Duke of Alba, as romantic as the Cid himself.

If he could have ridden thus he would not have made himself known to her at first; he would have impressed her with his chivalry, his virtues…. He would have been an unknown knight to rescue her from robbers, tilting in her honor, making her love him for himself…Philip…not the Prince of Spain.

Was this the essence of his dream? Was it merely to make Philip loved for his own sake? What a selfish, egotistical dream that was! And yet it was what he longed for. The love of Leonor was the only love that he could feel was completely disinterested. His father loved him for the duties he would take over; his mother had loved him because he was the son whom it was her duty to give to the royal house. Alba, Granvelle, Tabera, Medina Sidonia—all those men who had sworn to serve him with their lives—did not care for him; they gave their allegiance to the heir of Spain. Which of these people would love him constantly whatever he became? Only Leonor. And she made him impatient because she continued to treat him as a baby.

There was no one who could give him the love he needed—except Maria Manoela.

He longed for her; he wanted to tell her of all the trials that beset him, to make known to her the Philip whom none other—not even Ruy or Leonor—could know. That was why he longed for Maria Manoela.

He dreamed of her; he would wake with her name on his lips. And now that she was on her way to him, soon the dream would become a reality. No longer would he have to whisper “Maria Manoela” to the air; she would be beside him; he would put his arms about her, and his love would be tender because of her baby mouth and her bewildered eyes.

Meanwhile he must act, not as a lovesick young man, but as the Regent of Spain. To abandon ceremony in this matter would be an unforgivable breach of that etiquette so dear to all Spanish hearts.

To meet the procession from Lisbon he sent an embassy to the frontiers of Spain and Portugal. At its head was the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Guzman chief, the richest of all the nobles in Andalusia. In the Duke’s retinue would be slaves from the Indies who would proclaim the extent of Spanish conquest; the members of his household would be clad in the most splendid costumes; as for the Duke himself, the very mules which carried his litter would be shod with gold. The Portuguese—and Maria Manoela among them—must realize the riches and power of the Spaniards.

Philip was a little uneasy thinking of the Infanta’s first glimpse of the grandees of Spain. What would be her reactions when she compared himself with these handsome men? It was true that his entourage would be more magnificent than the Duke’s, his clothes more rich. But could such magnificence, such fine clothes, make up for a shortness of stature? If she were expecting a young man as handsome as Ruy Gomez, would she be disappointed with her pale Prince?

He would make her love him. He would throw aside restraint; for her he would be a different person from the Philip any had known before.

After all, he was not yet seventeen, and he still had time in which to grow.

How could he wait for the formal meeting? He must see her; he must have a glimpse of her before she saw him. He must have that advantage.

Ruy seemed to read his thoughts, for he said with a hint of mischief in his eyes: “I know what I should be tempted to do were I in your place.”

Philip raised his eyebrows.

Ruy continued: “Ride out…disguised…mingle with the crowds…take my first look at my bride before she met me formally.”

Only the heightening of his color betrayed his excitement.

“I will consider that,” said Philip.

Among the crowds that had gathered in the streets of Salamanca to see the entry of the Infanta from Portugal was a young man in the company of six others. He was a fair-haired pale-faced nobleman in a slouched velvet hat well pulled down over his face. Beside him was a dark, lithe man with merry eyes.

They saw the meeting between the Portuguese procession and the Spanish professors of the University of Salamanca. They saw the regidores and the judges in crimson velvet and white shoes—a splash of color against the somber academic robes of the rectors and the professors. Guarding the procession rode the soldiers in their brilliant uniforms; and the shouts of the people mingled with the triumphant music.

Through the gates of the city went the procession on its way to the palace of the Duke of Alba, where the Infanta would pass the night.

Philip’s heart leaped with delight when he saw his bride, for she was all that he had imagined she would be. She was exactly like the pretty picture he carried in his locket. There she sat on her mule, which was covered with rich brocade; her saddle was of silver and her dress of cloth of silver on which flowers had been embroidered in gold thread. Her Castilian cape was of purple velvet and on that had been worked flowers in gold thread. Her lovely dark hair fell about her shoulders; her hat, decorated with a great plume, which drooped gracefully to one side of her face, was of the same purple velvet, gold-embroidered, as her cape.

But what did he care for these gaudy accoutrements! He looked at the thick, dark hair, at the plump little face beneath the feather-decorated hat, at the wide eyes and the rounded cheeks. This was his Maria Manoela whom he loved. He could see that she was frightened—frightened of all the pomp of Spain, which must match that of Portugal. There she was, his dear little cousin as yet, his wife to be.

He wanted to cry out: “Oh Maria…Maria Manoela, do not be afraid. I am here to protect you.”

Then he wondered whether, much as she feared all these people, she feared her husband more.

If only he could have gone to her, pushed aside all these people. If only he could have said: “I will dismiss all these people and we will ride away together!”

The heroes of old might have done such things, but not the modern Prince of Spain.

He wondered what she had heard of him. Was it something to frighten her? Could it be that she had not liked his picture as he had liked hers? For a moment his restraint all but deserted him. This was, after all, the most important day he had yet lived through. There was his wife-to-be, and here he was, in the crowd, looking on like any humble sightseer. He all but pushed his way through the crowd to go to her.

But lifetime habits were too strong.

He remained perfectly still, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on the glittering young girl, as the bridle of her mule was taken by Don Luis Sarmiento, who had recently been Ambassador to Portugal. Now Don Luis was leading her under the brilliant canopy where she would receive the homage of the city magistrates.

All eyes were upon her, and not one of those attendants guessed that in that assembly was the Prince himself.

“Long live the Infanta!” shouted the people.

And if he did not shout as loudly as some, none spoke those words more fervently than Philip, her future husband.

He stood beside her, weighed down with splendor, while the Duke and Duchess of Alba, his sponsors, hovered close, and the Archbishop of Toledo performed the nuptial ceremony.

All Salamanca was en fête. The streets were filled with people, and the merrymaking would continue for days. From all over the country came the great noblemen to attend the wedding and the banquets and tourneys which would follow. The students from the University were given free meals to celebrate the marriage, for Philip, in his silent observation, had discovered what would please his subjects most; the people of the town were to be given the best bulls for their entertainment, and the finest matadors were coming from all corners of Spain to perform in Salamanca on the occasion of the Prince’s wedding.

And, standing before the Archbishop, Philip was aware of nothing but his bride’s covert glances. Her hand trembled in his. It was the first time she had seen him, for etiquette insisted that they should not see each other until the wedding day.

How he longed to reassure her! Poor little Maria Manoela! She was a few months younger than he was, and he was only sixteen. As he stood close to her he realized how young she was. She was a child, which was what he had never been allowed to be.

He had heard that she had wept bitterly in her apartments in the palace of the Duke of Alba; she had cried for her mother and her home in Portugal. She had admitted that she was afraid of her cousin Philip, for she had heard that he never laughed—and at home in Lisbon she and her family had laughed very much.

“But,” said Philip’s informant, “we made the Infanta laugh, your Highness. She could not help it when the Duke’s comic dwarf did his tricks for her. And she was amused with the Duke’s monkeys. She laughed so much at their antics that she forgot your royal Highness.”

He would tell her that she would not long need dwarfs and monkeys to cheer her. Soon he would show her that she had nothing to fear.

He wanted to press her hand, but he did not do so. He had been rehearsed in the solemn ceremony, and he was accustomed to doing exactly what was required of him. He was also afraid that if he did anything unexpected she might turn those wondering eyes upon him and ask what he meant. That would be embarrassing under the solemn eyes of the Duke and Duchess.

The ceremony was long. The little bride was fatigued. The bridegroom saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.

He could not contain his thoughts then. He whispered: “It will not be long now.” He had intended his voice to sound soft and comforting, but instead it seemed harsh. That was due to emotion, but how was she to know that! She would remember that she had heard how stern he was, how he never laughed. She flushed, concluding that in showing her tiredness she had been at fault.

Now she kept her eyes firmly fixed before her, and he knew that she was longing for her home in Lisbon.

After the ceremony was concluded the banquets and the entertainments began.

Would they never be alone? he wondered.

He did have a few words with her, whispered words, for how could he say what was in his heart, with all those people looking on?

“We are cousins,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And now…we are married.”

“Yes.”

She was straining to give the right answers. He is very serious, they had told her. Already, in spite of his youth—he is only a few months older than yourself—he has governed Spain in his father’s absence.

He knew that she was looking for some significance behind his words. How could he say to her, “I want to hear your pretty voice. I want to watch your pretty lips…”?

But there was time. They had the whole of their lives before them.

They danced together in the house of Christóbal Juarez.

“The Spanish manner is different from the Portuguese,” he said.

“I…I crave your Highness’s pardon. I…I shall quickly learn the Spanish ways.”

He wanted to say: “Yes…yes. But I like the Portuguese way. I like it because it is yours…”

But he could not say those words, and he wondered whether he would ever be able to tell her what he felt.

But there was time.

He said: “We have all our lives together.”

But again he sensed the fear in her. Did she think even that remark was a reproach?

Now they were truly married.

She was a little less frightened. He had not said all that he had meant to. He was too shy. It was, he had discovered, not possible to guard the feelings for sixteen years and then let them fly freely and naturally. They were like birds that had never learned to fly; and because their wings had been clipped they would never fly high and free.

Haltingly he had made love to her.

“You must not be frightened, Maria Manoela,” he had told her. “It…is expected of us.”

She seemed grateful for his gentleness. But she had expected that. Doubtless she had heard many stories of him. They would have said to her while she cried in her Lisbon home and begged them not to send her to Spain: “He will not be unkind. He is cold and stern, but never violent.”

She was ready to laugh—though not with him. She liked to lie on her couch with her attendants about her, eating sweet-meats while they talked of their home in Lisbon; she liked to watch the dwarfs; she liked to hear the Indian slaves speak in their strange language. Such things amused her.

But when Philip appeared she would be subdued, although she did not shiver when he caressed her, as she had at first. She grew plumper and complacent.

Once he said to her, after he had previously rehearsed the speech: “It is a good thing for a Prince to find that he can love the wife who has been chosen for him.” And she gave him great joy by laughing in her childish way and putting her arms about his neck, saying: “It is even better for a Princess to find that she loves the Prince they have chosen for her.”

Her words and gestures were so delightful that he wished to continue with such a happy conversation.

“Then you love me, Maria Manoela?”

“It is my duty to love you.”

“But apart from the duty?”

She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. “I was so frightened. They said that you did not laugh. And you do not much. But you are so kind to me and…I do not fret for Lisbon now.”

He must remember that she was still a child, even though the difference in their ages was so slight. She had not discussed matters of state with a great Emperor; she had never had to listen to the discourse of generals, archbishops, and statesmen.

He thought of the home in which she must have been the petted daughter. Little petting had come his way—except from Leonor. That was all to the good, for petting did not help a prince or a princess to face what it was necessary to face. What if this little girl had fallen into hands other than his? His cousin Maximilian would have been impatient with her childishness. What would the Emperor, who was so vigorous, have thought of her? Philip thought of the French King who would not bother to hide the mistresses he preferred; he thought of the lusty man in that far-off island kingdom, who had beheaded yet another wife. She was not so unfortunate, this little Maria Manoela, to have fallen to Philip of Spain.

“I want you to be happy,” he said. “I want you to love…” But it was difficult to talk of love. He finished lamely: “…to love Spain.”

One day, he thought, I shall tell her everything that is in my mind. There is time yet, for we have the whole of our lives before us.

But he could not dally with his wife for long. He was the Regent of Spain, for even such an important event as the wedding of his son could not keep Charles from his exploits abroad.

The Prince must return to Valladolid and state matters. So the long journey north began.

Now there were state duties to absorb him. Every day he must read his father’s dispatches and attend the meeting of the council; there were many problems to be solved, and such problems could never be settled quickly by one of Philip’s temperament.

And all the time he longed to be with his bride. Constantly he wished that they could ride off alone together, not as Infante and Infanta of Spain, but just as Philip and Maria Manoela, two ordinary, simple people. How happy that would have made him! Was he, like his father, longing to cast off his responsibilities? He would have denied it. He told himself that he merely wished to be alone with her for a time, to learn to speak to her freely, not to couch his thoughts in solemn words, not to be afraid of showing excitement and the tenderness she aroused in him.

Could he not for a few short months be a lover instead of a statesman? Perhaps when his father returned he could explain his feelings to him. No! While he was alone he could imagine himself explaining but when he tried to do so he could never speak but in the calmest terms, in tones unsuited to the passions about which he wished to speak.

He imagined his father’s loud laughter if he tried to tell him. “You have your nights with her. We do not intend to disturb that, you know. The sooner she gives you a family the better. You cannot start too soon. The country needs heirs.”

He would have shrunk from his father’s laughter. He would never be able to say: This love of mine is an ideal love. It is a state of companionship and understanding, not merely of physical love. That is but a part. She is my wife, and one day we will rule Spain together as Ferdinand and Isabella ruled. But I want more than that, Father. I want her to love me…me…Philip…not the Prince I am, not the King I shall one day be. I want to be tender to her so that she will come to me when she is afraid; I want her never to be afraid of me, and I want us to be happy as few people know happiness; and I think that because she is young, and because I am her husband and love her so much, I can build up that affection between us—strong and firm, so that it will make us happy all the days of our lives. But I must have time now to be with her. Now is the time to make her understand.

But how could he ever say such a thing to his father? The Emperor had been fond of his wife, but that had not prevented his having mistresses all over the world. Charles did not understand the ideal relationship which Philip sought.

It is because I am so much alone, thought Philip. I have been apart from others. But that is no longer so. There are two of us now and we must grow close together. We must be loving, tender, and faithful, my Maria Manoela and I.

They were riding the few miles from Valladolid to Tordesillas. They were going to visit Philip’s grandmother because tradition demanded it; she was that Queen Juana who was also the grandmother of Maria Manoela.

Maria Manoela was frightened. She had heard tales of Mad Juana.

Philip wondered what his wife had heard, remembering how, in his childhood, he had been aware of the mysteries which surrounded his grandmother. He would have liked to ask her, but he could not. Doubtless some garrulous attendant had chattered with another in the Lisbon palace, and the madness of a queen—and that Queen a near relation of them both—would be an unseemly subject. Her madness, her captivity, her most embarrassing conduct were all matters that should never be mentioned.

Maria Manoela looked very pretty today, and he thought how charming she was with that bewildered and fearful look upon her. Thus she had looked when she had first come to Spain—like a trapped animal, wondering what was in store for her. He felt that when she was troubled, he loved her more deeply, more tenderly than when she was laughing and gay—although she was never so gay with him as she was with the pretty young girls whom she had brought with her. Sometimes, unknown to her, he had listened to her laughter. She could not believe that the important young man whom she saw at state functions could ever be the warm-hearted lover he longed to be. That cold young Prince was always between them; even Philip could not escape from him. When he tried to tell her of his love, that other Philip would be there, restraining him. He could only comfort himself by believing that it would not always be thus.

She would begin to understand him soon. She would cease to be a fearful child who could crow with delight over the antics of a dwarf. She would grow into a woman, and then she would understand. He longed for that day.

He could not take his eyes from her without a great effort. Her lovely black hair was combed high and her coif was decorated with rich jewels which she had brought with her. Her velvet dress billowed over the rich trappings of her mule. He must turn from her to bow his head in the acknowledgment of the greetings of water-carriers, muleteers, and gypsies who stood along the road staring at them as they passed. These people cheered him loudly and with affection. As a young bridegroom he was a romantic figure; and his little bride was such an enchanting sight.

“The saints preserve our Prince!” they cried. And some murmured: “Give him long life. He looks delicate. ’Tis a pity he has not his wife’s healthy looks.”

Courteously he acknowledged their greetings, but he gave no sign that he heard their words.

Philip and Maria Manoela rode on to that palace, which was in reality a prison.

Maria Manoela could not prevent herself from shivering as they rode into the courtyard. She would have been terrified had she been alone. She had heard that her grandmother was a witch who consorted with devils, for it was true that she had railed against Holy Church and the Inquisition. But for the fact that she belonged to the royal house, the Inquisition would have taken her before this.

“Is she truly a witch?” she whispered.

Philip answered: “All will be well.” His voice was harsh with tenderness, and she turned from him. He wanted to tell her that he would be beside her, that she would have nothing to fear, but they were surrounded by attendants and this was not the time.

Maria Manoela wanted to ask Philip to turn back, but she dared not. She was never sure of him. Sometimes he seemed kind, but at others he was so stern. He frightened her. “He is always right,” she had told one of her ladies. “I am frightened of people who are always right. Sins…nice venial sins are so comforting.” And that was true, she thought now. Eating too many sweetmeats, not concentrating during Mass, passing on scandalous tidbits, not always confessing the more private faults…those were the little sins committed by everybody—except Philip. He was apart. That was why he was frightening. Still, she would be glad of his presence when she had to kneel before the old lady; she would pray then that her grandmother would not touch her. It was said that the touch of a witch was enough to lay a spell upon you. The thought of a witch, perhaps…no wonder she was shivering.

Philip whispered: “You are afraid.” And he knew even as he spoke that the words sounded more like a reproach than the comfort he intended to convey.

“What…will she do to us?”

“Give us her blessing.”

“Will she…touch us?”

“She will hardly be able to give us her blessing without doing so.” And he thought: Little one, I shall be there. I shall be with you.

They had entered the palace now. They were walking through long, tiled corridors; their footsteps echoed through the gloomy halls. Maria Manoela moved closer to Philip; and he thought: She turns to me when she is afraid. Gradually she will come to trust me…to love me…

Now they were about to enter the presence of the mad woman of the Tordesillas Alcázar.

As one of the guards of the door knelt before Philip he said: “Your royal Highness, this is one of her Highness’s good days.”

Philip nodded. The doors were thrown open. A herald sounded a fanfare.

“Their royal Highnesses, Prince Philip and the Princess Maria Manoela.”

They went forward together.

Maria Manoela was trembling; she was more frightened than she had been when she had said good-bye to her family in Lisbon, more frightened than when she had been left alone for the first time with her husband, for she believed herself to be in the presence of a witch.

The room was hung with black velvet which shut out most of the light. The air was filled with the smell of decaying food. Candles burned in their silver candlesticks.

Now that Maria Manoela’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom she saw that dishes of food were lying about on the floor; they had clearly been there for a long time. It was one of Queen Juana’s fancies that she should eat her food on the floor like a dog and that the dishes should be left until she commanded that they be removed.

In a high chair sat Queen Juana, daughter of Queen Isabella the Catholic and Ferdinand. Her face was unwashed; her hair hung in greasy strands about her shoulders; her robe of rich velvet was torn and stained; through its rents it was possible to see her dirty skin.

She peered at the young pair who were approaching.

“Who’s this?” she cried.

A man who had been standing by her chair bowed and answered: “It is his Highness your grandson, Prince Philip, and with him is his bride, the Princess Maria Manoela.”

“Philip!” she cried. “So it’s Philip.”

She began to laugh and her voice echoed uncannily in the strange room.

The attendant said: “Your grandson, Prince Philip, Highness.”

She took the man by his sleeve and laughed up into his face. “You think I do not know this Philip. I know this one. He is my grandson. Go. Leave me. I wish to be alone with my children.”

Maria Manoela, who was kneeling before her with Philip at her side, began to tremble so violently that Juana noticed this. “What ails the girl?” she cried. Maria Manoela gasped aloud as the skinny hand seized her shoulder and she felt the sharp nails in her skin.

“Nothing ails her,” said Philip. “She is overcome by your majesty.”

Juana laughed and released the Princess.

“She is overcome by my majesty!” She turned to the attendant. “Did you hear that? But what do you here? Did I not tell you I would be alone with my children?”

The man looked at Philip, who signed for him to go. In a few seconds the Prince and Princess were alone with the mad Queen.

“Do not kneel now.” Her voice was quiet and quavering. “Do not kneel to poor Juana. Philip…oh, Philip, are you like that other Philip? Are you like my Philip…he who, they tell me, is dead? But he is not dead. He comes here. He comes often. He rises from his coffin and he comes to me…She trembles still…that child. She is overcome by my majesty. That is what this Philip tells me. He knows how to say the words which appeal…which appease. He is rightly named…Philip! My Philip would come to me after he had spent the night with one of them…fat Flemish women. They were the sort he liked…fat, ugly strumpets. He would come to my apartments, fresh from his love, and he would say: ‘You’re the prettiest woman in Flanders…or Ghent…or wherever we were. There’s none can compare with my Queen Juana…’ Philip. Philip.” The cackling laughter broke out again.

Philip said: “Grandmother, we have come, my wife and I, to ask your blessing.”

“Why do you come to me…to me?…Who cares for poor Juana now?…When they wanted me mad, they made me mad…and when they wanted me sane…I was sane. That was my father and my husband…between them they used me…mad…sane…mad…sane…What’s it to be today?”

“Grandmother, this is my bride, Maria Manoela…”

“She’s plump and pretty…and she’s your bride. What is your name, boy? What did you say?”

“I am Philip…”

“Philip. Philip.” She peered about the room. “He will not come out today. It is because you are here. He is hiding behind the curtains. It is a pity. I should have liked you to see him. Philip…Philip the Handsome…the prettiest man in Zeeland…or Flanders…or Spain…wherever we were. I did not tell him that. There were too many to tell him. Child…child…come here, child.”

Maria Manoela hung back, but Philip pushed her gently forward and Juana took her by the wrist. Suddenly Maria Manoela felt her chin grasped by the bony hand.

“Plump and pretty. As he liked them…But dark. He liked them fair. You are looking for him…you sly creature. Yes you are. Take her away. I’ll not have women here. Can you see him? He comes in and laughs at me. They have tried to take him from me. He was in his coffin, but I kept him with me…and when it was night and all had left me I would look into the coffin and he would talk to me…laugh at me…boast about his women. He is so beautiful. I wanted to die when he was with the others…and when he came back I forgave him all…I was mad for him…sane for him…And you…you with your plump, pretty face have come to look for him…” The mad eyes were wild with sudden fury. Philip put an arm about Maria Manoela and drew her away. She caught her breath in a sobbing gasp and hastily she crossed herself.

“Nay, nay,” said Philip in his calm, clear voice. “Maria Manoela is my bride. Your husband is dead, dear Grandmother. It is many years since he died, and now we come to ask your blessing on our union.”

Juana lay back in her chair and the tears began to run down her cheeks. “Is it true, then? Is he dead? Is there no longer life in his beautiful body?”

“Grandmother, it is true. He is dead.”

The mirthless laughter rang out. “Come here. Come closer…both of you. He is dead, they say. That is what they say. But I will tell you a secret. He is here now…here in this room. He is laughing at us…He is kissing the fat Flemish women in the tapestry. One day I set it on fire. That’ll spoil his game, I said. And it did.” She glared at Maria Manoela. “Who is this girl?”

“My wife, Grandmother. Your granddaughter, Maria Manoela. Your daughter’s daughter.”

“My daughter’s daughter. What daughter was that?”

“Your daughter Katharine, Grandmother, she who married into Portugal.”

“Katharine…Katharine…sweet little Katharine…” Juana began to weep again. “They took her from me. I kept her here…in this palace close to me. She was so pretty…but they said I dressed her in dirty rags and I never let her go abroad. I dared not. I was afraid they would take her from me. Sweet little Katharine. I had a window made for her so that she could look from it…and I had children come and play that she might watch them…But I would not let her leave me…Did your mother speak of me, my child?”

“Y-yes, Grandmother,” stammered Maria Manoela. “She spoke of you.”

“Did she tell you how they came and took her from me?…It was my son Charles…my son, the Emperor…who is but a Prince and only rules because I am shut away. While I live I am the Queen…I am the true ruler of Spain.”

Philip said sternly: “Grandmother, you were speaking of your daughter Katharine.”

“My daughter Katharine…my sweet sweet Katharine. Charles my son had men come by night. They cut a hole in the wall of her chamber…at dead of night they came…and they took her away from me…my Katharine…my sweet little daughter.” Her tears ceased abruptly and she began to laugh. “But they brought her back. They had to.” She was sad again. “But I had lost my Katharine…They would not let me keep her to myself…There were tutors for her…She must be brought up like an Infanta, they said, not like the child of a mad woman…Mad…Sane…I was mad then. Thus it has always been. Mad…Sane…And which is it today?”

“Grandmother, I implore you, give us your blessing,” pleaded Philip.

“Come close to me that I may see you. Is he good to you, this husband, eh?”

“He…is good to me.”

“But you are newly wed. Wait…wait. Wait till he deceives you. Once I thought I was the happiest woman in the world. It was on that first night. He was lusty and golden-haired. He was a Hapsburg. He said: ‘Do not be afraid, my sweet Juana. You will not regret that they have married you to me.’ I did not know then that he would be making love to other women…the next night…the next day…any hour of the day…any hour of the night.”

“Grandmother!” said Philip coldly; but his coldness could not touch her; she was back in a past which was more real to her than this dirty room with its candles and black hangings. Instead of the young bride and groom, she saw another pair—herself and another Philip. She lived in that moment the agonies of jealousy from which she had never allowed herself to escape. She saw that Flemish woman with the big breasts and thighs—the woman to whom he had been faithful for two whole weeks, which was surely a record for him. What had she, that woman? How was she different from others? How had she kept fickle Philip faithful for two whole weeks? Her strength, like Samson’s, was in her beautiful hair. Never was there such hair—not before, not since. It was like gold in the sunshine and it rippled about her feet.

Juana began to laugh suddenly. She saw it so clearly: The woman standing before her, her hands bound behind her back. Juana mouthed the words: “Bring the barber in.” She shrieked with helpless laughter for she was seeing the woman standing blankly horrified while her beautiful hair fell about the floor. Then she had her stripped and put in a cupboard, and she had been helpless with laughter when Philip came in.

She began to shout: “There is your beauty. Do you not long for her? Can you wait, then? Do not take any notice of me. When did you ever? She is there…waiting for you as she has waited countless times before. Shameless hussy! Naked she has been, often enough for you…but to be thus before the Queen…”

Juana covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth with her laughter.

“I beg of you…” began the real Philip.

She was recalled to the present. She said: “And when he saw who she was, he turned on me and he struck me across the mouth. I fell back…but then I flew at him. I scratched him and bit him. But I was happy, my children, because I loved him so much that I hated him…and I hated him so much that it was the second best pleasure in the world to fight with him.”

Her wild laughter had brought two men-at-arms to the door of the apartment. They stood motionless. The life of the heir and his wife must not be jeopardized, and Mad Juana, though so old, was strong when the moods of violence were upon her.

“What do you do there?” she called.

The men bowed. One of them said: “We thought we heard your Highness call.”

Philip said quickly: “Stay there. Her Majesty was about to give us her blessing.” He turned to Maria Manoela. “Come. Kneel,” he said firmly.

They knelt, and it seemed that something in the calm manner of young Philip soothed the old woman.

“My blessing on you both,” she said, laying her hands on their heads. “Philip…my blessing on you. May this child be fruitful…and bear many sons as handsome as my Philip…and many daughters who have a better life than I have had.”

Maria Manoela was gripping Philip’s hand. He gave her a quick look of reassurance. “Rise now,” he whispered.

Juana was speaking quietly now. “As handsome as my Philip,” she repeated. “He put me away that he might spend more time with his women. If this Philip treats you thus…come to me, child. Come to me. I will teach you how to deal with harlots…”

“We thank you for your blessing, Grandmother,” said Philip. “We will now depart.”

“First you shall hear music,” she cried. She waved a hand to the men at the door. “You…slave…bring in the musicians. Let them play merry tunes for the Prince and the Princess.”

She insisted that the young pair sit on stools beside her while the musicians played. Juana sat dreamily tapping her fingers on the arms of her chair. She would have music which had been played when she was young and first married to her handsome Philip, in the days when she was a highly-strung girl, before she had gone violently mad through her love for the husband who had been chosen for her, through her jealousy of his many mistresses.

She called to Maria Manoela to come closer. She called her “Katharine!” She pointed out the dancers in that room in which none danced. Once she tottered to her feet. “I will kill her. Yes…you…No use hiding there in the hangings. I can see you. I will plunge a knife into those thick white thighs. When they are stained with blood, mayhap he will turn shuddering from them…perhaps when you are lying lifeless with your silly eyes staring at death and your red mouth gaping, he will turn shuddering from you and come to his lawful wife…”

The musicians played on. They were accustomed to such scenes.

Philip’s eyes met those of Maria Manoela. Please…please…said hers. Could we not go? I can bear no more.

Then Philip remembered that he was the Regent of Spain in the absence of his father, and, standing up, he imperiously waved to the musicians to stop. They obeyed at once.

“We must leave you now, Grandmother,” he said.

“Nay,” she cried. “Nay…”

But all his cold haughtiness was with him now. “I fear so. Our thanks for the entertainment and your blessing. We will come again before long. Come, Maria Manoela.”

The girl rose hastily and stood beside him. He was aware, amid all the strangeness, that she stood as close to him as she could. Philip took Maria Manoela’s hand in his.

Juana said piteously: “Have I said too much, then?…Have I said wild things?…Have I talked of love and lust, then? It reminded me…A young bride and her groom. I was a young bride once with a groom…the handsomest in the world…”

“We shall meet again soon,” said Philip firmly, and he walked purposefully toward the door.

Juana called after them: “So you would leave me, eh? You would go to your women. ’Twill not always be thus. You have lost your limp, Philip. You have grown young and I am old…old. Life is cruel to women…”

They heard her shrieking laughter as they went through the corridors.

The sentries and the guards bowed low before them; and in the courtyard the young pair mounted their mules, and their attendants gathered about them as they rode back to Valladolid.

Philip never forgot the night that followed. Maria Manoela had a nightmare and awoke in terror, crying out that Mad Juana was hiding behind the tapestry and that she was about to set fire to it.

Philip comforted her.

“Nothing can harm you while I am here,” he said. She clung to him, forgetting her fear of him in her fear of the shadows.

She put her plump arms about his neck and said: “Do not let me see her again. She frightens me so.”

Philip found joy in comforting her, speaking to her with more tenderness than he had ever before been able to show.

“Nothing shall ever frighten you again, my little one. Philip is here…here to protect you.”

And that night their child was conceived.

The news was received with great rejoicing throughout Spain. In all the churches there were prayers that the child might be a boy.

Leonor cosseted the mother-to-be, making her lie down for hours during the day, which Maria Manoela was quite happy to do.

The young husband was alternately proud and fearful, though he allowed none to guess how proud, how fearful. He thought of Maria Manoela continually, longing for her to be safely delivered as he had never longed for anything else.

State matters weighed heavily upon him. Charles was anxiously urging him to raise money for fresh campaigns. “If our subjects are not liberal with us,” he wrote, “I know not how we shall fare.”

When the Cortes met there was a good deal of grumbling. Spaniards were beginning to understand that out of their very might grew misfortune. Better to be a small country, it was said, having plenty for its needs, than a far-flung Empire with its constant demands. There was even some murmuring against the Emperor himself, who was after all half foreign. Philip did not know how they would have emerged from their difficulties but for the handsome dowry which had come with Maria Manoela from Portugal.

He was doubly grateful to her; she was his country’s salvation and his own; and it seemed to him then, in a flash of unusual intuition, that his personal fortunes would always be linked with those of his country. Maria Manoela, while her dowry brought the answer to his country’s needs, with her person satisfied all that he had wanted since he was a boy. One day he would be able to explain this to her. She would cease to be such a child when she became a mother.

He allowed himself to dream of their future with their children around them and the love he desired growing stronger and stronger as the years passed. He would mold her to his way of thought; he would make of her the perfect wife whom a man of his temperament needed so much. To her alone would he show himself; she should know the real Philip who was quite different from the man whom his father and those about him had created for the benefit of Spain and the Empire.

He spent as much time with her as he could spare from his duties. He fancied, though, that she was still a little fearful of him.

Sometimes he would see a bewildered look in her eyes when she contemplated the future.

“The women of our family have difficult labor,” she said on one occasion.

He wanted to tell her of his thoughts of her, of how she would not suffer more than he did. Instead he said: “You shall have the best doctors in the world.”

She shrank a little, fancying there was a reproach in those words. She should be thinking of nothing at this moment but the fact that she was to bear the heir of Spain.

“Your mother was very brave when you were born,” she said slowly. “Leonor told me. She did not once cry out. I…I am afraid I may not be as…brave as your mother was.”

“You will be brave,” he said; and although he meant it to be a compliment, it sounded like a command.

“What if it is a girl? Will you…hate me then?”

“I…I would never hate you.”

“But…it is so necessary that the child should be a boy.”

He let his hand rest on her for a moment. “You must not fret.”

“No. That is bad for the child, Leonor says.”

“And…for you too. If it is a girl…then we must not be sad. For, Maria Manoela, we have the rest of our lives before us.”

She said: “We are not very old, are we. But I hear the King of England cut off his wife’s head because she had a girl instead of a boy.”

“He cut off her head because he wanted another wife,” said Philip.

“And you…?”

Now was the moment for uttering all those tender words which he had meant to say to her so many times. And all he could say was: “I…I should never want another, Maria Manoela.”

She was satisfied; but he was not. He had spoken without the warmth he wished to convey. He had spoken as though to be satisfied with his wife was one of his duties as the Prince of Spain.

She had turned to her sweetmeats. He watched her pleasure in them.

Perhaps she was thinking she was fortunate indeed. They might have married her to a husband who would have cut off her head if she did not have a boy. Instead, she had this strange, aloof young man, who was kind to her because it was the duty of a husband to be kind.

The baby was born in July.

Bells were set ringing throughout Spain and a messenger was sent to the Emperor with the news. Maria Manoela had given birth to a boy.

Leonor held the baby in her arms. She showed Philip a red, wrinkled face, a small head covered with black down. “A boy!” she cried. “A son for Spain!”

“But…the Princess?” said Philip.

“Tired, Highness. Exhausted. She is in need of rest.”

“Leonor…all is well?”

Leonor smiled tenderly. She loved him the more because he forgot that as the Prince of Spain his first thoughts should be of the boy, and gave them to his wife.

“Let her rest a while, dear Highness. That is best for her.”

“Leonor!” He caught her hand and gripped it so tightly that she winced with the pain. “I ask you…all is well?”

“All is well indeed. How do you think a woman feels when she has had a baby? She wants to rest…rest…”

He dropped her hand.

“I will look at her now,” he said. “Do not fear that I shall disturb her. But I must see for myself that all is well.”

So he went to her bedside. There she lay, her dark hair spread about the pillows, her dark lashes seeming darker because of the unusual pallor of her skin; she did not look like little Maria Manoela. She had grown up since he had last seen her. She had become a mother. Gently he touched her damp cheek with his lips and, muttering a prayer, hurried from the room.

Leonor came to him as he paced the apartment.

“Has she not awakened yet?” he asked.

“It was an exhausting labor, Highness.”

“But…so long. Others are not like this.”

“A first child is always more difficult.”

“Leonor, what is it? Tell me.”

“Nothing…nothing. Your Highness distresses himself without cause.”

“Oh, Leonor, I wish I could think so.”

“Philip…little Highness…this is not like you.”

“You too, Leonor? You too do not know what I am like.”

“Philip, dear one, I understand.”

“Then…tell me.”

“What can I tell? It is a first child…It is always difficult.”

“You have said that before, Leonor. All is well, you say. Yet your eyes say something different.”

“Nay, little one. It is the anxiety which makes you think so.”

“Is it, then? She is so young, Leonor…and we have been together such a short time. I had plans…for I thought we should have our whole lives together.”

“And so you shall, my precious one.”

“You treat me now as though I am a child. Thus it was when I was small and you knew a child’s tragedy was pending.”

“You must not think the worst, dear one.”

“Leonor…do not try to hide the truth from me. I am no longer a child, you know.”

“Do you love her so much?” He was silent and she went on: “You did not show it.”

Then he began to laugh mirthlessly as Leonor had never heard him laugh before, and it seemed to her that his laughter was more heartrending than sad words.

The tears ran down her cheeks and, because she could not control them, she ran, with a complete absence of ceremony, from the room.

“Send the doctors!” cried Philip. “I must see the doctors.”

They came and stood before him, their heads bowed, their hands clasped together.

“Something is not…as it should be,” he said.

“Your Highness, the Princess is resting. She needs rest after a difficult labor. The little Prince, Don Carlos, thrives, your Highness…”

“It is of the Princess that I wish to speak. Tell me the truth.” Philip was astonished by the calmness of his voice; he had thought it must betray the agony within him.

They kept their respectful attitudes.

“The Princess suffers from natural exhaustion, your Highness.”

Philip sighed. He was obsessed by agonizing thoughts. They are telling me what they know I wish to hear. My father said all men would do that. They seek to please me, not to give me the truth. The truth! What is the truth?

He was afraid that he would break down before these men, and he was enough himself to remember that he must not do that.

He dismissed them.

He sat by her bed. No one else was in the room, for he had sent them all away. Two days had passed, yet she lay there still and strange—remote, like another person.

He knelt by the bed and took her hand.

“Maria Manoela,” he begged. “Look at me. Do you not know me?”

Her eyes were turned toward him—those dark eyes of wonderful beauty—but he knew that she did not see him.

“Dearest,” he whispered, “you must get well. I cannot lose you now. That must not happen. Maria…Maria Manoela, I love you. Did you not know it? It was so difficult to speak of. In the apartments of our grandmother you turned to me…you turned to me when you were so much afraid. That made me happy. In the night…when the nightmares came…you turned to me. You put your dear arms about me and clung to me…to me…to Philip—not the Prince to whom they pay so much homage…but to Philip, your husband who loves you. I have planned so much for us…so much happiness. You and I together in a secret world of our own. Outside I seem cold and strict. I guard my feelings. It is necessary, my love, for that is the man they have made of me. I have to be a great ruler, as my father is, but I want to be happy too. I want to be happy with you. I will make you love me, Maria…Maria Manoela. I shall be tender to you…true to you. You must live, my dearest. You must live for me.”

He stopped speaking and looked at her tired, blank face. He saw the irony of this. Now he had said all that was in his heart…now…when she could not hear him. She lay limp, with the fever consuming her; and she did not know who this young man was who spoke to her so earnestly, whose eyes pleaded so desperately.

But at last she spoke, and he bent over her to catch her words.

“I…am…so thirsty. Please…please…bring me lemons.”

He called to the attendants.

“Lemons! At once! The Princess is asking for them.”

Leonor came running in to him. She threw herself into his arms.

“The saints be praised. She has asked for lemons. Our prayers are being answered. This is a sign.” Then she tore herself away from him; she began giving instructions. She held the cup of juice to the lips of Maria Manoela, and she was praying all the time while the tears ran down her cheeks.

Philip waited. He had told her of his feelings for her. Soon he would speak those words again, and this time she would hear.

The court was mourning her. Poor little Maria Manoela—so young to die. She was just seventeen. She was just beginning life. It was tragic, and the Prince had lost his calmness and control.

He would see no one. He shut himself into his apartment. He lay on his bed and stared up at the canopy saying nothing, just alone with his misery.

There was anxiety for his health.

Leonor said: “He will recover. He knows too well what is expected of him. Leave him alone awhile…just for a little while with his grief. Let him at least have a short while to mourn as other men may mourn.”

“He will recover,” said the courtiers, the councillors, the grandees, and the statesmen. “He will remember that we have a child…a boy child…a future King of Spain. He will understand soon that the tragedy is not so great as he now thinks it. Don Carlos flourishes. It is not easy to get sons, but it is a simple matter to find brides for great princes.”

None knew this better than the Prince himself; but what consolation was it to a broken-hearted husband?

MARY

TUDOR

ONE

Entering the house of Isabel Osorio, Philip gave no sign of the anxiety he was feeling. Many knew of his love for his mistress, but he always behaved with the utmost discretion. Isabel did not come to court; he visited her whenever possible; and she lived in her house like any dignified Spanish matron.

He was anxious now because Isabel was in childbed. It would not be the first child she had borne him, but he could not escape the horror which came to him at such times.

He would always remember Maria Manoela. When she had died four years ago he himself had longed for death until he realized what an evil longing that was. He had shut himself away in a monastery and after much fasting and prayer he had come to the conclusion that only his faith could help him to live the life which had been ordained for him. He had clung to faith as the heretics clung to the crucifix when the flames consumed their bodies. He remembered that any trouble sent to him came through the will of God, and that to rail against misfortune was to rail against God.

He had decided that never again must he love a human being more than his faith. He had spent much time with priests, and the belief had come to him that it was his destiny not to look for happiness, but to purge his country of the heretic. In that must he find his greatest joy. He believed that it was his duty to inflict the cruellest suffering on heretics, not only because that was what his faith demanded of him, but for their good also. How many might he not turn from their evil ways with enough application of the rack, the wheel, and red-hot pincers? And if that were not possible, if the Devil had their souls so firmly in his possession, then was it not a good thing to prepare them for eternal torment? Members of the Inquisition had applauded his fervor. He was with them as his great father had never been. When Philip was eventually on the throne, they doubted not that the Holy Office would flourish as it had in the days of the great Isabella and Torquemada.

Isabel’s house was large and comfortable, yet it lacked that magnificence which might have proclaimed it to be the residence of a Prince’s mistress. He found great pleasure in entering this house, for to him it was home. He went swiftly through the door which opened on to the plazuela and through the great hall, where a servant was throwing lavender on the brasero. This servant immediately fell to her knees when she saw him, but Philip, deeply conscious of the dignity due to his rank, did not give her a glance. Another servant appeared from the estrado at the end of the hall; she also knelt, and he ignored her as he had the other.

He mounted the staircase. He found that he was praying softly under his breath: “Holy Mother of God, let it be over…let it be over…”

He was asking that he might never again be called upon to lose a beloved woman as he had lost Maria Manoela. “Holy Mother…Holy Mother…let all be safely over…”

Often he had wished that he might marry Isabel; that was clearly quite impossible. He was so fond of her; she had been the only one who could comfort him when he had lost Maria Manoela. She was so calm that she brought him back to calmness; she understood him as Maria Manoela never had. She had become the wife and the mistress he needed at such a time; and he loved her devotedly.

He had sent Leonor to the house that she might be with Isabel at this time. That was the most he could give her, he knew. And Leonor, knowing all that Isabel had done for her Philip, was glad to go.

How fortunate he was in Isabel! He would never cease to be grateful for her. She conducted their relationship in that manner which she knew would please him best. When the Prince came to this house he was no longer the Prince; he was a nobleman visiting his mistress. No. He was a husband returning to his wife after an enforced absence.

As he reached Isabel’s room, Leonor came hurrying out to him. He gave her his hand and she bent over it. He saw that she was smiling. So all was well.

“Well, Leonor?”

“A beautiful boy.”

“That is good. And…his mother?”

“Well too, Highness. She is tired, but I doubt not she would sleep better after a glimpse of you.”

How different this was from that other childbirth four years ago! He should have understood then; he should have been prepared.

As he entered the apartment, the women about the bed fell back. He did not look at them. His eyes went at once to the woman in the bed. She was very beautiful, although the signs of her ordeal were still upon her. He took her hand and kissed it.

“My dearest, I am relieved that it is over.”

“And pleased with the result, my Prince?”

“Pleased indeed. Another boy.”

Leonor was at his elbow. “A beautiful boy, if you please.”

“A beautiful boy,” repeated Philip, allowing himself to smile.

Isabel smiled. He wished then that he was not the Prince of the Asturias, that he might marry her and live with her, see her each day, laugh with her more than he could now permit himself to do, discuss all the domestic problems as humble people did.

Leonor tiptoed out and left them together.

When she had gone, he said: “And you, my love? That is what matters most.”

“I am well, Philip, and I feel strong and happy now that I have seen you. It was good of you to come.”

“If only…” he began; he stopped and shrugged his shoulders. It was wrong even to wish that his destiny had not been thrust upon him. She smiled, understanding him as she always understood him. He remembered afresh how in the days of his great grief, when he was cold and aloof, she had known how to comfort him…she alone.

“We have been very happy for three years,” she reminded him. “We shall be happy for many more.”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed, “I shall always love you.”

He meant that if ever he had to make a marriage for state reasons she must not think he had ceased to love her even if it should be necessary for them to give up their life together. He would remember her always as the rock to which he had clung when his grief on the death of Maria Manoela had threatened to submerge him; she was the woman, a little older than himself, to whom he could in their privacy be something of the man he might have been if he had been allowed to grow naturally, if he had not been bound by rigid, iron casings which had forced him to grow in a certain mold.

“I am glad the child is a boy,” she said. “You will see his brother before you go?”

“I will,” said Philip. “And I should go now, my dearest—though I have no wish to do so—for I see that you are tired and should be resting. I but came to assure myself that you had come safely through. Now…to rest.”

He smoothed the coverlet with the tenderness of a mother; he was like a devoted yet restrained husband, Isabel thought. He had been thus, even in the early days of their relationship. He had amused her then with his solemnity, and the more solemn he became, the more tender she felt toward him, for oddly enough, in her opinion, it made him seem younger than others of his age.

He insisted that she close her eyes before he went out of the room. He stood by the door watching her. The experience of being alone in a room without attendants never failed to stimulate him; and in this room he had known some of the happiest moments of his life because during them he had imagined himself to be an ordinary husband and father.

He went briskly out into the corridor, where Leonor was waiting for him.

“She sleeps, Highness?”

“I have commanded her to rest.”

“Your Highness is pleased, I see. Then come to the nursery and see the little one’s brother.”

Leonor walked with him to the nursery, where a beautiful boy of not quite three was sprawling on cushions, Moorish fashion, on the floor playing with colored balls. His nurse bowed and retired when she saw the Prince.

“Papa!” cried the boy and rising and running to Philip, he clasped him about the knees. Philip stood still until the door closed on the nurse; then he picked up the boy.

“And how is my son Garcia today?”

The boy put his hands on Philip’s lips and Philip wanted to hold him against him and kiss the smooth brown cheek. He glanced at Leonor before gratifying this wish.

“Hello, Papa,” said the boy. “Garcia is well.”

“And pleased to see me, eh?”

The boy smiled, while his chubby hand went to the jewel at Philip’s throat.

“You like that, eh, my little one?”

The boy nodded and tried to pull it off.

“Methinks you are more pleased with that jewel than with your Papa.”

“Nay, nay,” said Leonor. “He loves best to see his Papa. Do you not, Garcia?”

The boy had charming ways and his answer was to release the jewel and to put his arms about his father’s neck and make a soft, gurgling noise which was meant to express affection.

“You must show your Papa your beautiful toys, Garcia, my precious one,” said Leonor.

The boy wriggled and Philip set him down. Philip watched him as he ran about, noting his sturdy limbs, the look of health, the eyes which were neither blue nor brown, but a mixture of Philip’s blue ones and Isabel’s black ones. How he loved this child! How happy he would be if he might throw himself onto the floor and become absorbed in the things which delighted the boy!

“He is growing clever,” said Leonor. She went to a table and took up a book. “Here, Garcia. Now let us show Papa how we can read the little words. What is this now?”

The boy dimpled with great charm. “El niño,” he said, and pointed to himself.

“So you are the little one, you are the little baby?” asked Philip.

“Yes, Papa. Garcia is el niño now. But I will tell you something. May I, Leonor? It is a secret.”

“You may tell Papa, I am sure,” said Leonor.

“I am to have a brother or a sister. Then I shall not be the little one. Then I shall be the big one.”

Then Philip, aware of an intense emotion, took the jewel from his throat and gave it to the boy.

“Pretty!” he said, and he laughed with delight.

But Leonor took it from him as he would have put it into his mouth. She clucked her tongue and looked from Philip to Garcia with her own peculiar brand of indulgence.

“To give a baby such a thing! Why, he might swallow it. It is to look at, precious one, but not to eat. Leonor will put it away, and when you are a big one instead of a little one, you will remember that your father gave it to you, and you will wish to keep it forever.”

The child was looking at his father now. Philip stooped to pick him up. He held him against him in such a way that neither Leonor nor the child should see his emotion.

Philip could never shirk a duty. After an hour spent in that nursery with Garcia he must return to the palace and visit his legitimate son, the child of his brief union with Maria Manoela. These visits were becoming, alas!, more of a duty than a pleasure.

He went to the apartments that were occupied by the little Prince.

Carlos was nearly two years older than Garcia, and Philip never looked at Carlos without wishing that it was Garcia who was his eldest son, Garcia whose place was here at the palace.

They were prepared for him in the royal nursery when he arrived. Perhaps they knew that he had just left the house of Isabel Osorio and that he had spent an hour with her son.

As Philip entered the apartment he heard Carlos’s screaming. So they had warned him that his father was approaching; they had tried to comb his wild hair, to tidy his garments, to impress upon the boy the need to be on his best behavior.

Philip stood coldly surveying the scene. The two nurses were perturbed, desperately trying to quiet Carlos; the heralds and the courtiers were uncomfortable; Carlos had turned to peer over his shoulder and scowl at his father.

Philip said: “Leave me with my son.”

“No!” cried Carlos. “Do not go.”

He ran after them, but they had left quickly shutting the door after them. Carlos went to the door, but he was not big enough to open it, so he pounded on it with his fists, working himself into a rage.

“Come here, Carlos,” said Philip.

The boy ignored his father and continued to kick the door.

Philip strode across the room, and picking up Carlos, brought him to the chair, where he sat holding the boy.

Carlos was now silent. He glared at his father with his wild black eyes.

“Why do you behave thus?” demanded Philip.

Carlos did not answer.

“Is it becoming for a prince to treat his father thus?”

Carlos’s lower lip stuck out angrily. Philip looked at the big head that seemed enormous on the poor, stunted body; he noticed how the hair grew low on his forehead, almost reaching the eyebrows, the slight hump on the back, the left leg which was not quite as long as the right, the weak, full lips, the pallor of the skin; and all the time he was comparing Carlos with the boy whom he had just left. Why had God given him one handsome and intelligent son, and another—the heir to the throne—like Carlos? How had he and Maria Manoela produced a child like this one? He thought suddenly of the apartments of Juana with the food strewn about the room; he recalled the wild laughter which incongruously rose above the music and made the mad scene more unforgettably horrible. Whenever he looked at this boy he was reminded of Juana—his grandmother and Maria Manoela’s.

“Carlos,” he said severely, “you are growing up now.”

Carlos continued to scowl at him.

“One day you will be a king. Kings do not kick and scream.”

“Then they are silly,” muttered Carlos.

“Why do you say that, Carlos?”

“Because when this little one kicks he gets what he kicks and screams for.”

“Then you shall do so no longer.”

Carlos’s scowl became almost a smile. If he was not clever, he was cunning. Philip thought of Dr Siliceo, who had always been so ready to please him. There would be others as eager to please this little Prince.

“Kings have their duties,” said Philip. “They must set an example to the people. If they behave badly their subjects will not love them.”

Carlos was considering this, and it was obvious from the expression on his face that he did not care that people should love him; he only cared that they should give him what he wanted.

“Your grandfather,” said Philip, “is a great Emperor.”

“This little one shall be a great Emperor,” said Carlos.

“You will not if you do not behave in a manner such as will please the people. You will have to do your duty and learn your lessons. How are you getting on with your reading?”

“Don’t like it.”

“Have you not learned your letters yet?”

“Don’t like,” said Carlos with finality.

“But you must try to like them.”

Carlos’s scowl-smile deepened. “Won’t do,” he said; and he laughed suddenly, doubtless recalling his latest tantrum when his nurses had tried to enforce his father’s wishes.

“Do you not want to be a learned man when you grow up?”

Carlos considered this in his sly, secret way. He was thinking, Philip knew, that he could very well get what he wanted in his present state of ignorance. Kicking, screaming himself into a passion so that his attendants and nurses feared for his health, was, he was cunning enough to know, more effective in getting him what he wanted than anything he could learn from books.

“If you would be quieter, more gentle, do as you are told and learn your lessons, I should be able to love you,” said Philip gently.

Carlos’s indifference to his father’s regard was in his answer: “His Aunt Juana loves him.”

Juana! That name again. The reminder was at times more alarming than at others.

Philip put the boy down and, going to the door, asked the guard who stood outside to bring the Princess Juana to him.

Carlos had limped to the door, hoping to make his escape, but Philip held him firmly by the shoulder. Carlos looked at his father’s hand as he contemplated digging his teeth into it; but he was not insensible to his father’s power and the fear he inspired in others. Carlos, for all his wildness, was not a coward, but at the same time he was aware that a boy of four cannot easily pit himself against a man. So he contented himself with scowling, and allowed himself to be brought back to the chair.

“Why do you want to run away, my son?”

Carlos wriggled, but would not answer.

“Are you not pleased that your father should visit you?”

Carlos continued to stare at the hands which held him, and kept his face turned away from his father’s.

At that moment Philip’s young sister Juana entered. She was a quiet girl, with a serious expression, a little afraid now, as she always had been, of her brother. She came to him and knelt.

“Juana…Juana…” cried Carlos.

Philip told her to rise, and she stood up, looking timidly at him.

“You are with the boy more than anyone,” said Philip. “Yes, your Highness.”

“Juana…Juana…” The boy was fighting free of his father’s grasp, and Philip let him go. Carlos ran to his aunt, and, half laughing, half crying, he flung his arms about her knees.

“Make him stop that,” said Philip.

“Carlos, dearest baby, be silent. You must not act thus before your father. Little one…little one…all is well.”

Carlos kept his face hidden against her skirt. “He hurt the little one, Juana. He hurt el niño. He would not let Juana’s little one go with the others. He kept him here.”

“Hush. Hush. You must not cry before your father.”

“Little one will cry. He will stamp and cry.”

Little one! El niño. It was too reminiscent. Why had he punished himself by coming direct from one to the other? If he had waited, the contrast would have seemed less vivid.

“Enough! Enough!” he said.

Juana stood up, for she had knelt to comfort the boy. Philip looked at her coldly.

“You are not treating the boy as he should be treated.”

Carlos’s expression was cunning now. He said: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

“Your Highness,” stammered Juana. “He is young yet…”

“I know it. He has told us. El niño! This pampering must be stopped. What of his lessons? I understand he cannot read his letters yet.”

“Your Highness…” Juana’s protective love for the child overcame her fear of her brother. “He is so young…”

Philip’s mouth was tight. “Others read before they are his age. He must pay more attention to his books. He must learn to read at once. How otherwise can he learn anything?” Philip softened. “It is not fair to blame you, Juana. He must have tutors.”

“He will not,” muttered Carlos.

“Do not touch him!” commanded Philip. “Do not soothe him. There has been too much soothing.”

Juana was pale. She was only a child herself. She had no mother; the boy had no mother; there was a bond between them. El niño, she had called him. Juana’s el niño; and it was from her he had learned his first words. It was to her he came when he wished to be soothed or petted, and she loved him as though she were the mother who had died giving birth to him. She was afraid now, for she was beginning to be almost as much afraid of wild Carlos as of calm Philip.

“He needs discipline,” said Philip.

“Little one won’t have it.”

“When you speak of yourself, please say ‘I.’ You are too old for childish talk.”

Carlos clutched Juana’s skirts and scowled at his father, and Philip felt suddenly that he must end this scene because he could bear no more. He had suffered too much tragedy. Was it not enough that he had seen Maria Manoela lying on her deathbed? Must he also have to look on this monstrous child with the heavy head, the low brow, the atavistic eyes?

“Tutors shall be appointed,” he said, “and in the meantime, Juana, I command you, do not pander to his whims. Treat him sternly. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to forbid you to see him.”

He strode past them. Juana sank to her knees.

As Philip left the apartment, he heard Carlos cry: “Juana loves him. Juana loves el niño.”

When Philip left his son’s apartment it was to discover that the Duke of Alba had arrived at the palace. The Duke had just come to Spain from Flanders and brought dispatches from the Emperor.

The dispatches, said Alba, were of the utmost secrecy, and the Emperor had entrusted them in no other hands but his. Moreover, his instructions were to hand them to no one but Philip.

Philip took the packet and, dismissing the Duke, shut himself into his small privy chamber and prepared to examine the documents. He was glad of the work. He was glad of anything which would enable him to forget that nursery scene in which he feared he had played a somewhat ignoble part.

The Emperor had written with his usual fullness and frankness. He recalled the past in order to explain how he and Philip came to be in their present position.

“Your great-grandfather Ferdinand, as you know, my dear Philip, favored my younger brother Ferdinand. Doubtless because he had the same name as himself, for people do favor their namesakes. It is a human weakness. My brother Ferdinand was educated as a Spaniard while I went the way of the Hapsburgs. It was your great-grandfather’s wish to make my brother Ferdinand King of Aragon, at one time, or even to create a kingdom for him in our dominions. He was to be Regent of Spain while I administered the Hapsburg inheritance in Germany and the Netherlands. But when old Ferdinand, your great-grandfather, died, I was the stronger. I was proclaimed King of Spain while I remained Emperor of my father’s dominions. But I could not ignore my brother Ferdinand. I had troubles enough on hand and I did not want another enemy. I made him King of the Romans, and I let him believe that on my death or retirement he would become Emperor.

“Naturally, my son, I have always wanted you to succeed me; and I plan, in order that I may ensure this as far as possible, to transfer to you the Imperial Vicariate in Italy and to attach Flanders and Holland to the Spanish crown. This would mean, of course, that my brother, as future Emperor, would have nothing but the Austrian territory. Naturally, he does not much like this arrangement, but after many conferences I have won him to my side.

“To do this, I have had to agree to the immediate marriage of your sister Maria with his son Maximilian, and to agree that on Ferdinand’s death, Maximilian—not you—shall succeed him as Emperor. Now, my son, you have traveled very little, and I should like to remedy that. Young Max has won the affection of the people whom he hopes one day to rule as Emperor. He is one of them. They follow him in the streets; they cheer him. They are a lusty people who will choose their own rulers.

“My dear Philip, it is time you visited your dominions. This is my proposal: Maximilian is on his way to Spain. When he arrives he shall be married to Maria. I have promised your Uncle Ferdinand that Maximilian and Maria shall have the regency while you are away. I believe this to be our safest move. Therefore, on receipt of this, make preparations for a journey, which will take you through Italy and Germany and Luxembourg to me here in Brussels. There is much that I wish to discuss with you in private…”

Philip stopped reading.

To leave Spain! To leave Carlos, who needed his discipline? To leave Doña Isabel and her two boys who gave him all the solace he needed when he escaped from his affairs of state, to face the Cortes and tell them that he was to follow his father abroad…he did not like it. And Spain would not like it either.

He guessed that one subject his father wished to discuss in private was another marriage for him. He had been a widower too long.

He did not want his life to be disturbed; yet if it was his duty to leave his country and to travel in foreign lands, to take a woman whom he did not want to be his wife, he would do that duty, as he always had.

Valladolid was preparing for fiesta. The marriage of the Emperor’s daughter Maria to her cousin Maximilian was to be celebrated with even more pomp and splendor than was usual on such occasions; the populace must be appeased. The Cortes had protested against the departure of the heir to the crown; its members had even written to the Emperor begging him not to take Philip from Spain. Some of the statesmen had been outspoken: they had declared that the Emperor was ruining Spain with his campaigns abroad, and they wished to be ruled by a king, not an emperor.

Philip had faced them, calm and resigned. He had no wish to leave Spain; but if it was his father’s desire that he should, then that must be fulfilled.

When he had left the Cortes he had gone to Isabel’s house. She was waiting for him. The baby was a fine child, growing up like his brother, and it was a great pleasure to be with them. There was peace in Isabel’s room; he could sit beside her, watching the children playing at their feet. If only he might enjoy domestic happiness! But even now, at this moment, he must break the news of his departure.

“My father has sent for me, Isabel, and I may be away from you for a long time.”

She turned to him and, as that control which she had taught herself broke suddenly, she laid her face against his shoulder and began to cry quietly.

Philip was deeply moved, as he always was by a display of affection toward himself. “Isabel,” he said. “Isabel…my love.”

She spoke fiercely against the Emperor. “But why should you go? You are needed here. Are you going to be away from us forever…as the Emperor has always been? The people will not endure that. You must not go, Philip. Oh, you must not go.”

He stroked her hair; he dared not speak for fear of showing her his distress.

Little Garcia came and stood before them, looking wonderingly at his mother. “What ails her, Father?” he asked.

Philip took the boy on to his knee. The baby stopped kicking as he lay on his cushions. When he saw their tears he let out a loud wail.

His mother went to him and picked him up; she sat with him on her knee, hiding her own grief in her effort to comfort the child.

“Father,” insisted Garcia, “what is wrong, then?”

His mother answered for Philip. “It is nothing to be sad about. But…your father has to go away for a time.”

“For a long time?”

“It will not be longer than I can help,” said Philip.

“You will come back soon,” said the boy.

They sat for a while in silence, the boy looking from the face of one parent to the other’s. The baby put out a fat hand and grasped at a bright ornament on his father’s doublet.

It seemed to Philip a scene of charming domesticity, saddened only by his impending departure. Oh, how happy he might have been had he not been born the Prince of Spain!

While the festivities which followed the wedding of Maximilian and Maria were still in progress, Philip left Valladolid on the first stage of his journey.

His departure took some of the merrymaking out of the revels, for even to the people in the streets he was the beloved Prince. The Emperor might be a foreigner, but Philip was one of themselves; they liked his quiet dignity, his Spanish haughtiness; they had never heard of any indiscretion on his part, and even his love affair with Isabel Osorio was conducted with decorum, and it was said—and all believed this—that Philip behaved like a respectably married man in his relationship with Doña Isabel, whereas his father’s love affairs were mainly with foreign women.

Still, if they loved their Prince, they also loved merrymaking, and what good could they do by grieving?

On that October day, as Philip left Valladolid followed by a magnificent retinue to ride through Aragon and Catalonia, the people lined the streets and cried Godspeed and a quick return.

One woman watched him from her window. She held up her elder son that he might see his father, for she knew, though she did not tell the boy this, that it would be a year or two before they saw Philip again.

Was Philip aware of them as he rode past Isabel’s house? She knew that he was, and she knew that he longed to turn and take one last look at the house in which he had known great happiness. But he did not turn his head to look. Not for one instant, however great the provocation, would he forget the decorum due to his rank.

Yet he had taken a public farewell of Carlos. He had lifted the sullen boy up that the crowds might see him, and he had solemnly kissed the unresponding lips. Carlos had enjoyed the ceremony, caring nothing for his father’s departure.

Philip had said to him when they were alone: “I shall not see you for a long time, Carlos. I want you to promise me to be good and try to learn your lessons.”

Carlos had said nothing; he merely gave his father that long, cunning stare.

“You must be good, my son, for, with your grandfather and your father away from Spain, you have a special duty to your people. You must show an example to all.”

The boy continued to scowl; he did not like this talk of being good.

“You must make the people love you. You must, by your behavior, win the respect of your grandfather and father.”

Then Carlos spoke. “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

Philip rode through Catalonia to the Bay of Rosas, where Admiral Doria met him with fifty-five galleys and many sailing ships; and Doria fell on his knees before the Prince and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, cried: “Now, O Lord, let thy servant depart in peace, for his eyes have seen Thy salvation.” Philip knew that the emotion of Doria was genuine; to him the Prince was like a god; and the Admiral reflected the mood of the entire Spanish nation.

This was gratifying indeed. His people—the Spanish—loved him; not as he craved to be loved, but as a ruler; his manners, which repelled in private, pleased in public. He had this devotion and he had the love of Isabel and their children to sustain him. Should he not be gratified?

But whatever he had, he would never forget that first he was a Prince, and, as he listened to the compliments that were showered upon him, as he heard the cheers of the people, he could not shut out of his mind the memory of that dark, lowering face; he could hear the peevishly triumphant whine: “Juana loves him. Juana loves the little one.”

And although he had given Spain his life to make of it what his people wished, he had also given them Don Carlos.

He passed through Genoa to Milan and Mantua.

The Italians did not like him. They were courteous, paying him the respect which was his due; but he, as much as any, was aware of the impression he made.

“He is serious, this Philip,” it was said. “Has he never learned to laugh and compliment the ladies?”

They talked of his father. There was a man! It was good to watch him at table and to mark his way with women. He was a man such as the Italians could understand.

Through the Tyrol and Germany to Luxembourg went the magnificent procession; and always it was the same story. “How solemn he is, this Prince!” They shook their heads gravely. They would not, if they could help it, further the chances of such a one. They wished to have a ruler who was a merrymaker. The Emperor Charles had a strength of his own, and that they applauded; young Maximilian, the Emperor’s nephew and now his son-in-law, was like his uncle. But this quiet, calm Spaniard? No! They did not like him. Their cheers and homage were lukewarm.

It was April when he made his entry into Brussels.

A great ceremony had been prepared for him at the Emperor’s instigation. Charles was perturbed; he had seen little of his son of late, but he was not unaware of the fact that Philip’s personality would not appeal to those robust, pleasure-loving people, who cared little for ceremony. He knew the Flemings well, and he believed that they would not welcome a future ruler whose tastes and manners did not accord with their own.

Charles was waiting for Philip at the palace in the company of his two widowed sisters—Mary of Hungary and Eleonore, who had been the second wife of Francis the First. Mary was practical and capable; Eleonore was warm and motherly. Both women were looking forward to Philip’s visit; Mary because she liked to have a say in family affairs and she saw a big storm blowing up concerning the inheritance of Philip and Maximilian; Eleonore because it was time Philip married and she had a suitable wife for him in the person of her own daughter by Manoel of Portugal, whom she, Eleonore, had married before she became the second wife of the King of France.

But neither of these ladies was more eager to see their nephew than Charles was to see his son.

The Emperor stood at a window of the palace, watching the crowds in the street, listening to the triumphant music. He saw the approach of the cavalcade; and at the head of all this pomp and magnificence rode Philip, the heir of Spain and as much of Europe as his father could snatch from the eager hands of his brother and nephew.

But this was not the way in which a future ruler should ride into a Flemish city! There, on his horse, he sat—a small man, too small for these people who liked their men to be large and lusty; too pale for a people who fancied the florid complexion; and worst of all, he did not smile; he stared sternly straight ahead. Maximilian, Charles conjectured, would have thrown kisses to the groups of pretty girls who were watching from the houses and that would have made them his slaves for the rest of their lives; he would have doffed his hat, waved his hand, bowed, smiled on everyone. But instead of that, Philip came on in stately dignity, a solemn Spaniard among the hearty men and women of Flanders.

The Emperor embraced his son with warmth, and he thought: You and I will have much to say, my son. But before I lay my plans before you, I shall have to implore you to discard this solemnity. When a man—and that man hoping to become a ruler here—is in Flanders, he must do as the Flemings do.

How Philip hated the life! How he longed for Spain!

He thought with particular sadness of the house of Doña Isabel with its hangings that were neither rich nor luxurious, but seemed the more beautiful to him because of their simplicity; he remembered her delight in the Flanders carpets he had given her; he longed to stride unceremoniously through the door which opened on to the plazuela, to walk into Isabel’s apartments and pick up the baby, to speak to young Garcia.

He noticed that Charles had aged considerably since they had last met. His florid complexion had become almost sallow, and the rich purple-red color was replaced by a crisscross of veins that showed up startlingly against the yellow pallor; he was less corpulent than he had been and the flesh of his face hung in folds; his hands were swollen with gout and he told Philip that his feet were affected in the same way. He was subject to a form of fever which attacked him now and then; his lips were cracked; his mouth was perpetually dry and there were times when he was so affected by the heat and dryness that he kept a green leaf in his mouth for the sake of its cool moisture.

“But enough of myself!” he cried. “It is of you we must talk, my son.”

“I am at your service, Father,” said Philip.

“The sight of you gives me pleasure. You are a son to be proud of. But you have come from Spain, and here things are different. These people will love you no less than the Spaniards do, but whereas the Spaniards wish you to be a demigod among them, the Flemings wish you to go among them as a man. They would like to know you are loving their women; they will wish to see you riding at the jousts, winning all the trophies. That is the sort of ruler they look for.”

“Then I fear they will not find me to their taste.”

“We’ll make them. We’ll show them at the joust tomorrow. I have ordered a special pavilion to be set up. It will be in your honor, and the great moment will be when you ride into the arena.”

“Is that wise? I was never a good horseman. Even Zuñiga could not make me that.”

“You’ll do well, I know.” He laughed, bringing his face close to Philip’s so that it was possible to smell the mingling odors of garlic and green leaves. “Why, none will dare beat you at the tourneys! They know my orders.”

“Perhaps all the people know of this,” said Philip. “Therefore it may be a waste of time to joust.”

“Ha! You have become a cynic. No! I want the people to see you triumph over all. You must do that, Philip. You know how my brother Ferdinand plagues me; and there is Maximilian to consider. There is one thing which you must understand: No matter what arrangements I am able to make for you, it is these people who will choose their ruler.”

“Then I do not think they will choose me.”

“They will. We’ll make them. You were rather formal during your entry, but you will learn to smile and joke, eat, drink, and make love to the women. You should have a mistress without delay. That will be expected of you.” Charles burst into hearty laughter so that some of the green juice ran down his beard. “You look not too pleased at the prospect.”

“Such matters should surely come about naturally.”

“Well, ’twill not be difficult, I am sure. The women are handsome here; and how long is it since you were a husband? Oh, I know of that very sober relationship with Isabel Osorio. Very creditable. But that is in Spain. Yes; you must have a mistress without delay.”

More than ever Philip was longing for home as he watched his father’s expression, which was one of affection mingling with approval and not a little exasperation.

“And there is one other problem of great moment which we must discuss,” went on Charles. “You have been a widower too long. You must have a wife.”

Philip’s Aunt Eleonore craved audience with him.

He felt bruised and humiliated. In the tourney he had not shone. Charles had evidently not given his instructions clearly enough and Philip did not break even one lance. The people had been silent, and it was clear that they did not think very highly of their Prince.

He was homesick and weary. He hated their rough horseplay, their practical jokes, their loud laughter, their preoccupation with eating, drinking, and amorous adventure.

His father was undoubtedly one of them; he saw that now. And he, Philip, was a Prince of Spain, and would never be anything else.

Eleonore had perhaps come to commiserate, for she was a kindly woman. She had been good to the little sons of Francis the First when they had been prisoners in Spain, and they had grown to love her; but that was a long time ago now. The elder of those boys was now dead; he had died, it was said, through drinking from the cup brought to him by his Italian cupbearer who was in the service of the Italian woman, now Queen of France; the second of those boys was himself King of France, with that Catherine de Medici as his Queen who, many Frenchmen believed, had been responsible for the death of the King’s elder brother.

Eleonore had been at today’s tourney and she would have witnessed his humiliation. It was always to women that Philip turned for compassion—to Leonor, to Maria Manoela, to Isabel, and now…perhaps to Eleonore.

She knelt before him.

“Have I your Highness’s permission to speak frankly?”

“You have, dear Aunt.”

He would have liked to embrace her, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could only sit straight in his chair, bid her rise, bid her be seated; and even while he longed for her compassion he could not behave otherwise than as the Prince of Spain.

“I wish to speak to you of my daughter.”

“The Princess of Portugal,” said Philip; and he felt excited, for Eleonore’s daughter was the aunt of Maria Manoela.

“She is a charming girl,” went on Eleonore, “and I am sure you would love her. She has already heard of you and talks of nothing else, so I hear. There would be a good dowry with her, and I doubt not that if you approved the match, the Emperor would also.”

“Maria…” He spoke the name so quietly that she scarcely heard. He was living it all again, seeing her ride into Spain with her Castilian cape about her shoulders, raising her frightened eyes to his—Maria Manoela who had gone and in her place had left him Carlos.

He rose and walked about the room, for he did not want his aunt to see his emotion. At length he stopped and looked at her.

“Have you spoken of the marriage to the Emperor?”

“No, your Highness; but I doubt not its possibilities have occurred to him.”

“I will consider them,” he said; and he bowed his head in a manner which told her the interview was at an end. She accepted dismissal and left him alone with his thoughts.

It seemed to Philip that life was ironical. He was required to have a wife; and he would, of course. When had he ever failed to do what was expected of him? It was almost as though he had reverted to his youth when his father had said to him: “Jeanne of Navarre is divorced from that fool of Clèves. What think you of taking her for a wife?”

He had thought of it. He remembered afresh his feelings for her. He recalled how she had gone to the Cathedral to present her protests to the bishops, how she had defied her mother and King Francis. At that time he had delighted in her bravery; now he saw her conduct in a different light. Such a flouter of authority was not a fit wife for him.

His Uncle Ferdinand was impressing on the Emperor that his, Ferdinand’s, daughter would make a suitable Queen of Spain. Ferdinand would be ready to make concessions regarding this complicated matter of settling the inheritance if, now that his son had married the Emperor’s daughter, the Emperor’s son Philip married his daughter.

Philip wanted neither Ferdinand’s daughter nor Jeanne of Navarre. Maria of Portugal roused memories, but he longed for the peace of Isabel’s home and his own children playing at his feet.

His thoughts were uneasy. He knew that soon he must take a wife, and he wanted none of them—not Maria who might bring too poignant memories of Maria Manoela, not Jeanne of Navarre, that strong-willed young woman, nor Ferdinand’s daughter, a union with whom would make the settlement so much easier. He wanted none of these women; he wanted only Isabel, whom he thought of as his wife.

He was melancholy, longing for home.

But, being Philip, he did his duty. He tilted in the tourneys; he accepted the prize as victor, although he disliked doing so, knowing that his victory had been arranged. The spectators knew it too; he was aware of their cynical glances.

He knew they whispered about him. “The solemn Spaniard was never able to break a lance in even combat. Lances have to be made soft when set against him, that he may wear the victor’s crown.”

The Emperor was uneasy, but he was too wise to arrange more jousts and tourneys with more faked victories for Philip.

In spite of his exasperation, he was full of affection for his son. Philip’s grasp of statecraft was as sure as ever; he was never brilliant, but always intelligent. While he had a plan to follow he would plod steadily on, but if he had to make a decision, as surely every leader must, he would take so long to reach it that valuable opportunities were lost. No flashing genius this, but what admirable determination, what power of control, what steady, plodding virtue. When he contemplated Philip, Charles was reminded of François Premier merely by the wide gulf between the two. François had been witty and brilliant, but where had that led him? Once it had taken him to Pavia; and some said that his love of pleasure had driven him earlier to his grave than he might otherwise have gone. And Henri Deux, the son of François, who now ruled France, was another such as Philip—slow, steady, almost completely faithful to his mistress, Diane de Poitiers. Henri was not unlike Philip, and he was proving that he could successfully rule a kingdom. It might be that there was no need to worry about Philip; but Philip must please these foreigners; Philip might rule Spain as well as Henri ruled France, but Philip had an additional task; he must ingratiate himself with strangers if he was to succeed to the position held by Charles.

Every day father and son spent hours together. Every lesson of government and statecraft which the Emperor had learned at great cost and bitter experience, he passed on to Philip, and Philip absorbed this instruction with that thoroughness which was a part of his nature.

There were family gatherings, with Mary of Hungary giving her views. Eleonore was trying hard to bring about a match between her daughter and Philip. There were festivities and entertainments, and always Charles was trying to show the Flemings that his son was becoming more and more like them. He selected the most comely women for his son’s approval, but while the Emperor was able to make his choice with the greatest ease, Philip hesitated.

There were titters in the court, and in the quietness of private apartments there was much bawdy chatter concerning the Prince of Spain.

This would not do, the Emperor decided. He knew that if he were to declare his son to be the future Emperor, the people of Brussels at least would rise against the judgment.

In desperation, Charles sent for a certain woman whom he knew well. She was by no means virtuous, but of what use to Philip at this stage was a virtuous woman! She was beautiful and there was about her a childishness combined with a motherliness which was very appealing. The Emperor looked at her with some regret as he gave her his instructions, for he would have liked her for himself.

To this lady he said: “The Prince is a strange man. Few understand him. He seems cold, and so he is; but there is passion somewhere within him. His religion has kindled it; so could a woman. He loved his wife but she died. Appeal to his chivalry. He has plenty to spare for ladies in distress, and I doubt not that before long you will be his mistress.”

She turned her beautiful face to the Emperor and smiled. “Your Imperial Highness need have no fears. I will do this.”

“Fears!” cried the Emperor. “I have no fears, dear lady. I have only regrets.”

And so Philip had a Flemish mistress.

Strangely enough, he was in love, but this love was quite different from the emotion he had felt for Maria Manoela; nor was it in the least like the steady affection he had shared with Isabel. This was an intoxication, an introduction to the delights of the flesh such as he had never known existed. His new mistress was expert in the ways of love, and under her tuition Philip was slowly changing. There was, he discovered, a voluptuous side to his nature. He saw no reason why he should not indulge it since his father approved. Charles had said: “My son, you are becoming a man of the world, and that is a good thing to be.”

But Philip was no lecherous philanderer; he was faithful to his mistress, and when she had his child he was as delighted as he had been at the birth of Isabel’s children.

Meanwhile eighteen months had passed, and the Emperor had shown no inclination to part with him. There were continual negotiations, not only with regard to Philip’s marriage, but also with the division of the family inheritance.

At length it was decided that Charles’s brother Ferdinand should succeed Charles as Emperor, but, on the death of Ferdinand, Philip should be given the Imperial crown. Maximilian, Ferdinand’s son, should act as Regent in Austria while Philip governed Spain, although Philip was to remain supreme over the Italian States.

“It is not what I would have wished for you,” said Charles when he and Philip were alone together, “but it is the best we can get; and now, my son, it might be well if you returned to Spain, for you must not overlong neglect your Spanish subjects. There is one matter which all wish to see settled. Have you decided who your wife shall be?”

Charles looked up with some amusement at his son’s face. Philip could never make up his mind quickly.

At length he spoke: “I think…Maria of Portugal.”

“Wisely chosen!” cried Charles. “There is a big dowry there. I should dispatch Ruy Gomez da Silva into Portugal to discuss matters. Let us hope her brother, King John, will be as liberal with his sister’s dowry as he was with that of his daughter, your little Maria Manoela, whose dowry stood us in such good stead. Then after the Augsburg Diet is concluded you can start your journey back to Spain. It will not do to let Master Max rule too long in your stead.”

“No, Father.”

“I shall be very sorry to see you go. And I know at least one other who will be heart-broken. It was a pleasant little friendship, was it not? She has changed you. I envy your youth. Don’t forget, my son, to take your pleasures. You have responsibilities and anxieties before you. Leaven them with pleasure, as I have always done.”

Charles sighed and looked sadly at his gouty feet. He spat out the leaf he had been holding in his mouth and took a fresh one.

He was thinking that he himself had been rejuvenated by this change in Philip.

And in that mood they went to Augsburg for the Diet.

The days passed quickly in Augsburg, for Charles as well as for Philip. There were state matters to attend to every day; there were the Fiefs of the Empire to be received. Charles had at last settled affairs with his brother, and although neither was entirely satisfied, they both realized that they had come as near to satisfaction as could be expected.

Reviewing the last years, Charles considered he had good cause for satisfaction. His son Philip was a young man of whom he could be proud. Very soon he would be able to leave the responsibility of government in the hands of that worthy young man. It was folly to have wished for a gayer son. Yet how pleased he would have been to have begotten a son who combined Philip’s excellent qualities with charm, gaiety, and that bold manliness which the Flemings demanded of a leader.

Charles was in this meditative mood, sitting at his palace window, when he saw a beautiful girl below. Her fair thick hair was coiled about her head, and her costume proclaimed her to be a burgher’s daughter.

He watched her, wistfully admiring her youth. He could see the shape of her strong, firm legs and thighs beneath her skirts; her profile was clear-cut, and she walked with a modest unawareness of her beauty.

He wondered about her, and he could not dismiss thoughts of her from his mind. He forgot to put a fresh green leaf into his mouth, and indeed the fever had abated considerably. He had not felt so well for years, and the sight of the blonde girl, and perhaps the thoughts of a perfect son, had made him feel almost a young man again.

He saw the girl again on another occasion and he, keeping watch for her, discovered that she walked past the palace every day. He played with the idea (so beloved of kings) of walking through the streets disguised, of making her acquaintance, and, temporarily setting aside his imperial dignity, wooing her as a nobleman.

But Charles was a realist. He was nearly fifty; the girl could not be any more than twenty. How could an aging man, with cracked lips, with gout and fever, disguise himself as a young lover?

No, he thought; I cannot cast off my imperial dignity, for what else have I to attract a beautiful young girl?

So, being unable to play the old game of masque and disguise, he sent for her.

She came, shy and trembling, and her beauty together with her youth delighted him. She was afraid, he had been told, that she or her father or some member of her family had committed an offense of some kind.

He waved away all his attendants and spoke to her very gently.

“Do not be afraid. You have committed no crime, nor has your father, unless it is a crime to be beautiful or to beget a beautiful daughter. I have watched you passing in the streets, and it gave me great pleasure to know that you were one of my subjects.”

The girl was so frightened that she could not speak.

“Tell me your name,” he said. “Here! Sit on this stool…close to me that I may see you better. Now…what do they call you?”

“Barbara,” she whispered. “Barbara Blomberg.”

“Then I shall call you Barbara, my Flemish maid.”

She did not speak, and he went on: “I thought to come to woo you disguised as a nobleman. Then I realized that I was too old to play such games, so I sent for you as your Emperor, because I knew that there would be little in your sight to distinguish me from others apart from my Imperial crown, my palace, my servants.”

He did not make love to her then. He felt unusually abashed, longing above all things that she should come to him willingly.

The burgher’s young daughter had seen the mighty Emperor on other occasions; she had seen him surrounded by Imperial pomp. She had never in all her life imagined a humble Emperor.

And in a short while Charles—fifty, gouty, fever-racked—found that his wayward interest had grown to love, and he loved this girl with a passion he had never felt before, even in his youth. As for Barbara Blomberg, she was at first moved by the imperial humility, and eventually her feelings changed to love of him.

The Emperor, feeling young again, was eagerly devouring the fruit of passion’s burgeoning. He was happy during those days in Augsburg when Barbara Blomberg became his mistress; and before Philip left for Spain it was beyond doubt that she was to have a child.

The Emperor was delighted. He believed that his child would be a son and that he would combine the staid virtues of Philip with the beauty of his mother.

Those were charmed days for the Emperor; and meanwhile Philip made his way back to Spain.

The Indian summer of the Emperor’s life had changed abruptly to autumn, and he felt that winter was not far off. Gout and fever troubled him once more. He could no longer enjoy to the full his life with Barbara. A child was born; he was a bonny child and they called him Juan; he was of promising beauty and intelligence, but Charles realized that he would not live to see his hopes for the boy fulfilled.

The German Princes rose in sudden and unexpected revolt, joining with Henri of France against Charles. The cunning French King persuaded the Italians to turn against the Emperor and, being confronted with war on two fronts and finding he had not the means at his disposal to meet it, Charles saw nothing but disaster and defeat ahead.

He ceased to dally with his beloved mistress; he put himself at the head of his armies, but he was too late, too tired, too old. Defeat followed swiftly, and with it the peace which was dictated by Saxony. The French seized their opportunities and the Duke of Guise decimated Charles’s armies at Metz.

He was beaten and he knew it. He did not see how he could ever regain what he had lost, so heavy was his defeat, so humiliating the peace terms to which he was forced to agree.

With great agony of mind, he knew that he had lost a great deal of what he had hoped Philip would inherit, and it seemed now that his son would be Philip of Spain in very truth.

Was it because he was old that all the fight was going out of him?

He tried to raise money, but the Spaniards were only too glad to see his dominions slipping away from him. They wanted their King to be King of Spain, to stay with his people, to develop Spain from within. Charles could see little security in what was left of his Empire; he could only see a future given over to continual wars.

Often he thought of days and nights spent in Augsburg, of the child who was to be all that he had longed for in a son, of the Flemish girl who had been all that he had hoped for in a mistress.

“But,” he ruminated sadly, “Fortune is a strumpet who reserves her favors for the young.”

And so tired was he, so filled with pains, that he longed not so much for Barbara Blomberg as for the quiet of some monastery where he might relinquish responsibility and repent his sins, thereby resigning his interest in this world in his contemplation of the next.

Back in Spain, Philip resumed his relationship with Isabel. He confessed his infidelity; not that he felt it incumbent upon himself to do so, but because it seemed to him that Isabel would rather hear of it from him than from others; and there would certainly be others to pass on news of the Prince’s love affair in Brussels.

Although he was as kind and considerate as ever, Isabel noticed the change in him. His liaison with his Flemish mistress had broken down his previous reserve. The court began to whisper the name of Doña Catherine Lenez—a very beautiful woman of noble birth—in connection with Philip.

It was considered natural for a prince to have at least two mistresses. There was Isabel to provide the quiet, homey atmosphere which a wife of some years’ standing might give, and there was Catherine to supply more erotic entertainment.

Throughout Spain there was rejoicing in Philip’s return. Wherever he went people lined the streets to cheer him. News was bad from abroad. Let it be. The Prince was home.

And Philip continued to do what was expected of him. He summoned the Castilian Cortes in Madrid and asked for supplies which were so urgently required by his father. He pushed forward with negotiations which would bring him Maria of Portugal and her dowry. Philip was sorry to lose his beloved friend, Ruy Gomez da Silva, but he knew that Ruy with his suave diplomacy could lure more money from the coffers of King John of Portugal than anyone else could. So to Portugal went Ruy, and Philip prepared to receive his bride as soon as negotiations were brought to a conclusion.

But it seemed that King John was not prepared to be generous, and arrangements were delayed.

Philip was twenty-six; he had had a wife, and now he had two mistresses who completely satisfied him. For himself he did not need a wife. But he must not forget that although he had given his country an heir, that heir was Don Carlos.

Carlos was in the schoolroom; he was sprawling over the table, but he was not listening to his tutor. The tutor was afraid of him, as Carlos was beginning to realize most people were. They were not so much afraid that he would attack their persons—which he would do if the mood took him—but that he would attack their dignity. They did not know how to act when the Prince Don Carlos threw a boot at them. That made Carlos laugh so much that he would cry. To see them standing respectful, full of dignity, and then being forced suddenly to dodge in order to avoid a missile was, thought Carlos, the funniest thing imaginable.

They had taken his beloved Juana from him and married her to the Prince of Portugal. She had wept bitterly when she had gone, and she had told Carlos that she would continually think of him.

There had been only one matter which gave him pleasure at that time: his father was away from Spain. He had stayed for months which had grown to years, so that Carlos had forgotten what he looked like and remembered only that he hated him.

Maximilian and Maria hardly ever saw him; he was shut away from them because they were too busy to be bothered with him. Carlos alternated between bouts of anger and self-pity.

“Nobody loves the little one,” he would say to himself, although he was not so little now. “Nobody loves el niño.”

He was afraid of his Governor, Don Garcia de Toledo, who was the brother of the mighty Duke of Alba. Don Garcia would stride into the apartment and everyone would bow low as though he were the Emperor himself. Carlos would watch him from under lowered brows, his lip jutting out, his eyes sullen. One of these days he would put Don Garcia to the test; he would throw something at him; he would arrange a trap, something over the door to fall upon him and spoil his magnificent doublet, splash his white kid breeches; or perhaps he would put something on the floor so that Don Garcia slipped and turned head over heels. Then Carlos would see what became of his dignity.

For all these mighty dons must remember that Carlos was a prince of Spain and that one day he would be their King; and when that day came he would have their throats cut if they displeased him—not deeply, but just lightly, so that he could watch them bleed to death as he did the rabbits he caught.

At the moment, though, he was not ready. He planned these tricks he would play on Don Garcia, but when the nobleman appeared he would seem so much bigger than the man Carlos had imagined, so much more powerful; and the young Prince had to content himself with plotting for the future.

In the meantime he was helpless. He must leave his bed at seven to attend Mass, and after eating he must go to the schoolroom until eleven, when it was time for dinner. After dinner he must go out of doors into the courtyards, and sons of noblemen were sent to fence with him or play games. He would have liked to fence without foils; he would have liked to run a sharp sword through his opponent’s body. They were too quick for him. It seemed that all the boys with whom he played were stronger than he was, bigger than he was; they did not limp as he did; they could run fast and were never breathless.

He had cried to his tutors: “Let little boys be sent.” Little boys, he thought, whose arms he could twist until they screamed; little boys who did not know the tricks which would enable them to escape his sword, who did not beat him at billiards and quoits.

Don Garcia had said gravely: “Only those worthy to share your Highness’s leisure hours may be sent to you.”

“Why? Why?” demanded Carlos.

“Because those are the orders of his royal Highness, your father.”

His father was the source of all his misery. Well, there was one thing his father did not know. It was this: Whenever Carlos killed a rabbit or a dog, it was of his father that he thought. It was because of his father that he enjoyed taking a mole or a mouse in his hands and slowly squeezing it until it died, because then he imagined that it was his father’s neck which his fingers were pressing, just as he imagined that the blood which flowed was his father’s.

Hatred for his father was the greatest emotion in his life.

Everybody disliked Carlos; he was wise enough to know that. The only one who had loved him was Juana, and they had taken her away from him. She had cried so sadly when she went away. “Little one,” she had said, “if only I could stay with you!” He had put his arms about her neck, had let his hands rest on her soft skin, and although that well-known thrill had crept over him and part of him had wanted to press and squeeze as it did when he touched soft things, the other part of him had only wanted to stroke and caress, for he loved Juana because she was the only one who loved him.

“Little one will kill those who take you away from him,” he had snarled.

“It is no one’s fault, Carlos.”

“It is Prince Philip’s fault.”

“No…no.”

“Everything is his fault.”

He was sure of it; and everyone loved Philip, while only Juana loved Carlos. Carlos wanted so much to be loved. When he was King, he often told himself, he would have everyone killed who did not love him. But in the meantime he was merely a prince, a very young prince, who must perform all the irksome tasks which were set him.

Now that his father had returned to Spain there were more tasks. His father had found the bodies of rabbits in the schoolroom and had demanded to know who had put them there. The result of those inquiries was that Carlos was brought before his father.

“Why do you do such things?” asked Philip sadly.

“Little one does not know.”

“Please speak of yourself as a grown-up person. You are no longer a baby.”

Carlos was afraid because of the coldness of those pale eyes. Fiery anger he understood, but not cold anger.

He stammered: “I do not know.”

“You must know. Why do you take defenseless creatures and kill them without reason?”

Carlos was silent.

“These bad habits must cease,” went on Philip. “You are old enough now to come to some understanding of what your duties will one day be. Instead of occupying yourself with ill-treating defenseless animals, I wish you to develop a taste for reading. Nothing can improve your mind more than that. Understand that is what I expect of you, and if I hear further bad reports of your conduct I shall have to take measures which will not please you.”

Philip dismissed Carlos then; and never, felt the boy, had he hated him so much. He fled to his own apartments, flung himself on to the cushions which were on the floor and, in a rage, began to bite them, tearing the velvet so that soon the down was escaping and floating about him like a snowstorm.

One day, he promised himself, Little One will kill his father.

His tutor came in and found him in a state of emotional exhaustion.

“You shall have a soothing drink, Highness, and after a rest you will feel better.”

And while the tutor took the trembling body of his young master and helped him to his feet, he was wondering if he might ask to be excused the great honor of tutoring the heir. His duties were becoming more and more irksome, and he guessed that one day they would be more than irksome; they would be dangerous.

It was not long before Carlos was lashing himself to fresh fury and, as he did so, a cobbler arrived with a pair of shoes the Prince had ordered.

Carlos was glad to tear himself away from the fierce passion which beset him. “Send the cobbler in,” he commanded. “He brings the new shoes and Little One wishes to try them on.”

Carlos glowered at the cobbler because he was young and handsome. The cobbler knelt and held out the shoes, which were beautifully wrought. He was obviously proud of his work.

“Your royal Highness will see that I have carried out your instructions in every detail. Might your royal Highness like to try them on to assure yourself that the fit is as perfect as I know it to be?”

Carlos sat imperiously in his chair, ordering one of his attendants to kneel and take off his shoes. This was done, and the shoes were put on his feet.

Carlos rose. The cobbler watched in delight. But Carlos was determined to be angry. He could not forget the recent scene with his father. Hatred filled his heart—hatred for his father. Yet he dared not show that hatred. He had enough sense to know that he could not pit his puny strength against that of the calm, solemn man who had the whole of Spain behind him. Yet Carlos would be revenged on someone. He looked at the smiling face of the cobbler.

“They are ill-made!” he shrieked. “They do not fit. You have made them badly on purpose to provoke Don Carlos, and Don Carlos will not be provoked. Scoundrel! How dare you stand there smiling, so pleased, when you have caused the shoes of his royal Highness Don Carlos to pinch him?”

“Your Highness, is it so? Doubtless we can remedy the slight fault. Mayhap the shoes which were copied were a little too small for your royal Highness. The fault shall be rectified.”

“The fault shall indeed be rectified!” cried Carlos, his eyes flashing. “You…standing there…seize this man. Do you hear? Do you stand there refusing to obey Don Carlos!”

Two attendants came forward and took the bewildered cobbler uncertainly by the arms. “What…is your Highness’s pleasure?”

“Your Highness will tell you. Take him. But first let him pick up his shoes…his odious shoes…which he has made too small in order to hurt his Prince.”

“I assure your Highness…” began the cobbler.

“His Highness does not listen to you. His Highness thinks how he will punish you. You will soon wish that you had not dared to show your insolence to Don Carlos.”

Carlos broke into loud laughter. He had thought of a wonderful plan, and it amused him; it made him happy; he would be revenged on the insolent cobbler, for how could he be revenged on the one whom he really hated? For the time being the cobbler could take Philip’s place.

“March this man down to the kitchens. At once. Do not stand gaping there, or Don Carlos will have you whipped. He’ll have you whipped until the blood runs.” Carlos paused to contemplate that. Blood! He liked that. For a moment he forgot his amusing plans for the cobbler. Then he remembered and once more he shook with laughter.

“To the kitchens…your Highness?”

“You heard Don Carlos. At once. Now…march! You come too. And you…and you…and you. You will see how Don Carlos treats those who are insolent to him.”

Perturbed, they marched down to the kitchens, hoping that some person of authority would see them and have the cause of such strange conduct investigated.

In the kitchens below the great hall of the palace the cooks were busy. Joints of meat were turning on spits and a great cauldron over a wood fire was sending off savory steam.

The cobbler was now sweating with fear; he had heard of the wild ways of the Prince, but he had not believed he could arouse wrath such as this by presenting him with a pair of beautiful shoes.

Carlos called to the cooks: “Here! Here! Come here, you cooks. Stand there before Don Carlos. What are you cooking in the cauldron? Take it off and put another on the fire filled with hot water. Now take these shoes. Cut them into pieces.”

The cobbler gasped. In spite of his fear he protested: “Your Highness…such beautiful shoes!”

“Cut them! Cut them! Or do you want me to cut off your head instead? Here are sharp knives. They could cut heads as easily as shoes…” Carlos broke into mad laughter which terrified all those who heard it. “Here…you cook. Cut…Cut…Unless you want to be put in that cauldron and brought to the boil. What a dish that would make, eh! Ha…ha…ha…” His laughter seemed as if it would choke him, and there was not a person in the kitchens who did not hope that it would…choke him to death so that they need never give a thought to the mad schemes of Don Carlos, which might involve any member of the household in pain and disaster.

“Cut the leather into pieces…”

He watched the cook do this while he burst into peal after peal of laughter; and when the shoes were cut to pieces he ordered them to be put into the hot water. He peered into the cauldron of boiling water, while his mad laughter rang through the kitchens.

“This will show,” he cried. “This will teach those who wish to play tricks on Don Carlos that they would be wiser to leave him alone. Now take the leather out of the water. Set Master Cobbler at the table. Give him a platter. Now…set out his dish for him. Set out his shoes. By God and all the saints, Don Carlos swears he shall not leave these kitchens until he has eaten the shoes…every scrap of them.”

“Your Highness…” cried the cobbler.

Carlos lunged at the man with his fists, but the cobbler was strong and the Prince was puny. Carlos wanted to cry with anger because his blows had no effect on the stalwart young man. He was acutely aware of his own weakness, the deformities of his body, the hump on his back which his loose doublet could not quite conceal, his pallid face, his rolling eyes and his loose jaw, of those legs which were not the same length.

He wanted to cry: “Love Don Carlos. Love this little one and he will not hurt you.”

But there was disgust in the cobbler’s eyes, and Don Carlos recognized this. He knew that all the people who watched him despised him, and that if he had not been a prince they would have turned against him; they would have driven him out of the kitchens, out of the palace, sent him into that world where nobody loved him.

So he would revenge himself on all those who were powerless to act against him.

“Eat…Eat. You are commanded to eat.”

The bewildered man put a piece of leather into his mouth. He swallowed and choked. He began to cough and vomit while the Prince roared with glee.

“More! More! Don Carlos will call in the whippers if you do not. They will make you eat.”

And into his mouth the cobbler put another piece of leather. He choked, coughed, and was sick. His face was yellow now—yellower than that of Carlos. He looked ugly in his discomfort, uglier than Carlos. This was what the Prince liked; he was enjoying this. He must have more of such games.

There were still several pieces of leather on the platter, but it was clear that the cobbler would not be able to swallow them. He was writhing now in agony and Carlos was beside himself with mirth, commanding the onlookers to join with him in urging the cobbler to greater efforts.

There they stood, shocked into sullenness. Carlos would show them.

“Laugh! Laugh!” he screamed. “You there…You…cook! If you are sorry for this traitor, you may help him eat his tasty dish.” Carlos laughed until the tears spurted from his eyes and moisture dribbled from his lips, spattering the black velvet of his doublet. Thus he did not immediately see the messenger from his father’s suite who had entered the kitchen.

“Your Highness,” said the messenger. “On the instruction of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip, I ask you to go at once to your apartments.”

Carlos swung around, his face working with fury, the tears of laughter turning to tears of rage. He stammered: “You…you shall eat this. You…you…who dare to order Don Carlos.”

“I do not order your Highness. I but obey orders, the orders of his most royal Highness, Prince Philip.”

“They shall not be obeyed. Don Carlos is the Prince. Don Carlos shall not…”

The cobbler was lying unconscious on the floor; the cooks and kitchen workers stood very still, watching the conflict between the unbalanced Prince and the envoy from his father.

“Your Highness,” said the clear, calm voice, “I beg of you, accompany me. Your father’s guards await you. They will escort you to your apartments. So, I beg of you, let us go.”

Carlos knew that he was powerless. Someone had carried the tale of his sport to his father, and his father had sent men to put him under what was tantamount to arrest.

Even as Carlos hesitated, Philip’s physician came into the kitchens and went to attend to the unconscious man on the floor.

Carlos knew that he was beaten. He was a boy as yet and the whole of Spain was against him.

So, the men about him fell back, and while Philip’s own physician attended to the cobbler, Don Carlos was obliged to walk, most shamefully, out of the kitchens with his father’s messenger; and as he went along the corridors and up staircases to his own apartments, he could hear the steady footsteps of his father’s guards tramping behind him.

Of all the people in the world, Don Carlos hates him most, thought Carlos. One day Don Carlos will kill Don Philip.

So Philip knew that he must marry again; without delay he must have another heir. That young monster called Don Carlos must not be his only offering to Spain. He was about to send dispatches to Ruy Gomez in Portugal, telling him to complete the marriage negotiations as quickly as possible, when news came from the Emperor.

Charles was evidently excited.

“My son,” he wrote, “hold up the negotiations with Portugal. Something is happening in England which must command our close attention. We cannot afford to close our eyes to events in that island. Flanders is ours, but to keep it ours without the might of the Empire behind us will not be an easy matter. There are the French on one side, the Lutheran Princes on the other. The only way in which we can hold Flanders is to make England our ally. That is why we must earnestly consider what is happening there.

“For some years the young King Edward has been ailing. News has reached me that he is dying—some say of poison. By the time this reaches you Edward the Sixth of England will be no more. The Duke of Northumberland will try to put Lady Jane Grey on the throne. Our friends there inform me that this cannot succeed. The English will not have Lady Jane for their Queen; they are a determined people who will choose their own rulers. They are all behind our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, and I doubt not that in a short time the throne will be hers.

“You will readily see that if England and Spain were united in lasting union—and it must be lasting—we need no longer fear the French. With England beside her, the greatest power in the world today—in spite of all we have lost here in Europe—would be Spain.

“You see what I mean? Our kinswoman, Mary Tudor, is unmarried; and you, my beloved son, are unmarried. Philip and Mary could unite Spain and England. Not only would such a marriage restore the power of Spain; it could bring England back to Holy Church.

“Mary would make an excellent wife for you. She is only eleven years your senior; she is of the same stock, being a granddaughter of our own Queen Isabella the Catholic, your great-grandmother. She is a devout Catholic. My son, you are twenty-six years old; you are a man of sound judgment. I do not command you to this marriage, for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate.”

Philip stopped reading.

Mary Tudor! A woman of thirty-seven, a niece of mad Queen Juana, who was still living her frenzied existence in the Alcázar of Tordesillas.

No; certainly he would not have chosen Mary Tudor.

He would have to go to England—to that dark and dreary island which he had never seen, but of which he had heard much; he would have to spend a long time among a barbarian people whose tongue he could not speak; he would have to marry an aging woman whom he was sure he could never love.

He resumed the reading of his father’s dispatch. “I do not command…for I know full well that having considered it and seen it to be your duty to Spain, you will not hesitate…”

How well his father knew him!

He wanted to cry out against this suggested marriage; but there must be no question of his personal wishes.

He was the slave of his country.

TWO

In the city of Valladolid, flags of rich velvet and brocade fluttered from the windows. In the streets the people stood about to admire the decorations and see what they could of the bullfights, the sports, and the tourneys. This was a great day for Spain, it was said, for now Spaniards would see an end to continual wars. When they were allied with England none would dare attack them; and they would soon be allied with England through the strongest tie it was possible to make—that of the marriage of their own Philip with Mary Tudor.

They would have to lose their Prince for a while, and that saddened them; but he, alas!, would feel the sadness more than they did. They had but to stay at home and await his return, while they reaped the benefit of the marriage; he had to marry the Queen of England. They had heard tales of her. She was a witch, it was said. She was ten…fifteen…twenty years older than Philip. She was eagerly awaiting him because she badly wanted a husband; she had been promised to so many and had never managed to get one. Their long-suffering Prince must make the sacrifice; he must make this marriage for the sake of Spain.

Philip himself, sitting in the palace of Valladolid, yet again reading dispatches from his father, thought sadly of his departure.

How glib the Emperor seemed: “Do this…”

“Do that…” It was so easy to advise; to carry out the advice quite another matter.

Such thoughts were rare with Philip, and he dismissed them immediately. His father was right when he said this should end their troubles, and Philip was stupid to dream of a beautiful young wife whom he could love as he had loved Maria Manoela.

He continued the perusal of his father’s documents.

“My son, let us look facts in the face. Your solemn manners did not please the Italians and the Flemings. Believe me, they will not please the English. They are a rough people, a hearty, lusty people. They eat and drink with more gusto than any other nation we know. You will have to learn to do the same and appear to enjoy it. As a rough, uncultured people, they will expect you to enjoy what they enjoy. Your clothes must not be too somber. These people love bright colors…scarlets…blues and gold. You must not ride among them simply clad. You must feign great pleasure to be among them. Do all you can to learn their language. Remember, you will be their King. We will try to bring about your coronation as soon as possible, but they are a difficult people. It would seem that since the death of Henry VIII they have been ruled more by their parliaments than by the monarch.

“I shall make you King of Naples. We cannot have you merely a Prince when you mate with a Queen. Your rank must be equal.

“My dear son, there is one matter which I know you will join with me in wishing to bring about more speedily than anything else: the saving of this island for Holy Church, bringing them back to the Catholic fold. Your bride will help you in this, for she is a fervent Catholic. But it will be necessary to act with the utmost wariness. I know from our ambassadors and spies—as you do—that we shall not be dealing with a docile people. Do not attempt to force the Inquisition upon them…at first. Wait until you are firmly settled, until your son is born; wait until you are indeed King of England. I doubt not you will soon have your way with this old virgin, who, I understand, is delighted at the prospect of the match. But remember…first of all tolerance, for these islanders are lovers of tolerance. They have never been as deeply religious as our people have. But we will make them so in time. But at first…tolerance, bonhomie, and popularity.

“So to England, my son, richly clad and in great splendor, carrying magnificent gifts, smiling on the people, quaffing their beer—it is loathsome, Renard tells me, but you will become accustomed to that— dancing attendance on the ladies, being a bluff and hearty fellow rather like their old King Henry—one of the biggest rogues in Christendom, but well liked among his people, who forgave him his sins because of his hearty manners.”

Philip let the dispatch drop from his hands. He went to the window and looked out on the shouting, laughing crowds in the streets.

He must go to England, marry an aging woman whom he disliked on hearsay, and get her with child; and he must be a jolly, hearty, bluff, splendor-loving man; he had to learn to become a person quite different from himself.

Ruy Gomez da Silva came into Philip’s apartments. Philip had showered honors on this well-beloved friend. Ruy was now Prince of Eboli; moreover, Philip had arranged his marriage with Ana de Mendoza y la Cerda, one of the richest heiresses in Spain. The marriage had taken place, but had not yet been consummated on account of the youth of the bride.

Philip was glad that Ruy was to accompany him into the barbaric island, but he did not say so, being as chary of showing his feelings as ever.

“What news?” he asked.

“Not good news, Highness. The English are gathering in the streets of their cities, shouting insults against Spain. They smile on the Princess Elizabeth; and they wish the Queen to marry Courtenay.”

“That we know,” said Philip. “But the Queen is strong. She put down the Wyatt rebellion, and she is eager for our match.”

“She is madly in love with your Highness.”

“It is not her feelings for someone she has never seen which are important,” said the Prince primly, for the thought of Mary’s doting adoration disturbed him deeply. “It is the temper of the people with which we are concerned.”

“Highness, doubtless they will try to keep this from you, but I think you should know it, for to be warned is to be armed: We go—and I thank the saints that I shall go with you—into a strange land; and there the people will hate us; they will mock us; they will watch us; they will misconstrue our actions.”

“I have already been warned that I must change my very nature. I must be as one of them—gay, ribald, eating too much, drinking too much—a real English gentleman.”

“Then you would assuredly win their hearts. But the English wish their Queen to marry an Englishman. They distrust us and are afraid of us; that means they hate us. I must tell you this: A fight took place in Moor Fields—which I understand is open land situated in or about the city of London. In the games the boys who played divided themselves into two parties, one representing Wyatt’s men, the other the Queen’s and your own troops. One urchin played Wyatt, another your Highness. And the one who was representing yourself was taken prisoner. The whole gang then joined to take vengeance upon him. They hanged that boy; and had they not been seen and the serious nature of the offense against yourself been noted, he would have lost his life.”

“You imply that if they would hang my impersonator, what would they do to me if they could lay their hands upon me?”

“Highness, I imply that we must move with the utmost caution.”

Philip smiled. He almost confided in Ruy then: It is not these barbarians whom I fear; it is not the rope they might put about my neck, the coarse food I must eat, the ale I must drink. No. It is the woman…this aging spinster. I dread the moment when, the ceremonies over, I shall find myself with her in the marriage bed and with what I am led to believe will be her cloying affection, her long-delayed passion.

Philip got up and walked to the window. “How go the preparations?” he asked briskly.

“The Marquis de las Nevas has set out for England with the priceless jewels you are sending to the Queen. Egmont, Alba, Medina Celi, Feria, Pescara, and the rest are making their final preparations. I am ready. It will not be long now before your Highness rides out of Valladolid on your way to England.”

“The sooner the thing is accomplished the better,” murmured Philip.

“I rejoice to hear your Highness say so. Then you are reconciled?”

Philip turned away as he said almost haughtily: “How could it be otherwise? Is it for me to flinch from what I have to do for the good of our country?”

Ruy bowed his head. If Philip curbed his feelings, so did Ruy. There were times when Ruy wished to embrace his friend and to tell him of the love and admiration he had for him, which exceeded that expected of a servant for a royal master.

Tomorrow they would ride out from Valladolid in a glittering procession under a Castilian May sky. And Philip, as he lay beside his mistress, Catherine Lenez, felt as though he would be shedding the personality of one man and putting on that of another.

He was a very different man now from the lover of Maria Manoela. Too much had happened to him; it had changed him. He was hardened; he was sensual as he had never believed he could be. Alone with his mistress, he had ceased to be cold; he had plunged into deep seas of passion. Was this the real man? Was the cold solemnity a mask that he put on to guard himself from the world?

It was typical of this new Philip that his last night in Valladolid should be spent with Catherine and not with Isabel…with the woman whom he thought of as a mistress rather than the one he thought of as a wife. That would sadden Isabel. But he, Philip, was the one who must suffer most. Isabel must understand that. Could she not see that he must enjoy to the full the delights of carnal love before he walked into the marriage chamber of Mary Tudor?

Catherine was soothing as well as passionate; Isabel would have spent the night in weeping. Catherine understood, as the more conventional Isabel could not; she knew why he must plunge into these frenzies of passion; Catherine offered balm and sympathy, and she helped to banish thoughts of Mary Tudor from his mind.

In the streets that night the festivities had been robbed of their maddest gaiety. The people remembered that they were to lose their beloved Philip; moreover, news had come of the death of the Prince of Portugal, young Juana’s husband, so that the royal house must be plunged into mourning.

Philip himself was not sorry that the Prince had died at this moment; it meant that Juana would be coming home to Spain to take up the Regency during his absence; it would mean making a detour in the journey to Corunna, because he must show the proper courtesy to his sister by meeting her at the borders of Spain and Portugal.

So, the following morning the cavalcade set out from Valladolid. All the nobles who accompanied Philip had received instructions from the Emperor, with the result that they and their followers were dressed in the gaudiest of costumes. Philip’s guards—Spanish and Teuton—were magnificent in their uniforms; and, thought Philip, the livery of his servants, being red and yellow, would please the English.

Philip himself was soberly dressed; he was still in Spain, he had reminded himself, and although he intended to carry out to the best of his ability what was expected of him, there was no need to become an Englishman in appearance just yet.

Beside Philip rode Carlos. This was an added trial to Philip. He was unsure how the boy would behave; already the people’s cheers for the young Prince seemed forced. No doubt they had heard rumors of his behavior.

Yet Carlos seemed a little brighter than usual as they rode out of Valladolid. There were two reasons for Carlos’s pleasure; one was that his father was leaving Spain and it was possible that the English might hang him as they had tried to hang the boy who had impersonated him; the other was that his beloved Aunt Juana was coming home. It was nearly two years since she had gone away, and she had a little baby of her own now—Don Sebastian—but Carlos was sure that she would have retained her affection for her Little One.

Carlos looked quite attractive in his dazzling garments cunningly cut to hide his deformities. Seated on his mule with its rich trappings, it could not be seen that he was lame.

He was enjoying the journey and the rests at the various towns where great festivities had been prepared to welcome them. One of his greatest pleasures was to watch the bulls and the matadors. When the blood began to flow and the horns of a bull cruelly gored a victim he would cheer wildly. Then he wanted to stand on his seat and shout: “More! More! Bring out more bulls!” But he was aware of his father’s stern eyes upon him.

And at length, at the borders of Spain and Portugal, the two processions met. There was Juana looking rather unlike herself in her widow’s clothes, tearful, weeping for her husband, kneeling solemnly before her brother. Yet when she took Carlos’s hand and smiled at him, his heart beat faster with pleasure, and tears of joy filled his eyes.

“Juana! Juana!” He did not care for etiquette; he could not hold back the words. “You have come home to your Little One.”

Philip conducted his sister back to Valladolid, instructing her every day during the journey on her duties as Regent. She would, among other tasks, have charge of the young Prince during his father’s absence.

“Remember,” said Philip. “There must be no pampering. Carlos gives me great anxiety. He must be curbed, and above all kept at his lessons. I have arranged a separate household for him under his guardian, Luis de Vives. But much will rest with you. I hope to see an improvement in Carlos when I return.”

“Your Highness shall.”

Philip, looking at his sister, saw that she was weeping softly. Had she loved her husband so much? Was she the best person to look after Carlos? She lacked his own calmness and the common sense of his sister Maria, who was now in Austria with her husband, Maximilian. It was too late now to alter arrangements. Besides, it would be a breach of etiquette to leave any other than Juana in charge of the boy.

He reminded himself that he would beget more children; and that thought led him to another; he was getting nearer and nearer to the marriage bed of Mary Tudor.

“My son,” said Philip as they left Valladolid on the way to Corunna, where Philip would embark for England while Carlos returned to Valladolid, “we shall pass through Tordesillas on our way and visit your great-grandmother.”

“Yes, Father.” The boy’s eyes were alight with excitement. Each day brought nearer the farewell between himself and his father; then he would return to Valladolid and Juana. In the meantime, here was another treat; he was going to see his great-grandmother of whom he had heard so much. There were many rumors about her, and Carlos had bullied one of the younger boys into telling all he knew. He had kept the boy in his apartment, and even tickled his throat with a knife while the boy, with bulging eyes and twitching lips, had told all he knew.

“She is mad…mad,” he had said. “‘Mad Juana’ they call her. She lives in the Alcázar at Tordesillas, and she has jailors who are called her servants. She speaks against Holy Church and once she was tortured by the Holy Office.”

Carlos’s eyes had glistened. Tortured! Carlos must know more. He must have details of torture by the pulley, when men or women were drawn up by means of ropes, and left hanging by their hands with weights attached to their feet, until every joint was dislocated; he must know of the burning of the soles of the feet, of the red-hot pincers, of all the wondrous arts of the Holy Inquisition.

And the fanatical monks had dared to torture his great-grandmother, who was a Queen!

“They would have burned her at the stake,” his informant had said, “but for the fact that she was a Queen.”

And now he was going with his father to see this mad great-grandmother. It seemed that life was smiling for him at last.

As they rode the few miles between Valladolid and Tordesillas, Philip was wondering what effect Juana would have on Carlos. He would have preferred not to have his son accompany him, But how could it be arranged otherwise? Juana was a Queen, if living in retirement, and Carlos was her great-grandson.

Philip said as they came near to Tordesillas: “You will find your great-grandmother unlike other people whom you have known. You must be quiet in her presence and speak only when spoken to. Do not be alarmed by what may seem strange to you. I shall speak with your great-grandmother, and you will stand very still. You will receive her blessing.”

“Yes, Father.”

Was it imagination, thought Philip, or had the boy improved?

“You may hear me speak to your great-grandmother on religious matters,” went on Philip. “She is a little strange and needs guidance.”

“Father, is it true that she has offended the Holy Office?”

“You should not have heard such things. None has any right to say such things of a Queen.”

“But even Kings and Queens should not offend the Inquisition, should they, Father?”

“My son, one day, I hope, you will support the Inquisition with all your might…as I intend to do.”

Carlos seemed almost reverent. He was thinking of the torture chambers below the prisons of the Inquisition, where the walls were lined with heavy, quilted material so that the cries of the sufferers might be deadened. Carlos thought of blood and pain, but with less excitement than usual.

Carlos walked beside Philip into the apartment of Queen Juana.

A few candles were burning, but they gave little light to such a vast room and the effect was one of gloom. On the floor food lay about in dishes on which flies had settled. The air seemed to hold the smell of decay.

Carlos thought it was a very strange room, and as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light he became aware of the woman in the chair, and she was stranger than anything else in that room. She sat on a chair with ornate arms; she looked like a witch. Her mouth was toothless; her gown was tattered and splashed with food; her hair hung loose about her shoulders; her long thin hands lay on her lap, showing uncared-for nails, black and overgrown.

So this was Juana, the Queen, who might now be Queen of Spain had it not been decided that she was mad, and that it was best for her to live out her crazy life in solitude.

Carlos was filled with horror that held something of fascination.

Members of Philip’s entourage had followed him and Carlos into the apartment; they stopped at a respectful distance.

Carlos felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Obediently he knelt before the Queen in the chair.

Philip, conquering his repulsion, took Juana’s hand and kissed it.

“Your Highness,” he said, “I have brought your great-grandson to pay you homage and receive your blessing.”

“Who is that?” asked Juana, her eyes growing suddenly wilder yet alert. “Carlos! Where is Carlos?”

“Here, at your Highness’s feet.” Philip took one of the dirty hands and laid it on Carlos’s head.

“Carlos,” she muttered, leaning forward. Her hair fell over her face and she peered through it as though it were a curtain. “Carlos. Carlos. That’s not my Carlos. That’s not Caesar…ruling the world.”

“Not your son,” said Philip. “But my son. Your grandson’s son. You are thinking of my father, the Emperor.”

“Ah!” The eyes were cunning. “You are trying to deceive me. You bring him here…as Esau was brought to Isaac. I know. I know.”

“Give him your blessing, I beg of you, Grandmother.”

Carlos then lifted wondering eyes to her face. She laughed, and Philip was reminded of the laughter of Carlos. There was the same wild abandonment which he had heard his son display.

But the old woman was looking at Carlos, and she seemed to sense some bond between herself and the boy. “Bless you,” she said quietly. “May God and the saints preserve you…give you long life, little Carlos, great happiness and many to love you.”

“To your feet, my son,” commanded Philip. “Kiss your great-grandmother’s hand and thank her for her blessing.”

Carlos, still as though under a spell, obeyed. The woman and the boy kept their eyes fixed on each other; then slowly tears began to flow down Juana’s cheeks, making furrows through the dirt on her skin. This was comforting to Carlos, but to Philip quite horrible. He signed to one of his attendants.

“Escort Don Carlos to his apartments,” he said. “And leave me alone with the Queen and Father Borgia.”

Carlos was led out of the room, and Philip was alone with the priest and his grandmother.

“Grandmother,” said Philip, “I have heard sad stories of your state. I understand that you have once more spoken against Holy Church. Grandmother, cannot you see the folly of this?”

She shook her head, mumbling to herself: “We should not be forced to perform religious rites…We should worship as we please. I do not like these ceremonies…and if I do not like them I will not perform them…nor have them performed in my presence.”

“Grandmother, such words are in direct defiance of the Holy Inquisition itself.”

“So you have come to torture me…as I was tortured once before! I was tortured when I spoke against the Catholic Church and the Inquisition. They take people to their dungeons, they tear and burn the flesh…all in the name of God. Is He happy, think you? Does He say: ‘Look at all the blood they have shed in Spain! It is all for Me. It is all in My Name…’? Ha…ha…”

“Grandmother, I beg of you, be calm. Father Borgia tells me that you have been a little more reasonable of late, but that your conduct leaves much to be desired.”

“And who is this come to torment me, eh?”

“I am Philip, your grandson…Regent of Spain in the absence of the Emperor, but I have not come to torment you.”

“Philip…oh, speak not that name to me. You come to torture me with memories…and memories torture even as do the red-hot pincers…even as does the rack…Philip…oh, my beautiful Philip, I hate you. Yes. I do. I hate you…because you are so beautiful…and I love you…”

Philip looked helplessly at Father Borgia.

“She swept everything off the altar we set up for her, your Highness,” said the priest, “screaming out that she would not have it thus. But I beg your Highness not to despair of her soul. She grows more reasonable as her health fails.”

“What are you mumbling about, eh, priest? What are you mumbling about there in the shadows? You are a woman in disguise, I believe. I won’t have women about me. He’s not to be trusted with women, that Philip!”

“There seems nothing I can say,” said Philip.

“We might apply…a little force, your Highness.”

Philip looked at the sad figure in the chair, the filthy hair, the tattered garments, the legs swollen with dropsy. Philip hated cruelty for its own sake. He hated war because that meant much bloodshed; in his opinion, the tortures of the Inquisition were only inflicted for the purpose of guiding heretics to the truth and saving their souls, or preparing them for eternal torment. That seemed to him reasonable. But to inflict suffering when no good could come of it disgusted him. And how could they, by torturing this woman, make her see the truth? She might see it for a day, but after that she would lapse into the old ways. She was mad; they must remember that.

He would not have her hurt. They must accept her madness as an additional burden on the royal house. They must try to lead her gently to salvation.

“Nay,” he said. “Persuade her with words only. I forbid aught else.”

“Your Highness has spoken. And it is a fact that she did not resist this day when I conducted the usual rites. Though I must report to your Highness that she always closes her eyes at the elevation of the Host.”

Philip sighed. “Continue to reason with her.”

“I will, your Highness. And I think you should know that there was an occasion when she stated that the blessed tapers stank.”

“You must have done well, Father Borgia, since she is quieter now. Continue with your work. I doubt not that we shall save her soul before she leaves this Earth.”

“That is what we will strive for,” promised the priest.

They looked at Juana; she had suddenly fallen asleep, her head lolling sideways, the mouth open as she emitted loud snores.

Philip said: “There is nothing more to be done at this stage. Let us leave her now.”

He went slowly to his apartments; he would be almost glad when next day they continued the journey to Corunna and England.

Carlos could not sleep. He could not forget the old lady in the strange room. He wanted to know such a lot about her, because vaguely he believed she could tell him something which others would not.

He sat up in bed. It was very quiet and must be past midnight. His heart was beating very fast, but he was not afraid.

She would be in that room still, he knew, for he had heard that she rarely went to bed. She sat in her chair and slept at any time of the day or the night; and sometimes she lay on the floor.

If he tiptoed out of his apartment and went along the corridors he would come to that room. He knew the way, because he had noted it carefully.

Cautiously he got out of bed and tiptoed to the door. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of his attendants. They were all fast asleep.

He was in the corridor, clutching about him the cloak he had picked up as he had got out of bed. Along the corridors he went, creeping cautiously past the sleeping guards. Outside the door of his great-grandmother’s room were two men-at-arms. They were slumped on stools and both were fast asleep. Quickly Carlos slipped past them and into the room.

The candles were still burning and she was in her chair, sitting there just as he had seen her when he had entered this room with his father. He shut the door very quietly.

She moved in her chair. “Who is there?” she croaked.

“Carlos,” he whispered. “The little one.”

He limped across the room.

“You limp, little one,” she said. “Philip limped at times. It was one of the joints in his knees.” She spoke in whispers, as though she realized the need for quietness. “That did not stop his running after the women, though.”

“Did it not?” said Carlos.

“Sit at my feet.”

He sat, and she let her fingers run through his hair.

“He had thick hair,” she said. “Ripples and curls. He was the loveliest man in the world. Who are you? You’re not Philip.”

“He is Carlos, this little one. Philip is his father.”

“Carlos…Not that Carlos! Not my son. Not Caesar.”

“No…no. I am your great-grandson. The son of Philip.”

“My Carlos took him from me…He took my Philip. He said: ‘My Mother, you cannot keep a dead body with you forever. I must take him away for decent burial.’ But my Philip was not dead. I would sit by the coffin and I would have it open…and I would kiss his lips…He could not escape me then. He could not run to other women then.”

“The Emperor who took your Philip away is this little one’s grandfather. There is another Philip now. He is this little one’s father. Carlos hates that Philip. He hopes he will soon die.”

“Your Philip, Carlos? Your Philip. He is not my Philip. They said I must marry my Philip and I wept and I stormed. I could weep and storm, little Carlos. Oh…I could. And my father…Great Ferdinand…the King of Aragon…he said I was mad when it was good for me to be mad…Good for me…Who cared for me? It was good for him that I should be mad…and sometimes it was good that I should be sane…Mad…sane…mad…sane…”

“They look at Carlos as though he is mad.”

“Mad…sane…mad…sane,” she murmured.

“You hated your Philip, did you not?” asked Carlos.

“Hated because I loved…loved because I hated. I sat by the coffin. I’d take off the lid and kiss him…fondle him…I said: ‘You cannot leave me now, Philip. Where are your women now?’ Ha…ha…”

Carlos joined in her laughter, then held up his fingers to his lips to remind her of the need for quiet.

“I would let no woman come near the coffin,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“I could not trust him. He was full of cunning. I thought he might slip out…I could not keep him from women. Could death?”

“Could death?” asked Carlos.

“They have taken him from me…Carlos…”

“Not this Carlos. The other one…the father of my father. Not this Carlos. He loves you. This little one is your friend.”

“This is my friend, this little one.”

“He wants to bring his Aunt Juana here and live with you forever.”

“Carlos…you will live with me here, then?”

“Yes…yes…When Philip goes to England, Carlos will run away…he will come to you…”

“They wished to send me to England.”

“No, no…It is Philip who goes to England.”

“They said the King of England cannot marry a mad woman. I was mad then, you see, little one. Mad…sane…mad…sane…Mad! They said the King of England did not mind insanity. Insanity did not stop the bearing of children…So said the English…”

“The father of Carlos is going to England. He is to marry the Queen.”

“Henry Tudor wished to marry me. King Henry the Seventh of England. They said he was such a good man that he would make me sane again…mad…sane…mad…Sane!”

“Great-grandmother, you must not laugh so. They will hear, and send Carlos away from you.”

“They poisoned him, you know.”

“Whom did they poison, Great-grandmother?”

“My Philip. My father sent his agents to poison my Philip.”

“Then you hate your father. Carlos hates his father too.”

“It was after a banquet that he died. They said it was a fever…but I know what it was.”

“Poison!” cried Carlos.

“I stayed by his side and none could move me from him. And when they said he was dead, I had him set upon a catafalque covered in cloth of gold, the color of his hair. I wrapped him in brocade and ermine. I sat beside him…through the days and nights. They could not tear me from him. Do you know who did it?”

“Your father? And you hate him?”

“My father’s friend and counselor. What was his name? I forget it. He was an Aragonese gentleman. I know! It was Mosen Ferer. He was a wicked man. They set him in charge of me…He said I was a heretic and he tortured me.”

“Tortured you! Tell Carlos.”

“Oh…torture…torture…” Her mouth twitched and she began to cry. “They told me they must save my soul.” She was silent for a while; then she began to mutter under her breath: “Mad…sane…sane…mad. Carlos…Carlos…are you there, little one?”

“Carlos is here,” whispered Carlos.

“Never…never let people make you do what they want, little one.”

“No!” breathed Carlos. “No.”

“Love that is hate…and hate that is love…mad that is sane and sane that is mad…My Philip was the handsomest man in the world. I would have a throne made for him and I would set him on it. I would sit at his feet and he would be my prisoner. I would never have women near him. I never will, Carlos…never…never…None save my washerwoman. She is ugly. He would not care for her. Carlos…come near to me and I will tell you something.”

“Yes…yes? Carlos is near you.”

“The whole world is mad, Carlos, and only you and I are sane…”

He looked wonderingly into her face, but she had closed her eyes suddenly; he watched the tears running down her cheeks; he thought that they were like rivers pushing their way through the soil.

There was silence in the room. One of the candles had gone out. He put his head against her ill-smelling gown, but he did not mind the smell. He was excited because he and she were the only sane people in a mad world.

“Great-grandmother,” he whispered; but she did not answer; the effort of talking so much had tired her and she had fallen asleep.

He sat there for a long time. He did not want to leave her. He and she had much to say to each other; but after a while he, too, fell asleep; and he lay against her, keeping his hand in hers.

The guards looked in, as they did periodically, to see that all was well.

She awoke and immediately was aware of the boy on the stool at her feet. There was queenly dignity in her voice as she said: “Don Carlos visited me. We talked and he grew tired. Carry him back to his apartments and carry him gently. Do not wake him. He is but a child.”

And the guards, who were never surprised at what she might do or say, bowed low, and one of them picked up the sleeping boy and with him went quietly out of the room.

The next day the brilliant cavalcade set out on its journey to the coast.

Carlos, riding beside his father, hated him more than ever. Carlos did not want to ride with his father; he wished to stay with his great-grandmother in Tordesillas. But he was quieter than usual and he did not make his wishes known. He believed that his father was going among savages who—if he managed to survive the terrible sea journey—would make short work of him.

At Santiago de Compostella, the procession halted. There they must stay for several days that Philip might pay his respectful devotion at the shrine of St. James, the tutelar saint of Spain. There were always many pilgrims gathered in this city, but on this occasion their numbers were increased on account of the royal visit.

The sojourn in this town was devoted to religious ceremonies, which were a change after the tourneys and bullfights which they had had to witness at Astorga and Benavente.

Here they met the envoys from England.

When Philip received them, his friends and followers were astonished by the change in him. It was as though he had found a lifelike mask which he had put over his severe features. He smiled at these Englishmen; he greeted them with warmth; and those of his friends who were not amazed were jealous.

“See,” they said to one another, “what smiles he has for these English! When has he ever given us such smiles?”

Only Ruy seemed to understand and, when they were alone, congratulated him on a masterly performance.

When Philip had given every Englishman in the Duke of Bedford’s embassy a costly present, the party began the thirty miles’ journey to Corunna.

A wonderful sight greeted them in the harbor there. A great armada had assembled to escort Philip to England, and protect him if need be from the French King’s fleet; for that monarch would doubtless do his best to prevent Philip’s arrival in England, as he was hoping to secure the English throne for his daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.

None watched that array with more delight than Carlos. As he looked at the banners of red silk and the brilliantly colored pennons, as he admired the crimson damask and the great standard decorated with the Imperial arms, he was thinking: “Philip is going, and may it please God and the saints that he never comes back.”

Then Carlos bade a public farewell to his father, and the fleet of a hundred ships set sail for England.

Ahead lay Southampton.

Philip stood on deck and looked at the land he had come to conquer, not by war, but by marriage with its Queen, by the son he would have, and by the new man he must become for the sake of the English.

On the deck with him stood the important men who had accompanied him on this great mission. Ruy was there, ever a comfort, shrewd and calm, always to be relied upon; there was noble Alba of great experience, the handsome Count of Feria, Egmont, and the rest.

A boat was being rowed out to their vessel. In it were Lord Howard, the Queen’s Admiral, Lords Shrewsbury, Arundel, and Derby with Sir John Williams.

Philip was dressed in black velvet and cloth of silver, and his doublet was hung with chains of gold. His garments were decorated with dazzling jewels of many colors; he was a glittering and magnificent sight; and in such garments he, who had always insisted on wearing the simplest clothes except for state occasions, seemed almost a stranger to his friends.

He spoke to the English in Latin, and apologized for his ignorance of their tongue. His manner was gracious and charming; it was clear—for the English made no secret of their feelings—that these men who had come to welcome him in the name of the Queen were agreeably surprised.

Now a barge, lined with cloth of gold and manned by men in the white and green of the Tudor livery, approached the vessel. This was the royal barge which had been sent to carry Philip to English soil; and when he reached the land, the Earl of Arundel begged his leave to perform a little ceremony which, he said, he would do at the express command of the Queen. Philip was then presented with the Order of the Garter.

The company rode to lodgings which had been prepared for them, and there, to the further astonishment of the hidalgos, Philip expressed his desire to pledge his friendship to England in a draught of English beer.

This he drank as though it were Spanish wine, smacking his lips, declaring that he could wish to be drowned in such nectar.

The Englishmen were deceived. Who had said a moody, morose man was coming to wed the Queen? Someone had lied to them. This Philip of Spain was a hearty fellow—for all that he was of such low stature.

Only when he was alone with Ruy in that alien house in that alien land did Philip’s features relax into their familiar expression.

“Highness,” said Ruy, “your father would be proud of you. This night you have shown these barbarians a man they will love. You might have been one of them, Highness. It was as though you played a part with mummers.”

Philip was reflective. “There are times, Ruy,” he said, “when I wonder what manner of man I am. I am sober, am I not? And yet perhaps there is in me something of the barbarian I showed these people tonight. But the test lies before me. Oh, fortunate Ruy! You who are soon to delight in the beautiful Ana!”

Ruy lifted his shoulders and smiled. “Perhaps she has lost her beauty before I shall enjoy it. She has been fencing with a page and lost an eye.”

“She is a wild girl, Ruy, but the loveliest in Spain. The most haughty too, I’ll swear. I doubt even the loss of an eye could entirely alter that. Well, your trials will come, Ruy, with Ana. In the meantime…think of me…with Mary. Think of me and pray that I shall not flinch from my duty.”

“Your Highness flinch from his duty! As well imagine that the sun will not rise.”

“Yet pray for me, Ruy, for in this alien land I need your prayers.”

So Philip set out from Southampton.

The coldness—although it was July—seemed to penetrate every garment to his bones. His surcoat was of black velvet, twinkling with a hundred diamonds; his trunks and doublet were of shining white satin with a pattern of gold. It was fine at first, yet it seemed drear to the Spaniards, because there was a mist in the air; and they had scarcely begun the journey when the rain began to fall.

It was necessary then for Philip to put on the thick cloak of red felt, but the rain seemed to penetrate even that thickness. People had gathered at the roadside to watch them; they were an ill-mannered crowd. Some of them shrieked with laughter, which could not be misunderstood; they were shouting their derision of the foreigners who were afraid of a drop of rain.

At Winchester it was necessary to stop and change their garments; and here at the Cathedral the bishops paid their homage to Philip. Here the Prince met that Bishop Gardiner—the Queen’s favorite—who rejoiced in his coming and believed that here was a Moses come to lead England back to the promised land.

Philip and his followers were then taken to the Dean’s house.

“Our Queen, being a maiden lady of great delicacy,” explained the Dean, “does not think you should spend a night under her roof until after the ceremony.”

Philip smiled approval of the Queen’s delicacy, and declared that he would be delighted to accept the hospitality of the Dean.

“Her Majesty is lodged in Bishop Gardiner’s Palace, which adjoins the Deanery.”

“Then I see in that a delightful arrangement,” said the new and charming Philip.

In the Deanery a banquet was prepared for Philip and his men.

Once more they removed their wet clothes, but they found the rooms draughty, and in spite of the time of year they were shivering with the cold. The Spaniards were disgruntled; they sensed the contempt of the English; and the new character which Philip had assumed, while delighting the English, was distasteful to them. Never, they declared, had Spaniards been treated with such lack of courtesy. These English had no manners; they were too bluff, too hearty. During the sojourn in Southampton, when his Spanish followers had gone to church with Philip, they had at the end of the service been ordered out by officious Englishmen, they were told that the people would like to see Philip leave the church surrounded by Englishmen. Nor had Philip protested; in his new role he seemed prepared to do everything these people wished. And as they left the church the rain had teemed down, and Philip borrowed a cloak and hat from one of the English and walked forth in the rain in these most undignified garments.

Now at the banquet in the Deanery they were expected to eat the food prepared for them—and not eat delicately either. They must partake of every dish upon the table, and while the English were prepared to tackle the great mounds of beef, venison, peacocks, and pastry, and to wash these down with quantities of beer, the Spaniards must follow their master’s lead and feign to enjoy barbarians’ food with barbarians.

When they had retired to their rooms for the night, Philip said to Ruy: “We have been but a few days in this country, but it seems like years.”

“Your Highness will grow accustomed to it before long.”

“I rejoice that one more day is over.”

But that day was not over, for there was at that moment a knock on the door. Ruy, grasping his sword—for there was not one member of the party who trusted the English—went to the door.

A woman stood there. She said in halting Spanish: “My lord, I am Mistress of the Queen’s Robes, and I come to tell His Majesty that Her Majesty the Queen wishes him to visit her in her closet tonight. It is her wish that he should bring with him but few of his followers.”

“I fear His Highness has retired for the night,” began Ruy.

But Philip was immediately beside him, forcing a smile. The woman, seeing him, dropped a deep curtsy.

“The Queen wishes to see me!” cried Philip. “Then I am delighted, and eagerly will I go to her. But I must have a few moments in which to make myself presentable.”

The woman rose and looked at Philip with admiration. He could see by her expression that she was wondering who had circulated those ridiculous stories about Philip of Spain. Solemn! Full of ceremony! Nothing of the sort! She would go back to her mistress and report that she had seen him and that he appeared to be not only handsome, but the kindest of men.

“Then may I send the Queen’s envoy in ten minutes to conduct your Highness to her?”

“I am all impatience,” said Philip.

The door shut on her and the two men looked wearily at each other.

“There is no help for it,” said Philip. “Now…for another change of costume.”

Ruy helped him put on the French surcoat with gold and silver embossments; the doublet and trunks were made of white kid, decorated with gold embroidery.

“We must not go alone,” said Ruy. “How do we know what these people plan? I’ll summon Feria and Alba…and I think Medina Celi, Egmont, and Horn…with perhaps a few more.”

Philip did not answer. He was thinking: Now the moment has come. Now I shall be brought face to face with my bride.

In ten minutes he was ready, surrounded by those grandees who Ruy had considered should accompany them.

The messenger from the Queen led them out of the Deanery and across a small garden to the Palace of the Bishop of Winchester. They mounted a staircase, and the messenger threw open a door and announced: “His Highness King Philip.”

Philip went forward. He was in a long gallery, the walls of which were hung with tapestry. Pacing up and down in a state of acute nervousness was a little woman. With her was Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; some other gentlemen and ladies, obviously of high rank, were also in the gallery.

She stood still as Philip entered.

For a moment he thought her a charming sight. She was magnificently dressed in black velvet, cut away at the waist to show a petticoat of silver; the coif which adorned her sandy hair was of black velvet and cloth of gold; about her waist was a girdle made of flashing stones of many colors.

Philip approached and with a qualm kissed her on the mouth in accordance with the English custom. He saw the warm color flood her transparent skin; he saw too that, although she was far from being as ugly as she had been represented, she was a woman completely lacking in physical attractiveness. On her face were lines put there by ill-health and bitterness; clearly she showed herself to be a woman who had so far gone unloved through life.

What had she heard of him? he wondered. That he was cold, moody, and hardly ever smiled? Now he was all smiles, all eagerness.

“It was good of your Highness to come,” she said in Latin, for although she understood Spanish well enough to read it, she did not speak it.

He answered in Latin: “The Queen commanded. She must be obeyed. Nor was it any hardship when she commanded me to do that for which I have been longing these many weeks.”

What is happening to me? he asked himself. How can I talk thus? Have I really become this hypocrite, this sly schemer?

But it was not only expediency which made him wish to please; she moved him—not with love nor physical desire, but with a deep pity.

She looked a little younger now, flushed, excited, clearly liking the looks and manners of the man who was to be her husband. She led him to a canopy, at one end of the gallery, beneath which had been placed two royal chairs. They sat, and one by one the Spaniards came forward to kiss the Queen’s hand.

When this was done, the party went into the next room that Philip might greet the Queen’s ladies; and this he did by kissing them all on the mouth. As the Queen watched him, it was clear to many of the Spaniards that she did not care to see Philip salute her ladies thus. They considered that significant. Was she already half in love with her Spanish bridegroom? That augured well. Soon England would be completely under the domination of Spain.

After he had saluted the ladies, the Queen led Philip back to the gallery.

“Your Majesty will have a busy time before her,” said Philip solicitously. “I will not stay to tire you.”

“Nay!” cried Mary. “I am not tired. It is so pleasant to see you. Let us stay here and talk for a while.”

There was nothing to be done but sit under the canopy. The Queen signified that ceremony was to be set aside. The Spaniards might talk as well as they could with those of her ladies and gentlemen who were in the gallery, and leave Philip to the Queen.

She looked at him almost shyly. “You are different from what I have been led to expect,” she said.

“I trust I do not disappoint you?”

“Far from it. Far…far from it. You…you please me.”

“Then I have my heart’s desire.”

“I was afraid…being so unversed in the ways of love and marriage. I thought you might be a lusty gentleman given only to carnal pleasures and…”

“Nay,” he said with a smile. “I shall be a sober husband.”

“And not too sober,” she answered. “I was told that you never smiled. I have seen you smile this night.”

“That is due to being in your Majesty’s presence.”

“Ah!” sighed the Queen. “You are gallant…you Spaniards.”

“Your Majesty is half Spanish.”

“That is true. My mother would often talk to me of Spain.” Her mouth squared, as it always did when she spoke of her mother. “I longed to visit that country and know more of my mother’s people.”

“And now one of them comes forth to wed you.”

“There was talk, at one time, that I should marry your father.”

“That was when you were a baby and he a young man.”

“He wrote to me recently and said he remembered that he was once affianced to me. He said it was ever a matter of regret with him that nothing came of it. He said he was sending me his son, who was young, handsome, and strong, while he had grown ugly, old, and tired. Why, had I married him you might be my son!”

“Impossible! Impossible! We are of an age.”

She was pleased. Did she really think that he did not know she was eleven years older than he was? That was impossible, for time had not been very gracious to her. It had engraved its marks on her face—lines of suffering, lines of bitterness, anxiety, and sickness. Poor Mary!

He said: “What must you think of me—unable to speak your language?”

“I will teach it to you…Philip.”

“I trust, Mary, that I shall be an apt pupil in all that you teach me.”

“Nay, you must be the one to teach, I the one to learn.”

Yes, he thought; that must be. I must make you see that I will govern this kingdom in accordance with the Emperor’s wishes.

He longed to leave her, but now she was growing bolder. She let her hand rest on his sleeve. He looked at it, and with an effort he took those heavily ringed fingers in his. She was smiling and he could feel her trembling as he raised her hand to his lips.

He knew that he was watched, that the English were saying: “He is winning the Queen’s heart with his chivalrous Spanish manners.” And the Spaniards were saying: “We did not know Philip. What a man he is! He can act any part for the glory of Spain, for he surely cannot be as enamored of the old lady as he pretends to be—particularly when some of the other ladies are so charming.”

At length Philip said: “I will not keep you from your sleep any longer, gracious lady. Now you shall teach me to say ‘Goodnight’ in English, and I shall say it to the ladies here and in the next room. Then I shall leave you until the morning.”

She enjoyed teaching him the words for he found them so difficult to say. “Goodnight. Goodnight…” The Queen burst into merry laughter and brought her face close to Philip’s. “No…this way. Goodnight. You see? Goodnight.”

Then Philip kissed her hand and went to the door of that room in which the ladies were, and there he cried out in Latin: “But I have forgotten. What is it? Gooda…What is it?”

Then, while the Queen smiled in almost childish pleasure, he went back to her and learned the words again; then he went to the ladies and said it in such a manner as to set them all laughing and repeating “Goodnight” with that Spanish accent which they said was so charming.

“Your Highness,” said Ruy, when they were alone, “goes from strength to strength. Why, the lady dotes on you already.”

But his words did not please Philip. He had discarded the gay mask of the wooer and become the sober young man whom his friends knew so well.

In the Queen’s bedchamber her ladies were helping her to disrobe.

Mistress Clarencius, her old nurse, whom Mary regarded as one of her true friends, was obviously in a state of high delight.

“He is a lovely little King,” she declared. “I thank God for the day he landed here to make your Majesty the good husband I know he will.”

Tall Magdalen Dacre said: “How magnificent he looked, your Majesty! And he had eyes for none but yourself!”

Mary said sadly: “But he is so much younger than I.”

“None would guess it, your Majesty.”

But Mary knew that they did not speak the truth.

Jane Dormer had said nothing, and, turning to her, the Queen inquired: “And what think you, Jane? What thought you of our visitors?”

“The Spanish gentlemen are very handsome, your Majesty. And it is a great joy to us to know that your Grace is to marry a strong adherent of the Holy Catholic Church.”

Janet was thinking of the handsome Count of Feria, whom she had found at her side in the gallery. They had talked together, for he spoke English with remarkable fluency. Jane was as excited as her mistress; if she was struck with the handsomeness of the Spanish gentlemen, Feria had been equally impressed with the beauty of at least one English girl.

Mary looked at Jane and smiled, for she had noticed her with Feria during the evening; she had felt envious of the girl’s youth and beauty. How wonderful it must be to attract by those qualities, she thought, and not because one was the daughter of a king.

They put her to bed and drew the curtains. “Your Majesty must sleep well,” they told her.

But how could she sleep? She had seen him, and he was kind and gentle; he would be loving and tender, she was sure.

But was she as foolish as a young girl to imagine he had really meant those handsome compliments which he had paid her? Did she not know the truth? Strip her of her silks and velvets, take away her jewels, and what was left but a plain, aging woman who had lost almost everything in life but her throne?

Courtenay had deceived her; he had pretended to love her, and all the time he was plotting to marry her younger and more attractive sister Elizabeth, and take the throne from her. Courtenay and Elizabeth had both deceived her; they treated her with great respect because she wore the crown, but they were awaiting their opportunities to destroy her.

Gardiner and Renard, the Spanish Ambassador, had tried to persuade her to have Elizabeth executed. Why did she not? Would it have been so difficult to prove her guilty of treachery? Had not her name been mentioned in connection with the Wyatt rebellion? But she could not forget Elizabeth…Elizabeth as a little girl of three, so desolate, so alone, when her mother fell from favor. Although their mothers had been so different, they had the same father—there was no doubt of that. They were sisters.

What a bitter childhood Mary’s had been! The grand marriages which had been prepared for her had all come to nothing, for the King had sworn that her mother was no true wife to him, and Mary who had been the beloved daughter, became a bastard. How many times had her life been in danger, not only from sickness, but from the axe?

And now she was thirty-eight—old for any woman, but for one who had passed through such desperate hazards desperately old; and now a young man had come from across the seas to marry her.

She smiled, thinking of him. He was beautiful with his trim figure, his golden hair and beard, his pale skin. When she had touched him she had thrilled with pleasure…more than pleasure—excitement. She was a virgin; she had never dared think of carnal love before this; if in her youth the sight of a handsome man had aroused such thoughts, they had been instantly suppressed; she had stifled her feelings then by kneeling before her altar, until she was cramped with pain, and must think of that rather than the strong arms of a lover.

But carnal love had become legitimate love. Love between herself and Philip must be more than pleasure; it must be duty. Without it, how could they produce the heir for which England and Spain were waiting?

So now…there need be no suppression. Now thoughts could run riot like mischievous children in hitherto forbidden gardens.

“Philip,” she murmured; and all through the night she dreamed of him.

They were married in the beautiful Cathedral of Winchester. Gardiner, with the help of three bishops, performed the ceremony; and not since the days of the Queen’s great father had such pomp been seen.

The greatest nobles of Spain and England were assembled in the Cathedral. Many of the English—chief of whom was Bishop Gardiner—were in a state of exultation, for they saw in the marriage that for which they had long prayed since King Henry broke with the Pope: the return of England to Rome.

After the ceremony had been performed, Philip and Mary, surrounded by the noblemen of both countries, went to the Bishop’s Palace, where a great feast was awaiting them.

Here dishes were served with the utmost ceremony, as though the food itself were royal. The minstrels played gay music while the guests ate; but all the Spanish guests were furious because Philip ate from a silver plate while Mary had a gold one. They realized that these people meant to show them that Mary was Queen of England, Philip but the Consort; and that England would be ruled by the English.

It was a matter over which hot-headed Spaniards would have drawn the sword had they not been warned against this by Philip himself. They must content themselves with smiling at the Queen’s loving expression when her eyes fell on Philip. Soon she would be his slave; then her parliament and her courtiers would follow.

Nor were the Spaniards allowed to serve Philip at table.

“Nay,” said the hearty English: “he is our guest. He has married our Queen and we demand the privilege of serving him.”

And what could be done? Nothing. The Spaniards could only marvel at these people, at their crudeness, their huge appetites, and their ability to sweep aside etiquette and make the rules which best suited themselves. Spanish discipline was needed here, thought the guests. Let them wait until Philip’s son was born! Let them wait until the Holy Inquisition was set up in this land!

The Queen gave the toast of her guests, and this she drank from a golden cup. Then she drank the health of her husband, whose titles were proclaimed by a handsome herald. “King of England, Naples, and Jerusalem, Prince of Spain, and Count of Flanders.”

And every eye of every Spaniard gleamed with loving devotion.

To Philip it seemed that the celebrations would never end, yet he dreaded their climax. Mary was growing fonder of him with every passing moment. What tenderness had she known in her life? Very little. And when this young man—one day to be the greatest monarch in the world—showed her kindness, it was almost more than she could bear. All her feelings, so carefully suppressed, were about to burst forth like a river in flood; she was longing for the consummation of her marriage. This Philip had everything to offer her; youth, quiet dignity—which penetrated his new aspect of bonhomie—tenderness, kindliness, and understanding. Mary was happier at her wedding feast than she had ever before been in the whole of her life. There was one thing she regretted besides her lost youth—that her mother could not see her now. How happy Katharine of Aragon would have been to see her daughter, Queen of England, married to her kinsman, that together they might rule the world while they led it to the only true faith.

After the banquets the great ball began. To the Spaniards and the English this was a further cause for dissension. For could Spaniards dance the crude English dances? It seemed to them that the English had no notion of grace; they pranced, leaped, and laughed as they danced, as though a dance were an expression of joy rather than of grace. They laughingly declared—in their barbaric tongue, which only a few of their guests could understand—that if the Spanish dances were danced they would all die of laughing, for such laughter as they would be unable to suppress would result in death after such a surfeit of beef, mutton, and roast peacock. As for the grandees, the hidalgos, and the stately dons, how could they so fling their arms about? How could they leap into the air, guffawing as they did so?

Only the King and the Queen seemed to find the contrast between Spanish and English customs amusing. Philip, charming and courtly, discovered that the English knew the German style of dancing, which was not quite so crude as the English and was known to the Spaniards. So, in German fashion, they danced, led by the short, trim Philip in his dazzling wedding garments, hand-in-hand with the Queen, who was made almost handsome by the glitter of jewels and the shine of happiness.

Had that been all that was demanded of him, Philip would have felt great relief. But now the night was upon them. He and his Queen had been disrobed; their attendants had retired, and all but a few candles doused.

She was waiting for him—her eyes ardent, her thin arms eager. She was frightened yet desirous, seeing in him the embodiment of a dream. He was the belated lover; he was the savior who would help her to lead her country back to Holy Church.

And he? He was smiling; she did not notice that the smile was fixed on his lips to make of him an eager lover, as a crown, set on Mary’s head, had made her a Queen. He was seeking to sharpen his pity for her into some semblance of desire.

She, so thin, so tense, so trembling, shocked him. How could he make love to her? He thought of Maria Manoela, the bride of his youth; he thought of Isabel, Catherine, and his Flemish mistress. He longed for them—any of them—anyone but Mary Tudor.

Fervently he beseeched the saints, and the saints, it seemed to him, came to his aid. He thought of his father’s words; of the cheers of the people which had never failed to greet him; momentarily he thought of the misshapen body of Don Carlos. With his life Philip wished to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition. He felt single-minded in his devotion to them. He was ready to serve Spain and the Holy Inquisition in the arms of Mary Tudor.

THREE

A slight mist hung over the great chamber in the Palace of Whitehall. It was the month of November, the most significant day, said all Spaniards and some Englishmen, in England’s history. That morning, Philip, making his way to hear Mass in Westminster Abbey, had been accompanied by English, Spanish, and German guards, all clad in dazzling uniforms. The people in the streets had gathered to watch them—some with approval, some with lowering glances. “This is the return to God,” said some.

Others muttered: “Now we shall see terrible sights. Now we shall have the Inquisition in our land. That is why they made the Spanish marriage; this is the darkest day in English history.”

Thus the people were divided.

During the last four months there had been numerous affrays between Englishmen and Spaniards; many a Spaniard making his way through a lonely place was set upon and robbed. He might call for help, but no Englishman would succor him.

“Get back to your own country!” children shouted after the foreigners.

“These are the worst people in the world!” wailed the Spaniards. “This is the least Christian nation. The English make no attempt to understand our language. They are barbarians.”

Barbarians they might be, but the Spaniards knew them to be no fools. They managed to get their own way and they would not crown Philip King. They insisted on treating him as Consort only, and, although the Queen loved him to such an extent that she would grow hysterical when he was absent, it was still the English who were ruling England.

Once the Queen is with child, the Spaniards promised themselves, we shall return home.

Those were Philip’s thoughts, as he sat with Mary in the Palace of Whitehall on that misty day. Today he would see the first of his missions accomplished; it but remained to get a son. This was the great day of England’s return to Rome.

Cardinal Pole, who had long been exiled, had come back to England, where he was being treated with honor by Philip and Mary. Pole came as envoy from the Pope. He was a sick old man now, but his face was lit by great enthusiasm. Here was the fulfillment of a dream; and he was the one chosen to bring it about.

Now he sat in his chair in the great hall, looking frail in his Cardinal’s robes, while Philip and Mary, hand-in-hand, came to him and asked with great humility if he was prepared, as the Pope’s ambassador, to receive the submission of England.

Philip and Mary then went back to their chairs while the Cardinal read messages from the Pope in which His Holiness proclaimed that he rejoiced to welcome back this great country which had strayed from the fold.

Philip and Mary knelt, pressing the palms of their hands together, their heads bent in attitudes of devotion, while the Cardinal pronounced the Pope’s blessing and gave the Absolution.

There was a deep silence when he had finished speaking. The silence spread through the Palace and into the streets, where people stood about in groups, some exulting, some fearful.

England had become a Catholic country.

The royal procession passed in state through the City of London to St Paul’s.

Cardinal Pole, in his own procession, with its banners, censers, crosses, and churchmen, took a different route to the Cathedral.

Great crowds were in the streets to see the splendors; but what caused most excitement—and anxiety—among the crowd was the sermon Bishop Gardiner preached that day.

He quoted St. Paul: “Brethren, know ye that it is time we rose from slumber…” They must start afresh, he said: they must forget the fearful days through which they had lived. The blackest day in England’s history was when she broke from the Church of Rome. Now she was back in the fold. Let all men hear that and rejoice.

Then came the significant part of Gardiner’s sermon.

He cried in a voice of thunder: “Brethren, we have been lax in these matters. We have stood aside and looked on indulgently at abominable heresies, tumults, and insurrections. These we could have averted, my friends, and England might have been saved much shame, had we taken these offenders and purged them of their wickedness…”

The news spread through the city and gradually to the provinces.

“It is here. Persecution is here.” Every man looked at his neighbor and wondered whether it was remembered that this year…last year…he had spoken against the Pope.

The fires of fanaticism had burned in Gardiner’s eyes. That fire would light other fires.

On that day it seemed to the people of London that they could already smell the smoke over Smithfield.

To Philip those were not unhappy days. He felt that his journey had not been in vain. He knew that throughout Spain there would be rejoicing. God and the Emperor would be pleased. But there was one thing the Emperor wished to hear more than anything. It was four months since Philip had left Spain, and still there was no news of a child. Charles had written several impatient dispatches. Philip could only reply that no one longed for the child’s conception more than he did.

But…these were the happy days, for during one of them an excited Mary came to him as he sat in his privy chamber at Hampton Court turning over the dispatches from his father. He wondered at her interruption, for she, knowing that he wished to be alone when working, had given strict instructions that no one was to approach him at such times. And she herself came in.

“Philip,” she said, and she looked almost like a young girl as she spoke, “I could wait no longer. I had to see you. I have wonderful news.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“It has happened,” she went on. “I bring you the tidings we most want to hear. I am with child.” She threw back her head and laughed. He kissed her cheek.

“I am so happy,” he said.

“Happy!” She had turned away. Her joy was almost uncontrollable. She, who had led such a miserable life, was now the happiest woman on earth. She began to walk up and down the room, making no effort to hold back her tears. This was the happiest moment in her life…so far, because when the child was in her arms and she knew him for a boy, that would be the supreme moment.

She loved Philip, but that love was a torment. How could she help knowing that she was old, plain, and worn out with illness? How could she believe in his protestations of affection? She was aware that she must be grateful for his kindness rather than his love.

She faced him suddenly and said: “This I have desired all my life. A child of my own! In a few months I shall be brought to bed, and soon I shall hold him in my arms. I thank God for letting me live until this moment.”

Philip was moved; he went to her and laid an arm about her shoulder. “I share your joy, Mary,” he said.

“Nay, Philip. You have not lived as I have. But everything I have ever suffered is of no account now. ‘My soul doth magnify the Lord and my spirit doth rejoice in God my Savior, for He that is mighty hath magnified me…’ Magnified me, Philip; and made me the happiest Queen…the happiest woman who ever lived.”

He watched her. Surely he was almost as happy. I have done my duty, he told himself. Now I shall be free. I may escape. I may leave her and return to all I love.

The news quickly spread, and in the streets the people talked of the Queen’s condition. The bells rang out. In a few months’ time it was expected that the heir of Spain and England would be born.

It was now not so difficult to make a show of gaiety. He would say to Mary at night: “My dearest wife, you must rest. Remember the child you carry.”

She would smile, for her thoughts of the child absorbed her; she would collect her women about her and they would discuss children for hours; and all the time she would sit among them, that rapt expression on her face, while now and then she would smooth the folds of her dress over her swelling figure.

As for Philip, he could not understand himself. Perhaps a man had to rebel. What happened when a man deliberately assumed a character he did not possess? Did he become something of the character he aped? Was he become cruder, more lusty?

He had watched Magdalen Dacre for some weeks, and each time he saw her she seemed to be more beautiful. She reminded him a little of Isabel, a little of Catherine.

During the dance he would seek to partner her; she would accept the honor graciously. Why did she appeal to him? Because she was tall and well formed, and Mary was small and thin? Because she was vital and young, and Mary was old and tired?

There were times when he was conscious of a strong desire for Magdalen Dacre; yet frequently other matters obsessed him. There was a Princess whom he had not yet seen because she was exiled from the court and living in seclusion at Woodstock.

He had heard a good deal of this Princess, for many scandals were attached to her name. Many said she had born the Admiral Thomas Seymour a child; and he knew that she had come near to losing her head at the time of Seymour’s execution because she was suspected of complicity in his schemes. That was not the only time she had been in trouble. Whenever there was a rising, Elizabeth was suspect.

She was a gay jilt, he had heard; she was coquettish, wanton, but so like her father and so full of vitality, so very much one of these barbarians, that the people loved her and shouted for her every time she was seen. That was one of the reasons why Mary liked to keep her hidden away either at Hatfield or Woodstock.

Moreover, said some who were less kind, Mary was jealous. Here was a young girl of twenty-two, with startlingly red hair and bright blue eyes—not exactly a beauty, but fair enough, and with youth on her side.

Philip was eager to meet this Princess.

He broached the subject while Mary was pretending to take an interest in the arrangements for the Christmas revels. She was, of course, not interested. Mary had no interest beyond the infant she hoped soon to bear.

“Your sister should be welcomed back to court,” he said.

Mary looked at him. Now he became aware of that obstinacy of his wife’s; he could see in her face the ugly temper which she had never before shown him, though he had heard of it.

“You do not know what she has done,” said Mary.

“Has aught been proved against her?”

“Plenty could have been proved.”

“But has not?”

Mary’s eyes, beneath the sandy brows which were so pale that they were scarcely visible, blazed suddenly. “Do you forget that it was due to her mother that my mother suffered as she did? When Elizabeth was born, my father declared me a bastard.”

“Her mother suffered in her turn,” said Philip. “Elizabeth was called bastard, and still is.”

Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes; they came easily during these days. “It is such a short time since Wyatt rebelled. Some of my ministers declared at that time that it was folly not to send Elizabeth to the block.”

“You should forgive her now and bring her to court.”

“Forgive her for trying to take the crown! Forgive her for winning over the people against me!”

“It is for the sake of the people that you should bring her to court. In governing a country, it is always unwise to ignore the people. They are not pleased that she should be banished from the court. Bring her here. Forgive her. Make friends with her, and you will please the people.”

“Forgive her! I cannot do that.”

“My cousin, Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy, will pay us a visit soon. He would be a good match for your sister.”

“You think he would consent to marry a bastard?”

Philip was silent. He would go to work slowly. He would not suggest to Mary just yet that she might as well make Elizabeth legitimate, because that was how the people regarded her, and if some still declared Elizabeth illegitimate, there were also those who had doubts of Mary’s legitimacy. Legitimacy was a ticklish subject where such a man as Henry VIII was concerned.

He said cautiously: “We could try to make the match, which would be advantageous from the points of view of both our countries, for, my dear wife, it would be a good thing for us if the Princess were out of the country.”

“Yet you ask me to have her at court for Christmas!”

“As a preliminary step toward getting her out of the country, my dear wife.”

When the Princess Elizabeth heard that she was summoned to court, she was torn between delight and apprehension. To one of her nature exile was purgatory; she loved gaiety and fine clothes; she hated obscurity and poverty. With her governess, Katharine Ashley, to whom she was alternately confiding friend and haughty mistress, she talked throughout the night after she had received the summons.

Katharine Ashley, who herself had spent many uneasy nights as a prisoner in the Tower, was terrified. She had been terrified of what would happen to her charge ever since she could remember. For haughty, wilful, arrogant as the Princess was, she was also warm-hearted, loyal, and brave—only Katharine knew how brave; and Katharine loved her better than anything in her life. It was Katharine’s dream—as it was Elizabeth’s—that one day the Princess would be Queen.

They had been breathless with eagerness when little Edward had died and they had seen first Jane Grey and then Mary take the crown.

“She is old, Kat,” Elizabeth often whispered in the quietness of her apartments at Hatfield or Woodstock. “She cannot live very long, for not only is she old, but she is sickly.”

“Hush!” Kat would mutter, her eyes gleaming with an excitement which never failed to urge Elizabeth to great indiscretion. “That’s treason!”

“Very well, Madam Ashley, report it.”

“What…report the future Queen of England!”

Then they would pretend to laugh together at their presumptuousness, knowing that neither of them thought the idea in the least presumptuous.

But Philip of Spain had married Mary and now Mary was to have a child; that child would stand between Elizabeth’s hopes of the crown forever. But Elizabeth was optimistic. She did not believe that Mary’s child would live even if Mary came safely through her pregnancy. And then?…Well, that was just what she and Kat liked to brood upon.

And now this summons to court had arrived.

“It is my brother-in-law who has asked to see me,” said Elizabeth. “You may depend upon that.”

“And why should he?”

There were several reasons, Elizabeth said. Would not a husband wish to meet his bride’s family? Might he not feel it was safer to have at court such an important personage as the Princess Elizabeth?

“You think the real reason is that he has seen your picture and fallen in love with you!” declared Kat.

“You have said it!” retorted Elizabeth. “Not I!”

They laughed frivolously together, as they did so often to enliven the monotony of their days of captivity.

They loved each other the more because they recognized each other’s weaknesses. Kat knew that her mistress was the vainest creature in England, that she really did believe that every man who smiled at her was in love with her; she was haughty; she could be mean; she could fly into sudden rages; but how Kat loved her! And Elizabeth loved Kat, for a host of reasons. She was her mother’s kinswoman for one; for another, she had taken the place of that mother whom Elizabeth had lost when she was three years old; and although at the time of Seymour’s execution it had been Kat and Elizabeth’s cofferer Parry who had been so indiscreet before the Council regarding Elizabeth’s and Seymour’s flirtatious conduct, Elizabeth knew that Kat had talked because she could not help talking—it did not mean that she loved her mistress any the less.

“In love with you?” cried Kat. “This gentleman from Spain? Why, he has all the beauties of the world at his disposal.”

“They say he is moderate and entertains only one at a time; and that one, for so long, has been my sister.”

“Now don’t you try your tricks with him, your little Majesty.”

Elizabeth laughed and then was serious as she tried to look into the future. She was frightened. How could she, who had known the loneliness of a prison in the Tower and the fear of what footsteps outside her cell might mean, receive with equanimity a summons to appear before that sister who she knew had little cause to love her? There was only one way to meet such an ordeal bravely; and that was not to think of an angry sister, but an amorous brother-in-law who, having seen her pictures, surely must find her more attractive than his wife.

“My darling,” said Kat, “have a care.”

“Silly Kat! What is there to fear? Go now and read what I wrote with my diamond on the window of this very room. Go, Kat, and read it aloud to me now.”

Kat made a mock curtsy and went to the window. She read slowly:

“Much suspected—of me,

Nothing proved can be,

Quoth Elizabeth, the prisoner.”

“’Tis true, Kat. ’Tis true now as it was when I wrote it.”

“Well, sweetheart, if you go tossing your head and frivoling with your sister’s husband as you once did with your stepmother’s, I shall be trembling in my shoes.”

“Nay,” said Elizabeth, smiling a little sadly, for memories of the gay and dashing Admiral Seymour always made her sad. Then she turned suddenly to Kat and cried: “I was a child then, Kat, and do you not remember him? There was none like him…nor will ever be. And they say this Philip is quiet and sober…everything that Tom Seymour was not.”

“None the less dangerous for all that.”

“Say you so? Well, Thomas nearly brought me to the executioner’s axe; and this Philip, for all he is a King, could not take me further than that, now could he, Kat? For, stupid one, I have only one neck, you know; and it has been in danger so many times that once more…well, what is that?”

Then she laughed and Kat laughed with her. In their hearts they both believed that she was clever enough to come through danger and that she would rise to that high eminence which must one day be hers.

The next day she set out from Woodstock. She was cheered as she passed along the way, for many had come out to see her; the more unpopular the Spanish marriage became, the more they looked to Elizabeth. There were many ugly whispers throughout the country as to what would follow this return to the Catholic fold.

“Long live the Princess Elizabeth!” cried the people, at which Elizabeth would become demure, curbing her smiles, remembering that if there was one thing which angered Mary more than another it was to hear how spontaneously the people had cheered her sister.

After several days’ journey, Elizabeth arrived at Hampton Court, where she was taken to the “Prince’s Lodgings”; but no sooner had she entered with a few of her trusted attendants than the doors were locked behind her, and she knew that she was again a prisoner.

Before she had been in her lodgings an hour, messengers came to tell her that Bishop Gardiner, with some members of the Cabinet, was on his way to see her.

Kat was trembling as she helped to adjust her mistress’s robes. “Gardiner…that man?” she cried. “If he could have his way…”

“Yes, Kat. If he could have had his way my head and body would have parted company.”

“How I hate him!” cried Kat.

“Such indiscretion!” mocked Elizabeth.

“I never forget the way in which he persecuted your father’s sixth wife.”

“But she outwitted him. Remember that also. My quiet stepmother outwitted the mighty Gardiner. Do you imagine that what Katharine Parr could do, the Princess Elizabeth could not? Then you are guilty of double treason!”

“Hush, hush, my darling. Now are you ready? I beg of you, I pray you, my precious love, be careful.”

They kissed fondly. “I give you my special permission, Kat, to listen at the keyhole. Though you do not need such permission. Get along with you at once.”

“God bless…your Majesty.”

“Hush! At such a time! You’ll make me give myself too many airs. I must be modest…at least outwardly.”

The Bishop was at the door, so Kat hurried away to take up her position at the keyhole and to experience great fear mingled with pride and love.

The Bishop came forward and Elizabeth gave him her hand to kiss. He bowed over it. Greatly, she thought, would I like to see your head on London Bridge, Sir Bishop; for if I could witness that cheering sight, mine would feel much happier where it rests still, in spite of your efforts to dislodge it.

She did not wait for him to speak. She said: “My Lord, how glad I am to see you! I have been kept a great while from you, desolately alone. I would entreat you to be a means to the King’s and Queen’s Majesties that I may be released from my imprisonment.”

Gardiner replied: “Your Grace speaks truth. Her Majesty has, alas!, found it often necessary to keep you under restraint. And if you would remedy this permission, my advice to you would be to confess your fault and put yourself at the Queen’s mercy.”

It would indeed, Sir Bishop! she thought. Confess my fault! Admit my treason so that she could with free conscience lop off my head? Naturally, that is your advice, my Lord, for are you not at the head of those whose greatest wish is to see me headless?

Her eyes were clear and innocent as she lifted them to the Bishop’s face. “Confess, my Lord? How could I, when I know not what my fault might be? Should I lie to the Queen? Should I invent a fault that she might forgive me for that which I have not committed? Rather than be so false I would lie in prison all my life. I have never offended against the Queen; therefore I can crave no mercy at her Majesty’s hands.”

The Bishop hid his exasperation. He said: “I marvel at your Grace’s boldness. Say you then that the Queen has wrongfully imprisoned you?”

“Nay, my Lord. How could that be? I am the Queen’s subject, and it is her privilege to punish me if she thinks fit so to do.”

“Her Majesty would have you know that you must tell another tale if you would be set at liberty.”

“Then, my Lord, if I must say what is not true, if I must plead for forgiveness when I have done naught to need it, I would rather lie in prison than say aught against my conscience.”

Gardiner changed his method. He insinuated that the Queen was not pleased with Elizabeth’s religious views. The Princess’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Had she not heard divine service after the manner of Rome? Had she not frequently been confessed?

“These things you have done, some say, for expediency only. I should like to hear from your own lips what is your opinion as to the real presence of Christ in the sacrament.”

Elizabeth was prepared for this. It was a question asked of all those who were suspected of being heretics. She spoke earnestly the lines which she herself had composed:

“Christ was the word that spake it,

He took the bread and brake it,

And what His word did make it,

That I believe, and take it.”

What could be done with such a woman? wondered Gardiner. He rejoiced that the Queen was with child, for he could imagine what would happen to such as himself if ever this wily termagant came to the throne. It seemed little use trying to entrap her; she would have one of her cunning answers ready for every emergency.

“I advise your Grace to ponder well your position,” he said severely; and then he left her.

Kat came in as soon as he had gone; she embraced the Princess, and Elizabeth tore herself away to give an impression of the dignified Bishop. Louder and louder grew their laughter, more boisterous their play-acting, until Kat cried: “Be silent. The danger is grave.”

She fancied she had caught an echo, in Elizabeth’s laughter, of that which beset people when they played with death. Thus her mother was said to have laughed in her gloomy lodging of the Tower.

Mary was nervous. As she paced the apartment, Philip walked beside her.

“You do not know what you ask,” said Mary. “She is deceitful. She works with my enemies. She seeks to depose me and take the throne.”

“How could she do that, my dear Mary, when you are the rightful Queen, and now are to have a child?”

The mention of the child never failed to soften her. “Ah, yes…But what if a rising against me were successful? I have to be doubly careful now…because of the child.”

“Forgive her and please the people. Be calm when she comes…and she will be here at any moment. I shall hide myself behind these curtains that I may observe her without her being aware of my presence. I will draw my conclusions of her character; and when we have married her to Philibert, she will give us no more anxiety.”

“Could you ask him to marry a bastard?”

“He is a vassal of my father’s, and doubtless it would not be difficult to persuade him.” He paused listening. “I hear them coming.”

There was a knock on the door, and Mary cried: “Enter.”

The door was opened, and a herald announced: “The Princess Elizabeth.”

Philip had hastily hidden himself behind the curtains. His heart had begun to beat faster. He had heard so many tales of his young sister-in-law. Was it, he wondered, that nowadays every woman except his wife must excite him?

Mary was sitting in her state chair when Mistress Clarencius and Sir Henry Bedingfield brought in the Princess. Mary dismissed Mistress Clarencius and Bedingfeld as Elizabeth fell to her knees.

Through a small gap in the hangings, Philip watched the girl. He saw an elegant young woman with reddish hair and blue eyes; she was rather pale, no doubt because she had suffered many an illness in recent years, generally supposed to be due to her imprisonment and her perpetual fear of death. She lived midway between the executioner’s axe and the throne, and would never be sure which way her steps must take her.

He noticed how cleverly she had dressed herself to enhance what beauty she had; he saw the rings which glittered on her beautiful white hands, and he was aware of how she deliberately displayed them even at a time such as this.

She said: “Your Majesty sent for me?”

“How else could you be here?” asked Mary coldly.

The long, sandy lashes were immediately lowered over the blue eyes. Philip sensed how vital she was. She looked demure, but she did not deceive him for a moment. She was all fire; within her ambition mingled with her womanliness. She might wish, as he had heard, to be a much-desired woman; but her burning desire was to be a Queen.

He must watch her very carefully. She must indeed be made to marry his cousin of Savoy and banished from her country, for one thing was certain: where she was, there trouble would be also.

Elizabeth kissed the Queen’s hand, but Mary withdrew it immediately.

Elizabeth cried with passion: “Your Majesty must believe in my loyalty. Much slander has been spoken against me.”

“Why is it that you always attract such slander?”

“Because it is the desire of mean-spirited people to misrepresent me, to undermine your Majesty’s faith in me. I have never sought to rival your Majesty.”

“What of your relationship with Courtenay?”

Elizabeth fluttered her eyelashes and allowed herself to look even more demure. “That, your Majesty, was no fault of mine.”

She implied, as she said this, that she could not help it if men such as Courtenay found her so attractive that they risked their heads for her sake, even though she knew them to be acting foolishly and had no wish to accept what they offered her.

Elizabeth’s vanity always annoyed Mary; yet, knowing this, and being wise and quick-witted in all other matters, Elizabeth could not eschew it, such was the pleasure of flaunting herself as the irresistible woman.

“I think otherwise,” said the Queen. “I doubt your innocence. There are too many stories.”

“Your Majesty, it is true that men when racked have spoken against me, but can confession made under torture be relied upon?”

Mary said: “Do you swear that you have never been involved in any rebellion against me?”

“I swear it, your Majesty.”

“Would I could believe it!”

“Your Majesty must believe what is true.”

“If you would confess your offense, sister…”

“Your Majesty, gladly would I do so if I had aught to confess.”

“You stand stoutly in your truth, then?”

“I do, your Majesty.”

“I pray God that it will so fall out that you speak the truth, for if you do not and we discover it, then your punishment would be the greater for your deceit.”

“If your Majesty discovered aught against me to be true, then should I deserve all that befell me, and I should never sue your queenly mercy.”

“That we shall see,” said Mary. “Now I am tired. You may go back to your apartment. I have decided to forgive you this time, and unless I find aught against you, you may join our Christmas revels.”

The Princess took the Queen’s hand and insisted on kissing it. “Beloved sister,” she said, “never shall I forget your clemency.”

What was going on behind those blue eyes, Philip wondered. Was she already deciding what dresses, what jewels, she would wear to charm the courtiers? Was she praying that the child in Mary’s womb might sicken and die before it saw the light of day? Was she waiting for the moment when none stood between her and the crown? It might be any of these things; and Philip realized that it could be all of them.

When she had gone he stepped from behind the curtains.

“What did you think of my sister?” asked Mary.

“Comely enough. Shrewd too, I should say.”

Mary looked at him, noting the flush on his pale cheeks. Had he been slightly attracted by Elizabeth? Elizabeth herself so believed that every man must fall in love with her, that others found themselves believing it also. But Philip was no philanderer.

His next words disarmed her suspicions. “It would be well to marry her to Philibert. She is ripe for marriage.”

But on looking at him more closely, Mary began again to wonder.

That was a merry Christmas. What tournaments, what jousts there were, with all the nobility of Spain to tilt against the lords and dukes of England!

There were the usual rivalries; there was sly English laughter at Spanish dignity, Spanish disdain of English crudity.

Philip was happy thinking: Before the summer is here, I shall have left England. Once the child is born, I shall be away—and if he is healthy, my duty is done.

He was watching Magdalen Dacre, that strange girl who seemed remote yet conscious of the honor he conferred on her when he singled her out. It was not always true that English and Spaniards did not get on well together. There were the Count of Feria and Jane Dormer to prove that. Feria had told Philip that he had fallen in love with the English girl and wished to break off the engagement he had made with a Spanish lady of noble birth. What could Philip say to that but wish him luck? If Feria could satisfy the family of his first love, there was no reason why he should not marry Jane Dormer. What a useful spy that lady should make for Spain!

The red-headed Princess, who, delighted to be back at court, was throwing herself wholeheartedly into the revels, gave him cause for anxiety. He suspected her of…he knew not what. Every action which seemed so spontaneous could have its motive. Courtiers said: “How gay it seems now that Elizabeth is back at court!” and he knew they meant to convey: What gaiety there could be, what merrymaking, if she were Queen! That was what she intended; while she was demure she was bold; she seemed full of humility, but what arrogance shone from those blue eyes!

He could not forget her; she turned his thoughts from Magdalen Dacre. When they had met she had made a charming speech of welcome as his sister-in-law. Yet what had she really thought of him? He could not understand her; she was all that he was not, and he felt that that gave her an advantage; he could not look at her without being reminded of the immensity of her importance. He was determined to get her married to Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.

Philibert sat beside him now. What more handsome man could she hope to marry? He was the hero of many a battle. Alas! he had little fortune to offer; but what had Elizabeth apart from her questionable birth and her high hopes?

He watched her in the dance, flushed, excited, lifting her eyes to her partners—flirtatious and yet so regal. He whispered to Mary: “I would speak with the Princess. Summon her here. Philibert must have his answer.”

Mary was nothing loth. She would like to see Elizabeth banished from the country, but there was one thing she would not do, even for Philip, and that was acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. To do so would cast a slur on her own birth, for how could Elizabeth’s mother, Anne Boleyn, have been the true wife of Henry VIII, while he had another wife living, and that wife Mary’s own mother, Katharine of Aragon? No; at all costs she must stand out against Elizabeth’s legitimacy.

Elizabeth came and took the seat indicated by Philip. She glanced at him in a manner which made him uncomfortable. Was she suggesting that he found her so fascinating that he must have her beside him?

He said coldly: “I trust your Grace has considered the proposals of Emmanuel Philibert?”

Her eyes clouded. “Alas! Sire, it is so difficult for a young girl to know her mind.”

“Oh, come. You have had plenty of time.”

“But marriage is such an important matter, your Highness.”

“His Grace of Savoy has paid a visit to England for the express purpose of wooing you.”

“And of beseeching your Majesty to restore to him his estates,” she said quickly.

She knew too much. How did she learn these things? At one moment she was a frivolous girl; at the next a statesman.

“He has forgotten the latter in his desire to achieve the former,” said Philip.

“Does your Majesty think so, then?” She laughed—the frivolous girl again. “Would it be improper of me to ask how your Highness could have imagined it could be so?”

“You are so young and…fair.” He was playing the game she wished him to play. She threw him a glance from under those fluttering sandy lashes.

“Your Highness honors me. I shall always remember that the King said I was young and fair.”

He felt vexed. He said coldly: “It would please us if you gave him your answer before he leaves.”

She pouted slightly. “And I thought your Majesty liked to see me at court!”

“I do indeed…”

“Then I am twice honored. I am a fair young lady whom your Highness likes to see at his court.”

“I would like to see you married.”

Her eyes were reproachful. Then she smiled brightly. It was as though she were telling him she understood his meaning; he wished her to marry because her presence at court disturbed such a respectable married man as himself. What a pity, her eyes went on to suggest, that the younger prettier sister had not been the Queen whom it was expedient for him to marry. Then there would have been a different tale to tell!

How could she say so much with her eyes? The answer was: Because besides being the vainest woman in the world she was one of the cleverest. She angered, exasperated, and attracted him.

“The match is a good one,” he said swiftly.

“An excellent one for a bastard Princess,” she said, and her looks belied her humble words. “Ah, your Majesty,” she went on, “you know what it means to leave your native land. I think if I left mine I should die.”

“I should have thought you would have been glad to leave these rains…these fogs…”

“Your Majesty has not been here when the first primroses are seen in the hedgerows and the blossom bursts on the trees.”

“Well,” he answered, “I doubt not that Savoy could offer you primroses and blossoms.”

“Not English primroses,” she said passionately. “Not English blossoms.”

Now she was speaking loudly that those about them could hear her. She is one of us, they would say. She loves us and our land; and she is the one for us!

Philip looked at her sternly and wondered whether she should be forced to the match. He sensed that she was the most dangerous person in the country. Now she was trying to lure him to what?…To flirtation! To some indiscretion?

As he would have turned again she laid her hand on his arm with a gesture of charming timidity.

“It is so comforting to a young lady to know,” she said with the utmost simplicity, “that the King has her welfare at heart.”

He could not stay with Mary that night. He was disturbed. He showed the utmost solicitude toward his wife. “These festivities have been too much for you. You must sleep now. Remember the child.”

She was not sorry to be cosseted, to be left alone with her dream of the child.

As he made his way to his apartments, he felt dissatisfied. What did he want? To play that old game of kings? To disguise himself, to stroll out into the streets and join merry bands, to find strange women and make love to them; in any case he wished to escape from the restraint he had put upon himself.

Passing along a corridor, he saw, from where he was, a lighted window. He looked at it idly, and as he did so he saw a woman on the other side of it. She had taken off her coif and was shaking out her beautiful long hair. He recognized her as the beautiful Magdalen Dacre. It was not often that he acted on impulse, but this was one of the occasions when he did.

His heart beating fast, his need for excitement urging him on, he went to the door of Magdalen’s room and silently opened it.

Magdalen had taken off her gown. She stood in her petticoats, her long hair, cloak-like, covering her bare shoulders. She paled when she saw him, and strode to the door where he stood hesitating. She did not speak, but as she laid her hand on the door, he saw the vivid flush in her face. Her excitement was as great as his.

She tried to close the door, but his foot was inside.

“Magdalen…” he began; and he put out a hand to touch her.

But he did not touch her. To his profound astonishment, before he could do so, Magdalen lifted her hand and administered a stinging blow on his cheek. He could only drop his hands and stare. There was no time to do more. This English amazon had, with a second gesture, pushed him backward and shut the door in his face.

As he stood there, bewildered and horrified, he heard her turn the key in the lock.

The new year had come.

Emmanuel Philibert had left England, and Elizabeth had gone back to Woodstock, not exactly a prisoner, but under some restraint. She had declared in the presence of several people that her heart would be broken if she were forced to leave England. Philip realized that between them the royal sisters had defeated him. Both were obstinate: Elizabeth in her determination to remain in England, Mary in hers to insist on Elizabeth’s illegitimacy.

Their behavior was typical of them. Elizabeth, fervently believing in her destiny, though her sister was securely on the throne and about to have a child, was refusing to leave England because she felt that when her great opportunity came she must be in the right spot to exploit it. Yet Mary, secure, with the child in her womb and the might of the Anglo-Spanish alliance behind her, was so afraid of that young girl that she denied her the benefit of legitimacy.

Certainly these had been uneasy weeks for Philip. He could not forget his humiliating encounter with Magdalen Dacre. He did not blame her; he blamed himself. When they met about the court there was no change in her manner to him, nor in his to her; he was as gracious as he had ever been, she as humble and courteous. Neither gave a sign of having remembered the incident. He did not believe she would be so foolish as to report the matter to Mary. Magdalen was clever enough to know that, however angry Mary might be with Philip, she would be doubly so with Magdalen.

Magdalen herself had spent a sleepless night after the incident. She believed that Philip would not allow her behavior to go unpunished. She saw herself disgraced and exiled on some trumped-up charge. She had heard of Spanish vengeance, and she had seen how some of the hidalgos were ready to fight to the death in order to avenge an imaginary insult.

Daily she waited for the storm, but nothing happened. Once she fancied she saw a mute apology in his eyes. Could he really be so reasonable, so just? If so, she must admire his character, for it was not in the nature of powerful kings to see their own faults.

Magdalen eventually became grateful and sought to defend Philip when he was maligned. She mentioned the incident to one of her friends, in strictest confidence, to whom she pointed out that while he might be human in his desires, he was at least man enough to know himself in the wrong and not to seek to avenge a loss of dignity. That, said Magdalen, was admirable, in a King…and a Spaniard.

But how could such a secret be kept? Others must savor it. They must laugh in secret because Philip of Spain had had his face slapped by an English maid of honor.

As the weeks passed the fires of Smithfield had begun to blaze. Gardiner and Bonner had put their heads together; this should have started long ago, they declared. Now that England had returned to the Catholic fold, heretics should learn the folly of their ways, and those who wavered toward heresy should watch the writhing bodies in Smithfield Square and turn from their wickedness.

The people of London looked on sullenly. It seemed to them that a pall of smoke continually hung over the square. They could not get the smell of burning flesh out of their nostrils.

It was the Spanish marriage, the citizens declared. “All was well in this land until we had foreigners among us…”

Spaniards were set upon in the streets from time to time, and soon none of them dared venture out after dark. In the taverns threats were whispered, and the question asked: “Why has this happened to us?” The answer was: “Because of the Spaniards.”

The Smithfield ceremonies were no autos-da-fé. There was not, said the Spaniards, the same reverence in England as in Spain. The English liked a merry spectacle, eating till they could eat no more, drinking until they were boisterous…mumming, dancing. They could find little satisfaction in a religious ceremony that was a solemn dedication. Some came to watch the burnings, but they were a sullen crowd. There was none of the ecstasy which was such an essential part of an auto-da-fé in Spain.

No; the people were sullen, and when these people were angry they showed their anger in ridicule. So now they jeered; and this time they did not spare Philip. The story of Magdalen Dacre and the Prince of Spain had spread to the streets, but it had changed considerably in transit. It was not only a lady-in-waiting whom he pursued; it was every woman he set eyes on. And since the ladies of the English court would have none of him he began to look elsewhere; he prowled the streets at night, said the people, seizing any young girl who happened to be abroad.

In the taverns they sang of Philip’s amours.

“The baker’s daughter in her russet gown

Is better than Mary, without her crown.”

Philip was alarmed by the ferocity with which Gardiner was conducting the burning of the heretics. He approached Mary on the matter.

Mary, thinking perpetually of the child, was lethargic; she was worried because she did not increase her girth sufficiently to please herself; nothing interested her so much as the stories other women had to tell her of their experiences of pregnancy. Sometimes she would cling to Philip with fear in her eyes. She was terrified that the child might not be living within her. He would soothe her, believing that she was pleading for a renewal of that relationship which was so repugnant to him.

He now felt it necessary to speak to her about the fires of Smithfield.

“Gardiner has no restraint,” he said. “No sooner is England returned to Rome, than he begins the burnings.”

“Is this not as it should be?”

“Yes, yes; but it is always necessary to consider the people.”

“Is that not what we are doing?” Mary was fond of Gardiner. If he was the cruellest and most vindictive of men where heretics were concerned, he was a great statesman and a loyal supporter of the Catholic Queen.

“No!” said Philip. “The people are unready as yet.”

“But what are these ceremonies compared with the great work the Inquisition is doing in Spain?” demanded Mary.

“The Spanish people support the Inquisition.”

“And do my people then support the heretics?”

He was irritated when she said my people in that way, and he retorted: “No. I agree our people do not.”

She gave him her tremulous smile then. “Oh, Philip, our people, of course. That is how I would have it. You and I…together always…” She held out her hand, but he pretended not to see it.

This was so difficult to endure, this wavering between the arrogant Queen who was Queen in her own right, reminding him that the English people would allow him to be nothing more than Consort, and the hysterical woman come late to passion and therefore determined to drain the loving cup to the dregs.

“But the people are not ready,” he said firmly. “Later we will install the Inquisition here. We will have an auto-da-fé in Smithfield Square. But that time is not yet. Your people are irreligious by nature. They prefer laughter to prayers, to forget the sins of their neighbors if they may laugh with them. But we will remedy that in time. Now they are sullen. They like not the fires. They blame my countrymen. They blame me. Their insults are more mephitic than ever.”

“We’ll stop it!” cried Mary shrilly. “Any who insults your countrymen shall himself be burned at the stake.”

“Nay; that is not the way to deal with subjects. I have tried to speak to Gardiner on this matter, but it seems he fancies himself the ruler of this realm. He is thirsty for blood. He has longed for this day and is like an excited child!”

“He is a true servant of God!” said Mary vehemently.

“Yes; but do not upset yourself, my dear. I shall command my friar, Alphonso di Castro, to preach a sermon urging leniency toward heretics, suggesting that they should be given time in which to repent.”

“I see you are angry with me,” said Mary. “You are cold. When I give you my hand, you look the other way.”

“I am deeply concerned for you. You must remember the precious burden you carry. You must be calm…live quietly.”

“What would you have me do, Philip, my love? There is nothing I would not do for you. Command me, I beg of you. Shall I send for Gardiner?”

“There is no need. I would have you rest. It is better that the sermon should be preached by my friar. The people will then see that I am not the monster they believe me to be, for they will know that a servant of mine would not dare preach such a sermon without my consent.”

“The people do not know you, Philip,” she said passionately. “They say ugly things of you which are…untrue…so untrue.”

He looked at her anxiously. How many rumors had she heard? He had endured her cloying devotion; must he yet suffer from her bitter jealousy?

In the Palace at Valladolid Juana told Carlos of the news from England.

“You are to have a brother, Carlos. He will be half English.”

Carlos did not care whether or not he had a brother; he was angry with the English because they had not killed his father, as people had believed they might.

“He will come home,” said Juana. “As soon as the baby is born he will come back to Spain.”

“That will be a long time yet,” said Carlos.

He enjoyed those days. He was a little less wild, although he gave way to bouts of frenzy when any suggested he should learn his lessons. Always he would fly to Juana for protection, calling on her to save him from the monsters.

He continued to call himself Little One; nor would he allow even Juana to try weaning him from the habit.

His tutor, Luis de Vives, felt that, as it was almost impossible to teach Carlos anything, there was no point in forcing matters. To force the boy meant kicking, unpleasant scenes, and injuries to his health, which in their turn meant no lessons. There was hardly anyone who could be persuaded to whip the boy, for none could forget that he was destined to be the King of Spain, and they were sure Carlos was one to remember past injuries.

Only his father and grandfather would dare punish him, and they were both absent.

Often Carlos talked to Juana of her namesake; he remembered vividly that night when he had crept into Mad Juana’s room and talked to her. He told his aunt that she had said that he and she were the only sane ones in a mad world. “But she did not know you, dear Aunt. You are sane too,” he told Juana.

One day during that spring there came news from the Alcázar at Tordesillas. A messenger arrived at the Palace of Valladolid and asked audience of the Queen Regent.

Juana put on her cloak and hood to receive him, fastening the hood about her head so that she was just able to peep out of it. It had been a habit of hers to hide her face as much as possible since she had become a widow. It was remembered that that other Juana had adopted the habit after the death of Philip the Handsome when she had kept with her the coffin containing his body.

“Bad news, Highness,” said the messenger. “Queen Juana is ill and we fear for her life. Her illness started three weeks ago. She demanded to take a hot bath. She was wandering in her mind and she said that the King, her husband, would visit her that night and, as it was years since she had taken a bath, he would find her dirty. The water was brought, and she would have it almost boiling, your Highness.”

“And this bath…it was too much for her?”

“Her legs have been swollen to more than twice their usual size, your Highness. The water was so hot that the skin burst and it has not yet healed. The Queen was carried to a bed, and there she has been since. She will allow no one to touch her. She lies…without attention…and it has been thus for three weeks.”

“Have you not had doctors brought to her?”

“She will have no one, your Highness. She screams if any approach. Her legs, your Highness, are in such a state of corruption that she screams in agony the whole day and night.”

“Something must be done,” said Juana. “I will visit her myself and take my brother’s physicians with me.”

So Juana set out immediately for Tordesillas, taking with her Philip’s physicians, but when they arrived at the Alcázar the old Queen refused to see anyone but Juana.

Young Juana caught her breath in disgust at the condition of the bedchamber. The legs were exposed in all their horror, for the old Queen screamed in agony when they were touched by even the lightest covering.

The Queen called out: “Who are you then…come to torment me? You are Mosen Ferrer, are you…you torturer? See what you have done to me with your tortures!”

Juana fell to her knees and put her hands over her face to shut out the hideous sight. She began to sob hysterically.

“What ails you?” asked the Queen.

“It grieves me to see you thus…and you…a Queen.”

“To see me thus…old, crippled, covered in sores…dying…ah, dying! But why be surprised? This is a fitting end for me.”

“Oh, Grandmother, no…no! The doctors can help you.”

“No one can, but I do not care. Soon I shall be past my pains. I shall be with him.”

“Grandmother, your soul is in God’s keeping?”

“I shall be with my Philip. What happens up there, eh? What happens in Heaven? Shall I find him there with his women about him?”

“Grandmother, hush…hush. I must call Father Borgia. You will see the doctors? You must see them.”

“Father Borgia! He is Mosen Ferrer in disguise, I believe.”

“No…no.”

“He poisoned Philip. Comes he now to poison me? Then let him. For soon I shall be with my Philip. Oh, to be with him again! We shall fight…It matters not. Better to fight with him than to live, weary and lonely, without him.”

“Here is Father Borgia, Grandmother. I sent for him. I implore you, listen to him before it is too late.”

“I’ll not see him.”

“You must, Grandmother. I beg of you, do not depart this life with all your sins upon you.”

She began to whimper: “I am tired. Let me go in peace.”

Young Juana beckoned to Father Borgia, who had come close to the bed. “Pray for her,” she whispered.

So he prayed. “Repent,” he urged. “Ask for forgiveness of your sins.”

She nodded—whether or not in answer to him, none of those who had come to the apartment could be sure.

A messenger came to say that learned priests, having heard of the Queen’s condition, had come from Salamanca to do for her what must surely need to be done.

They crowded about the bed, and one held a crucifix before the dying Queen.

“Your soul is in jeopardy,” he cried. “Speak and ask forgiveness. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’”

She lifted her eyes to his and the death rattle was in her throat. She murmured: “I feel no pain now.”

“Beg for mercy. Say after me, ‘Christ crucified, aid me.’”

Her lips moved. “Christ…crucified…aid me.”

The priest held the crucifix close to her face. Her breathing was very faint and suddenly she smiled.

Juana, watching her, saw her lips form the name: “Philip!” as she slipped away from the world.

It was April. A fitting time for the heir of England to be born. All the trees were in bud; the birds seemed riotously gay as though to welcome the baby Prince. Even the Spaniards seemed reconciled to England in the spring, perhaps because they knew they would soon be leaving it.

In Hampton Court there was a bustling and a hurrying to and fro and many an excited whisper. Any moment now, it was said; and all England and Spain were on tiptoe for the news. The French were hoping for a hitch, for the birth of a Prince would be the death-knell to the hopes of Henri II of securing England’s crown for his son through Mary Queen of Scots.

A peal of bells was rung at St. Stephen’s in Walbrook, and in less than ten minutes bells were ringing all over the city of London. This was taken as the signal.

“The child is born!” cried the populace.

“And is it a boy?”

“Of course it’s a boy!”

Nothing less than a boy would please the people. The bonfires were lighted. There was singing and cheering in the streets.

And on her bed at Hampton Court the Queen was tossing and turning.

Here was all the ceremony that must attend a royal birth. There must be no doubt that the infant was the one born of Mary; therefore there must be important witnesses at hand.

Some of the experienced midwives were looking furtively at one another. They dared not speak their thoughts for fear of being charged with treason.

The Queen screamed aloud in agony and the women closed about her.

One of the women, more bold than the rest, said: “The Queen’s time has not yet come.”

The other midwives nodded in agreement. Mistress Clarencius, her eyes filled with anxiety, whispered to the Queen: “Your Majesty, will you try to rest? The time is not yet here. You should try to rest, they say.”

“Not yet come!” screamed the Queen. “But I swear my time has come. I feel it. I know it. What mean they?”

“They are craving your Majesty to be patient.”

“The child…the child is safe…?”

“Safe, your Majesty,” said Mistress Clarencius, “but not yet ready.”

“Ah! I have come to my bed too soon.”

“Your Majesty should rest. Here is a soothing draught.”

She sipped it and lay back on her pillows. She looked very old without her jeweled coif; her light sandy hair was disordered on the pillows, her sallow face piteously lined. The women looked at her with a terrible fear in their hearts, but they saw that all the Queen’s hopes were with her still.

“I hear bells…shouts…” said Mary.

“It is the people, your Majesty. They rejoice in the blessing which is about to be yours.”

A tired smile was on her lips. “My husband…” she began.

Philip came forward. He could be relied upon to do what was expected of him. He looked at Mary and tried to hide the repulsion she aroused in him. He was not unaware of the tension in the apartment, and he knew that all was not well with the Queen.

Unless this child was born, the discomfort and the humiliation of the last months would have been in vain. If the child died and Mary died, he would have no hold on England. The red-headed Elizabeth would mount the throne; and he doubted that not very soon after such an event she would be snapping her fingers at the Pope himself. And something was wrong…very wrong.

He took Mary’s clammy hand and kissed it.

“It is so long,” she said piteously.

“You were too anxious, my love. There has been a slight miscalculation. You have been brought to bed too soon.”

She nodded. “It seems as though it will never be.”

The draught they had given her was beginning to have its effect. He said: “Sleep, my love. That is what you need. And when you wake…who knows, your time may have come.”

She would not release his hand. Those cold fingers twined about his, pressing, squeezing, like snakes, he thought. As soon as he was sure she was asleep, he gently withdrew his hand.

“What is it?” he asked the midwives.

They lowered their eyes.

“Let us leave the apartment,” he said. “The doctors also. If aught is as it should not be, I would know of it.”

In the antechamber to which he had led them, one of the doctors said: “Your Majesty, I never saw such a strange pregnancy. There seems to be no child…no movement.”

“You think the child is dead?” His voice was cold and precise.

“It is not that, Sire. It is as though there is no child.”

He looked at the doctors. “Well, you are learned men!”

“It is true, your Majesty, that there is all the outward appearance of pregnancy, but…a softness, you understand? It would seem that there is…no child.”

“But how could this be?”

“Sire, there have been similar cases. There have been ladies of the Queen’s age whose desire for children was intense. There followed all the outward signs of pregnancies…but mock pregnancies, your Majesty. The would-be mothers were completely deceived.”

“But this is…impossible!”

“We crave your Majesty’s pardon, but it has happened thus in other cases. Ladies long for children, their longings become hysterical, and they may not be in the best of health. We fear that the Queen’s age may not allow her to bear children, and that in the greatness of her desire she has created a mock pregnancy.”

“I cannot believe this. It is fantastic.”

One of the women curtsied low. “Your Majesty, the Queen expected to be brought to bed last month. She was waiting for her pains. Many times she thought they had started, but they had not. And so it was on this occasion. She waits for her pains in vain.”

Philip said: “Leave me now. Not a word of this to the Queen. It would kill her. We must wait and hope. There must be a child.”

There must be a child. The bells were ringing throughout London. Soon the news of the supposed birth would be all over the country.

And if there is no child, pondered Philip, what hopes are there for Spain? How Henry of France would be laughing up his sleeve! The whole of France and England would be laughing at poor, plain Mary and solemn Philip, who could not get a child.

There must be a child. News of it had been sent to the Emperor, who had written back gleefully to Philip to say that he had heard that the Queen was “hopeful and that her garments waxed very strait.”

Could the hopes of the last months have grown from nothing more secure than a hysterical woman’s delusions?

All through the palace the rumors were circulating. Philip was filled with pity for Mary, that sad, frustrated woman who had already suffered more in one lifetime than anyone should. What would her reactions be if she knew the truth? He must order the cessation of the bell-ringing. Yet how could he tell the people that there was to be no child because it had never existed outside the Queen’s imagination?

Mary was wild-eyed. They had tried to break the news to her. She screamed: “It’s a lie. It’s a conspiracy. My sister has set these rumors abroad. Look at me. Am I not large enough?”

Her women were weeping about her; but she paced up and down her apartment, her hair wild, her eyes blazing. Let others doubt the existence of the child; she would not.

“Send the doctors to me. Send to me the men who have set these rumors working. I’ll have them racked. I’ll get the truth of this matter.”

Philip alone could soothe her. “Wait,” he begged. “I doubt not that shortly you will prove these rumors false.”

She took his hands; she covered them with burning kisses. “My love, you are with me. Oh, Philip, how happy you make me! How we shall laugh at these people when I hold my son in my arms!”

“You shall,” he said. “But calm yourself now. Rest. You must be strong for the ordeal when it comes.”

“How you comfort me! You are always right, and I thank God for bringing you to me.”

He felt the smile freeze on his face at these protestations of affection. Did she notice that? She was watching him suspiciously. “What do you do while I am resting?” she asked. “What do you do at night?” Her voice grew shrill. “Is it true what they say of you? That you are with…women?”

“No, no,” he soothed. “You are distraught.”

“They plot against me,” she cried. “They tell me that I am to have no child. I feel it within me. I know my child is here. And you? How can you love me? Do I not know that I am old and tired and worn out with my miseries? You wish me dead that you may marry Elizabeth, because she is young and healthy and more pleasant to look at than I.”

He shrank from her. He could not bear these noisy scenes; her jealousy shocked and humiliated his reserved nature almost more than did her cloying affection.

“You are not yourself,” he said gently. “I beg of you, for the child’s sake, and the sake of our marriage, be calm. Lie down, Mary. Rest, I say. Rest is what you need.”

“And you?”

He was resigned. “I will sit beside your bed.”

“You will stay with me?” she asked piteously. “I will stay as long as you wish me to.”

“Oh, Philip…Philip!” She flung herself at him, clinging to him, pressing her face against his. He steeled himself to return her caresses. Then he spoke firmly: “Come. You shall rest. This is so bad for you, and the child.”

Then he made her lie down, and tenderly he covered her; and he sat by the bed, her hand in his.

“There is comfort in this,” she said; “my child within me and you beside me—the two I love. I cannot help the fierceness of my love; I went so long without love.”

He sat silently beside her bed, wondering what would happen when she was forced to accept the truth that there would be no child.

Another month had passed. Mary went about with the light of determination in her eyes. She would see none of her ministers. She declared that the child would be born at any minute.

One day a woman came to the palace and asked to see the Queen. She said her mission was concerned with the Queen’s condition, so that none would turn her away, and eventually she reached Mary’s presence.

“Your Majesty,” she said, “I was forty when my first child was born.”

Then the Queen made her sit in a chair of honor while she told her story.

“Doctors are not always right in their reckoning. My child was three months overdue, your Majesty, and everyone declared it was a mistake. I was forty at the time, and a fine, healthy boy is my son today!”

Mary was delighted. She gave the woman a jewel and thanked her for her visit.

In the streets the townsfolk made sly jokes. “Now we know these Spaniards! They beget children who are too shy to put in an appearance!” The jokes became more and more ribald. And more and more women came to call on the Queen. Toothless old women presented themselves with their granddaughters’ latest. “See!” they wheezed. “Old women can have children!” It was well worth a journey to see the Queen and pocket the royal reward.

Every day the midwives and doctors waited on Mary. Continually she was declaring that her pains had started.

But May was almost out and the child was as elusive as ever.

The Emperor wrote impatiently to Philip, demanding to know the truth of this strange story. He feared that Mary was too old to bear children. “Ingratiate yourself with Madam Elizabeth,” he wrote. “I know she is suspected of heresy and that if she takes the throne all our work of bringing England back to Rome may be undone. But remember! Better a heretic England which is a friend to Spain than a Catholic England dominated by France. We must at all costs have the English with us, but I doubt you can do much good by staying in England now. Proclaim yourself Elizabeth’s friend and come to me in Brussels. I grow so feeble I can no longer rule. I wish you to take over my crown; and you must do that here in Brussels that all my vassals may, in my presence, swear fealty to you.”

To leave England! There was nothing Philip wished to do more. But how broach the matter to the love-sick woman who insisted on imagining that she carried a child in her womb in spite of all evidence to the contrary?

The Queen shut herself in her chamber and would see no one. She did not weep. She stared before her in such utter misery as she had never before known in the whole of her life.

She thought of her mother, longing, always longing for the son who would have made her life such a different one. She remembered Anne Boleyn could not bear a son. It seemed as though the very walls of this great palace echoed with the cries of defeated motherhood. “A son…a son!” wailed the wind driving through the trees in the gardens.

She was barren. Her swelling was due to some ailment, they told her now. The new physician had given her potions and had considerably reduced it.

She had said to Philip: “Perhaps there is yet time for us to have a son.”

How could she be blind to the look of horror which had passed over his face? Even his accustomed control could not hide it. What did it mean? That he believed her to be too old to bear children? That he found her repulsive? He was evasive, as he ever was. He spoke with quiet, yet firm tenderness: “In view of the ordeal through which you have passed, it would be advisable for you to have a long rest…”

Rest! All he could say was: “Rest!”

She must still delude herself, for a woman could not face, all at once, too much that was so tragic.

Mistress Clarencius, that privileged person, came to her. She shook her head sadly, for when they were alone there was little ceremony between them.

“Your Majesty gives way too quickly. Your hopes have been disappointed, but you are still a bride.”

Mary put her arms about her old nurse and wept quietly.

“It was a bitter disappointment,” soothed Mistress Clarencius. “But there will be another time, dearest lady.”

“My dear, dear Clarencius, will there be? Can there be?”

“Of course there can be. And the King is coming to see you. You must look beautiful, because that is how he will want you to look, is it not, dearest Majesty?”

It was good to be petted, to let oneself believe that one could be made beautiful, to sit while one’s hair was dressed and a glittering coif set upon it, to have one’s black velvet gown with its dazzling ornaments arranged to perfection, and to await the coming of Philip.

He came unattended, and as soon as he arrived Mary dismissed Mistress Clarencius. Philip kissed Mary’s hand.

“I rejoice to see you so improved in health.” He hurried on: “Oh, there is need for great care yet. You must rest and not excite yourself. We must take great care of you.”

“It was good of you to come and see me, Philip,” she said meekly.

“I have had an urgent letter from my father.”

Before he spoke she knew what he would say, and she sent up a silent prayer to the saints for fortitude to help her bear it. “He says it is imperative for him to see me.”

“Where is he now?”

“Only in Brussels.”

“And you will go?”

“I fear I must.”

She wanted to shout at him: You fear! You are filled with pleasure at the thought of going. You long to leave me because I am old and unattractive and the strain of pretense is too much for even you to bear.

“There is no help for it,” he went on with an apologetic half-smile. “He is going to renounce his crown, and I must be there to take it.”

She looked at him with pride and longing. He was so slight, frail almost, and she thought how beautiful he was with his fair skin and hair that seemed almost silver in the sunlight. He was her beloved husband who would soon be the most powerful monarch in the world.

“You will not stay long?” she implored.

“Nay. A month perhaps.”

Four weeks! To her they would seem as long as years; to him they would be so short. But they both knew that once he escaped he would not be back in a month.

“Oh, Philip…must you go?” He recognized the hysteria in her voice. He was poised for flight; he was ready to call her attendants so that he might not be alone with her and suffer her protestations of affection, her cloying embraces.

“I fear so,” he said briskly. “But the sooner I leave the sooner it is over. Now…I have my dispatches to answer.”

“Philip…”

“I will send your women to you.”

“Nay, Philip. Just a moment. I will send for them when I need them.”

“I see I must take charge of you. You do not take enough care. We cannot have you running risks.” He was edging away from her. He was now at the door. He opened it and the men-at-arms saluted. “Send for the Queen’s ladies at once!” he commanded.

And they came in great haste, thinking she had been taken ill again. But they found her with her husband, yearning and wretched, knowing that his solicitous care for her was really a means of escape.

It was August when the royal party left Hampton Court and came by water to Westminster, where they disembarked and went by road to Greenwich, riding through the lines of sight-seers. Mary was too weak to ride on horseback and was carried in a litter.

Her subjects cheered her, for, they said, she looked like a corpse dug up from the grave. There were no jokes about the imaginary baby on that day.

All about Philip was an armed guard, for he rode at the head of the procession with Cardinal Pole beside him, and his friends would not allow him to go undefended through the city of London.

Philip was smiling in a manner which would have pleased his father. In three days’ time, if there was a good wind, he would step aboard and sail away from England and Mary. It was little more than a year that he had spent in England—yet, to him, it seemed a lifetime.

Three days had to be lived through, and in Greenwich Palace it was necessary to spend most of the time with Mary; but at length came that day, so happy for Philip, so wretched for Mary.

She could not contain her grief, and wept bitterly when the farewells were said. Philip returned her fervent embrace. He hoped it was the last he would have to suffer for a long time.

“Good-bye, my dearest husband.”

“Good-bye, dear wife.”

“You will be back in a month?” she begged.

“In a month,” he promised, “unless…something happens to prevent my coming.”

“You will come back? You must. I shall be counting the days. It will be the longest month in my life.”

“I also shall count the days.”

He was looking at the barge and thanking God for it. He could wait no longer. One last embrace; one last farewell, and the barge was slipping away from the shore while, with his attendants about him, he waved to the desolate Queen who stood watching until he was out of sight.

What had happened to this son of his? wondered Charles. What had the English done to him? Was the change for the worse or the better? There were two Philips now—warring one with the other. Tales had reached the Emperor of the Prince’s conduct. At last, it seemed, Philip was indulging in those adventures which others before him had enjoyed in the days of their youth. He had run wild since he left England; he had had many light love affairs. He had roamed the streets in the disguise of a nobleman, accompanied by the merriest of his followers.

Lines appeared about the pale eyes; there was a hint of sensuality which had not been apparent before. Yet the well-known Philip was never far away; he was always ready to emerge unexpectedly—calm, aloof, and controlled.

The Emperor was amused to think that he should ever contemplate remonstrating with Philip concerning his wildness. To think that he might warn Philip to take heed, to choose his companions with more care, to lead a less dissolute life! Charles could not help breaking into loud laughter at the very thought.

But he decided that it was not for him to change his son. Let this madness work out of him. It was the result of several months’ matrimony with Mary Tudor—nothing more; and Philip would come to reason of his own accord. Charles reminded himself that he was about to transfer his imperial dignity to Philip, who was no longer a boy to be admonished. If he wished to wander the streets in disguise, if he wished to share the beds of loose women, that was for him to decide; and there was no one who could say it was not a kingly habit!

Charles was feeling his years sorely. His hands shook with palsy and his gout was painful. His fever had increased, and he told Philip that he longed to pass on his responsibilities at the earliest possible moment.

“Was it very unpleasant in England?” he asked.

Philip’s face hardened as he answered: “I drained the cup of my sacrifice to the very dregs.”

“My son, I know you suffered. Well, it is over; and you wrote of her as though you pitied her.”

“Aye,” said Philip. “I pitied her, for she is pitiable.”

“And pity is said to be a sister of love, eh?”

Philip laughed with bitterness. “A poor sister…a poor relation. And do we not always feel uncomfortable in the presence of our poor relations?”

Charles laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You suffered the lot of princes,” he said. “But it is clear the Queen of England is past child-bearing. I would they had crowned you King of England, but you will have kingdoms enough when you have taken them over from me. I rejoice in you and all that you are; and there are not many fathers who can say that.”

Philip took the palsied hand and kissed it.

“We shall have much to talk of during the next weeks,” went on the Emperor. “But there is one matter, a little outside statecraft, which has been giving me some thought lately. It concerns your brother. Ah! You wonder to whom I refer. When we were in Augsburg I had a son by a burgher’s daughter. She was a good girl, and this child of hers is a good child. He is strong and healthy; and I am having him brought up far from any of my courts. He lives simply and has no idea who his father is. When he is older I wish you to send for him. He will make a good general for your armies. His name is Juan. I think of him as Don Juan of Austria. How sounds that? He will serve you well, and be more use to you than young Carlos ever will. Look after him, Philip. Give him opportunities. Remember he is your brother, though illegitimate. You’ll thank God for him one day, as I doubt not you will for Isabel Osorio’s boys. It is good to have the members of your family about you…even though some of them were not born in wedlock.”

“I will remember. Where shall I look for this Don Juan?”

“In the household of my steward, Luis Quixada. For some years I let him run wild, barefoot, playing with boys in the village and being taught scraps of learning by a priest. Luis’s wife continually bemoaned the fact that she had no children, so I said: ‘Take this boy and bring him up as though he is your own.’ Poor woman, she seized that offer with delight, and now he is to her as her own son.”

“And where are they now?”

The Emperor gave a half-embarrassed smile. “I must have my steward in my household; I must have him with me at the monastery—for which I shall leave when the ceremonies are over. And could I separate a husband from his wife? Nay, I could not. So Doña Magdalena Quixada will remove to a small village close to the monastery of Yuste that she may be near her husband.”

“You will see this boy, then?”

“Oh, I shall seclude myself. That is my wish. I shall not see many people.”

But of course he would see the boy. Philip realized that he doted on him.

“I will do as you wish,” said Philip.

“My blessing on you. It is a good thing for a man to have bred a son like you.”

Philip knew that the Emperor was pleased with his two sons—the legitimate one who would shoulder his responsibilities, and the illegitimate one whose charm and intelligence would lighten the days of his seclusion.

The ceremony which surprised the world took place on an October day in the great hall of the Palace of Brussels.

Here were assembled the vassals of the Emperor. Coats of arms decorated the walls; there were banners displaying the heraldic devices of all the countries and provinces under the Imperial sway.

The hall was crowded with members of the nobility—statesmen and heads of states, magnificent in their rich uniforms.

A dais, hung with rich arras and decorated with griffins, eagles, and unicorns in all the colors of the various provinces, had been set up at one end of the hall; and with a flourish of trumpets the Emperor came forward, leaning heavily on the arm of William of Orange. Behind these two came Philip with his cousin Maximilian and his aunt, Mary of Hungary, whom Charles had made Governess of the Netherlands.

The Emperor looked very ill. He could scarcely hobble to the dais, and William of Orange had to help him mount it and take his seat on the royal chair.

Philip took the chair on the Emperor’s right hand. He could not help resenting the intimacy which seemed to exist between his father and Orange. He had heard rumors of this clever young William of Orange, the Count of Nassau; he was reputed to be a secret supporter of the heretics. Was the Emperor in his dotage that he must favor a man because he was young and handsome?

Orange seemed a little arrogant as he caught Philip’s eyes upon him. Doubtless he bore in mind that he had all the Flemings behind him. But neither Orange nor Flanders must forget that they were vassals of Spain; and Orange was a fool to show arrogance to one who was about to step so publicly into his father’s shoes.

The church bells all over Brussels began to chime, and the President of the Council rose and announced to the gathering that their great Emperor Charles the Fifth had decided, because of his age and infirmity, to pass over to his son his possessions in the Netherlands.

There was a deep silence while the Emperor rose slowly to his feet. He explained to them that he was a tired old man. They would love his son even as they had loved him, for they would find Philip the best of rulers.

Charles was overcome with emotion; tears came to his eyes. They would be loyal to his son, he knew. They would show him that devotion, that friendship which they had always given to himself.

Philip, from the dais, looked down on these foreigners, these Flemings; he stood on one side of his father, and it seemed a pity that William of Nassau, the Prince of Orange, should be standing on the other. The people were accepting Philip now; but their eyes were turned—was it with hope?—toward William of Orange.

Philip felt the full weight of his responsibilities. He was King of Spain—Castile, Aragon, and Granada; he was King of Naples and Sicily; he was the Duke of Milan; he was Lord of the French Compté and of the Low Countries. He was the titular King of England. Unfortunately, the crude islanders had made this seem but an empty title so far. The Cape Verde Islands of Africa and the Canaries belonged to him. Tunis and Oran were his, as were the Philippines and the Spice Islands of Asia. He had possessions in the West Indies; Mexico and Peru were part of his Empire. He was the most important and powerful monarch in the world—a young man under thirty, morose by nature, although he had recently shown that he could enjoy isolated adventures in sensuality; he was conscientious, determined to do his duty, eager to serve God first, then his immense Imperial responsibilities. His great wish was to bring the whole world together under Spanish domination and to set up the Inquisition in every country. All this he would do, not for the glory of Philip, but for the glory of God.

In the meantime he wished to keep away from his wife for as long as possible. He could do this now with an easy conscience because he was certain that she could never bear a child.

So Charles made his slow journey to the monastery of Yuste, and Philip became titular ruler of half the world.

He had excuses to spare for not returning to Mary, since war had broken out. This was war against the Pope himself. Spain was devoutly Catholic, but Spaniards believed that the heart of Catholicism was in Spain, not in Rome; and Charles had, over the years, gradually taken many of the rights so dearly cherished by pontiffs of the past and kept them to himself. This meant that Charles had been using some of the Church revenue to serve his political ends. Spaniards had encroached on Italian territory, which disturbing fact many of the Popes had accepted with as good a grace as possible; but the present Pope was a fiery Neapolitan, and the French King had persuaded him to join France against Spain.

So, on his accession to power, Philip, who hated war, found himself in the midst of it.

Though it might be difficult to get English troops to fight the Pope, they would not be reluctant to attack the French, who were their perennial enemies; therefore, it was decided that the English must be persuaded to take up arms against the French; and who could better persuade the Queen to this than her beloved husband?

The unpleasant duty faced Philip again. He must return to England; he must once more endure the devotion of his wife, for Spain must have the help of England.

Mary could neither sleep nor eat. He was coming again. Many times during the last year he had promised to return, but he had not kept his promises. He had said he would be away for a month. It was August of the year 1555 when he had gone away; it was now March 1557. And he had said one month!

But no matter; the waiting was unimportant now since he was to come at last. She had aged during his absence. She had spent many nights in weeping. That did not improve a woman’s appearance. She had a return of her ailments and her skin was more sallow than ever; she was very thin, apart from her dropsical swellings.

Last autumn had brought much rain and the Thames had overflowed. Westminster Hall had been flooded, so that wherries had been able to pass through it. The resultant damp had brought epidemics with it. Mary herself had developed a fever at that time and there seemed to be nothing to cure it.

So lonely, so dreary her life had become. Gardiner had died, and on him she had relied more than on any, with the exception of Philip and Cardinal Pole.

Her sister Elizabeth, she believed, was plotting against her once more. She had entertained soothsayers at Woodstock and it was said that she had wished to be told how much longer the Queen would live. Some gentlemen of her household had plotted to put her on the throne, and they confessed on the rack to her complicity in their schemes. Why should Elizabeth be allowed to live? When she went into the streets the people applauded her more loudly than they had ever done. She was young and pleasing to look at. She did not suffer from complaints which made her a grotesque object of pity.

Philip had written urgently from Europe that she must be lenient with Elizabeth. He said he was convinced of her innocence. He pointed out that if Mary harmed the Princess the whole of England would be against her.

Why was he so concerned for Elizabeth? Sometimes Mary would be amazed at her own passion. She would stand before his picture and demand to know of that concern.

“Do you hope that I shall die and you may begin to woo another Queen of England?”

If he had been there to answer, he would have reminded her coldly: “I wish to preserve her that the throne of England may not go to Mary Queen of Scots.”

That might be true, but did it not mean that he had her death in mind?

“I have never really lived,” she murmured. “That’s the pity of it.”

But now he was coming to her again. As she stitched at the tapestry which her mother had started and which when finished would hang in the state apartments of the Tower, she thought that waiting for him was like waiting for the child. The child had not come. Would he?

Then her hopes would rise again. Was she so old that she could not have a child? She did not believe she was.

And at length on a sparkling March day when the sun was shining on the river and the marsh marigolds made a golden pattern on the banks, Philip came.

He took horse at Gravesend, and she was almost fainting with joy when he arrived at Greenwich. She could not tolerate ceremony at such a time. Surely now and then in the lifetime of a Queen she could dispense with it?

“Philip!” she cried, as she threw herself at him. He was smiling as all would expect a husband to smile who was returning to his wife after so long an absence.

He returned her embrace. She noticed that in appearance he had changed little; she was sadly aware that she was a little more lined, a little less attractive than when he went away. But she would not face the truth. Her loved one was back, and she must believe that he had come back for love of her, and not to win her assistance in his war with France.

How she schemed to keep him at her side! As for Philip, he had returned to the old relationship and he was once more sacrificing himself on the altar of Spain’s needs. He schooled himself to be the pleasant and charming husband, and that in itself seemed a folly because the better he played the part, the more enamoured she became.

From Mary came occasional outbursts of jealousy, and these often concerned the Princess Elizabeth. Philip was once more urging the marriage of the Princess with Emmanuel Philibert of Savoy.

Mary turned to him crying in a passion of jealousy: “Why should you wish for this marriage? Do not answer me with soft words. Do you not think I know? You would have her the wife of a vassal that she may be near you. Is that the answer? Tell me. I demand to know.”

“I think,” said Philip, “that you have lost your senses.”

She laughed shrilly and hysterically. He thought how ugly she was at such times, even uglier than in those pitiable moods when she would cajole him to indulge her passion.

“She would be near you, would she not? She would be in Flanders, and you would find it necessary to visit her household often. Do you think I do not know why you continually press for this marriage?”

“It would seem that you need to be alone for a while, to calm yourself, to bring yourself back to reason.”

“You suggest that so that you may escape from me.”

“Why should I wish to escape?”

“You ask me that: Do you not always wish to escape? Are you not thinking all the time, ‘How can I get away from this old woman who, by great bad fortune, is my wife?’ Why were you so long in coming to see me? Were you really so involved in matters of state? Do you think I am blind?”

She fell into a passion of weeping, and once again his pity chained him to her side. “Mary,” he lied, “it is not true. You distress yourself without reason.”

So sad she was and eager to be reassured. “Is it truly so, Philip, my dearest, my beloved?”

He forced himself to kiss her.

“I am so jealous, Philip; and jealousy such as mine is worse than death.”

These scenes became more frequent, and after four months of such strain he could bear no more. He must escape. He had succeeded in making her declare war on France, so there was no longer need for him to remain.

She was again obsessed with the idea that she was to have a child. No one but herself believed this possible; but she clung to hope.

All over England men and women were perishing in the flames. Cranmer, Ridley, Latimer, and Hooper, with other such great men, suffered the dreadful death. Mary was conscious of her people’s dislike, even as she was of Philip’s. She must therefore cling to the hope of a child, even if that hope was delusive.

In her litter she accompanied Philip once more to Gravesend. Again she suffered that poignant parting; she stood watching him until she could see him no more; then she returned, sorrowing, to her loneliness.

Philip was to receive one of the greatest of all military defeats at St. Quentin, although the great Montmorency and Coligny fell prisoners to his soldiers and the road to Paris was open.

Never had the Emperor had such an opportunity of subduing the French for ever. Never did a soldier fail at the peak of success as Philip failed then. And yet, being Philip, what else could he have done?

St. Quentin would haunt him for the rest of his life, not because that great victory was turned to defeat through his personal indecision, but because Philip would never forget the sights which greeted him when he made his triumphant entry into the captured city.

Philip hated war. He was no soldier and he knew it. The prospect of war never failed to fill him with dread. He had given orders, when the besieged city was surrounded, that there were to be no reprisals. But he did not understand the nature of the men serving under his banners. The English and the Spanish in his armies had worked themselves into a fury against each other; the German mercenaries looked upon the spoils of a defeated town as the natural rewards of conquest.

Philip’s orders were ignored, and when he saw the terrible carnage in St. Quentin—murdered citizens lying about the streets horribly mutilated, burning houses, the nauseating treatment which had been meted out, not only to women and children, but to monks and nuns—he was horrified. To him it seemed a disaster as shameful as the Sack of Rome.

He came to the Church of St. Laurence; he saw the blood of human beings befouling the altar, the burning pews, the slaughtered bodies of monks on the floor of the church, and in horror he swore that he would never forget this foul crime as long as he lived, nor that it had been done in his name. He fell to his knees and vowed that he would dedicate his life to building a monastery in Spain to the glory of St. Laurence.

His young cousin, Emmanuel Philibert, warned him that they must take the advantage such a victory had given them. The road to Paris was now open and it would be possible to defeat the French for all time; but Philip, having looked on those terrible sights, wanted to put an end to the war. In vain did Emmanuel Philibert plead. Philip was adamant.

“The risk is too great,” he equivocated. “Our men are weary. I am weary…weary of death and destruction. Here Catholic fights Catholic; Catholic churches are destroyed. There is only one war I wish to fight: God’s holy war; the war against the heretic.”

So at St. Quentin he stayed, and his men were idle and disgruntled, so that they did as mercenaries were accustomed to do at such times; they deserted. Meanwhile, the Duke of Guise, who had been fighting in Italy, made a hasty peace on that front and came with all speed to the defense of his country.

Paris was soon bristling with defenses. The great moment was lost; and Guise, with that intuition which had made him the greatest soldier of his day, made a surprise attack on Calais and took it.

He knew that there could be nothing more likely to cause strife between Spain and her English allies than the loss of that town which the latter looked upon as a foothold which would one day lead to the conquest of France.

In the monastery of Yuste, which was not far from the town of Placentia and was surrounded by thick woods and mountains which kept off the cold north winds, the Emperor was enjoying his days of retirement.

The climate was good for his gout and he had employed architects to make a lodging worthy of him; he had installed great fireplaces in every room; he had brought some of his treasured pictures with him. His favorite, Gloria, painted by the great Venetian, Titian, and which depicted himself and his late wife surrounded by angels, he had had set up in his bedroom. Beautiful gardens had been laid out for him, and in these orange and citron trees grew; he himself attended to the weeding and pruning when the gout permitted. He had also brought numbers of clocks and watches with him, and one of his great pleasures was to take these to pieces and examine their works; the winding of the clocks was a ceremony which, whenever possible, he supervised in person.

He attended religious services regularly, and the window of his bedchamber looked onto the chapel, so that if he were not well enough to get up he could hear Mass in bed, and from where he lay see the elevation of the Host. His rich baritone voice often mingled with the chanting of the monks in the chapel.

He felt content with the monastic life and would stand at his windows looking out across the jagged sierra at the stunted orange trees and the rushing torrents that tumbled down the mountainsides. But his great delight was still in his food. In vain did his physicians implore moderation. Abstinence might be a virtue, but not even for the sake of his soul could Charles deny his stomach.

He would sit at a meal with his favorite servants about him. There were his major-domo, Quixada, and the Fleming, Van Mole, his gentleman of the chamber, to beguile him with their conversation. There was another whom he greatly favored—a boy of handsome looks and bright intelligence, young Juan, who did not know that besides being the Emperor’s page he was the Emperor’s son.

When Charles was melancholy, Juan was sent to charm him; and this he never failed to do. Charles treated him as though he were much older than his age; he would show him charts and maps and discuss with him the progress of the war which Spain was now fighting against the French.

Juan was with Charles when the news was brought of Philip’s action at St. Quentin and his subsequent hesitation.

The Emperor’s face grew purple and the veins showed in angry knots at his temple.

“Holy Mother of God!” he exploded. “Why…why…in the name of Christ, why? The greatest opportunity a general ever had…and lost…lost! Philip is useless. Is he as mad as his grandmother? Had I but been there…”

He paced the apartment and all feared that he would injure himself. But suddenly he stopped and looked at the boy.

“One day,” he said, “you may be a general leading your armies. Then…you will remember this day. But, Juan, you will learn…you will profit from the mistakes of others…”

And, contemplating the boy beside him, he grew calmer. He shrugged his shoulders. He was an old man in retreat from the world. He had but to brood on his sins and win absolution. The conduct of wars was no longer any concern of his.

He fell to wondering what he would have for dinner—a rich capon, chickens, a fat goose, peacocks roasted by the best cooks in Spain, who now resided at the monastery of Yuste?

Mary Tudor shut herself away; she lived almost completely in retirement now. She had failed. She had lost Calais, and her people were saying that in the five years of her reign she had brought disaster on England. She had burned men’s bodies—respected men such as Archbishop Cranmer; she had put England under a foreign influence. There was disaster everywhere.

And she was old and ill. She could only write passionate letters to Philip, some of which she did not send. She even offered him coronation if he would return to her. For as long as she could, she had believed in the coming of the child; but the months were passing, and it was nearly a year since Philip had gone.

Philip was still urging the marriage of Elizabeth with Emmanuel Philibert. He had made peace with the French, and his son Don Carlos was to marry the eldest daughter of the French King; but Calais was still in the hands of the French.

Jealousy tormented her. Great attention was being paid to her sister Elizabeth, and many of those whom she had believed to be her friends were slipping away to Hatfield and begging to be of service there. Cardinal Pole, that dear friend and staunch supporter, was as sick as she was herself. And Philip did not come back.

He sent his cousin, Christina of Denmark, to try to persuade her to permit the marriage of Elizabeth with Savoy. How she had hated that visit and the visitor!

Christina was noted throughout Europe for her charm and beauty, and there were rumors that Philip had been deeply enamored of her and would have liked to marry her.

Mary’s jealousy would not allow her to treat Christina with the honor due to her rank. She was coldly received in England, and went back, her mission unaccomplished.

And on the day she left, Mary stood before Philip’s latest portrait, which represented him in armor, and in which he looked very handsome, in spite of the fact that he wore no helmet. She recalled the message he had sent with the picture: It was not in accordance with etiquette that he should stand, his head covered, in the presence of the Queen.

She had been delighted with picture and message. Now she thought with great bitterness how very devoted he could be when he was absent!

And as she gazed at the picture, she cried: “You are cold! You will never come back to me. You are not faithful to me. You stay away, not because of state affairs, but because you hate to be with me. You could be at my side if you wished. But you hate me…hate…hate me…”

She took up a knife and slashed the canvas to ribbons.

Then, in frustration, she fell sobbing to the floor.

Jane Dormer found her thus; she called to Mistress Clarencius and tenderly they carried her to her bed.

The Emperor knew that his end was near. It was September at Yuste and he felt at peace. His confessor, Juan de Regla, sat on a stool at his bedside. The Emperor was ready to leave this world.

He prayed for Philip, who had so many good qualities. He feared for Philip. What would happen in the great dominions? wondered Charles. Philip was surrounded by enemies. He had shown himself to be a man who could not make the quick decisions which could shape his destiny. He consoled himself; there was much to be said for caution, patience, and steady virtue.

He thought of Orange and hoped that young man would not give Philip any trouble. Orange was a man born to greatness. And Philip was not one who could combine religion and statecraft. Philip had been taught that he must serve God first, his country second; and he believed it. Philip took these precepts too literally. Charles had been Emperor first, Catholic second. That was a sobering thought now that he was nearing his end, but he was too much the realist to deny it.

“God help him…” murmured the Emperor. “God help Philip in the tasks that lie ahead…”

But now Charles was smiling, thinking of little Juan. There was a son to warm the heart of a dying man.

Philip would look after little Juan. Thank God and all the saints that Philip could be trusted. Philip would do his duty. What more could a man ask of his son?

He had been blessed in his sons.

But he must think of his own passing. The time was short. Philip would do his duty. Juan would be a great soldier—he was sure of it—handsome and strong so that the people would love him; it might be that in the future they would speak of Don Juan as they now spoke of the Cid.

He had had a long life and it had been a satisfactory life since it had given him two such as Philip and Juan.

To his eyes, the light in the room seemed dim. His priest was at hand. They were giving him extreme unction. So the end was as near as that. All the sins of a long harsh lifetime were forgiven…

“Christ…crucified…aid me.”

He was fast sinking; his lips moved. “Christ crucified…”

But his hazy thoughts were reaching into the future…that future which was Philip’s and little Juan’s.

Death did not come singly. Hard on the news of the Emperor’s death came the messenger from England with news of Mary’s sickness.

Philip would not believe that she was dying.

“How can I go to England now?” he demanded. “My father is dead. My duties increase. Moreover, the Queen has been ill before.”

She had had a false pregnancy, he was remembering. Might not this also be a false alarm?

He decided to send Feria with a message and a ring.

“If the Queen is dying,” he said, “we must at all costs secure the accession of Elizabeth. She is suspected of heresy, and that is deplorable; but if she does not succeed to the throne, the King of France will have the crown for Mary of Scotland. That we must prevent. If France succeeds, all our work will have failed. We shall lose our footing in England; and before long we shall have the English and French banded together against us.”

“There is the match between Elisabeth of Valois and Don Carlos,” said Feria.

“These matches! They sometimes come to naught. We will not rely upon it. The English law says that the reigning monarch must name his successor. Mary must name Elizabeth.”

“I will make known your Majesty’s wishes to her.”

“And, Feria, give her loving greetings from me. Explain that I cannot come. Speak of my duties here…my father’s death…Surely there are excuses enough; and even she must see that I must be here.”

“I will endeavor to make her see reason, your Highness.”

When Feria had gone, Philip stared ahead, seeing that bed-chamber which he felt would be engraved upon his mind for ever. Could it be true that his wife was dying? If so, it would mean the loss of Spanish power in England, but oh, what glorious freedom for the King of Spain!

Mary was tossing on her bed. There were few ladies to attend to her wants, and she knew why. They had deserted her—so many of them—and were on their way to Hatfield.

There, her red-haired sister would have put on new dignity. That haughtiness which ever lurked behind her blue eyes, would emerge. Elizabeth…Queen of England.

She, so young, would be so powerful. She would choose her own husband. Perhaps Philip would sue for her hand. No, not that! She must not imagine such things. She must try to be calm.

The fever was with her again. It had been decided that the Palace of Richmond was too damp and had aggravated her fever. Her dear friend Reginald Pole suffered from the same fever. He was not expected to outlive her.

Will Philip come? she wondered. Surely none could refuse the request of a dying woman?

This time she wished him just to touch her hand and to smile, to pretend to the last that he loved her. Was that asking too much of him?

Ah, but he had hated her. Her people hated her. They would say after she was dead: She brought strangers into the land; she restarted the fires of Smithfield; she lost Calais.

How bright had seemed her future on that day five years ago when she had ridden into London to the Tower to be crowned. Queen of England! And all England was with her then, all shouting: “Death to the false Jane Grey!”

But now it was a different tale. Now they would shout: “Death to Mary. Long live Elizabeth!”

One of her ladies came to tell her that the Count of Feria was without and craving audience.

The Count of Feria! But it should have been Philip.

Yet why should Philip come? There was nothing he wanted of her now.

She greeted the Count with her melancholy smile. There was one who would be more glad to see Feria than Philip. Might he prove a good husband to Jane Dormer, better than the husband the Queen had had!

But she would entertain no evil thoughts against Philip. He was good and noble. Was it his fault that he could not love her? He had tried. How he had tried!

The Count knelt by her bed and, kissing her burning hand, gave her the loving message and the ring; then he told her the real reason for his coming. “His Highness declares it is imperative that you name the Lady Elizabeth as your successor.”

She smiled wanly. Ah, yes, of course. She must ensure English friendship with Spain. She must remember Spain’s enemies, the French. She nodded feebly.

“If Elizabeth will pay my debts and swear to keep our religion as she found it, then I agree.”

When Feria had left her, she lay half-conscious, thinking that Philip was beside her. Then she became disturbed. She cried out that she could hear the screams of men and women in agony. Were they burning now outside the Palace? Did they not know that Smithfield Square was the appropriate place?

Mistress Clarencius soothed her. “Nay, your Majesty. All is well.”

“But I smell the fires.”

“It is the one here in your chamber, your Majesty.”

“I hear the crackle of wood. What of Cranmer?”

“It is not for your Majesty to concern yourself with heretics at this time. Rest is what you need.”

She said: “He held out his right hand that it might burn first. My father was fond of Cranmer. He gave him much honor. Oh, Clarencius, less than three hundred were burned under my rule; and in my husband’s land there have been three hundred at one auto-da-fé.”

“Do not speak of it, dearest Majesty.”

“In the streets they speak of it. They call me Bloody Mary. I know it. There are things which cannot be kept from me. They are all going to Hatfield now. They will shout for her. She is young and fair enough…though not so fair as she thinks she is. She will have many suitors for her hand, and Philip…Philip…”

“Rest, your Majesty, rest.”

She closed her eyes and the tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. She smiled suddenly and said: “What matters it, my friends? This is the end.”

She asked for extreme unction and that afterward Mass should be celebrated in her chamber; and at the elevation of the Host she lifted her eyes and she bowed her head at the benediction.

Then she seemed contented and at peace. She seemed to have forgotten the martyrs who had perished in her reign, that the people had called her Bloody Mary, and that she had lost Calais.

Her smile almost beautified her face in those last moments, and those about her bed thought that she could only have smiled thus if she had believed that Philip was with her.

ELISABETH

DE VALOIS

ONE

Carlos had changed. He had grown quieter; he had assumed more dignity; he no longer referred to himself as little one. He was Don Carlos, heir to the throne, and he did not forget it.

The reason was that he was to have a bride.

He had seen her picture and as soon as he had seen it this change had come upon him, for never had he seen anything so beautiful as the face in the locket which he carried about with him. She had a small, oval face, great dark eyes, and masses of black hair; she was half French, half Italian, and she was the daughter of Henri, King of France, and the Italian Catherine de Medici.

He had heard some time ago that he was to have this bride, but he had taken little heed at the time because, as Prince of Spain, many brides had been suggested for him. It was not long after his father had left for England on the first occasion that his father and the French King had decided Carlos should marry the young Princess when the Peace of Vaucelles had been signed. That seemed to have been forgotten, as so many plans were; but now there was a new treaty with France, the portrait had arrived, and, having seen it, Carlos could think of little else but the Princess of France.

At first he had thought it would be amusing to have a bride, to be the master, to force her to do all that he desired; but when he looked at the picture, those feelings left him. There was nothing within him now but a tenderness and an apprehension, for what would she, this beautiful Princess, think of him—stunted, crippled, and so ugly when the fits of anger came upon him?

Once he had loved his Aunt Juana, but she was strange now. She prayed constantly, and she thought of nothing beyond saving her soul for the future life; and she went about with her face half covered, withdrawn, remote from the world. People said she was strange; but it was not the strangeness of himself and his great-grandmother; there was no wild laughter, no impulse to do extraordinary things. Juana’s strangeness was a religious fervency which resulted in deep melancholy. She was, Carlos reflected, very certain of her place in Heaven, but that did not make her such a good companion here on Earth.

But to whom else could he talk? There was so much he wanted to know. He wished that he had not neglected his studies. He did not understand French; nor did he know Latin. He knew very little of the history of his own country, let alone others. If only he had worked harder! But how could he have known that they were going to give him a beautiful and learned Princess like this one for his wife? And how could he have known he would want to shine so much in her eyes?

“Juana,” he asked, “Aunt Juana, what is it like at the court of France?”

She drew her hood closer over her face, and he saw her lips tighten. “The French are godless,” she said. “Although they have improved under the present King’s reign. In the time of his father, theirs was the most immoral court in the world, and still is, I doubt not, for the French are wicked by nature.”

“That was her grandfather—this wicked King,” said Carlos with satisfaction. His brain was more alert; he was determined it should be. He was not going to be ignorant any more. He was going to learn and be clever for the sake of Elisabeth de Valois. “What did they do at her grandfather’s court?” he asked.

“There were masques and balls all the time. They read books. They fêted those who wrote them. They were not good books. King François was your grandfather’s greatest enemy…the most lecherous man in the world…the most pleasure-loving and the most wicked.”

“You speak of him as though he were a heretic.”

“Nay. He was not as wicked as that.”

“My grandfather took him prisoner,” said Carlos, eager to show that he remembered that bit of history. “Her father was my grandfather’s prisoner too when he was a little boy. And now she is coming here. We shall have much to speak of, Juana. When do you think my father will let her come?”

“We do not know. Everything depends on her father and your father. They are at peace now, but if there should be another war…” Juana lifted her shoulders.

“Do you mean that they might have a war?” His face puckered; his lips began to twitch. “If my father goes to war with the French King now, I…I…will…kill him.”

“Hush, Carlos! The bad mood is coming on you again. You know what I told you to do when that happens. Get down on your knees and pray.”

“I don’t want to pray. I don’t want to. I want to kill…kill…”

“Carlos, you promised to be better. What will she think of you if she sees these bad moods?”

His face puckered again. “But there will be a war…They will keep her from me.”

“There is no war, and as arrangements stand she will come to you in good time.”

“My father will never let her. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. It has always been so.”

“It is the bad mood that makes you think that. Your father will be glad of the link with France. Your father tries to make peace. That is why he arranged this marriage. Look at her picture again. There! You are right, Carlos. She is beautiful. And your own age too. That is charming.”

He was sobbing as he took the locket in his hands, and his tears fell on to it; but the sight of it calmed him, as it always did.

“I fear my father will not let me have this happiness.”

“Of a surety he will. He wants to see you happy, Carlos. He is pleased because we can truthfully tell him how much you try to be worthy of your bride.”

“I am learning now. I am trying to be clever.”

“And you are praying, Carlos?”

“Each day, each night. I pray that her coming will not be long delayed. Do you think the saints will intercede for me?”

“If it is good for you, they will.”

He stamped his foot. “Will they? Will they? It is good. I know it is good. She makes me good…because I learn my lessons. I am calm because I want her to love me.”

“Only they know if it is good for you, Carlos.”

“I know. I know!” cried Carlos.

“You must learn, dearest nephew. Something which is bad may happen, but that may be for our good. Those on high know best what is good for us.”

“If they do not let her come, I…I…” She flashed a glance of horror at him, for blasphemy terrified her. But he went on: “I shall hate all who keep her from me. Hate…hate…”

She had crossed herself and fallen to her knees, lifting her hands toward the ceiling. Her hood fell open, showing a face so strange that for a moment Carlos was silent.

He watched her moving lips; he listened to her words. She was praying for him; and something in the expression of her face filled him with sudden fear. He looked over his shoulder furtively. There were times when his Aunt Juana made him feel that, although the room was empty, they were not alone.

He began to whimper: “I pray every night, Juana. I only want to have her here…to love her…”

Juana rose from her knees. “If God wishes it, it will come to pass,” she said.

With trembling hands, he took the locket and looked at the picture. “Elisabeth,” he said. “I love your name, but it is hard to say it. It is French, is it not? Here we say Isabella. I shall call you Isabella. Isabella…little Isabella…are you praying that you will soon come to Spain?”

In the Old Palace of Brussels, the royal widower sat alone in deep concentration.

He had felt nothing but relief during the last few weeks. He knew that he could not continue in that state, for there was great work to be done, and his position as monarch was not made easier by the death of his wife; it was only the husband who had escaped from a particularly irksome situation.

On the table before him documents were neatly arranged; he could not endure untidiness, as all his secretaries knew. He was dressed this day in the plainest of black velvet garments; he might have been mistaken for one of his own secretaries but for his quiet dignity and that excessive cleanliness—so rare, even among Spaniards—which was accentuated by the pallor of his skin.

He had furnished this room in accordance with his own tastes, and they did not please the people of Brussels; he knew this, but he did not care. These people were going to need a firm hand. Already they were turning against him. He was appalled by the increasing number of heretics, and was planning harsh action against them; as soon as possible he would consult Alba, that fiery Catholic, and doubtless he would set him up as Governor of this land, with the Holy Inquisition to work with him.

Philip looked at the silver crucifix on the wall. There had been too little devotion to God in his father’s day. Charles’s bonhomie and his love of fleshy delights had pleased the people. But Philip believed that a ruler’s first duty was toward God, and if he jeopardized a hundred crowns in God’s service then must he count himself blessed to lose them all, if that was God’s will.

Philip remembered with shame that outburst of sensuality which had followed his departure from England. He remembered also the terrible sight of St. Quentin.

He had already found the site for his monastery. It was to be built on the unfertile Guadarrama steppes; there he would build his Palace of the Escorial, a home for a hermit king, a monastery where he could live a life of prayer and devotion while he ruled the world and brought it, through the blood and fire of the Inquisition, to the truth.

His cold eyes were suddenly like hot blue flames when he thought of the future; and as he sat there at the table, immersed in the relief of his escape from Mary Tudor, he vowed that he would wipe heresy from the world, that he would rule it in his own way, not that of his father, and he would dedicate himself in the future, not to ambition, not to love of power, but to the service of God. He saw himself as God’s vicar on Earth, the junior commander in the battle against the Devil.

Meanwhile, he must turn his attention to affairs of the world, and with the death of Mary and the accession of Elizabeth, England gave him much to think of.

He took up the dispatch Feria had sent from the English court. Feria was the most suitable ambassador at this time, for Feria was one of the handsomest of men, and the new Queen was very fond of handsome men; Feria was well versed in the art of flattery, and the new Queen was the vainest woman on Earth; moreover, Feria spoke fluent English and was affianced to Jane Dormer, so that he possessed many qualities which would enable him to fill the post satisfactorily.

But Feria was made uneasy by the new Queen.

Although she still heard Mass, and the religion of the country appeared to be the same as in her sister’s day, there had been an immediate cessation of the persecutions. The woman was at times a ridiculous coquette, and then suddenly it would be as though a shrewd statesman looked out from behind her fan. It was impossible to get a straight answer from her on any subject of importance; she would prevaricate, giving neither “Yes” nor “No,” holding out promises one day, repudiating them the next.

Her response to her sister’s stipulations had been typical of her. Mary, in bestowing upon her the succession, had said she did so on these conditions: That she would not change her privy council; that she would make no alteration in religion; and that she would discharge Mary’s debts. Elizabeth’s reply was that the debts should certainly be paid; but as regards the council it was Elizabeth’s opinion that one Queen had as much right to choose her councillors as another. “As for religion,” she said, “I promise this much: I will not change it, provided only that it can be proved by the word of God, which shall be the only foundation and rule of my religion.”

“You see, your Highness,” wrote Feria, “the kind of woman with which we have to deal. There is a sharpness beneath the soft answer. She says ‘Yes’ in such a way as to mean ‘No.’ She said: ‘There is no reason why I should thank Mary for bequeathing the crown to me, for she has not the power of bestowing it upon me. Nor can I lawfully be deprived of it, since it is my hereditary right.’ Your Highness will see that this is a direct rebuff to yourself, as the new Queen has been assured of your efforts with Mary on her behalf.

“There is one other matter which gives me concern. I sought to extract from her a statement concerning her religious policy, and I tackled her while she was in the midst of her courtiers and statesmen, as I felt that if she publicly stated her intention to uphold the true religion, she would perforce be obliged to carry out that intention. I said that your Majesty had ordered me to beg her to be very careful about religious matters as they were what first and principally concerned you, implying that if she did not continue in the established religion your Majesty would become her enemy. Her answer came in a tone of mild reproach: ‘It would indeed be bad of me to forget God, who has been so good to me.’ Your Majesty will see how, with such an answer, she can say nothing or everything.

“There are, of course, many suitors for her hand…and crown. This makes her very coquettish indeed; she plays the part of desirable woman with such verve that in her presence it is difficult to believe that it is her crown and not her person which is so attractive. There is Prince Eric of Sweden, who, at time, she feigns to favor. There are your Majesty’s own cousins, the two sons of the Emperor Ferdinand. And, of course, Savoy.

“There is another who is considered a possible suitor. This is an Englishman, Lord Robert Dudley. This young man is very handsome and the Queen favors him, keeping him beside her and at times treating him as though he is her acknowledged lover. His wife has recently died in mysterious circumstances and there are unsavory rumors about this matter among the people; but the Queen is so set on the young man, and she being as she is, it is thought that she may make up her mind to marriage with him.

“I feel this matter of the Queen’s marriage is of the utmost importance to our country, and that while she is playing with the idea of making her subject Dudley her husband, she is obsessed by her vanity; and the way in which we could appeal to that would be to suggest to her the greatest match the world can offer.”

Philip laid down the documents and considered this. Himself once more the husband of a Queen of that bleak land! He shrank from the idea.

He thought of her—sly, yet demure—dropping to her knees before him, yet raising her eyes as though to say: I salute you because the world recognizes you as its greatest monarch; but to me you are just a man, and one day there will be a greater monarch—and that a woman. One day there will be a greater country than Spain, and that will be England; for I shall be Queen of England, and I will have none but the best.

She was arrogant and insolent, yet so clever that it was impossible to protest against that insolent arrogance.

He thought of her pleading with her sister, when he had seen her from behind the curtains. Then she had been afraid, and yet what pride there was in her, and how different she had seemed from poor, sickly Mary, doomed to defeat, frustration, and failure!

And to marry her! That was what Feria was suggesting. Marry that coquette, that virago, that conceited, foolish, shrewd woman!

She was not repulsive to him, but why should he concern himself with her physical attractions? It was not for him to marry for such reasons. He must think only of his religion and his country.

He looked again at the crucifix on the wall. To bring England back to Rome was worth any price that might be asked of him. And now this Queen was about to break away from Rome; he was fully aware of that. If she did so, Henri of France would have little difficulty in getting the Pope to excommunicate her; then the Pope would be ready to support the claim of Mary Queen of Scots to the English throne.

There must not be an English-French alliance.

He rose from his table and fell to his knees before the crucifix. There had come to him suddenly a vision of married life with the Queen of England. It would be an exciting life, he doubted not; quite different from that which he had shared with her half-sister. He thought of her red hair and blue eyes which veiled her secret thoughts. Desire? A little perhaps. She appealed to something in him. But he knew he could never subdue her. He knew that life with her would be one long battle. He was not a warrior; he was a man who hated war. Moreover, he felt that she, with her wiles and sly cunning, would get the better of him.

Marry Elizabeth? “No!” he murmured.

Yet such a marriage would be good for his country; it would baffle the French. He must pray; he must ask for guidance. Was it God’s will that he should marry Elizabeth of England?

Quite suddenly he knew that it was so. She was wavering toward heresy, and only marriage with the Most Catholic King might save her. He could make her abandonment of heresy a condition of the marriage; in fact he must do this.

Then the Inquisition should be set up in England. Was it not Philip’s task in life to save the world for Catholicism?

He wrote to Feria:

“I highly approve the course you have adopted in persuading the Queen not to marry a subject. As regards myself, if she were to broach the matter to you, you should treat it in such a way as neither to accept nor reject the suggestion entirely. Many obstacles present themselves. I could not be much in England, as my other dominions claim my attention. The Queen is rumored to be unsound in religion and it would not look well for me to marry her if she were not a Catholic. Such a marriage would, in view of the claims of Mary of Scotland, mean perpetual trouble with France. So there is much against the marriage; but I cannot lose sight of the fact that such a match would be of great moment to Christendom, and it is my great wish that England should not lapse into former errors.

“I have decided, therefore, to put aside all other considerations and render this service to God by offering to marry the Queen of England. There must be conditions, and the first is that the Queen must profess to be a staunch Catholic. Dispensation from the Pope will be necessary, but if she is a good Catholic that will present no great difficulty.”

When he had finished he read through the letter. To bring her and her country back to the true faith would be a great achievement and give him much credit in the eyes of God.

But was that the real reason why he wished to marry Elizabeth?

There were two others. She interested him. Her perpetual assurance of her own desirability had apparently made him feel that there must be some truth in it. Her past appeared to be far from unsullied; there had been adventures. She was young; she was all that Mary had not been.

And the last reason? As King of Spain, he must not lose the friendship of the English. Henri of France was awaiting his opportunities. If Mary Stuart ever reached the throne of England, then France, with England her close ally, would threaten to become the greatest world power.

There were so many reasons. Which was the most important of them all? Philip was not sure.

But the Queen of England was not overcome with joy by the proposal of the King of Spain. She flirted with Dudley and her Spanish suitor’s ambassador; she was absurdly coquettish, declaring that since Feria was her suitor by proxy he must not have lodgings under the same roof, for that would be most improper (yet this, Feria wrote, was she who, rumor had it, had borne Seymour a child!). First she favored one, then another; she accepted the rich present of jewels which Philip had instructed Feria to give her—jewels which he had previously given to Mary—but she had accepted them with a speculative light in her eyes which had meant: What does he want for this? Philip would never give something for nothing!

At times she snubbed Feria; at others she petted him. She could not see him; she was too busy; she was not well. Then he must sit beside her; he was her very dear friend and she would have him know that he was always welcome.

Feria wrote to his master in exasperation: “She is the daughter of the Devil, surrounded by ministers who are heretics and scoundrels.”

The “courtship” dragged on. Elizabeth was favoring one suitor after another, behaving as though the humblest of them was as interesting to her as the most powerful.

Such a state of affairs could not continue. Spain could not be slighted forever.

Philip suddenly decided on a change of policy. He was no longer going to ask for Elizabeth’s hand; and it seemed to him that God was guiding him, for just at that moment when the conduct of the English Queen was exasperating him beyond endurance, the French Ambassador brought dispatches from the King of France in which Henri declared that he was becoming alarmed by the growth of heresy in his country; and he felt it behooved the great Catholic powers to stand together against it throughout the world. It was irreligious for Catholic to fight Catholic while the enemy of their faith was growing to alarming power. Should not the Kings of France and Spain stand together, forget their differences, and isolate England, which, in spite of the prevarication of its Queen—or perhaps because of this—was daily growing more heretic?

Let the marriage between Carlos and Henri’s daughter Elisabeth take place at once, and so show the world that the two Catholic Kings were united against the heretic.

Surely this was the answer, thought Philip. It should be done.

Carlos was quietly happy.

At last she was coming to him, this beautiful girl. He had worked hard with the French language; he could speak many words now. He could say: “I shall call you Isabella, because that is a beautiful name in this country. It is Spanish, and Elisabeth is French. You are Spanish now, dear Isabella.”

He talked to her when he was alone; and he fancied the picture in the locket smiled at him.

He would show her the countryside; he would tell her about his ambitions, how he had always longed to be a great soldier, and that perhaps now that he was so much better, he could be.

“Isabella…Isabella…” he whispered. “I am so glad you are here. There is no one who loves me. Now there will be. There will be you, Isabella.”

Sometimes he pictured darker scenes when he was angry—not with Isabella though; he would never be angry with her. But he fancied that one of his black moods came upon him and he struck his servant until Isabella came to him and begged him to show mercy to the man. And for Isabella’s sake he would pardon the servant. She would be delighted. “Thank you, Carlos,” she would say. “How happy you make me!”

Isabella was gentle. He could see that by her picture. She would be sorry for helpless little animals. She would beg him not to roast hares alive as he liked to do; she would beg him not to cut their throats and let them bleed slowly to death.

“I know I am silly, Carlos,” she would say, “but it frightens me.”

Then Carlos would answer: “I will not do it, Isabella, because I wish to do what you want always…always…”

Then they would laugh together and he would tell her of the black moods. She would kiss him and say: “I will charm them away, dear Carlos.”

“Oh, Isabella…Isabella…at last you are coming! Even my father cannot keep you from me now.”

In the Brussels Palace Philip thought continually of this marriage, and how could he possibly think of the marriage without sorrowfully pondering over the prospective bridegroom?

He shuddered, remembering Carlos in a hundred ugly moods.

“Holy Mother,” he groaned, “why was I burdened with such a son?”

What could Carlos do for his father? What could he do for Spain? The reports from his tutors were alarming; there was not one of them who, having been given a high post in the household of the Prince of the Asturias, did not hint that he would be delighted to dispense with it.

Philip must face the truth. Carlos might not yet be as mad as his great-grandmother Juana, but he was not entirely sane. What trouble Juana had caused! Philip recalled the stinking apartment and the wild-eyed woman. He remembered how she had kept her daughter Katharine in seclusion in the Alcázar of Tordesillas. He remembered how she had screamed from her window, ordering the guards to kill one another.

Carlos was unfit for marriage.

Philip himself must have another son; if he did so, this marriage of Carlos with Elisabeth of Valois would be unnecessary. The important matter at issue was alliance with France, and Philip was the one who needed a wife. Why not continue with the French marriage, but with a different bridegroom!

He reached for the marriage contract. It was so simple. All he need do was substitute the name of Don Philip, King of Spain, for that of Don Carlos, Prince of the Asturias.

And what would the King and Queen of France say to such an exchange of bridegrooms? He could rely on their attitude. Instead of marrying their daughter to a weakling boy who had no power they would be offered alliance with the most powerful monarch in the world. What would any ambitious father and mother say to such a project?

And what would Elisabeth herself say to such a dazzling prospect?

But did it matter what such a child would say? She would of course obey first her parents and then her husband.

The more Philip thought of the project, the more he liked it.

It was left to Juana to tell Carlos.

She came to him, her face, as usual, half-hidden; and there was a terrible fear in her heart. She knew why he had improved so much during the last months; she knew of the picture in the locket, which was his perpetual solace.

She dreaded telling him, yet she knew he must not hear the bad news from any other. Who knew what wildness would take possession of him? He would be capable of a murderous assault on anyone who told him what had been decided.

She came to him while he was studying a book written in French.

“Carlos!” she cried. “Little One!”

He looked at her haughtily. He was not Little One now. He was grown up. He was about to be a husband.

“Carlos, there is sad news, dear one. It is hard to tell.”

“My father is coming home,” he said scowling.

“Yes, yes. I doubt not that he will be home. Carlos, he is to marry.”

“Ha! Then we shall both be bridegrooms. Who is it to be? The Queen of England? I am sorry for her…though they say she is a fury herself. Ha…ha…”

“Do not laugh like that, Carlos. It is not to be the Queen of England.”

“Juana…Juana…why do you look at me like that? Why do you look so sad and frightened?”

“Because, my darling, I have such bad news for you.”

“For me? Oh! He is going to stop my marriage. He hates me. He hates me to be happy. He will keep Isabella from me. But I will run away. I will go to her. I will go to the King, her father, and tell him how they treat me here.”

“No, Carlos, no. Your father has decided that…you are too young to marry, and…”

Carlos let out a howl which was like that of a wild animal. He ran to Juana and began beating her with his fists.

“Stop…stop!” she cried. “You have not heard, Carlos. Do you want me to tell you? I thought it better that you should hear from me.”

He glared at her, and all his misery showed in his face.

“Isabella…” he muttered. “Isabella…”

“Yes. But I cannot tell you till you lie down.”

His lips were twitching and there was foam at his mouth. But he allowed her to lead him to a couch, and there he lay while she knelt and took his hand. It was clammy and the pulse was erratic.

“Carlos, my Little One. I would give my life to spare you this. Your father…he is going to marry Isabella himself.”

He did not speak. He just lay with eyes wide open; she thought he had not understood, and she began to pray: “Holy Virgin, help me to comfort him. Holy Mother, help him, because he needs your help so much…”

Now he was speaking. The words came through his clenched teeth; but he did not pray. Juana felt her limbs go stiff with horror as she heard his words.

“Hate…hate…hate…I will kill him. This has decided it. I will kill him…with mine own hands…”

Then the tears rolled down his cheeks, and suddenly he turned on to his face and began to bite the cushions on the couch; strange noises came from his lips; his clenched fists were shaking; he twisted and turned, and as he rolled over she saw his face. There was blood on his chin, and his eyes were staring inhumanly.

He did not see her. He saw nothing but the pictures conjured up in his distorted mind. He had forgotten his love for Isabella in his hatred for his father.

Juana ran from the room. He was in one of those terrible fits which had afflicted Juana’s own small brothers. And as she ran, calling for attendants, she could not shut out of her mind those words of the young Prince concerning his father:

“I will kill…kill him…with mine own hands!”

TWO

In The Palace of the Louvre, a frightened girl of fourteen was preparing herself for her marriage with the greatest monarch in the world.

She had wept so much that she could weep no more. She had confided her miseries to her young sister-in-law, Mary Stuart, herself a bride of less than a year. Mary was kind, for the two girls had been brought up together and were great friends, rivals in beauty and learning, and so happy until the news had come of this great honor which had fallen to Elisabeth.

“It is so different for you!” cried Elisabeth to Mary. “Such a marriage as yours could not but please all concerned. You married François, and you and François have loved each other ever since you came to live with us, and it is all as it was before, except that you are his wife; and when he is King of France you will be Queen. Your life is easy; you see whither it is leading. Whereas I must go away…right away from France to this land of Spain where they never laugh, and dance only in the most solemn manner. And I must marry an old man—nearly twenty years older than I. He is thirty-two, Mary. Think of that! And he has already had two wives. They say he is gloomy and that it is all prayers with him.”

“But think, dear Elisabeth,” said Mary. “You will be the most important Queen in the world…the Queen of Spain.”

“I would rather be Queen of France than of any country in the world.”

“But you will be Queen of Spain as soon as the ceremony is over. I can only be Queen of France if dear Papa dies, and that could do nothing but bring unhappiness to us all. And, Elisabeth, being Queen of France is not always so very pleasant. Think of Queen Catherine, your mother.”

Elisabeth glanced over her shoulder. She was always afraid of talking about her mother, who would come so silently into a room, watching and listening, so that one turned and found her there. It was said that she had strange powers, and Elisabeth often felt that she knew what was being said even when she was not there.

“She is not here,” said Mary now, following her gaze.

“No; but she might be.”

Mary was very bold, conscious of that beauty which attracted all at court. She had often been careless before the Queen, showing a lack of respect which she would not have dared show Diane, Duchesse de Valentinois, the King’s mistress, who ruled the court as Queen. Mary was careless, and Elisabeth feared that one day she would be sorry for behaving as she had toward Queen Catherine.

“Well,” went on Mary, “you have seen how a Queen may be humiliated. It is Madame Diane de Poitiers—I beg her pardon, Duchesse de Valentinois—who is the real Queen of France. But they say that King Philip would not keep a mistress to humiliate his wife. You may be sure that the Queen of Spain will be treated with more respect than your honored mother, the Queen of France.”

Elisabeth went to the window. “I hate it,” she said. “All these people…all these foreigners…all the ceremonies and the preparation. Oh, Mary, how wonderful it would be if we were all young again without thought of marriage!”

“There are always thoughts of marriage with people like us.”

“I mean if we were in the schoolroom. You remember? Vying with each other, trying to write better Latin verses than one another? And Papa’s coming in to see how we were progressing?…”

“Coming in with Diane; and we all had to kiss her hand, do you remember, and she would fuss over us as though she were our mother?”

“I remember.”

“And the Queen, your lady mother, would come in, and…”

“I remember that, too,” said Elisabeth. “And once you called her a merchant’s daughter. You should not have done that, Mary.”

“But I did, and she is…”

“I should not listen to you.”

“Elisabeth, you are afraid of life. That is your weakness. You are afraid of your mother, and now you are afraid of Philip. You are beautiful—almost as beautiful as I am! Never fear. You can enjoy life at the court of Spain…if you are wise.”

“I wish I were as gay as you. But it is so easy to be gay when you are married to dear François and may spend the rest of your life here…with Papa and all the family.”

Elisabeth looked down on the gardens, where her young sister Margot was walking arm in arm with her special playmate, young Henry of Guise. Margot was only six, yet self-assured; they were like a pair of lovers, those two. François and his young brother Charles came into the gardens; they were looking for Mary, Elisabeth knew, for they both adored her.

“Oh, why cannot I stay here!” cried Elisabeth. “This is my home. This is where I belong. Mary, François and Charles are looking for you.”

Mary came to the window and rapped on it; the boys looked up. Young Margot and Guise paid not the slightest attention; they were absorbed in each other.

“Go to them,” said Elisabeth. “Do not let them come here. I wish to be by myself for a while.”

Mary kissed her tenderly. “Do not fret so, little sister.”

When Mary had gone, Elisabeth sat down and covered her face with her hands. She was trying so hard not to think of what was before her. She had been given Philip’s picture. Such a cold face, she thought it; she did not know whether it was cruel or not. He had fair hair and blue eyes; and when the picture had been formally given to her she had had to kiss it.

Her father had said: “This is the greatest honor that could befall any Princess. The great Philip of Spain has chosen you for his wife.” Oh, why had he not married the Queen of England? Why could she not have stayed just a little longer with her family? Her sister Claude had been married recently, and Claude was even younger than she was; but Claude had been married to the Duke of Lorraine, and that meant that she would not go right away from her home; she could often come and see them all. What comfort that was! But Elisabeth knew that once she had crossed the borders to that gloomy land of Spain and entered the household of her gloomy husband, she would never return.

“Holy Virgin,” she prayed, “let something happen…anything…but let me stay with Mary, François, Charles, little Hercule, Margot, Papa, and Diane and…and my mother…”

Suddenly she knew that she was not alone in the room. Hastily she lowered her hands. Her mother had entered quietly, and was standing very still, leaning against the tapestry on the wall, watching her.

Elisabeth rose hastily. “Madame, I…I did not hear you enter.”

“Stay where you are, my child.”

The flat features betrayed nothing; only the dark eyes seemed alive in that heavy face.

“So,” went on Catherine de Medici, “you have been weeping and wailing and getting your sister-in-law to commiserate with you because you are to be the most important Queen in the world. That is so, is it not?”

How did she know such things? She knows everything, thought Elisabeth in a panic; she has some secret power which René or the Ruggieri brothers have given her.

“Mother…” she began. “Madame…”

“Yes, my child, you are sad because you must leave your home. My dear daughter, it is the fate of us all. I was no older than you when I left my home in Italy and came to France.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“That was to marry Papa.”

Catherine gave that loud burst of laughter which was familiar to them all. “He was a stranger to me.”

Elisabeth looked at her plump mother and thought how she would willingly change places with her, endure all the humiliations which any other woman would suffer—Catherine gave no signs of suffering them—from the dazzling Diane, who, although so much older than the King and the Queen, had had the King’s devotion ever since he was a boy.

Elisabeth would willingly change places with anybody who had not to go to Spain to marry Philip.

“Yes, but…” faltered Elisabeth.

“I was as alarmed as you are. But you see, I became the Queen of France and the mother of you all, and one day, my daughter, you will laugh at your fears even as I do now at mine.” Catherine came close to Elisabeth. “You will have much to occupy you in your new life. I shall write to you often and my letters will bring you something of myself. When you read them it will be as though I am speaking to you. You will remember that?”

Elisabeth tried to conquer the fear she had of her mother. She knew all the children had it—except young Henri, whom Catherine petted and adored. Even Margot, brazen and bold, trembled in the presence of her mother.

“You will be our little ambassadress at the court of King Philip, dearest child. You will not forget us all…your father and mother, your brothers and sisters.”

“I shall never forget you,” cried Elisabeth. “I shall long to be home with you.”

“Bah! When you are Queen, you will be content with your lot. You are young and very pretty, and I doubt not that your husband will wish to please you. That will depend on you. It is for you to make him wish to please you.”

Elisabeth wished her mother would not smile in that way. It frightened her even more than when her face was quite expressionless. The smile suggested distasteful things—caresses, love-making with a husband whom Elisabeth could only be happy in forgetting.

“There is a stepson, Elisabeth—Don Carlos, he who was to have been the bridegroom.” Catherine laughed again. “Never mind. You have the better one. A king on the throne is worth many an heir to the same throne. For we know what is, but how do any of us know what may be? Now, child, this will be your first mission at your husband’s court. You will arrange a match between your sister Margot and Don Carlos. That is what I wish you to do; and if you achieve it I shall be very proud of you. It will be almost as though I am there…so you will not be lonely.” She laughed again. “I shall write to you often. I shall give you the benefit of my advice and comfort. Dearest daughter, although you will be gone, we shall not really be parted. You believe that, do you not?”

“Yes, Madame.”

Catherine put her cold lips against her daughter’s forehead. Then she went silently from the room.

Elisabeth closed her eyes and began to pray for a miracle, something that could happen to prevent or even delay her journey to Spain.

She saw her father later. It was easier to talk to him although he was the King. It had always been thus. When he had come to the nursery, the little ones, unaware of his rank, had clambered over him, pulling his beard.

Now that beard was silver although he was only forty. He was a man slow of speech, a little taciturn in the company of adults, but at ease with children. He was Father first, King second, to his family.

She told him how she dreaded the ceremony, how she was afraid of the solemn Duke of Alba, who had come from Flanders to act as proxy for his master, since the Kings of Spain did not leave their country to bring home their brides; their brides came to them.

He was kind; he understood.

“It makes me sad to lose you,” he said, “although I shall be proud of my little Queen of Spain.”

“But to leave you all, Papa…all my brothers and sisters and you…dearest Papa…you most of all.”

He stroked her hair. “It is the fate of such as we are, dearest child,” he said. “We all have to face it. Princes and princesses all have their marriages made for them.”

“But, Papa, I cannot bear it. I cannot.”

“Dearest, you will. We all do. In a little while you will be happy there, and Spain will be your home instead of France.”

“But Spain is not France, and it is France I love.”

“It is your home you love, Elisabeth; and Spain will be your home, for your home will be where your husband is. You must not cry. You must not have red eyes for the ceremony or the King your husband will hear of it and feel slighted. He might even cancel the arrangements!”

“Papa, do you think he would?”

“Elisabeth, if it were not this marriage it would be another.”

“I have prayed, Papa, that something will happen so that I need not go.”

“I said earnest prayers at the time of my own marriage.”

“But you found happiness later.”

“Great happiness, dearest child.”

Then Diane came in and, smiling at the father and daughter, she lifted the hair from Elisabeth’s hot face and kissed her; for Diane behaved as a mother to the royal children, and that was how they thought of their father’s mistress.

She said: “The child is exhausted, and there are all the ceremonies before her! Come, Elisabeth, my dear one, you must go to bed and I will have a soothing draught made for you. I will bring it to you myself and sit with you until you are sleepy. When you are rested you will feel better. Will she not?”

“She will indeed,” said Henri; and as he looked from his daughter to his mistress, it was as though he were telling Elisabeth that even when life seemed very cruel to princes and princesses, it sometimes was very kind to them in unexpected ways.

The dreaded day came nearer and nothing happened to prevent the marriage. Emmanuel Philibert, the Duke of Savoy, was also in Paris, for he had come to marry Elisabeth’s Aunt Marguerite. With the two marriages the alliance between France and Spain would be very firm indeed, and England would be completely isolated, Elizabeth of England losing her two suitors by the marriages which were to take place in Paris that summer.

Little Elisabeth de Valois was formally betrothed to Philip by proxy in the great hall of the Louvre, and as she stood beside the Duke of Alba, with whom was the young Prince of Orange, who had accompanied Alba from the Netherlands, she felt that even Philip could not be more forbidding than his proxy. There was some small comfort in that.

The next day the actual ceremony was solemnized in Notre Dame to the delight of all except the bride, for the pomp and magnificence was equal to that which had enchanted Paris at the marriage of Mary Stuart and the Dauphin of France the year before.

Elisabeth clung to her father’s hand as he led her from the Bishop’s Palace to Notre Dame. Her dress was covered with beautiful pearls, her mantle was of blue velvet, and about her neck was hung a locket containing Philip’s portrait; there was also the huge pear-shaped pearl—the most valuable of all Spain’s crown jewels—a present from the bridegroom to the bride. She looked very small beside her glittering father, who whispered words of comfort to her as he acknowledged the applause of the onlookers. Behind her came her sister Claude to carry her train, with Mary Stuart, the Dauphine. This, thought Elisabeth, was one of the last occasions when she would be surrounded by the members of her beloved family. The Imperial crown which she must carry on her head weighed her down more by its significance than by the weight of gold and jewels.

Now she must stand beside the Duke of Alba, who was dressed in glittering cloth of gold, while the Cardinal of Bourbon proclaimed her the wife of the King of Spain.

The French, unlike the English, could outdo the Spaniards in courtesy and brilliance; and this they proceeded to do to the best of their ability. There was an inevitable undercurrent of uneasiness at such a time; the wedding had not increased the amity between the rival factions of France. The Catholic party, at the head of which were the Guises, was delighted, for the match was very much to their liking; the Protestant party, at the head of which were the Bourbons, was made uneasy by the new and close tie with Catholic Spain.

But, at the brilliant ceremonies that followed, the Guisards and the Bourbons veiled their antagonisms; and when, shortly afterward, the King’s sister was married to the Duke of Savoy, the wedding celebrations in recognition of the double wedding must, all had declared, be doubly magnificent.

As each day passed, the little bride’s uneasiness grew. Nightly she prayed for a miracle. She begged for a few more months, a few more days in France.

There were many interviews with her mother, when she was given instructions as to how she might bind Philip to her; she was continually told that she must remember that first she was a princess of France, and it was the interests of France and her family that she must further.

Ceremonies seemed endless. There were many jousts and tourneys, and always she, with the elder members of her family, must be present in a pavilion of honor to see Frenchmen tilt against Spaniards.

At length there came that day which she would never forget as long as she lived. How could such a day begin so ordinarily! There was nothing in the brilliant June sky to warn them all that this day would be different from any others spent in rejoicing. The crowds were as numerous as ever; the pavilion and dresses of men and women as glittering as was to be expected of the most brilliant court in the world.

The jousting was held close to the Bastille near the gate of St. Antoine. Elisabeth sat with her mother, her sister Claude, and that other bride, her aunt Marguerite. Above their heads the silken canopies kept off the rays of the sun. The crowd was expectant, for the King was to joust today.

Elisabeth was aware that her mother was uneasy. There was an affinity between them, and Elisabeth sometimes thought that she knew more about her mother than the others.

Catherine de Medici was known to be different from other women; no one could have borne as she did the constant humiliation of watching Diane take all the homage which was Catherine’s by right; she had special powers which were given to her by her magicians; she was quiet, and only her children feared her. For, thought Elisabeth, we are the only ones who know the Queen of France.

When the King rode into the arena he was wearing, as he always did, the black-and-white colors of his mistress Diane. It was not this habitual slight which made Catherine uneasy; but there she sat, tense, not missing a single movement made by the King.

She was clearly relieved when the joust was over and the King emerged victorious. Elisabeth wondered afresh at her mother’s love for her father. Not all the humiliation he inflicted on her could stifle that quiet, tense emotion. The King was the kindest person Elisabeth had ever known, yet she could not understand her mother’s devotion; for although he was always courteous to his wife, he so clearly did not love her, and that was apparent in the very tone of his voice when he spoke to her. Perhaps he believed, as so many people did, that she had poisoned his elder brother, so that he might be King and she the Queen. Moreover, he loved Diane so much that nothing could prevent his showing it. Diane to him was his Queen. In spite of that, Catherine loved him.

Now the King was declaring that he wished to tilt again, and Catherine had half risen in her seat. She wanted, Elisabeth knew, to beg him not to. Too much exercise was bad for him. He had had an unpleasant attack of giddiness after a game of tennis only yesterday; and now he had jousted enough.

But the King was like a boy, as proudly he bore his mistress’s colors. He declared that he was as fresh as when he had started; he would break one more lance before he retired from the field.

A young Franco-Scot came forward at his command—Montgomerie, the Sieur de L’Orge.

Catherine seemed to have communicated some of her uneasiness to this young man, for he begged the King to excuse him; but the King insisted.

It was all over in a few minutes. Had Catherine risen to protest before it happened? Elisabeth did not know.

Montgomerie’s lance, striking the King on the gorget, had splintered, and one of the splinters had entered the King’s eye. Henri fell to the ground, his face covered with blood.

Elisabeth was vaguely aware that her mother had risen and that on her face was an expression of dreadful understanding.

Elisabeth pressed her hands against her madly beating heart. She feared the worst of all tragedies had overtaken her. And so she had her wish. The journey was delayed. She was heartbroken during those last weeks in France.

The King must lie in state; he must be buried with the utmost ceremony.

Philip was impatient to receive his bride. The new King François and his lovely wife, Mary Stuart, were completely under the control of Mary’s uncles, the Guises, which was a comforting thought for Philip; he had heard rumors that the character of the Dowager Queen Catherine was not quite what people had believed during her husband’s lifetime. It was as though she was awakening, said his spies, and that her previous meekness had disguised her sinister character. There were some who had nicknamed her “Madame le Serpent,” and the name seemed to fit. Philip realized that his young wife would be much under the influence of such a mother, and his demands that she should be sent to Spain became more and more insistent.

Catherine de Medici had many excuses ready. The trousseau of the Queen of Spain was not yet prepared, and she was sure the King of Spain would not wish his bride to arrive like a little commoner. There were innumerable negotiations; there was an enormous quantity of baggage which had to be transported over the Pyrenees; and the Dowager Queen thought it only right that Elisabeth should remain behind to attend the coronation of her young brother, François.

Philip was growing uneasy. He was a husband, yet no husband. The French were defying him; it seemed to him that the Flemings were defying him also.

At the assembly of the States-General in Ghent which he had recently attended, there had been many bold speeches. The Flemings resented the Spanish soldiers Philip had brought to their shores, and they said so. One man had said that it would now be the simplest matter to set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands, and as the Netherlands was a free country, it would have no hospitality to offer a foreign institution.

Philip had grown pale with anger at the mention of the Inquisition. “That is not merely a revolt against me,” he said. “That is a revolt against God.”

He did not trust Orange. He knew the Prince was negotiating a marriage with a daughter of one of the Protestant princes.

The Flemings were turning against him; he was on bad terms with his Uncle Ferdinand; and his young wife was held from him and was doubtless being instructed by that artful Italian woman how to act as a spy in his court.

Clearly something must be done. He would put down revolt in the Netherlands; he would return to Spain in order to discuss this with his ministers, and at the same time to receive his bride there.

The Prince of Orange himself was at Flushing to bid Philip farewell before he embarked. Philip looked coldly at the young man and said: “I am well aware that you are responsible for your countrymen’s opposition to my wishes.”

Orange replied: “The opposition to your wishes, Sire, can only reflect the feelings and the views of the people.”

Philip turned impatiently away, muttering: “No, Orange; you cannot deceive me. You are to blame…with your heresy. You…and you alone.”

Orange realized that Philip’s utterance was tantamount to a declaration of war, and he was exultant. He determined in that moment to rescue the Netherlands from the yoke of Spain and all the cruelties of the Inquisition.

From the surrounding country, people were crowding into Valladolid; far beyond its walls the sound of tolling bells could be heard. This was no ordinary fiesta. It was a saint’s day, one of the holidays of Holy Church; best clothes were worn, expressions of sobriety were worn like masks to hide excitement. Water-carriers, who sold cool drinks to thirsty travelers, did good business along the dusty road that day; all those who had stood aside to watch the royal procession enter the town were now eagerly pressing forward, anxious to secure a place well to the fore in the Plaza Mayor.

There was about to take place the greatest auto-da-fé any had ever witnessed. The King would be present; the Prince Don Carlos with his Aunt Juana would sit in the state gallery; and more men and women would be burned alive—and many of them members of the nobility and the court itself—than had ever been burned on one occasion.

Who could resist such a spectacle? All those who witnessed it would talk of it for the rest of their lives. It would be more diverting even than the torturing of bulls. No wonder people were crowding into the town; no wonder men and women were trampled underfoot in their efforts to be first in the Plaza Mayor.

The terrible scene was set in the great square before the Church of St. Francis, and the Inquisitors were already seated on the sumptuously carpeted platform; and in the gallery were the members of the royal family with their attendants. Juana was heavily veiled, as she always was in public; Philip, his eyes aflame with fanaticism, presented a less cool facade to his subjects than usual; and Don Carlos, white-faced, magnificently dressed as he loved to be, was more deeply conscious of his father than of anyone else in the whole assembly.

Beside Philip sat his friends, Ruy Gomez da Silva, Gomez Suarez de Figeuroa, and the Count of Feria. Ruy glanced covertly at Philip. What was he thinking? wondered Ruy. But he, who had lived so near to Philip for so many years, could guess. Philip was thinking of God’s pleasure in the drama which was about to be enacted; he was thinking of the delight of God in maimed and tortured bodies, in the cries of agony.

Ruy shivered and turned his gaze upon the young Prince. Carlos was brooding. He was not thinking so much of the sights he was about to see; he was thinking of his father and the wife who would soon be coming to him.

As Secretary of State and chief adviser to the King, Ruy was fully conscious of the uneasy days which lay ahead. He would like to speak his mind to Philip concerning Carlos; he would like to explain to the King the thoughts which he could not suppress. He was deeply conscious of the Grand Inquisitor, Fernando Valdés, Cardinal-Archbishop of Seville, who was in charge of today’s spectacle. There was not one person in the crowd who could look at that man unmoved, and Ruy was no exception. The reputation of the Cardinal-Archbishop was second only to that of Torquemada. Since he had been in command of the dread Inquisition, he had determined to increase its power, and this he had done with marked success. He had enlisted new spies; they were everywhere, listening to unwary conversations, tempting the careless to betray themselves. Under Valdés, new instruments of torture had been devised. He was the man whom Philip had appointed to stamp out heresy in Spain; for, said Philip—and Valdés echoed his words—how could they hope to free the rest of the world from the Devil unless Spain herself was beyond reproach?

There was now a deep silence over the square; then it seemed as though all the church bells in the town were tolling.

The doors of the great prison would now be opening. Ruy knew this, because he had witnessed similar ceremonies. Out of the gates of the prison a wretched procession would now be filing and at any moment it would be possible to see their vanguard.

He watched a black-eyed gypsy girl cross herself as she touched her rosary; his eyes strayed to the water-carrier in tattered rags. In the slant of the man’s eyes Ruy recognized his Moorish ancestry. And beside that man was another, whose lips were moving in prayer; his features suggested Jewish blood. Had their ancestors taken part in such a spectacle—a more active part than these two would take? Perhaps they had been rich lords, rich merchants. Who could tell what one’s descendants would come to when the Holy Inquisition’s greedy claw seized a man and his property?

These were dangerous thoughts. As the King’s closest friend, holding a high position in the country, he should not be thinking them.

Here came the troops, resplendent in their uniforms. Ruy fixed his eyes upon them because he did not wish to look beyond them. He was weak today, weak and fanciful. He was unnerved, not only by the sights he knew from experience he would have to witness, but by the mad hatred which he sensed in Carlos. He knew now that he was a lover of peace. He hated cruelty in any form. There was not a man or woman present who would not condemn such thoughts, coming at this time. He should confess those thoughts. Dare he? Certainly not. Whom could one trust? One’s confessor today might be a familiar of the Inquisition tomorrow. Ruy might at times be a sentimental man, but he was a wise one. God alone should know his thoughts. God would punish him, if he deserved punishment. He was appalled suddenly to realize that for such thoughts he could be sentenced to join that group of men whom he did not wish to look upon. Another thought, swift as lightning, followed. The man beside him, the King and his friend, would not hesitate to destroy him if he knew what was passing through his mind.

What a fearful sight they presented!

“They are heretics. They are heretics!” Ruy repeated to himself. “Think of that. Heretics! Their sufferings may bring them salvation if they repent in time.”

But he found no real peace in those words. He must therefore delude himself. He must catch the exultation which he sensed about him. The sun was hot, but the royal gallery was shaded by the hangings which shut out the burning heat. Ruy could smell death and decay in the air. The wounds of some of these men and women who stumbled behind the soldiers were turning gangrenous.

Ruy assured himself: They would die in any case very soon.

They came, stumbling on; some had to be carried in chairs because their legs had been broken on the wheel or on the chevalet; the arms of some hung helpless at their sides. Those without eyes had to be led. There were some who lacked ears and noses.

Is this necessary? Could we not offer them easier death?

Ruy answered his own questions. The Inquisition in its mercy gives these people a foretaste of Hell that they may repent in time and save themselves from an eternity of suffering.

He was happier now; he was guiding his thoughts into the right channels.

These victims who had once been men and women—very like the men and women in the square, very like the people on the platform—all wore the symbol of their shame: the hideous, loose-fitting sanbenito and caps made of pasteboard with grotesque devils painted upon them.

There were three types of this coarse woollen gown, and the spectators could see at a glance what fate was intended for the wearers. Among the mournful procession were some whose garments were simply marked with a red cross: they were guilty of the venial sins, and penance, imprisonment, and confiscation of goods was to be their punishment; after their sentences were pronounced they would be taken back to the gloomy prison of the Inquisition to expiate their sins. There were others whose garments displayed busts of human beings in the act of being consumed by long red flames which were pointing downward; this indicated that although their bodies would be burned they would not feel the flames since, as they had recanted, they should first be accorded the mercy of strangulation. The third type of garment displayed busts and heads in the midst of flames which pointed upward, fanned by mocking devils; these were the unrepentant heretics who were condemned to be burned alive.

“Repent and be reconciled!” chanted the monks who walked on either side of the yellow-clad figures. “Repent and be reconciled!”

Following the prisoners came the jailors and more monks, the magistrates and the important officials of the Inquisition on mules, the trappings of which were so gorgeous that for a few moments the eyes of the crowd were fixed upon them instead of on the miserable victims.

Philip’s pale skin turned to coral as the sarcenet was held high. It was red—the color of blood—and embroidered with the heraldic arms of the Inquisition, the Papal arms and those of Ferdinand and Isabella.

The sermon of faith, preached that day by the Bishop of Zamora, was longer than usual; and after the sermon came that great moment when Philip endeared himself to his people as few other sovereigns ever had.

There was a great silence in the crowd as Valdés rose. He raised his hand, and all in the square—man, woman, and child—knelt and lifted their hands toward the skies as they chanted the Oath of Allegiance to the Holy Office. They would be faithful to the Holy Catholic Church and its Inquisition in life and in death; they would give their right eyes, their right hands in its service, and if necessary their lives.

And as they began to chant the Oath—which was not demanded of the King—Philip sprang suddenly to his feet; his Toledo blade flashed from its scabbard; and holding it before him, the King himself repeated with the people the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition.

When the chanting ceased and the people raised their eyes and saw their King standing there, his sword gleaming like silver, his pale face alight with fervor, there was a brief, awestruck silence before someone in the crowd shouted: “Long live the King! Long live Philip to reign over us!”

The tumult broke then; it lasted several minutes.

Ruy looked at Philip, standing beside him, the jeweled sword in his hands. He recognized the fanatic, and thought with love and pity of a small boy shivering and naked in the Cloister of St. Anne. Other pictures flashed in and out of Ruy’s mind. It was inevitable, he thought. It had to be. Everything which has happened to him has led to this moment.

Carlos was watching his father, and hatred had complete possession of him. If he but had the strength to take that gleaming sword and plunge it into the heart of the man who had become the husband of Isabella!

“My Isabella!” muttered Carlos piteously. “Mine!”

His hatred was so strong that it set a haze before his eyes; he could not see the square; the black-clad monks and the figures in their yellow garments of shame and despair were blurred before his eyes. Ordinarily the scene would have delighted him. What could be more exciting than to watch so much suffering and to do so under a cloak of piety? God himself, according to the King and the Cardinal-Archbishop, was looking down upon them, flashing His scornful hatred at the miserable victims, applauding the spectators and officials and all those who had taken the Oath.

But there was only one man whose suffering could bring Carlos complete satisfaction. Those broken men and women meant no more to him than the rabbits he might roast alive for a little fun.

Into the Quemadero—the place of fire—that space in the center of the square where the stakes had been set up, came the victims, and among them were two men, recently well-known at court. Don Carlos de Seso, a noble Florentine, had been a great friend of the Emperor; he had settled in Valladolid and there had become interested in Lutheran doctrines. He believed that it was his duty, as he had discovered the truth, to teach it to others. He had been a rich man, and such as he were the favorite prey of the Inquisition. With him in the square was Domingo de Roxas, who had himself been a Dominican monk.

With startling suddenness, de Roxas, as he stood there, his body broken, his arms hanging impotent at his sides, raised his voice and began to preach to the multitude. It was some minutes before he could be stopped, and then only by the painful wooden gag which was screwed into his mouth.

But even more startling was that moment when de Seso, fixing his eyes on the central figure in the gallery and raising his voice so that all could hear, cried: “Philip! I speak to Philip the King!”

There was about this man a dignity which even his torture and the hideous yellow robe and pasteboard cap could not take from him.

Philip, almost involuntarily, rose to his feet, and thus they faced each other: the King of Spain, his black velvet doublet a-glitter with diamonds, and the wretched man de Seso, his face, through long incarceration in the airless dungeons of the Inquisition, as yellow as his sanbenito.

“Is it thus then, Philip,” said de Seso, “that you allow your innocent subjects to be persecuted? Does it not fill you with shame to see our shame?”

Philip answered in ringing tones, for he had given his allegiance to the Inquisition, and in his eyes it was the work of God which he and his Inquisitors were doing on Earth:

“Shame? For you is the shame; for us is the glory. If you were my own son, I would fetch the wood to burn you. If my son had denied the true Faith as you have done, he should stand there with you.”

The crowd cheered madly: “God bless great Philip! Long live Philip our King!”

It was some time before the ceremony could go on. This was a day which all those present would remember while they lived. They had seen great Philip take the Oath of Allegiance to the Inquisition, which no other sovereign had done. It was significant. Philip had proclaimed himself: Catholic first, King second. Those present had heard him, with his son beside him, declare that that same son should suffer in the Quemadero as any other, should he prove false to the Faith. What man could have greater love for the Faith than he who was ready to lay down the life of his son for it?

The names of the prisoners were being read aloud with the lists of their crimes; they were sentenced; some were led away to prison. Those who had recanted were strangled before they were bound to their stakes. And now the great moment had come. The fires were lighted and the screams of the living filled the air.

But to have seen the King with his shining sword was more memorable than even the sight of flames that swirled about broken bodies; to have heard him speak the Oath, more wonderful than listening to the screams of heretics and the triumphant shouts of the servants of God.

But Carlos could not take his eyes from his father’s face; and Ruy, watching, could only think: The pity of it! The pity of it all!

A bitter wind was blowing as Elisabeth rode south. The journey was long, and she was thankful for that. With her rode her mother and the two Bourbon Princes—the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had officiated at the proxy marriage, and Antoine, the King of Navarre and Duke of Vendôme, who had married that Jeanne of Navarre whom Philip himself had once thought to marry.

No French lady could travel without an abundant supply of garments and, having been brought up in the French court, Elisabeth was very conscious of fashion. Mules, laden with her extravagant trousseau, traveled with the party, for her dresses must be of the French fashion, acknowledged to be the best in the world.

She wished she could recapture that excitement about her dresses which she had felt when she discussed them with Mary Stuart and even little Margot—who, though so young, was quite conscious of fashion—in the familiar apartments of the Louvre or at Blois.

At intervals along the road the peasants had come out to wave a sad farewell to the little Princess, to marvel at her beauty, and to wish her good luck in her married life.

At the town of Chatelleraut, Catherine de Medici gave her daughter a last embrace and uttered the final words of advice and warning. Antoine, with some French nobles and the Spaniards who had met the party, continued to accompany Elisabeth.

It was a journey of a hundred accidents. The weather was bad and they must at times travel through sleet and snow; some of the baggage was mislaid and the French ladies were in a panic, thinking they might not have dresses fine enough in which to face the Spaniards. The French were closely guarding French honor and carefully watching for slights; and the Spaniards were even more jealous of their dignity.

When it was time for Elisabeth to be formally handed over and to say good-bye to Antoine, whom she loved, she felt herself unable to bear the parting.

When Antoine made his speech, in which he said that he had brought the Princess from the house of the greatest King in the world to be delivered to the most illustrious sovereign on Earth, she broke down and wept; whereupon the emotional Antoine so far forgot his dignity as to break off his ceremonial speech, take her in his arms, and try to comfort her.

All the noble Spaniards—the greatest in the land assembled to represent their King in this important ceremony—were shocked by such conduct. Their glances implied that the Queen would have to learn to behave differently now that she was in Spain.

The Duke of Infantado, head of the great Mendoza family, whose duty it had been to receive her at this stage on behalf of the King, reproved her as he led her away.

“I beg your Highness to remember,” he said, “that you are now the Queen of Spain, and the Queen of Spain does not so condescend to the Duke of Vendôme—even though he may call himself the King of Navarre.”

Elisabeth’s grief subdued her fear. She said sharply: “The Duke of Infantado is greatly daring to speak thus to the Queen of Spain, who will say good-bye to those she loves in the manner of her own people, who do not seek to hide their genuine feelings if they wish to show them.”

The Duke was taken aback, but she was so beautiful, so young, so appealing that she blunted the edge of his Spanish dignity; moreover, he realized that she was not the frivolous girl he had imagined her to be. He could only bow his head and murmur: “I crave your Highness’s pardon.”

All along the road the Spaniards came out to see their new Queen. Her beauty enchanted them. She was typically French in poise and gesture, yet her features bore traces of her Italian ancestry.

She was calmer now that she had said good-bye to her relations. It was too late to hope for a miracle, and since the death of her father she had done with hoping for miracles. Her clothes were not only rich, they were becoming; and the Spaniards had never seen anything like them. She bowed and smiled at the people with French warmth which was so different from Spanish frigidity. She charmed these people as she rode among them. “Surely she is the most beautiful Queen in the world,” they said.

She had long since learned to read the Castilian language, and now she rapidly taught herself to speak it, and if her accent was that of a Frenchwoman, it merely added to her fascinating qualities.

Even the old members of the Spanish nobility were won over by her manners. Even grim Alba himself was attracted by her.

One grows up, thought Elisabeth. One cannot cry when one has no tears left. This is the fate which befalls all princesses.

But she knew that the greatest trial had yet to come. Each day brought her nearer to it, and every little fracas between French and Spaniards prepared her for it. There was still the meeting with Philip—and after that the life with him—to be faced.

Philip was waiting for her at Guadalajara. Juana and Carlos were with him.

Carlos was in a state of extreme tension, though no one but Ruy and Juana seemed to be aware of this. Carlos would have heard the reports regarding the bride; she seemed to have enchanted all those who had come into contact with her, and, although she was not yet fifteen, she had appeared to make even the grim Alba behave like a young man in love.

“Guard my little one,” muttered Juana. “I pray all the saints to guard him.”

Ruy was thinking: Is Philip blind? Does he not realize the effect of this on one so unbalanced as Carlos?

He must be prepared to go to the defense of Philip, for anything might happen. In such a moment Carlos’s mind might topple over into complete insanity. Ruy must be at hand to guard the King.

Philip seemed almost indifferent. He was worried about the Netherlands. The Prince of Orange was hatching evil plots; he knew it. His cousin Maximilian and his sister Maria were growing closer to the German princes; they must be watched. There was so much to occupy his mind, and he only had time to think that this Elisabeth of Valois would suit him because she was young and would bear him children. Marriage was a duty to be endured for the sake of his country.

He was facing a new phase of his career, and he was determined to be ready to meet it. He had said good-bye to Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had gone into a convent, for she knew that, now he was the King, their life together was ended. All Isabel’s children would be provided for by Philip, and later would have good posts in his household or in his armies. Philip could be trusted to do his duty.

He had already sent for his half-brother Juan, in order that he might fulfill the promise he had made to their father, and Juan was being brought up and educated with Carlos.

There was another boy who shared their lessons. This was Philip’s cousin, Alexander Farnese, whom Philip had brought home with him from the Netherlands.

Alexander was the son of Margaret of Parma, who was herself one of the illegitimate daughters of the Emperor Charles. Charles had always made his children’s welfare a concern of his, and he had married Margaret to Alessandro, the illegitimate son of Pope Clement. Alessandro, who had been known as the Nero of Florence, had, fortunately for Florence and Margaret, died a violent death a year after the marriage. After Margaret had been a widow for some years Charles found another bridegroom for her; but in her second marriage Margaret was hardly more fortunate than in her first, for now she was a woman and her new husband, Ottavio Farnese, was only twelve years old. The union was naturally not a very happy one, although it brought Margaret her son Alexander. Charles, aware of her capabilities and that character which was more masculine than feminine, bestowed on her the Governorship of the Netherlands, and this Philip had allowed her to retain.

He was considering now whether it might not be expedient to have the two sons of Maximilian and Maria brought to Spain, for the same reason as he had brought Alexander: ostensibly to be companions for Carlos, but actually as hostages for their parents’ good behavior.

With so much to occupy his mind, and so many problems to be faced, it was small wonder that Philip had little thought to spare for his bride.

She was now riding into the town on a white palfrey; on one side of her was the Duke of Infantado and on the other the Cardinal of Burgos. In the streets the people were shouting their pleasure; and here, in the ducal palace, everything was in readiness, for the actual marriage ceremony must take place as soon as the bride arrived.

Philip stood on the dais. Carlos was beside him. How he fidgeted! Could not the boy show some dignity? There was Juana, looking more as though she were at a funeral than at a wedding. Philip was uneasy suddenly. Would Juana’s melancholy lead to trouble one day? And here was Ruy, standing close to him—surely closer than was necessary—as though he were preparing to face a host of enemies rather than his sovereign’s bride. Philip wanted to say: “My dear friend, there is no need for uneasiness. I feel none. I do not believe this Princess of France will be very formidable.” Lightly he wondered how Ruy fared in his own married life with the stormy, one-eyed Ana.

Glancing at Carlos, Philip saw that his lips were moving. Hastily Philip turned away from his son.

What would the new Queen think of her stepson? She must surely congratulate herself when she contemplated what she had escaped. Whatever she thought of her own bridegroom, he would certainly seem preferable to Carlos.

Meanwhile, Carlos was saying to himself: “She is mine. This was to have been my wedding day. But he takes everything from me.”

He did not know what he would do when she entered. Could she really be as beautiful as they said she was? When he saw her, he believed, he might be so jealous that his hatred of his father would compell him to kill him. He might try to seize Philip’s sword and run it through his heart.

Those who had seen her had said of Isabella: “She is so attractive that no cavalier durst look at her for fear of losing his heart to her; and should the King see this it might cost a man his life!”

And she is mine! thought Carlos. Mine…not his.

Outside the procession had halted before the ducal palace and the doors were thrown wide open that the little Queen might enter.

She stepped into the hall, and she was the most beautiful creature Carlos had ever seen. She was far more charming than any picture could show.

Carlos, watching her as she was led to the spot where the King stood, wanted to shout: “Do not be afraid of him, Isabella!” He loved her the more because of that fear he sensed in her. “You are mine, Isabella, and together we will plan to kill him.”

He was aware of a hand on his shoulder and, turning, he looked into the eyes of Ruy Gomez da Silva. Carlos quailed slightly, for he knew that he had betrayed to this man the burning hatred he felt for his father.

The King was now greeting the French Princess, and she was answering falteringly in Castilian.

Then Juana knelt and kissed the Princess’s ermine-edged robe. Elisabeth smiled at her; she had pleasant smiles for all except Philip; for him she had only fearful glances.

Now it was Carlos’s turn. He knelt. He kissed the edge of her robe; he lifted his eyes, alight with adoration, to her face; and all the time the hammer-beats of his heart were declaring: “She is mine…mine!”

Her smile bewitched and maddened him; but almost immediately Philip had laid his hand on her arm and she was turning away that she might be presented to the members of his suite.

Carlos moved to his father. Now was the moment…now…here before them all.

The people would cry: “Philip is dead. Long live King Carlos!” This was to have been a marriage, and it will be the scene of murder. Never mind if the King is dead. Here is a new King. Never mind if the bride has lost her husband. Here is a new husband for her!

Again he felt the pressure on his shoulder. He turned sharply and looked up into the dark face of Ruy.

Words trembled on Carlos’s lips. “How…dare you?”…But he would not speak them. He would not betray himself to his father’s friend. This was not the time. It was not easy to murder a king. Careful planning was needed.

He felt calmer now—calm and sly.

The little bride was looking fearfully at Philip.

Philip said with a half-smile: “Why do you look at me so intently? Are you looking to see how many gray hairs I have?”

She grew pale and turned away. His unexpectedly cold voice had increased her fears.

Philip was unhappy; he was deeply conscious of having frightened her when his intention had been to set her at her ease.

He could not explain. The nobles and their ladies were coming forward to greet her.

Carlos continued to watch the King, but Ruy Gomez da Silva was constantly at the Prince’s side.

The marriage ceremony had been performed; the feasting had begun. There must follow the tourneys, the bullfights; and, as ceremony demanded it, Philip must joust before his bride, an undertaking which did not please him, but, since he looked upon it as a duty, he would not shirk it.

As he sat by her side through ceremony after ceremony, he was wondering how he might set her at ease, how he could explain to her that she must not be afraid of him. He could not behave as the French, because he was a Spaniard; he knew that her people were volatile, expert at paying compliments, dancing, wearing fine clothes—everything, in fact, that he was not. But he wanted to explain to her that he would be kind, and all he would ask of her was that she should do her duty as his Queen.

It was when they were at last alone that he laid his hands on her shoulders, and, smiling down at her, said: “Do not be afraid of me. I want you to know that I am not the monster they represented me to be.”

“They did not,” she said.

“Then why be so afraid of me? Is it because I seem old to you?”

She was stung to truthfulness. “It might be so.”

Then he smiled, and the tenderness of his smile succeeded in disarming her, for he was at his best when he was alone with women. “Then,” he said, “remember this: because I am so much older than you are, I am more likely to have understanding and be more tender than a younger husband might be. Believe me, it is so.”

She did not answer; she continued to tremble, wishing with all her heart that she were at home in the Louvre, and the sounds of Paris were outside instead of the loud rejoicing of the people of Guadalajara.

Philip took her hand and kissed it with tenderness. “Be of good cheer. I will show you that I am no monster. We had to marry because that was good for both our countries. I would like to disperse your fears. I would like to see you smile. I will show you how I long to please you. If you would rather that I did not disturb your rest this night, you have but to say so and…I will leave.”

She found that she could no longer hold back her tears. She sat very still while they flowed down her cheeks. He stood looking at her in dismay; suddenly she raised her eyes to his.

“I crave your…your Majesty’s pardon,” she stammered. “They said…I thought…I had not expected you to be so kind…and it is that which makes me weep.”

So life with His Most Catholic Majesty was not so frightening after all. She could not love him; he was too old and solemn; he was not even like the men of his own age whom she had known in her own country—men like Antoine and his brother the Prince of Condé; he was not like the great Duke of Guise. These men were gallant and charming, amusing and witty; they were always magnificently attired, playing the parts of romantic heroes as well as statesmen and soldiers. Philip was quite different, and it was hard to believe that he was more important than any of them. None would have thought it; the ceremonies in his honor seemed to bore him; he was so quiet, so dignified, so solemn. But for his kindness when they were alone he would have terrified her.

Yet if she was a little afraid of her husband, there was one other who frightened her even more, though a great distance separated them. It seemed to the young Queen of Spain that her mother was never really far away in spirit; Catherine de Medici seemed to be looking over her shoulder on those occasions when the little Queen committed some breach of Spanish etiquette. She seemed to be present even in the royal bed-chamber, admonishing her daughter so to charm this strange man that he would become her slave. The girl was continually mindful of her mother, and during those first months in Spain, although Catherine was far away, it seemed to Elisabeth that the bond between them did not grow less.

She could not forget those instructions she had received before she left home. She was to work for France; she was to tell her mother every little detail of what occurred; she must miss nothing and she must write with the utmost care, remembering that their letters might be intercepted.

Her mother’s first command had been that she must win the young Don Carlos to her side. She must make him her friend, and when he was she must show him the pictures of little Margot which would be sent to her in due course; and she must sing Margot’s praises to such an extent that the young Prince would be all eagerness to see her.

It was because of her mother that the Queen disregarded Spanish etiquette and sought out Carlos.

He was a strange boy, she knew. Ever since the marriage he had shut himself away, and she had heard that he had hardly spoken to anyone and would eat nothing. He had been coaxed and threatened, yet none knew what was wrong with him and he would not explain. He would open his door to no one but his two companions, his uncle Don Juan and his cousin Alexander Farnese.

The young bride of a few weeks could surely be forgiven if she made mistakes. In any case she did not greatly care if she were not. It was a lifetime habit to obey her mother and this she must continue to do.

So she chose a moment when she could slip away from her attendants unnoticed, and went along to those apartments which she knew belonged to her young stepson.

She entered an antechamber unperceived and quietly opening a door, she found herself in a schoolroom. A boy sat at a table. He was not Carlos, but a very handsome boy—handsome enough to be French, she thought. He stood up, and with a grace which might also have been French, bowed low.

Now she recognized him as Don Juan—her husband’s young half-brother, who was a little younger than herself.

“Your gracious Majesty…” he began.

She answered in her charming Castilian. “Please…please…no ceremony. I should not be here, you know. Are you working?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“And the Prince, my stepson?”

“He should be here, your Highness, but he has just left in a passion.”

“In a passion?”

“He will not tell us what troubles him, but he is very angry.”

“I would I could see him.”

“He swears he will see no one, your Highness; but if that is a command…”

She laughed. “No…no. I would not command. I do not wish him to think that because I ask something he must obey me. I would rather he looked upon me as a friend.”

A door opened and Carlos stood on the threshold. He said: “Isabella!”

She smiled at him and his heart began to hammer that mad litany:

“Mine…Mine…”

She came toward him and her smile held all the charm of which he had dreamed. He knelt suddenly and kissed the hem of her robe; he remained on his knees looking up at her.

“I should not have come thus,” she said. “But I wished to see you.”

And still he continued to kneel and gaze up at her.

“You must tell me to go,” she said, “if that is what you wish. You must forget that I am the Queen. I would not dream of…commanding you to receive me…if you did not wish to do so.”

“Isabella,” he said slowly, “you would but have to command and I should obey.”

He rose to his feet, still looking at her, marveling at the beauty of her oval, childish face, the eyes that were deep-set and heavily lashed, the sweet, childish mouth. And her dress was beautiful. It was meant to be simple, but French simplicity was so much more becoming than Spanish grandeur.

He became aware of Juan, who was clearly marveling at the change in him, and he was angry that any should share this moment with him and Isabella.

He cried: “Begone! The Queen comes to visit me. You are dismissed.”

Juan, good-natured, easy-going, indifferent to his nephew’s whims, lifted a shoulder and, bowing to the Queen, retired. He wondered whether he ought to tell some responsible person that her Majesty was alone with the mad Prince.

“Carlos,” she said, “I wish us to be friends. I think we should be, do you not? For we are of an age and…do you remember…they once intended us to marry?”

“Yes,” he said, with smoldering passion. “I do indeed remember.”

“Well, ’twas not to be, and so you are my stepson. But we are friends…the best of friends.”

“You never had a friend like Carlos.”

“I am glad to hear you say that. I thought you might not like me.”

“How could that be?” he cried. “You are beautiful, Isabella.”

“Isabella!” she repeated. “I must get used to that. It is always Isabella now. I was Elisabeth at home.”

“Elisabeth is French, and you are Spanish now.”

“Yes. I am Spanish now.”

“Do you mind?”

Her face clouded a little. “It is hard…at first, but it is our lot. That is what my papa said. It was the fate of princes and princesses, he said, and although it was hard at first, sometimes we find great happiness.”

Carlos was fascinated. He watched her lips as she talked; her pronunciation of the familiar words made them so attractively unfamiliar. He was so moved that he wanted to put his arms about her and weep.

He saw that there were tears in her eyes. In her frank French way, she explained, “It is because of my father. I always cry when I think of him.”

“Did you not hate your father?”

“Hate him? How could I? He was the best father in the world.” She saw the hatred in his face and she cried out in alarm: “Carlos! What is it? You look so fierce.”

He could not yet tell her of the great passion in his life. He must not frighten her; perhaps she had not yet learned to hate Philip. Carlos was afraid that if he told her his thoughts he would frighten her, and if she were frightened she might run away.

“Nay,” he said. “I am not fierce. I am happy because you came to see me.”

“I thought I might offend you. You Spaniards stand on such ceremony, do you not? Oh, Carlos, I am glad you did not mind my coming to see you. I shall come again, Carlos, now that you and I are friends.”

“I shall never forget that you wanted to see me, Isabella. I shall never forget that you came like this.”

“You are so different, Carlos, from what I thought you would be. Then we are friends. Show me your books. Tell me how you live here. And I will tell you about France, shall I? That is if you wish to know.”

“I wish to know all about you. I have learned to read French because I wished to speak to you. But I should be afraid to speak it.”

“Oh, speak it, Carlos, speak it! You do not know how happy that would make me! How I long to hear it!”

“You would laugh.”

“Only because I should be happy to hear it. Come then.”

Carlos laughed and blushed and said in French with a very strong Castilian accent: “Isabella, I am happy you are come. Carlos bids you welcome to Spain.”

And she did laugh, but so tenderly that he was happy. Then the tears came to her eyes and she said: “You learned that for me, Carlos. That is the nicest thing that has happened to me since I came to Spain.”

Then she put her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, for she was taller than he was, and she kissed him first on his right cheek, then on his left. That moment, Carlos was sure, was the happiest in his life.

He was showing her his books, and she was telling him about the court of France when the door opened and Alexander Farnese and Juan looked in.

Neither the Queen nor the Prince noticed them; and the two boys shut the door and looked at each other in astonishment, as they tiptoed away.

What had happened to Don Carlos? they wondered.

The court was in despair.

The young Queen was dangerously ill. She had danced the night before as gaily as any, though many had noticed that she seemed unusually flushed. They had thought at the time that this was due to excitement, but the next morning there was no doubt that she was in a high fever.

The Queen was suffering from that dread disease, the smallpox.

She had felt too sick to rise from her bed that day. Philip, who had spent the morning with his councillors, heard the news as he left the council chamber.

“The Queen is ill, your Highness.”

“Ill? Ill? But she was well last night.”

“Yes, but, your Majesty, when her ladies went to attend her rising this morning, they were alarmed; they called the physicians. We fear the smallpox.”

A sense of blank despair swept over Philip. He felt desolate. She had seemed to be a pleasant child, amusing with her foreign ways and very pleasing to the eye, but…just a child, a useful child who would cement French and Spanish friendship while she was young enough to give him the son he desired.

But was that all she meant to him? Now he thought of her piteous gratitude because he was not the monster she had expected; he was kind, she had said. Did she know that there were times when he had absented himself because he presumed that was what she wished? Did she realize that he, so utterly sensitive, having suffered marriage with an aging woman, could understand something of her dilemma? She was so charming; all agreed on that.

He knew in that moment, and the knowledge brought surprise with it, that if he lost her he would be a most unhappy man.

Could he be in love with this child? Was it possible? Surely he had done with emotional love affairs? So he had thought. He had dismissed Catherine Lenez; Isabel Osorio had retired to a convent. Now he was like that young man who had loved Maria Manoela. No, it could not be. He was sad because the charming creature was ill. He was merely disturbed because, if she died, he would have to make another marriage, and so much time would have been wasted and the bond with France slackened. He had decided there should be no emotional disturbances in his life. He was dedicated to God and his country.

But, more than anything, he wanted to see her.

As he made his way to her apartments he met the physicians.

“Your Majesty,” they cried, “it would be unwise to go into her chamber now. We are certain. It is the smallpox.”

“I should see her,” he answered. “She will expect to see me. I must reassure her that everything shall be done…”

“Your Majesty…the pox is highly contagious. It would be against our advice that you enter the chamber.”

He hesitated. They were right, of course; he was foolish and it was so rarely that he acted foolishly or even impulsively. What had happened to him when he had left the council chamber and had heard the news of her illness? He was unsure. He was so deeply disturbed.

But he must see her. She was so young and she would be afraid. He must reassure her as he had reassured her on their wedding night when she had been so terrified of facing marriage with the King of Spain. Poor little Princess, she had come through one ordeal and now must face another. The King of Spain or Death—which would be more terrifying to his little bride? Of course he must see her. He must reassure her. Remember, said his common sense, always at his elbow, you would jeopardize your life—that life which is devoted to the service of God and the country—you would sacrifice that to an emotional whim! It was folly. It was unworthy of Philip the King and God’s partner here on Earth.

Still he walked on. The physicians were staring after him in consternation, but he paid no attention to them.

A wild figure came running along the corridor. It was his son. “Carlos!” he cried.

Carlos’s face was blotched with weeping, and when Philip caught the boy by the arm he stared sullenly at his father.

“Where do you go?” asked Philip.

Carlos stammered: “She is ill. Isabella…She is dying. She will want to see me.”

“You are mad. She has the pox. You dare not go to her.”

“I will. She is sick and ill. She will wish to see me.”

“You shall not go!” said Philip sternly. “The risk is too great. Do you not know that?”

“Do you think I care for risks? I care only that she is ill. And I am her friend.”

“Go back to your apartments.”

“I will not.” Carlos scowled at his father. “Let me go. I will go to her.”

“Carlos, calm yourself.”

“You cannot forbid me…I…who am her friend.”

“I am her husband,” said Philip. He signed to two men-at-arms and bade them conduct Don Carlos back to his apartments and keep guard on him that he might not leave them.

Carlos, struggling, his heart filled with black hatred, was led away, while Philip opened the door and went into the sick-room.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. He had sent everyone away. He wanted none to witness the emotional scene which he half feared might take place.

She was conscious enough to know what he risked by coming to her like this.

“You must go,” she said.

“Isabella,” he began almost shyly, “I wanted to tell you…”

She smiled, but her glance was vague; it was as though she looked beyond him to someone at the foot of her bed. So strong was the impression she gave him of seeing someone that he turned to look; but there was no one there.

“Isabella,” he went on, “you must not die. You must not.”

“No…” she whispered. “There is too much to do…for France.”

“Isabella, look at me. I have come to see you.”

Now her eyes were upon him. “You must not stay,” she cried. “It may be death.”

Nevertheless, he took her hand and kissed it.

“Do you know why I am here, Isabella?” he asked with passionate tenderness. “It is because I thought you would be the happier for seeing me.”

“You must not…Oh, you must not. But you are kind to me…you are very kind.”

“Please, Isabella, do all you can…to get well…not for France, but for me. And when you are well, little Isabella, we shall be happy…you and I!”

She did not seem to hear his words, and because of this he whispered: “Isabella, I believe I love you. I know I love you, little one.”

There was consternation at the Louvre. Couriers were galloping between France and Spain.

Catherine de Medici was terrified that her daughter would die and that she herself would lose contact with Spain; she was also afraid that even if Elisabeth recovered she would be so ravaged by the disease that she would lose all claim to beauty. Catherine, herself being in no way attractive, attached great importance to the power of feminine beauty. That was why she had, at home in France, gathered about her a band of beauties, her Escadron Volant, to fascinate soldiers and statesmen whose secrets she wished to learn. She had hoped that her beautiful young daughter would so charm her husband that he would be ready to betray his state secrets to her; and that Elisabeth, like the dutiful daughter Catherine had brought her up to be, would pass on those secrets to her mother.

Catherine therefore sent for her magicians, René and the notorious brothers, Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri; and with them she concocted lotions to preserve the skin. They decided that if the skin of a person suffering from smallpox were spread liberally with the white of eggs, disfigurement could be avoided. Accordingly she sent instructions to the French ladies of the young Queen’s retinue, at the same time demanding a constant flow of news concerning her daughter’s progress.

She had always been worried about Elisabeth’s health. There were certain irregularities which she had kept secret and had insisted on Elisabeth’s keeping secret, for she feared they indicated that her daughter—as she believed was the case with some of her other children—had inherited through her grandfather, François Premier, the ill effects of that disease of which he had died and which was called by the French La Malade Anglaise.

As soon as she knew that her daughter would recover, Catherine wrote to her: “Remember, my child, what I told you before you left. You know quite well how important it is that none should know what malady you may have. If your husband knew of it, he would never come near you…”

Although she felt so much better, the little Queen was very uneasy when she received that letter. Her attendants could not understand her grief. They held up mirrors before her that she might see her pretty face with the skin as clear as it had been before her illness.

“You must thank your mother for this,” they said. “She sent so many lotions, but it was the egg remedy which saved your complexion.”

But thoughts of her mother, they noticed, could do little to soothe the Queen.

She was naturally glad to be well again and to see that her skin was smooth and beautiful; but she could not forget how Philip, at great risk to himself, had visited her daily; and, she reasoned with herself, if it was true that she was affected by a very terrible hereditary disease, it seemed even more wicked not to tell him now than it had before.

When he came to her, sat by her couch, held her hand, and brought her presents of rich jewels and fruit, she wanted to tell him; but she dared not, because she still felt the influence of her mother in the room.

She dared not disobey her mother.

Now she was well again and there were celebrations to mark her recovery.

Philip seemed almost young, kissing and caressing her when they were alone together. Nor did she object to those caresses; she felt it was rather wonderful that he, the most powerful King in the world, so stern and cold to others, should be almost gay when he was alone with her, taking an interest, it seemed, in the dresses and jewels she wore.

There were so many dresses—all richly embroidered and cut in the French style; she wore a new one every day, for once she had worn them she liked to give them away, especially to the Spanish ladies, who were delighted to possess a French dress, particularly one which had belonged to the Queen.

But the suspicion that she might be diseased haunted her.

One day she said: “Philip, I do so much hope that I shall have a child, but sometimes I fear…”

“Dear little Isabella, why should you fear? You shall have every care in the world when the time comes.”

But he was afraid as he said those words. He was a young man again in the bedroom of Maria Manoela; he was sitting by the bed of a young wife who was too near death to be conscious of his presence. He would be haunted all his life by a young bride whom he had loved briefly, and so tragically lost. It was alarming to think of this lovely young girl, facing the danger which had robbed him of Maria Manoela.

She saw the fear in his face and she said quickly: “Why are you afraid?”

He was silent, wondering how he could explain to her what she was beginning to mean to him. He could not say to her: “I had thought I was done with emotional entanglements. There were so many good reasons why we should marry and be content with our marriage; they are enough. I am dedicated to my destiny, and my greatest wish is that you should have a son; and if you fail in this and die in the attempt, why then, I must quickly get myself a new wife. Sons for Spain; an heir to take the place of Carlos. That is the very reason for our union.”

Yet he was beginning to suffer as once before he had suffered. He was beginning to dread the time when she would bear their child.

She could not understand his thoughts.

“I…I did not mean,” she said quickly, “that I was afraid of the pain of bearing a child. It was that…there might not be a child. Queens do not bear children as easily as commoners, it seems.”

“Is that all you fear, Isabella?” he asked.

Briefly she hesitated. Then she said: “I am afraid…that I…” But she could not go on, because it seemed that her mother was there, forbidding her.

“I would not have you afraid of anything,” he said gently.

“But it is my duty to have children, and if…”

“It is our duty,” he said with a return of his solemn manner. “Let us hope that before long we shall have a child.” He paused and said quickly: “You will not suffer in the ordeal more than I shall.”

Then she made one of her pretty gestures. She threw her arms about him.

“You are so good to me…” she said. “You are so kind.”

Her mother sent pictures from France. There was a beautiful one of Margot. The little girl, with her slanting, merry eyes and her gay little mouth with that expression of sauciness, was enchanting. There was also one of Catherine, her mother.

She read the accompanying letter:

“These pictures are for you, my dearest daughter. Show them to the Prince, particularly the one of little Marguerite. Is it not charming? Little Margot grows irresistible. Everyone loves her. Do not forget what you have to do for your sister. If your husband were to die, you would be the most unfortunate woman in the world, for what would your position be? There would be a new Queen of Spain, the wife of Don Carlos. If that wife were your sister Margot, why then your position would be assured. So you must bring about this match…”

She must. Of course she must. And what fun it would be if Margot were there with her! She tried to imagine the high-spirited Margot—who had already announced her intention of marrying her dear friend Henry of Guise—in this court, married to Carlos. Henry of Guise was the most handsome boy she had ever seen. And Carlos? Well, she was fond of him because he was so gentle with her, and if he was in one of his passions, she alone could bring him out of it; but what would Margot think of him?

She went along to the apartments of Carlos, taking the pictures with her. She came and went as she liked now. She had dispensed with much of the ceremony which it behooved the Queen of Spain to use. No one seemed to mind. This was the enchanting Isabella, the favored one. Everyone loved her, including the King; and they could see no harm in anything she did. She was just a charming child for all that she was the Queen of Spain.

“Carlos,” she cried. “I am here.”

He was with his companions, Alexander and Juan. They all stood up to greet her, and she joined them at the table. They sat around it like four children, only there was a look of passionate yearning in the eyes of Carlos which was unchildlike.

“I have brought some pictures to show Carlos.”

She put it in that way because she knew it would please him that the pictures were mainly for him to see. He must be the one she came to visit. If he thought she came to see any of the others, he would not reprove her, but he would sink into deep melancholy. She could, with a word, make him happy or sad. And she must please him; it was her duty to please him; those were her mother’s instructions.

So now she produced the pictures.

“They have just come. Look! There are two of them.”

“I am to see them,” said Carlos, elbowing the others away. “Isabella brought them for me, did not your Highness?”

“I brought them for you to see, Carlos. But the others may look if they wish. Which do you like better, Carlos? Tell me first and then I will tell you who they are.”

He was so happy to have Isabella there, so happy to be near her. He smiled first at her, to let her know that she was more interesting to him than any picture could be.

He said: “Ah, this chiquita…she is beautiful.”

“She is indeed. She is my sister; and the elder lady is my mother.”

“I do not like so well your mother,” said Carlos.

“No; indeed you would not, for she would seem so old to you.”

“And fat,” said Carlos. “But the little one is so pretty.”

Juan asked her name.

“It is Marguerite, but my brother Charles nicknamed her Margot. She is the gayest creature I ever knew. How I wish she were here!”

“I wish I could bring her to you, if that would please you,” said Carlos wistfully.

“Mayhap she could come on a visit?” suggested Alexander.

“It is a long journey,” said Isabella. “I wonder how she would like it here.”

“You are sad,” Carlos put in.

“Only when I think of those at home in France. There were so many of us. François, who is now the King, and Charles, Henri, Claude, Margot, and little Hercule…”

“Well,” said Juan, “now you have Carlos, Alexander, and Juan.”

She smiled and kissed them in turn. It was astonishing to them, but they knew it was the way of the French.

Carlos could not bear to see her kiss the others; he put his arms about her and clung to her as long as he dared.

She showed the pictures to Philip, interrupting him while he was busy with his dispatches from all over the Empire.

There was bad news from Flanders. He knew that Orange was organizing a revolt.

He was sitting deep in thought, when she appeared—an enchanting vision in her Parisian dress, her black hair dressed in a new style. How could he help but be delighted to see her? It was so much more pleasant to contemplate her than the treacherous Orange.

“But I am interrupting,” she said. “I came to show you the pictures which have arrived from Paris.”

“Everything that is charming would seem to come from Paris,” he said. “I pray you, let me see the pictures.”

She showed him the one of her mother first. The plump, inscrutable face looked back at him.

“And the other is my little sister. This is beautiful. Is she not charming? Do you like this picture, Philip?”

“Very much.”

“I wish you could see Margot.” She looked at him wistfully. “Oh, Philip, how I wish that I could see her.”

She sat, rather timidly, it was true, upon his knee. The French were so demonstrative, but he understood. She was going to ask some favor. It was a little childish of her, but then he loved her childishness. And this was a habit they would have taught her in the French court.

He looked at her quizzically yet indulgently, and she went on: “Carlos will have to have a wife. He grows old. Philip…would it not be wonderful if he could marry my sister Marguerite?”

Now it was all quite clear. So Madame le Serpent had set his own wife to cajole him. Catherine had made one of her daughters Queen of Spain, and she wished to make sure that the Queen who followed should be a daughter of hers. Catherine clearly set great store by Spanish friendship; but the woman was not so clever as she rated herself. Did she think he was a besotted fool to be persuaded on matters of state policy even by the most charming of wives?

He drew Isabella toward him and put his arm about her; and as he did so he looked at the plump, flat face of the woman in the picture.

He was thinking: Yes, Madame, you sent me your daughter and I made her my wife. From now on she shall be my wife entirely and cease to be your obedient daughter. If she is to act the spy and agent, it is better that she should act so for her husband than for her mother.

And he decided that he would mold her; he would make her completely his. He had won her friendship and affection with his gentleness; before long he would win her passionate devotion; then she would be free from her mother’s influence.

At length he answered: “My dearest, we must not think of marriage for Carlos at this stage. He does not enjoy good health; and I do not intend to allow him to marry until his health has greatly improved. If and when such a time should come, I will choose a wife for him. Until then, let us not think of his marrying.” Seeing her disappointment, he smiled wryly. “Why,” he went on, “your little sister looks so gay. The Louvre is the place for her. Do not brood on the marriages of others; think only of ours, which we are discovering to be a good one, are we not?”

“Yes, Philip, but…”

“Isabella,” he interrupted, “your mother writes often to you, does she not?”

“Why, yes, indeed.”

“You never show me her letters.”

“N…no. Was it your wish that I should?”

He saw the panic in her eyes and marveled at the power of a woman who could arouse it at such great distance. “Only if you wished to show them to me,” he said.

“I…I would, of course, do so if you wished it.”

He took her hand and kissed it tenderly. “There are times when I think you are afraid of your mother. Are you, my dear?”

“Afraid of her…but I love her. I love all my family.”

“Perhaps it is possible to love and fear. I would not have you afraid. There is nothing to fear. Why should the Queen of Spain fear the Queen Mother of France? Tell me that.”

“I do not know. But she is my mother and we always had to do what she wished.”

“Or be beaten? Tell me, did she beat you often?”

“There were times.”

He laughed, and permitted himself to show a little of the tenderness that surged through him. He held her fast against him and said: “No one shall beat you anymore, my Isabella. There is no need to fear anyone, particularly those who are far away and cannot reach you. If they should ask you to do what you do not wish to do, then you must refuse. And if you should be afraid—why, here is the King of Spain to defend you.”

He laughed, and his laughter was always pleasant to hear, because it was so rare; so she laughed with him.

“Then you will promise me not to be afraid anymore; and if you are, you will tell me all about it?”

“Yes,” she said with only the faintest trace of hesitancy. “I will.”

“Then take your pictures, and when I have finished with these papers I will join you. Perhaps we will ride together. Or shall I show you my new pictures and tapestries? Anything that you wish.”

“I should like to ride,” she said.

She picked up her pictures and went from the room. She was a little relieved, for he was right. It was rather silly to be frightened of someone living hundreds of miles away, when the most powerful monarch in the world was your husband who had sworn to protect you.

What Philip did not understand was—and how could she explain this?—that, while it was true she was afraid of her mother, she was also afraid of him.

With the passing weeks Philip’s love intensified. He had never been so happy, in spite of the troubles in his dominions. He felt young again. He faced the extraordinary fact that he was in love, even as he had been in the days of his first marriage with the pretty little Maria Manoela.

But how much better this could be. Maria Manoela, charming as she was, had been an uneducated girl compared with Isabella. Isabella was young, it was true; she was very gay—with her French attendants; she loved fine clothes and jewels, but that was because she was French.

She would mature. He remembered how he had thought thus of Maria Manoela. One day he would be able to explain his feelings to Isabella. Had he not assured himself that this would be the case with Maria Manoela? And when he had told her, it had been too late; she was by that time deaf to his eloquent explanations. But what had happened in the case of Maria Manoela would not happen with Isabella. History did not repeat itself as neatly as that.

No! He had loved his first wife and lost her; he had hated his second marriage; he had suffered enough. And now he had come to the third, why should he not enjoy perfect happiness? He would. In time she would return his passionate love, but he must wait for that day. He must be patient; he felt that if only he could override that absurd fear she had of him, all would be well. He knew that there were times when she forgot he was the King of Spain; she forgot the stories she had heard of him and was spontaneously happy. Well, it would come. He could feel confident in the future.

In the meantime there was Carlos to disturb his peace. If only Carlos had never been born, or had died at birth, what a lot of trouble would have been avoided!

One day when he and Isabella had been riding together and returned to the palace, Philip discovered that Carlos was about to cause him even more anxiety than he had so far.

Isabella had retired to her room when the Prince’s tutor presented himself to Philip. The tutor was distraught.

There had been a particularly painful scene that morning. The Prince had looked from his window and seen the King and Queen riding out with their attendants; he had then seemed to go quite mad, and, picking up a knife, had rushed at the nearest person—who happened to be this tutor.

“Sire, but for Don Juan and Don Alexander, I doubt I should have been here now to tell this to your Majesty.”

“Where is he now?” asked Philip.

“He fell into a fit almost immediately, your Majesty. He lashed out with feet and fists; but afterward grew calm and, as is usual after such experiences, he lay quiet and still, speaking to no one.”

“What caused the trouble?”

“We have no idea, your Highness.”

But the man had some idea. Philip saw it in his face. He was on the point of demanding an explanation, but thought better of it, and decided to see his son for himself.

He went along to Carlos’s apartments and there dismissed everyone. Carlos, white and shaken after the fit, stared sullenly at his father.

“Why do you come here?” he snarled. “To taunt me?”

“Carlos, I came to ask you what is the meaning of this outburst. I know you cannot control your actions when you are in such a state, but it is your own passion which brings on these unfortunate lapses.”

“You know!” cried Carlos. “You know, do you not? I saw you. You know that she would have come to see me this morning. You knew it, and that is why you took her away from me. Was she not to have married me? She was mine…mine…and you took her. You took her from me. I had her picture and I learned to speak French for her. She was mine and you knew it, and you hated me. You wanted to hurt me as you always have. I love Isabella…and you have taken her from me.”

Philip stared in horror at his son.

Now he understood the horrible truth. Carlos was mad enough to fancy he was in love with Isabella.

What horror could not grow out of such a situation, when a semi-maniac such as Carlos was involved? Who knew what tragedy lay ahead of them?

Prompt action was needed as it never had been needed before.

Philip turned and hurried from the room.

Within an hour he had decided that Don Carlos was not being educated in accordance with his rank. He was to leave Toledo at once for Alcala del Henares, that he might have the benefit of the best teachers at the University there.

Don Juan and Don Alexander should accompany him, and there should not be a day’s delay.

Those were the King’s commands.

THREE

Philip was afraid, for Isabella was very ill, and he had a horror of childbirth.

He must think of those days which had followed the death of his first wife, and he could not rid himself of the superstitious fear that in love he was doomed to frustration. First Maria Manoela had died. Was it now to be Isabella?

Very little else seemed of any real importance to him now. His troops had suffered a great defeat at Tunis, and it seemed as if the Turks’ hold on the Mediterranean was becoming firmer. Here was a blow against the Faith itself. The Infidel was encroaching on Europe; and no Spaniard, remembering the tragic history of his country, could feel complacent. The Netherlands were clearly preparing to break into open revolt. Yet Philip could think of nothing but Isabella.

In the first months of her pregnancy he had had a silver chair made for her so that she might not tire herself by walking. In it she had been carried everywhere. He had to face the truth; for all her vivacity, she was not strong and she seemed to droop and fade like a flower in the heat of the sun.

Then had come the miscarriage. There was to be no child, and Isabella’s life was in danger.

He went to her bedchamber and sat by her bed. Day and night he stayed there, hoping that she would open her eyes and smile at him.

At times it seemed almost unbearably like that other occasion. But this was different. She was not going to die, and eventually she began to recover. She was very thin and her black hair seemed too heavy for her little head to carry; she wore it loose about her shoulders, for to have it piled on her head tired her so.

His only pleasure at that time was in arranging for her convalescence. He himself decided how she should rest, what she should eat. The women about her marveled, for the King of Spain had become a more devoted nurse than any of them.

The Queen was aware of this, and sometimes she would look at Philip with anxious puzzled eyes. One day she said to him: “It is a sad thing when a Queen cannot bear her husband sons.”

“You are a child yourself,” answered Philip. “And I am not old. There are many years left to us, for which I daily thank God.”

“What if I should never bear a child?”

“My dear, you must not say such things. Of course you will. I know you will.”

“It may be that I shall not.”

“We will not think of such a thing.”

“Is it not better to face facts, Philip?”

“You have become solemn during your illness, Isabella.”

“Nay. This thought has been with me often. The King of England put away his wives because they could not bear him sons.”

“He cut off the head of one because he wanted another woman. Have no fear, Isabella. I am not the King of England.”

“But you are the King of Spain; and the King of Spain needs sons even as did the King of England.”

“I have one son.”

“Carlos!”

“Oh, I admit I should like to have others…yours and mine, my dear. That I should like more than anything. But it will happen yet. Shall we lose heart because of one failure?”

“Philip, there is something you must know. You should have known before.”

“Well, Isabella?”

“The King of England could not get sons, and some say it was because his body was diseased. He suffered from La Malade Anglaise, some say.”

“I have heard that.”

“My grandfather suffered from that same disease. He died of it.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Perhaps I am not the right wife for you.”

Her eyes were blank; he could not read the thoughts behind them. Did some part of her long for escape? Words came to his lips—tender and pleading. But all he said was: “You are. Of course you are. You are my wife. Is that not enough?”

She would not look at him. She said slowly: “But if I cannot give you sons…if I should be unable to give you sons…”

“Have no fear. If God wishes us to have sons we shall have them. Everything that happens to us is due to the will of God.”

“Philip, I am glad that you know of the rumors concerning my grandfather.”

“I have always known of them.”

She was thinking that her own brother Charles was wild, even as Carlos was wild, that François, the young King, suffered from many infirmities. It was God’s law that the children should suffer even unto the third and fourth generation for the sins of such fathers. If she was doomed to suffer for her grandfather’s excesses, she must accept God’s will as Philip would.

She was comforted and relieved because he knew of these things. There he sat, at her bedside, and she was aware of the warmth of his feelings beneath that cold surface. During her illness she had been perpetually conscious of his devotion.

He was a strange man, but he was good to her. She was more fond of him than she had ever been before; she put out her hand and he took it. She thought: If I were not afraid of him I could love him.

She was grateful; he had helped her escape from the fear which had dominated her childhood. She was no longer afraid of her mother, because she was under the protection of the man who would dominate her life from now on, and whom she might one day love.

There was bad news of Carlos. When was news of Carlos ever good?

Messengers came to Philip, who was staying in the Valladolid Palace at that time. He had been enjoying a certain peaceful contentment. He felt that he would soon subdue the Netherlands, and had started work on that great monastery, the Escorial, which, when he had witnessed the desecration of St. Quentin, he had vowed to build. He intended to fill it with the art treasures which his father had taught him to love and revere, and when he was there he would live quietly as a monk. His father had repudiated his crown when he retired to the monastic life. But Philip intended to combine the two. He would spend half his time in fasting and in prayer that he might the better rule his country.

Isabella’s health had improved considerably; her high-spirited temperament helped her. She was herself once more, and Philip felt that he had been foolish to have suffered so acutely. She was surely stronger than Maria Manoela had been. Soon there would be children born to them, and if he had a son—a healthy and intelligent boy—he would disinherit Carlos. He had discussed this possibility with Ruy, whose opinion it was that the disinheriting of Carlos—providing the Council agreed to it—could only be of advantage to Spain.

Ruy was grave when he talked of Carlos. He was fully aware of the Prince’s feelings for the Queen, and that knowledge Philip knew, disturbed him deeply.

Such were Philip’s thoughts when the news was brought to him.

“There has been an accident, your Majesty,” said the messenger from Alcala. “The Prince lies nigh to death.”

Ruy was with Philip at the time. Philip could not help but be aware of the sudden tension in his friend. Was it hope?

Philip betrayed nothing of his feelings, and the messenger hurried on. “It was a few nights ago, your Highness. The night was very dark and the Prince, hurrying down a staircase in his establishment, slipped and fell from top to bottom. He received injuries to his head and spine…terrible injuries Highness.”

“You came straight to me?” said Philip.

“Yes, your Highness.”

“And it is some days since the accident,” said Ruy. “We know not what may have happened in the meantime.”

“I shall leave at once for Alcala,” said Philip.

Ruy rode beside him when they left. Philip knew that Ruy regarded the accident in the light of a blessing. Carlos was no good to Spain, no good to Philip; therefore, Ruy’s thoughts would run, it is well to be rid of him.

Philip knew, even as Ruy did, that while Carlos lived he would give trouble to all, and in particular to his father. Ruy worshipped logic, but Philip worshipped duty. However painful that duty, Philip would follow it. Ruy would have delayed on the journey so that the best physicians, who were with the court, might not reach Carlos in good time; but Philip saw nothing but the need to save his son, whatever misery that might bring to himself or to Carlos.

With all urgency, the court proceeded to Alcala.

Now the whole of Spain was in mourning. The heir to the throne was dying, wailed the people. They forgot the stories they had heard of his conduct. Don Carlos was the hero now. There were lamentations. There were pilgrimages to the shrines of the saints. Many sought to win Philip’s favor by having themselves publicly scourged in the hope, they said, of calling the saints’ attention to their sorrow, but actually in the hope of calling the King’s attention to their loyalty to the crown.

At Alcala Philip found Carlos in a very low state. He did not recognize his father, and this many thought to be fortunate for it was generally believed that excitement at this time would surely kill the Prince.

Dr. Olivares, the greatest physician in the world, whom Philip had brought with him from Valladolid, examined Carlos, and his verdict was that Carlos would die if nothing was done to save him; there was, he believed, a faint hope that the operation of trepanning might do this. If the King gave his permission for the operation, Dr. Olivares would see that it was carried out with all speed.

With Isabella and Ruy beside him, and his courtiers and statesmen about him, Philip waited for the news; and as he looked at the faces of those gathered about him, he fancied that only in Isabella’s did he see any expression of real grief.

Why should she care for the fate of this lame epileptic who was a source of anxiety to all those who came into contact with him? Why, of all these people, should Isabella be the only one who sincerely prayed for the recovery of Carlos?

Philip could not shut out of his mind the memory of a distorted face, of eyes which stared madly into his while a harsh voice cried: “She is mine…mine!”

How could he be jealous of a poor, half-mad creature like Carlos?

At length Olivares presented himself to the King, and one look at the doctor’s face was enough to tell everyone present that the operation had been successful.

But although Carlos had not died during the operation its results were far from satisfactory. The Prince’s head swelled to twice its usual size so that his eyes were completely buried in his flesh and he could not see. A rash broke out on his skin and he suffered agony.

He was in constant delirium, calling perpetually for Isabella; but when she went to him he did not know her. He shouted threats against someone, but as he mentioned no name, those about him could only guess at whom the threats were directed.

Philip prayed for guidance. Isabella knew that he was thinking what a blessing it would be if Carlos died, and she knew that he was fighting against such thoughts. To Philip, duty was all-important, and she was aware that if he believed it was his duty to go into the sickroom, put a cushion over Carlos’s face, and suffocate him, he would not hesitate to do so.

Was he wondering even now whether he might hint to the doctors that the moment had come to rid Spain of Carlos?

Her fear of this strange man who was her husband was growing. She would never be able to forget the fanatical light which had shone in his eyes when he had talked to her of the work of the Inquisition. She was dreading the day—for she knew that as Queen of Spain she could not escape it—when she would have to attend an auto-da-fé. She recalled with horror the executions her mother had forced her to witness at Amboise. She was a good Catholic, but cruelty horrified her. She could not look on calmly while men and women were tortured, no matter what they believed. Now it seemed to her that she had escaped her mother’s tyranny for that of another. The last months had made a woman of a frivolous girl, and as that woman was a tender-hearted one, she could not love a man who thought it righteous and godly to torture men and women, even though he had been to her the kindest of husbands. She was becoming complicated, whereas she had been simple; she wanted to escape, but she knew not how.

Philip decided that it was his duty to do everything in his power to save his son’s life.

He explained to Isabella that in the Monastery of Jesu Maria were buried the bones of the Blessed Diego, a Franciscan lay brother, who had led a life of sanctity and was said to work miracles.

“It is years since he died,” said Philip, “but his memory has never faded. If he saves the life of my son he shall be canonized.”

“Let us pray to him,” said Isabella.

“We will do more. I will have his bones dug up, and they shall be brought to Carlos and laid upon him.”

Philip’s indecision was past. He had found the solution to his tormenting problem. If Carlos was saved through the intercession of the Blessed Diego, he would know that he, Philip, and Spain were not yet to be relieved of their burden.

Carlos was tossing on his bed. Don Andrea Basilo and Dr. Olivares, the King’s most worthy physicians, stood by his bedside.

Carlos was moaning in agony. The terrible swelling of his face made him unrecognizable.

Philip arrived in the sick-room, and with him were two monks from the Monastery of Jesu Maria. They carried a box in which were the bones of the Blessed Diego.

Philip said: “We will place them about the body of my son. Then we will kneel and pray to the saint to intercede for us. He is noted for his sympathy for the sick. Doubtless his intercession will succeed.”

So the bones of the long-dead monk were placed about Carlos, and some pieces of the cerecloth, in which the body had been wrapped, were scraped off the bones and laid on Carlos’s face.

Carlos screamed. “What is this, then? You have come to kill me, I smell death. I smell decay. Is death here then?”

“We have brought the bones of the Blessed Diego,” said Olivares.

“You have brought death. I smell it. It fills the room. You have brought death to me. It is my father who has done this because he longs for my death.”

Dr. Olivares bent over the bed. “We are striving to save your life,” he said. “Pray with us. We have here the bones of the Blessed Diego, and to him we are directing our prayers. The King and the Queen are praying for you now. They pray for a miracle.”

“The Queen…” said Carlos in a whisper.

“Pray, your Highness. Pray to the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos was delirious. He dreamed that he saw a monk rise from his tomb, his body wrapped in cerecloth.

“You will recover, Carlos,” said the Holy Man.

In Carlos’s delirium, the cerecloth fell away from the body of the monk; and now it was clothed in a dress of the becoming French style, and the dress covered not the old bones, but the beautiful young body of Isabella.

“I am praying for you,” she said. “Carlos, I wish you to be well.”

When at last the delirium faded the swelling in his head began to subside. People in the palace and in the town and in all the country were saying: “Here is another miracle of the Blessed Diego.”

Carlos had recovered physically, but his mental sickness had taken a more violent turn. Yet he could not be kept at Alcala indefinitely; he was old enough now to take his place at court, and this the people would expect of him. So he came to Madrid where he had for company Don Juan, Alexander Farnese, and his two cousins, the sons of Maximilian and Maria of Austria, who were to be brought up at the Spanish court.

These lively, intelligent young people might have been excellent company for a normal boy; but poor Carlos was far from normal. He was sullen for days on end; he refused to eat for long periods, so that all feared he would starve to death; then he would decide to eat, and make himself ill because he would not do so in moderation. He would rise from his bed in the middle of the night and demand boiled capon; he would lash his attendants with a whip which he kept handy for the purpose, until the food was brought to him. All his attendants longed to be removed from his service, with the exception of his half-brother, Garcia Osorio, who seemed able to soothe him better than anyone else. This boy, perhaps out of gratitude to Philip, had made the Prince his special charge, and would show the utmost tact in dealing with him. Carlos was relying more and more on his half-brother; he tolerated him because, although he was handsome and of lively intelligence, he was illegitimate, and that pleased Carlos, as it gave him a sense of superiority. Young Garcia was of great value in the household, since he could manage Carlos better than anyone except the Queen; and the King had ordered that the Queen should see her stepson but rarely.

It was a matter of continual grievance to Carlos that Isabella was kept from him.

Sometimes he would get together a band of young men—the most dissolute he could find—and they would roam the streets of Madrid, insulting women, pulling off their cloaks, forcing them against walls, and mishandling them. Rape was rarely committed, for Carlos forbade this; this fact set in circulation rumors that he was impotent, which in its turn enraged Carlos. But he did nothing to prove it was not, which supported the belief.

The whole world now knew that the heir of Spain was at least unbalanced. Yet many sought his hand. Catherine de Medici still wanted him for Margot, and sent urgent letters to the Queen of Spain. There was talk of his marrying his Aunt Juana, and Philip himself was not against this. It was said that Carlos and Juana would have made a strange pair—she with her melancholy madness, he with his wild insanity. Philip’s sister Maria and her husband Maximilian were very eager to secure him for their daughter Anne. They wrote to him and professed great affection for him.

Carlos liked to imagine himself as a husband—either of Margot or Anne. A favorite game of his was to imagine himself procuring horses and riding to France, where Catherine de Medici would receive him and marry him to her daughter Margot, or riding to Austria where he would be fêted by his Uncle Max and Aunt Maria, and married to his cousin Anne.

But there was one who remained for him the most desirable in the world, the mere mention of whose name could soften his ugliest moods and bring him back to comparative sanity. That was Isabella—his father’s wife.

Although Isabella continued to wear her beautiful dresses and give them away with the utmost extravagance, she could no longer delight in these things. At times she felt homesick for France; but at others she felt she no longer had a part in what was happening in her old home. Margot’s letters were gay and inconsequential; they were all about Margot’s own adventures and the people who admired her, what she wore, what journeys she made, and how Henry of Guise grew more handsome than ever. But when Isabella thought of her native land nowadays, it was of terrible conflicts between Catholics and Huguenots. There had been such quarrels in the days of her youth, but it was only now, when she was living close to the mighty shadow of the Inquisition, that they seemed to have such horrible significance. The people she had known and loved were involved in wars against each other. There were the Guises against the Prince of Condé and Coligny. There was Jeanne of Navarre, whom she had known so well and with whose little son she had played, in terrible strife with her husband, Antoine, that kinsman with whom she had parted so piteously when she had been brought to Spain. And all these conflicts had their roots in religion. It was incongruous. Christians were supposed to love each other; yet these Christians were fighting…killing each other.

She was at length obliged to attend an auto-da-fé. She did not know how she would endure that ordeal. The memory of the hot square would live in her mind forever; she would never, she feared, forget the grim Inquisitors, the pomp of the royal gallery, the victims in their yellow garments dragging their tortured bodies to the stakes.

I am a Catholic, she told herself. I know the Catholic Faith to be the only true Faith, but I cannot bear to see these people suffer so. And when I see them I care not that they are heretics. I only want to save them. I find myself caring for nothing…not for God, not for religion if God and religion demand of us such action.

She felt a hatred toward the land of her adoption because it was the home of torture. She shrank with revulsion from the man who sat beside her in the royal gallery, his eyes intent, the fervor lighting his face. She wanted to cry out in protest when the people shouted with glee and the agonized screams of men and women filled the air while the flames licked their already mutilated bodies.

She wanted to live in a world of kindness and fun—not torture and misery.

One day Madame Clermont, one of the French ladies who had accompanied her into Spain, came to her and intimated that she had something important to say.

When they were alone, Madame Clermont could scarcely speak, she was so excited.

“Your Majesty, I have discovered a Frenchman in distress.”

“What is this?” asked Isabella indulgently, for poor Clermont was of a romantic nature and was constantly bewailing the lack of those adventures which had seemed to come about so naturally in France.

“He had an accident in the street close to one of the inns there…which was fortunate for him. It might have been on the mountain roads, and then Monsieur Dimanche would have said good-bye to this life.”

“You are incoherent, Clermont. Who is this Dimanche, and what is this all about?”

“It is very mysterious, dear Majesty; and that is what makes it so exciting. No one seems to know who he is or what his mission; and he, poor man, is too far gone in delirium to speak much sense. But he is handsome—very handsome—and he is a Frenchman. Spanish innkeepers are a grasping breed. Do you know, Highness, they do not wish to keep him in their miserable inn, for fear he should be unable to pay his bill? They do not like foreigners, they say. And that is a slight to your Majesty! They have put him in a barn close by; and he, poor man, is very sick indeed.”

“What is he doing here, I wonder?” said Isabella.

“That we shall doubtless discover later; but knowing how interested your Majesty is in our own countrymen, and women, I guessed you would not care to know that one of them was lodged in a barn, and a sick man at that!”

“Indeed I do not,” said Isabella. “It is most inhospitable.”

“One of the palace serving-women has a comfortable lodging not far from the inn—nor from the palace. If it should be your Majesty’s wish that this man be taken there, she is willing to have him, and to care for him until he has recovered.”

“Let it be done,” said Isabella. “I will send one of my own doctors to him. I should not like a Frenchman to return to France with tales of the ill-treatment he received in Spain.”

So the mysterious Frenchman was removed from the barn to the lodging of the serving-woman; and it was some days before Isabella knew what an important problem he was to bring into her life.

For the next day or so Isabella thought no more of the Frenchman. It was her custom to interest herself in her fellow countrymen, and if any visited Spain to do all in her power to see that their stay was enjoyable. It was not the first time she had helped people in distress. She herself would pay the servant in whose house Dimanche was lodged; she would reward her doctor for his services to the man. It appeared to her at that time that there the affair of Dimanche ended.

It was Clermont who brought the news to her—excitable Clermont who looked for drama and romance in everyday life. Drama had certainly been found among the papers of Monsieur Dimanche and, Clermont assured the Queen, in the few words he had let slip in his semi-conscious state.

Clermont begged to be alone with the Queen and, when she was absolutely sure that they would not be overheard, divulged what she had discovered.

“Dearest Highness, I do not know how to tell you. Dimanche is in the service of Spain.”

“A Frenchman…in the service of Spain!”

“What I have found out, Highness, is horrible. And I do not know what to do. I remember them so well…as you do…the Queen and her little son. That brightest of boys…”

“Clermont, Clermont, what do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?”

“The Queen of Navarre and her son young Henry. There is a conspiracy—and this Dimanche is one of those who will carry it out—to ride to Pau in Navarre, where the Queen is at this time with her son, to kidnap them and bring them here to Spain…to…the Inquisition.”

Isabella could not speak. The memories were too vivid. She was back in that hideous square; she was watching the shambling figures in their yellow robes. Their faces had been indistinct; perhaps she had not had the courage to look at their faces; perhaps she did not want those to haunt her all the days of her life. But now there would be faces…the faces of the Queen of Navarre—dear Aunt Jeanne—and little Henry, the rough young Béarnais of whom, in spite of his crudeness, they had all been so fond.

A plot had been discovered through this accident to one of the conspirators, a plot to take honest, noble Jeanne and torture her and burn her alive—and perhaps her little son with her. And Fate had brought this to the knowledge of the Queen of Spain.

“Highness,” cried Clermont, “what shall we do? What can we do?”

Isabella did not speak. She could only hear the chanting voices, taking the terrible Oath; she saw the man beside her—the man she had married—his eyes aflame, his sword in his hand, swearing to serve the Inquisition, to torture and murder—yes, murder—Jeanne of Navarre because she was a heretic.

At length her voice sounded in her ears, firm and ringing, so that she did not recognize it. “It must not be.”

“No!” cried Clermont excitedly. “No, your Highness. It must not be. But what can we do?”

What could she do—she the little Queen, the petted darling? Could she go to Philip and beg him not to do this thing? It would be useless, for she would not be pleading with the indulgent husband; it was that man with the eyes of flame and the sword in his hand who had decided the fate of Jeanne of Navarre.

It would be so easy to weep, to shudder, to try to forget. She had been her mother’s creature, now she was Philip’s.

But she would not be. She was herself—Isabella, kinswoman of the noble Jeanne; for noble she was, heretic though she might be.

So she said again: “It must not be.” And then: “It shall not be.”

She was going to fight this evil. She was going to pit her wits against Philip, against the Inquisition. She did not care what happened to her. She was going to do everything in her power to save Jeanne.

How?

It was not impossible. The chief conspirator was for the time being a victim of his accident. It would, she gathered, be some days before he could set about his diabolical work.

She said: “We have a few days’ start of him.”

“Yes, Highness. But what shall we do?”

“It is simple. We must see that she is warned.”

“How?”

“By sending a messenger into Navarre.”

“Dearest lady, this is dangerous. Can you send such a messenger?”

“I have my servants.”

“They are the servants of his Majesty.”

Isabella was silent, and Clermont, her face suddenly very grave, went on: “If you do this, you are working against the King your husband.”

Isabella answered: “I know it.” Her young face hardened suddenly with resolution. “And I will do it,” she said.

She was no one’s creature now. She was indeed herself; and so should it be to the end of her days.

But who could help her? Whom could she trust?

There was one who would do all in his power to please her, one who would keep her secret from Philip.

She had begun to realize how loyal all these people of the court were to their King. There was only one of them who would go against him.

Don Juan, Alexander, Garcia, the young Austrian Princes, Ruy, and all the courtiers and statesmen could not be trusted. She knew that if she told them of her need they might agree to help her or not, but they would all consider it their duty to lay their knowledge before the King.

If she asked one of her grooms to take a message to Navarre, how could she be sure that he would obey her in what must surely be done in disobedience to the King? Surely, they would reason, if she wished to send a message to her kinswoman she should not have to do it in secret unless it was against the wishes of the King.

There was one alternative, and however unwise it might be she must take it. She must warn Jeanne.

Carlos had lately been collecting horses. She knew that he had been making wild plans to escape from Spain to France or Austria, taking with him one or two of his attendants, whom he believed he could trust. He was constantly sending away horses from his stables and bringing in new ones. There were a few men who would be faithful to the Prince, for even if they did not love and respect him, they believed that he would one day come to the throne.

Yes, Carlos had it in his power to help her now; and there was no one else whom she could trust.

She sought him out and told him that she wished to speak to him privately; she asked if he would take a walk with her in the gardens.

When they were safe from eavesdroppers, she said: “Carlos, I want your help. I need it badly.”

Carlos was delighted.

“I will do anything,” he assured her. “You have but to ask me.”

“I must have horses and riders. Perhaps two horses and two trusty men. You will not betray me, Carlos?”

“Dearest Isabella, they could torture me on the chevalet and I would never betray you.”

“I knew it, Carlos. God bless you. You are my friend.”

“You never had a truer friend, Isabella.”

“Then promise you will be calm, for we need calmness.”

“I will be calm. Look at me, Isabella. See how calm I am.”

“Yes, Carlos, I see. I should not burden you with this, but I can trust no one else. The King must not know.”

Now Carlos was eager. He had a secret with Isabella, and Philip was shut out. This was one of his happiest dreams come true.

“I have to get a message to my aunt, the Queen of Navarre. She must be warned to leave Navarre at once and ride to Paris, and she must take her son with her, for there is a plan to capture her and hand her to the Inquisition.”

Carlos’s eyes gleamed. “My father plans that,” he said. “He is angry because the French do not fight the Huguenots as he would have them do. Isabella, shall we fight with the Huguenots? Are we heretics, then?”

“Nay, Carlos. It is not that. We are good Catholics. But she is my dear kinswoman and I cannot bear to think of them torturing her. It makes me so unhappy. Perhaps I am a bad Catholic, but when I see strangers hurt I become desperately unhappy, and I would rather die myself than see my aunt taken. I would risk God’s displeasure if need be.”

“We will defy them all, Isabella.”

“Carlos, you have the horses. Will you help me to get a message to her?”

“At once. Oh, Isabella, thank you…thank you for making me so happy. We will send two riders and each shall take a different route. I would I could go myself…Then you would see what I would do for you.”

“I see it now, Carlos.”

“I can send riders whom none will miss. I…I…You see…” He began to laugh suddenly and wildly.

“Carlos,” she begged, “do not laugh like that. You will spoil everything. Be calm and clever as you have been.”

He was silent at once. “I will be calm and clever. And I will be happy because in this we are together…you and I, Isabella…against Philip.”

She shivered, and, gripping her arms, he looked up into her face and cried: “I am happy…happy…happy, Isabella. I am happy tonight.”

He looked sane now, and almost handsome. She wanted to weep, not only for his madness, but for that other madness which made men delight in torturing each other.

FOUR

The memory of the part she played in saving Jeanne from the Inquisition never left Isabella. It was one of the most momentous things she had ever done, and marked a turning point in her life.

Philip never discovered the part she had played in foiling his plans. He knew that Jeanne had been warned of his intentions in time to enable her to escape, with her son, out of Navarre into the heart of France and safety. Isabella often wondered what his reactions would have been to her deception. There were times when she felt a little remorse, but she only had to recall the cruelty of the auto-da-fé to justify her actions; and she never doubted for a moment that if she were presented with a similar situation she would meet it in the same way.

Her feelings toward Philip had necessarily changed. How could she love a man who had been ready to send a noble woman like Jeanne—or any person, man or woman for that matter—to the flames? It was merely because Jeanne, a woman whom she had known and loved, was involved that this had been brought home to her. Even in his tenderest moments she would think: If I became a heretic, he would condemn me to the flames.

If that was piety she preferred human frailty.

He cares more for his soul than anything on Earth—his soul. He thinks he is doing his duty in a manner which will please God and win him eternal bliss. Is that noble? Is that selfless? Is it according to Christ?

She wished she could be young and frivolous again. She wished—more than ever since she had betrayed him—that she could give him a son. It seemed that was not to be. There had been another pregnancy which had ended in failure.

She sought to please him as much as she could. She would not spare herself. She made the long and arduous journey to Bayonne, as his deputy, with the Duke of Alba, that she might meet her mother and her brother Charles, who was now King of France, for a conference on the borders of France and Spain.

What joy it was to see young Charles again, yet how sadly he reminded her of Carlos, with his hysteria and his moods of strangeness. He was still devoted to her and so happy in their reunion.

When she met her mother, she knew how she had grown up, for Catherine no longer had the power to disturb her. Truly she had escaped from Catherine; one day she would escape from Philip.

Catherine showed her awareness of that escape, saying: “You have become a Spaniard!” There was bitter disappointment in her words; she knew well enough that her eldest daughter was no longer her thrall.

I am no more Spaniard than French, thought the young Queen: I am myself.

However, she followed Philip’s instructions in trying to persuade her mother to adopt a more Catholic policy in France; but she knew that Philip meant her inclusion in the mission to be merely a sign of his love for her, and to give her the pleasure of seeing her family. It was Alba and Catherine who paced the long galleries in endless converse, and discussed the future policies of France and Spain.

After she returned to Spain she became pregnant once more, and this time her child lived. Alas!, it was a daughter, and she named her Isabel Clara Eugenie. This child delighted her, but she was not released from the responsibility of giving Philip a son.

How tender was Philip at that time, superintending arrangements himself, making sure that everything should be done for the sake of his little Queen, seeming mutely to plead with her to give him that love which he needed from her and which she could not give! What could he do to please her? That was what he seemed to ask. And how could she answer: By not being Philip; by being just the kind and tender person you are to me without that grim shadow who is always beside you— Philip the fanatic, Philip the murderer of men and women, Philip the man who would have tortured Jeanne of Navarre and sat in the royal gallery with Queen Isabella beside him while that noble body was burned at the stake. How could she say that to him? And if she did, how could he change? He was Philip, the man his father, his Spanish upbringing, and life itself had made him.

Carlos was restive. He was a man now, and he considered it was ridiculous of his father to treat him as though he were a boy—and he the Prince of Spain.

His conduct became more riotous. If Isabella had been allowed to visit him more frequently he would have been quieter. But his father prevented those visits. Isabella herself would have come. Had she not come to him when she needed help? He wanted to shout that through the streets of Valladolid and Madrid. But he must not. It was a secret between them.

Many thoughts chased each other confusedly through his troubled mind.

Together they had saved the heretic Jeanne of Navarre. That pleased him, and because of it he would always have a fondness for heretics. He wanted to be a soldier like Alba, winning victories, and with all the people welcoming him when he returned from the wars. In his dreams he rode at the head of a cavalcade, and everyone was shouting for the conquering hero, Don Carlos, instead of the Duke of Alba.

He wanted to be a statesman like Ruy Gomez da Silva, bland and wise, always calm. He wanted to be King, but not like Philip—quiet, morose, who did not know how to enjoy himself. It was time such as he were out of the way.

In his saner moments he liked to know what was happening in the dominions to which he was heir. Since the trouble in the Netherlands, Philip had talked of going there himself to subdue his unruly subjects.

“I wish I could go!” cried Carlos. “I understand heretics.”

Now he began to talk of heretics with some affection. Why, he demanded, should they not be allowed to have their own thoughts? Why could they not have their own way of worshipping God? Why not? Why not? Carlos would scream at his attendants. Why could they not answer? Why not indeed? Should they disagree with Don Carlos and face his unaccountable wrath, or alternatively run the risk of incurring the displeasure of the dread Inquisition?

Carlos knew what he wanted now. He wanted to go to the Netherlands. He wanted to be the Governor. He shouted his desire to all who cared to listen. He spoke continually of his sympathy with the people of the Netherlands, and at length a deputation came from that country asking that the Prince should be the new Governor.

Philip was exasperated. He visited his son.

“You cannot go to the Netherlands,” he said coldly. “You do not know how to conduct yourself here. How could you hope to govern others when you cannot control yourself?”

Carlos’s fury broke loose. He screamed his defiance. Then suddenly he stopped and, remembering how he and Isabella had outwitted this man, a slow smile touched his lips.

He spoke clearly and coherently. “You hate me, do you not? You know that I wish to go to the Netherlands and that the Flemings wish to have me there; but you refuse my request and theirs. You do this because you hate me. You frustrate me, and I know why. It is because of Isabella.”

“You talk nonsense,” said Philip.

“Do I? Do I, your gracious Majesty!” He laughed. He was thinking of her standing before him, appealing to him so beautifully. “Carlos…you are the only one I can trust to help me…” And together they had worked against this Philip. They had saved the life of the Queen of Navarre…he and Isabella. Small wonder that he loved all heretics. The Queen of Navarre was a heretic, and she had brought him close to Isabella…and Isabella loved him. She had come to him that they might work together against Philip.

He spoke quietly then, as though to himself: “She was mine, and you took her from me, but do not think it will always be thus. You are old…and she is young…and I am young, and I shall always be between you…because she is mine…mine…”

Philip turned abruptly and left him. His son was quite mad, but what an unhealthy situation was this! Carlos and…Isabella! It made him shudder. Carlos did not see himself as others saw him.

Yet Philip was deeply disturbed. He knew that Isabella did not really love him as he wished to be loved. He was fully aware of the restraint between them. He wanted the love of Isabella—the complete love of Isabella—more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Carlos…between them! That was ridiculous! But it was a disturbing thought.

After that visit from his father, Carlos’s fury broke out more wildly than ever. He began to seek opportunities of offending the most important men.

The Inquisitor-General, Cardinal Espinosa, had banished an actor from Madrid. Carlos discovered this and, because he was beginning to hate all men in authority, he declared that the banished man was his favorite actor, and he wanted to know what right a priest had to oppose the son of the King. At the very first opportunity he sought out the Cardinal and, in the presence of the officials of the church and the court, he taxed him with deliberately seeking to oppose and annoy the Prince.

The Cardinal defended himself in as dignified a manner as possible, but Carlos was out for revenge and blood. He drew his sword, shouting: “Miserable priest who dares oppose a prince! Miserable torturer of heretics!”

None dared strike the Prince, but it was essential to save the Cardinal, and his friends, ranging themselves about him, hustled him from the room, leaving Carlos foaming at the lips, waving his sword and flashing his wild eyes menacingly at those who remained. Garcia Osorio was fortunately present and managed to soothe him.

But the great Cardinal Espinosa could not allow such an attack on his dignity as well as his person to pass without protest. He presented himself to Philip.

Philip was full of remorse and, as was so often the case when his subjects brought complaints of his son, the interview ended with the Cardinal’s kneeling before the King and swearing to endure even the insults of the Prince for the sake of Philip.

One night Carlos tried to throw one of his servants out of a window because he did not obey his summons quickly enough. On another occasion when riding he pursued Don Garcia de Toledo, the brother of the great Duke of Alba, with his riding whip. Don Garcia had no alternative but to fly before him for fear that he might be forced into an affray in which the Prince might suffer.

It was becoming increasingly clear that Carlos was now nothing less that a violent madman.

Isabella was again pregnant, and Philip therefore decided that he would not go in person to the Netherlands. There was one whom he could trust and whom his Council agreed would be the very man to put down revolt in that troublesome country—a man of ruthless methods, of great personal courage, a fervent Catholic—the great Duke of Alba himself.

When the news of the Duke’s appointment was brought to Carlos he fell into a mood of melancholy and would eat nothing for three days. He was growing very thin through lack of food, and when his frenzies were on him they would exhaust him.

He would lie in his bed and refuse to see anyone, and as he lay there he would talk to himself of death and hate, blood and murder.

Alba, ready to leave for the Netherlands, had occasion to visit the Prince, and when he saw him Carlos completely lost control.

He came out of his silent melancholy and shouted: “Who are you who dares to come here and mock me? How dare you take the governorship of the Netherlands when you know that it belongs to me?”

Alba, seeing the condition of the Prince, sought to placate him. “Your Highness is too precious to his Majesty to be exposed to the dangers of the Netherlands.”

“Do you suggest that I am a coward, sir?”

“Indeed not, your Highness. We know you long to go and fight Spain’s battles. It is solely…”

“You know that, and you consent to go in my place! You take from me that which is mine?”

“Your Highness, as heir to the throne…”

“Ah! Remember it, villain!” Carlos, laughing horribly, showed Alba the dagger he had been hiding in his sleeve. “This is for you, sir. This is for you, Lord Duke. We will send the corpse of a noble Duke to the Netherlands…that we will!”

Carlos’s maniacal laughter rang out as he lunged at the Duke; but Alba was ready; he caught Carlos’s arm and twisted it so that the dagger fell to the ground.

Carlos, impotent to continue his attack, screamed, and attendants came running in.

“Take this man. Set him in irons. Bring me a sword and I will pierce him to the heart. I will kill him…kill him…”

He glared at the cold face of the Duke, and he hated him in that moment almost as much as he hated his father.

Alba said contemptuously: “Take him. Give him some soothing medicine. His Highness is very excited this day.”

Then, almost throwing the Prince into the arms of his attendants, he strode from the apartment.

Isabella was aware of the rapidly increasing tension between father and son.

She longed to comfort Carlos, but she was again pregnant, and each successive pregnancy left her less able to contend with the next.

She was praying urgently for a son.

Ruy, whom she looked upon as one of her greatest friends, knew of her anxiety. She was aware that he shared it. He, more than anyone, seemed to fear the growing menace of Carlos.

Once he said to her: “If your Majesty should have a son, he would be the heir to the throne.”

“And Carlos?” she asked.

“The Council has agreed that in such circumstances Carlos would be declared unfit.”

“Poor Carlos. He would never forgive me.”

Ruy answered: “Carlos would forgive your Majesty anything.”

She was startled. Was he warning her, this good kind friend who seemed to see further than anyone else? Was he suggesting that Carlos was in love with her! She could not accept that. He was her friend; she was sorry for him; but that he should think of himself in the role of lover was incongruous.

Ruy said: “Sometimes I wonder what would happen if by some terrible mischance Philip should die and the crown pass to Carlos. Spain would be as Rome under Caligula.”

“I see,” she said, “that I must have a son…if not now…later.”

“Your Highness will. I beg of you not to be too anxious.”

But the child which was born to her, though healthy, was a girl.

“There is plenty of time,” said Philip and Ruy and all those to whom the birth of a male child was so important.

Then Carlos demanded their attention.

After the birth of her daughter, Isabella’s convalescence was a long one. She was subject to headaches and fits of dizziness; she had grown pale and thin. Yet such was her beauty that, although she had changed from the dazzling young girl who had first come to Spain nearly ten years ago, she was still possessed of great charm. If her eyes were less bright, her hair less lustrous, there was in her countenance an expression of such sweetness that those about her loved her more than they had when she had been a sparkling young girl.

In spite of her ill-health, she was still determined to give Philip a son.

Carlos was mad and must never be allowed to rule Spain. She traced this new and greater wildness in him to their adventure together when she had asked his help for Jeanne of Navarre, for again and again he would refer to his sympathy with heretics, and continually he spoke of her, the Queen.

Her secret weighed heavily upon her; she was remorseful, yet she knew that, could she have that time over again, she would act in exactly the same way.

Philip, absorbed in state duties, moodily occupied with thoughts of Carlos, did not notice the sad preoccupation of Isabella. Always with him she was the charming and obedient wife; and although he knew that he did not possess her passionate devotion, for which he longed, he still believed that one day it might be his.

Isabella spent much time at Pastrana in the Palace of the Prince and Princess of Eboli. She found great comfort in the companionship of Ruy and his wife. Ruy, in particular, understood something of the conflict within her and he knew that it concerned Carlos.

On one occasion he reminded her of the conversation they had had before the birth of her daughter. He knew, and the Princess his wife knew, that it would be unsafe for her to bear more children.

“This problem will have to be faced by Philip and the Council,” Ruy said to her. “Carlos cannot rule; but you and the King have two daughters. It may well be that Isabel Clara Eugenie will make as great a Queen as her forbear, the great Isabella.”

“What would Carlos feel if he were replaced by a girl?” she asked.

Ruy said: “Your Majesty must forgive my forwardness. If I speak to you as a father, that is because I am old enough to fill that role and because of my great regard for you. Let your task be to comfort Philip, to preserve your strength for this great work. You have given him two daughters. Let that suffice.”

She gave him her sweetest smile.

“I thank you, my Prince, for your advice, but I would not take it if I could. Very soon I hope my son will be born.”

Both Ruy and his wife were sad to hear this news that once again she was to have a child.

Carlos had decided to wait no longer. His father hated him. He had been born for one purpose, and he was now going to fulfill it. He was going to kill his father.

It had been such a wonderful dream: to raise the dagger and thrust it into the black velvet doublet, to watch the dull red stain on black velvet and diamonds, to see the pale eyes glaze in anguish—but not before Philip had looked into the face of the murderer and known him for his son.

Afterward he would ride away—perhaps to France, perhaps to Austria. But he would not long stay away from Spain; he would come back…for Isabella.

He kept his secret, planning cunningly. It would have to be a moment when he was alone with his father, for there must be none to protect Philip. He, Carlos, would be subdued; he would mislead Philip.

“Father,” he would say, “I will reform. I swear I will.”

And when Philip came close to lay a hand on his shoulder, to speak of his pleasure in his son’s calmness—then would come the quick uplift of the arm, the deep thrust, and blood…blood…the blood of Philip.

He had arranged for horses which would carry him away from the palace. He had told Juan and Garcia that he would need horses; he had ordered both of them to procure horses for him.

The idea of confession occurred to him. He had taken great pleasure in the confessional, for when he confessed it was as though he lived through exciting experiences again.

He did not intend to confess his plan to murder, but there was that about Fray Diego de Chaves which drew his innermost thoughts from him.

When he said: “What have you to confess this day, my son?” Carlos’s hot tongue licked his lips. He was obsessed with the great sin of patricide, but in the solemnity of the confessional box he was suddenly afraid. He was going to commit murder, but he told himself that it was a judicial murder. He was going to do something which, all his life, he had longed to do. But he wanted absolution. He did not want to burn in hell for committing a murder which was no ordinary murder.

So he would demand absolution, and this poor priest would not dare deny him, nor would he dare betray him.

He said: “I am going to kill a man, and I wish for absolution.”

“My son! You plan murder and you ask forgiveness! You know that cannot be.”

“It must be!” screamed Carlos. “It must be.”

“Murder, my son, is a mortal sin. You plan to commit it, and ask for absolution beforehand. Think what you say.”

“It is possible. I am the Prince.”

“Sir, there is One higher than all the princes of this world.”

“Then He will forgive me when He knows what a wicked man I intend to kill.”

Fray Diego prayed that he would be able to deal adequately with this new phase of madness. He said: “What plot is this? I must know before I can grant absolution.”

“It is a person of very high rank whom I shall kill.”

“It would be necessary for me to know the name of this person and any of those who plot with you.”

“None plot with me. I plot alone. Come, man. Grant absolution or I will run my sword through your miserable body.”

“I must know the name of this person of high rank.”

“You shall. His name is Philip, and he is King of Spain!”

The excitement was too much for Carlos; he fell to the ground in a fit.

The priest called for help and dispatched a messenger to the King.

Carlos was in his apartments. He was sullen, would speak to no one, and all that day he had eaten nothing. He could not remember what he had said to the priest.

He lay on his bed. Beneath the coverlet he had hidden two swords. They were naked, ready for use. Beneath his pillow were two loaded pistols. He was trembling with excitement. But what had he said to the priest?

He heard voices in the antechamber. With one hand he grasped a sword; with his chin he felt for the pistols.

The door opened unceremoniously and several men entered the room. Among them Carlos recognized the Count of Feria.

He struggled up. “How dare you break in on me thus!” he cried. “Why do you come? Men-at-arms…here! The Prince commands you. Arrest these intruders.”

There were several men about his bed then, and with a sudden movement Feria had stepped forward and stripped off the coverlet. Before Carlos could cry out, he had seized the two swords. Carlos’s hands went at once to the pistols, but one of the men was quicker than he was. He seized the Prince’s wrists while another took the pistols from under his pillow.

“How…dare you!” sobbed Carlos. “You forget…I am the son of the King.”

At that moment there was a brief hush as Philip himself entered the chamber. He stood at the end of the bed, and in the candlelight father and son gazed at each other. Carlos thought he had never seen such a cruel face, never looked into such cold eyes. He was very frightened; for he knew that at last he had gone too far.

“What…what does your Majesty want?” he stammered.

“Close all doors,” said Philip.

This was done, and now Carlos saw that the room was filled with men and that the Count of Feria had taken up his stand on the King’s right hand.

Carlos was trembling. He knew that the doom which he had always dreaded was upon him.

The King did not speak to his son. He addressed the assembly. “I place the Prince, Don Carlos, in your hands,” he said. “Guard him well. Do nothing that he commands without first consulting me. Keep him a close prisoner.”

“Why?” cried Carlos. “What have I done? I have not killed you. I have been betrayed. You cannot treat me thus…You cannot.”

“I have nothing more to say,” answered Philip; and he turned away.

Carlos knelt on the bed. “Father,” he pleaded. “I beg of you…do not make me a prisoner. Let me go free. I shall kill myself if I am a prisoner.”

“Only madmen kill themselves,” said Philip sternly.

“I am not mad. I am only sad…sad and desperately unhappy. I always have been. Nobody loves me except…except…But those who love me are kept from me. But that does not alter their love. I am there…whether you wish it or not. I am there between you. I am young, King Philip, and you are old. I shall kill somebody…even if it is myself…”

Philip was at the door. He had made up his mind how he would act, and the councillors of state had agreed with his actions. The matter was finished.

Windows were fastened; doors were locked; and guards placed inside and outside the apartment.

Don Carlos was indeed his father’s prisoner.

Carlos lived in his own dark world, lying on his bed for days, speaking to no one, rising in sudden frenzy and throwing himself against the walls of his room, refusing to eat for days at a time, then demanding a feast and eating so ravenously that he was ill.

What was to become of Carlos?

While Carlos lived there could be no peace of mind for Philip. The Prince was well guarded, but escape from a prison such as his was not impossible. What if he found his way to Philip and committed the crime he had planned? What if, Philip dead, he called himself King of Spain? Who could deny his right to the title?

Philip thought: I, who would give my life to my country, have given it a monster.

To whom could he speak of such a matter? To Isabella? She was frail, wraithlike; he trembled to look at her. She seemed aloof from him; he wondered what rumors she had heard.

“Philip,” she said, “could I not see Carlos?”

“Indeed not.”

“I might help him. He was fond of me.”

“I know it,” said Philip grimly. “What will become of Carlos?”

He did not answer. He knew she read certain thoughts which came into his mind, for her dark eyes grew darker with horror.

She wanted to cry: “Philip, you could not do that. You could not murder your own son.” She remembered what he had said at the auto-da-fé in Valladolid. She heard it repeated many times. “If my son were a heretic, I would carry the wood and light the fire at his feet.” But he could not murder his own son.

She could not speak her thoughts aloud, for outwardly he had made a Spaniard of her.

There was nothing they could say to one another. Carlos was between them.

Philip was closeted with Espinosa, the Inquisitor-General. Isabella believed they talked of Carlos.

She began to think of the excuses he would make: “Carlos spoke as a heretic, and those who speak as heretics are condemned to death.”

But not your own son, Philip! she wanted to cry. Not your own son!

Philip was closeted with Ruy.

And she knew that they all planned to rid themselves of Carlos.

They were alone in their bedchamber—the King and the Queen—but it seemed to them both that there was another there, a shadowy third. He would not let them rest. Both were thinking of him and his demoniacal laughter. The madness of him! thought Philip. The pity of him! thought Isabella.

Philip began to pace up and down. He had a decision to make. He must do this thing. But how could he? He is my own son, he mused. Then it seemed to him that he heard the stern voice of righteousness, of God perhaps: “What if your conscience is burdened with murder? What is your conscience compared with the good of Spain?”

He was in an agony of indecision. There were so many thoughts in his mind. He longed to rid himself of Carlos. He feared Carlos; and ridiculous as it seemed, Carlos was between him and Isabella.

What was she thinking as she lay there watching him? Of Carlos? She knew his thoughts. She must know the purpose of those secret meetings with Ruy and the Cardinal. She knew that the destruction of Carlos was being planned.

He could not speak of it. He was deeply conscious of that quality in him which did not allow frankness. Moreover she had set herself apart from him. Yet her eyes were pleading with him now. You cannot kill Carlos, Philip, they said. You cannot kill your own son.

And why should she plead? What was the meaning of Carlos’s secret smile? Only Isabella could calm Carlos. Only Isabella was fond of him. Was there some secret between them?

Why had Carlos looked so cunning…so pleased…so certain when he had said: “I shall always be between you!”

“Philip,” said Isabella, “you are tired and you have much on your mind.”

“So much,” he answered. “So many decisions to make.”

He longed to put his arms about her, to beg her to help him. He wanted to explain his feelings for his son, his disgust of him, the humiliation he suffered on his account, and above all that faint—and he was sure unfounded—jealousy.

But how could he talk of such things to Isabella? All through the night the agony of indecision continued.

Dr. Olivares sought out the King. He must speak to him in private.

“Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has spoken to me concerning Don Carlos.”

“How do you find my son?”

“Sire, he is sick—very sick of the mind.”

“And of the body?”

“It is astonishing how he remains as well as he does in that respect. Your Highness, the Prince of Eboli has told me it is your Majesty’s wish that a certain medicine should be given to Don Carlos.”

“If the Prince of Eboli told you that, you may take it as a command from me.”

“Then I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the interruption. I did not care to administer such a medicine except at the express command of your Highness.”

“I have decided,” said Philip coolly, “that this medicine will be beneficial.”

“I understand your Highness.”

Dr. Olivares bowed and glided away.

Isabella said: “Why did Dr. Olivares come to see you this day? Has he news of the Prince?”

“Yes,” said Philip.

“He is better?” she asked eagerly.

“He will never be better. It is for us to hope that he will not be worse.”

Isabella, looking at her husband, saw in his face a calmness which, she knew, came from his having reached a solution to a problem which had given him much anxiety. She came to him and slipped her arm through his; it was a gesture from the old days when she had been more demonstrative in her affection.

“Philip,” she said, “you seem at peace. I am glad.”

Then he turned to her and gravely kissed her brow.

“Isabella,” he said, “let us pray as we have never prayed before. Let us implore God that this time it may be a son.”

Isabella felt suddenly cold as she looked into the inscrutable face of her husband.

Carlos was in a docile mood. He took the broth which had been specially prepared for him; but after drinking it he became very weak and could only lie still and speak in whispers.

He seemed not to know where he was, to be living in the past, calling himself the Little One, and asking for his locket.

His attendants sent for his Confessor.

Philip was called to him. He gave no sign of the emotion within him. He stood at one end of the bed, and as Carlos opened his eyes and looked at his father a faint smile touched the Prince’s lips.

Carlos knew. In those seconds his eyes told his father that he knew. There was no hatred now; he knew that soon he would have left this world in which his father had all that he, Carlos, had most desired: Dignity, the respect of men, and…Isabella.

Carlos tried to speak, but the death rattle was in his throat. His smile said: “I was to have killed you, and I made you kill me instead. You think you are the victor, Philip. But are you? You know, as I know, that it shall be as I said: I shall always be between you and Isabella.”

And for a moment, as he looked into the cold blue eyes, he saw Philip flinch, and he knew that in death the victory belonged to Carlos.

He had made a murderer of the man he hated; he had made him a murderer of his own son.

Isabella now knew that she would never give Philip the son for which they had fervently prayed. She was dying in the attempt to do so.

She had mourned Carlos deeply; she knew that his tragedy was interwoven with her own. She was weary of this harsh world in which she lived. From the Netherlands came terrible stories of the suffering under the cruelty of Alba…in the name of Spain. Her beloved France was torn in agony with its wars of religion. She did not wish to live amid such cruelty.

She had escaped from her mother, but she could never escape from Philip. She had been right to fear him as she had when she had first heard she was to marry him. Whenever he was near her now she saw him, not as Philip the King and tender husband, but as Philip the murderer of his own son.

She thought: If I had been a heretic, he would have carried the wood; he would have lighted it at my feet.

Always about him was an aura of horror. She could never think of that Philip who had been kind to her without seeing his other self, the gloomy fanatic, the man who had sought to bring Jeanne to the stake, the man who had taken his sword in his hand and sworn to serve the cruel Inquisition, who had sat tense and exultant while the bodies of men and women were burned in the flames, and the screams of martyrs rose to Heaven. Carlos was indeed between them, for she could never see her husband but as the man who had murdered his own son.

Yet she was sorry for him, this strange, frustrated man.

Now that her end was near she wanted to say to him: “Philip, you are failing to realize your dreams and the failure comes from yourself. Show kindness and tolerance to the Flemings and you will beat Orange yet.”

Kindness! Tolerance! But he had determined to set up the Inquisition all over the world; he believed the Inquisition to be an instrument of God. There was no kindness and tolerance there.

“Philip, Philip!” she wanted to cry. “How mistaken you are! You did not dream impossible dreams. You might have won the world and I might have loved you as you wished to be loved. With kindness and toleration the world could have been happy under your domination. I might have loved the man you could have been. But you do not understand, and the failure to make your dreams realities is due to yourself.”

But how could she say such things? And how could he ever understand them?

Her daughter was born to live but a few hours.

Philip sat by her bed. He knew that she was slipping away from him.

“Isabella!” he cried. “Come back to me. We will be happy yet.”

She smiled sadly. “It is too late, Philip,” she whispered. “Oh, do not grieve for me. You see me well on the way out of this unhappy world into a better one.”

“Isabella…Isabella…there is so much I have to tell you…so much I have to say. Life for us will be better yet.”

But he knew that he had lost her; and it seemed to him that he heard the mocking laughter of the son whom he had murdered.

Contents

Title Page

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Author’s Note

In writing of what is undoubtedly one of history’s most puzzling relationships, it is perhaps advisable to add a few remarks in order to justify the conclusions to which I have come. This is particularly the case with regard to the mysterious death of Amy Robsart.

All that happened on that Sunday morning at Cumnor Place will never be known. Was Amy’s death due to accident, suicide, or murder? After studying available records my verdict cannot be anything but murder.

Consider the facts: The Queen was being pressed by her ministers to marry. She could not bear to forgo the attentions of Robert Dudley, and Robert could not give up the hope of sharing the throne. Thus Robert’s wife Amy stood in the way of two ruthless personalities. The Queen, in politics the soul of caution, had always been reckless in love. Scandal was circulating throughout the country concerning the relationship of Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. People remembered Thomas Seymour. Before Amy died there was a strong rumor that her death was being planned; and when it was said that Amy was suffering from a fatal malady, many believed that to be a false rumor set in motion in order to explain the death which was to follow. So persistent were the rumors, that a physician refused to attend Amy, fearing to be accused of administering poison should she die. This was the state of affairs when her minister, Cecil, returning from Edinburgh, found the Queen strained and nervous, and, to his astonishment, heard from her lips that Amy would soon be dead. Cecil, appalled, hurried from the Queen, and was so distraught that, coming face to face with the Spanish ambassador, he could not keep his suspicions to himself. “The Queen and Lord Robert Dudley are scheming to put Lord Robert’s wife to death!” is what he said—according to the Spanish ambassador. And a few hours later Amy was found dead.

Why should the Spanish ambassador have written those revealing dispatches if the contents were untrue? Spain was no enemy of Robert’s at that time, and Robert had won Philip’s approval at St. Quentin.

An accident to Amy resulting in her death at such a time so convenient to Elizabeth and Robert is surely too incredible a coincidence to be accepted.

As for the suggestion of suicide, if Amy had wished to kill herself would she have chosen a method which, she must have known, might not result in death, but merely add acute pain and misery to her remaining years? Would any woman destroy herself in such a painful way in order to avoid being murdered?

Everything points to murder, apart from Amy’s strange conduct on that Sunday morning in sending all her servants to the Fair. Why did she—in perpetual fear of murderers—clear the house of all the servants on that day which was to prove so tragic to her?

I have looked to her maid Pinto for the explanation, because from her first came the suggestion of suicide. It seemed that this suggestion came simply and unwittingly from Amy’s maid; but was Pinto such a simpleton? What if the suggestion were not wrung from her, but deliberately given? Might she not have known the true reason why the house was deserted on that Sunday morning? Let us consider what a woman would do when the whole country was hinting that she was about to be murdered. How would a devoted maid behave? As for my interpretation of Pinto’s feelings for Robert, it must be remembered that, during his two and a half years’ exile, he had lived in Norfolk and would have come into continual contact with Pinto; and if we can discover little of Pinto’s character, we know much of Robert’s.

It is the novelist’s task to present a convincing story and, when the characters actually lived, to adhere to facts obtained by research, only diverging from them with good reason, e.g., when they are unknown, and then only making careful and responsible deductions as an aid to the completion of the story. Therefore I offer my views of what happened at Cumnor Place in the summer of 1560.

To reach these conclusions—and others—I have studied many books and documents. The chief among these are:

Calendar of Letters and State Papers (Spanish) relating to English affairs preserved principally in the Archives of Simancas. Published by the Authority of the Lords Commissioners of Her Majesty’s Treasury under the direction of the Master of Rolls. Edited by Martin A. S. Hume, FR Hist S.

Elizabeth and Leicester. Milton Waldman.

Queen Elizabeth. J. E. Neale.

Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland.

Queen Elizabeth (Brief Lives). Milton Waldman.

Natural and Domestic History of England. William Hickman Smith Aubrey.

British History. John Wade.

Old and New London. Edward Walford.

England in Tudor Times. L. F. Salzman, MA, FSA.

King Queen Jack (Philip of Spain Courts Elizabeth). Milton Waldman.

Two English Queens and Philip. Martin Hume, MA.

History of England. J. A. Froude.

ONE

It was hot, even for August; the foul odors from the river, carrying the threat of pestilence, hung in the sullen air that sultry day; but the crowds who were assembling on Tower Hill were oblivious of discomfort. Traders had left their shops or stalls in Candlewick Street, East Chepe, and the Poultry; horse-dealers were coming from Smithfield Square; the goldsmiths from Lombard Street, the mercers of Chepeside had deserted their houses, realizing that there could be little business at such a time. Apprentices, risking a whipping, crept out after their masters, determined to see what could be seen on Tower Hill that day.

Laughing and jesting they came. All men and women believed that the hardships of Henry VII’s reign were behind them and the days of plenty were at hand. No more cruel taxes would be wrung from them; no more fines; no more impositions. The old miser King was dead and in his place was a bonny golden boy who laughed loudly, who jested and made sport, and loved to show himself to the citizens of London.

It was he who had provided this day’s pleasure for them; and it clearly indicated what they might expect of him.

“God bless King Hal!” they cried. “See how he pleases his people! He is the one for us.”

The cheers for the King mingled with the jeers for the traitors. Some apprentices had made two effigies which they held high above the crowd, to be mocked and pelted with refuse.

“Death to them! Death to the extortioners! Death to the misers, and long life to King Harry!”

Jostling, cursing, laughing, they surged about the hill. At the summit, close to the scaffold, members of the nobility were gathered. The bell of St. Peter ad Vincula had begun to toll.

At the edge of the crowd, not venturing into it, stood a boy. He was pale, soberly dressed, and was staring, mournful and bewildered, at the weather-washed walls of the great fortress which seemed to stand on guard like a stone giant. So grim, so cruel did it seem to the boy, that he turned his gaze from it to the green banks where the starry loosestrife flowers were blooming. He remembered a day—long ago it seemed to him now—when he had taken his little brother to the river’s edge to pick flowers. He remembered how they had strolled along, arms full of blossom. The flower of the water betony was like the helmet a soldier would wear, and he was reminded that soldiers would soon be coming out of the great prison, and with them would be the men who were to die on Tower Hill that day.

“Death to the traitors!” shouted a man near him. “Death to the tax-gatherers! Death to Dudley and Empson!”

The little boy felt the blood rush to his face, for his name was John Dudley, and his father was one of those who would shortly lay their heads upon the block.

He would not look, this little John. He dared not. Why had he come? He knew not. Was it because he had hoped to see a miracle? His father had seemed to him the cleverest man in England; and not only did he seem so to John, but to others, for Edmund Dudley, a humble lawyer, had become chief adviser to the King. But kings die, and often favors die with them; and a friend to one king may be a traitor to another; and if that king is desirous of winning his people’s love, and those people demand a man’s head as a symbol of his love—then that head is given.

He was standing up there now, the father of the boy. Little John stared at the ground, but he knew what was happening, for he heard the shouts of the people. Then there was silence. He looked up at the sky; he looked at the river; but he dared not look at the scaffold.

His father was speaking. The well-remembered voice rose and fell, but the boy did not hear what he said.

Then all was silent again until there came a shuddering gasp from the crowd. John now knew that he was fatherless.

He stood, helpless and bewildered, not knowing whether to turn shuddering away or to run forward and look with the crowd at his father’s blood.

Now the executioner would be holding up his father’s head, for he heard the cry: “Here is the head of a traitor!”

He wondered why he did not cry. He felt that he never would cry again. The shouting people, the gray fortress, the sullen river—they seemed so indifferent to the plight of one more orphan.

Such a short while ago he had been John Dudley, eldest son of a king’s favorite minister, with a brilliant future before him. Now he was John Dudley—orphan, penniless—the son of a man whom the King had called a traitor.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “John,” said a voice, “you should not be here.”

Turning, he saw standing beside him a man whom he knew well, a man whom he had looked upon in the light of an uncle, one of his father’s great friends in the days of his prosperity—Sir Richard Guildford.

“I…wished to come,” said John haltingly.

“I guessed it,” said Sir Richard. “’Twas a brave thing to do, John.” He looked at the boy quizzically. “And not to shed a tear!”

He slipped his arm through that of the boy and began to lead him away.

“It is better for you not to be here, John,” he said.

“What would they do to me?” asked the boy. “What would they do if they knew I was his son?”

“They’d not harm you, a boy of…how old is it?”

“Nine years, sir.”

“Nine years! ’Tis young to be left alone and helpless…and your mother with two others.”

“They will take all we have…”

Sir Richard nodded. “But ’twas not done for the love of your father’s possessions. It was done to please the people. Who knows…” He looked at the boy shrewdly, but stopped short.

“Did the people so hate my father then?” asked the boy incredulously.

“Kings must have scapegoats, my boy. When a king does what his subjects do not like, that is the fault of his statesmen; it is only when he pleases them that the credit is his. It is the late King against whom the people cry out. Your father and Sir Richard Empson are the scapegoats.”

The boy clenched his fists. “To be a scapegoat! I like that not. I would be a man…and a ruler.”

Then suddenly he began to cry, and the man, walking beside him, helplessly watched the tears roll down his cheeks.

Sir Richard understood. It was natural that the boy should cry. He did not speak for some seconds, then he said: “This day you shall come home with me. Nay, do not concern yourself. I have seen your mother. I have told her that I would find you and take you to my home.”

They had now reached the river’s edge where a barge was waiting; and as they went slowly up the river, the sobs which shook the young body became less frequent.

At length they alighted, and mounted the privy steps which led to the lawns before Sir Richard’s home.

As they entered the mansion, and crossed the great hall, Sir Richard called: “Jane! Where are you, my child?”

A girl, slightly younger than John, appeared in the gallery and looked down on the hall.

“I have a playmate for you, Jane. Come here.”

Jane came solemnly down the great staircase.

“It is John,” she said; and the boy, looking into her face and seeing the tear stains on her cheeks, knew that she too had wept for his father, and was comforted.

“He has suffered much this day, Jane,” said Sir Richard. “We must take care of him.”

Jane stood beside the boy and slipped her hand into his.

Sir Richard watched them. Let the boy forget the shouts of the mob on Tower Hill in the company of little Jane. He was safe with Jane.

As Sir Richard Guildford watched John Dudley grow away from his tragedy in the months that followed, he recognized in him that strength of character which had been Edmund Dudley’s. He was excited by the boy, sensing in him latent ambition, the will to succeed, the passionate desire to bring back honor to the Dudley name. Sir Richard could look with pleasure upon the growing friendship between his daughter and this boy; and nothing less than having John in his own house and bringing him up as his son would satisfy him.

It was not difficult to arrange this, for Sir Edmund’s widow and her children were forced to look to relations and friends for help, and Lady Dudley was only too glad that Sir Richard had taken this interest in her son.

It was Sir Richard’s custom to talk to the boy, to nourish that ambition which he knew was in him; and one day, as they walked in the City to Fleet Lane and over Fleet Bridge and on to Ficquets Fields, Sir Richard talked of John’s father.

“Your father was a great man, John. When he was your age, his position was little better than your own.”

“Nay sir,” said John. “It is true that my father was the son of a small farmer, and himself but a lawyer, yet he was descended from the Lords Dudley; and I am the son of a man who is called a traitor.”

Sir Richard snapped his fingers. “The connection with the Lords Dudley was never proved,” he said, “and I doubt it existed outside your father’s imagination.”

The boy flushed hotly at that, but Sir Richard went on: “Oh, it was clever enough. Dudley needed aristocratic ancestors, but he found them for himself. No doubt he made good use of them. But between ourselves, John, there is more credit due to a man when he has had to climb from the valley to the top of the mountain than when he starts near the top.”

John was silent and Sir Richard continued: “Just for ourselves we will see Sir Edmund Dudley as the son of a farmer, himself a lawyer, yet such a master of his profession that the King sought his aid and through him and his friend Empson, ruled England.”

The boy’s eyes had begun to shine. “The son of a farmer merely—and he one of those who ruled England!”

“What should that teach you? Just this: No matter how lowly you may be, there is no limit—no limit—to the heights to which you may climb. Think of the King. Dare he look too far back? Is it not true that his Tudor ancestor was the son of a groom, and a bastard? Think, boy, think! This is treason and I’ll whisper it. Dudley or Tudor? Is one better than the other? Remember it. Always remember it. Your father had great ambition. It may be now that he looks down from Heaven on you…his eldest son. It may be that he asks himself: What will my son do in this world? Will he rise as I did? Will he learn from my mistakes? Has he the fire within him which will make him a great man? John, I doubt not that your father looks down from Heaven upon you and prays and hopes.”

John did not forget those words. He was determined to be as great a man as his father.

In the games he played, he was always the leader. Already he was Jane’s hero. Sir Richard was pleased as he watched the growing affection between John Dudley and Jane Guildford.

Sir Richard’s position at Court had brought him into contact with the King, who was as yet a careless boy in love with pleasure, yet a boy with an awakening conscience. Sir Richard thought that the King’s conscience might play its part in the future of his young protégé.

Henry still frowned at the name of Dudley. He was well aware that the execution of his father’s favorite and adviser had been carried out for the sake of his, Henry’s, popularity. Henry had not yet come to terms with his conscience. It could not yet persuade him, as it would later, that Dudley and Empson had deserved their fate, so the very mention of the name Dudley brought discomfort to him. But when Sir Richard subtly begged royal permission to ask the Parliament for the repeal of the attainder against the Dudleys, Henry was almost eager to give that permission.

Let the boy inherit his father’s wealth. The King did not want it; he had that vast accumulation of riches, which his own father had amassed through his thrifty reign, to squander. Yes, let the attainder be repealed. Let the son of Edmund Dudley have his father’s riches. The King could then feel happier when the names of Dudley and Empson were mentioned; he could put aside the thought that those two men had been executed to placate the people from whom much of his father’s wealth had been extorted.

The first step was therefore taken. John was no longer penniless. He was a rich parti for young Jane; although he could not yet go to Court.

Sir Richard came home full of excitement. “See what I have done for you, John!” he cried. “Now it will be your turn.”

“Yes, now it is my turn,” said the solemn boy.

Jane watched them gravely, wondering what this was all about. But there was no need to explain such matters to Jane. She was happy because her father was happy; and she saw in John that deep brooding concentration which she respected although she could not share it.

As they went out to the stables together she said: “Something good has happened, has it not?”

He nodded but he said no more then for he did not wish the grooms to hear.

As they rode across the clover-starred meadows, he said: “I am no longer without means. My father’s fortune is to be returned to my family.”

“John…does it mean you will go away?”

He smiled at the fear in her eyes. “If I went away, I should come back. You know, do you not, Jane, that when we are old enough we are to marry?”

“Yes, John,” she answered.

“You will be happy then, Jane. So shall I!”

He was sure of her contentment—as sure as he was that one day he would be a leader of men. It did not occur to her that this might be arrogance on his part; if he was arrogant, then, in her eyes, arrogance was a virtue.

As they cantered across the fields she was thinking of their future, of their marriage and the children they would have.

He too was thinking of the future, but not of his life with Jane. Jane’s love was something he took for granted. The thunder of horses’ hoofs seemed to say to him “Dudley—Tudor!”

Those name implied ambition—the rise from obscurity to greatness.

They were married when John was nineteen and Jane had just reached her eighteenth birthday. They continued to live quietly at Sir Richard’s house—so near Court and yet not of it.

The King had changed; he was no longer a careless boy; his conscience had begun alternately to torment and soothe him, and it now assured him that Sir Edmund Dudley had been a traitor who had imposed great hardship on the people. He had deserved his fate, and what, this King could ask himself, would his subjects think of a monarch who honored the descendants of such a man!

No, the King would show no favor to a Dudley; nor could he receive at Court the son of a traitor.

Jane’s first son was born; and John, who felt that the shame and humiliation of that day on Tower Hill were branded on him so deeply that only the dazzling accoutrements of dignity and great power could distract attention from the defect, determined that if he could not win favor at Court he would seek it on the field of battle.

Jane was tearful at the prospect of his departure for France.

“Why cannot you stay here?” she asked. “What do you want of fame? We have all we need. We have our little son, your namesake, and we will have more children.”

“Aye, we will have more,” said John. Of course he would have more. Children—even girls—were useful to men of power, for through them links with the great and rich were forged. Jane had her task; he had his. She must provide him with many sons and a few daughters; but he must bring power and fame to the name of Dudley.

He distinguished himself in the service of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who had married the King’s sister Mary. John came back from the battlefield Sir John Dudley.

An important step forward had been taken.

Quickly the years passed whilst ambition smoldered. Jane was fulfilling her task more successfully than John fulfilled his.

She had given him four sons and three daughters; and she was about to bear another child.

Jane remembered the day long afterward. She was happy enough in the garden of their Chelsea manor house with the river lapping at its edge. She was thinking of her beloved children—and wondering whether the one she now carried would be a girl or a boy.

How blessed she was in her four handsome sons!

There were many rumors about the King at this time. How he would have envied her her four if he had seen them! It was said that his eyes first lighted up, then smoldered when he looked at other men’s sons.

Such excitements there had been of late! Such rumors! Would the King really take Anne Boleyn to wife? Would he make her his Queen? Jane had seen the lovely Anne pass along the river in her barge. The King was growing impatient, it was said; the air was thick with rumor; and here was little Jane Dudley, peacefully awaiting the birth of yet another child, living remote from the Court, though so near it—peaceful and contented with her family about her.

Of course she would have liked John to have his heart’s desire—a share in the affairs of the Court. Sometimes he frightened her. He seemed so fierce in his determination. She would watch him pacing their chamber, pacing the lawns, his eyes narrowing as he looked without seeing it at a barge on the river. Then she would be fiercely glad that he was outside Court matters. She often thought of that great man Cardinal Wolsey who had met his doom and died of a broken heart. She would not have her John become such a one as the great Cardinal. But what a ridiculous comparison! Her John and the great Cardinal! But Wolsey had been humble once, and so had John’s father.

She wished that he were not a Dudley, that he had some happier background, someone who had a humble father who had not risen to greatness but who had died peacefully in his bed.

And that day John came home in great excitement.

The King had decided to forgive him for being his father’s son. It was more than twenty years since Henry had beheaded Edmund Dudley; and after twenty years, the King evidently thought, he could forgive a man for reminding him of his own guilt.

Jane watched John alight from his barge, saw him hasten across the turf crying her name; and never had she heard his voice so joyous.

“Jane! Dear wife, I am appointed Master of the King’s Armory.”

She felt her heart fluttering uncomfortably. She must appear to be glad. She always took her cue from him; she must be what he expected her to be.

“What…does it mean, John?”

“What does it mean! It means that the King has decided that, if I am worthy of honors, they should not be denied me. It means that we are on the road, Jane, on the road.”

“Oh, John…on what road?”

But he did not answer. He was smiling as he looked along the river toward Westminster and Greenwich.

And it so happened that in her new apartments at the Tower of London, Jane gave birth to her fifth son.

She called him Robert.

He was the most handsome of all her boys. In the first few weeks of his life she knew that he would be the best beloved. He was lustier than all the others; he had been born with a thick down of hair; his eyes flashed more brightly than she believed eyes had ever flashed before; he demanded his own way from the beginning.

His father scarcely noticed him. Why should he? He was “on the road” now. He was preparing to march on to greatness.

Robert was all Jane’s in those first months of his life. No nurses should take him from her. He was her baby—her little Robin.

How sorry she was for poor Queen Katharine, living out her lonely life in the Castle of Kimbolton. A boy like Robin would have made all the difference in the world to her happiness, poor lady. As if a baby like Robin would not make all the difference to any woman! But poor Queen Katharine desperately needed a son.

And now another Queen was praying for a son.

Queen Anne was lying-in at Greenwich, and the country was waiting for the birth of a prince to be proclaimed.

When the King passed along the river, Jane watched him from the shelter of an arbor—seeing but unseen—and she held up the little boy, murmuring: “Look, Robin. There goes a king. They say he would give half his kingdom for a boy like you. But then who would not give all the world for you!”

There was a mist on the river during those September days, and the trees of the orchards were heavy with ripening fruit.

“May the Queen be fruitful,” prayed Jane; for, sorry as she was for the displaced Queen, yet she wished joy to the new one. “May the Queen give birth to a prince as bonny—nay, that were impossible—almost as bonny as my Robin.”

The bells rang out in the City. A child was born to the King and Queen.

A prince! said the people. It is sure to be a prince. Nothing but a prince would please the King.

Ah, thought Jane, the King needs a son. It will be God’s way of telling him that he was right to break from an incestuous union and set a new Queen on the throne.

John came home from the Court, sober and unsmiling.

“What news, John? What news of the prince?” asked Jane.

And he answered: “’Twas not a prince that was born this day at Greenwich. ’Twas a girl.” Then he gave that short hard laugh which, she had noticed, had developed lately. “It will not do, Queen Anne Boleyn,” he muttered. “The King married you for sons…and you give him a girl!”

“Poor lady!” murmured Jane. “Poor lady!” And she thought: Oh dear, she is gay and wicked, they say; but I would not wish to see her suffer as poor Queen Katharine did.

Suffer? How could she suffer? She was young; she was the most attractive of women; she was not the sort to despair because her first-born was a daughter. The King was deeply enamored of her; for her sake he had broken with Rome. Who was Jane Dudley to be sorry for such as Queen Anne Boleyn!

She whispered to Robert: “It is because we are both mothers, my love. But she has a daughter and she longed for a son. And I have you—the most handsome baby in the world.”

She kissed him and he wriggled away. He was nearly a year old and only wished for kisses when he was in the mood for them.

“But what does Robert Dudley care for the new Princess Elizabeth?” crooned Jane.

In the next three years Jane often thought of the little Princess. So much honor was done to her at one time. The King himself delighted to have her dressed in finery that he might carry her round and show her to the ladies of the Court, insisting that they admire his daughter, his little Elizabeth.

But the King still wished for sons; and Queen Anne, it seemed, could no more satisfy his wishes than his previous Queen had done.

Such rumors there were of quarrels between the King and Queen—and she was not humble as her predecessor had been, but fiery and haughty. “The Queen is riding for trouble,” said John.

There was talk of the lady Jane Seymour and the King’s interest in this pale, quiet girl. The King’s conscience, like a monster drugged by the sweet intoxication of Anne Boleyn, was throwing off its stupor. Was Anne really his wife? he was asking now. Had she not betrothed herself to another before she had gone through the ceremony with the King? Was she the virtuous wife he had believed her to be?

If there were no longer a Queen Anne Boleyn there might be a Queen Jane Seymour.

But Jane Dudley’s thoughts were for the little Princess—the once fêted and the honored. What would become of her? Those about the King were already wondering whether she would be designated Bastard, as her half-sister Mary had been.

“Poor little Princess!” said Jane.

But she had her own family to occupy her mind.

A new son was born to her. This son was called Guildford, after her father. Guildford Dudley. That pleased Sir Richard.

And one day on Tower Green Queen Anne lost her head, and with unbecoming haste the King made Jane Seymour his Queen.

Jane wept when she heard the news. Robert and Guildford watched her for a few seconds before four-year-old Robert asked: “Mother, why do you cry?” He was precocious beyond the others. He listened to gossip and his eyes flashed as his father’s did. “Is it because they have cut off Queen Anne’s head?”

She was silent for a while, then she said: “No, my tears are not for the Queen, for she is past her pain. It is for the little one who is left, her daughter, the little Princess Elizabeth who is but three years old and without a mother to love her.”

Robert was the center of his world; he saw everything in relation to Robert.

He said: “I am older than the Princess. She is but three and I am four.”

“Yes, my darling. And you have your mother left to you.”

Robert laughed. He was important. He was the most important person in the world. He saw that, in the eyes of his mother and young Guildford who were watching him with such admiration.

The prosperous years had set in. Jane was rich in children; she bore John thirteen—eight sons and five daughters; some of them died when pestilence struck London but her darling grew bolder and more handsome every day.

There he was, a sturdy little fellow, strutting in the Tower gardens, calling to the guards and warders. They all laughed at his swagger. “Ha,” they said, “he will get on in the world, will Master Robert Dudley.”

Meanwhile John had continued with his spectacular rise. He had come a long way now from that boy—of Robert’s age—who had stood on Tower Hill and heard the mob, shouting against his father.

Sir John Dudley was handsome, witty, and clever; he distinguished himself in the tiltyard and at all those sports and pastimes at which Henry himself had once excelled.

“I like this John Dudley,” said the King; “and it was ever my custom to reward those who pleased me.”

Others received their rewards from the King. His fifth wife lost her head on Tower Green and was buried in the church of St. Peter ad Vincula beside the King’s second Queen, who had suffered a similar fate. At this time Henry made Sir John an Admiral of his Fleet and with that honor gave him the title of Lord Lisle. John Dudley had proved himself a good servant.

They were indeed rising in the world. Lord Lisle could look at his sons and daughters and be proud of what he had done for them. He talked to them often and his talk was always of ambition. “See how a man or a woman may rise! Your grandfather, the son of a farmer, was a humble lawyer, and he became the King’s right-hand man. As a boy I saw my father beheaded on Tower Hill and knew myself a penniless orphan. And now, my sons and daughters, here you see me: Lord Lisle, Admiral of the Fleet, and for my services in the Boulogne battle I am to become a Knight of the Garter.”

Robert was entranced by his father’s conversation. He boasted to Guildford as they strolled in the Tower gardens or those about their father’s Chelsea Manor house: “As our father rose, so shall we…higher and higher…”

There were places for the family at Court; and one day Robert was taken to the royal nurseries, where he met the pale Prince—quiet and delicate, full of wisdom he had learned from books; and with the little Prince were the two eldest Grey girls, Lady Jane and Lady Catharine. The girls were quiet and very pretty; and the Prince was fond of them. Guildford, who accompanied Robert, could not make up his mind who was the prettier, Jane or Catharine. Guildford was too young to appreciate the honor of playing with such noble persons.

One day when they were in the nursery, there was a visit from the Prince’s half-sister. That was a day to remember—a day like no other, Robert thought it. When Edward was in command, the talk would be of Latin verses which he and Jane had composed together, or some such matters. Robert had never taken kindly to such arts and graces; he would show his prowess on a horse or at the games, which he always won.

But on that day when the young girl came to the nursery everything was different. Her hair was red, her eyes blue, and she had a sparkling quality which would bubble into laughter or as suddenly into anger.

Robert was quick to sense that all the children were afraid of her, and that she was afraid of none, even though her brother was heir to the throne and she was called a bastard.

Her governess came with her; the Princess giggled with her and she might have been a serving maid until she remembered that she was the Prince’s sister and became as haughty as a queen.

She was a year younger than Robert, and Robert was glad, for he felt that gave him some advantage.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “I have not seen you here before.”

“I am Robert Dudley.”

“Say ‘Your Grace’ when you address me. I do not know a Robert Dudley.”

“You did not,” he said, “but you do now.”

“I do not think that I shall continue to do so,” she answered, turning away. She approached her brother and said: “Brother, what ill-mannered boys are these that you have allowed to be brought to your apartments?”

Young Jane and Catharine looked on in concern, and Edward was uncomfortable.

Robert was the most important person in the world. His mother and Guildford had always thought so. He was no ill-mannered boy; he reminded himself that the Princess was a bastard, but remembering also the gracious manners which his father had taught him, he knelt before the Prince and said: “Your Grace, I kneel before you. I am not so ill-mannered as to forget the honor due to your Royal Highness.”

The Princess laughed and stamped the floor with her foot. “Get up, you fool!” she commanded. “We want no Court manners here.”

Robert ignored her: “I was about to say, your Royal Highness, that I would not bandy words with another in your presence. Have I your gracious permission to rise?”

“Yes, yes,” said Edward. “Get up.”

“If I have the esteem of your Royal Highness, I wish for no other,” said Robert pointedly.

Then the Princess looked again at him and she continued to look. His dark hair curled about his neck. Beside him poor Edward looked more puny than ever. Robert’s skin was pink and healthy; poor Edward suffered so from spots and rashes. And the other boy, Guildford, was frail compared with his brother.

The Princess then began to think that this Robert Dudley was the handsomest boy she had ever seen, and because of his personal beauty she was ready to forgive him his arrogance—and in truth she liked his arrogance, for it matched her own.

She went to him and tapped him on the arm; and when he looked haughtily down at her he saw that she was smiling at him in a very friendly fashion.

“Enough, Master Robert!” she said. “What games do you play?”

He showed her how to play “Pope Julius’s Game,” which he had learned from his elder brothers. She sat by him smiling at him. She set the pace; it was she who usually suggested what games they should play; the others, he could see, had always been ready to follow her.

“Now,” she cried, “we shall compose verses. Each member of the party must add a line.” She looked sternly at Robert: “And,” she added, “it must rhyme.”

She beat him at the game, but he said it was a foolish one and not a man’s game. She retorted that if it were indeed a little foolish he must be very foolish since he could not play it even as well as little Catharine.

She herself was expert with her lines; but after a while she grew tired of the game and showed them the newest Court dances, although how she knew of such matters Robert could not understand.

She herself danced with Robert. “You are the only one of a size worthy of me,” she told him, as she paired Jane and Edward, Catharine and Guildford.

“You would dance well, Master Dudley,” she said, “with a little more practice.”

“I would we could practice together,” he said.

She fluttered her eyelashes and said demurely: “Your Grace.”

And just to please her he said it. She was very satisfied, and so was he. It was indeed a very satisfactory occasion.

Often he met her in the royal nursery, but one day she was not there. She had been retired, Edward told him, to Hatfield, where she would stay with her governess.

How dull it was without her!

King Henry died and the puny little Edward was King of England. John Dudley could view the new reign with confidence, for his standing was even higher under the new King than it had been under the old. Henry had appointed him a member of that Council which was to form a Regency and govern the kingdom until Edward was of age. John Dudley was climbing to the summit of his hopes, but there were two men who stood in his way. These were the uncles of the King, the Seymour brothers; Edward, now Duke of Somerset, the sober statesman, and Thomas, now Lord Sudeley, the handsome philanderer. The only characteristic these brothers appeared to have in common was their overwhelming ambition, and if Edward had the power, Thomas had the popularity. He was not only the favorite of the young King, but the Princess Elizabeth was said to blush when his name was mentioned.

During this time young Robert saw his father become one of the most powerful men in England. He was now the Earl of Warwick, which in itself was significant, for that title had been extinct since the death of the grandson of Warwick the King-maker. Had a new king-maker arisen?

The family was very rich, for the Warwick estate was now theirs. Jane Dudley was apprehensive; often she thought how happy she would have been if her husband could have been content with what he had won. In the last reign no man had been important, except the King; now there were several men all struggling for pre-eminence. She wished she could have talked freely to John; she wanted to warn him. How he would laugh if she did! He had never considered her opinion worth asking for.

Young Robert knew of her fears and tried to soothe her.

“Why, Mother,” he said, “my father will win. He will beat the Seymours.”

“Your father will beat all who oppose him,” said Jane; and her voice trembled. She could not dismiss from her mind memories of that day when her father had brought John home. Such sights as John had seen on that day were often to be witnessed on Tower Hill.

“I’ll tell you why my father will beat them, Mother,” said Robert. “He is now in command of the King’s armies, and therefore his position is as strong as that of the Lord Protector Somerset.”

And Jane had to be content with that.

The new Earl of Warwick lost little time in arranging advantageous marriages for his children. His eldest son John should be affianced to the daughter of the Protector himself; his daughter Mary was to marry the King’s friend, Henry Sidney.

“Your turn will come, Robin,” said his mother.

Robert’s answer was: “I, Mother? I shall choose for myself.”

When he thought of marriage he thought of the redheaded Princess. Was he looking rather high? Robert did not think so. Who could be too high for Robert? Moreover she was a bastard. Yet he did not object to that. He had admired her spirit, the way in which she had commanded the children, the way in which she had cajoled him into calling her “Your Grace.” What impudence, and yet what dignity! What arrogance mingling with a certain promise of…he was not quite sure what.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “I shall choose for myself.”

Strange rumors were afloat.

The younger Seymour was attainted of high treason. He had plotted, it was said, to seize the government and marry the Princess Elizabeth.

Robert was bewildered by the news. He had, of course, seen Thomas Seymour, Lord Sudeley, rich and magnificent, swaggering through the Court, the eyes of the women gleaming as they followed him. All had agreed that Thomas Seymour was the handsomest man in England; but at that time Robert was yet a boy and no one had noticed him.

The rumors were shocking, for they involved the Princess. Robert was angry when he heard of them. He did not believe them, he told himself; and yet when he thought of her, smiling at him, fluttering her sandy lashes, how could he be sure that what he heard was not true?

His mother talked of the rumors with the ladies of her household; she would sit in the gardens at Chelsea and talk with her friends.

“Was it true then…the Princess but a girl of thirteen and a Princess…so to conduct herself!”

It did not help matters that the man with whom the Princess was reputed to have behaved so disgracefully was the husband of her stepmother, Katharine Parr.

Robert heard it all, the story of the flirting and the rough horseplay; he heard of the occasion when the daring Seymour had cut her dress to pieces while sporting in the gardens of the Chelsea Dower House; there were stories of his visits to her bedchamber, of tickling and smacking and kissing while the Princess was in bed. The Princess Elizabeth had been known to ride in a barge on the Thames like a light woman.

Robert thought of it all, pictured it, saw Seymour and the Princess in that embrace which it was said had exposed the guilty affair to Katharine Parr when she had come unexpectedly upon them and witnessed it.

There was no end to the tales, and snatches of conversation stayed in his mind.

“And have you heard the rumors? I had it from a very reliable source…someone who knows…from the midwife herself. Do not speak of this to any other. One dark night the midwife was awakened from her bed by men and women in masks and made to follow them, bringing with her the tools of her trade. She was blindfolded until she reached a certain house, and there she delivered a child. She was warned that if she spoke a word of what had happened her tongue would be cut out. The lady who needed her services was young and most imperious. She had red hair…”

Robert was more angry than ever then, but his anger turned to sadness when he heard that she was taken to the Tower.

There she was questioned, and it was said at that time that when Thomas Seymour lost his head on Tower Hill, the Princess Elizabeth would soon follow her lover.

Robert, at sixteen, was restless for adventure.

At that time the two most powerful men in England were jostling each other for first place; one of these was the Lord Protector Somerset, the other was Robert’s father, who suddenly found that he had the advantage over his political enemy.

Thomas Seymour had been beheaded without being granted an opportunity to speak in his defense. This in itself was shameful, but carried out at the command of his own brother seemed ignoble in the extreme. The popularity of the Lord Protector was waning; and that of his opponent consequently waxed.

Then came the rising of the peasants of Norfolk who were starving on account of the enclosure laws. They were marching on London when the Earl of Warwick, as General of the King’s Armies, set out against them and defeated them on their own ground in Norfolk.

The insurrection had been suppressed with great cruelty, and trouble averted. The country was grateful to Warwick for his speedy and ruthless action. The Norfolk landowners considered themselves deeply indebted to him, and Robert, who was with his father in Norfolk, became a guest at the large country estate of Sir John Robsart, lord of the manor of Siderstern.

Warwick returned to London, leaving his son to follow him; but Robert was in no hurry, and the reason was Robsart’s young daughter, Amy.

She was plump and pretty—a girl of Robert’s own age—and she had never seen anyone quite so dashing and handsome as this young man from Court circles.

Amy was the youngest of the family and rather pampered by her father and her two half-brothers and two half-sisters, particularly since the death of her mother, which had occurred a short while before the Norfolk rising.

Her brothers John and Philip, and her sisters Anne and Frances Appleyard, were not her father’s children; and Amy, being John Robsart’s only legitimate child, was also his heiress. She was used to having her own way, and she made no secret of her feelings for the handsome newcomer; and the more openly she admired him, the more good sense and charm she seemed to have in the eyes of Robert.

He liked the country; he enjoyed life in a great manor house; and he appreciated the honor showed to him by all these people. John and Philip Appleyard deemed it a compliment when he rode with them to the hunt. The girls—Anne and Frances—saw that all his favorite dishes were served at table. All the family smiled benignly to see his friendship with Amy ripen. As for Sir John Robsart, he was fervently hoping that Amy would make a good match, but at the same time wondering if he dared look so high as to the son of the most important man in England and the country’s real ruler.

Meanwhile Robert and Amy rode out together, hawking and hunting; her simple admiration was enchanting; she never failed to laugh when he indicated that he expected laughter; she always applauded, and she showed him in a hundred ways that he was more like a god than a man.

Robert felt gay and merry, basking in such adulation. He felt as worldly-wise as the young Princess whose name had been tossed hither and thither by sly rumor. He assured himself that this pretty and simple Amy was in truth far more desirable; she would never scorn him; she would always admire whatever he did.

One day when he and Amy were walking in the fields on her father’s estate, Amy began to collect daisies to make a chain. She had many pretty gestures and everything she did was with a charming innocent grace, as she now made a daisy chain.

It was springtime and the country smells and sounds enchanted Robert. He felt suddenly that he did not wish for any other life than this. To wander in green fields, to hunt in the forests, to live a life of ease and comfort with these pleasant country folk from whom he was so different that he was something more than human, seemed to him the ideal life.

“You are very pretty, Mistress Amy,” he said; and as she cast down her eyes and feigned great interest in her daisy chain, he continued: “Did you not hear me, Amy?”

She raised her eyes; they were large, limpid and somewhat sad. “But you will have seen so many who are prettier. What of the clever people whom you meet in your father’s house?”

“You are prettier than any.”

“How can that be?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Do not ask me. I am not God. I did not make you all.”

That sent Amy into titters of shocked laughter. It sounded like blasphemy, but it was so amusing. Robert was always amusing. She deemed him as clever and handsome as he considered himself to be. She reflected his own pride in himself. He was sure in that moment that he could be happy at Siderstern for the rest of his life. He dazzled her; he dazzled them all; and he was determined to dazzle them more than ever before.

“Amy,” he said, “I love you.”

She was a little frightened. What did he mean by that? Surely not marriage! He was the son of the man who was shortly to become—so she had heard her father say—Protector of England. No, Amy could never hope for marriage with a man such as Robert Dudley, even though she was the heiress of her father’s considerable fortune. What then? Seduction? What else? And how could she say No? How could she resist his overpowering charm?

She stared at the crimson-tipped daisies because she dared not look at him, but all the same she was seeing his face—those bold eyes, the dark curling hair.

She had heard the servants talk of him; Anne and Frances whispered together concerning Robert. They had never seen any so handsome. As yet, they said, he did not know his power, but that would come.

Had it come? And was Amy to be its first victim?

“Why do you not answer me?” he said; and the answer she gave pleased him more than any could: “I…I dare not.”

He felt powerful. He was, after all, a Dudley. In him was the love of power which had raised his grandfather from a humble lawyer to be the extortioner-in-chief of King Henry VII, the same love of power which had induced his father to step along the road which had led from Tower Hill to the Council Chamber and would take him before long to the Protectorate. He felt very tender toward her; he took her trembling hand and kissed it.

“You are afraid, Amy. Afraid of me!”

“I…I think I should return to the house.”

“Nay,” he said firmly, “you shall not.”

He sensed the ready obedience in her and it delighted him. He wanted now to repay her for the pleasure she gave him. He said on impulse: “I will marry you, Amy.”

“Oh…but how could you! Your father would never allow it.”

She saw his lips tighten. “If I chose to marry I would do so,” he said sharply.

“My father is rich and important, but that is here in Norfolk. We have our house and our estates, and one day they are to be mine. But…what of your father in London? He visits the King himself, and they say that even the King must do as he wishes.”

“The King may do what my father wishes,” said Robert boastfully, “but I shall do what I wish.”

“But it could not be.” She was too innocent to know that her attitude was stiffening his determination to have his own way.

“If I will it, it shall come to pass,” he said.

Then suddenly he had taken both her hands, was drawing her toward him and kissing her.

“Robert…” she began.

“Your skin smells like buttermilk and your hair like hay,” he said.

“We shall be seen.”

“And do we care for that?”

“They will think you are a shepherd with your love.”

He released her. He did not care that Robert Dudley should be mistaken for a shepherd.

They walked slowly back to the house.

She said sadly: “It is like a dream that will never come to pass in reality.”

“We will make it come true.”

“But I know your father will never consent. It is wrong therefore to hope.”

“I tell you I will do as I please.”

“But you have forgotten who you are and the grand schemes your father will have for you. You have forgotten that although I am my father’s heiress and he is considered rich in these parts, you are Robert Dudley, the son of the most important man in England.”

“There is something you have forgotten. It is this: When I say I love, I love; and when I say I will marry, I will do so. No one shall stand between me and my desires.”

It was bold and it was what was expected of him.

He kissed her as they stepped into the house, and he kissed her as though he cared not who might see.

Amy told her maid Pinto what had happened. Amy could not keep anything from Pinto.

“Pinto,” she cried, “I am swooning. Bring a fan and fan me. I know not what is to become of me.”

Amy lay on her bed, half laughing, half crying, while Pinto tried to soothe her frivolous young mistress.

“Now, now, sweeting, now, now! What is it? You must not be so excited. It’s that young man, I’ll wager.”

“Clever Pinto!” said Amy with a smothered laugh.

“Oh, Mistress Amy, what has happened? What have you done? He is not for you.”

“You must not let him hear you say that, Pinto. He would be angry with you. He is for me, Pinto. He says it, and he will be very angry with any who gainsay it.”

Pinto felt sick with the horror of this. The family might think it great good fortune to have that young man as their guest. Pinto was a wise woman. She watched him often, and always with a fearful absorption. “What have you done?” she demanded. “Tell me…everything.”

“I was in the meadow with him…making a daisy chain.”

Pinto sighed and shook her head. “How many times has it begun thus?” she cried. “Making a daisy chain! There is some evil in daisy chains. So simple! So innocent! Thus was Eve when the serpent came along.”

“He says he will marry me, Pinto.”

“Never!”

“He is determined to do so.”

“They are always determined at first. It is only afterward that their determination wavers.”

“You misjudge him…and me.”

“Then you are still my little virgin?”

Amy nodded. “He swears he will marry me. Not even his father will stop him.”

“A man who could deal so swiftly with the Norfolk rising not stop his son making the wrong marriage!”

“But this is the right marriage, Pinto.”

“Nay, dearest.”

“He says so and he is always right.”

“I like this not, Mistress Amy.”

“I shall never allow you to leave me, Pinto, wherever I go.”

“I should think not!” said Pinto.

Pinto looked at the sixteen-year-old girl who had never been far from her country home. What did she know of the way of the world? And the young man had the air of knowing much.

Perhaps he would go away. He could not mean this talk of marriage. Pinto would know how to comfort Mistress Amy when he went. There was no fear that Robert Dudley would marry Amy Robsart. Fear of it? Yes, fear. For if innocent little Amy married Robert Dudley, how would it end?

Surprisingly the Earl of Warwick gave his consent to the marriage of his son with the daughter of John Robsart. Robert’s powers of persuasion were great, and his father recognized that determination which he knew so well because he himself possessed it. Robert was his fifth son, so his marriage was not the important matter of that of a first-born; the Robsarts were rich. Moreover at this time the Earl had great matters to which he must attend. Every day seemed to bring the fall of Somerset nearer and he, Warwick, was preparing himself to become Lord Protector. The matter of a fifth’s son’s marriage therefore seemed less important than it might have seemed at another time.

Jane Dudley, who could not accustom herself to her grand title, contemplated Robert’s marriage with happiness.

“It is a true love match,” she said, “and that is what I would have chosen for Robin. Amy is a pretty girl, a little simple because she has been bred in the country, but I like that. Robert will spend much time in the country, and the country life—away from the plotting and planning of the Court—is a good life.”

Jane pictured herself visiting them, resting in the lovely manor house, playing with their children, showing dear Amy how to make certain special preserves which could not be left to the serving maids, and how to grow herbs which could be used for flavoring and medicines. She saw that happy life for Amy and Robert which she had hoped might be hers and John’s.

She scarcely saw John these days. But how unreasonable it was to expect him to give his time to her. She had served her purpose. She had borne thirteen children to enrich the Dudley fortunes and, although six of them had not survived, seven was a goodly number, particularly when they were such children as hers.

As for the Robsart family they could scarcely believe their good fortune. Their dear little Amy, their simple little pet was to be the means of allying theirs with the most powerful family in England.

The wedding was celebrated with much pomp and ceremony at the Royal Palace of Sheen, and King Edward himself attended. Never had the Robsarts believed such glory would come their way.

After the ceremony the married pair returned to Siderstern and prepared to live happily ever after.

And for a time Robert was happy.

Still greater power had come to his father. He had brought a charge of treason against Somerset, who on Tower Hill had met the same fate as that which a short while ago had befallen his brother, the fascinating Thomas. With Somerset headless, John Dudley was ruler of England, for the fourteen-year-old King—sick and steadily growing weaker—counted for little.

John’s immediate action was to assume the title of Duke of Northumberland, although never before had any man, unconnected with royalty, had the title of Duke bestowed upon him.

Honors found their way to the Siderstern manor house. The Duke of Northumberland bestowed Hemsley Manor, which was not far from Yarmouth, on Robert and his wife. John Robsart was given jointly with Robert the Stewardship of Manor Rising. This was a sure sign of the King’s favor; but the King’s favor was in reality Northumberland’s favor and it was small wonder that that fell upon his son and his son’s father-in-law.

For Robert and Amy the long days were full of pleasure. Whether it was hunting, hawking, tilting, or sport of any sort, there was none in Norfolk to compare with Robert. Wherever he went his smile was sought. He was called by the folk of Norfolk: “Our Lord Robert.”

So he grew in strength and beauty, taking a great interest in local affairs. If his father was the greatest man in England, Robert was the greatest in Norfolk. There was scarcely a woman in the county of Norfolk who would not have been his for the asking. The young bridegroom of seventeen had become a handsome man of twenty—the handsomest in Norfolk, the most fascinating, it was believed, in the whole of England; and if a search of the entire world were made, where would one so merry and gay, so full of charm and chivalry, be found to equal Lord Robert!

It was not his father’s wish that he should stay forever in the country. Now and then there would come a call to Court, and Robert would set out with his servants while the country folk—particularly the women—would sadly watch him go. They said that Norfolk was a dull place without Lord Robert.

A great welcome always awaited him in London. His mother wept with joy over him, and his brothers and sisters rejoiced to see him. Even his father, who had little time for family affairs, was not insensible to his charm and often would look at him with something like regret. The Robsart marriage was scarcely good enough for the most personable member of a powerful family.

One day during a visit to London Robert was at Hampton Court when his father took him into a small room and, with an air of secrecy, said he must have a few words with his son in the greatest privacy.

“I have had it from the King’s doctors,” said the Duke, after having ascertained that they could not be overheard, “that Edward is dying and cannot last the year.”

“What then, Father?”

“What then indeed! Unless matters go our way, we are lost.”

Robert was well informed enough of current affairs to know what his father meant. The Duke had, for political purposes, set himself at the head of the Reformers; and there were many in the kingdom who would say that Edward’s lawful successor was Mary Tudor—that fanatical Catholic.

It would be the end of his father’s power if Mary came to the throne, and the Dudleys, who had made their second rise to great heights, would make their second abysmal fall.

Northumberland smiled grimly at his son.

“Robert,” he said, “you have been a fool.”

“I, Father?”

“You will see what I mean when I tell you what I plan to do. Mary Tudor is a bastard; so is Elizabeth. Their own father said so. England will not tolerate bastards on the throne when there is a legitimate heir. The Grey sisters come before Mary Tudor. Jane, the eldest, will be the rightful Queen when Edward dies. Is she not the granddaughter of Henry VIII’s sister Mary? There is no taint of bastardy in Jane and, by God, she shall be Queen of England.”

“Jane! Little Jane Grey Queen of England!”

“Certainly. It is the King’s custom to name his successor here in England…and I have Edward’s consent to this. With that and her superior claims over the bastard daughters of Katharine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn, she will indeed be Queen. But do not imagine my plans end there. Robert, had you not been such a fool as to rush into marriage with the daughter of a country squire, I would have made you King of England.”

Robert for once was without speech. King of England! He saw himself in regal velvet. How that would have become him! Power! What did he know of power as yet? He realized his recent ignorance when he pictured what he might have been as husband to Lady Jane Grey—that fragile and most beautiful girl. It was true that she was a little too pious for Robert’s taste, but she was an enchanting creature.

“Well, you have missed your chance,” said the Duke, “and it will go to Guildford.”

“I…see,” said Robert.

His father laid his hand on his shoulder. He was regretful. What a king Robert would have made! Guildford would do his duty, but the Duke would rather it had been Robert. “Learn your lesson, my son. You are young, but it is never too soon to learn, as you now understand. See what your headstrong behavior has done for you. You might have been the King, but you in your own youthful folly chose to be a country squire. Always look ahead. Always think of what the future may hold. No doubt your brother and his wife Queen Jane will bestow many honors upon you. But, you see, a little patience, a little foresight, would have brought you so much more. Now you know the position, but remember it is a secret as yet. We must succeed. The future of our house depends upon success. On the King’s death there will be opposition to Jane’s succession. We must be ready for that. You will return to Norfolk and wait there, but while you wait, you will gather together a goodly force in secret to be called upon if need be. You understand me?”

“Yes, Father.”

That interview entirely changed Robert’s outlook.

He returned to Norfolk in a very thoughtful mood. Nothing looked quite the same to him again. Amy was loving, but what a simpleton she was! He could not help comparing her rustic charm with the beauty of Jane Grey, her simplicity with Jane’s learning; and he could not help seeing beside Robert the Squire, Robert the King.

They saw the change in him when he returned. Amy was fretful and jealous. Pinto believed that he was in love with a woman whom he had met at the Court. Pinto had always sensed danger in Amy’s marriage.

She tried to warn and advise. “Be patient. Do not flatter him so wholeheartedly. Hold aloof. Let him come to you for favors. Do not bestow them so generously.”

Poor Amy tried to follow Pinto’s advice, but how could she? When Robert was near her, she must beg for his smiles like a little dog performing her pretty tricks for him.

“Amy,” he cried in exasperation, “when will you grow up?”

“But you used to say you loved my childishness.”

“You cannot be childish forever.”

“But you used to rejoice because I was different from the girls you met at Court.”

Ah, he thought, different indeed! Lacking the gracious enchanting dignity of the Lady Jane Grey, the fire and exciting qualities of the Princess Elizabeth.

Amy was shaking his arm. “Why do you not speak to me? Of what are you thinking? Why are you always staring out of the window, listening it seems. For what do you listen?”

“I…Listen! I listen for nothing.”

“You do. I swear it. You are waiting…waiting for a message from someone…someone whom you met at the Court. Why do I never go there with you? Why must I always stay here in the country? Why, when you go to Court, do you go without me?”

How stupid she was!

He looked at her with mild distaste. Oh, what a fool he had been! He was the husband of a simple country girl, when he might have been married to a queen.

Her lips were trembling. He watched the tears roll down her cheeks as she fell on to a couch and began to sob.

Would he never learn? He was more foolish than ever. His father had entrusted him with a secret, and already he had almost betrayed it. She knew that something had happened on his visit to Court and, being the foolish child she was, she believed he was in love with another woman.

He sighed. He certainly had eyes for women—the women of the Court and the women of the country. Did silly little Amy think that since their marriage he had never looked at another?

Yet he must soothe her; she must not know that he had changed. She must not know of the thoughts which were now chasing each other through his mind. He who might have been the King of England would be the brother of a king; and Guildford had always admired him. He would be able to do what he wished with Guildford; power would come his way—but not if he allowed a simple country girl to know when he had a dangerous secret.

He bent over her, lifting the hair from her hot and tearful face.

“Amy,” he whispered, “little Amy. What ails you? Why should you be jealous of the most faithful man in England?”

She raised her eyes to his face as he bent over her.

“But, Robert…”

“Why should you think these evil thoughts of me, eh? Tell me that.”

“Because you have been away from me.”

“On duty. Nothing but duty to my father would tear me from your side.”

“But…there is something. Pinto says it is another woman.”

“Pinto! What does she know of my affairs?”

“She knows much of the world, and she says that men are the same the whole world over.”

“Come, kiss me, Amy. Let us prove that Madam Pinto, though she knows so much of most men, knows nothing of this one.”

Now he was soothing her and she was ready to listen, so ready to believe what she wanted to believe more than anything on Earth; and he would not have been Robert if he had not been able to convince her.

It was night, and Amy awoke to find herself alone in the bed; the curtains about it were drawn, yet not so closely that they shut out the moonlight which filled the room. She put out a hand and touched the feather bed which still bore the impression of Robert’s body.

She sat up. The fur rug which covered the blanket had been thrown aside. There was one thought in her head. He had crept out to go to a woman, she was sure; and that woman was not a lady of the Court, but one of her own household.

With tears in her eyes she got out of bed and put a wrap about her shoulders. She stood hesitating then, wondering whether to go and tell Pinto what she had discovered. Now that she was sure he was unfaithful she was miserably unhappy, and covering her face with her hands she sat down on a stool and began to rock to and fro. She sat thus, undecided for a long time until a noise from outside startled her. Hastily she rose and went to the window. In the moonlight she saw Robert, and with him was her father and another man. She was so delighted that she threw open the casement and called his name.

The men looked up. Her father waved his hand angrily at her indicating that she was to move away from the window. She obeyed in great perplexity.

It was only a few minutes before she heard the boards in the corridor outside her room creaking, and her door was opened by Robert, who came quietly in. He was half dressed but she saw that his eyes were shining with excitement. She flung herself at him, sobbing with relief.

“I thought…I thought…”

He put his hand over her mouth. “Quiet…for the love of God, Amy, be quiet. What are you doing out of bed? You’ll wake the whole household.”

“But…I must know…I believed…”

He led her to the bed; he sat down on it and drew the curtains about them.

He was angry and his anger frightened her. “You will ruin everything,” he said.

Even as he said those words they seemed to have a prophetic ring. She would ruin everything. Had she not already done much harm? His brother Guildford was married to the Lady Jane Grey; and at this moment, though few knew it, Jane Grey was Queen of England. He looked at Amy, pretty enough with her hair hanging about her shoulders and her wrap falling open to show those plump shoulders; but he had grown up; he had outgrown the simple country charms of Amy Robsart.

“You are going to leave me, Robert?” she said.

“Now listen to me. We had not meant that you should know. But since you have seen what you have seen, your father and I think there is no help for it but to tell you.”

“What…what have I seen?”

He hid his exasperation. “Your father, myself, and the messenger.”

“The messenger?”

“He comes this night from my father, and he comes with the utmost secrecy.”

“Yes, Robert?”

How he wished at that moment that she was not there or that he had no wife, and that she was the young washerwoman who had caught his fancy in the kitchens not long ago, and who could, without curtailing his freedom, provide as much excitement and amusement as Amy ever gave him. His freedom! He felt hot with anger when he thought of his freedom. Guildford—King! And he, Robert, might have been in that exalted position. He could have put his hands about her throat then and squeezed the life out of her.

“Robert, what is it? What ails you?”

When she spoke and he looked at her childish mouth, he was surprised at himself. As if such a creature could be allowed to stand in his way!

He said: “Poor Amy, I frightened you.”

And he bent over her and brushed her mouth with his lips. Her hands came up to cling to him. Silly Amy! She had no conception of what she had done to him. All she had said when she had learned about Guildford was: “What a great marriage your brother has made!” “Aye!” he wanted to shout at her. “And I might have made it!” She was too stupid to see that through her he had lost the great chance of a lifetime. All for the sake of a country girl who was no longer able to satisfy his carnal appetite!

“Don’t be frightened, Amy,” he said. “You do not think I would hurt you?”

“Nay…nay…” How she clung to him! He kissed her again; she was soft and warm from the feather bed. Poor Amy!

“Count yourself lucky,” he said, “that you are my wife and not only your father’s daughter. He would have made you smart for calling out as you did.”

“But, Robert…I thought you had gone to visit a woman.”

“Why did you think that? Do you doubt your powers to charm me?”

“No, Robert.”

“Of course you do not! You have a high opinion of your charms. Do I not often see you simpering with Pinto as you look in the mirror?”

“But…”

“I am teasing, Amy. You must not be afraid. Can you keep a secret?”

“No, Robert, you know I cannot.”

“You are an honest woman, Amy. But I know how to make you keep a secret, and because I know this I shall now trust you with a most important one.”

“What do you mean, Robert?”

“If you betray this secret, Amy, you betray me.”

“I still do not understand, Robert.”

“You do not understand much, my Amy. But your father and I have decided to trust you with this secret. You have forced us to it. You have seen a stranger in your father’s courtyard. You must say nothing of this man’s presence here, for if you do it may cost me…your father too…it may cost us both our lives.”

“How so?”

He put his hand on her bare flesh and felt her fluttering heart.

“Are you so frightened at the thought of losing me?” he asked. “Would it grieve you so much to see me mount the scaffold at Tower Hill?”

“I beg of you…” she began.

He interrupted: “I shall be leaving this house before dawn.”

“Where will you go, Robert?”

“Great events are afoot. The King is dead but that is not generally known. My father has set a cordon of guards about Greenwich Palace; he has closed the ports. He wants this known only among his friends as yet.”

“But what does it mean, Robert?”

“Amy, you have married into a great family. My brother will be King because his wife will be Queen. But we have to act before our enemies can. This night I leave with a few of my trusted followers. Can you guess on what mission, Amy?”

She shook her head.

“Of course you cannot.” He stroked her hair almost tenderly. “What could you guess, dear Amy, but whether it would rain or the cream turn sour? Then like as not you would be wrong.”

“Robert, what have I done to merit your displeasure?”

He looked at her sadly. Married me, was the answer, Closed the door which led to the highest power in the land. But he said: “Who told you I was displeased? Did I? Nay, Amy, I am not displeased, for I know that you will perform the most difficult task in your life…and all for my sake. You will keep a secret!” He laughed softly. He was so sure of her, so sure of himself. He could even succeed in making Amy keep a secret! “Now I will tell you, Amy. My mission is to capture the Princess Mary and take her to my father as his prisoner, thus making the throne safe for my sister Jane and my brother Guildford.”

“But…Robert, these are great matters. They frighten me.”

“You are too easily frightened, Amy. My father is unsafe, and so am I, until we have Mary under lock and key.”

Amy’s teeth began to chatter. “I am so frightened,” she said.

He kissed her and laughed, thinking that it was just as well. “Be in good spirits, Amy. Now you will see what it means to have married a Dudley.”

Lord Robert rested with his men at the town of King’s Lynn. It was useless to keep up the pursuit. Mary had evaded him. She had too many friends in the country and someone had betrayed the Dudleys’ intentions. When Mary had heard of her brother’s death, and of the plot to capture her, she had gone at once to Kenninghall, the mansion which was owned by the Dukes of Norfolk—those sturdy Catholic enemies of the Dudleys—who had been out of favor lately, but were now preparing to return to it. The Howards of Norfolk, who thought themselves more royal than the Tudors, hated the Dudleys as they could only hate those whom they called upstarts. They were ready now to fight for Mary and the Catholic cause. So now, Mary proclaimed herself Queen, and hearing that Northumberland had sent his son Lord Robert Dudley to capture her, was gathering supporters about her as she went to Kenninghall.

At King’s Lynn Robert heard that Mary had reached Framlingham, the heavily defended stronghold of the Norfolks; he knew that even if he pursued her, he could not take Framlingham with his present force. Therefore there was nothing to do but rest at King’s Lynn and await his father’s instructions.

Because the waiting seemed long, Robert began to lose a little of his confidence. He knew now that not only were many noblemen rallying to Mary’s cause, but that the people were with her too.

What was happening in London? His father was to have joined him in Norfolk and he had not expected him to be so long in coming. At least one of his brothers should have come with the necessary reinforcements, that the soldiers might go on and capture Mary.

The anxious days passed slowly.

One night Robert was aroused from his sleep by the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the cobbled streets. He sprang from his bed, shouting to his servants: “Hurry! The reinforcements are here!”

Soldiers were tramping up the stairs of the inn in which he lay. Robert met them at the door of his room; but they were not the men he had expected; they did not come from his father nor his brothers. Two came forward and took their stand on either side of him. Robert was unarmed and helpless.

“Lord Robert Dudley,” said another who stood before him—and beyond him he could see that the stairs and corridors were full of soldiers—“you are my prisoner.”

“What means this?” demanded Robert. “How dare you come here thus? On whose authority?”

“On the authority of Queen Mary.”

“I know no such Queen,” said Robert contemptuously. “I serve Queen Jane.”

“There is no Queen Jane, my lord. Mary is Queen of England.”

“My father…”

“The Duke has been arrested at Cambridge. He is now a prisoner in the Tower of London whither you are to go and join him with other members of your family.”

There was no escape.

During the journey to London he learned that the whole country had risen to support Queen Mary. Jane Grey’s short reign was over. She had fallen and with her had fallen the Dudleys.

For many days Robert brooded on these events in his dismal cell in the Beauchamp Tower.

Crowds had gathered on Tower Hill that hot August day.

“Death to the Dudley!” they cried. “Long life to Queen Mary!”

Forty-three years had passed since John Dudley had stood on Tower Hill, a boy of nine, frightened and bewildered, not daring to look at the man who was mounting the scaffold. Then he had vowed: “I will be a ruler of men.” And so he had been; he had risen from penniless orphan to be virtually ruler of England. He had started even lower than his father and he had climbed higher; but his steps had led him back to the same grim spot and it had taken him forty-three years—almost to the day—to complete his circuitous journey.

Even as he left the Gate House for the scaffold, he was wondering desperately if there was yet time to save himself. It had been such an arduous journey, and Ambition, his constant companion on that journey, would allow him no other. Love and Honor had to be cast aside to serve Ambition’s demands. Now Ambition reminded him that little mattered except that John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, saved himself and continued the onward march.

He was ready to abandon the Queen he had set upon the throne and swear allegiance to the new one. It mattered little if young Jane and Guildford went to the scaffold. There must be scapegoats. But if John Dudley lived he could start at once to rebuild the Dudley fortunes.

He was ready to lay before Mary’s councillors all the information he had; he would show her who were her enemies; he would serve her to the end of his days; he would renounce the Protestant Faith. All he asked in return was his life.

But it was too late. He had too many enemies who remembered his arrogance and envied his genius; he had never cared that people should love him, only that they should serve him. It was no use asking for their friendship now.

The bell was tolling. John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, such a short while ago the most powerful man in England, walked slowly to the scaffold and laid his head upon the block.

In the Beauchamp Tower, Robert listened to the bell’s tolling, to the shouts of the people; and he knew that his father was dead.

TWO

At Hatfield House the Princess Elizabeth lay in her bed. She was sick, her household declared, of a malady which afflicted her from time to time. This malady never failed to come to her aid at those times when she was uncertain how to act; and there had been many occasions when, by discreetly retiring to the comparative safety of her curtained bed, she had avoided a trying situation.

Bed was obviously the place for her at this time; so, obediently the malady returned.

A courier had brought a letter to her that morning; it was from the Duke of Northumberland. Her brother, the King, was, according to the Duke’s communication, urgently desiring to see his dear sister. “Your Grace should come with all speed,” said the message, “for the King is very ill.”

But the Princess, who had always instinctively bestowed her smiles in the right quarters, was naturally not without friends. Poor as she was and mighty as was Northumberland, she was the richer in friends.

Concealed on his person, the courier had another note for the Princess. It had been sewn in his shoe for safety, and when she read it Elizabeth saw that it had been written by a certain William Cecil, a man whom she believed to be her friend. “The King is already dead,” ran the note. “It is the wish of Northumberland to place Jane Grey and his son Guildford on the throne, and to seize the persons of yourself and your sister. To obey the summons would be to place yourself in Northumberland’s hands.”

And so to bed went the Princess Elizabeth, after penning a note to the Duke regretting that she was too ill to leave Hatfield.

She was in danger. She knew it. But when had she ever been far from danger? She thought of gentle Jane Grey whom Northumberland would make Queen of England. Poor Jane! What did she think of these honors which were to be thrust upon her? Jane was learned, but what was the good of erudition if cunning did not go with it? Jane was a puppet. She would be no more Queen of England than Edward had been King. Her fate had been decided on when she had allowed Northumberland to marry her to his son Guildford. It had been obvious to Elizabeth what would follow as soon as that marriage had taken place.

Elizabeth remembered young Guildford well. He was a weakling. She, being strong, had an unerring instinct for smelling out weaklings. Now, had it been Robert…! She wanted to laugh aloud when she thought of Robert, who had married a simpering country girl. How could he have been such a fool! Yet was he such a fool? If he had not married his rustic bride he would have been married to the Lady Jane Grey. But was that such an enviable position? Only time would show. In any case Robert had no right to have married a country girl.

She laughed into her pillow, forgetting her danger, for this short moment, in her memories. What a pity Kat Ashley was not with her. What fun they would have had with the cards…telling fortunes…seeing if anything came to light concerning Robert Dudley (a tall dark man) as they used to look for Tom Seymour.

How stupid to think of Tom now. She could never think of him and that dreadful time, without a tremor. Tom was beautiful with his great booming laugh, his mighty oaths and his strong arms. Tom Seymour…nothing but a headless corpse! And he had almost taken her with him to the grave, as in life he had wished to take her with him to the throne…to the marriage bed.

Never again must she be so weak as she had been with Tom. What an escape! She might have been tempted to marriage…to love. Tom was such a tempter. No one should tempt her in that way again. A Princess who is only a step or two from the throne must learn her lessons and learn them quickly, for there is often no second chance of doing so.

Now in this moment which she felt to be full of unknown dangers she must brood on that earlier danger still so clear to her.

She could picture him distinctly. She believed she would never forget him, the jaunty Admiral in his gorgeous garments who had come to her after the death of his wife, Katharine Parr, feigning great grief. But was it real grief, when all the time his eyes were pleading with her, telling her that he was now free?

Intuitively she had felt the inclination to hold back; it had ever seemed to her that the trimmings of courtship were more enticing than any climax could be. Elizabeth, almost seduced but never quite, was a much more attractive picture to her than Elizabeth conquered. It was an Admiral to woo her whom she had wanted—not a husband to command her. Men were amusing, yet intent on one thing. Elizabeth wished to be amused, titillated, enjoying in imagination that which she had the good sense to know could never in reality compare with such dreams.

Yet there had been times when she had been on the point of surrender to that fascinating man; there had been times when his cajoling ways had almost got the better of her good sense.

She was older now; she was wiser. When he had come to woo her she had been reluctant, aloof, in no way the same girl who had romped with him during his wife’s lifetime. He had been clever in his way, but not quite clever enough. There had been so many ugly rumors connected with his name, and how could the Princess Elizabeth consent to marry a man who, it was said, had poisoned his wife that he might marry her?

No, the death of Katharine had been the first object lesson; the heartbreaking death of Thomas the second, and his had struck her so hard that it would never be forgotten.

How clear, in her memory, he was to her, as though he stood at the side of the bed now, laughing at her with passion in his eyes, trying to pull off the bedclothes as he had in Chelsea, to tickle, to slap, to kiss.

He had won Kat Ashley to his side. What had he said to Kat? Had he made light love to her with his eyes as he knew well how to do? Had he promised her rewards on the day the Princess Elizabeth became his wife? Kat was quickly his slave, as were so many of the women about their Princess. Kat began to find him a good influence in the cards…dear silly Kat! Elizabeth could hear her voice now with the trill of excitement in it. “Here is a good marriage for you, my darling; the best marriage that you could make. Now let me see, who is this husband I have here for you? He has a golden beard and he is handsome…how handsome! I believe he is connected with the sea…” Then Elizabeth would burst into laughter, and call Kat a fraud, and ask what the Admiral had given her to make her say that. They would laugh and giggle, abandoning the cards to talk of him.

She believed she had toyed with the idea. Yet had she seriously intended marriage with him? Already at that time her thoughts had soared high above him. Her brother Edward sickly, her sister Mary not very young and delicate too—and then…herself.

Was she glad that the Council would not agree to her marriage with the Admiral? When she had been asked if she would marry him her answer had been characteristic of her: “When the time comes and the Council shall give its consent, then shall I do as God puts into my mind.”

And would she have eventually married Thomas? At that time he could flatter so charmingly; he could plead so passionately.

Dear Thomas! He always talked too much. Great power had been his through his charm and beauty, and power was such a potent drug; it went to the head; it soothed the fears; it played tricks with a man’s vision until he was twice the size he was in actuality. Thomas had boasted that he had ten thousand men ready to serve him, that he had persuaded the master of the Bristol mint to coin large sums of money which should be used in his service; he would marry Elizabeth and then…all would see what they should see.

And so Thomas was taken to the Tower on a charge of high treason.

What a time of terror when Kat Ashley and Parry the cofferer were also taken to the Tower, and she herself kept prisoner at Hatfield with guards outside her door, not allowed to venture out into the grounds without an escort! How apprehensive she had been for Thomas! How she had dreaded what Kat and Parry would say in the hands of the questioners!

And what had they said? How could she blame them? She did not. In fact she longed for the day when her dearest Kat would be restored to her. How could she have expected such as her dear tittle-tattling Kat or Parry to keep quiet? They were born gossips, both of them.

Soon the whole country was tattling. Out came the story—every little secret, every little scene, magnified, colored, so that a little innocent flirting became an orgy of lust.

She flushed at the memory, but even so she began to laugh. Oh, why was not Kat here that they might chat together! She herself loved a gossip. She wished now to talk of Northumberland, and Jane Grey, and weak Guildford Dudley on whose head, Elizabeth doubted not, Northumberland would do his best to cram a crown. What fun it would have been during this “illness” to take the cards and to find a tall dark man—Lord Robert Dudley this time, as once they had found an Admiral—and for Kat to purse her lips, put her head on one side and mutter in that serious voice which could send Elizabeth into fits of laughter: “I think I see a handsome young man. He is about Your Grace’s age…and he comes out of the past…”

But how foolish to think of Kat, who had been taken from her, and of Robert Dudley, that foolish boy who had married a country girl!

Yet…how pleasant! And it was necessary to think pleasant and frivolous thoughts when at any moment life might become deadly serious and dangerous.

But now her thoughts had gone to the saddest moment of her life when they had come to her to tell her that Thomas was dead—her beautiful Thomas. She had been surrounded by spies; she had known they were watching her, trying to trip her, and she knew that every word, every look, would be noted and reported. Lady Tyrwhit (how she hated that woman whom they had given her in place of Kat!) had had her sly eyes on her, always watching, hoping that there would be some betrayal of feeling to report to her master the Protector, that false brother of dear Thomas.

She had faced them, calmly and courageously. Yes, she could look now with approval on that young Elizabeth who had not shown by a flicker of her eyes or a twitch of her lips that her heart was almost breaking.

“Your Grace,” had said that spy Tyrwhit, “this day the Admiral laid his head upon the block.” And she waited for the effect of her words.

Elizabeth looked back at the woman with no expression whatsoever on her face. Yet she knew she must speak. Lady Tyrwhit must not be allowed to report that her grief had made her speechless.

“This day,” she had said, “died a man with much wit and very little judgment.”

It was said of her that either she was without feeling or she was a magnificent actress. She was a great actress. That was the answer; for without doubt she had loved Thomas.

And was she not acting all the time? Was it not necessary for her to act, to feign simplicity? How she had acted after the death of Thomas! She had lived quietly at Hatfield, giving up her days to study, reading Cicero and Livy, studying the Greek Testament, reading aloud the tragedies of Sophocles, studying Italian and French. She dressed simply, wore her hair unfrizzed—she who loved fine clothes and who loved to have her red hair frounced and curled, and to wear rich velvets and sparkling jewels. But she was clever enough to know that it was necessary to live down the reputation which the Seymour scandal had given her, and that to live in obscurity was the only way of preserving her life during those difficult days.

Her friends kept her closely informed of affairs at Court, and from the seclusion of Hatfield or Woodstock, she was aware of the heady progress of the Duke of Northumberland, thinking often of the gay Lord Robert who, had he not been so senseless as to marry a rustic girl, might have been a greater power in the land than a poor Princess who must keep as still as a lizard on a stone for fear any movement by her should attract the attention of her enemies.

She watched the tussel between Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, whom she would never forgive for what he had done to Thomas, and John Dudley, Duke of Northumberland, who was the father of that young man who interested her as no one had since the death of Thomas.

And now Somerset was dead. That which he had done to Thomas had been done to him. It was fearsome, thinking of the heads which fell so readily.

She needed to laugh in order to calm herself, to make light of her misfortunes so that when the test came she might face them with equanimity.

But what could she do now but lie abed…and wait?

The waiting was over sooner than she expected.

Faithful friends brought the news. The would-be King-maker had been defeated. Mary was proclaimed Queen of England. Now was the time for Elizabeth to recover from her malady.

She did so without any fuss; and her first move was to write a letter to the Queen conveying her congratulations and her delight in her sister’s accession. There was an answer to that note: a command to meet Mary at Wanstead, that they might ride into the Capital together.

Elizabeth made ready for the journey. She was excited as always at the prospect of pageantry and a return to Court. Again and again she warned herself of her difficult position. Master Parry, who had come back to her service, also warned her. He flattered her in his sly way; she knew his words for flattery, but flattery was a luxury she would not go without.

“Your Grace must be careful to hide your beauty. The Queen will not be pleased at being outshone.”

“Nonsense, Master Parry!” she retorted. “How can I in my simple garments outshine the Queen’s royal velvet and glittering jewels?”

“Your Grace’s eyes sparkle more brightly than jewels. Your skin is more soft than any satins.”

She tossed her red hair, calling his attention to it; and he smiled that sly smile which he did not attempt to hide from her. “Your Grace has a crown of gold more beautiful than any that ever sat on the brow of King or Queen.”

“Enough, chatterer!” she cried. “I am right glad we bought new liveries for my servants this year, Master Parry. I do not grudge the forty shillings I paid for those new velvet coats.”

“Your Grace is right, and we will make a brave show. But pray accept my warning: do not outshine the Queen.”

She was demure thinking of it. She would wear white; she would cast down her eyes if the cheers for her were too loud. She would wear few jewels on her hands, for too many rings would hide their slender beauty; she would hold them so that the crowd might see them and marvel at their milky whiteness; and she would smile at the multitude—not haughtily but in that friendly way which had never yet failed to set them cheering.

No, she would not outshine the Queen in rich raiment or jewels, only in personal charm with youth and beauty and that subtle indication to the people that she was at one with them, that she loved them and one day hoped to be their Queen.

So, accompanied by a thousand followers—some of them lords and ladies of high rank—she came riding into London. Was it a good omen that she must pass through the City on her way to Wanstead, thus entering it before her sister?

The people of London came out to greet her as they always greeted the Princess Elizabeth. They caught their breath at the sight of her. She was so demure in her white gown; she looked so young; the people sensed in her the regality of her father and the vitality of her mother. She smiled and bowed and was clearly so grateful to the dear people for the homage they paid; she was so moved that there were tears in her eyes. About her rode her servants, all in green, some in velvet, some in satin, some in plain cloth, according to their standing in her household.

On through Aldgate she passed to Wanstead, where she awaited the coming of the Queen.

Mary expressed her pleasure in this meeting with her sister.

How old she looks! thought Elizabeth.

Mary was not yet forty, but she looked older. Neither purple velvet nor jewels could alter that. She had suffered much and life had used her so cruelly that it had left its mark upon her.

“And is my dear sister recovered from her recent illness?” asked Mary.

“My humble thanks to your gracious Majesty. I am fully restored, and if I had not been before this moment, I could not fail to be now seeing your Majesty in such good health and knowing your enemies routed and yourself safely upon the throne.”

“We cannot as yet say safely,” said Mary grimly. “But we have good friends, we hope.”

“And none more ready to serve your Majesty than your humble sister.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said Mary; and she embraced Elizabeth.

They rode side by side toward London, these two daughters of Henry the Eighth, whose mothers had been such bitter enemies, and on that day the Queen was thinking how happy she was to have her sister beside her. She had been sorry for Elizabeth in those days when the girl had been in disgrace after the death of Anne Boleyn, neglected and unwanted, so that it had been difficult for her guardians to procure enough money to clothe and feed her. Cruel things had been said of this Elizabeth—far worse than anything that had ever been said of Mary. They had both been called bastards, but Elizabeth had suffered greater indignity, for some had declared that the Princess was the fruit of an incestuous union between Anne Boleyn and Anne’s brother, Lord Rochford.

Mary hoped that Elizabeth would now conduct herself in such a manner that would enable them to live in amity.

Elizabeth demurely kept a little behind the Queen, now and then taking covert glances about her, throwing a smile at the crowds, letting her head droop when they cried too loudly for the Princess Elizabeth. She was thinking: What will happen now? She will marry, and if she bears a child, what hope have I of ever wearing the crown? Yet…how ill she looks! She is not strong enough to bear a child. And then…when she is dead?

The City was ready to greet the Queen to whom it had given its support. When Jane Grey had sailed down the river to the Tower that she might receive the crown, the people had been sullen; there had been few to cheer Queen Jane. The City did not want Queen Jane. She was young, beautiful, learned and noble; but right was right, justice was justice, and England accepted no other than Mary as its Queen.

From the windows of the houses strips of brilliantly colored cloth were fluttering. From over the old City Gate the charity boys and girls of the Spital sang the Queen’s praises as she passed under. The streets had been cleaned and strewn with gravel; and the members of the City Guilds had come out in their full dress to welcome Mary to London. On the river was every sort of craft fluttering banners and streamers, some bearing musicians who played sweet music and sang victorious choruses which all had the same theme: the delight of the people of London to welcome their true Queen, the expression of their loyalty to Mary.

Down Leadenhall and the Minories to the Tower of London went the procession. The Lord Mayor greeted the Queen, and the Earl of Arundel was beside him with the sword of state. All about the Queen were her velvet-clad attendants; and next to her rode her sister Elizabeth.

Mary, to show her utmost confidence in the loyalty of her greatest City, had dismissed her guard at Aldgate and had accepted that of the City, and it now followed her and her ladies, each man carrying his bow and javelin.

Sir Thomas Cheney, warden of the Cinque Ports, greeted her as she came to the Tower. Elizabeth could not help but shudder as they passed through the gate and she gazed at the towers. She caught a quick glimpse of the Devlin, the Bell and the Beauchamp Towers, and she remembered that, in the Beauchamp, the handsome young man of whom she thought now and then, was lying a prisoner and that he would doubtless ere long follow his father to the block. It was a sobering thought for a girl who had so recently received the cheers of the crowd. She must think of all the noble men and women who had been shut away from the world in those grim towers, released only that they might take the short walk from their prisons to Tower Green or Tower Hill. She must think chiefly of her mother, who had come to this place by way of the Traitor’s Gate and had left the world by way of Tower Green. She muttered a prayer as they went forward.

They had reached the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and there on the very Green where Elizabeth’s mother had received that blow from the executioner’s sword which had ended her gay and adventurous life, knelt those prisoners of state who under the last two reigns had begged in vain for justice.

Among them were the old Duke of Norfolk, who had been saved by the timely death of Henry the Eighth and had been languishing in prison ever since, Cuthbert Tunstal, Bishop of Durham, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester; all were firm supporters of the Catholic Faith and they looked to the new Queen for honors.

The sight of the Bishops brought home afresh to Elizabeth the precarious nature of her position. Staunch Catholics, those men would inevitably view her with disfavor; and since the Queen had by no means the look of a healthy woman and, unless she had a child, Elizabeth was a likely successor, it seemed very probable that those two Catholic gentlemen would use all their formidable power to ensure that Elizabeth should never reach the throne. And what was their best way of doing that?

She imagined that these uneasy thoughts came from her mother’s spirit—surely not far, on this summer’s day, from the spot where it had departed from this Earth.

But there was one among those prisoners of state who turned Elizabeth’s thoughts to pleasanter matters. This was young and handsome Edward Courtenay, a noble of great interest, not only on account of his handsome person, but because of his royal lineage.

His grandmother was Catherine, a daughter of Edward the Fourth, and he was therefore related to the Queen since Mary’s grandmother, Elizabeth of York, had been that Catherine’s sister. Courtenay had been a prisoner in the Tower since he was ten years old, which was fourteen years ago. His father had been executed by Henry the Eighth. Now the young man’s hopes were bright, for Mary would never consent to the prolonged imprisonment of such a staunch Catholic.

He knelt gracefully before her now and lifted his handsome eyes to her face with such admiring devotion that the Queen was touched.

“Rise, cousin,” she said, “you are no longer a prisoner. Your estates shall be restored to you. Your suffering is over.”

There was a faint color in the Queen’s cheeks; and it seemed that even while she received the loyal addresses of men whom she could trust, such as Norfolk and Gardiner, her eyes strayed to the handsome young Courtenay.

Elizabeth, watching and alert, believed that there might be some truth in the rumors which had already begun to circulate as soon as it was known that Mary would take the crown. It was natural that her first duty would be to marry; and if she were wise she would please her people in this. The people of England wanted an English husband for their Queen; well, here was a young man of royal connections, handsome, virile, surely capable of providing the Queen with the heir which all—except Elizabeth and those who followed her—must surely desire.

Mary was aware of this; Courtenay was also aware of it. But now it was the young man’s duty to greet the Princess. Elizabeth extended her hand; he took it; her blue eyes were haughty, yet faintly coquettish; somehow they managed to convey a flirtatious message to the young man. You find my sister old? her eyes seemed to suggest. She is indeed many years older than you are, my lord. But look at me! I am younger than you are. What if I were the Queen whose hand in marriage you might have a chance to win? Ah, my friend, what a different prospect that would be, what a different and dazzling prospect, eh!

Courtenay rose and stood before her. Did he hesitate a little too long? Was the smile he gave the Princess a little too friendly, a little too overcharged with admiration?

The Queen had turned impatiently.

“Have a care,” the spirit of Anne Boleyn might have warned her daughter.

But Elizabeth, cautious and clever as she habitually was, could never resist inviting admiration. To her it was life itself—as necessary as the sun and air.

Who could understand that better than Anne Boleyn? She would certainly wish to warn her daughter.

Jane Dudley, the Duchess of Northumberland, was a brokenhearted woman. In a few short weeks she had lost most of what had made life good for her. John, her husband, was dead. He had shared his father’s fate. The cruelty of that stunned her; and yet it was not wholly unexpected.

In the solitude of her house in Chelsea, which was all that was left to her of her grand possessions, she mourned bitterly. It was futile to weep for John, but what of her sons? With the exception of little Henry, who was too young to have been suspected of treason, they were lying in the Tower. John, the eldest, was already sentenced to death. Ambrose, Robert, and Guildford were all awaiting trial.

As she walked from one deserted room to another she cried out: “Oh, John, why were you not content to live in peace and happiness? We had riches; we had comfort. You placed our beloved sons and daughters in danger. It was not only your own life that you risked.”

She must act. She must do something to save her sons.

She had become like a miser, gathering together a little store of her precious possessions which had been overlooked when her goods had been confiscated. She intended to offer them as presents to any who would help her to save her sons. This was the only task which was left to her.

Dared she crave an audience with the Queen? Was it possible to ask Mary to pardon those who had plotted to destroy her? They had sent her to the Tower when they had taken John, but quickly released her, and she feared that if she tried to see the Queen she might be sent back to her prison. Not that she cared if she were. The discomfort of a cell would mean nothing to her. But if she were imprisoned, how could she work for her sons?

In the days of her husband’s greatness many had come to him with petitions for help; they had offered him money and costly goods. John had amassed a fortune in those years when he had ruled England. Now she herself would plead, as others had pleaded with him. She would offer everything she possessed. She would gladly live in poverty for the rest of her life if her sons might be free.

Each day she walked to the palace. Sometimes she saw people who in the old days had flattered her and thought themselves fortunate when she exchanged a few words with them. Now they turned away. It was not due to pride, or scorn, or unkindness. It was fear. Naturally they were afraid. How could they show friendship to a woman whose husband had plotted against the Queen, to a woman whose son was married to the girl they now called the impostor Queen?

“Oh, God, help me!” prayed Jane.

She was almost demented. She went by barge to the Tower; she would stand in great distress contemplating those impregnable walls.

“What will become of you all?” she murmured. “My John…Ambrose…my poor Guildford and my gay and handsome Robin!”

Elizabeth knew of the plight of the sad Duchess and wished that she could help her. But how could she of all people plead for the Dudleys’ release? Her own position was too precarious for her to risk pleading for others.

Already the Queen was casting suspicious eyes upon her. Already Gardiner and Simon Renard, the Spanish ambassador, were seeking to destroy her. And they were not alone in this endeavor. Noailles, the French ambassador, was as dangerous as the other two, although he pretended to be her friend.

He would seek her out when she walked in the grounds that he might speak to her alone.

He told her: “My master knows your position to be a dangerous one. You have my master’s sympathy. He seeks to help you.”

“The King of France is noted for his goodness,” said Elizabeth.

“I will tell him how you speak of him. It will enchant him.”

“Nay. He could not be interested in the opinion of such as I am.”

“Your Grace is mistaken. The King of France is your friend. There is much he would do to save you from your enemies. He deplores that you are deemed a bastard. Why, he would do all in his power to reinstate you.”

She looked at him coolly. “But alas it is not in your royal master’s power to have me proclaimed legitimate. Such must surely be left to the decision of the mistress of this realm.”

She left him and she knew that he was angry.

She was too clever to be deceived by an offer of French friendship. She knew full well that Henri Deux wished to destroy her, so that, should Mary die childless, the field would be clear for his own daughter-in-law, Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth knew, as she made her way to her apartments, that danger was all about her. It would be so easy to become involved in plots with the French. She understood the schemes of the crafty Noailles. He wished to entangle her, to make her betray herself in a way which would lead her to the scaffold.

There was no friendship for Elizabeth in France or in Spain, and she would never be deceived into thinking there was.

Much as the Princess loved the gaiety of the Court, she began to yearn for the peace of her country houses, for only far from intrigue could she have any great hope of survival.

Gardiner was speaking against her to the Queen because she refused to go to Mass. Yet what could she do? She knew that a very large body of Protestants looked to her as their leader. If she accepted her sister’s religion as wholeheartedly as Mary wished her to, it would mean that those Protestants would say: “What matters it which sister is on the throne?” She would lose their support and she would not gain that of the Catholics. So she must hold out against the Mass for as long as she could. But how long could she hold out? Gardiner was urging that she should either be brought to Catholicism or to the block.

The Queen sent for her.

Mary was cold and Elizabeth’s heart quaked as she knelt before her.

Oh, to be at Hatfield or Woodstock where she could suddenly feel her old malady stealing over her, where she could beg for a few days’ grace to recover before she made an arduous journey to see the Queen! It was not so easy here.

“We have heard that which does not please us concerning you,” said Mary.

Elizabeth answered in a mournful voice: “I see plainly that your Majesty has but little affection for me, yet I have done nothing to offend you except in this matter of religion. Your Majesty must bear with me, must excuse my ignorance. Remember in what religion I have been brought up. Your Majesty will understand how I have been taught to accept my religion and no other.”

“You are old enough to recognize the truth.”

“Ah, your Majesty, if I had time to read and learn, if doctors might be sent to me…”

It was the old cry: “Give me Time.” Time had always been her friend.

Elizabeth looked at the pale face of her sister. How ill she looked, how white and sickly! Only a few more years and then…Glory!

The thought gave her courage.

Mary was frowning. One of her dearest wishes was to bring England back to Rome. This girl, young as she was—frivolous and coquettish—could do much to prevent this. Mary must weaken the Protestants, and what weakened a force more than the knowledge that one whom they looked upon as a leader had capitulated? There were three religious sections in England now. There were the Anglo-Catholics, who followed the religion established by Henry the Eighth, which was the same as the old religion with the exception that the sovereign, not the Pope, was the head of the church; there was the Protestant Church, now established as the Church of England since the Protestant Protectorate under Edward VI; and there was the old religion, which looked to the Pope as its head. The last, in the Queen’s eyes, was the true religion, and the one which she wished to see established throughout her realm.

Mary was not altogether displeased with Elizabeth’s reply. She preferred it to a plain refusal, which would have resulted in Elizabeth’s being taken to the Tower.

“I will send doctors to you to teach you the truth,” said the Queen.

“Your Majesty is so gracious that I would make another request.”

“What is that?”

“It would be easier for me to study in the country away from the Court. I realize that I have gone far in my studies of the new Faith and that much concentration will be needed…”

“You shall not leave Court,” said Mary grimly.

Was she beginning to understand this sister who had managed to extricate herself from many an awkward situation with the help of her old friend Time?

Well, thought Elizabeth, I must continue to be exposed to great dangers. But surely the Queen must understand that a great deal of time is needed if I am to assimilate such great truths to which I am now a stranger!

The thoughts of most people were now directed to the Coronation. Only such as Elizabeth and the Duchess of Northumberland had thoughts of more urgency.

Elizabeth’s constant thoughts were of her own preservation. Jane Dudley was only capable of one desire, so overwhelming was it. She had seen a lady of the Court who had come to visit her out of kindness, leaving her barge at the privy stairs, hastening across the lawns wrapped in a cloak which disguised her. It was now as great a danger as it had been an honor to visit the Northumberland residence.

“Oh, Jane, Jane, you must not despair,” cried this lady, embracing her old friend. “The Queen is of a kindly nature. It bodes good that so far your eldest remains in his cell. They say that she is reluctant to send the Lady Jane to the block, even though Gardiner and Renard are persuading her to do so. She wishes to show clemency and I feel sure that she will. Only…for a time they must remain prisoners. Wait until after the Coronation. Then Her Majesty will feel safe on the throne, and the safer she feels, the more merciful will she be.”

Jane wept. “It is because I feel happier this day,” she explained.

“As soon as the Coronation is over I will try to put in a word in the right quarter, dear Jane. Perhaps you may be allowed to visit your boys. Be of good cheer. The more time that elapses, the better, for the more likelihood there will be of their release. Remember, the three younger ones have not yet been tried.”

After that life seemed more bearable. Jane longed for the Coronation to be over.

What rejoicing there was throughout the City when the Queen set out! In a litter covered with cloth of silver and borne by six handsome white horses, Mary was surrounded by seventy of her ladies all clad in crimson velvet. The Queen herself wore blue velvet trimmed with ermine. Her cap was of gold net ornamented with diamonds and pearls. It was so heavy that she could scarcely hold up her head—which was unfortunate, for she suffered much from painful headaches. Mistress Clarencius, her old nurse and the woman whom she trusted more than any other, glanced at her anxiously from time to time and longed to remove that heavy head ornament which she knew was causing pain and discomfort.

Mary suffered from more than a headache on that day. She was deeply conscious of her young sister. She knew that many in the crowds would be comparing them—the sick looks of one, the glowing health of the other, age with youth, Catholic with Protestant. Was Gardiner right? Was Renard right? Was it folly to let Elizabeth live?

Elizabeth was enjoying her state ride. She might be about to die, but such pageantry, with herself playing a prominent part, was the birthright of a daughter of Henry the Eighth. Beside her sat her father’s fourth wife—Anne of Cleves—the only one of six still alive. They were dressed alike, which, for Elizabeth, was an advantage. Anne of Cleves had never been a beauty, and now she was an excellent foil for the radiant young girl of twenty as they sat side by side in their gowns of cloth of silver with the long hanging sleeves, not unlike those which Elizabeth’s mother had introduced from France.

In Fenchurch Street addresses were declaimed by four men, all of whom were nearly seven feet tall. In Gracechurch Street the procession paused that a trumpeter dressed as an angel might play a solo to the Queen; Heywood the poet read some of his verses to Mary at the gates of St. Paul’s School. The people shouted with glee and prepared to make merry as they cheered the Queen, the Princess Elizabeth, and the young and handsome Edward Courtenay, who had now been created Duke of Devonshire. Red wine flowed in the conduits, and this boon pleased the people as much as any.

A few days before the Coronation the Queen came to Whitehall from St. James’s; and there she stayed until the first day of October, when she set out for Westminster Abbey for the ceremony of crowning.

Elizabeth with Anne of Cleves walked directly behind the Queen. Elizabeth’s hopes were high. Surely, she reasoned, the Queen could not feel cold toward her since she allowed her to take such a prominent part in the ceremony.

Elizabeth could not help imagining, during that glittering occasion, that it was herself who held the center of the stage.

She heard the voice of Gardiner: “Here present is Mary, rightful and undoubted inheritrix, by the laws of God and man, to the crown and royal dignity of this realm of England, France, and Ireland; and you shall understand that this day is appointed, by all the peers of this land, for the consecration, unction, and coronation of the said most excellent Mary. Will you serve at this time and give your wills and assent to the same consecration, unction, and coronation?”

And Elizabeth, with all those present, cried: “Yea, yea, yea! God save Queen Mary!”

But the name she seemed to hear was not Mary but Elizabeth.

Whilst the oraisons were said over Mary, whilst her mantle was removed, whilst she was anointed and her purple velvet ermine-edged mantle laid again about her shoulders, Elizabeth saw another in her place. One day it would be Elizabeth who was in robes of velvet, the crown on her head, the scepter in her right hand, the orb in her left. It would be Elizabeth to whom the peers knelt in homage and allegiance, Elizabeth whose left cheek was kissed. “God save Queen Elizabeth!” would be the cry in her ears.

And when they left the Abbey, among the cheering crowds Elizabeth thought she saw a woman, with a white and tragic face and mournful eyes, who stood out among the gaily cheering people because she did not cheer, because she was sad in the midst of all that gaiety.

Was it the sorrowing Duchess of Northumberland?

Elizabeth shivered. Here was another reminder of how close disaster could be to triumph.

A few weeks later when winter had set in, many people waited in the cold streets to see another procession. This was in great contrast with the glittering spectacle of the Queen’s Coronation.

Bishop Ridley led this procession, and among those who walked behind him was Lord Robert Dudley.

Robert held his head high. He, who longed for excitement, was glad even of this; he appeared jaunty as he walked through the narrow streets. Even at the Guildhall, he could only shrug his powerful shoulders. It was what he expected. Ambrose, Guildford, and Lady Jane had already been condemned and returned to their prisons. It was his turn now. And what could save one who had without doubt plotted against the Queen? It was useless to do anything but plead guilty.

It was no surprise to Lord Robert that when he left Guildhall for his journey back to the Tower, the blade of the axe should be turned toward him. He had been condemned to that terrible death which was reserved for traitors: to be hanged, cut down alive, and disemboweled.

But Robert was by nature optimistic. It would be the axe for him. The son of a Duke would not die the ignoble death of common traitors.

So back to his cell in the Beauchamp Tower he went to await the summons to Tower Hill. But on the way he was aware of women in the crowd who had come to gaze at the prisoners. He noted their looks of sympathy and interest. Life in a dismal cell could not rob him of his powers to charm.

“What a handsome young man!” it was murmured. “So young to die.”

And it was Robert whom their eyes followed.

There was one woman who watched him. She longed to call out his name as he passed; yet she hid herself, fearing that the sight of her there might distress him. How noble was his carriage, she thought; and how careless he seemed of his fate! That was what she would expect of her proud Robin.

As the procession passed on, Jane Dudley fell swooning to the ground.

There was perturbation at Court. The Queen had, after showing favor to Edward Courtenay, turned against him. Some said this was due to her discovery of the profligate habits in which he had indulged during his stay in the Tower. He was without doubt a libertine and could not be so enamored of an aging woman as he pretended to be. Others, more knowledgeable, believed the change in her manner toward this young nobleman could be explained by the secret conferences she had had with the Spanish ambassador, and the fact that Philip, the son of Emperor Charles and heir to vast possessions, was a widower.

Noailles, the French ambassador, secretly sought out the Princess Elizabeth.

“Your Grace has heard that the Queen considers marriage with the Prince of Spain?” he asked.

“There have been such rumors.”

“Your Grace must know that a union with Spain would be most unpopular in England.”

“The Queen is mistress of the country and herself. She will marry when and whom she pleases.”

“There are many people in this country who would not tolerate a Spanish marriage.”

“I know nothing of them.”

“Does Your Grace know why the Queen has turned from Courtenay? It is because she suspects where his affections really lie.”

In spite of Elizabeth’s control her eyes brightened. “I do not understand Your Excellency.”

“It is Your Grace of whom he is enamored. He is so far gone in love for you that he is ready to throw away an immediate crown for the hope of a future one.”

Elizabeth saw the danger. “I know nothing of this,” she said.

“Yet others do. They are saying that if Courtenay married you, and you succeed to that for which you have a claim, the people would be happier than they would be to see a Spaniard the Queen’s husband.”

Her heart was beating fast. Again she heard the Abbey service and the cry of the peers: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

She thought then of the woman she had seen in the crowd, of the Dudley brothers at this moment awaiting the penalty of ambition which had failed.

Noailles went on: “Courtenay has powerful friends in Devon and Cornwall. Your Grace, a great future lies before you.”

I am crossing a chasm on a flimsy bridge, she thought. Walk with balanced care and I shall find a throne awaiting me; but one false step and down…down to disaster, down to a cell in the Tower, and the block.

Noailles wished to prevent the Spanish marriage at all costs because it was against the interest of France that it should take place. But would he wish to see Elizabeth on the throne? Indeed no! His plot would be to ferment trouble which would remove Mary and Elizabeth and leave the way clear for Mary Queen of Scots. Her lips were scornful. The French ambassador must think her a fool.

As soon as he left her, Elizabeth sought an audience with the Queen. Mary granted this, but as Elizabeth was kneeling before her she saw that Mary’s attitude toward her was no more friendly than it had been on their previous meeting. The Spanish ambassador, knowing the unpopularity of the match he was trying to make for the son of his master and the Queen of England, was aware that there were some factions who would prefer to put Elizabeth on the throne and allow her to marry Courtenay. If such a thing should come to pass, England would once more be a Protestant country. Renard was therefore urging the Queen to send Elizabeth to the block. He was sure that the Princess was concerned in plots against the Queen, and he was determined to trap her and thus override the Queen’s sentimental feelings for her sister. But the girl, for all her youth and seeming innocence, was more cunning than those ambassadors. Always she eluded them.

Renard had warned Mary, and the Queen, as she watched her kneeling sister, remembered those warnings.

“Your Majesty,” said Elizabeth, “I crave leave to retire to one of my country houses.”

“Why so?” asked Mary.

“My health is failing. I need the fresh country air.”

“You appear to me very healthy.”

“I suffer much, Your Majesty. In the quiet of the country I could study the books Your Majesty has set me to study. I feel that in the quiet of Woodstock or Hatfield I could come to an understanding with the truth.”

“You will stay here,” said the Queen, “that I may know what plans you make and whom you have about you.”

Elizabeth was dismissed. She left the Queen’s apartment with much apprehension, knowing that she was living through one of the most critical periods in a lifetime of danger.

Strangely enough the Spanish ambassador came to her aid though unwittingly.

The entire country now knew that the Queen was favorably considering a match with Spain. There was disquiet throughout the land, for the English hated the Spaniards; and there was much talk of the virtues of Elizabeth.

The Queen had stubbornly refused to acknowledge her sister’s legitimacy. It seemed that she was afraid to do this because the people might decide that a younger, legitimate daughter who was a Protestant would be a better ruler for England than the elder, Catholic daughter of Henry the Eighth. But the real reason simply was that if she herself were legitimate, Elizabeth could not be, for the only way in which Elizabeth could be legitimate was by declaring her father’s marriage with Katharine of Aragon void. Therefore it was not possible for both of them to be legitimate.

The Spanish ambassador, wishing to precipitate matters, unwisely sought to implicate his old enemy Noailles. It would be a master stroke to have Noailles sent back to France and Elizabeth to the block at the same time. He accused Noailles of visiting Elizabeth’s chamber at night in order to plot against the Queen.

This was a ridiculous accusation and the plot was exposed, for not even Elizabeth’s enemies could find a case against her.

On her knees before the Queen she cried: “I beg of Your Majesty never to give credit to the evil tales which are spread concerning me, without giving me an opportunity to prove myself guiltless.”

Mary believed sincerely in justice, and Elizabeth’s words were well chosen.

“My dear sister,” said Mary, “I am sorry that you have been misjudged. Take these pearls as a sign of my affection.”

Elizabeth accepted the pearls and was quick to take advantage of the situation. She lifted her eyes to her sister’s face and said: “Your Majesty is so good to me. I know you will give me leave to retire from Court that I may live in quietness and hasten to do what Your Majesty would have me do. Give me your gracious permission to retire that I may study the books you have set me to study, the sooner that I may govern my thoughts and lead them whither Your Majesty would have them go.”

The permission was granted and, with great relief, Elizabeth retired from imminent danger.

There was one way of escape from ever-threatening danger. Often she thought of it; always she rejected it.

The King of Denmark had offered his son, Philibert Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy, as a husband for her. Spain favored such a match, and therefore it received due consideration by the Queen.

While she lived her quiet life in her house at Ashridge, Elizabeth was filled with apprehension. If a stranger rode up she would be on the alert for a messenger from the Queen bringing a summons for her to appear at Court, which might be followed by imprisonment and death. Only by marrying a foreign Prince could she escape that constant fear. But to abandon fear was also to abandon her most cherished dream. As the Duchess of Savoy she would never hear those magic words which, perhaps next year, or the year after that, or in five or ten years’ time, could ring in the ears of the Princess Elizabeth: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

No, here she was, and here she would stay. All her hopes were in England, and if at times she felt she would never succeed in climbing the slippery path which led to the summit of ambition, well then, she would rather fall in the attempt than give up the climb.

Emphatically she refused the offer from the Duke of Savoy.

The Queen and her ministers were annoyed, but mildly; and temporarily the matter was allowed to drop.

She lived quietly in the country for a few weeks, eagerly learning all she could of what was happening at Court from her friends who were still there.

News came—wild news, news which might lead to triumph or disaster. Wyatt had risen in protest against the Spanish marriage. Letters asking for her support had been sent to her, but she would have nothing to do with such a rebellion. She knew that her hope of success lay in waiting. She knew that Courtenay was concerned in the Wyatt plot, and handsome as he was he was weak and untrustworthy; and if the plot were successful, the Duke of Suffolk, who was also one of the leaders, would surely hope to bring his own daughter Lady Jane Grey to the throne rather than help Elizabeth.

No! Rebellion was not for her.

And she was soon proved to be right, for Courtenay turned traitor in a moment of panic and confessed the plot to Gardiner, so that Wyatt was forced to act prematurely. The rebellion failed and Wyatt was under arrest; Courtenay and Suffolk were sent to the Tower, and the order went forth that Lady Jane and Lord Guildford Dudley were to be executed without delay. Unfortunately for Elizabeth, letters written by Noailles and Wyatt, intended for her, were intercepted and put before the Queen.

When the summons came, Elizabeth knew that in all the dangerous moments of a hazardous life, there had never been one to equal this.

There was one thing she could do. She could go to bed. Alas, she declared, she was too ill to travel; and indeed, so terrified was she, that her illness on this occasion was not altogether feigned. She could neither eat nor sleep; she lay in agony of torment—waiting, listening for the sound of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard which would announce the arrival of the Queen’s men.

It was not long before they came.

They were not soldiers come to arrest her, but two of the Queen’s physicians, Dr. Wendy and Dr. Owen.

Her trembling attendants announced their arrival.

“I cannot see them,” said the Princess. “I am too ill for visitors.”

It was ten o’clock at night, but the doctors came purposefully into her chamber. She looked at them haughtily.

“Is the haste such that you could not wait until morning?” she asked.

They begged her to pardon them. They were distressed, they said, to see her Grace in such a sorry condition.

“And I,” she retorted, “am not glad to see you at such an hour.”

“It is by the Queen’s command that we come, Your Grace.”

“You see me a poor invalid.”

They came closer to the bed. “It is the Queen’s wish that you should leave Ashridge at dawn tomorrow for London.”

“I could not undertake the journey in my present state of fatigue.”

The doctors looked at her sternly. “Your Grace might rest for one day. After that we must set out without fail for London on pain of Her Majesty’s displeasure.”

Elizabeth was resigned. She knew that her sick-bed could give her at most no more than a few days’ grace.

She was carried in a litter which the Queen had sent for her; and the very day on which she set out was that on which Lady Jane Grey and her husband Lord Guildford Dudley walked the short distance from their prisons in the Tower to the scaffold.

Some of the country people came out to watch the Princess pass by, and she was deeply aware of their sympathetic glances. They thought of the lovely Jane Grey, who was only seventeen; she had had no wish to be Queen, but the ambition of those about her had forced her to that eminence. And perhaps at this moment she was saying her last prayers before the executioner severed that lovely head from her slender body. The people could feel nothing but pity for that young girl; and here was another—this young Princess who might be on her way to a similar fate.

For once Elizabeth was desolate and afraid. She was delaying the journey as much as possible because she believed that Mary’s anger might cool if given time. Therefore each day’s delay was important. She spent the first night at Redbourn and her second halt was at St. Albans. Oh, that she might rest a little longer in the comfortable hospitality of Sir Ralph Rowlett’s mansion! But they must go on to Mimms and to Highgate. She made a point of resting as long as she possibly could at these places, and the journey took ten days, far longer than was really necessary.

When Elizabeth reached London it was to find a subdued City in which many gibbets had been erected. Men were hanging outside the doors of their houses; there was a new harvest of heads on the Bridge. London had little heart to welcome the Princess who was sadly conscious of her own uneasy head.

But as she passed through the Capital, which had always been friendly to her, she roused herself from her melancholy. She had the litter uncovered that the people might see her all in white, a color which not only set off the glory of her hair, but seemed to proclaim her spotless innocence; she sat erect and proud, as though to say: “Let them do what they will to an innocent girl.” And if the people of London felt that at such a time it would be unwise to cheer the Princess, they did not refrain from weeping for her; and they prayed that she might not suffer the fate which had befallen the Lady Jane Grey.

She was taken to the Palace of Whitehall.

It was on the Friday before Palm Sunday that Elizabeth, in her closely guarded apartments at the Palace, heard from her attendants that Bishop Gardiner with some members of the Queen’s Council was on his way to visit her.

At length he stood before her—the great Bishop of Winchester, one of the most powerful men in the kingdom and her declared enemy.

“Your Grace is charged,” he said, “with conspiracy against the Queen. You are charged with being concerned in the Wyatt plot.”

“This is a false accusation.”

“Letters are in the Queen’s possession which will prove that you speak not the truth, and it is Her Majesty’s pleasure that you should leave this lodging for another.”

Elizabeth could not trust herself to speak; that which she had most dreaded was upon her.

“Your Grace is to be removed this day to the Tower.”

She was terrified, yet determined not to show her fear. She boldly answered: “I trust that Her Majesty will be far more gracious than to commit to that place a true and innocent woman who never offended her in thought, word, nor deed.”

“It is the will of Her Majesty that you should prepare to leave for the Tower this day.”

An impulse came to her to throw herself upon her knees and plead with these men. Instead she stood still, looking haughtily at them.

“I beg of you, my lords,” she said, “either to plead my case before the Queen or to ask her graciously to permit me to see her.”

Gardiner answered: “The Queen’s orders are that you shall prepare to leave at once.”

The Earl of Sussex was moved by her youth, her courage, and her desperate plight. He said: “If it be in my power to persuade the Queen to grant you an audience, I will do so.”

They left her then, and when they had gone she collapsed upon a stool. She covered her face with her hands and whispered: “So did my mother go to the Tower…never to return.”

All that night she waited for a summons from the Queen. Her servants told her that the gardens surrounding the palace were being patrolled by guards; they were in the palace itself, for it was greatly feared that there might be some plot for her escape.

The next day the Earl of Sussex came to her to tell her that she must leave at once, for a barge was prepared and the tide would not wait. She wrote a note to the Queen and pleaded so earnestly with Sussex to take it to her that he was deeply moved.

“My lord Earl,” she implored, “I beg of you to take it now.”

He hesitated, but he could not resist her pleading and he took the letter to the Queen.

Mary was enraged. This, she cried, was a ruse of her sister’s. Did not my lord Sussex realize that she had duped him into missing the tide for that day?

The next day was Palm Sunday and there was nothing to prevent her going to the Tower.

She had not been taken on the midnight tide because it was feared that in the darkness a rescue might be possible.

As she walked to the barge she murmured: “The Lord’s Will be done. I must be content seeing this is the Queen’s pleasure!” Then she turned to the men who walked beside her and cried out in sudden anger: “It is an astonishing thing that you who call yourselves noblemen and gentlemen should suffer me, a Princess and daughter of the great King Henry, to be led to captivity, the Lord knoweth where, for I do not.”

They watched her furtively. How could they be sure what she would do? They—stalwart soldiers and statesmen—were afraid of this slender young girl.

The barge sped quickly along the river, while the Londoners were at Church, that they might not see her pass by and show her that sympathy which they had never failed to give her. Quickly they came to the Tower—that great gray home of torment, of failure and despair.

She saw that they were taking her to the Traitor’s Gate, and this seemed to her a terrible omen.

“I will not be landed there!” she cried.

It was raining and she lifted her face that she might feel the rain upon it, for when would she again be at liberty to feel its softness? How gentle it is! she thought. How kind in this cruel world!

“Your Grace…” urged Sussex.

“Must I then land here…at the Traitor’s Gate? Look! You have misjudged the tide. How can I step into the water?”

Sussex put his cloak about her shoulders to protect her from the rain. In sudden pettishness she threw it off and stepped out. The water came above her shoe, but she did not heed it. She cried in a ringing voice: “Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these stairs. Before Thee, oh God, I speak it, having no other friend but Thee alone.”

As she passed on, many of the warders came out to see her, and some of them brought their children with them. The sight of these small wondering faces calmed the Princess. She smiled wanly at them, and one little boy came forward on his own account and, kneeling before her, said in a high piping voice: “Last night I prayed God to preserve Your Grace, and I shall do so again.”

She laid her hand on his head. “So I have one friend in this sorry place,” she said. “I thank you, my child.”

Then several of the warders cried out: “May God preserve Your Grace.”

She smiled and sat down on one of the damp stones, looking at them almost tenderly.

The Lieutenant of the Tower came to her and begged her to rise. “For, Madam,” he said, “you sit unwholesomely.”

“Better sit here than in a worse place,” she retorted, “for God, not I, knows whither you bring me.”

But she rose and allowed herself, with those few women who had been permitted to accompany her, to be led into the Tower.

The Earl of Sussex still walked beside her. “Your Grace,” he murmured, “you will understand that I like not this task which has been put upon me. Rest assured that I shall do everything in my power to ease your stay in this place.”

“My lord,” she answered softly, “I forget not your kindness to me.”

She was conducted to the apartments prepared for her—the most heavily guarded in the Tower; and as her weeping ladies gathered about her, she felt her courage return.

So it had come—that which she had so often dreaded. Her thoughts were not of the trials which lay ahead but of her conduct during her journey to this place. Had any seen that when they had brought her through the Traitor’s Gate she had almost swooned? She fervently hoped that none had witnessed that display of fear.

Now she felt so calm that she was able to soothe her women. “What happens now is in the hands of God,” she consoled them. “And if they should send me to the block, I will have no English axe to sever my head from my body; I shall insist on a sword from France.”

They knew then that she was remembering her mother, and they wept more wildly; but she sat erect, her tawny head high, while she calmly looked into a future which might bring her a crown or a sword from France.

THREE

Robert was pacing up and down his cell. He had been excited since that rainy Palm Sunday when he had heard, from the warder who brought his meals, that there was a most distinguished prisoner not very far from him.

How long had he to live? he wondered. Young Guildford had gone, alas! It was a sobering thought. Guildford and he had spent so much of their lives together. Father…Guildford…Who next?

When the threat of death hung over a man for so long, there were times when he forgot about it. It was some months since he had walked from the Guildhall back to the Tower, aware of the axe with its edge turned toward him. When his cell door had been locked upon him and he was alone with those two servants, whom, because of his rank, he was allowed to have with him, he had felt nothing but bleak and utter despair; he had almost longed to be summoned for that last walk. But such as Robert Dudley did not despair for long. He had been born lucky. Was he not Fortune’s darling? Had she not shielded him when she had made him commit the seemingly foolhardly act of marrying Amy? If he had not done so, it would have been Robert, not Guildford, who had walked to the scaffold to be beheaded with the Lady Jane Grey, since his father would most certainly have married him to that most tragic young lady. The more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that he was preserved for some glorious destiny.

It was Easter time, always a season for hope.

The warder came in to bring his food, and with him he brought his small son. The little boy, not quite four years old, begged that he might accompany his father when he visited Lord Robert. The child would stand gravely surveying the prisoner, and although he said nothing, his eyes scarcely left Robert’s face.

Robert was amused. He could see in the child’s eyes the same admiration and sympathy which had shone in those of the women who had stood in the street to watch him on his journey from Guildhall to the Tower.

He bowed to the boy and said: “I am honored by your visit.”

The child smiled and hung his head.

“My lord,” said his father, “he asks always if I am going to visit you, and if I am he implores to come too.”

“I repeat,” said Robert, “I am honored.”

And with a display of charm which was natural with him, he lifted the child in his arms so that their faces were on a level.

“And what think you of what you see, my little one?” he asked. “Take a good look at this head, for the opportunity to do so may not long be yours. One day, my child, you will come to this cell and find another poor prisoner.”

The little boy’s lips began to quiver.

“And this poor head which you survey with such flattering attention will no longer have a pair of shoulders to support it.”

The warder whispered: “My lord, my lord, he understands your meaning. He will break his little heart. He sets such store by your lordship.”

Robert was immediately serious. He kissed the boy lightly on the cheek.

“Tears?” he said. “Nay, we do not shed tears. Do you think that I shall allow them to harm me? Never!”

The child smiled now. “Never!” he repeated.

Robert lowered him to the ground. “A bonny boy,” he said. “I look forward to his visits. I hope he will come again.”

“He shall, my lord. Always he pleads: ‘I want to see Lord Robert!’ Is that not so, my son?”

The boy nodded.

“And great pleasure it gives me to see you,” said Robert smiling.

“He has another friend in the Tower, my lord.”

“Ha! I grow jealous.”

“It is a lady Princess,” said the boy.

Robert was alert, eager to hear more.

“It is the Princess Elizabeth, my lord,” put in the warder. “Poor lady! It is sad for her…though they have allowed her a little freedom. She is allowed to walk in the small garden to take the air.”

“Would I could walk in a small garden now and then,” said Robert.

“Ah, my lord, yes indeed. They were at first strict with the Princess, keeping her closely guarded. But my lord of Sussex and the Lieutenant have put their heads together and have decided to give her this freedom.”

“It would seem that they are wise men.”

“How so, my lord?”

“They remember that the Princess may well be Queen one day. She would not look too kindly on those who had, during her imprisonment, shown her something less than kindness.”

The warder looked uneasy. He did not like this reckless talk. It was all very well for Lord Robert, who had little to lose since he was under sentence of death, but a humble warder to be caught listening to such talk concerning the Queen’s enemies!

He took the boy by the hand but Robert said: “And so my little friend visits the Princess in her garden, eh?”

“Oh yes. Her Grace is fond of children. She encourages them to talk to her; and young Will is almost as devoted to the lady as he is to your lordship.”

Robert swung the boy up into his arms once more. “It would seem, Master William,” he said, “that you are a gentleman of much discernment.”

The boy laughed aloud to find himself swung aloft, but Robert was thoughtful as he lowered him to the floor.

The next day when the warder came, the boy was again with him; this time he brought a nosegay—flowers which he had picked from the patch of ground outside his father’s apartments within the prison precincts. Primroses, violets, and wallflowers made a sweet-smelling bunch.

The boy handed them shyly to Robert.

“Why,” cried Robert, “this is the pleasantest thing that has happened to me for a long time. I need a bowl in which to put them, for they will quickly fade if I do not. A small bowl of water. Could you procure such a bowl for me?”

“I will bring one next time I come,” said the warder.

“Nay, that will not do. I’d not have my friend’s flowers fade. Go, like a good fellow, bring me a bowl and leave your son with me that I may thank him for his gift.” He picked up the boy. “You will stay with me…locked in my cell for a little while, will you not? You are not afraid to stay with me?”

The boy said: “I wish to stay with my lord.”

The warder looked fondly at his son and, seeing that to be locked in the cell with Lord Robert would delight him, agreed to go and bring the bowl. He went out, carefully locking the door behind him.

As soon as he had gone, Robert, who still held the boy in his arms, whispered into his ear: “You are my friend. You would do something for me?”

The boy was all eagerness.

“Bring me some flowers tomorrow?”

“Yes, my lord…bigger, better flowers tomorrow.”

“And when you bring me more flowers, I shall take these which you have brought today, out of the bowl and give them to you.”

“But they are for you.”

“I would that you should take them to a lady.” The boy’s eyes were alert. “To the Princess,” whispered Robert. “But you must tell no one…no one at all…not even your father. It must be thought that I give you a present of flowers, and so you in return give me one. No one must know that you are going to take a present from me to the Princess.”

The boy was puzzled, but he was concentrating with all his might. His one desire was to do what his hero wished.

“Remember! It is a great secret. No one must know. In the bunch of flowers I give you, there will be a letter. You must be careful that you do not drop it. And if no one is near when you give the flowers to the Princess you might say: ‘I bring these from Lord Robert!’ Could you say that?”

The boy nodded. “I bring these from Lord Robert,” he said.

“Then you will do this for me? Tomorrow…bring more flowers for me. I shall give you these which you brought today. It is a game we are playing because we are such friends. It is a present from me to the Princess…but a secret present, and none knows of it but my little ambassador. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Robert put his fingers to his lips and the boy nodded gleefully.

“And can you do this for me, my clever little friend?”

The boy nodded.

“Not a word,” said Robert. “Here comes your father. Remember. It is our secret—yours, mine, and the Princess’s.”

When the warder had returned, Robert marveled at his own fool-hardiness. What a reckless thing to do! For himself it was unimportant; he was under sentence of death. But what if he had involved the Princess in further trouble? He had trusted her life perhaps in the hands of a small boy.

But, he soothed himself, there was no political intrigue in this; he was not plotting rebellion or escape.

Moreover the plot was so simple. It could not fail. He sat down and wrote:

Dearest lady, My cell in this dreary prison has become brighter since you are close to me, grieved though I am by your misfortunes. If your walks should bring you past my cell and I might see you, that is the only boon I would ask before I die. This comes from one who has had the great joy of laughing with you, dancing with you, and would now find equal joy in a glimpse of your sweet face. From one who has never forgotten you, nor ever shall. R.D.

He hid the note in the posy, binding it fast; and eagerly he awaited the next day, wondering, as he had through the night, whether the child had been unable to keep the secret or if he would remember to bring fresh flowers on the next day.

As soon as the boy entered the cell with his father, this time bearing a larger bunch of flowers, Robert saw from the brightness of the boy’s eyes and the tightly pressed lips that he had not forgotten.

“You bring me a present,” said Robert. “Now I shall give you one.” He took the new bunch and pressed the old one into the child’s hands. Their eyes met and the boy’s were brimming over with excitement.

“God bless you,” said Robert.

“God bless my lord,” said the boy.

“I envy you this fine boy,” said Robert to the warder. “I…who have no sons…nor daughters either, for that matter.”

He thought with exasperation of Amy, waiting for him in the manor house which was their home—Amy who had saved him from marriage with the Lady Jane Grey and who now stood between him and he knew not what.

“Ah, he’s a bonny fellow,” said the father. “And he has brothers and sisters.”

“You are a lucky man.”

The warder shook his head, thinking of the splendors of the Dudleys which had ended so tragically and abruptly.

The little boy wandered out, tightly clutching the bunch of flowers.

A change had come over the Princess Elizabeth. There was fresh color in her cheeks, renewed sparkle in her eyes. It was obvious that she looked forward to her walks in the Tower garden.

She would smile and kiss the warder’s little boy who so often brought her flowers. She would pick him up in her arms and whisper to him, walking with him among the flower beds. Her attendants and the guards said: “She is very fond of children.” And it was touching to see the eager way in which she took the flowers which the child brought to her.

She had thrown off her melancholy. It was difficult to believe that her life was in danger and that none was more aware of that dismal fact than herself.

“Ah, my little one,” she would cry, on seeing the boy, “so you do not forget me then?”

“I would never forget you, Mistress,” he would say.

She would take his little hand and walk away from those who attended her; she wished to be alone in the gardens with her little friend.

“How is my lord?” she would whisper.

“He says that he is in wondrous health since he has had word from your Grace.”

“He looks for a letter from me, I doubt not?”

“Nay, Mistress. He says you must not write. I will tell him what you say.”

“You are a dear good child and I am fond of you.”

So she blossomed among the flowers and passed much time in her apartments—which otherwise would have been spent wearily—in remembering the charm of Robert Dudley, picturing what would happen if they met again.

Other children began to follow the warder’s little boy into the gardens. There was so much talk of the Princess, that they too wished to see her and to tell her how sorry they were that she was a captive.

There was the son of the Keeper of the Queen’s Robes, and little Susannah, the daughter of another warder, who came with the boy. They would run into the garden and stand before the Princess, who always had a word and smile for them; but little Will was her favorite.

There were many persons of importance who wished to show leniency toward the Princess. It was folly, said Bridges, the Lieutenant of the Tower, to offend more than need be, a lady of Elizabeth’s rank. One turn of Fortune’s wheel and she would be their Queen. He expressed his feelings thus in order to win support for them; for he himself was a kind man and the plight of the Princess had aroused his compassion. He swore to himself that while Elizabeth was in his charge she should have as much respect as he dared give her.

It was not long before the Princess was allowed to go where she wished within the precincts of the Tower; and thus it was that she saw Robert.

She knew that he was in a lower cell of the Beauchamp Tower, and that if she passed by he would be able, by looking through the bars of his window, to see her. On that first day of her new liberty, she curbed her impatience, but on the second she dressed herself with the utmost care and with her attendants about her and her guards nearby, she walked aimlessly in the direction of the Beauchamp Tower.

“Wait here,” she said to her attendants. “I would be alone for a while.”

The sympathetic guards allowed her to go on, but they begged her not to go from their sight or they would be forced to follow her.

She paused by the Beauchamp Tower and whispered: “Robert. Robert Dudley. Are you there?”

He was at the window looking through the bars.

“My…Princess!” he murmured.

He was pale through long confinement, but his pallor seemed but to enhance the beauty of that incomparable cast of features; the flesh had fallen away to disclose the fine contours of his face. How handsome he is! thought the Princess; and any man who admired her seemed to her charming.

“I cannot tarry long,” she murmured. “My guards are watching. Have a care.”

“You came…to see me! I shall remember it till I die.”

“Robert…what will they do to us?”

“Time will tell.”

“You do not care?”

“Life has to end sometime, sweet Princess. I have railed against my fate. But I am here and, because I am a prisoner, and you are a prisoner, I have shown you what is in my heart. How could Robert Dudley have said to a noble Princess what one prisoner could say to another?”

“You have been very bold,” she said with feigned severity.

“It is well, mayhap, that the walls of a prison separate us, for if they did not, how could I, dazzled by your beauty, control what might be unforgivable boldness?”

She pretended to contemplate the April sky, and her eyes seemed to take color from its blueness. She heard the call of the cuckoo from the distant meadows. Spring was in the air and in her heart; she could not think of death for herself at such a time. They were both so young. Prisoner as she was, this was one of the happiest moments of her life. She vowed there and then that she would never forget the man who had made it possible for her to be so happy in this grim prison.

“It is well indeed,” she said. “I shall walk on a few paces and turn back. I see they are watching me.”

His voice followed her. “If tomorrow I walk out to the scaffold, I shall not complain. I am a prisoner here under sentence of death, yet I rejoice…for the Princess has passed my way.”

How handsome he was! How ardent his eyes! She had heard it said that he was irresistible. Yet because she was a Princess her royalty would resist him. But what need to think of resistance? They were separated by unbreakable barriers: her royalty, his prison walls, his marriage to a country girl. She did not resent these barriers; she wished for barriers. She saw herself as the most desirable woman in England, young, beautiful, yet unattainable. That was how she wished it to be.

She dawdled past his window once more.

“I was grieved,” she said, “when I heard of your arrest. I was grieved because I remembered you and because of the reason you are here.”

He was prepared. He had not mentioned politics in his letters; those spoke of nothing but love and devotion. He said: “I am my father’s son. I had no alternative but to fight in my father’s cause. I was young…without experience, his to command.”

“And who may command you now?”

“The Princess Elizabeth. She may command me, body and soul.”

She was delighted, but she said with asperity: “When was your allegiance severed from the Lady Jane Grey? When she went to the scaffold?”

“I can only say that I served my father.”

“Robert, you are a fool. And so am I to linger here.”

“But…you will walk this way again?”

She stooped as though to flick a piece of grass from her shoe. “Should I step out of my way to listen to you?”

“If you are merciful, yes.”

“Merciful?” She looked round. Those who were watching her were growing suspicious. She dared dally no longer, but she was finding it difficult to tear herself away. Flirtation such as this was a game she enjoyed beyond all others. “Who am I, a poor prisoner, to be merciful?”

“There is none other whose mercy I would ask. I crave the mercy of a smile from your sweet lips. The memory of your beauty will stay with me…lighting my cell. If I die tomorrow I shall die happy…because you came to see me, my dearest Princess.”

“I but passed this way.”

“Then Your Grace is displeased because I wrote to you?”

“It was somewhat impertinent of you.”

“Then if my letters have given you displeasure, I must deny myself the great joy of writing them.”

“As to that you must please yourself.”

“If I pleased myself I should write all day. You will come this way again?”

“My lord, do you think I shall go out of my way to avoid you?” There was a trill of excitement in her voice. She knew she ought to go, but she could not resist lingering there.

“To see you is the most wonderful thing that has happened to me,” he said.

“I must go.”

“I shall live for this hour tomorrow.”

“My guards grow suspicious. I must tarry no longer.”

“Would I could kiss your hand…Elizabeth.”

“I dare stay no longer.”

“I shall wait…and hope.”

“It is a good thing to wait…and hope. It is all that is left to us poor prisoners.”

She had turned her face to the sky so that the light fell upon it; she shook out her hair and touched her throat with one of those white slender hands of which she was so proud. She made a charming picture for him to see and retain in his memory.

“You are so beautiful,” she heard him whisper. “Even more so than I remembered.”

Did they know, those guards and friends of hers, why her morning walks always took her in one direction? Did they know who the prisoner was on the other side of the grille? If they did they feigned ignorance.

She would sit on the grass outside the cell and, leaning back against the walls, look up at the sky while she talked to Robert Dudley.

She scolded him, but there was a warmth of tenderness always beneath the scolding. She was as excited as she had been during that most exciting experience with Thomas Seymour.

“So, Robert Dudley, you are a traitor to our most gracious Queen.”

“Princess, I serve only one Queen.”

“Then that must be Queen Mary.”

“Nay, the Queen of my heart, the Queen I shall always worship to the end of my days. Her name is not Mary.”

“Might it be Amy?”

“Ah, speak not of poor Amy.”

“Speak not of her indeed! Poor soul, I pity her. She happens to be your wife.”

“I spoke of a Queen,” he said. “I spoke of the only one in the world whom I could ever love, but who, I fear, is far beyond my reach.”

“What name has she?”

“Elizabeth.”

“The same as mine!”

“You mock me!”

“Robert, you are a philanderer, as many know to their cost.”

“If that is so, might it not be because, knowing I can never reach my love, I seek desperately to find others who remind me of her?”

“So these others…these country girls…remind you of her?”

“In some small way, mayhap. Perhaps one has blue eyes; another has hair—not the same color, for how could that perfection be matched?—but perhaps when the sun shines in a certain way that hair has a faint resemblance to Elizabeth’s. Perhaps one has white and slender fingers, lacking the perfection, it is true, but they serve to remind.”

“Robert Dudley,” she challenged, “a woman would be a fool to put her trust in you.”

“One would not. But who am I to hope she would dare look my way?”

“You are under sentence of death,” she said quietly.

“I am almost glad of it. Because of it I am reckless. I say to the one I love that which, in other circumstances, I would not dare to say.”

“Say on,” she murmured.

“I love you…no one but you. There would be no place in my life except by your side. It is well that soon they will come for me and that I shall walk out to the scaffold, for, loving one so far above me, how could I hope for that love to be returned?”

“A man is a fool who gives up hope.”

“Is that so then?”

“Hope is what we live by…such as we are.”

“What could I hope for?”

“For life.”

“But what would life be worth if it held not love?”

“Then hope for life and love.”

“Elizabeth…my love!”

“It is true,” she admitted, “that I have a fondness for you.”

“I am the happiest man alive.”

“It is a marvelous thing, Robert, that you can say so at such a time.”

“Would I could be there beside you on the grass.”

“I fancy that you would be over-bold, which might mean that I should have to be cold to you.”

“I would break through your coldness.”

“Yes. I have heard that you have melting powers.”

“You have heard much of me. I am flattered again that you lent your ears so often to news of me…even when it went against me.”

“I did not forget you. You were such an arrogant boy.”

“You remember how we danced together…how our hands touched?”

“Do not talk of the past. Talk of the future.”

“What has the future for me?”

“Or for me?”

“You! There will be a great future for you. You will be a Queen.”

“Shall I, Robert?”

“A Queen! And your husband will be a foreign prince of great power and riches. Your ministers will choose him for you.”

“If I am ever Queen I shall choose my own husband.”

Such words set his hopes rising. Such hopes were absurd, he told himself. But were they? She was so proud, so brave, so determined. She was her father’s daughter; he had heard it said many times. Her father had married outside royalty. It was true that two of his wives had lost their heads; but Robert was sure of his powers.

“If ever I come out of here alive…” he began.

“Yes, Robert?” she prompted.

“I shall dedicate my life to your service.”

“Others have promised that.”

“I shall serve you with the love of a subject and…a man.”

“Subject?”

“When you are Queen…”

“You talk treason. If any heard, that would, without delay, cost you your head.”

“My heart is so deeply involved that my head seems of little importance.”

“I dare stay no longer.”

Yet how she wanted to do so! What a pleasant game it was that she played outside the walls of the Beauchamp Tower.

It was one of the children who broke the enchantment.

Little Susannah came to her one day as she walked in the gardens.

Susannah had found some keys, and these she had brought to the Princess. The little girl had listened to the conversations of her elders and had thought how she would like to do something for the sweet young lady. Young Will took her flowers, and those pleased her so much. What could Susannah do?

Then Susannah thought of something better than flowers. The Princess was a prisoner, was she not? Flowers were pretty to look at, but keys were so much more useful. So purposefully Susannah took the keys to the Princess, holding them out in her small chubby hand.

“These are for you, Mistress. Now you can unlock the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth bent over the child, but her guards had come forward.

“Your Grace will understand,” said one of the guards, “that I must take these keys, and that it will be necessary for me to report what has happened.”

“You may do as you please,” said Elizabeth. “This innocent child but plays a game.”

Susannah cried: “But the keys are for the lady. They are so that she may open the gates and go home.”

Elizabeth stooped to comfort the child. “It was good of you to bring me the keys, Susannah,” she said. “But you see, my dear little one, they will not let me have them.”

Susannah began to whimper: “Have I done wrong then, Mistress?”

“Nay. You thought to please me. That was not wrong.”

“But they are angry now.”

“Nay. They have taken the keys because I am their prisoner and that is how they wish to keep me.”

“But I would help you to escape.”

“I know, my little one. But that is not to be. You must be of good cheer. I am happy because you brought me the keys—not so that I might escape for I could not go until they say I may—but because it shows you love me.”

Susannah was comforted.

But now the officials of the Tower were conferring together.

“A child…to take keys to the Princess! That is very dangerous. Important keys could be smuggled into her apartments in this way.”

“The keys which the child took to her were useless keys. They had been thrown away.”

“That is so. But keys! And what is this about flowers?”

“Only that one of the warders’ boys takes her a bunch of flowers now and then. He picks them from his garden and takes them to his favorite prisoner.”

“Messages…notes…could be concealed in a bunch of flowers. We have here an important state prisoner. If she should escape it might cost us our heads.”

The result of this conference was that young Will found himself standing before a committee of impressive gentlemen, among them the awe-inspiring Lieutenant of the Tower himself.

Will was a little afraid, because he sensed the trepidation of his father, who waited outside while Will stood before a table about which sat the gentlemen.

There was one thought in the little boy’s mind: He must not betray the fact that he had carried a note in the bunch of flowers. Lord Robert had been most insistent about that. That was why they were angry, but he would not tell them. He must remember that Lord Robert did not wish it, and he did not care how angry the gentlemen were so long as he did what Lord Robert wished.

He stood there, his feet wide apart, his face firm and set, remembering that he was Lord Robert’s friend.

“Now, my boy, you took flowers to the Princess, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you get these flowers?”

“From our garden.” That was true; the flowers had come from the garden.

“Now listen, my boy. Did any of the prisoners give you anything to put among the flowers?”

“No, sir.” That was true too. Lord Robert himself had put the notes among the flowers.

“Think very hard. You are sure no one gave you a letter to take to the Princess?”

“I am thinking hard,” said the boy. “Nobody gave me a letter, sir.”

The men looked at each other.

“Has he ever visited Courtenay’s apartments?” asked the Lieutenant.

“We will have his father in and ask him.”

Will’s father entered.

“Has the boy ever accompanied you to the apartments of the Duke of Devonshire?”

“No, sir. I have never been there myself.”

“Have you ever visited any of the prisoners who have recently been brought to the Tower…those concerned in the Wyatt rebellion?”

“No, sir.”

The men again looked at each other and at the small boy who presented such a picture of bewildered innocence. It was said that the Princess was fond of children and they of her; it was probable that there was nothing in this matter but pure friendship between the Princess and the child. So far no harm had been done. Elizabeth was still their prisoner.

“I will double the Princess’s guards,” said the Lieutenant. “We will curtail her freedom. She shall walk only for a short time in the gardens and not where she willed as heretofore. And, warder, your son is to take no more flowers to prisoners. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you, my boy, you understand? You must take no more flowers to the Princess.”

The boy nodded miserably.

When he next saw the Princess she was walking in her little garden, and the gates were locked so that he could not reach her. But he called to her through the railings.

She did not come near because her guards surrounded her; but she waved and smiled at him.

“I can bring you no more flowers, Mistress,” he called sadly.

The Queen fell ill and there was consternation among those who had persecuted Elizabeth. The chief of these was Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester—he who was the most formidable of the Princess’s enemies. He had a clear picture of what would happen to him if Mary died and Elizabeth became Queen.

He was the Queen’s favorite Bishop and statesman; he could take liberties; and it seemed to him that unless he took a very great one now, he could not expect to outlive Queen Mary by more than a week or two. So he decided to act with extreme boldness.

He wrote a death warrant and had a special messenger take it to Bridges in the Tower. The sentence was to be carried out on the Princess Elizabeth without delay.

When Bridges received the warrant he was bewildered.

Nothing had been proved against Elizabeth, although she was under constant suspicion. Was she to be executed without trial? That did not appeal to the fair-minded Bridges. He was proud of his office; he wanted justice to prevail in his domain. Moreover he was not insensible to the charm of the Princess. She was so young and her good spirits and bravery in captivity had made a marked impression on him; he was also not unmindful of what the future might bring.

A death warrant! Instructions to hurry on with the execution, to keep it secret and hustle the Princess from her prison to the scaffold in the early morning, to behead her while the country was ignorant of what was happening!

“I like that not!” murmured Bridges.

The Queen was not by nature a cruel woman, and the Princess had implied that she was very willing to accept the Catholic Faith. Bridges did not believe that the Queen would wish to take the life of her sister except on religious grounds, or of course, if treason were proved against her—which was not the case.

He examined the death warrant once more. That was not the Queen’s signature. He looked closely. Yes, Gardiner had signed for the Queen during her indisposition.

Bridges made up his mind. He would rather risk Gardiner’s displeasure than send a young girl to her death.

He took up his pen and wrote to Gardiner:

“I see that this warrant does not bear Her Majesty’s signature, and I should consider I was not acting within the bounds of my duty if I allowed to take place an execution of so important a state prisoner without special instructions from Her Majesty the Queen.”

Gardiner was furious when he received the letter and realized that his plan had miscarried. He pondered the matter for a few days, wondering whether to command Bridges to carry out his wishes. But in the meantime the Queen had recovered, and when she heard what had happened she was horrified.

All her sentimental feelings came to the surface. She remembered the baby Elizabeth who had won her affection. Elizabeth was misguided; she had been brought up in the wrong religion; and it was true that she must be looking with ambition toward the throne; but nothing had been proved against her—and she was Mary’s own sister.

She did not reprimand Gardiner; she had too high an opinion of him. She knew that he was a staunch Catholic and that in itself endeared him to her. It was Elizabeth, the heretic, whom he wished to persecute; and she was not sure that he was not right in that.

As for herself she saw Elizabeth as her sister—heretic though she might be. Elizabeth was young; she had not been proved a traitor; therefore it was the Queen’s duty to save her from heresy.

Mary called to her a man whom she trusted completely; this was her old friend Sir Henry Bedingfeld.

“I have a task for you,” she told him, “which I would entrust to no other.”

“I shall execute it with all the strength at my disposal, Your Majesty.”

“I know it, dear Bedingfeld. That is why I give it to you. I know you will watch over her and that you will be just, both to her and to me. I speak of my sister.”

Bedingfeld was dismayed.

“Yes, my dear friend,” went on the Queen, “I have decided to put the Princess in your charge. You will watch over her night and day. Every action of hers will be noted and, if need be, reported to me. This is a difficult task I have set you, but, my lord, I do so because I know you to be one of the few about me whom I can trust.”

“I am your Majesty’s obedient and humble servant.”

But he showed himself to be perplexed, and Mary marveled that a man as courageous as Bedingfeld should be so disturbed at the prospect of guarding a young girl.

Elizabeth heard the approach of Sir Henry Bedingfeld with a hundred men-at-arms. From a window she saw them and when she knew that they were all about her apartments she feared this could mean only one thing, and her terrors returned. She clung to her favorite attendant, Isabella Markham, and cried: “Isabella, this is the end. I did not think I should greatly mind, but I do. My sister has sent Bedingfeld to see her orders carried out. Tell me…is the Lady Jane’s scaffold still in its place?”

“Hush, dearest Princess. I beg of you be calm as you always have been. Wait and learn what this means before you believe the worst.”

“Bedingfeld is my sister’s trusted knight. She has sent him to destroy me. I feared as soon as I entered this place of gloom that I should never leave it.” She cried out hysterically: “It shall not be an axe for me! I shall have a sword from Calais!”

Her ladies, knowing that she thought of her tragic mother, bent their heads and wept.

But it was not Elizabeth’s way to mourn for long. Very soon she became the imperious Princess. She cried: “Send for Bridges. Command him to come to me at once.”

When he came she demanded haughtily: “What means this? Have you not guards enough that you must send to my sister for more?”

“Your Grace refers to Sir Henry Bedingfeld and his company?”

“I do indeed.”

“Your Grace, this is not a matter for alarm, but for rejoicing. Sir Henry will soon present himself to you and tell you of his instructions. You are to leave the Tower.”

“To be freed?”

“You will be in the charge of Sir Henry, but no longer a prisoner in the Tower.”

Elizabeth was relieved. She was to change one captivity for another, but the Tower was a place of ill omen. But after a while she was conscious of some regret, for the Tower still held Robert Dudley.

The barge carried her from Tower Wharf to the Palace of Richmond, a strong company of guards accompanying her.

Her sister sent for her when she arrived at the Palace.

Mary, so recently recovered from what many believed would be a fatal illness, looked exhausted. She was nervously awaiting the coming of her bridegroom, with feelings which alternated between eagerness for him and apprehension as to what he would think of her.

The sight of her young sister—so healthful in spite of her recent imprisonment—filled her with melancholy and envy. What would Philip think when he saw this sister? Would he wish that she were the Queen of England and his bride?

But it was absurd to envy Elizabeth, whose life was in the utmost danger; and if Mary were wise, according to Gardiner and Renard, she would not hesitate to send that young lady to the block.

“So you are recently come from the Tower?” said Mary coldly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. By your great clemency, I come hither.”

“Many have spoken against you,” said the Queen.

“They lied who spoke against me,” said Elizabeth. “But Your Majesty is wise and recognizes the lies of a liar—as she does the poor babblings of those under torture—for what they are worth.”

“I am not convinced of your loyalty.”

Elizabeth opened her blue eyes very wide. “Your Majesty cannot mean that!”

“I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean. Now, sister, I know you well. Remember we have spent many years together. When there was trouble in your nursery, as I well remember, you had little difficulty in proving your innocence.”

“Your Majesty, it should be an easy matter for the innocent to prove their innocence. It is only the guilty who face an impossible task.”

The Queen waved a hand impatiently. “I have a husband for you.”

Elizabeth grew pale. She was tense, waiting.

“It is Philibert Emmanuel, the Duke of Savoy.”

“The Duke of Savoy!” echoed Elizabeth blankly.

She had expected death and had been offered a duke. To die would be the end of life, but to marry a foreign duke and leave England would mean abandoning all that she had hoped for. Only now did she fully realize how she had always longed to be the Queen of England. To resign her hopes would be as bad as death.

She said firmly: “Your Majesty, I could never agree to the match.”

“You could not agree!”

“I could not agree, Your Majesty.”

The Queen bent forward and said coldly: “What right have you to object to the husband I have chosen for you?”

Elizabeth was thinking of Robert Dudley as she had seen him through the bars of his cell—tall, dark, handsome…and those passionate daring eyes. If it were Robert…she thought. No, not for him would she abandon her dream. But she was not being offered Robert. She was offered a foreign prince whom the Queen favored because he was a vassal of Spain; and all things connected with Spain were good in the Queen’s eyes since she had taken a look at the picture of a short, trim young man who was destined to be her husband.

“There is only one reason why I could object to your choice, Your Majesty, and that is because I feel within myself that the married state is not for me.”

Mary looked cynically at her sister. “You…to be a spinster! When did you make up your mind to this?”

“I think, Your Majesty, that it is something I have always known.”

“I have not noticed that you have shown much maidenliness toward the opposite sex.”

“Your Majesty, it is because I have always felt thus that I have perhaps at times appeared to be unguarded.”

“Do you feel then that there is no need to guard that which you have determined at all costs to preserve?”

“Your Majesty, it is only necessary to put a guard on that which one is in danger of losing. My inclination for virginity being what it is, I had no need to restrain myself as have some maidens.”

“I would not have you come to me in frivolous mood.”

“Your Majesty, I was never more serious.”

“Then we shall contract you to the Duke of Savoy.”

Elizabeth folded her hands on her breast. “Your Majesty, I am of such mind that I prefer death to marriage.”

“I should not talk too readily of death. It could be reckless talk.”

“Your Majesty, I am reckless. I prefer death to betrothal to the Duke of Savoy.”

“We shall see,” said Mary.

She summoned the guard, and Elizabeth was taken back to her apartments, believing that her end was at hand.

She lay on her bed staring up at the tester. Her ladies were weeping quietly. She had come back from her interview with the Queen and had told them: “I think I am to die.”

Did she really prefer death to marriage with the Duke of Savoy?

For so many years she had dreamed that she would wear the crown. How many times had Kat Ashley read it in the cards? She could not give up that dream. But would she in truth rather die?

Once during the night she half rose. She thought: Tomorrow I will go to the Queen. I will accept Savoy. I am a fool to go meekly to death.

Wait, said her common sense. Has there not always been safety in waiting?

The next day she left the Palace, but not for the Tower. The Queen was undecided what to do with her sister, and finally she resorted to the old method. Elizabeth should go back to Woodstock, where she would remain a captive, although living in the state her rank demanded. The people would be appeased if the Princess was in one of her country houses; they had been restive while she was in the Tower. Elizabeth, sly and cunning, appeared to them young and pathetic; and she had the people on her side as always.

Even when she sailed up the river the people lined the banks to watch her pass. They called cheering words to her; they had gifts for her. At Wycombe cakes were brought to her, and so numerous were these that she could not accept them all. She thanked the people prettily, and all along the river their cries resounded: “God bless the Princess. God save Her Grace.”

She felt happy now. She had done the right thing in refusing Savoy. Time would always be her ally, for she was young and the Queen was old.

She arrived at Woodstock, yet even there she was not given the royal apartments but taken to the gatehouse. This was surrounded by guards, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld told her that his instructions were that she was to be kept under strict surveillance.

She wept a little. “Like a sheep to the slaughter I am led,” she said, as her ladies helped her to retire.

As she lay in her bed unable to sleep, the door of her room was quietly opened; the curtains of her bed were suddenly divided, and she found herself held tightly in a pair of loving arms.

“Kat!” she sobbed in relief. “How did you get here?”

“Hush, my love! Hush, my little lady! I am free once more. This prisoner is released, so what did she do? When she heard her lady was on the way she arrived before her. I reached the house before Master Bedingfeld and his merry men. And what do we care, sweetheart, since we are together!”

“What do we care!” said Elizabeth and began to laugh.

Kat lay beside her on the bed; and through the night they talked of what had happened.

Elizabeth said suddenly: “And, Kat, what do you think? I had an adventure when I was in the Tower. You remember Robert Dudley?”

“Remember him! Who could forget him! The loveliest man I ever saw…except one.”

“Except none!” said Elizabeth.

And they pulled the bed coverings over their heads that they might gossip and laugh together without being overheard.

Elizabeth’s captivity at Woodstock passed merrily enough. Kat was with her, and Sir Henry Bedingfeld did not think it necessary to report this matter to the Queen. Perhaps he knew that if he did so Kat would be removed and that removal would mortally offend the Princess Elizabeth. He could see no harm in Kat’s being with her.

So they were together as they had been in the old days. There was laughter and gossip and talk which if overheard might have been called treason.

When they were alone Kat whispered: “Your Majesty!” and that was sweet music to Elizabeth. Kat read the cards with that flattering skill which provoked much laughter.

“Here is that dark, handsome man again! See how close he is to your little Majesty. We shall hear more of him, I doubt not.”

It was like the old days when Kat had seen another handsome man in the cards. They had recognized him as Thomas Seymour. Kat reminded Elizabeth that she had been wont to say there would never be one like him, never one so charming.

“But then,” said Elizabeth, “I did not really know Robert Dudley.”

FOUR

When the Princess Elizabeth was taken from the Tower, Robert fell into deep melancholy. There were times when he felt he would go mad if he were left much longer in his dismal cell. He would look through the bars at the grass on which she used to walk, and he would remember others who had spent a lifetime in the Tower. Shall I be here until I am old and gray? he would wonder. But he did not really believe that could happen to Robert Dudley.

There was nothing to do but brood. If Elizabeth were Queen…ah, if Elizabeth were Queen, she would not suffer him to stay long in the Tower.

But at length change came.

It was June, and he had heard from the jailers and his servants that preparations were going forward for the reception of the Prince of Spain, who was already on his way to England.

The Queen was not yet forty; she would marry Philip and if there were children of the marriage, there was small hope of Robert Dudley’s regaining his freedom.

“My lord,” said his jailer one day, “prepare to leave this cell. You are to be taken to the Bell Tower, there to share a room with your brother the Earl of Warwick.”

He felt elated. He might have known that Fortune would not allow him to continue gloomy. It would be good to be with brother John.

The brothers embraced warmly. Imprisonment had left a deeper mark on John, Earl of Warwick, than on Robert; John had had no charming adventure with which to while away the time. He brightened with the coming of Robert, although they were very sorrowful recalling their father and Guildford.

“It might have been you…or I,” they reminded each other. “Mere chance made it poor Guildford.”

“Yet,” said John, “how do we know we shall not meet a like fate?”

“Nay!” cried Robert. “If they intended that, the deed would have been done ere now. If we stay here quietly and nothing happens to call attention to us, we shall, ere long, be free.”

John smiled. “That is like you, Robert. You always believed that something miraculous was reserved for you.”

“How can you know that it is not!”

“What…for a poor prisoner in the Tower!”

“Other poor prisoners have survived and risen to greatness.”

“You are indeed a Dudley,” said John, not without a trace of sadness in his smile.

Fortune was turning in their favor. They were to be allowed to have visitors. Their wives might come and see them in their cells; their mother might also come.

Jane came first, and bravely she smiled at her two sons. John looked ill, she thought; Robert had scarcely changed at all.

“My darling,” she cried. “Why, John…how thin you are! And you…you are still my Robin, I see.”

“Still the same, dear Mother.”

“You keep your spirits up, my dearest son.”

“And mine too,” put in John. “He refuses to believe that we are unfortunate. We are certain of a great future, he says.”

“Come,” said Robert, “it is not the first time the Dudley fortunes have been in the dust.”

“Do not speak thus,” begged Jane. “That was how your father talked.”

“But Father was a great man. Think of all he did.”

Jane said bitterly: “All he did! He led his son to the scaffold, that with him he might shed his blood in the cause of ambition.”

But Robert laid his arm about her shoulders. “Dear Mother, that is the way of the world.”

“It shall not be your way, Robert.”

“Nay, do not fret. The axe is not for us. See how they keep us here. They leave us in peace. We are well fed, and now we may have visitors. Soon the day of our release will come.”

“I pray for it each night,” said Jane fervently.

She wished to know how they were fed, how their servants behaved.

“We are allowed more than two pounds each week for food,” said Robert, “and more for wood and candles. So you see, Mother, if we do not live like kings, we do not live like beggars.”

“I rejoice to hear it. But there is an evil odor here.”

“It comes from the river.”

“We dread the hot days,” said John.

“I will speak to the servants. They must take great care to keep the apartments sweet. This is not a good place to be in…especially during the summer.”

Robert was determined to drive away gloom. He was sure, he told her, that soon they would be free. He guessed it. He knew it. He had a way of knowing such things.

She could smile as she listened to Robert.

“How glad I am, dear John, that your brother is with you.”

“It has been merrier since he came,” said John.

And when Jane left them she felt happier than she had since she had lost them. That was due to her darling.

He can charm away even my miseries, she was thinking.

Amy came to see Robert. John asked that he should be taken to another cell, that husband and wife might be alone together.

Amy clung to Robert, covering his face with kisses. He returned her embrace and for a short while he was ready to make love to her. It was so long since they had met.

“Robert,” she insisted, “you still love me?”

“Have I not made that clear?”

“I have been so unhappy…”

“And what have I been, do you think?”

“But it has been so miserable without you. I thought that you would die.”

“Nay. I have many years before me.”

“Yes, Robert, yes. Do you think you will soon be free?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“But you do not seem to care.”

He was thoughtful for a second or so. He was thinking of freedom, the return to the life in Norfolk, farming, riding, making love to Amy. Was freedom so desirable? How foolish Amy was! He had a fancy for a different woman—a sharper-tongued, subtler woman, with flaming red hair and an imperious manner. He wanted a Princess, not a country girl.

“Of what do you think?” she asked suspiciously.

Had she sensed his desire for another woman? he wondered. Had she more discernment than he gave her credit for?

He said: “I have been thinking that if I had not married you I might not be here now.”

“Where would you be then?”

“In my grave.”

She stared at him for a moment, then she threw her arms about him. “Why, Robert, I am some use to you then.”

He laughed aloud because the sun was shining outside and it was good to be alive. He lifted her and kissed her with that sudden abandonment which was a way of his.

Now he was the passionate lover as he had been in the beginning, and when he was thus he was quite irresistible.

Amy was happy. She was with him again. He loved her; he was glad they had married.

She did not know that the memory of a Princess was constantly with him and that his thoughts of her filled him with a delightful blend of excitement, desire, and ambition.

The days were hot and sultry. The smell of the befouled river pervaded the cell. The sweating sickness had come to London, and the most dangerous place in the City was the Tower.

Day after day the corpses were taken out, but the place was still overcrowded, as it had been since the Wyatt rebellion. The heat hung over the river and the prisoners lay languid.

One morning John complained of feeling very sick indeed. Robert looked anxiously at his brother. The Earl’s face was a sickly yellow color and, to his horror, Robert saw the drops of sweat forming on his brow.

John had contracted the dreaded sweating sickness.

Five of Robert’s brothers and sisters had died of this terrible disease. He wondered: Is John to be another?

But he determined that it should not be so. He would not lose John that way. Here was something to be done after weeks of inactivity, and he was glad of it.

He called to their two servants. They came running in.

“The Earl is sick,” he said; and he saw the terrible fear in their faces. He felt reckless; in spite of his anxiety for his brother he almost laughed. He was not afraid. He knew that he would not die miserably in prison of the sweat. He would do his utmost to save his brother; he would be the one who was constantly with him, ministering to him, because he felt himself to be immune from infection. For greatness, he was sure, awaited Robert Dudley.

It was a glorious feeling to be unafraid among the fearful.

He said coolly: “Go at once to my mother. Tell her what has happened. Ask her to send some of her simples to me. Tell her she is not to come visiting until I send the word. Be very sure of that.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Already they were looking at him as though he were a god.

He returned to his brother and, lifting him in his arms, he carried him to his bed and covered him up. He sat beside him and, when the palliatives arrived from his mother, he himself administered them.

He talked to John, trying to arouse him. It was said that if the patient did not come out of his coma during the first twenty-four hours he would die.

Robert often wondered afterward how he lived through that day and night; he himself must have been almost delirious.

He found he was speaking his thoughts aloud. “The Princess Elizabeth is in love with me. Bars separated us and I could not approach her, yet was I assured of her love. If ever she becomes Queen, greatness awaits me…greatness such as our father never knew…the greatness he would have had for Guildford if all had gone as our father wished. I think of our grandfather—humble lawyer, a farmer’s son who rose to sit in the Council chamber of a King. I think of our father who became Protector of England—almost the King he wished Guildford to be. In two generations from obscurity to greatness…only to die on the scaffold. I am of the third generation. I shall learn from the mistakes of others. Perhaps in the third generation a Dudley shall be a king.”

Yes, he must be almost delirious to speak such thoughts aloud.

John opened his eyes suddenly and said: “Brother, is that you?”

Then Robert knew that he had successfully nursed John through the sweating sickness, and he was certain that the sickness could not touch him. He was as certain of this as he was of the glorious future which awaited him.

There were many Spaniards at the Court that summer. None could find so much favor with the Queen as a Spaniard. Her bridegroom had come and she doted on him.

Jane Dudley—although she could not go to Court, was often found outside the palaces in which the Queen was residing.

She pleaded with old friends. She gave gifts to the Spanish ladies. She would tell them of the fate of her sons. Would not this kind lady, that kind gentleman, seek a moment, when the Queen was in a soft mood, to speak a word for poor Jane Dudley?

There were many who felt pity for her; and so those words were eventually spoken to the Queen.

Mary loved her husband, and love had softened her.

“Poor Jane Dudley,” she said, “what has she done to suffer so?”

Jane was a heartbroken mother, and now that Mary soon hoped to be a mother, she understood maternal hopes and griefs. Jane’s sons had risen against the crown, but they had obeyed their father in this. Mary in love was a kindly Mary.

As the hot summer gave place to autumn she decided she would pardon the Dudleys. They would still be attainted of high treason, of course, which meant that their lands and goods would not be restored to them; but they should have a free pardon.

Jane was almost delirious with delight.

At last her sons were to be free. Land and riches? What did they want with those? Let them live quietly, humbly; let them abandon their ambition which had proved so fatal to the family.

But Jane’s joy was clouded. His imprisonment in the Tower had changed her eldest son John from a strong man to a weakling. He died a few days after his release.

Of Jane’s thirteen children only five were left to her. Yet even while she wept for John she thanked God that Ambrose and Robert (and in particular Robert, for even the fondest mothers must have their favorites) had come safely through the ordeal.

As Robert rode with Amy from London to Norfolk, all that elation which had come to him when the gates of the Tower had shut behind him, left him. He was conscious of a nagging frustration.

His brother, whom he had nursed through sickness, was dead. His mother had Death written on her face. He realized how deeply she had suffered—far more deeply than any of them; and he knew that having spent her energies on working for their freedom, she would not live long to enjoy the result of her labors.

And if he was a free man, what was left to him? Amy and life in Norfolk! It had been made clear that although the Queen had graciously granted him his liberty, he must expect no further concessions. He, Lord Robert, son of a man who had been ruler of England, was now nothing but a penniless youth, married to the daughter of a country squire on whose bounty he was dependent.

When he looked at Amy he almost wished that she were not so faithful, or that he was less attractive.

He said, almost hopefully: “I have been away a long time, Amy. You are young and pretty. Come, you have not been faithful to me all the time, I am sure.”

She was indignant. “But, of course I have. How can you say such things?” Tears welled into her eyes. She went on: “Do you think that I could ever meet any to compare with you?”

She gazed at him through her tears. He had grown a little older during his imprisonment, but he was no less attractive for that. If his mouth were more stern, that but added to his strength; and if the events of the last months had set a little sadness in his face, that but made his smile the more intriguing. Beneath the sadness there was still that gaiety and vitality which told any woman who looked at him that he found life exciting, and that to be with him meant sharing in that excitement.

He smiled at her, but there was a hint of impatience in his smile. He knew she spoke the truth. The women of the Court had always smiled on him; and poor Amy, tucked away in the country, had not their opportunities.

His father-in-law greeted him with pleasure. He believed that if Lord Robert was unfortunately placed at this time, he would not always be so.

“Welcome home, Robert. Right glad we are to see you. It will be good to have the house made brighter by your presence and poor Amy happy again. The girl has been moping about the place, driving us all to share her melancholy.”

And so to the simple life. But how could the gay Lord Robert fit into that? Wistfully he thought of the Court and all the splendors he had once taken for granted. Robert the squire! Robert the farmer! It was too ironical. His great-grandfather had been a farmer. Had he, Robert, then completed the circle?

He would ride about the estate, watching the laborers at their work as they threshed the corn in the barns. Sometimes he would take one of the long staves with the short club attached and help flail the corn because it gave him some satisfaction to hit something. He would take the fan-shaped basket in which the grain was winnowed and shake it in the wind. And these things he did with a fierce resentment. He, Lord Robert, deprived of his lands and riches, was now nothing but a farmer.

He took part in the November killing of livestock and the salting for the winter; he gathered holly and ivy and decorated the great hall with it; he sang carols; he drank heartily, ate ravenously of the simple fare. He danced the country dances; he made love to the local women, among them the wife of a neighboring squire, and a dairy maid. It mattered not who they were, they were all Lord Robert’s if he willed it.

But this could bring only temporary satisfaction.

In January Jane Dudley died and was buried in Chelsea. She left the little she had to her children and expressed the hope that soon their full inheritance would be restored to them.

After the burial Robert did not immediately return to the country. He walked the streets with his brothers and sometimes saw members of the Court from which he was now shut out. He saw the Queen and her husband; he heard the sullen muttering against the Spanish marriage; he observed how ill the Queen looked, and rejoiced.

In Smithfield Square they were now lighting the fires at the feet of Protestants. Robert sniffed the acrid smell, listened to the cries of martyrs.

Ambrose and Henry were with him one day when they had been to see the terrible sights of Smithfield. They walked, shuddering, away and lay on the bank of the river, all silent, yet with angry thoughts in the minds of each.

Robert was the first to speak. “The people are displeased. Why should he be allowed to bring his Spanish customs here!”

“The people would rise against him if they had a leader,” suggested Ambrose.

“As Wyatt did?” said Henry.

“Wyatt failed,” put in Ambrose, “but he might not have failed.”

“Such matters,” said Robert, “would need much thought, much planning and preparation between trusted friends. Do not forget the damp cell and the odor of the river, the tolling bell. Remember our father. Remember Guildford. And John was killed in the Tower, though he in fact died afterward. He would be alive now, but for his imprisonment.”

“Is this Robert speaking?” cried Ambrose. “It sounds unlike him.”

Robert laughed. He was thinking of April in the Tower of London and the passion expressed in words which were spoken between the bars of a cell. “One day,” he said, “you will see what Robert will do.”

“You are making plans down there in Norfolk? Have a care, brother.”

“My plans are safe. I share them with none. That is the way to make plans.”

Two men passed them. They looked over their shoulders and said: “Good day to you, my lords.”

The brothers were on their feet. “We know you not,” said Robert.

“But all know the lords of Dudley.”

“Would you have speech with us?” asked Robert.

“We served your noble father, my lord,” said one of the men. “We forget not those days. May good fortune return to your family. My lords, the people like not the Spanish marriage.”

“That is the Queen’s affair,” said Ambrose.

“My lord, you think so? Others think a Queen’s marriage is the affair of her countrymen. Those who think thus meet in St. Paul’s churchyard. They welcome among them those whose nostrils are offended by the smell of Smithfield smoke.”

The men bowed and walked on, and the three brothers looked at each other.

Henry said: “Let us not meddle. Have we not learned our lesson?”

But Robert was not attending. He was thinking of the monotony of life in Norfolk. Here was the place for him—if not at Court, then among the agitators of St. Paul’s.

The excitement of the meetings stimulated Robert. There were plots to be made in the precincts of St. Paul’s, plots to depose the Queen and put the Princess Elizabeth on the throne. Once she was there, the dull life would be ended. He would present himself to her and remind her that he had sworn to be her slave. It might not be long before she was his slave. What woman who had loved him had ever been able to escape from him? That masculine charm was irresistible to duchess and dairymaid; so should it be to Princess and Queen.

Amy was fretful for him. Why did he stay so long in London? If he did not return she would die of melancholy. She would travel to London to see what detained him; she was longing for her Robert.

He tried to soothe her with loving messages and with brief visits to Siderstern. He explained some of his plans. “You see, Amy, at Siderstern I am more or less dependent on your father. I like that not. I would wish to recover my inheritance.”

“You will be in trouble again,” she said. “You will be sent to the Tower and I shall die.”

Then he would be his gay self, enchanting her as he knew so well how to; he would play the passionate lover. “How could I tear myself away from you unless it were necessary! But this is important. We shall be rich again. We shall have power. I shall take you to Court with me, and your beauty will startle them all.”

She believed him; and she longed to go to Court as Robert’s wife.

When he left her he would leave her with happy dreams. She would see herself dancing at the Court balls, clad in velvet, stiff with jewels. She would lie on her couch eating the sweetmeats which she loved so well, lazily planning the future.

Pinto would shake her head, and while she warned her mistress that she would grow very fat if she ate so many sweetmeats, she would be thinking that Robert was visiting a woman in London. Poor Pinto! She did not understand Robert. He was very ambitious, but he was content with his wife. Amy remembered the passion between them. But he had another love, it was true; the love of power, the longing to see his riches restored; and was that not natural in one so proud?

But Pinto went on sorrowfully wondering. If Amy could not hold him when he was a simple country gentleman, how would she when he became the great man he intended to become?

He came riding home from London one summer’s day. Amy saw him from her window, coming into the courtyard with his servants about him. Her heart fluttered. She was wearing an old muslin and she called frantically to Pinto.

“Pinto, my lord is come. Quick…quick…”

Pinto helped her to pull off the old muslin, but before she was in her cherry velvet he was in the room. He stood looking from her to Pinto.

“Robert!” cried Amy.

Pinto scarcely turned, because Pinto always pretended to be unaware of him. She would say: He may be the gay Lord Robert to others; they may tremble at the sight of him; but not Pinto. To Pinto he is just a man—no different from any other.

Amy’s cheeks were first red then white; she was almost swooning at the sight of him. “Pinto…Pinto…look!”

And he cried, his words mingling with his merry laughter: “Pinto, look! Lord Robert is here!”

“A merry good day to you, my lord,” said Pinto, turning her head very slightly and making do with a nod instead of a curtsy.

He strode toward them; he caught them both in his arms. He lifted them and kissed first Amy, then Pinto. Amy was blushing with pleasure; Pinto was prim with disapproval.

“Now, Pinto,” he said, “get you gone, and leave a wife to her lawful husband.”

“I’ll first see my mistress dressed,” said Pinto.

“You’ll not!” he retorted. “For I like her best as she is.” And he took the cherry velvet and threw it to the other side of the room.

Amy squealed in delight, and Pinto went sedately to the dress and, without looking round, picked it up and walked out of the room.

Robert, laughing, began to kiss and caress Amy.

“Robert!” she gasped. “No warning! You should have let me know.”

“What! And give you time to send your secret lover packing?”

Amy clung to him. Pinto often said that his constant references to Amy’s secret lovers worried her. It was as though, said Pinto, he would put bad thoughts into the head of an innocent girl. But Pinto was against him. Poor Pinto! Poor simple countrywoman, she had never really known a Court gallant; and such a man as Robert must seem to her full of a sinister strangeness.

But why think of Pinto when Robert was here, glad to be home and full of passionate longing for his wife?

But his high spirits did not endure.

He and his brothers had been warned, he told her, that if they did not keep away from London, they would find themselves under arrest. The Queen’s agents had most seriously warned them that they must not forget that although they had been pardoned and had eluded the death penalty they still stood attainted of high treason. One false step, and they would again find themselves the prisoners of the Queen; and if they were once more in trouble, it was hardly likely that they could hope for their former good fortune to be repeated.

Robert was thinking—as he often did—of the Princess who had so much to win, so much to lose, and who had survived most miraculously by waiting. He and she were young, and the Queen had played out her ridiculous farce of false pregnancy; it was clear that there would be no royal offspring.

He longed to see Elizabeth. He made plans for breaking into her house either at Woodstock or Hatfield and presenting himself to her as her constant knight, her desperate lover who was ready to risk his life for a glimpse of her. But he quickly realized the folly of doing any such thing. He must wait, and waiting meant that he must endure the simple life and a return to the woman who was fast losing any power she had once had to attract him.

He was exasperated often and there were quarrels which reached their climax in her peevish reproaches. But always he could sweeten her when he wished to do the sweetening. Often he wished that she were not so madly in love with him. Even when he was harsh with her, when he took her clinging hands from about his neck and put her from him, even when he cried out that he had been a fool to marry her, still she came back whimpering for more love or more rough treatment. There was about him—whatever his mood—that ever-present fascination which could not fade. His power was in his person—the tall slim figure, the powerful shoulders, the haughty set of his well-shaped head, the strong features, the flashing eyes, the air of extreme masculinity, the curling mustaches and pointed beard, the blue-black hair, the arrogant, careless charm; and above all perhaps the certain assurance that there was only one thing on Earth which Robert Dudley could not do, and that was make women cease to love him.

Amy had to accept his carelessness, his philandering; all she asked was that he should stay with her and give her some of his attention.

But he was, of course, impatient to leave her; he was longing for adventure and excitement, and when, after two and a half years of this unsatisfactory existence, Philip of Spain persuaded Mary to join in war against France, Robert seized the opportunity as heaven-sent.

When St. Quentin fell to the English and Spanish soldiers under Philip, Henry Dudley met his death. Robert was complimented on his bravery which was so marked that Philip himself sent for him to thank him and tell him that he had played no small part in the victory.

In the King’s quarters on the French battlefield the two men faced each other—the trim little Spaniard with the fair hair and the blue eyes, and the powerfully built black-haired Englishman.

Robert could not resist the thought which occurred to him: If strangers had come into the tent and were asked which was the King and which the commoner, it was not difficult to guess what their answer would be. Kings should tower above their subjects as great Henry had over his.

But the mild young man, who was heir to more than half the world, had a kindly smile for the handsome beggar.

“Your Majesty,” said Robert kneeling, “you sent for me.”

“Rise, my lord,” said Philip. “I know of your circumstances. Now that the battle is won you have my leave to return to England if you wish to go.”

“Retire, Sire! With the French in flight and Paris open to your Majesty’s armies!”

Philip shook his head. “I have seen sights this day which have sickened me of war. We shall stay here. It would be unsafe to go on to Paris.”

Robert said nothing. A wise man did not argue with Kings. Not to seize the opportunity of marching on Paris would surely be the biggest mistake that had ever been made; but it was not for a penniless lord to tell a commander that.

Philip said: “You have displeased the Queen.”

“Your Majesty, I am the son of my father. I obeyed my father, as it seemed to me a son should.”

Philip nodded. “You were right in that.”

“And now, your Majesty, it is my earnest wish to serve the Queen.”

“I believe you,” said Philip. “And because you have proved this by your conduct on the battlefield, I will give you a letter which you may take to the Queen from me. In it I am telling her of your conduct.”

Robert fell onto his knees and kissed Philip’s hand.

“I have asked her to be kind to you,” said Philip. “You may prepare at once to leave for England.”

Robert remained kneeling while he expressed his gratitude and his desire to serve with his life the titular King of England.

Philip smiled wanly and dismissed him; and Robert lost no time in setting out; and while he urged his horse onward, while he waited for the boat which would carry him to England, he was filled with joy because the first step was taken.

There was much excitement at the Manor of Hatfield. The Queen was very sick and it was many months since her husband had visited her.

Elizabeth now had some of her old servants with her besides Kat Ashley and Parry; she was still guarded although she was allowed to hunt the buck in Enfield Forest. Spies surrounded her; and she knew that all her actions were reported to the Queen’s ministers.

Gardiner was dead, and that was the greatest relief she had had for a long time. Her hopes had never been so high. Already ladies and gentlemen were coming to her and asking for a place in her household, for they knew now that the Queen would never bear the child she longed for. But after Philip’s second visit she had declared herself to be again pregnant.

Then Elizabeth shut herself up with Kat and demanded that the cards be read. Kat declared that the cards told her there was no child in the Queen’s body; there was nothing but the delusions in her head. Elizabeth had commanded that certain astrologers be brought to her; they came in the guise of servants, and much trouble that had caused, the gentlemen eventually being taken and tortured in the Tower, and the Princess herself put into great danger which might have cost her her head but for the calm answers she gave.

The weeks would have been tedious without Kat’s gossip. Elizabeth liked to talk of the Queen’s husband and how his eyes gleamed when they rested on her, and how she was sure that he had wished she were the Queen.

“Mayhap one day,” said the frivolous Kat, “we shall have the King of Spain asking for your hand in marriage.”

“What! Marry my sister’s widower! Never. Remember the trouble my father had through marrying his brother’s widow.”

“Well, the King of Spain is not so handsome as some gentlemen. There is one in particular…. I was thinking of that dark young gentleman who haunts our cards, my lady.”

Then Elizabeth would talk of the days she had spent in the Tower, embellishing her adventures as Kat loved to garnish her stories. It was like putting the flavor into a tansy pudding, Kat always said when caught in an exaggeration; and what would tansy pudding be without its flavor?

Marriages were proposed for the Princess. Philibert’s name came up again. Philip wished her to marry that man. Then there was Prince Eric of Sweden, whose father was eager for the match with his son.

Elizabeth resisted: “Never, never, never! To leave England? Never would I be guilty of such folly.”

“And why should King Philip, being so enamored of your fair person, so passionately wish for your marriage with Philibert?” demanded Kat slyly.

“Stupid Kat! Do you not understand his cunning? Philibert is his vassal. Philip does not know how sick Mary is. He cannot wait for me. He wants me near him—as I should be if I went to Savoy.”

“He seemed such a cold, passionless man.”

“You did not see him when he was with me.”

She always had an answer ready; and if she was often frivolous and coquettish, when danger approached she was as alert as a jungle animal.

But now the dangers were less acute. Even the Queen could no longer believe in her second false pregnancy. Philip, it was said, would never come back to her; and her days were numbered. Never had hopes at Hatfield been as high as they were that summer and autumn.

One day a young man came to Hatfield and asked for an audience of the Princess; and when her attendants asked his name he answered: “Lord Robert Dudley.”

When Elizabeth heard that he had come, her eyes sparkled and she demanded that a mirror at once be brought to her.

“Bid him wait awhile,” she told her women. “Tell him I have some business to attend to before I grant him an interview.”

And the business was to be alone with Kat, for only Kat must see the excitement which possessed her.

“Kat…my emeralds! How do I look?”

“Never more beautiful, Your Grace.”

“I cannot receive him in this gown.”

“Why not?” said Kat artfully. “He is only a lord recently free from the taint of treason.”

“Not treason to me, Kat. And I speak of dresses. Let us have the one with the green thread work. Hurry. He is a most impatient man.”

“As impatient to see you as you are to see him, my lady.”

“I am not so impatient that I cannot pause to change my dress.”

“Now have a care, my lady. Have a care. You are not yet Queen of England, and the man’s an adventurer.”

“I am an adventuress, Kat, and adventurers are the men for me. My coif.”

“You are beautiful, dearest, but ’tis not the emeralds nor the gown nor the coif that make you so. ’Tis the joy bubbling within you. Have a care. Remember Thomas Seymour.”

“I’m older now, Kat. I’m almost a Queen now. And he is not Thomas. Tell them to send him to me.”

He came and knelt before her, keeping her hand in his while he raised his ardent eyes to her face.

She is not Queen yet, thought Kat; but you believe she will be, my lord. Oh, my love, take care. He is too handsome, this man. There is too much fascination there. Even I go weak to contemplate it.

“It is good of you to come to see me, my Lord Robert,” said Elizabeth with cool dignity.

“Good!” His voice had a ringing tone, and all the confidence in the world. “The goodness comes from Your Grace because you have permitted me to wait upon you.”

She laughed. “Many people wait upon me now, Lord Robert. A short while ago they did not come to Hatfield.”

“Might it not be that they stayed away for fear of putting a fair and gracious lady into danger?”

“Or themselves?” she suggested. “But I hear you have recently returned from France, in which land you did splendid service to our country; so we could not accuse you of cowardice, eh?”

“Yet it was fear that kept me from Hatfield ere this—fear of what an impulsive action might mean to one whose safety is of greater account to me than my own. Could I have speech with Your Grace alone?”

“My lord, indeed not! Could I, a young and unmarried woman, be left alone with a man of…forgive me, my lord, but these tales reach us…a man of your reputation with my sex? Kat Ashley will stay. She is my very good servant and friend.”

Robert appeared uneasy. Kat Ashley was not noted for her discretion. But the Queen was on the point of death and Elizabeth was all but on the throne; he need not be too concerned about the gossiping Ashley. Moreover he knew that his lot was cast with the Princess. Her failure would be his; as would her triumph. There comes a time in the life of an ambitious man when he must openly show which side he is on. But if only he could be alone with her, what weapons would be his! How far might he not go at one meeting! Did she know this? Was she, the young woman who had faced Gardiner and his like with calm courage, afraid of Robert Dudley’s potent charm?

He said almost sullenly: “It seems my fate never to be near Your Grace.”

She liked such sullenness. It was manna to her. He was comparing Kat with the prison bars. Elizabeth felt dizzy with pleasure. Yes, she must keep herself aloof until she grew accustomed to such intoxication.

“You forget my position, my Lord Robert,” she said, taking refuge from her feelings behind her royalty. “Now tell me why you have come to see me.”

He lifted hurt and angry eyes to her face. “Your Grace must have known that I would present myself at the earliest possible moment.”

“Is this the earliest possible moment? How should I know that?”

“I had believed there was a deep and lasting friendship between myself and Your Grace.”

“Ah yes. We have both suffered, have we not? Come, cheer up, my lord. I know you for my friend.”

“I have brought proof of that friendship.”

He laid two bags at her feet.

“What are these, my lord?”

“Gold. You say I may speak freely. Well, I will do so. Many, you say, come to pay you homage. Since the Queen has grown so sick, the roads to Hatfield are becoming congested. Dear lady, if the Queen should recover, the roads back to London will become even more congested, and if aught should go wrong Hatfield might again become a lonely prison.”

“Aught go wrong?”

“It is a dangerous world in which we live.”

“You know of plots against me?”

“I know of no plots. Do you think that any would confide them to me…the most staunch supporter Your Majesty…Your Grace ever had!”

“My lord!”

“Aye,” he cried, “I have made that clear, have I not?”

He had risen and taken a step toward her. The impetuous man! she thought with tender emotion.

But her eyes flashed. Do not forget, they said, that I am about to be your Queen. But a caressing smile accompanied the warning.

“I trust you, Lord Robert,” she said. “What are these bags you bring me?”

“They are full of gold. I bring them as a token. More awaits you…if you should need it. I have sold lands and will sell more. The end of a reign is not always followed by peaceful succession. I wish Your Grace to know that if you should need me…in any capacity…I am yours to command. My recently restored fortune I place at your feet. These bags are but a symbol. These arms are yours, this heart, this body, this man.”

She was deeply affected. She held out her hand for him to kiss, but he did not take it. He muttered: “Your Grace, I cannot. You are so beautiful…I could not trust myself…”

These words pleased her as much as the bags of gold. She was not only a Princess about to become a Queen, he was telling her; she was the most desirable woman, who could make him forget all else because he loved her so madly.

“Go now,” she said softly. “We shall meet again.”

He knelt before her; he did not touch her; and as he rose he said: “When Your Grace is Queen of England I shall be the first to come to pay you homage and to offer myself in your service. I swear it.”

When he had gone, Kat picked up the bags.

“He has bewitched you,” she said.

“I know, Kat. And might it not be that I have bewitched him?”

“Bewitching is second nature to him.”

“Mayhap it is to me.”

“It is easier to be sick of love for a Queen than for a gentleman of fortune. Do not forget, when your hour comes, that you have other friends. Remember William Cecil who has served you well all these years at your sister’s Court, writing to you, advising you.”

“Why should I forget William Cecil? Have I not said that he is my very good friend?”

“Nay, you have not! But he does not possess a pair of flashing black eyes that look at you as though they would devour you. He does not tell you that your beauty goes to his head, that he dares not touch your hand for fear of seducing you here and now in front of your good servant, Kat Ashley.”

“Shame on you, Kat! Did Lord Robert say any such thing?”

“He did, my lady.”

“Then I did not hear it.”

“But you saw…and I saw…as he meant it to be seen. He is an adventurer.”

“Well, what should I want—a sit-by-the-fire? A dwarf? A pockmarked ninny?”

“So you want this man?”

“You are dismissed, Kat Ashley. I’ll have no more of your insolence.”

“You have my love, and love such as mine is indifferent to the anger it may cause. It seeks to serve even if the serving sometimes gives displeasure.”

Then Elizabeth turned and embraced Kat. “I know it, Kat. I know it. But don’t provoke me.” She smiled. “So he looked at me as though he would devour me? I confess ’twas so. But as long as he but looks, what matters it? Have no fear, Kat; I shall not allow myself to be devoured. Let us take a look at the cards. Let us see what they have to tell us of our tall dark man now.”

“Beware of him! That is what they will say.”

“I? Beware? Let him beware of me!”

“No, my lady, it is you who are a-tremble. Have a care. He is no ordinary man.”

“There you speak truth,” said Elizabeth beginning to laugh in anticipation of a passionate friendship. “He is indeed no ordinary man.”

November came. The house at Hatfield was the scene of much activity. The Princess had become more haughty; she was regal yet gay, arrogant and more quick-tempered than ever.

The Count of Feria called upon her, and this caused fresh excitement, for all were aware what this meant.

Feria, on behalf of his master, Philip of Spain, had come to ingratiate himself with Elizabeth.

The Count bowed low—lower, Elizabeth was quick to notice, than he had on their last meeting. Such behavior made her want to laugh aloud. She thought: So your master will give his support to me whom he suspects of heresy, rather than allow his old enemy the King of France to put Mary of Scotland on the English throne.

It was good to know that she was to receive the support of mighty Philip, and to know that whatever she did would not alter that. She could be cold to Feria, if she wished; or she could be warm, and neither attitude would alter his master’s decision. She was the lesser of two evils as far as Spain was concerned, and so she would continue to be.

“I am honored, my lord Count,” she told him, “that you should lighten my humble house with your presence.”

“It is I who am honored,” said the solemn Spaniard.

Elizabeth looked at him appraisingly and wondered what had made Jane Dormer fall in love with him. He was handsome in his way—but a Spaniard! Give her a good hearty Englishman. Always her thoughts returned to Robert Dudley.

She bade Feria sup with her.

“It gives me great pleasure to know that you come to assure me of your master’s friendship,” she told him as they sat at table.

“It has always been my master’s endeavor to show friendship to Your Grace,” he answered. “You know that the Queen is very sick indeed?”

“I have heard it.”

“Your Grace, this is a momentous time for you,” went on Feria. “You will be named as the Queen’s successor. That is the wish of my master. You know of his influence with the Queen, and it is due to him that this will come to pass.”

The light sandy brows shot up; the tilt of the head was haughty in the extreme. “Your master is my very good friend, I doubt not,” she said, “but I cannot see that he—or any—can give me that which is mine by right of inheritance. None has any power of bestowing on me that which is my right; nor can I, with justice, be deprived of it.”

“It is the custom in England that a monarch shall name his or her successor, is it not?”

“It is the custom in England, my lord, that the succession goes to the next of kin.”

“There were some difficulties with regard to the marriage of Your Grace’s father and mother.”

“I am my father’s daughter,” she said. “Any, who knew him and knows me, doubts it not.”

“You speak truth and it is the Queen’s delight—at the suggestion of His Majesty, my master—to make you her successor. I would have you know that His Most Catholic Majesty is your friend.”

She put her head on one side. Feria could scarcely believe that this haughty young woman was the demure eager-to-please Princess of a few years ago. She knew her position was secure; she knew that the Queen was on her death-bed; she knew that it was but a matter of weeks—or possibly days—before she would be Queen of England. She behaved as though that honor were already hers, thought the exasperated Spaniard.

“There will be conditions,” he said. “You will be expected to discharge Her Majesty’s debts.”

“I should deem it my duty to do so.”

“She wishes that you shall not change her privy councillors.”

Elizabeth lifted her shoulders gracefully. “I should believe myself to be at liberty to choose my councillors, as she was to choose hers.”

The Count was silent for a few moments. She was being truculent and he saw trouble ahead. He continued, “And, what is most important of all, she would require you to make no alteration in the religion of the country.”

She bowed her head and spoke with reverent dignity. “I would not change it, providing only that it could be proved by the word of God, which shall be the only foundation of my religion.”

Feria was too exasperated to hide his feelings. What troubles lay ahead for his master, for Spain, with such a woman on the throne? What could he make of her? She was all coquetry when he admired her dress and jewels, so that it would seem he had a foolish simpering girl with whom to deal; then unexpectedly he found himself confronted by a cunning statesman.

He was anxious for the future and he fervently hoped that he would be recalled to Spain before he had to serve in a country governed by such a woman.

Jane Dormer, the betrothed of Feria, called at Hatfield. Her visit gave rise to much speculation, for next to Mistress Clarencius she was the favorite lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

Elizabeth received Jane with reserve. She looked at her speculatively—this lovely young girl, this fanatical Catholic who was about to become a Spaniard…and a spy, doubtless for that lover of hers.

Elizabeth trusted Jane Dormer slightly less than she trusted all those of the Queen’s Court who had not proved themselves to be her friends.

Jane knelt and told the Princess that as the Queen’s health was fast failing she had, on Mary’s request, brought the crown jewels to Elizabeth.

“Your Grace, I bring three requests from Her Majesty. They are that you shall be good to her servants, repay her debts, and leave the church as it is—re-established by Her Majesty.”

“Thank you, Mistress Dormer,” said Elizabeth. “You may rise. Her Majesty may rest assured that I shall be good to her servants and pay her debts. As to religion, as I have already said, that is a matter concerning which I rely on no other than God.”

Jane said: “I bring also a casket of jewels from the King.”

Elizabeth was pleasantly excited. She was fond of jewels, and jewels presented by Philip—who she felt was already beginning to woo her—were doubly attractive.

“He says they are to be presented to you as he knows you will admire them and they will become you.”

“So those were his words?” said Elizabeth.

Jane assured her that they were; and Elizabeth, well pleased, treated Jane to a show of affection.

When she had dismissed her, the Princess became thoughtful. It was clear that Mary must be very near to death. She remembered Robert’s warning and the gold he had brought. Had she been too firm over this matter of religion? Had she been too haughty with Feria? What if Spain should withdraw support after all? What if the French King should have set in motion some plot for putting Mary Queen of Scots on the throne?

She sent for a man whom she knew to be one of her ardent admirers, and whom she could trust. Nicholas Throgmorton had been concerned in the Wyatt rebellion but acquitted on account of insufficient evidence against him.

“Go with all speed to the palace,” she said. “Enter with as little fuss as possible and make a point of conversing with the ladies of the bedchamber. Most of them are willing to serve me—with the exception of Jane Dormer and old Clarencius. The Queen always wears a black enameled ring which was given to her by her husband at the time of their marriage. It is unmistakably a Spanish ring. Send that ring to me so that I may be sure the Queen no longer lives. I remember when my brother died, guards were placed about the palace and the news was not allowed to leak out. I must know immediately. Send me the ring with all speed.”

Sir Nicholas departed; but before he had time to reach London there was another visitor to Hatfield. He came hurrying into the house, demanding audience with the Princess, and when it was granted he fell on his knees before her and cried: “God save Your Majesty! God save Queen Elizabeth!”

He stood up, towering above her, and she was filled with delight in him.

“You know this to be true?”

“I was determined to be the first with the news. I swore it.”

Overcome with emotion she turned aside. She was Queen of England at last; and the man who had occupied her thoughts for so long and so pleasantly stood before her offering himself in her service.

Then she sank to her knees and cried: “This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in our eyes.”

For a short while she gave herself up to solemn contemplation of her destiny. Then she rose and turning to him said: “Now I am indeed your Queen.”

He bowed his head and murmured: “Your Majesty…your most beautiful and beloved Majesty!”

“My friend,” she said, extending her hand to him, “my very good friend, you shall not regret the day you rode to the Queen with such news.”

She drew back as he stepped toward her. He said: “I hear others coming. The news is out.”

In a few seconds this intimacy would be over. She allowed herself to give him a caressing smile.

“Lord Robert Dudley,” she said, “from this moment you are Master of the Queen’s Horse.”

“My humble thanks, Your Majesty.”

She noted the heightened color in his cheeks. The post in itself would bring him fifteen hundred pounds a year. She thought: Never did a Queen have a more handsome Master of Her Horse than Robert Dudley.

“You are well suited for the post,” she said; “and it means that you will be in constant attendance upon me.”

He said passionately: “Your Master of Horse shall be all that Your Majesty requires of him.”

The intimacy was broken. Others were coming to proclaim Elizabeth the Queen.

FIVE

The Queen began her triumphant journey to London, and as she rode through the countryside she was smiling at the cheering people who lined her way.

“God bless the Queen!” they cried. “Long may Elizabeth reign over us!”

She was young and fair; she had always shown a fondness for the people, and they loved her. Now, they promised themselves, there would be an end to the terrible fires which had been burning, not only in Smithfield Square but in many other parts of the country. This was the end of persecution. Bloody Mary was dead and England would be merry again.

At Highgate the Bishops were waiting to receive her. She was gracious to them, although making an exception of Bonner, who had been persecutor-in-chief since the death of Gardiner. Would that old enemy were here! she brooded. It would have been pleasant to have had Master Gardiner trembling before her. The people noticed her cold manner to Bonner and they cheered afresh.

She rode on for her traditional entry to the Tower, and there was great rejoicing as she passed through the City’s gates.

Now she sat in a splendid chariot which was drawn along Barbican to Cripplegate that she might be received by the Lord Mayor and the City dignitaries. When she had received their homage she remounted her horse, and magnificent she looked in her purple velvet. There was no need now to wear somber clothes; she had no rival now. She was the Queen.

She was continually aware of her Master of Horse who rode beside her. What attention he aroused! Some of the women looked at him instead of their Queen. He glittered with jewels—a dazzling figure.

“That is Lord Robert Dudley,” people whispered, “who came so near to losing his head in the last reign. Did you ever see such a man!”

“They say he compares with His Majesty King Henry the Eighth in the days of his glowing youth.”

Let him win their approval, meditated the Queen. Let them all see him as she saw him. She was not sure what role she had in store for him; and she wanted the people to retain a picture of him—magnificent, towering above all others.

Music filled the air; gay tapestry banners hung from the windows. As she reached the Church of Blanch Chapleton on the corner of Mart Lane she heard the Tower guns begin to boom. Through Tower Street she went, and she paused to listen to the children of St. Paul’s singing her praises, remembering—it seemed long ago now—how they had sung her sister’s.

She prayed: “Oh God, help me in this task. Help me to play my part nobly and honorably.”

She was filled with emotion. Her greatest desire had been granted; she must prepare herself to fulfill her duty and be worthy of the role. She was even glad of her misfortunes for she had come safely through them, and they had taught her more than easy living would have done.

All these people who cheered her now should be her first consideration. She would not be foolish as her sister Mary had been. Mary too had ridden into London to the cheers of her people; but these same people now called her Bloody Mary; they reviled her for making a Spanish marriage and bringing foreigners among them; they blamed her for the loss of Calais; they rejoiced that she was dead.

It should not be so with Elizabeth. They should love her, these common people, all the days of her life. They were her strength; she would sacrifice anything rather than their devotion. She must never forget that they were the pillars which supported the throne.

At this sacred time she was oblivious of the picture she made in her purple velvet; she had forgotten her Master of Horse; she was only a Queen, determined to rule wisely, determined to make her country great.

It was a solemn moment when she entered the Tower.

All the officials were waiting to make obeisance to her. She dismounted. All about her were the nobility of England; and instead of the pride she had expected to feel at such a time, she was conscious only of a deep humility.

The words she spoke were spontaneous. “Some,” she said, “have fallen from Princes in this land, to be prisoners in this place; I am raised from being a prisoner in this place to be a Prince of this land. That dejection was a work of God’s justice; this advancement is a work of His mercy. As they were to yield patience for the one, so I must bear myself to God thankful, and to men merciful for the other.”

She turned then to the Lieutenant of the Tower.

“Conduct me now to those apartments which I occupied when I was a prisoner here.”

This was done, and she went into them wonderingly; and in great emotion she fell once more upon her knees and thanked God for her deliverance. “For,” she said, “like Daniel I have come safely out of the lions’ den, and I shall never forget His Mercy.”

There was no sign of the frivolous girl on that memorable day when Elizabeth came to the Tower of London as Queen.

Mary was buried with great pomp, and the Queen attended the burial. Dr. White, the Bishop of Winchester, preached the funeral sermon, and that day he proved himself to be a bold man.

He spoke of the late Queen, sighing over her many virtues, and he spoke with vehement regret. She had been a wise woman, a great Queen; she had renounced Church Supremacy; she had declared that St. Paul forbade women to speak in Church and that it was not therefore fitting for the Church to have a dumb head.

How dared he speak thus! brooded the young Queen, as she sat quietly before him. How dared he, the old graybeard! He doubtless saw only a young woman sitting before him; he would have to learn something of the spirit within that youthful body.

Fortunately the sermon was in Latin and there were few who understood as Elizabeth did.

He wept when he talked of Mary, declaring that their greatly lamented Queen had left a sister who was a worthy lady whom they were all obliged to obey. This they must do perforce. Melior est canis vivus leone mortuo.

The blue eyes were burning points of fire. She a live dog and Mary a dead lion! He should learn something of the lion heart beneath these glittering queenly jewels. The insolent man clearly did not understand the nature of his Queen. A live dog indeed!

As Dr. White left the pulpit, the Queen rose. She cried to her guards: “Arrest that man.”

The Bishop lifted a hand to hold off the guards who had immediately sprung forward to carry out the Queen’s orders.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “it is in my power to excommunicate you unless you insist that your subjects adhere to Rome.”

Her father would have sent him to his death. But she was not yet as strong as her father, although in one way she was stronger. The years of danger had taught her to curb her anger when it was necessary to do so. She could see in the Bishop’s eyes what she believed to be a fervent desire for martyrdom. She would not let him indulge it. The people had hated persecutions. She had stopped them, and men such as this Bishop should not goad her into restarting them.

Calmly she watched her orders being carried out. Let him cool his fanaticism in prison. Time would show her how to act, for Time was as important to a Queen as it had been to a captive Princess.

The Queen gathered together her Privy Council. William Cecil was at her right hand, and she gave the Great Seal to Nicholas Bacon; and of the late Queen’s Council, Lord William Howard, with Arundel and Sackville, were allowed to remain in office.

So far none had noticed the tender looks which she bestowed on her Master of Horse. His office meant that he must necessarily be in constant attendance; and the fact that he had been chosen for the post aroused no comment. His knowledge of equestrian matters was undoubtedly great; and all agreed that no one looked quite so magnificent on a horse as the handsome Dudley.

But during those first weeks of queenship, Elizabeth’s thoughts were more of state matters than of love. Each morning she awakened to a sense of power and excitement, but never did she forget those lessons she had learned during the days of adversity.

Her first task was to break away from the Pope, and this she must do without offending her Catholic subjects, for they were many. Therefore there should be no overt break. The change should be gradual, so that she might feel the temper of the people as she made it.

The Mass was still celebrated in all churches, and Elizabeth attended regularly; but on Christmas Day she left the church after the service and just as the Bishop was preparing to conduct High Mass.

She had taken a firm step in the direction which she intended to follow, but not another step should be taken until she knew the effect her conduct would have on the people.

There was no doubt about the verdict on her conduct. Too many remembered the Smithfield fire. England was not made for fanaticism; the English loved Justice too much to have any regard for its natural enemy, Persecution. Only a few deplored her action and those—considering the case of Dr. White, who might so easily have become a martyr for his public abuse of her—did not believe that she would persecute them as her sister had persecuted the Protestants.

Elizabeth knew then that it was safe to take the next step, and on another great occasion—that of New Year’s day—she proclaimed that the church services were to be held in English.

Thoughts of her Coronation occupied her mind. She looked forward to it with great eagerness; it had figured largely in her dreams; and now she wished to discuss it with one whose triumph was her triumph and who should have his prominent part to play in its ceremonies.

What a joy it was to be in his company during those days of preparation! It seemed the more exciting to her because they were never alone together. Always surrounding her were her Councillors of state or the ladies of her bedchamber. Poor Robert! She knew he was at times incensed, for how could he say what he wished in the presence of these people! He must keep his distance, address her as his Queen; he must play the subject, never the lover. Her royalty was between them now as once his prison walls had been. Yet each day she knew that she was more deeply in love with him, for if she did not see him she was fretful and disappointed. She could not continually demand to know where he was. She was trying to exercise her usual caution. She would not wish to tell the Court that she was in love with her Master of Horse.

I verily believe, she thought, that I would marry him. But he has a wife. Does he forget that, the sinful man!

She should be grateful to that woman. What was her name? Anne? Amy? She pretended not to remember. Stupid little country wench! What had she had to attract him in the first place?

There was nothing she liked so much as to escape from her councillors and sit among her courtiers—if Robert were with them—and talk of pleasure: masques, balls, and all the ceremonies which must attend her coronation.

“I doubt not,” she said one day, “that the Lord Mayor and his fellows will give me as good a Coronation as they gave my sister. Would I knew which would be the most propitious day. What do you think, my Lord Dudley?”

“The day would be unimportant, Your Majesty.”

“How so?”

“The very fact of its being your Majesty’s Coronation day would make it the greatest any of us had ever lived through.”

“What means the man? Do you know, Mistress Ashley?”

“I think he means that the greatest boon this country has ever received was your Majesty’s accession to the throne,” said Kat.

“Mistress Ashley has explained my meaning, Madam,” said Robert.

She looked from him to the lady who was sitting beside him—a dark, and sparkling-eyed beauty. The sight did not please the Queen.

“I pray you, do not shout at me from such a distance, Master Dudley. Come here and sit beside me.”

Willingly he came, his eyes adoring, pleading: Why cannot I see you alone? Why must there always be these people between us?

She wanted to answer: Because I am the Queen and you were foolish enough to marry a country girl. If you had been a wiser man, who knows what I might not have done for you!

Was he too familiar? Now he looked a little sullen. Was he a little too certain of her favor? She could not reprove him before her ladies and gentlemen. If she did, he might absent himself from her presence, and that would be as much punishment for her as for him.

She fancied those about her were smiling slyly. Had they noticed her preference? Her reign was too young for her to make any false steps.

Kat said to her later: “Your Majesty, they are beginning to notice. There are whispers.”

“Of what do you speak, woman?”

“Of our dark and handsome gentleman, Madam. It is noticed that your eyes are often upon him, and that you like not to see him laughing with other ladies.”

“I’ll not endure such insolence. Who are these gossips?”

“The whole Court, Your Majesty. And ’tis true, you know. You give away your feelings. You could not show them more plainly if you put your arms about his neck and kissed him before them all.”

Elizabeth so far forgot her queenly dignity as to box Kat’s ears. But Kat knew that her warning had gone home.

Elizabeth was perturbed.

At the next assembly she said: “I wish for the advice of Dr. Dee on my Coronation. You will go to him, my Lord Dudley, and ascertain from him which day would be more suited to that event.”

“When does Your Majesty expect me to leave?”

“At once…at once.”

He looked at her reproachfully. Even if it were only for a short time, he was being sent away from Court. He was hurt and angry. But so was she.

She watched him leave, with such longing in her eyes that Kat felt she merely betrayed herself the more.

When Robert left the Court for his visit to the Queen’s favorite astrologer, Dr. Dee, he was in an exalted frame of mind.

Elizabeth had not hidden her feelings from him. He knew enough of his powers to recognize in her the same longings he had so often encountered in others. Very soon, he was sure, that longing would grow to such magnitude that not all her pride nor all her royalty would be allowed to stand in its way.

He contemplated the future with complacence. No member of his family had risen as he would rise. But there was one obstacle—Amy.

The very thought of her angered him. He compared her with Elizabeth. The Queen attracted him apart from her royalty. Had she not been the daughter of Henry the Eighth she would have been his mistress ere this, he was sure. But she was doubly desirable; not only could she give him erotic satisfaction but that crown which his father had intended for Guildford.

He would be King of the realm, for no woman had yet refused him what he demanded; and Elizabeth had shown quite clearly that she was essentially a woman.

He could not ignore Amy. She was becoming restive; she wanted to come to Court and share in her husband’s good fortune. She wrote asking if he were in love with some lady of the Court who was demanding all his attention. Amy had discovered the truth. Elizabeth certainly demanded constant thought, constant attention.

Dr. Dee welcomed him warmly at his country residence and, on consulting his charts, decided that the 15th of January would be a very good day for the crowning of the Queen.

When he left the astrologer, as he was not far from Siderstern, he felt that it would be a good opportunity of seeing Amy and making some attempt to stifle her desires to share his life at Court. He was afraid that if he did not visit her, she might decide to come to Court to see him. He did not think the Queen would be very pleased to see Amy at Court.

When he reached the house it was early afternoon and all was quiet. He sent his servants to the stables with the horses and went into the house to find Amy.

The hall was deserted; he went quickly up the staircase and along the gallery to the bedroom which he shared with Amy when he lived in the house.

Someone was in the room, bending over a press. It was Pinto.

“So…Pinto!” he said.

She straightened and bobbed a curtsy. She was embarrassed, he saw. “Lord Robert! We were not expecting you.”

“I know it. And your mistress?”

“She is riding with her father, my lord.”

“Is anything wrong, Pinto?” he asked.

“Wrong, my lord! No…no. All will be well for my lady now that you are here.”

Lightly he wondered why Pinto interested him; but he knew almost at once. She was not ill-favored; and she was deeply conscious of him. In her case it was not love but dislike which he engendered. What a strange woman Pinto must be!

She was preparing to hurry from the room, but he felt in a mischievous mood.

“Do not let me disturb you, Pinto. Do not hurry away.”

“I was merely putting away my lady’s things.”

“Then I pray you continue to do so.”

“But I have finished, my lord.”

He came toward her slowly, aware that her agitation was increasing. “What is it, Pinto?” He caught her chin in his hands and looked into her eyes. “I like it not that you should mistrust me. I like it not that you should run away when I appear, and cast those fearful glances at me when you think I do not see.”

“But, my lord…”

He bent his head swiftly and kissed her. He was almost as astonished as she was, and for a moment he sensed a deep pleasure.

She twisted free and ran from the room. He was smiling as he watched her. How foolish he had been to think that she hated him. She was after all a woman.

Poor Pinto! She covered her feelings for him under a veil of mistrust and suspicion. There was no need for her to fear. Her virtue was safe from him.

When Amy came riding home and found him there she was almost hysterical with delight.

“But Robert, why did you not send a message!” she cried, throwing herself at him. “I’ve missed hours of your company, and you will be running away ere long, I doubt not.”

He was charming as he knew so well how to be. “It is wonderful to be home,” he said, “away from the garish Court.”

“You speak as though you do not like it there.”

“How can I when it keeps me from you…and home?”

She could not keep her hands from caressing him. She pouted and said that she had heard rumors.

“Rumors of what?”

“It is said that the Queen greatly favors you.”

“The Queen is just. She remembers those who were her friends in adversity.”

“Yes. But they say you are a special favorite.”

“It is just talk.”

Later he rode with her through the estates; he must see the new lambs and watch the sowing of the oats and beans; he feigned delight in these things and congratulated himself that he had escaped from them forever.

He could not keep the knowledge from her that this was a flying visit.

“No…no, no!” she protested.

He thought her a pampered girl. It was due to her being her father’s heiress and living with grown-up half-brothers and half-sisters—the pet of them all. He must have been mad to marry her.

“Alas, my love, I am on a mission for the Queen. I must go back and prepare myself for the ordeal of the Coronation.”

“Why cannot I go, Robert?”

“It is impossible.”

“But other lords have their wives at Court.”

“Only if they have posts in the Queen’s household.”

“Could I not be a lady-in-waiting?”

“That will come, Amy. But give me time. The Queen has scarce been on the throne a month, and even if she does favor me now as you have heard, I cannot ask too much of her.”

“Would it be asking too much of her to give your wife a place at Court?”

He could smile ironically at that. “I am sure it would, Amy.”

“But, Robert, something will have to be done. I cannot stay here for months and months while you are away from me.”

“I will come to see you, Amy, whenever it is possible. You may depend on that. My duties as Master of the Queen’s Horse keep me occupied. I think I may earn the Queen’s displeasure for absenting myself so long.”

“I am afraid of the Queen, Robert.”

“You are wise to be so. She would be angry if she knew you were detaining me here.”

“And mayhap send you to the Tower! Oh, Robert, shall I ever be able to come to Court?”

He soothed her with gentle words and caresses and plans for the future. Yet how glad he was when he could ride away from Norfolk to London and the Queen!

The day before her Coronation Elizabeth rode through the City that she might receive the loving greetings of her people.

She had gone by water from Westminster Palace to the Tower several days before that Saturday fixed for the ceremonial parade; and she left the Tower on the Saturday in her chariot—a beautiful and regal figure in her crimson velvet. She was not quite twenty-six years of age, yet she looked younger than she had when she had made the journey along the Thames for the Tower on that mournful Palm Sunday four years before.

There were, for her delight, pageants and ceremonies similar to those which had been prepared for her sister Mary, yet how different was the feeling of the crowd! London had welcomed Mary, but Mary was coldly formal. Not so Elizabeth. She was certainly a dazzling sight in velvet and jewels, but she belonged to the people as Mary never could. All during that day she was anxious to show them that she thought of them as they thought of her, that her one wish was to please them as they wished to honor her.

“God save Your Grace!” they cried.

And she replied: “May God save you all!”

Even the poor brought flowers to her. Those about her would have held them back, but Elizabeth would not allow this to be done. She must smile on all; she must speak to them, however humble they were; and the flowers of her poorer subjects were those which she insisted on keeping in her chariot.

She knew that she had the people with her. She, though so young, was wise; and her greatest delight was in the outward signs of her people’s love.

She smiled as she passed the Spread Eagle in Gracechurch Street, for across that street was an arch on which was depicted a pageant concerning the Queen’s ancestors: Her grandparents, Elizabeth of York and Henry the Seventh; her father, Henry the Eighth; and there was a picture of a beautiful and spritely lady to whom no reference had been made for many years: the Queen’s mother, Anne Boleyn. Nothing could have pleased Elizabeth more.

Then there were pageants in Cornhill and the Chepe; and Elizabeth had some apt remarks to make concerning each of them. She would have the citizens know that she was no mere spectator; she was one of them. Her smiles were for all—for the aldermen and the members of the City’s guilds, for the governors and scholars of Christ’s Hospital, one of whom made a speech to which she listened with grave attention.

Most significant of all was her encounter with the two old men who sat at the Little Conduit in Cheapside, one with his scythe and his hourglass, representing Time. Time was her friend; she had always said so. And the other represented Truth; he gave her a Bible in English; and all those about her noticed with what fervency she took this holy book and kissed it.

She listened to the singing of the song which told her of her subjects’ wishes:

“…our hope is sure

That into error’s place thou wilt the truth restore…”

And as she listened she held the Bible against her breast and raised her eyes; and when the people cheered and called blessings on her, she cried: “Be ye assured I will stand your good Queen!”

And so she went to Whitehall; and the next day to the Abbey for the crowning. The dream had come true. Hers was the anointing; in her hands were placed the orb and the scepter; and the voices echoed about her: “Yea, yea, yea. God save Queen Elizabeth!”

There was one duty which, Elizabeth was assured by her councillors, she must not evade. The country would not be completely happy until there was a royal nursery at the palace and the son of Elizabeth was born.

“Marry!” was the urgent advice. “And the sooner the better.”

In spite of a coquettishly expressed love of the virgin state, Elizabeth was by no means unwilling to consider suitors; and as there was no better partie in the world than the Queen of England, there were many to compete for her hand.

In the meantime she was making her future policy clearer.

She had discreetly declared to the Protestant countries her desire to return England to the Reformed Faith; and at the same time, as she had no desire to offend France and Spain, she let it be known that she intended to allow her subjects freedom of thought in religious matters.

The Pope was enraged. He declared that he was unable to understand what right a woman, who had been born out of wedlock, had to the throne; and furthermore, in his opinion, Mary Queen of Scots was the rightful heir. He did not understand how this new doctrine of liberty of conscience could be successful. He feared its consequences.

The Queen, secure in her own country, could snap her fingers at the Pope; she felt that was what most of her subjects wished her to do. She recalled her ambassador from Rome, but he, threatened with excommunication if he obeyed her, stayed where he was. The Queen was indifferent. England was with her; so what did she care for the rest of the world? The Catholic peers had kissed her cheek and sworn to give her their allegiance. She had the common people firmly behind her, for the brief return to Rome under Mary, which had brought with it misery and persecution, seemed to them an evil thing.

She continued magnanimous toward her old enemies; and they, finding they had nothing to fear from her, as she had guessed they would be, were ready to serve her.

She had laughed at their terrors. “We are of the nature of a lion,” she said. “We cannot descend to the destruction of mice.”

The country had emerged from the reign of Mary in a poor condition; but hopes were high under the new young Queen. Now all looked confidently to her to marry; it was believed by all her statesmen that, although she had shown some wisdom, being a woman, she needed a firm masculine hand to help her rule.

That made Elizabeth smile. She intended to show them that a lioness was as fitted as a lion to defend her own. But that would come. In such matters she must never abandon her caution.

Her subtlety soon began to surprise those about her; and none realized this more fully than the Spanish ambassador, the Count of Feria. The hopes of Feria rested on the Catholic peers who, he was certain, had gone over to Elizabeth’s side only for expediency’s sake. He advised his master that these men could easily be won to the service of Spain, providing the bribes which were offered them were attractive enough. Philip saw reason in this, and was prepared to spend a great deal of Spanish money on his Catholic friends in England.

The Count considered the most likely “pensioner” to be Lord William Howard, a Catholic, whom the Queen had made her Chamberlain; and he quickly discovered that Howard was amenable to bribes. But before the first payment was made Howard appeared reluctant to accept the money. Feria was disconsolate; he had hoped for much from the Chamberlain. Then to the Count’s consternation, a few days after Howard had refused to accept the bribe, he came to Feria and told him: “I could not accept your magnificent offer until I knew the Queen’s pleasure.” Feria was astounded; he had naturally discussed the matter of payment to Howard with the utmost delicacy, but it had never occurred to him that the man had not clearly understood for what purposes the money was to be paid. Then came the most astonishing revelation. “I have now the Queen’s consent to accept the money and shall be glad if you will send me the first payment.”

Philip and Feria were exasperated beyond endurance. They had learned yet another lesson regarding the sharp wits of the Queen.

Nor did Elizabeth allow the matter to rest there. She blithely told Feria that she was delighted to hear of his generosity. She added coyly: “I hope his Most Catholic Majesty will not be offended if I employ some of the servants he has here among my courtiers.”

He wrote to his master that he would go no further in this matter of bribes. He had hoped to lure Cecil, Bacon, Robert Dudley, and Parry to work for Spain. Cecil, however, was possessed of a large fortune and would not be interested in money; Bacon was his close friend and a brother-in-law of Cecil’s, for they had each married a daughter of Sir Anthony Cooke—two very learned women and tiresome bluestockings; there was not much hope in that direction. Thomas Parry, who had long been her cofferer and whom she had now knighted, might be amenable. His real name was Vaughan, but because his father’s name was Harry and he came from Wales he had been called, after the fashion there, Thomas ap Harry, which had become Parry. This man was a gossip, but so attached to the Queen was he that Feria would not hasten to approach him with offers of money. As for Lord Robert Dudley—that handsome young man about the Queen’s own age—Elizabeth appeared to dote on him, and indeed her conduct was giving rise to rumors. In the opinion of the Spanish ambassador it was not easy to know who could be trusted to work for Spain.

The Queen suddenly put an end to such trains of thought by declaring that there must be an end to all “pensions” from Spain.

She was now ready to consider her suitors, a project which gave her much pleasure.

The first and most important was her brother-in-law, Philip, the King of Spain himself.

How she enjoyed herself, alternately gay and serious, tormenting the solemn Feria, refusing to see him, then having him sit beside her and making much of him. She did not think, she declared, that such a marriage would be successful; she was reminded again and again of all her father had suffered when he went through a form of marriage with his brother’s widow.

Feria assured her that the Pope would give his dispensation. She pointed out that the Pope had shown himself to be no friend of hers. The Pope, Feria said coldly, could be persuaded by his master; and if the marriage took place Elizabeth would have no need to fear Papal enmity.

That was true, she admitted; but as she was in no fear of the Pope whatsoever, she had little to gain in that direction.

There were other suitors. There were Eric of Sweden and Archduke Charles, son of Emperor Ferdinand. It gave her great pleasure to consider each and discuss them in turn, to blow hot and cold, to raise objections and then pretend to be favorably inclined. There were many conferences and entertainments to honor the ambassadors of her suitors; but none of the courtships progressed.

She told the ambassadors that she could not forget the unpopularity of her sister’s marriage. The English, she believed, would wish to see their Queen married to an English husband.

Such statements set wild hopes soaring in the minds of certain noblemen. There was the Earl of Arundel, who had offered his hand to Elizabeth before she was Queen. Elizabeth pretended to consider him—not only because she was delighted with any man who declared his wish to marry her, but mainly because she wished for the support of all men of influence at this stage of her reign.

Another was Sir William Pickering; he was forty-three, but handsome, and it was said that he had lived merrily. The Queen showed special favor to such as Pickering, and as, it was remembered, from the days of his youth he had been very successful with women, a match between himself and the Queen, although unlikely, was not impossible.

There were many quarrels between Pickering and Arundel; and the Court amused itself by laying bets on their chances.

Cecil regarded all this frivolity without a great deal of tolerance. He was against the matches with Spain, Austria, and Sweden, favoring alliance with the Earl of Arran who had been chosen for Elizabeth in her childhood. Such an alliance, Cecil declared, would unite England and Scotland and much trouble between those two countries might thereby be avoided.

Elizabeth listened to her ministers, went on discussing matrimony, studied the pictures of her suitors—and looked with longing eyes at her Master of Horse.

Cecil would remonstrate with her. He was not a man to mince his words, and often aroused her anger; but she was clever enough to appreciate him, and was always prepared to give him her ready smile after a difference between them; and what was even more important, she invariably took his advice.

She gave as much attention to matters of feminine vanity as to state affairs, yet the latter did not suffer for that.

While she was considering an answer to Philip of Spain, her silk woman, Mistress Montague, brought her a New Year’s present—a pair of knit silk stockings; and these stockings seemed to delight her far more than a brilliant marriage with His Most Catholic Majesty could have done.

She would lift her skirts to show them to her women. Mistress Montague proudly declared that, seeing Her Majesty looked so well in the stockings, she would without delay set about making more.

“Indeed, I like them!” cried the Queen. “There shall be no more cloth stockings for me. I shall wear only silk.”

Thus, when Cecil came to talk of state affairs, was she occupied with her silk woman. And while she amused herself with her suitors, her fine clothes, and her great position, she kept one man beside her. Her delight in him did not diminish; in fact, it grew so great that it became apparent to all.

The Queen, so quick in other matters, was slow to realize this. Cecil, that blunt and fearless man, brought it home to her on the occasion of the misalliance of the Duchess of Suffolk with an equerry in her service.

The Queen laughed aloud when she heard the story. “So she has married her horsekeeper, that proud Madam!”

Cecil answered: “Yes, Madam; it is true that she has married her horsekeeper, but she might retort that Your Majesty wishes you could do the same!”

The Queen stared at her minister.

Now she knew. She had betrayed her passion for Robert.

There was little opportunity for seeing him alone, and while this did not disturb her greatly—for it seemed enough to her that she often had him in her presence and could give him soft looks and receive passionate and daring ones from him—he was by no means satisfied. He would show his dissatisfaction by being coldly deferential, by being attentive to others; he would absent himself from her apartments now and then; and while he continued to perform his duties with care, she could not reprove him for this. She loved him for his independence—she could not tolerate meekness in men—yet in his case it distressed her.

She told Kat when they were alone together that he must be brought to her with as little ceremony as possible.

“You would have me bring him here alone…to your apartment!”

“Why not? Why not?”

“Dearest Majesty, it could not be kept secret.”

“You mean you could not keep it a secret.”

“Nay! I would rather die than divulge it.”

“If it is divulged, I shall blame you, Kat.”

“Sweetest Majesty, have a care. He is a bold man.”

“I know it,” said Elizabeth smiling. “But do not forget that if I am a Queen, I am also a woman who knows how to take care of herself.”

“He’s no ordinary man.”

“Am I an ordinary woman?”

“Nay! That is why I fear. You both tower above all others.”

“Go and bring him to me, Kat.”

“Dearest, is it wise…?”

“Go, I say, and do not meddle, woman.”

So Kat brought him to her and left them together. Kat was right when she had said he was bold. The Queen held out her hand for him to kiss, but he would have none of that. He would have her know that he only tolerated ceremony for the sake of others. He would not kiss her hand but her mouth.

“Robert,” she protested breathlessly, “you forget…”

“I have remembered too long.”

“I did not send for you to do this.”

But her assumed reluctance was unavailing. He was too experienced, altogether too fascinating. He was, in fact, irresistible, and he knew it.

He lifted her in his arms and strode with her to the chair of state—that chair in which she alone should sit. There he sat, still holding her. Have done with queenship, he implied. You are a woman now. There has been too much teasing. It is finished.

She was excited. This was lèse-majesté; yet that was how she would have it, for she loved his boldness. She herself was weak with love. She wondered how she could stand out against him, as she must. This was a battle between them; never must she forget that. He wished to seduce the Queen that he might be the master; she wished to keep him desiring to seduce, that she might remain the mistress. It was a battle she knew well how to fight; she had fought it with Seymour and had come through victorious, and she had been but a girl then. But she knew that this battle would be the fiercest she had ever fought.

She laughed as she lay in his arms. “Have you forgotten, sir, that it is the Queen you hold? Have you no respect for the crown?”

“I have nothing…nothing but my love for Elizabeth. I care not if she be Queen or drab. She is mine, and I’ll wait no longer.”

“How dare you!” she cried; and in her voice was the trill of excitement, since his words pleased her more than any profession of loyalty could have done.

“How dare you torment me so?” was his answer.

“I?”

But there were kisses now—given and returned—and words were impossible.

At length he said: “I wonder I did not do this before them all.”

“Arundel would have run his sword through you. I should not have wished that to happen.”

“Arundel! Pickering! You demean yourself!”

“Yes, I demean myself…because you only are worthy to mate with me. At least that is what you think.”

“And you?”

“How could I think that, when you have a wife, and could have none but dishonorable intentions regarding me?”

“There is one thing I must know,” he said earnestly.

“You must know? You are very bold, Lord Robert.”

“And intend to be bolder.”

She shrieked with assumed dismay.

His lips were on her throat, and he said between kisses: “Would you marry me…if I were free to marry you?”

“Would I marry you?” she gasped. “You…you…the son of a traitor! You…a Dudley! Do you think the Queen could marry with such!”

“Yes, I do. Am I a fool? Am I blind? Elizabeth…nay, I’ll not call you Your Majesty. To me you are Elizabeth, the only woman in the world who will do for me…who maketh all others of no account so that they tire me and make me run from them to dream, alas, but to dream—of her who torments me and denies with words the love that shines from her eyes. You would marry me, would you not…would you not?”

She answered hesitatingly: “I…I do not know.”

“Is it because you do not know, that you will give no answers to these suitors of yours?”

“It might be.”

“Because you are in love with a man who cannot marry you since he has a wife already? I will have the truth. I demand the truth.”

She looked into his brilliant eyes and said: “I shall never forgive you for this. I have never been so treated…”

“You have never been loved as I love you.”

“Am I so unattractive that you think no one has the least regard for me?”

“No one has ever loved you as I love you. You would marry me, would you not, if I were free?”

Looking into his face, marveling at his beauty, she told the truth: “I believe I should be greatly tempted to do so.”

She saw his triumph, and that sobered her a little; but she was still under the spell of his enchantment. She put her arms about his neck and stroked the soft curling hair, as she had longed to do so many times.

He said: “Mayhap one day we shall marry. Oh, happy day! And while we wait…”

She raised her eyebrows daring him to go on. She did not yet know how daring he could be.

“We could be lovers,” he said, “as surely we were meant to be.”

Now she sensed danger, and the Queen immediately took command. Her voice was suddenly colder. “You are a fool, Lord Robert.”

He was startled. He had become the subject once more.

She went on quickly: “If there were any hope of our marrying…”

He interrupted: “There is hope.”

Her sudden happiness could not be hidden; it shone from her eyes and she was the woman again.

“How so?”

“My wife is a sick woman. She cannot live long.”

“You…speak truth, Robert?”

“She suffers from a growth in the breast. It will prove fatal.”

“Robert…how long?”

“A year perhaps. You will wait, my love, my dearest Queen? A year…and you and I…together for the rest of our lives.”

“Why did you not tell me this before?” she demanded sharply.

“I dared not hope.”

“You…dared not! You would dare anything.”

He kissed her. “Only since I knew how you loved me.”

She would not allow the embrace to continue. He was too insistent, too clever, too practiced. He knew exactly how to play upon her feelings. The Queen must command the woman not to act like any village drab—or perhaps any normal woman in the hands of Lord Robert.

“It is true?” she asked.

“I swear she will not live long.”

“The people…”

“The people would be delighted if you married an Englishman.”

“Yes…but one of noble family.”

“You forget. My father was Lord Protector of England when you were called a bastard.”

“He went to Tower Hill as a traitor. I was born a Princess, and a Princess I remained.”

“Let us not bother with such matters. They are unimportant, for you have said you would marry me if I were free.”

“I said I believed I might.”

“My darling, I am no foreign ambassador pleading for his master. I am flesh and blood…warm and loving…here…your lover.”

“Not that…yet.”

“But soon to be!”

She freed herself and walked up and down the room. She said after a pause: “It is not often that we may meet thus, and you waste time, my lord. If, as you say, there may come a time when I might marry you, there should be no scandal concerning us beforehand. The people would not like that. Continue to be my Master of Horse, my loyal subject, until such a time as I may find it possible—and in my heart—to elevate you to a higher rank. But leave me, Robert. Leave me now. If you stay longer it will be known. The gossips will be busy with us.”

She gave him her hand and he took it, but his lips did not stay on her fingers. He clasped her in his arms again.

“Robin,” she said, “my sweet Robin, how I have longed for this!”

But Kat was already at the door with the news that William Cecil was on his way to see the Queen.

But how could she keep this overwhelming love a secret? It obsessed her. She could think of little else. If he were absent, nothing pleased her; but the Master of the Horse only had to put in an appearance and she was all gaiety.

She wanted to show her love and her power at the same time. She gave him the Dairy House at Kew, and that was a lovely old mansion; nor was that all. He must, she decided, be rich beyond all her courtiers; she liked to see him clad in fine clothes and jewels, for who else could show them off as he did? There were some monastery lands which must go to my Lord Dudley; and as many merchants in England had grown rich through the export of wool, he should have a license to export that commodity, and lands and riches with which to develop the industry. As if this was not enough, she must invest him with the Order of the Garter. There was no gainsaying her. Let any man come to her and say that my Lord Dudley was unworthy of such honors and she would make him feel the full force of her displeasure.

She was fiercely in love. Thus had her father, King Henry, been when he had become enamored of her mother. The main topic of conversation throughout the Court was the Queen’s passion for Robert Dudley.

She arranged special pageants at which much time was devoted to jousting, for none could joust like Robert Dudley. She would sit watching him, her eyes soft, then kindling with applause, for he was always the victor, his skill being so much greater than that of any other man.

She talked of him at every opportunity; when she was with her women she would bring the conversation back to him again and again. She liked to have him compared with other men that she might point out how greatly he excelled them all. She even encouraged her courtiers to criticize him so that she might have opportunities of enlarging upon his perfections.

She was in love and she did not seem to care who knew it. On one occasion when he was competing in a shooting match, she disguised herself as a serving girl and entered the enclosure that she might be near him. But when he had beaten his opponent she could not resist calling out: “Look, my lord, who has passed the pikes for your sake.”

The Earl of Sussex remarked that it might be a goodly conclusion to the matter of her marriage, if Lord Robert Dudley were free for her, for he was sure that a woman so full of desire for a man as the Queen was for Dudley, could not fail to get children.

Cecil had the courage to warn her. It might, he told her in his blunt way, be impossible for her to marry elsewhere, if rumors concerning herself and Dudley persisted.

But she did not heed him. Headstrong as her father, she would show her favor where she wished; and if that favor fell upon “the most virtuous and perfect man” she had ever known, it was only right and natural that this should be so.

“Favor!” cried Cecil. “But what favor, Madam? It is said that you would marry this man if it were possible for you to do so.”

“I like a man, Master Cecil,” she said. “And the man I marry will be no sit-in-the-cinders kind of man. He will be a man of many perfections, worthy to marry the Queen.”

Cecil sighed and had to content himself with urging caution.

But the rumors were spreading beyond the Court. “The Queen plays legerdemain with my lord Robert Dudley,” it was said in the hamlets and villages. And from that it was an easy step to: “Have you heard then? The Queen is with child by Lord Robert Dudley. What next, eh? What next?”

Great news was expected. There was tension throughout the country. Even those who did not believe the Queen was pregnant, believed that Robert was her lover.

Cecil inwardly raged while the Court whispered. But for the existence of poor unwanted Amy Dudley, there was no doubt who the Queen’s husband would be.

Kat, as usual, had her ear to the ground. She was worried, for these scandals rivaled those which had been circulated when Seymour had been reputed to be Elizabeth’s lover.

She came to the Queen and said: “Dearest Majesty, I beg of you to take care. Terrible things are said of you.”

“Who dares?” cried Elizabeth.

“The whole country. Mayhap the whole world!”

“They shall suffer for their lewdness.”

“Dearest Majesty, I fear it will be you who suffers. You must consider these rumors. You must remember you are a Queen, and a Queen of England.”

“What rumors are these?”

“They say that you live in dishonor with Lord Dudley…That you are his mistress.”

The Queen laughed shortly. “Yet all those about me know such rumors to be false. Look at me! Look at the people who are always about me. My councillors, my statesmen, my ladies of the bedchamber, my gentlemen of this and that…” She spoke almost regretfully: “What chance have I, Katharine Ashley, to lead a dishonorable life!” Her eyes flashed. “But if ever I had the wish to do so—but God I know will preserve me from this—I know of no one who could forbid me!”

Kat was dismissed; and she went out shaking her head, wondering what would happen next.

Robert did not enjoy the same popularity with his own sex as he did with the other. Envious eyes followed the Queen’s favorite. Robert knew that there was nothing that could produce hatred so surely as success, and that therefore he must have inspired much enmity. His great desire was to marry the Queen but he wished to do this with the full support of her ministers. He and Elizabeth had been foolish to expose their feelings to the public gaze. Robert sought—with the Queen’s consent—to remedy this.

The Archduke Charles—the son of the Emperor—was now seeking to marry the Queen. Robert called his sister Mary to him. Mary Sidney had, through her brother’s influence, a high post in the Queen’s bedchamber. Elizabeth was fond of Mary. Was she not the sister of Robert, and was it not pleasant to talk to one who loved him in such a sisterly way? Mary Sidney very quickly had the confidence of the Queen.

“Mary,” he said, “there is much gossip concerning the Queen’s marriage.”

“Robert…is there any news of you…and the Queen?”

“What news could there be while Amy lives?”

Mary’s eyes expressed her anxiety. “But, Robert, Amy will continue to live. She is so young.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “so it would seem. But…because I have married her and because of the rumors regarding myself and the Queen, many are speaking against me. I would remedy this, and I want you to help me.”

“You have done so much for us all. There is nothing we would not do for you, Robert.”

“My dear Mary, I trust I shall always be your very good brother. Now the Queen is with me in this: Archduke Charles is eager to marry her; and although she is by no means eager to marry him…”

“Being eager to marry only one man,” interrupted Mary with an affectionate smile.

He nodded. “She and I would have it believed that she is contemplating this match, which, as you know, would greatly please the Catholic peers. I want you to seek an opportunity of telling the Spanish ambassador that the Queen has hinted to me that if she could see and approve of the Archduke Charles, she might marry him.”

“Robert, this means…”

“It means one thing. I wish to put an end to these rumors which do none of us any good. I wish the Court and the country to believe that the Queen has discussed her marriage plans with me, and that she and I, knowing a marriage between us is impossible, have agreed that it would be wise of her to take the Archduke.”

“I will do this, Robert; and, of course, I understand your meaning.”

After Mary’s words to the Spanish ambassador there was great excitement among the Catholic peers; Norfolk, in particular, was delighted. Who, they asked each other, could know the Queen’s mind better than the Dudleys? The Queen was too wise a woman, and Robert Dudley too wise a man, to believe for a moment that they could marry each other. Robert would have to divorce his wife to do so, and the people would not be pleased at such procedure.

Amy meanwhile had heard the rumors regarding her husband and the Queen. It was impossible for them to be kept from her, for Robert had become the most talked-of man in the country.

At first she had been proud of him; she had heard of his exploits at Court; how at Greenwich he had held the lists against all comers; how the Queen favored him and had presented him with lands and honors.

Then she began to understand the cause of the Queen’s favor.

“So,” she said to Pinto, “it is because she is in love with him! Oh, Pinto, it is a frightening thought: The Queen is in love with my husband!”

Pinto said grimly: “You and she are not the only two ready to make fools of themselves for his lordship’s sake.”

“You should not hate him so, Pinto. You should try to understand him.”

“Have I any reason to love him when he makes you so unhappy?”

“You seem a little strange when I speak of him. Do you think he will try to divorce me?”

“It would not surprise me.”

“I will never let him go. How can I? How could I want to live if I were no longer Robert’s wife?”

“It would be a happier state for you if you were not his wife, Mistress.”

“But I would rather have his brief visits than no visits at all.”

“Little mistress, you are a fool.”

“No, Pinto. I am in love with him. That is all. But perhaps love makes fools of us and you are right when you say that I am one. I only know that I must continue to be one, because I love him now that he no longer cares for me, just as I did in the first days of our marriage.”

“Then you show little sense.”

“Does anyone in love show sense?”

“Perhaps they do not.”

“I wish he would come here that I might ask him what these rumors really mean. I would ask him whether, if I were no longer here, he would marry the Queen.”

Pinto was angry. She hated to talk of Robert, Amy knew. Yet to whom else could she speak of him as she wished to speak?

“We are very rich now, Pinto,” said Amy. “I should have a grand house. I shall ask Robert why I do not. During the season we could entertain the nobility. Is that not what is due to the wife of a man in Robert’s position?”

“No man was ever before in his position,” said Pinto.

“I will not stay here in my father’s house,” said Amy. “I shall travel a little. Why should I not? Let us leave the day after tomorrow for Denchworth. The Hydes will be glad to have me.”

“Everybody would be glad to have Lord Robert’s wife,” said Pinto.

“They would indeed. You see, Pinto, why I could never give him up. I would never consent to a divorce. Would you, Pinto? Would you?”

“How can I say? How could I know?”

“Ah! You would wish for a divorce. You would be only too glad. But then, you do not love him. You do not know how different he is from all others.”

“Let us go to the Hydes, Mistress. The change will be good for you.”

Pinto sat stitching her mistress’s new gown in preparation for the visit to Denchworth.

She was thinking of the messenger who had come to the house three days ago. He had brought money and gifts from Robert for Amy. Pinto was a little afraid of Robert’s gifts. She had grown alert.

This messenger was unlike the previous messengers. He was gentle in manner, softly smiling, eager to ingratiate himself with the household, and in particular with Amy’s personal maid. He must have recently joined Robert’s service for Pinto had never seen him before.

She chanced then to look out of the window and she saw this very messenger sauntering in the gardens. On impulse she put aside her work and went downstairs. She did not go to him; she let him see her and come to her, as she guessed he would, for she believed from his manner that he had hopes of learning something from her.

They walked together in the rose garden.

“I should imagine that you have a good position here with Lady Dudley, Mistress Pinto,” he said.

“Very good indeed.”

“It is clear that her ladyship is fond of you.”

“I have been long with her.”

“I doubt not that you know all her secrets. She is a beautiful young lady. Many must admire her.”

Was he trying to make her disclose some story of indiscretion? wondered Pinto. Was he hoping to discover something which would enable Lord Robert to put her from him?

She said: “I know not who admires my lady. I know only that she has no admiration for any man but her lord.”

“That is clear, Mistress Pinto. What sort of health has my lady? She looks blooming, but one can never tell.”

“Health! Lady Dudley’s health is of the best.”

“Come, come, you may trust me. I have heard that she suffers from some growth which is gradually sapping her strength.”

“It is not true!” cried Pinto.

“Are you sure it is not true…?”

“I swear it. I am in her confidence. She could not keep such a thing from me.”

The man nodded; and Pinto had a feeling that his mission was completed. He made an excuse to go back to the house. She accompanied him.

She was trembling when she returned to her needlework. A terrible thought had come to her. Rumors regarding her mistress’s health had been set afloat. And who would be likely to start such rumors? To what could they lead? Did it mean that one day Pinto would find her mistress dead of some strange malady?

Was this poisonous gossip the forerunner of more deadly poison?

William Cecil and Nicholas Bacon were with the Queen. Cecil was explaining that he could not send for the Archduke Charles unless the Queen would give him a direct Yes or No. She must not forget the position of the Archduke; to ask him to show himself on approval would be an insult. If the Queen would give her definite answer and tell them that she was prepared to marry the Archduke, nothing would delight them more than to send for this suitor.

“Yes or no, Your Majesty. You understand this is imperative.”

“Oh, come,” said Elizabeth, “I could not give a direct answer until I see him. I might hate him, and how could I marry a man whom I hated!”

“But Your Majesty has already expressed your deep interest in this match.”

Elizabeth looked haughtily at her chief ministers. “How can you know my feelings?” she demanded. “Have I told you I am ready to marry Charles?”

“Your Majesty, Lord Dudley and his sister Lady Mary Sidney have made it quite clear what is in Your Majesty’s mind.”

“How should they know what is in my mind?”

“Madam,” said Cecil, “it is believed that they, more than any in your realm, have your confidence.”

“They have misunderstood me this time,” said Elizabeth.

“Then are we to understand that Your Majesty has come to no decision with regard to the Archduke?”

“Your understanding is not at fault. I am no more inclined to Charles than to any other.”

Cecil and Bacon were annoyed by this, but Norfolk was furious.

The Duke angrily sought out Robert and demanded to know what right he had to spread rumors which were without truth.

“I! Spread rumors?” cried Robert.

“You and your sister! Did you not imply that the Queen had chosen her husband?”

“I am sorry you are disappointed,” said Dudley.

“Have a care, my lord!” cried Norfolk. “You go too far. Much is spoken against you.”

Robert’s hand went to his sword hilt. “You place yourself in danger, my lord Duke,” he said. “The Queen would not consider you a good Englishman and a loyal subject since you wish her to marry outside the realm. You would bring foreigners among us. Her Majesty would not like that…she would not like that at all.”

Norfolk stared at Robert. How would he represent this encounter to the Queen? Was it not a fact that she would be inclined to believe anything that Robert told her, since she was as infatuated with him as ever? Norfolk retired, seeing his mistake.

The victory was Robert’s. But he had not added to the number of his friends.

The news came to England that Philip of Spain was to marry Elisabeth de Valois, daughter of Henri Deux. A blow to England this, for it meant the union of her two enemies against her. Queen Elizabeth seemed unperturbed. She refused to look at the marriage politically. She merely pouted on hearing of the withdrawal of so powerful a suitor.

“What inconstancy!” she cried to Philip’s ambassador. “Could he not wait a few short months? Who knows, I might have changed my mind. And there he will be…married to a French Princess when he might have married the Queen of England.”

But no one took her seriously. They knew that she was waiting and hoping for something, and that Robert Dudley was concerned in those hopes.

The French King had died unexpectedly during a joust, when a splinter from a lance had entered his eye. His young son, François, was now King of France, and Mary Stuart the Queen. She styled herself Queen of France and England—an insult Elizabeth determined to hold against her.

But she was not seriously annoyed, it seemed to those about her. She would smile to herself and continue in great good humor while Lord Robert was beside her.

The Spanish ambassador, furious at the trick which had been played on him by the Dudleys (for he had written to his master and told him that it was certain the Queen would take Archduke Charles), now wrote bluntly to Philip telling him of the rumors which were circulating throughout England, and which, he assured Philip, seemed to have a firm foundation.

“The Queen,” he wrote, “gives much time and attention to Robert Dudley still; and it is the opinion of many who are close to her that she hesitates to marry only to gain time. She is waiting for Lord Robert to dispose of his wife, which many think he will attempt to do by means of poison. He has circulated rumors that she is slowly dying of a fatal disease, and this has proved to be untrue. He wishes, of course, that when she dies, there will be little surprise, and it will be believed that her death was the natural outcome of her malady. The Queen’s plan is to engage us with words until the wicked deed is done. Then it is thought she will marry Lord Robert.”

And all through the spring and summer the rumors multiplied.

Amy so enjoyed her stay with the Hydes at Denchworth that she prolonged her visit; and the Hydes were pleased to have her company. Amy quickly formed a friendship with Mistress Odingsells, Mr. Hyde’s widowed sister, and this lady became her constant companion.

They all petted Amy. It was the delight of the cook to make her favorite sweetmeats. Nothing could please Amy more for she had a fondness for all sweet things; while she was at Denchworth, bowls of sweetmeats were kept in her room; and the kitchen maids took pleasure in making new flavors for her delight. They could not do enough for Amy. Although she was the wife of the most talked-of man in the country, they were sorry for her. The Hydes urged her to stay on; and Amy, feeling that the atmosphere of the house was rather as her own had been in the days when her mother was alive and her half-brothers and half-sisters had made a pet of her, could not resist the invitation.

Pinto was glad that they stayed at Denchworth. She too liked the atmosphere of the house. Here, reflected Pinto, she felt safe.

Often she thought of Lord Robert and wondered of what he talked with the Queen. Did they discuss marriage? What a King he would make! There was that about him which must conquer all—even one as proudly royal as the Queen of England, even one as determined to hate him as humble Pinto.

As long as she lived she would remember the moment when he had come upon her as she bent over the press. What had made him kiss her? What had made him notice her for the first time? Had she betrayed her feelings for him? He would have forgotten the kisses, for he would have given so many. Often she thought how different life would have been if Lord Robert had never come to Norfolk, if little Amy had married a pleasant gentleman like Mr. Hyde.

“Oh God, let us stay at Denchworth where it is quiet and safe!” she prayed.

At Denchworth all wondered what was happening in the gay world of London and the Queen’s Court. It was being said now that the Queen would marry the Archduke Charles and that he was coming to London for the betrothal.

“Even so,” said Amy to Pinto, “we shall see little of Robert. I doubt not that he will continue to be occupied at Court.”

“It may be that the Queen’s husband will not wish to have him there.”

Amy agreed that might be so. “Then perhaps he will be banished to me as he was before. Do you remember, Pinto, how happy I was during those two years when he could not go to Court? That was before this Queen was Queen and when there were so many rumors that she would lose her head. How did she feel, I wonder, to be so near death as she must have been?” Amy’s eyes had grown wild.

Then she has heard the rumors! thought Pinto. Oh, my poor little mistress. God preserve her!

“Do you know, Pinto,” went on Amy, “I believe that to be near death would make a woman feel that she must live every minute of her life to the full because life is, after all, so precious. Bring me my new purple velvet gown. I will put it on. I think it needs a little alteration. I should like to know that it was ready…”

Ready? thought Pinto. Ready to wear for the husband who so rarely comes?

But at least, here at Denchworth, they must be safe.

They did not stay at Denchworth. It was while Amy was trying on the velvet dress that Anthony Forster and his wife arrived.

Amy, hearing their arrival and hoping it might be Robert, went down clad in her velvet. It hurt Pinto, who followed her, to see her disappointment.

Anthony Forster, whom Lord Robert had made his treasurer, had come for a purpose, Pinto surmised.

“My lord thinks,” he told Amy, “that you should not stay so long the guest of Mr. and Mistress Hyde. He would like you to remove to your own house; and as you so like this district he says you may go to Cumnor Place which, as you know, is not such a great distance from here. There you can live in state and entertain Lord Robert and his friends when they come to you.”

Amy, always eager for excitement, accepted the plan with enthusiasm. The idea of Robert’s bringing his friends for her to entertain had always attracted her. There would be something to do besides lie on her bed, eating sweetmeats, chattering to Pinto, and trying on her dresses.

Cumnor Place! Why, of course. It was a lovely old house, and Robert had leased it a few years ago from the Owens. It had been a monastery at one time, and had been given to the present Mr. Owen’s father by King Henry the Eighth for good services as the King’s physician. It was only a few miles from Denchworth, and about three or four from Abingdon.

She would prepare to go there at once; and when there she could entertain the Hydes as they had entertained her; then she would prepare for grander company—all the ladies and gentlemen whom Robert would bring from the Court.

Pinto seemed disturbed when she told her of the plans.

“Cumnor Place. You remember it, Pinto?”

Pinto did remember it. A lonely house, surrounded by trees, a tall house with views of the downs from the top windows. Pinto did not let her mistress see the shiver which ran through her.

“I remember it,” said Pinto.

“You do not seem to be eager to leave here. Have you become attached to Denchworth?”

“Mayhap I have. Who will go with us to Cumnor Place?”

“Mr. Anthony Forster and his wife will be there for a while to prepare for my husband. And I think that Mistress Owen will be there. She is much attached to the place, and Robert allowed her to stay. We shall not be lonely, you see.”

“And my lord…suggested this move?”

Why did suspicions leap to her mind? wondered Pinto. Cumnor Place was so lonely. His servants would be there—men and women who would not hesitate to do anything the future King of England demanded of them.

“Yes. It is my belief that he wishes to entertain his friends there. Oh, Pinto, the lonely days will be over. We shall have many guests to fill the house. I must have some new dresses.”

Pinto said on impulse: “Mistress Odingsells is very fond of you. Why not take her with us? She would be a pleasant companion for you, and you know how you hate to be alone. When you have not me to talk to, you will have her. And it will be doing her a good turn. Take her as your companion.”

“Why, I like that idea, Pinto. Yes. I shall take her as a companion.”

Pinto was glad. She could not get out of her mind the thought that it would be good for Amy to have as many friends as possible in lonely Cumnor Place.

The Queen was worried. She was wondering how much longer she could stave off a decision. It seemed that unless she acted quickly she would be forced into a position which she was determined not to accept.

There was war in Scotland. The Scottish Protestants were in revolt against the French, who, under the Dowager Queen of Scotland, Mary of Guise—mother of Mary Queen of Scots, who was now Queen of France—were taking too prominent a part in Scottish affairs. They determined to rid themselves of their Gallic masters, and in this Elizabeth must help them, for if the French gained possession of Scotland she would have a very powerful enemy on her borders.

Her ministers advised war, and she saw the wisdom of this. Philip of Spain was watching and hesitating according to his custom, not caring to throw in his lot with the French, yet, stern Catholic as he was, finding it impossible to aid the Protestants.

But when he saw how well the war was going for the Protestants, he ordered his ambassador to deliver an ultimatum. Unless the peace was made and kept, he declared, he must send aid to the Catholics. The Queen was in a panic. Philip must be held off at all costs, so she placated him by the only means at her disposal: she promised she would marry the man he wished her to—Archduke Charles.

Philip was well pleased, for if Charles should be King of England he foresaw the return of England to the Catholic fold; but he was beginning to know Elizabeth, and he would not be put off as he had previously been.

Plans, he commanded, should be made at once for the coming of the Archduke to England.

Robert and Elizabeth met secretly and alone.

“I am afraid of what may happen,” she told him. “With Charles here my hand may be forced.”

Robert exulted. Never before had he realized how completely she needed him. She was appealing to him now. Something drastic must be done.

The question they were asking each other was: What?

Robert knew that he had many deadly enemies. The Queen was popular enough to withstand the scandal their relationship had set in motion; but the people did not like to think that their Queen was conducting a dishonorable association with a married man. They therefore blamed Robert.

In the streets harsh things were said of the Dudleys, and in particular of Lord Robert. Who is this upstart? it was asked. It is true that he is the son of a Duke, the brother of a King, and the grandson of a Knight; but his great-grandfather was a farmer, and he was the only one who died in his bed an honest man. Let Lord Robert get back to his farm, and sowing his crops reap the family honesty.

Would they accept such a man as their King? And what would their reaction be if he divorced his wife in order to marry the Queen?

Elizabeth looked at him, seeing in him all the manly vigor of his twenty-eight years. She yearned for him; but even as she yearned, she cried out angrily: “Why did it have to be you…you with your blood tainted with treason, with your father, grandfather, and brother all dying by the axe…you, a married man with a wife between us!”

Robert gripped her arms, and her heart beat faster as she felt the strength and power of him.

“My beloved,” he said, “something shall be done…and soon.” She looked at him expectantly and he went on: “If I were free to marry and we married, our troubles would be over. All will be reconciled to our marriage when our son is born.”

She nodded, still keeping her fearful eyes upon his face.

“Nothing must stand between us,” he said. “Nothing!”

“But, Robert…”

“I know…I know what you think. We cannot thrust this aside just because it seems impossible. It is the most important thing in the world that we should be together…important for us and England. None but I shall give you your sons.”

She said faintly: “That is how I would have it, my sweet Robin. But how can it come about?”

“It shall come about…and speedily.”

She saw the set of his mouth and she understood.

The days of Amy Dudley were numbered.

She told him to leave her, for she felt she could bear no more. After he had gone she sank onto a stool and sat there in silence. What was one death in a great destiny? she asked herself. How many times had she come near to losing her own life? She was a Queen, and any who stood between her and the sons she would bear, must surely die.

William Cecil returned from Edinburgh where he had signed a treaty with the French. He was triumphant. England had come satisfactorily out of the affair. Now he would receive the gratitude of the Queen, which he hoped would take a practical form, for his family was growing and he was a family man who looked to the future.

Cecil was the cleverest man in England; he had come successfully through the difficult years. Although he had served Protector Somerset he had not fallen with him, but had transferred his allegiance to Northumberland; and when Northumberland had ceased to be a power in the land he had worked for Mary, never forgetting that he must remain the friend of Elizabeth. And because he was both calm and bold and never hesitated to set forth what he believed would be the best policy for the country, he continued successful; and Elizabeth—more than any who had gone before her—appreciated his qualities.

So now he came to Court to receive the Queen’s most grateful thanks.

Elizabeth’s twenty-seventh birthday was on the seventh of September and the Court had gone to Windsor Castle that the important event might be celebrated there.

So to Windsor came Cecil, for it was necessary to discuss with Elizabeth the arrangements for the coming of the Archduke Charles.

Cecil was pleased. The war was satisfactorily ended and Elizabeth was committed to the marriage. He believed that, once his mistress had a husband to guide her, the management of affairs would be easier, for when the Queen began to bear children she would be ready to leave affairs of state to her husband. Charles would steady the friendship with Spain and, in view of the French claims through Mary Queen of Scots, there was safety in Spain’s friendship.

He was therefore feeling very satisfied when he was shown into the royal apartments.

He knelt before the Queen, but even as he did so he was aware that all was not well. She looked older and there were signs of strain on her features. She did not congratulate him on his clever statesmanship in the arrangement of the treaty, which was the least she might have done. He told her that the Spanish ambassador had accompanied him to Windsor and was awaiting audience that the arrangements for her marriage might be discussed.

“There is too much haste concerning these arrangements,” she said sharply.

“Too much haste, Your Majesty! You will forgive me if I say that the Archduke has shown the utmost patience in this matter.”

She snapped: “I am in no mood to see the ambassador.”

“Your Majesty, if you fail to make these arrangements you will incur the wrath of the King of Spain.”

“What care I for that man! His feelings seem of little importance to me.”

“Madam, they are of the utmost importance to England.”

She stamped her foot. “Have done! Have done! Are we vassals of His Most Catholic Majesty as we were in my sister’s time?”

Cecil knew then that the state of affairs had not changed in the least. She had the look of a woman deep in desperate love; and that meant she still hankered after Lord Robert and was determined to have him or none other.

Cecil could see ahead quite clearly. This was what came of having a woman on the throne. Her personal feelings, her personal emotions were to put the country into jeopardy. If she were a King she would take a mistress and none think the worse. But she was a Queen, and the scandals concerning herself and Dudley were rampant.

Would that man were dead! thought Cecil.

Then he made a decision. His success was due to his consistent frankness. If he had served Protestant and Catholic irrespective of religion, he had never failed to serve his country. As he saw it, England’s relationship with foreign powers was all-important, and at the moment the most powerful ally England could have was Spain, and Philip must not be offended.

“Madam,” he said coldly, “I see you are so far gone in love for Lord Robert Dudley that you are neglecting your business, which is to rule this realm; and if you continue in your neglect you will ruin this country.”

Elizabeth gasped. Her impulse was to order Cecil to the Tower; but she quickly saw the folly of that. What would she do without Cecil? She honored him; and such was her nature that, even in that moment of anger, she knew that he was speaking the truth and that he was the one man—even more than Robert, whom she loved passionately—to whom she wished to entrust her affairs.

“You overreach yourself, Master Cecil,” she said, with a coldness that matched his. “None could prevent my marrying where I wished.”

“You are wrong, Madam,” said Cecil wryly. “Lord Robert’s wife prevents you.”

“Nothing else?” she said, and her words were a question. “Nothing but that?”

“Madam,” said Cecil, “if Lord Robert were in a position to be Your Majesty’s husband, your ministers would doubtless have no objection since your heart is set on this, and the country needs an heir.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “Your insolence is overlooked on this occasion. I think that soon we shall reach a settlement of these matters. Lady Dudley will not live long.”

“Madam,” said Cecil aghast, “I see trouble ahead.”

“Go now,” she said, “and rest. You have had a long journey.”

He bowed and retired.

His thoughts were in a turmoil. Did he understand aright? Were they planning to rid themselves of Lady Dudley? But what a scandal that would be! Did they not see that? Even Queens—young and popular Queens—cannot with impunity connive at murder.

As he was leaving the Queen’s apartment, he met Alvaro de Quadra, the Spanish ambassador who had replaced Feria. De Quadra, spy for his master, ever on the alert, noticed the strained look on the face of the Secretary of State.

Falling into step beside Cecil, de Quadra asked: “And when may I have audience of Her Majesty? There is much to discuss concerning the marriage.”

Cecil was silent for a few moments, then he burst out: “Do not ask these questions of me. I am thinking of leaving my office. I see great troubles ahead. Your Excellency, if you are a friend of England’s, advise Her Majesty not to neglect her duty as she does. Would to God Lord Robert Dudley had lost his head with his brother. That would have been a good thing for England.”

“Lord Dudley?” said de Quadra. “So the Queen still frets for him then?”

“Frets for him? She thinks of nothing else. I know this, and it fills me with dread: They are scheming to murder his wife, that marriage between them will be possible. They say she is suffering from a malady which will shortly rob her of life, but I have discovered this to be untrue. Poor woman! Doubtless she is taking good care not to be poisoned, since she has lived so long.”

The Spanish ambassador could scarcely believe that he had heard correctly. Was this calm Cecil, the wily statesman, the man whose custom it was to consider his lightest remark before uttering it! And to speak thus before the Spanish ambassador, well known to be a spy for his own country!

Cecil recovered his poise; he grasped de Quadra’s arm and said earnestly: “I beg of Your Excellency to say nothing of this. This is the Queen’s secret matter.”

The ambassador gave his word, but immediately retired to his own apartments that he might write dispatches which on this occasion, he was sure, would prove of the utmost interest to his royal master.

A September haze hung in the air. Pinto was in one of the attics looking out over the countryside. How quiet it seemed! Yesterday she had watched the Fair people riding by on their way to Abingdon for the Fair. The servants were talking of it now. She was glad of that. When they were discussing the Fair they ceased to talk of Lord Robert and the Queen.

Poor Amy! She was desperately afraid—afraid of every footfall, afraid even of her fear, for she did not speak of it even to Pinto. She had reason to be afraid. She stood between Lord Robert and his marriage with the Queen.

A woman of Brentford, so they had heard, had been arrested for saying that the Queen was to have Lord Robert’s child. Had she spoken the truth?

Pinto was afraid in this house.

The grounds were beautiful and extensive, but the house itself was shut in by many trees; and it was only by climbing to the top that it was possible to see the open country.

Some of the rooms were large, but those which had been cells, were very small. There were two staircases. One of these, which led from the kitchen quarters, was a narrow spiral one; that which swept up and round the old hall, which had been the monks’ common room, was wide with elaborately carved banisters. This staircase was not enclosed, so that it was possible to look down into the “well” from any point.

It was a house full of shadows, full of echoes from the past. Pinto did not like the thoughts which had come to her while she had been living in this house.

Only last week a very disturbing incident had occurred.

Amy had fallen ill and Pinto, fearing that already she was being poisoned, had been frantic with anxiety.

Her fears had been so great that she had persuaded Amy to call a physician—not one of Lord Robert’s but a friend of the Hydes.

And the man had refused to come.

Lord Robert had his own physicians, he had said. It was their place to look after the health of Lord Robert’s wife.

There was something so alarming about such behavior that even Amy could not shut her eyes to it. The man would not come because he suspected Amy was being poisoned and wished to have no part in it. If Amy died suddenly and there was an autopsy, and her death were proved to be due to poison, it would be necessary for persons in high places to find a scapegoat; this man was clearly intimating that he had no intention of being that scapegoat. If Amy wanted a physician she must have one of her husband’s.

“Nay,” said Amy, “I do not think I need a doctor after all. I was just feeling a little melancholy. It is nothing more.”

But how frightening was this life!

There was one thing of which Pinto felt sure: Amy’s life was threatened. It was clear from the doctor’s attitude that the whole country was expecting her to die by poison, for that would mean that her death could be said to be due to a fatal disease. Rumors had already gone forth that she suffered from a cancer of the breast.

Since everyone was talking of poison, it was obvious that Lord Robert would be aware of this; therefore it seemed almost certain that Amy would not die by poison. Die she must if she were to be removed from Robert’s path toward ambition, but her death would have to seem accidental or the whole country would cry: Murder. What could Pinto do? Where could she turn? She could only keep near her mistress, hoping to guard her. But they were two defenseless women against a relentless enemy.

She went downstairs, and in the hall she found Forster talking with Mistress Owen who, living apart from her husband, had asked leave to stay on in the house. Amy, being fond of company, had been glad to have her.

Forster said pleasantly as Pinto came down the stairs: “I doubt not you’ll be asking your mistress’s leave to go to the Fair.”

“That may be,” said Pinto.

“A messenger has just come from Windsor. He brings letters for my lady. He tells us that tomorrow or the next day Master Thomas Blount will be riding here from Windsor with special gifts and letters from my lord for her ladyship.”

“My lady will be pleased to hear from Lord Robert,” said Pinto.

She passed on.

Master Thomas Blount! He was a kinsman of Lord Robert’s, a man whose fortune was bound up in that of his master; a man who would be ready to follow Lord Robert’s instructions…even if they were to murder his wife.

He sends letters, he sends gifts, thought Pinto; and he longs to put her out of the way.

It seemed to Pinto that danger was moving nearer.

It was night. Amy lay still, the curtains pulled about her bed. She had awakened with a start, aware that someone was in her room.

She sat up, pressing her hands to her heart. What fear was this which possessed her, which made her start at every sound? There was terror all about her.

She knelt on her bed and opened the curtains. Pinto was standing there, a lighted candle in her hands.

“Pinto!” cried Amy in great relief.

“Oh, Mistress…are you awake then?”

“You frightened me so.”

“Mistress, I had to come to talk to you.”

“At this hour?”

“It would not wait…or so it seemed. I have to say it now. Perhaps I could not say it by day. Mistress, before your marriage, I used to come to your bed and sleep with you at night when you had dreams. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Pinto. I have indeed bad dreams now. Come you in beside me.”

Pinto blew out the candle and climbed into the bed.

“You’re trembling, Pinto.”

“You tremble, Mistress.”

“What is it, Pinto? What is it?”

“We are afraid, Mistress. Both of us are afraid of something, and we are afraid to speak of it by daylight. That is why I come to you at night. Mistress, we must speak of this thing.”

“Yes, Pinto, we must.”

“They seek to put you away, Mistress.”

“It’s true, Pinto. It’s true.” Amy’s teeth were chattering.

“You see,” said Pinto, “he is an ambitious man, and all he desires would be ready for him to take but for you. I am frightened. Never eat anything unless I prepare it for you.”

“They are trying to poison me, Pinto?”

“I do not think they will.”

“Why not?”

“Too many have talked of poison.”

“Pinto, what can I do? What can I do?”

Pinto’s eyes were wet. It was as though Amy were a child again, coming to Pinto for help. No! It was quite different. This was no childish problem. This was a matter of death.

“I have thought of something, Mistress. We will go away from here.”

“Where could we go?”

“I have thought that we could go to your brother John. He loves you dearly. We could live in his house secretly…as serving maids mayhap. I have not thought beyond that. He is wise. He will advise us. First we must get to his house.”

“Should we be allowed to go like that, Pinto?”

“Nay, we should not. We should have to go in secret. Oh, Mistress, I have thought and thought until my thoughts are in a whirl. Master Blount will be here late tomorrow or the next day. Mistress, I greatly fear that man.”

“You think…he comes…to kill me…?”

Pinto did not answer that. “I would wish that we were away before he comes.”

“How, Pinto?”

“Listen carefully, dearest Mistress. Tomorrow is Sunday. Send all the servants to the Fair. Send even Mistress Odingsells, for she is talkative and inquisitive, and I fear that if she were here she might blunder about us and make it impossible for us to leave. Keep Mistress Owen for company; and the Forsters will be here, I doubt not. But let all the rest of the household go to the Fair. I shall go with them and, as soon as I can without attracting attention, I shall return to the house. Rest until I come, that you may be ready for a tedious journey. I will come quietly into the house and together we will slip out to the stables. This will be your last night in this house.”

Amy clung to Pinto. “Oh, how glad that makes me. I am afraid of this house. We will do that, Pinto. We will go to my brother.”

“You must insist that all go to the Fair. We must run no risk of being seen as we leave. Stay in your room until I return. But be all ready to leave…”

“But, Pinto, how shall we go…two women…alone from here to Norfolk?”

“I do not know. But we must. We can go quickly to an inn, rest there and perhaps engage more servants to accompany us. None should know who you are. I have not thought of that very clearly. There is one thing which occupies my thoughts. We must get away from this house before Master Blount enters it.”

“Yes, Pinto, yes. But I have thought of something. It is Sunday tomorrow. Only the lowest and most vulgar go to the Fair on Sundays.”

“It is a pity. But they must go. You must insist on that. How do we know who among them spies on us?”

“They shall go. And you will come back soon, that we may start on our journey.”

“As soon as I can safely do so.”

“Oh, Pinto…it is such a wild…wild plan. There are dangers to women on the roads.”

“There is no danger so great as that which lurks in this house.”

“I know…Pinto. I feel it…all around me.”

“Let us try to sleep now, Mistress. We shall need all our strength for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Pinto.”

They lay still and occasionally they spoke to each other. It was not until the dawn was in the sky that they could sleep.

Sunday morning came.

Amy felt happier now, because the sun was shining brightly and this was to be the last day she would spend in this frightening house.

She called the servants to her and told them that, as it was a fine day, they all had her permission to go to the Fair in Abingdon.

They had hoped to go on Monday and were not too pleased; but they dared not refuse to do as the mistress bid.

Amy turned to Mistress Odingsells, who had acted as her companion ever since they came to Cumnor Place, and asked her to go too.

“I…go on a Sunday!” cried Mistress Odingsells, who was very conscious of her dependent state. She was indignant. She…a lady…to be sent to the Fair with the vulgar on a Sunday!

“It is a pleasant day,” murmured Amy.

But Mistress Odingsells was greatly put out. She would certainly not go to the Fair on a Sunday.

“You shall go at your own pleasure,” said Amy quickly, “but all my servants shall go…every one of them.”

“And who will keep you company?” asked Mistress Forster.

“You and your husband will be here. And Mistress Odingsells it seems, with Mistress Owen. There will be plenty to keep me company if I wish for company. But I am a little tired, and I shall go to my room to rest for a few hours, I think.”

Mistress Odingsells said she would retire to her room for, since her company was not desired, she would be sure not to impose it upon anyone. Amy did not try to soothe her. Mistress Owen thought Amy seemed a little distraught—nay, more, quite hysterical, so determined was she that all should go to the Fair. It was strange because usually she liked to have plenty of people about her.

Amy went to the top of the house to watch them set out. Pinto was with them. She turned and waved her hand to her mistress, who she knew would be watching.

Pray God, thought Amy, she comes back quickly.

She stayed at the window for some minutes looking out over the country. Could it really be true that Robert was planning to kill her? She could not believe it. She thought of him in the days of their courtship, so eager, so passionate, and so determined to marry her whether his father granted permission or not. She remembered the first days of their marriage. Of course there were rumors about a man like Robert. He was so dazzlingly handsome, the most successful man at Court. Of course the Queen was fond of him.

But what was the use? She knew Robert was planning to murder her.

Now the quietness of the house was frightening her again. She had an impulse to run out of it, to run after the servants, to go to the Fair with them. That was foolish. Pinto was a wise woman. Her plan seemed wild, and wild it certainly was; but it was the only way of escape from a dangerous situation.

“Go to your room and try to sleep,” Pinto had said.

She would do that.

Just as she was turning from the window she saw a man on horseback coming toward the house. For a moment she was terrified, thinking that Thomas Blount had arrived. But it was only Sir Richard Verney, who had ridden over to do some official business with Forster.

She saw Forster go out and greet him, and the two men finally walked away from the house. Forster was taking Verney to some trees which she believed were to be cut down.

She turned away from the window and went to her room, and lying on her bed pulled the curtains. She must try to sleep. She must remember that she was safe until Thomas Blount arrived.

There was a dish of sweetmeats lying on the bed where she had left them last night. Her maid must have replenished the dish before she went to the Fair. She saw that some of her favorites were there; she could never resist them, and almost mechanically she began to eat them. They were delicious.

Before she had finished she began to feel very tired.

She fell asleep in the act of reaching for another.

It was less than an hour later when the door of Amy’s room was quietly opened. Two men came in. Very quietly one of them pulled aside the bed-curtains.

“What if she wakes?” asked one.

“Impossible,” said the other, looking at the dish.

He was smiling. It had been too good an opportunity to miss. All the servants—almost the entire household—at the Fair! This was the time when an accident must happen.

“Come,” said the other. “Let us get it done with.”

One placed his hands beneath her shoulders; the other took her feet; and, carrying Amy between them, they went quietly out of the room.

It was not easy to slip away. Pinto was anxiously awaiting the favorable moment.

And when it came there was the long walk back to Cumnor Place.

Could her plan succeed? What would happen if they were seen? Would she be murdered with her mistress? Then he would have two deaths on his hands.

She must not blame him. He was different from other men. He must not be judged by their standards. It would seem to him only right that Fortune should deny him nothing. Pinto understood.

But she would not give him Amy’s life. She would fight for that even at the cost of her own, even if by doing so she made him a double murderer.

They would creep out of the house. They would go to the stables. They would ride fast…and before nightfall they must be well away from Cumnor Place and where none knew them. They must find the right inn. They must succeed

She would not visualize failure. She saw them arriving at the home of John Appleyard. John would do anything for his sister, she knew. He loved Amy dearly.

She had reached Cumnor Place.

Now she must creep quietly in and by way of the main staircase hurry along to Amy’s room. If she met the Forsters or Mistress Odingsells or Mistress Owen she must say that she had lost sight of the other servants and had deemed it wise to return to the house. But she must not meet them; she must meet no one.

How quiet the house seemed. But she must be thankful for the quietness.

She came into the great hall which was flooded with sunlight. As she was about to hurry forward she stopped short, staring at the figure lying at the foot of the staircase.

Her limbs were numbed. She could not move. She could only stand there staring before her while horror, such as she had never before known in the whole of her life, possessed her.

She knew that she was too late.

Amy Dudley was dead. She had been found on the floor of the hall at Cumnor Place, her neck broken, after what was obviously a fall down the staircase. The Court and the countryside could talk of nothing else; there was one explanation and that was murder. It was not necessary to look far for the murderer.

The Queen sent for Robert, declaring that she must see him alone. Elizabeth was afraid—not only on his behalf but on her own. She knew that this was one of the most dangerous situations she had ever faced. She knew that Royalty must be in command, bidding Love take second place.

But when she saw him, she knew that whatever came between them she would always love him. Her affection for him would remain even when she looked back with horror at the hysterical woman it had made of her. She loved him no less because he had committed murder. Had he not murdered for her sake? She herself had faced death too many times to hold the lives of others dearly.

But she had to save him and herself.

“What now?” she said, as soon as they were alone. “What now, Robert?”

“She fell from the stairs,” he said. “It was an accident.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “An accident! At such a time!”

“That is what it seems. What it must seem.”

“Do you not see how foolish we have been, you and I? We have shown feelings to the world which we should have been wise to hide. Such an accident to the wife of an obscure courtier would have aroused no comment. But to your wife…at such a time…when the whole world knows of the love between us…Robert, no one will believe in this accident.”

“You are the Queen,” he said.

“Yes, yes. But there is one thing I have known all my life: A Queen or King must be loved and respected by the people. They murmur against me. They say lewd things. They say I am to bear your child. Now they will say that this had to be, that our child might be born in wedlock…the legitimate heir to the throne. And they will whisper about me. They will call me a lewd woman.”

He said: “Your father married six wives. Two of them lost their heads; two he put from him when he tired of them; one all but lost her head, and only his death, some say, saved her. You talk of this scandal. How can it compare with your father’s senary adventure in matrimony!”

“A Queen is not a King. A King may love where he will, but a Queen who is to bear the heir to the throne must be above reproach.”

He came to her and put his arms about her; and she was moved temporarily by his masculine charm.

“All will be well,” he said. “We shall come through this storm. And remember, there is nothing now to keep us apart.”

She was silent. She was not the woman whom he had known. She was older, wiser; the old habit of learning her lessons had not been lost. Thus she had been when she had stood before Lady Tyrwhit at the time they had beheaded Thomas Seymour. She had deceived them all then.

Never again must she allow herself to be overwhelmed by her love for a man. She must for evermore be Queen first, a woman second.

She must not forget that she was in danger now, and she must learn her lesson quickly. When she had extricated herself from the result of her folly, never must she err in that respect again.

“Robert,” she said, releasing herself from his arms, “there is only one thing to be done. I must put you under arrest until this matter is cleared up. It is the only way. Think of the future, my love, and do as I say. Go to Kew under arrest by orders of the Queen.”

He hesitated, but he was wise enough to see that the Queen was in control of the woman.

“You are right,” he said. “You must not be involved in this. Our mistake has been to show the world that we love each other. Once this has blown over…”

She nodded, and throwing herself into his arms, kissed him fiercely.

“Go now, my dearest. All will be well. No harm shall come to you. But we have to learn from the mistakes we have made. There must be no more. Her death has to be an accident. You and I must not even have wished it to happen. Because you are her husband you will, of necessity, be suspected; and the Queen’s orders are that you stay in your house at Kew…under arrest. Go now, and soon all will be well.”

“All will be well,” he said, returning her kisses with a fierceness which outstripped her own. “Soon you and I shall be husband and wife.”

“If all goes well,” said the Queen soberly.

This was the greatest scandal that had shocked and entertained the world since Elizabeth’s father had played out his tragic farce with six wives.

If justice were to be done, said the world, the Queen should take her place with her lover on trial for murder.

Robert was frantic. Confined to his house at Kew he was in desperate and urgent correspondence with his faithful servant and kinsman Thomas Blount, commanding him to sound opinion at Court and in the countryside, particularly in the region of Cumnor Place. Thomas Blount was to question the servants, bully them, browbeat them into admitting that Amy’s death had been an accident. He, Dudley, was still an influential man; he would get in touch with the foreman of the jury and see that the “right” verdict was declared. When he was King of England he would not forget those who had helped him to his place, any more than he would forget those who had tried to impede him.

Cecil had recovered his balance. He was the calm minister once more. He saw the country threatened with a crisis which could do much harm. Confidence in the Queen must be restored. He must remain her chief minister, for if he retired he might find himself in the Tower; besides, how could he bear to give up his ambition?

He was beside the Queen now, supporting her when she needed his support. She had the utmost confidence in him; and he was too good a minister to fail her.

He remembered that, in his agitation during a weak moment, he had spoken incautiously to the Spanish ambassador, and that his words would doubtless have been reported to Philip of Spain. What had he said? That he saw troubles ahead, that his mistress and her lover were planning the murder of Amy Dudley! That was a terrible mistake to have made, because he had said those words only a few hours before Amy had been found in Cumnor Place lying at the foot of a staircase with her neck broken. Could such a coincidence be accepted? It must be. The only way to keep the people loyal to the Queen was to have a verdict of accidental death brought in. The Queen might commit political murders, but she must not be implicated in the murder of a woman whose husband she wished to marry. That was something the country would not accept. Royal murder was permissible. But the charge of personal murder—murder for passion, love, lust, whatever the people called it—must be laughed to scorn.

This Queen’s whole future was at stake. There was Jane Grey’s sister, Catharine, who would find ready supporters. There was Mary Queen of Scots, who was now the Queen of France. Clearly if Elizabeth was to stay on the throne she must not be implicated in murder. Therefore there must have been no murder; for if murder had been committed, the Queen would seem as guilty as her lover.

Cecil accordingly decided that his course of action must be to laugh at the suggestion of murder.

This attitude would give the lie to the words the Spanish ambassador had already written to his master. Even Philip might doubt the veracity of de Quadra, if Cecil treated the scandal with scorn and contempt.

Cecil went ostentatiously to Kew to visit his dear friend Lord Robert Dudley, and to assure him of his belief in his innocence.

The Queen was pleased with Cecil; she knew that she and he could always rely upon each other.

But the country was demanding justice. Several preachers in various parts were asking that a full inquiry be made into the death of Lady Dudley, and grievous suspicions disposed of.

And all knew that in this there was not only a threat to Lord Robert, but to the Queen herself.

Thomas Blount worked assiduously in the service of his master.

He went to Cumnor Place with the express purpose of proving Amy’s death an accident.

He questioned Mistress Odingsells, Mistress Owen, and the Forsters. Mr. Forster told him that Amy seemed a little absent-minded on that fatal Sunday morning. It would not surprise him if she had fallen down as she was descending the stairs. But the Forsters were suspect, as any servants of Lord Robert’s at Cumnor Place must be; for if the task of murder had to be entrusted to one of them, it would be to a man in Forster’s position.

A jury, deciding that it dared not offend the man who might be King, and at the same time the Queen herself, would not bring in a verdict of murder; but this was not only a matter for a court jury; in this case the whole of England was the self-appointed judge and jury; and the whole of England could neither be bribed nor threatened.

It seemed strange and mysterious that Amy, who had always insisted on having people about her, should have tried to send the entire household to the Fair on that Sunday morning.

Blount was puzzled. He must carefully question every person in the household in an endeavor to understand Amy’s strange action.

At length he came to Amy’s personal maid, the woman who, he had heard, was devoted to her mistress.

Pinto had lived in a daze since the tragedy.

It was all so clear to her. Someone—she suspected Forster—had been awaiting the opportunity; and it was her actions, her schemes which had given him what he sought.

She knew of the murmuring throughout the country. She knew that people were saying: “Robert Dudley is a murderer. His grandfather and his father died on the block. Let him die on the block, for he deserves death even as they did.”

What if he were to die for this? She could not call to a halt that procession of tableaux which haunted her. She thought of a hundred pictures from those two and a half years when he and she had lived under the same roof. Often she had watched him when he did not know he was watched. He had not noticed her except for one moment, and then it had been her apparent indifference to him that had so briefly attracted him.

Yet she knew that during the whole of her life she would never forget him.

One of the maids came to her and said that Master Blount wished to question her as he was questioning the whole household.

The maid’s face was alive with eagerness. She whispered: “He is trying to prove it was an accident. Lord Robert has sent him to do so. But…how can they prove that…and what will happen now to my lord?”

What would happen to him now?

Pinto was excited suddenly because she felt that there was within her a power to decide what should happen to him.

She could tell the truth; she could tell of the plan she had made with Amy. That would not help Lord Robert. But there was one explanation which was not incredible. No one would believe Amy’s death was due to an accident; but might they not believe in that one alternative to murder: suicide?

That would not endear Lord Robert to the people; he would still have his detractors; but at the same time a man who neglected his wife to serve his sovereign was not on that account a criminal.

She stood before Thomas Blount, who studied her intently. A personable creature of her kind, he thought; and one whose grief showed her to have had a real affection for the dead woman.

“Mistress Pinto, you loved your mistress dearly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think of her death? Was it an accident or was it caused through villainy?”

Pinto hesitated briefly. It seemed as though he were there beside her. He was made for distinction. She was making excuses for him. He had been tempted and, weakly, he had been unable to resist. It seemed to her that he was pleading for her help, he who had never asked her for anything. What woman had ever been able to resist him? And it was in her power to give him more than any had ever given him before.

Her mind was made up. She couched her answer in carefully chosen words.

“Sir, it was an accident. I am sure it was an accident. She would not have done such a thing herself. Never!”

Eagerly he seized on her words. This was the first suggestion of suicide. Here was a way out that he had not foreseen.

“Tell me,” he said, gently, “why should you think she might have done it herself, Mistress Pinto?”

“Oh, but I do not!” Pinto stared at him wildly, like a woman who has betrayed that which she had planned to hide. “She was a good woman. She prayed to God to save her from the consequences of desperation. She would have committed no such sin as taking her own life.”

“Had she some idea in her mind of destroying herself?”

“Nay, nay! It is true that there were times when she was so wretched that…”

“She was sick was she not?”

“She had troubles.”

“Troubles of the body as well as of the mind?”

“Lord Robert came so rarely to see her.”

They watched each other—he and Pinto, both alert.

He was thinking: Suicide! The next best thing to accident. He was framing his story. “Amy Dudley was suffering from a disease of the breast which she knew was killing her. It was painful, and she decided she would endure it no more. She sent her servants to the Fair so that, on that Sunday morning, she might end her life. A strange way in which to kill oneself? A fall from a staircase might not have meant death? Oh, but Amy’s state was one of hysteria. She would hardly have been aware of what she was doing. She longed for the company of her husband, but owing to his duties at Court he could not visit her as often as he would have wished. So, poor hysterical woman, she had sent her servants to the Fair that she might have a quiet house in which to kill herself.”

A sad story, but one which could cast no reflection on Lord Robert and the Queen.

Pinto was conscious of the triumph of a woman who loves and serves the loved one—even though she does so in secret.

On a warm Sunday morning, two weeks after she had died, Amy’s body was carried to the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford. The funeral was a grand one. It was as though Robert was determined to make up for his neglect of her during her lifetime by lavish display now that she was dead. There was a procession of several hundred people; and Amy’s halfbrother, John Appleyard, as he walked with other relations of hers and the students from the University, was filled with bitter thoughts. He had loved his young sister dearly, and he deeply resented her death; for nothing would convince him that it had not been arranged by her husband.

While the bell tolled, while the funeral sermon was being preached, John Appleyard’s heart was filled with hatred toward Robert Dudley.

There were others at the funeral who felt as John did.

There were many who would have wished to see Robert Dudley hanged for what he had done to an innocent woman who had had the misfortune to marry him and stand between him and his illicit passion for the Queen.

So Amy was laid to rest.

But although the jury had brought in a verdict of Death by Accident, all over the country people were talking of the mysterious death of Amy Dudley, and asking one another what part her husband and the Queen had played in it.

Robert was hopeful and expectant. Surely the Queen must marry him now that he was free.

As for the Queen, she wanted to marry him. This terrible thing which had happened had not altered her love. She was defiantly proud, exulting in the fact that he had put himself in such jeopardy for love of her. He was a strong man and there was in him all that she looked for. He was ready to marry her and face their critics; he was defiant and unafraid.

But her experiences had made her cautious. She wanted him, but she had no intention of losing her crown.

She could snap her fingers at Cecil, at Bacon, at Norfolk and Philip of Spain; but she must always consider the people of England.

Reports from all quarters were alarming. The French were saying that she could not continue to reign. How could she—a Queen who permitted a subject to kill his wife in order to marry her! The throne was tottering, said the French. They may have been beaten in Scotland, but soon it would be Elizabeth who suffered defeat. A people as proud as the English would never allow a murderess and an adulteress to reign over them.

When she rode out, her subjects were no longer spontaneous in their greetings.

All over the world there was gossip concerning the Queen and her paramour; lewd jokes were bandied about as once they had been with regard to the Princess Elizabeth and Thomas Seymour; stories were invented of the children she had borne her lover; she was spoken of as though she were a harlot instead of the Queen of a great country.

She was perplexed and undecided. There were times when she longed to turn to Robert and say “Let us marry and take the consequences.” At others she was reluctant to take any further risk. Always she seemed to hear the cries of the people when she had ridden through the streets of London at her Coronation: “God save Queen Elizabeth!”

She kept Robert at her side; she shared state secrets with him. The Court looked on. It was said that it could not be long before she made him her husband.

But she wanted time to think, time to grow away from the emotional weeks which had culminated in Amy’s death. Time had always been her friend.

“Why do we wait?” asked Robert. “Cannot you see that while we hesitate we are in the hands of our enemies? Act boldly and end this dangerous suspense.”

She looked at him and fully realized his arrogance; she recognized the Dudley fire, the Dudley temperament which had raised two generations from the lowest state to the highest. This man whom she loved saw himself as King, the master of all those about him, her master. There was one thing he had forgotten; she too had her pride; she too had risen from despondency to exultation, from a prison in the Tower to greatness—in her case a throne. She might take a lover, but she would never accept a master.

Cecil decided that matters must not be allowed to remain as they were. It was imperative that the Queen should marry. Let her marry the man for whom she clearly had an inordinate desire; let there be an heir to the throne. That was the quickest way to make the people settle down and forget. When they were celebrating the birth of a Prince, they would forget how Amy Dudley had died.

The wedding could be secret. The people need not know of it until an heir was on the way.

Such procedure would be irregular, but Amy’s death was very unpleasant. It had to be forgotten. Much which this Queen’s father had done was unpleasant, but that King had kept his hold on the people’s affections.

Robert was delighted with Cecil’s change of opinion. He was triumphant, believing he had won; but he had reckoned without the Queen.

She had come to know her lover well, and those very qualities which she admired so much in him and which had made her love him, helped her now to make the decision that she would not marry him…for a while.

She knew that during those difficult weeks she had learned another lesson…a lesson as important to her as that which she had learned through Thomas Seymour…as important and as painful.

She was Queen of England and she alone would rule. Robert should remain her lover, for all knew that lovers were more devoted, amusing, and interesting than husbands, who could become arrogant—especially if they were arrogant by nature.

She would win back the people’s love as she had after the Seymour scandals. Moreover, if she did not marry Robert, how could it be said that she had urged him to kill his wife?

Her mind was made up. She could not marry Robert now, for to do so would be tantamount to admitting she had schemed with him to murder Amy. Therefore she would stand supreme. She would keep her lover and remain the Queen.

SIX

As the months passed, Elizabeth began to regain her hold on the people, and she knew that she had acted wisely. All the world thought that Robert had murdered his wife; but how could they believe that Elizabeth had had a part in that murder when she showed as little eagerness to marry her favorite as she did one of her royal suitors?

The Archduke Charles was spoken of once more. She also pretended to consider Eric, who had now become King of Sweden. She was sure of herself now, and determined never again to be the prey of her emotions.

This did not mean that she loved Robert any the less. She was unhappy when he was not with her and she was gay in his company; she liked to keep him at Court, guessing whether or not she would marry him.

She could not hide her affection. She believed she would never know another man who could stir her emotions as Robert did. Steadfast affection was one of her qualities, as Kat Ashley and Parry had seen; they had betrayed her once, but she understood and forgave them; once she loved, she did not easily cast that love from her.

And Robert’s charm had by no means diminished. To him their life together might seem unfulfilled; not so to her. She had all she wanted from him—his company, his admiration, his passionate love, which must always be kept at fever heat. She could almost be grateful to Amy for preventing their marriage—first as his wife by her existence, and then as his victim by her mysterious death.

The Queen was gay during those months, enjoying the festivals which were prepared for her, delighting to honor those who pleased her—and none did that as much as Robert. They did not understand her, these people about her; when Robert knelt to her and she so far lost her dignity before a company of statesmen, courtiers and ambassadors, as to stretch out a hand and stroke the curling hair at his neck and even call attention to his well-shaped head, they thought she was so much in love with him that she would surely marry him. They did not understand her desires; and it was her delight, as well as her necessity, to keep her secrets.

There were quarrels. He was the most arrogant of men, raging to be the master. Well, she would ask herself, how could I love a ninny? How could I love a man who was afraid to cross me for fear of losing my favors? A man must be a man, and never was there such a man as Lord Robert Dudley. She showered gifts upon him, it was true; but she wished them to be the rewards of the statesman not the lover. He was indeed becoming a statesman, taking a great interest in affairs of a political nature, preparing himself for the role of King of England. She would watch him, strutting a little. And why should he not? Was it not for men to strut? Why should he not show insolence to my lord of Norfolk who thought himself more royal than the Queen herself? A pox on Norfolk! A pox on the whole Howard breed! Her father had had to lower their pride; nor would she hesitate to do the same. They thought too much of their birth; they worried too much whether a man’s ancestors were lords or farmers. They should take care, for my Lord Robert would stomach none of their insolence; and, by God, she thought, I’ll make him an Earl…the mightiest Earl in the Kingdom, one day.

But although it gave her great pleasure to see him in his manly arrogance, she too enjoyed teasing him. At times she would stamp her foot, slap his face, and would herself remind him of his humble origins. “Do not dare show your arrogance to me, my lord. Remember it is to me you owe your position here at Court.” She would pretend that he had offended her over some lack of courtesy to the Queen when in truth they both knew that her outburst was due to her having caught him smiling a little too tenderly at one of her women.

She implied that she expected fidelity from him; but in reality she did not. He must be essentially masculine; and he was. Men, she believed, were not noted for their fidelity. Not for her some sighing love-sick fool. She must have a rampaging lover, impatient, angry sometimes, wayward perhaps. Robert had all these characteristics; and he provided all the joy in her life.

He longed for rank that he might flaunt it in the faces of such as Norfolk. He wanted to take first place, not only through the Queen’s love, but in his own right of nobility.

He would come familiarly into her bedchamber, startling her ladies; and once, after he had kissed her hand, he had the temerity to kiss her cheek…before them all.

“My lord!” she reproved him with mock dignity, but her eyes sparkled and he was in no mood to be moved by her assumed anger.

“I have kissed you before them all,” he said. “So would I serve you careless of others…all through the day…all through the night…all through my life.”

“Listen to him!” she cried. “What if the whole Court came in to kiss me good morning!”

“They should never enter this chamber. My sword would prevent them.”

She looked at her women, commanding them to admire him. She knew there were several among them whose thoughts were occupied unduly with Lord Robert Dudley.

He had dared to take her shift from the hands of the woman who held it; but Kat had snatched it away from him, declaring that it was not meet for a man to know the Queen wore such a garment.

How Elizabeth loved such games! She sat there imperiously, aware of his desires, protected by her women.

“Don’t dare leave me with Lord Robert! I fear this man!” she cried.

And his answer came: “If I read your Majesty’s meaning, you have need to fear him…though he would protect your life with his.”

“I know it,” she said tenderly. “But I forbid you to come thus into my chamber…ever again.”

But he heeded not the warning; he knew that she would be dis appointed if he did not come. Kat said it was as it had been with my lord Admiral. Did Her Majesty remember? It seemed that these big and handsome men found great delight in storming her chamber.

Kat’s face was slapped affectionately; and Elizabeth was very gay that morning.

When she next saw him she reproved him, whispering to him under cover of the music which was played in the gallery.

“My lord, you go too far.”

“Nay,” he said, “not far enough!”

“In my bedchamber! And daring to hand me my garments!”

“Ere long I trust I shall be with you all through the days and nights.”

“Ah…if that might only be!”

He showed his exasperation, which set a frown between his well-shaped brows. “It could be…quite simply.”

“No, Robert, not yet.”

“Not yet!” he cried hopefully; and he would have seized her hand but she prevented him.

“Have a care, foolish one. Do you want the whole Court to start its scandals once more?”

“They have never stopped.”

“How dare you suggest there are scandals concerning me? You forget I am your Queen.”

“Would I could forget it! Would it were not so…. Then…”

“Then you would have no need of me?”

“If you were a dairymaid I would have need of you.”

She laughed and retorted with the Tudor frankness: “Yes, for five minutes under a hedge.”

“Five minutes under a hedge and for the rest of my life.”

“Robert, when you look at me thus I believe that to be true. But we are too far apart.”

“That could be remedied.”

“It shall be, my darling.”

But later, when the papers which would have made Robert an Earl and restored the Earldom of Warwick to his brother Ambrose were put before her, she was in a perverse mood.

He was with her at the time; she looked from him to the papers. If he were an Earl—and the Earldom she would grant him would be one which hitherto had been granted to none but persons of royal blood—she knew that she would be very close to marriage with him. She could not help noticing the gleam in his eyes; she remembered how she herself had coveted the crown. She pictured herself relenting—for indeed there were times when, for all her resolutions, she felt herself weak in his company. She hardly ever granted him an interview with herself alone. She was strong, but so was he. To her he was the perfect man and as such would necessarily be triumphant, and how could he be unless she surrendered? It was only because she was a Queen that she could resist him.

He should not have his earldom yet. He should remain her gay Lord Robert. So she frowned and, to the astonishment of all, asked that a knife be brought to her. When this was done she drew it across the papers, cutting them through.

“How can I heap honors on these Dudleys!” she cried. “Have they not been traitors to the Crown for three generations!”

Robert faced her, his eyes blazing. How she loved him! What a man he was! He cared for nothing.

“Madam,” he said, “I understand you not. How, pray, have the Dudleys failed to serve you?”

“What excitement is this?” she asked as she smiled at him. “How can I, my lord, grant honors to the Dudleys? Do you forget that my great father had good cause to send your grandfather to the block? Do you deny that your father rose against the Crown and tried to make your brother King?”

“If my service to Your Majesty is considered treachery…”

She lifted her hand and gave his cheek a light slap—the most affectionate of slaps—denoting familiarity and indulgence.

Those present smiled. This was nothing but a lovers’ quarrel.

She is as much in love with him as ever, they thought; but he has offended her of late because his eyes have been straying to a fair young lady of the Queen’s bedchamber. The Queen is merely telling him that there must be only one love affair in the life of Robert Dudley.

All the same he continued to be plain Lord Robert.

The Queen was tormented by thoughts of those who she feared might be deemed to have a greater claim than herself to the throne. Nobles of royal blood always haunted, like grim shadows, the lives of the Tudors. Henry, her father, had solved his problems by murder; he liked to know that those who might have ousted him were dead. That was a wise policy, Elizabeth often thought; but times had changed, and she was not the absolute monarch that her father had been; she was more dependent on her ministers. After the persecutions of the Marian reign, the people looked to Elizabeth for clemency.

There were three women who gave her cause for anxiety; two of these were the sisters of Lady Jane Grey—Lady Catharine and Lady Mary. She knew that there were some who still considered her to be a bastard and usurper; these people would like to make the Lady Catharine Queen. The grandmother of the Grey girls had been Henry VIII’s sister and there was no doubt of their legitimacy.

Elizabeth was continually afraid that there would be a rising against her. Indeed that had been her great fear at the time of Amy’s death. The Grey sisters had been carefully brought up and their conduct was not likely to give rise to scandal. There had never been any admirals in their lives to burst into their bedchambers and slap and tickle them while they were in bed. There had never been a handsome man so in love with them that he was suspected of murdering his wife. The characters of Lady Catharine and Lady Mary were quite different from that of Elizabeth. They were quiet, learned, and good Protestants. Many remembered that Elizabeth had been ready to change her religion when she deemed it expedient to do so. The Greys were gentle, pliable; Elizabeth was full of feminine vagaries. Many people in this land might think Lady Catharine or Lady Mary would make a more suitable Queen than this red-headed virago who had a penchant for goading men to scandalous behavior.

There was another, even more formidable—Mary Queen of Scots. She was a greater rival, and she was far away, so that Elizabeth could not keep a watchful eye upon her. She would have been happy to have Mary in England, nominally as an honored guest but in reality a prisoner. That was why, when Mary had left France recently on the death of her husband, François Deux, Elizabeth had refused her a safe passage. What a prize a captured Mary would have been!

Mary had said—so Elizabeth had been told—when the death of Amy had been reported to her: “Ah, now the Queen of England will be able to marry her horse-master!”

“Insolence!” muttered Elizabeth. “Could she but see my ‘horse-master,’ I doubt not she would throw at him some of the languishing glances which we hear are so fascinating.”

That was another quality of Mary’s which exasperated her. Mary was reputed to be very beautiful, and it was mortifying to be reminded that she was nine years younger than Elizabeth herself. At least there was nothing of the meekness of the Grey sisters in Mary’s character.

There were many Catholics who looked on Mary as the real Queen of England.

Such thoughts of her rivals often made Elizabeth fretful; she would lose control of her temper, and many of those about her would be chastised, and not only with words. But her rages were short-lived and would give place to pleasant smiles; and when she felt that she had been unjust she would always seek to make up to her victim in some way.

One day when she was riding to the hunt she noticed that Lady Catharine Grey was not in the company. On inquiring the reason she was told that the lady was sick and had stayed in her apartments. She tried to forget the trifling incident and, if it had been any other, she would not have given it a further thought.

During the hunt she lost her temper, and as Robert was riding beside her he felt the full force of her annoyance.

She said to him quite suddenly: “I have decided that I cannot put off my marriage. I shall invite the King of Sweden to come to England without delay, that the preparations may go ahead.”

Robert was astounded. “The King of Sweden!” he cried. “That man! He is nothing more than an imbecile.”

“How dare you speak thus of your betters?”

“Not being an imbecile, Your Majesty, I do not consider that man to be even my equal.”

“Master Dudley, you give yourself airs.”

His temper was as hot as hers. Their natures were similar; therein lay the great understanding between them. Each was quick to anger and quick to forget it; both were proud of their positions yet perpetually aware of humble ancestors.

He answered: “Madam, I speak the truth—which is what I believe you have said you wished from me.”

“I would thank you to look to your own affairs.”

“Your Majesty’s marriage is my affair.”

“I do not think so.”

“Madam…”

“I command you to keep your nose out of my affairs.”

“And I insist that your marriage is my affair—mine as much as yours.”

“So you think I will marry you, do you?”

“You have led me to believe that it is not an impossibility.”

“Then you are a fool to hold such hopes. You…a Dudley…to marry with a Queen! Do you think I could so far forget my royal rank as to marry such as you!”

“Does Your Majesty mean that?”

“We do mean it.”

“Then have I Your Majesty’s permission to leave Court? I wish to go abroad.”

“Go! Go by all means. Nothing could please us more. It is with the greatest pleasure that we give you leave to go.”

He was silent. She watched him covertly. There, Master Robert, she thought, what now? That will show you who is in command.

He performed his duty with great care and detached perfection during the hunt. She was almost restored to good humor by the time they returned to the palace; but she waited in vain for him to ask her pardon.

For a whole day he absented himself from Court, since there was no particular duty to keep him there. The Queen’s ministers were alert. They had heard of the quarrel. Was this the beginning of a coolness between them?

The following day Cecil said to her: “Since Your Majesty has decided on a match with the King of Sweden, it would be as well to invite him here without delay.”

She was furious suddenly: “I decide on a match with the King of Sweden! I have heard he is nothing more than an imbecile!”

“Your Majesty, he is a King and would make a worthy husband.”

“I am the best judge of who shall be my husband.”

“Then Your Majesty has no intention of proceeding with this match?”

“I have no such intention.”

Cecil retired exasperated. So her statement, during the hunt, which had been reported to him by those who worked for him, had been made with no other purpose than to anger Robert.

She waited for Robert to hear of her remarks. He would, she felt, return humbly and she would meet him halfway; there would be one of those reconciliations which delighted her. She needed such consolation after a whole day without him, for other men seemed stupid and witless when compared with him.

But he did not come; and at length, when she commanded his presence, diffidently he came.

“Why is it that you have absented yourself from Court?” she demanded.

“Because I have been making preparations to leave the country, and I thought by so doing I was obeying Your Majesty’s orders.”

She became woeful and helpless. Her eyes pleaded: So you would desert me! You would leave me to the mercy of my stern ministers. Is that all your love is worth! Do all your protestations mean nothing?

“My lord,” she said despondently, “is it your wish to leave the country? If that is what you desire, so great is our wish for your contentment that we will grant you the permission to go, even though it is against our wishes to do so.”

He was smiling as he kissed her hand with ardor. “How could I ever find contentment but in the service of Your Majesty?”

“Then all is well,” she said gaily.

“And the King of Sweden?”

She “pupped” with her lips, which was a habit of hers; then she began to laugh, and he laughed with her.

“Come,” she said, “sit beside me and give me the benefit of your conversation. I declare the Court has been a dull place these last hours.”

And when the French and Spanish ambassadors were with her, and one expressed his surprise that Robert Dudley was still at Court, as he had heard his lordship had Her Majesty’s permission to go abroad, she laughed lightly.

“I cannot live if I do not see him every day,” she said.

Then, because she fancied Robert’s smile was too complacent, she added quickly: “He is as my lap-dog.”

That brought an angry look to his face and she put out a hand to him with a very tender smile. “Nay,” she went on, “’tis true that I will not be without him, and where this Dudley is, there you may be sure to find Elizabeth.”

Then the whole Court knew that she was as much in love with him as she had ever been; and they did not believe—nor did Robert—that their marriage would be long delayed.

Time passed pleasantly at Windsor. Elizabeth walked often on the terrace which had been built for her before the castle on the north side. She was fond of walking and was often seen at the head of a little procession of ladies and gentlemen, with Lord Robert beside her, holding an umbrella over her if it rained.

Often she hunted in the park or the forest, for she was as fond of the hunt as her father had been. Bull-baiting and cock-fighting delighted her. She had a stage put in the castle that she might indulge her taste for the drama, and many strolling players had come to Court in the hope of pleasing her and making their fortunes. There were places too for musicians; and in the Windsor Castle orchestra were players of many instruments including lutes and bagpipes, flutes and rebecks.

But she did not forget that it was a Queen’s duty to show herself to her people, and so she set out on a progress through Essex and Suffolk, staying at various houses which belonged to those ladies and gentlemen who were wealthy enough and worthy enough to entertain her.

While they were staying at Ipswich, Lady Catharine Grey attracted the Queen’s attention.

It was during the robing—always an important ceremony, for there were so many dresses from which to choose, so many jewels which must be tried on only to be discarded. Eventually Elizabeth decided on a gown of black velvet and a caul that went with it set with pearls and emeralds; there was a black velvet hat spangled with gold and adorned with a drooping feather which hung over the shoulder.

While the Lady Catharine was adjusting the jeweled girdle she fell into a faint at her mistress’s feet.

For a few seconds Elizabeth stood still, looking down at the girl, who was very beautiful and in that moment astonishingly like her sister, the tragic Lady Jane.

“See to the girl,” said Elizabeth.

It was Kat who came forward and unlaced Lady Catharine’s gown.

“It is but a faint, Your Majesty.”

“Lift her up,” said the Queen. “Get her to a couch. She looks a little better now. She is too tightly laced, I doubt not.”

While the women were putting Lady Catharine on a couch, Elizabeth drew Kat aside.

“What do you think, Kat?”

Kat’s eyes were alert. When a young lady fainted, one could always suspect a certain reason.

Elizabeth’s eyes were steely. “I know what you are thinking, you evil-minded creature.”

“Your Majesty, I may be wrong, but I have wondered about the lady of late.”

“You have wondered?”

“It is a look in the eyes, Madam. I just cannot explain.”

“You said nothing to me.”

“Madam, how could I be sure, and how could I voice such suspicions unless I was sure?”

“It would seem you have learned discretion in your old age. This is a matter of some moment. She is not a mere serving wench, you must know. I have a duty toward my kinsfolk and those in my personal service. If your suspicions are justified…”

“My dearest lady, do not be harsh with her. She is young and so pretty, and Your Majesty knows how easy it is for these things to happen.”

“Easy!” cried the Queen. Had she not fought her temptations? Had she not almost succumbed? Did she not long to be in the condition which might well have overtaken Lady Catharine? “Easy for harlots it may well be!” she snapped. “But this is Lady Catharine Grey—one of three sisters of whose virtue we hear so much.”

She could not control her wrath and jealousy. She thought of the pleasure she might have enjoyed; and being Elizabeth Tudor she was whipping her indignation to fury because the sly Catharine Grey was a possible rival for the throne.

She strode over to the group of women who were clustered about the couch.

“Well?” she demanded. “Well? Well? What is the meaning of this? Why does the girl faint in my presence? Have you discovered yet?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then why not?” She bent over the Lady Catharine, who looked at her with frightened eyes. “Your Ladyship has often absented herself from duty,” went on the Queen. “Why? Answer me, girl. Have you been meeting a lover? Why do you lie there looking so frightened? What have you to fear if your conduct has been above reproach? But has it been above reproach? Come…let us see for ourselves!” Elizabeth pulled at the gold thread which laced Catharine’s bodice; she seized Catharine’s skirts.

Catharine scrambled up and fell on her knees crying: “Your Majesty, it is true that I am to have a child.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks were scarlet, her eyes blazing. “You…you harlot! You dare tell me that!”

“Your Majesty, it is not as you think. We were married before Christmas and…”

“Married! So your crime is even greater than I thought. What right have you to marry without our consent?”

“Your Majesty, we feared that it might not be granted and we could not endure to be parted…without…”

“Stop! Who is this man?”

“It is Lord Hertford. He is in France, as Your Majesty knows; but he is my lawful husband.”

“We will bring him back from France to answer for his sins. As for you, you will go to your apartment and there you will stay…my prisoner.”

“Your Majesty…” The girl had flung her arms about the Queen’s knees. “I beg of you, have pity on me. Do not blame him. It was not our fault…”

“So you were forced to marry against your wills, I suppose?”

“We acted so, Your Majesty, because we truly loved.”

“Take her away,” said Elizabeth. “I am covered with shame that this should happen in my Court. I do not believe there was a marriage. The girl’s a slut, and she talks thus to throw dust in our eyes. Take her away at once. She offends us.”

She gave Catharine a push with her foot, and the girl fell backward. Two ladies-in-waiting came and helped her to her feet; they led her away weeping.

“See that she is well guarded,” said Elizabeth.

And as she turned away, she was smiling. The Lady Catharine Grey had put herself into the Queen’s power, and Elizabeth was too shrewd a statesman to miss the opportunity which was offered.

Lord Robert came to the apartment of the Lady Catharine Grey. He was uneasy, for there would be trouble if the Queen heard of this visit; yet he could not ignore such an appeal as he had received.

She had sent a note to him, imploring him to come and see her. Robert was ruthless; he was self-seeking; but, beneath the shell which had been made by ambition, he had a kind heart. He was generous by nature, and it was his pleasure to help those who begged favors of him. He did not wish to bring trouble to any except those people who stood in his way or had slighted him. The Lady Catharine had never done him any harm; she was a beautiful young woman and he liked beautiful young women. Therefore, at the risk of Elizabeth’s displeasure, he could not ignore Catharine’s plea.

With great secrecy he was let into her apartment where he found her melancholy in her distress.

“My lord, it is good of you to come,” she cried.

“I am distressed on account of your plight.”

“Could you not speak for my husband with the Queen? It is for that reason I begged you to come. I so fear what will happen to him when he returns.”

Robert was silent. The young fool Hertford could lose his head for marrying a lady of royal blood without the sovereign’s consent, and he should have known it.

“The Queen is incensed that you should have married in secret.”

“I know, but what harm will it do her?”

What harm indeed! thought Robert. You who have a claim to the throne, some think, and about to produce an heir! Poor foolish girl! But so charming, so helpless, and looking to the powerful Lord Robert with such appealing and most beautiful eyes.

But he had not come to talk politics with the girl.

“You may rest assured that I will speak to the Queen on your behalf.”

She seized his hand and kissed it.

“But,” he went on, “this is a serious offense for a lady of your rank to have committed.”

“I ask nothing…only to live quietly with my husband and child. We will go away from the Court. We will live in the country. It is what we both wish.”

Poor innocent young woman! Would the Queen allow her to go from Court into the country where she might plot against the Crown, where she might ferment trouble? What an unfortunate family the Greys were! Would Catharine suffer as had her sister Jane?

“My dear sister,” said Robert, “I beg of you, do not hope for much leniency. I will choose a propitious moment to speak with the Queen. I will ask her not to be too harsh with your husband.”

“Robert, my dear brother, I have been so frightened. I have dreamed of late…about Jane. Poor Jane! She did not wish to make trouble. Did Guildford, I wonder? My sister and your brother. They were so young, were they not? Perhaps they only wanted to be happy, as we do. Is it our fault that we were born near to the throne?”

Robert comforted her and as soon as possible took his leave. He dared not stay long. As he went away he thought how ironical life was. The Greys had been born royal, and two of them at least wished this had not been the case. Yet he, who had been born far from royalty, longed to share it.

He did speak to Elizabeth about the Lady Catharine who, by that time, had become a prisoner in the Tower.

Kat was present at their interview, but he was accustomed to her being there and he spoke frankly before her.

“What will you do with that poor girl?” he asked.

“I am enraged,” said the Queen. “She…my own kinswoman…so to behave!”

He said boldly: “Your Majesty is envious of the child she will bear.”

“I…envious of a bastard!”

“Not a bastard. The marriage was lawful.”

“Without the Queen’s consent!”

“The marriage is lawful enough, Your Majesty. You would not be envious now if you were to bear a child.”

“How can you say such things to me!”

“Because from one who loves you as no other loves you, you must expect the truth. Elizabeth, we are wasting our time. Let us marry. Let us have children, as surely we were meant to.”

She put her hand in his and exultation leaped within him. “Would that it could be so,” she said.

“But why not?”

She shook her head but her eyes were brilliant.

“Dearest Elizabeth, do we not always see matters in the same light? We are one. We were meant for each other.”

“We see the world in the same light,” she said. “You are my eyes, dear Robin. Yes, you are right. I long for a child.”

“It is your duty. These perfections should not be allowed to pass away. They must be perpetuated.”

“I know of none who speaks to me so elegantly. What arts you have, Robert!”

“Nay! ’Tis love, not art, that puts these words into my mouth, the love inspired by the greatest lady in the world.”

She smiled and leaned against him.

Kat, watching, sighed. Why does she refuse him? wondered Kat. How can she refuse such a man? He does not lose his graces. He has murdered his wife for her. Dearest and most perverse, most strong and most frail Mistress, what more do you ask of a man?

But Elizabeth drew away from her lover. “Why should you plead for that girl? Is it because she has a fair face?”

“Is it fair? I had not noticed. I remember I have rarely seen her but in your presence.”

“She is pretty enough.”

“A pale moon compared with the blazing sun. When I plead for her, I think of you. That is why I say deal leniently with her. It is what the people would expect.”

“Robert, there are some who would make her Queen. My father would have chosen this moment to send her to the block.”

“But you have wisdom as well as beauty.”

“Was my father not a wise man, then?”

“Not always.”

“I think that could be called treason.”

“Nay, call it love…love for you, my dearest Queen. The people would not like to see you murder your rivals as your father did his. It is unworthy of you. You are stronger than that. A lioness does not slay mice.”

“What! Should I pardon her! Should I leave her and her husband to raise a brood of children to menace the throne!”

“Not so. Keep her prisoner and keep Hertford prisoner, but do not take their lives.”

She tapped his cheek in her affectionate way. “Did you think I should take their lives? Nay! I would not have her blood upon my hands. I shall keep her prisoner in the Tower, and Hertford shall be my prisoner. There I shall know that she is harmless. I would not hurt her silly head. Let her live…my prisoner.”

He kissed her hand fervently. “You are the wisest as well as the most beautiful of women.”

“Enough of Madam Catharine. Let us talk of more interesting matters.”

“Of Madam Elizabeth perhaps?”

“And Master Robert.”

“Then let us talk of the days when they met in the Tower, and of how he in his lonely cell dreamed of the future.”

“Well, that will make pleasant talk, I doubt not. I’ll send for a musician to charm us with his lute while we talk.”

He looked reproachful; but she felt too soft toward him to trust herself alone with him.

The Queen was pleased that the Lady Catharine Grey should be her prisoner. Lord Hertford was now in the Tower on a charge of treason. They should spend the rest of their lives there, decided the Queen. None should accuse her of having their blood on her hands.

She thought continually of that other and greater menace to her peace of mind. The very mention of Mary Queen of Scots could send her into a black mood.

If she had the Queen of Scots—and the Lady Mary Grey—in prison, she would be a happier woman. But there was another who had come to her notice; this was Margaret, Countess of Lennox. This lady was not very far removed from the throne, since she was the daughter of Margaret Tudor, Henry the Eighth’s sister. The Countess needed careful watching, for she had a son, Lord Henry Darnley; and women with sons could be very ambitious.

Prying into the affairs of the Countess of Lennox, the Queen’s spies soon discovered that she had been corresponding with Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth laughed when the news was brought to her. “’Tis clear to me what she would wish. She would marry that boy of hers to the Queen of Scotland, and then plot to give him England as well.”

Robert agreed with her that this was doubtless in the lady’s mind.

“I wonder if Mary would take him,” mused Elizabeth. “But I doubt it. Madam Lennox sees him with a mother’s eyes. I see a beardless boy—more like a girl than a man.”

“Your Majesty’s Eyes sees him in the same way.”

She laughed at her “Eyes”—her new pet name for him. “What else do my Eyes see?” she asked tenderly.

“That the woman may well be a danger to my beloved one.”

“We’ll put her into the Tower. That’s where she should be.”

It was not difficult to find an excuse. The Countess’s apartments were searched, and some charts of the stars were found. Her servants, under torture, confessed that she had employed astrologers to discover how long Elizabeth would live, and they had foretold that she would die during the next year.

Here, beyond dispute, was high treason.

The Countess of Lennox became the Queen’s prisoner in the Tower.

Now she had two dangerous women behind bars; but her thoughts were still of Scotland.

That autumn Elizabeth fell ill of the smallpox.

All the country believed that she would die and that the prophecy of the Countess’s astrologers was to be fulfilled.

There was tension throughout the country. Two brothers of the Pole family, who had Plantagenet blood in their veins, tried with their followers to march on London. The plot was discovered and the brothers taken prisoner. They insisted that they had not meant to depose the Queen but merely to demand that the succession should be fixed on Queen Mary. Cecil and his ministers forcefully declared that there would be trouble until the Queen married and produced an heir.

Meanwhile the Queen had become so ill that she believed death was near. She opened her eyes and seeing Robert at her bedside she smiled feebly and held out her hand to him. “Robert,” she said, “so you are here with me. That is where you should be. You…of all others. Had I not been a Queen I should have been your wife.”

Those who heard those words were sure that if she recovered she would marry him.

She was filled with remorse because she had not treated Robert with fairness. She loved Robert; she would never love any as she loved him; and if she died, what would become of him? He had many enemies, and he had nothing but her favor. She could have given him the highest position in the land, and she had given him nothing…nothing but lands and riches, not even the earldom he had so ardently desired. Such nobles as Norfolk would deride him, taunt him with his lowly birth; he had no place in the Privy Council; she had delighted in having him by her side, and she had made a lap-dog of the most perfect man in her kingdom.

She sent for her ministers and gathered her strength to address them. “There is one thing I would ask of you, my lords. It is my dying wish, and I beg of you not to ignore the wish of a dying woman. When I die I wish Lord Robert Dudley to be Protector of this Realm. I wish you to swear to me that you will obey him, respect and honor him, for, my friends, he is a great and good man; he is the most perfect and virtuous gentleman it has ever been my lot to know.”

And when they had left her, having sworn to do as she asked, she lay back on her pillows and imagined him—Lord Protector as his father had been. She pictured him in all his manly beauty, his dignity and power; and she thought: How can I bear to leave a world that contains him? For what happiness could there be elsewhere compared with that of being near him?

She was not going to die! Life was too good while she had a crown which she had long coveted, and Robert Dudley was at her side.

She began to recover; and a few days later she again called her ministers to her. Robert Dudley was immediately to be made a member of the Privy Council. He was no longer to be a lap-dog. He was to be the Queen’s passionate and devoted friend, the statesman who must always be beside her to give her his advice, her Eyes, her companion, the man who must never cease to hope to be her husband.

In a happy mood she pardoned the two Pole brothers, providing they were exiled from the country; and each day her health improved and, with Lord Robert beside her, she planned entertainments to celebrate her recovery.

The Queen was fully restored to health when there came news from Scotland which infuriated her.

The Archduke Charles, who had for so long been her suitor, had now turned his attention elsewhere; and to none other than the Queen’s hated rival, that other Queen, Mary of Scotland.

The Queen sent for Cecil and declared herself to be insulted; she assured him she would never consent to Mary’s marriage with that philanderer of Austria.

As the Archduke had shown the utmost tolerance, patience, and courtesy, Cecil shrugged his shoulders and wrote to the Emperor requesting that his son’s advances should be made once more to the Queen of England. Elizabeth meantime wrote to Mary telling her that she would never give her consent to a marriage which could not fail to cause enmity between them; and as Mary’s heirs might succeed to the English crown she would be ill-advised to marry without the consent of the English Queen.

But the courtship of the Queen of England was beginning to be looked upon as one of history’s farces, and the Emperor wrote to Cecil that he could not have his son exposed to insult a second time. Cecil was perturbed. Eric of Sweden was now out of the marriage market. He had romantically married a beautiful girl whom he had seen selling nuts not far from his palace. So struck had he been with the grace and charm of Kate the nut seller, that he had defied all opposition and married her.

The Queen had laughed with great heartiness when she had heard of this, although she was piqued, as always, to lose a suitor. But now the news of the retirement of the Archduke from the field was disturbing.

The Queen must marry, and in Cecil’s opinion, if she now married Dudley the people would be ready to believe that she at all events was innocent of the unsavory suspicions connected with Amy’s death.

Perhaps, thought Cecil, when Mary had married the Archduke, Elizabeth would so intensely wish to be married that she would follow the example of the Queen of Scots. But Mary was ambitious. She wanted the throne of England for the son she hoped to have, and therefore she had no intention of offending Elizabeth.

She wrote humbly to the Queen saying that she would decline the Archduke, and was very willing to listen to any good advice on the matter of matrimony which her good sister of England would deign to give her.

So Elizabeth began to look for a suitable consort for Mary Queen of Scots.

Elizabeth was spending a good deal of time in the company of Sir James Melville, the Scottish ambassador.

The man amused her; he was so dour, so unlike the rest of her courtiers who had come to understand that one of their indispensable duties was to make love, conversationally, to the Queen, for the more accomplished they were in this, the more likely were they to succeed at Court. None, of course, had the elegant looks, the magnificent figure, the exuberant charm and the manner of paying a compliment which were Robert Dudley’s; but many of them were beginning to learn these arts, and almost to rival him.

Therefore it amused the Queen, while she plotted in her cautious way against Mary, to entertain this man who seemed somewhat uncouth. She would have him sit beside her, very close; she would tap his cheek affectionately; she enjoyed shocking him by the magnificence of her clothes, with the love-making of her courtiers to which she so archly responded; she would have music played while they talked, for she knew that he believed any sensuous pleasures to be sinful.

She insisted on his talking of that woman who was hardly ever out of her thoughts and for whom she felt an overwhelming jealousy.

“They tell me your mistress is a very fair woman, Master Melville,” she said.

“Aye, ’tis so.”

“And do you think so, Master Melville? Do you admire her as we hear all men do?”

“She is my mistress. How could I do aught else?”

“As a Queen and your mistress, yes. But then such a righteous man as you would admire a humpbacked one-eyed witch. Now tell me, how doth she look?”

“Her Majesty the Queen of Scots is neither humpbacked nor one-eyed.”

“You tease me, sir. Tell me of her clothes. Which does she favor? She has lived long in France, and they say that the French fashions are more becoming than the English. What do you say, Master Melville?”

“I know little of fashions, Madam.”

“But you must know which she likes. I myself favor the Italian caul and the bonnet. Do you know what is said of my preference? They say that I like it because it does not hide my hair, and I am very proud of my hair, of its color and curl. It is this redness which makes them say that.”

Melville was uncomfortable. It seemed an odd thing that the Queen should consider it part of his duty to discuss fashions and the color of hair.

He shifted in his seat, but she would not let him go.

“Whose hair is the better color—the Queen of England’s or the Queen of Scots’?”

“I beg Your Majesty to excuse me. I know nothing of such matters.”

“I believe that you do not remember what color hair your mistress has. It cannot have struck you very forcibly, you treacherous man.”

“Madam, I serve my mistress faithfully…”

She tapped his arm and laughed, for she was in a very frivolous mood; and it was as though her secret thoughts were so amusing that she could not refrain from laughter.

“I know it, I know it,” she cried. “You have not noticed your mistress’ hair, because it is so like other ladies’ hair that it has passed your notice. Now here is a simpler question: Who is the more beautiful, the Queen of England or the Queen of Scotland?”

Melville answered: “You are the fairest…” She smiled graciously at him, but he continued: “…in England. Our Queen is the fairest in Scotland.”

She pouted. “Come, come! That will not do.”

“Nay, Your Majesty pokes fun at this poor ambassador.”

“I am in earnest. I wish to know. I greatly regret that I have not my dear sister here in England. I would remedy the lack. I wish to know exactly how she looks.”

“Your Majesty, you and she are the fairest ladies in your Courts.”

“I am fairer of skin and lighter of hair, am I not?” she persisted.

“That is so, Your Majesty, but…”

“But what, sir?”

“Our Queen is very beautiful.”

“We have heard that said. We would we had her here that we might prove the truth of it. Who is the taller, she or I?”

“Our Queen is taller, Your Majesty.”

“Then she is too tall!” said Elizabeth. “For it is said that I am neither too tall nor too low.”

She was a little annoyed, and talked no more of appearances. This man was certainly uncouth; he did not even know how to compliment a Queen. She thought of the charming things Robert would have said to reassure her.

“How does your Queen pass the time?”

“She hunts.”

“Does she read?”

“She does, Your Majesty. She reads good books—the histories of countries.”

“And does she love music?”

“Very much, Your Majesty.”

“What instruments does she play?”

“The lute and the virginals.”

“Does she play well?”

“Reasonably well, Your Majesty…for a Queen.”

Then the Queen must play for the Scottish ambassador; she did so, and he had to admit that, on the virginals, she excelled her rival.

Then she must arrange for dances to be performed before him that she might show him how she danced. The inevitable question was asked: “Who is the better dancer, the Queen of England or the Queen of Scotland?”

He was frank: “My Queen dances not so high nor so disposedly as Your Majesty.”

She was inclined to be amused at the reply, but she answered tartly that she held the dance to be an expression of joy and high spirits, not so much a matter of elegance as she believed the French and the Spaniards looked upon it.

“Ah, that I might see your Queen!” she sighed. “You cannot guess how I yearn for a meeting. Would you could bring her to me.”

“I would willingly convey Your Majesty to Scotland. Our King James the Fifth went in disguise to France in order to inspect the Duke of Vendôme’s sister who was proposed for his bride. He was dressed as a page. What if Your Majesty so disguised herself?”

“Ah, that it could be so!” she sighed.

Then she said those words which set the whole world laughing and raised the high indignation of Scotland. “I have found a husband for your mistress.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes. I will give her the only man in the world whom I consider worthy to mate with her. This is the most virtuous, the most perfect of men, one whom I would have married myself had my mind not been given to

the virgin state. You have guessed? But surely you have. There is only one man who could fit such praises. I refer to my Lord Robert Dudley.”

The ambassador was at a loss for words.

She smiled at him pleasantly. “Ah, you feel his rank is not high enough? That is easily remedied. I shall do for him that which I have long promised. I shall make him the first Earl in the country. Now, my dear Melville, to your chamber, and write to your mistress that she may no longer remain in ignorance of the great good I would do her.”

Robert was furious.

He demanded instant audience and she, nothing loth, granted it.

“My lord, what ails you? See how I have your good at heart!”

“You would make a laughing-stock of me, Madam.”

“What! In offering you one of the most sought-after of brides?”

“There is only one bride I would have.”

“You are too ambitious, Robert.”

“I do not understand you.”

“You do not seem to understand that you speak with your Queen.”

“But you have led me to believe you would marry me.”

“Time and time again I have told you that I would never forsake the virgin state. Why, Robert, she is the fairest of women.”

She waited and of course it came: “That is untrue. You are the fairest of women.”

“Master Melville does not seem to think so, and he has seen us both.”

“The man is an uncouth ruffian from a land of barbarians.”

“I believe you are right, Robert.”

“Then put an end to this farce.”

“Come here, my love. Kat…a cushion for my lord. I would have him kneel at my feet. Nay, woman, the best of my cushions, for only the best is good enough for him. Hath he not said so?” He took her hand and kissed it. “Robert,” she said, “my fool Robert, do you think I would let you go to her!”

“Do you think I would ever leave you?”

“I’d send you to the block if you tried.”

“Then we see this matter through the same eyes as always?”

“Yes, my dearest Eyes, we do. But the woman is an arrogant creature. She will be angry when she knows I offer you, and she’ll not dare refuse you. But she will be angrier still when you refuse her. It will be as though you choose between us—marriage with her or the hope of marriage with me. And Robert, you are a man whom any woman would delight in having for her husband.”

“Except one who torments and teases and will not decide.”

“It is the Queen who is uncertain. The woman would take you this moment.”

“My beloved…my Queen…”

“Hush! That sly Kat listens. My dear one, now I shall show my love for you. I shall make you an Earl…the Earl of Leicester and Baron of Denbigh, that title which has only been used until now by royal persons; and I shall give you the Castle of Kenilworth and Astel-Grove. Now, you see, my darling, why I have seemed harsh to you to whom I could not be harsh. I did not grant you this state before, for I did not wish our enemies to call you my lap-dog. Now a great title will be yours; you will be the richest man in England—almost a King—and that is what I wish you to be. This I can do now, and none dare say me nay; for to marry with the Queen of Scots you must indeed be Earl of Leicester. And if you do not marry the Queen of Scots, you will still be with your own Elizabeth, and you will be none the worse—the Earl of Leicester instead of plain Lord Robert.”

He was kissing her hands, her throat, and her lips.

Robert was created Earl of Leicester with great pomp and ceremony at Westminster.

The Queen had insisted that, before he departed for Scotland, Sir James Melville must witness the ceremony, that he might report to his mistress in what high esteem the Queen held the man she was offering to her dear sister of Scotland.

She would allow none but herself to help him put on his robes. He was very solemn and dignified, and never had he looked quite so handsome as he did in his robes of state.

All those present noted the tender looks the Queen bestowed upon him; and, as he knelt before her and bent his head, she could not resist tickling his neck, there before them all.

She turned to the Scottish ambassador and, her face shining with love and pride, said: “How do you like him?”

“He is doubtless a worthy subject,” said Melville. “He is happy to serve a Queen who discerns and rewards good service.”

She smiled and her eyes fell on young Darnley who, as Prince of the Blood Royal, was standing near her. She knew that the sly ambassador was in touch—as he thought, in secret—with that young man, and that he hoped to make him, instead of the Earl of Leicester, the husband of Mary Queen of Scots.

She pointed to Darnley and said, imitating the Scottish accent: “Yet you like better yon lang lad.”

He was sly, that man. He did not know how much she had learned of his secret plotting. He whispered, thinking to please her: “No woman of spirit, Your Majesty, would make choice of such a man—for although he is very lusty, so I have heard, he is beardless and has the face of a lady.”

The Queen signified that she was well pleased with this answer, and her eyes went back with admiration to the newly made Earl.

Later at the banquet to celebrate the occasion she kept the Scot beside her.

She reminded him of the great affection she had for Mary.

“To no other would I offer Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. You must tell your mistress that in so doing I offer her the greatest compliment I could offer any. I am giving her the man I would have married myself were I not determined to live and die in the virgin state.”

“Madam,” he said, “ye need not to tell me that, for I know your stately stomach. You think that if you married you would be but Queen of England, and now you are both King and Queen. You will not suffer a commander.”

She looked at him shrewdly. He was no fool, this dour Scotsman.

Very soon after Robert was made Earl of Leicester, the Archduke Charles, having been rejected by Mary, began again to sue for Elizabeth’s hand. Catherine de’ Medici was trying to get the Queen for her son, King Charles; and failing him, for his brother, the Duke of Anjou.

Elizabeth meanwhile feigned to consider these suggestions with rapt attention. She allowed Darnley, against the advice of Cecil and her Council, to leave for Scotland.

It seemed that as soon as the Queen of Scots saw the beardless boy with the lady’s face, she fell in love with him and decided to dispense with the consent of the Queen of England. She married him.

It was not until after the ceremony that Elizabeth heard of the marriage.

She received the information calmly, and laughed merrily over it with the newly-made Earl of Leicester.

SEVEN

It was now eight years since Elizabeth had become Queen, and still she was unmarried, and still Robert continued to urge their union; but he was less hopeful than he had been.

He was now in his thirties—a little less handsome but not less attractive to women; and if the Queen could not make up her mind whether she would marry him or not, there were many ladies who would not have hesitated for a minute if he had offered himself to them.

He was one of the richest men in England now; he was the most powerful. But he had paid for these honors, and Robert was beginning to think that he had paid dearly.

He had always been attracted by children; the little boy who had served him so nobly during his imprisonment was no exceptional case. Children’s eyes followed him; they liked his magnificence, his great stature, his handsome face. His manner toward them was all that children desired it to be; he treated them with an easy nonchalance; he made them feel, not that he was stooping to their level, but that miraculously he had lifted them to his.

He now began to examine his dissatisfaction. He believed that above all things he had wished for marriage with the Queen; perhaps he still did. But he also felt a great desire to have children—sons—and they must be legitimate; yet what chance had he of getting legitimate sons while he must go on awaiting the Queen’s pleasure? Naturally he would prefer his first-born to be heir to the throne; but had Elizabeth decided to wait until they were too old to have children?

He had heard the words of the Scottish ambassador: “Madam, I know your stately stomach. You would be King and Queen.”

There was truth in those words, and it might well be that she, who would tolerate none equal with herself, had secretly made up her mind never to marry.

He had not, of course, been faithful to the Queen; but his love-affairs had had to be secret. He could never so much as look for long at any one of the Court beauties, for if the Queen’s jealous eyes did not detect a Court peccadillo, her spies would; and they were everywhere. He had powerful enemies who were hoping for his overthrow; Cecil was one of them, and since he had been made Earl of Leicester and Cecil had received no similar honor, the Queen’s chief minister must certainly be envious. Norfolk, Sussex, Arundel—those most powerful men—were only a few of his enemies. He knew that they were secretly working against his marriage with the Queen, and that the friendship they feigned to express was merely a sign that they feared Elizabeth might one day marry him. He suspected that Cecil had put into Elizabeth’s head the idea of marrying him to Mary Stuart, and although he had come well out of that matter as the Earl of Leicester, he could not help feeling that he had been exposed to a certain amount of ridicule.

Such thoughts as these were in his mind when he first noticed Lettice.

Lettice was one of the Queen’s ladies, and in appearance not unlike the Queen herself, for she was the daughter of Sir Francis Knollys, a cousin of Elizabeth’s.

The Queen had greatly favored Sir Francis and a good match had been made for his daughter Lettice with Lord Hereford.

Although Lettice bore a family likeness to the Queen, all who were impartial would agree that Lady Hereford had real beauty; indeed she was secretly voted the most beautiful lady of the Court. The perfect oval of her face was enhanced by her ruff; her hair was not red as was the Queen’s, but yellow-gold; her large eyes were brown, her features clear-cut, her teeth white, and she was tall and most graceful.

She was a bold woman and by no means afraid of provoking a situation which, if it came to the Queen’s knowledge, might end in disaster for herself and Robert. For her, the moment’s enjoyment was all-important. She was married to a man whom she did not love, and she was by no means displeased when she saw the eyes of Robert Dudley on herself. William Devereux, Lord Hereford, was some years younger than Robert and he seemed callow and dull when compared with the Queen’s favorite—the man who was acknowledged to be the most handsome and desirable at Court.

It seemed natural to Lettice that she and Robert should fall in love, and she proceeded to give him that encouragement which made him ready to put aside caution.

They met daily in the presence of others, but that was good enough for neither. Notes were exchanged; he must see her in private.

Could they meet in the pond garden? A meeting by night was arranged. A full moon shone that night on Hampton Court Palace.

This was recklessness. Robert knew it. But he was tired of waiting for the Queen’s decision; he was tired of village girls. He was even wondering what the Queen’s reaction would be if he told her he had decided to marry Lettice Knollys. It was true that Lettice had a husband, but husbands and wives could be dismissed in special circumstances. There was divorce. But he remembered Amy and the trouble she had caused. He had no real intention of marrying anyone but the Queen. Who knew, if he told her of his affection for Lettice. Elizabeth might realize that she was putting too great a strain upon him and, since he was sure she would never allow him to marry anyone else, marry him herself?

His thoughts were a little incoherent, but he was safe with a married woman; and why should he not enjoy a love affair which might bring him closer to marriage with the Queen?

Was this recklessness after all? Or was it sound good sense?

He went down to the pond garden to wait.

But Lettice did not come.

Nor came the storm for which Robert waited, for he knew that Elizabeth had discovered his philandering.

Elizabeth was not merely a jealous woman; she did not forget that she was also the Queen. The affair had not surprised her and she was not so displeased as Robert imagined her to be. The death of Amy had taught her a good deal. Love of power was in future to be the big brother in charge of her wayward affections; they should march together.

Her ministers were becoming alarmed at her failure to choose a husband, for suitors were not so eager to make a bid for her hand as they had once been. All the world believed that she was the mistress of Robert Dudley, and that as soon as she considered it expedient to do so, she was going to marry him. It was believed that only the scandals which still clung to her favorite, and which must touch herself, were preventing her.

She had been over-fond of Robert. Now she would show the world that he was not the only handsome man at her Court, and that fond as she was of him, she had affection to spare for others.

She was cleverer than Robert; he was merely a man, with a man’s appetites, while she was a Queen who knew the meaning of power, the absolute joy which that power alone could give her; and she intended never to forget it, never to place it in jeopardy if she could help it.

She admitted that Lettice was beautiful. She would have been furious if he had chosen any but a beautiful woman. Lettice was also married and that meant he could not become too involved with her. The gossips were busy. Robert should flirt with Lettice while the Queen showed the world that Robert was merely one of the young men whom she liked to have about her. She had already singled out a charming gentleman who was married to one of her ladies: Sir Thomas Heneage, a gentleman of the bedchamber. He was already wondering why favors such as those heaped upon Leicester should not fall on other handsome shoulders.

Very well, let the world see her affection straying from Robert. Then the suitors would re-appear and Master Cecil and his men would be satisfied because they could dabble in foreign politics to their hearts’ content. The Queen did not like to think that she had frightened away her suitors; one of the most amusing pastimes of her reign had been to consider marriage with one or other of them.

But moonlight meetings in the pond garden she would not allow. Robert’s love affair with Lettice must not go beyond a few languishing glances and whispered words. Let Robert wait in suspense. Let him, if he dare, make another assignation with Lettice. He should never keep it. Meanwhile the Court might whisper that the Queen seemed less fond of Leicester and was keeping at her side a most handsome gentleman of her bedchamber.

Negotiations with Austria were renewed, for the Emperor had died and Charles’s brother had taken the Imperial crown. The Queen was now thirty-three years old, and her ministers were restive. How could they hope for an heir if she did not marry soon?

She was alarmed, she told Cecil, concerning the religion of the Archduke. “Remember,” she said, “the marriage of my sister. The people were against it, and it brought no good to England. And, Master Cecil, if you would say that I might marry an Englishman, I would ask you to turn your eyes to what has happened to my sister of Scotland.”

She was clever. She knew what she was talking about. The Queen of Scots had found in her husband, Darnley, a weak and dissolute youth who was no good to her. The murder of David Rizzio before the Queen’s eyes had just taken place, and the world was still shocked by it. The Queen of Scots was six months pregnant, and there were many who said that the child she carried was Rizzio’s.

Here was a pretty scandal, Elizabeth could point out to her ministers, a scandal such as—in spite of the evil gossip of lewd people—no one had been able to lay at her door. Here was a fine example of marriage; and she would say to them all that it made her cling more eagerly than ever to the single state.

Let her ministers contemplate affairs in Scotland before they urged her to set out on the perilous journey which the Scottish Queen was undertaking with such dire results.

Her ministers quailed before her; in a battle of words she could always confound them. They were called upon to face her feminine illogicality to which they could find no answer in their masculine logic; and when they were exasperated almost beyond endurance, and when they were ready to retire from office rather than serve such a woman, she would turn about and present them with an irrefutable truth which would astound them, since for all their clear thinking, they had missed it.

She kept her eyes on Scotland; she dreamed of having the Queen of Scots in her power. Catharine Grey was still her prisoner; Catharine’s sister, Mary, had obligingly made a love match without the Queen’s consent, and now Mary and her husband with Catharine and Hertford were in the Tower. Darnley’s mother, the Countess of Lennox, who had had to be released since the sorcery charges could not be proved, had been sent back to the Tower on the marriage of Darnley with Mary of Scotland, for Elizabeth accused her of having arranged the marriage, knowing it would be against the wishes of the English Parliament.

Quietly, and for reasons other than the apparent ones, she had collected her dangerous enemies and was keeping them under lock and key. Cecil, Norfolk, Bacon, Leicester, Sussex, and Arundel watched her with amazement; they had thought themselves wily statesmen until they tried to pit themselves against this woman of thirty-three.

Cecil, who knew her a little better than did most people, did not now turn from Leicester as Norfolk and Sussex had. Cecil believed that she still kept a fond eye on her beloved Earl, that her seeming indifference to him was not to be taken too seriously and that it would be folly to seek the friendship of young Heneage whom she was using, partly to show Leicester that he must not turn to other women of the Court and partly to deceive the foreign ambassadors.

It was typical of her that she should get the utmost amusement out of the situation.

She ordered that Robert be brought before her. She would not see him alone, and there before her ladies and some of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, she warned him that she did not care to see philandering in her Court between widowers—however eligible—and married women. It shocked her profoundly and she would not tolerate it.

Robert wanted to retort that she herself set a poor example. Was she not casting coquettish glances on a gentleman of the bedchamber who was married to one of her women? But he saw the cold light in her eyes which told him clearly that this was Elizabeth the Queen who was reprimanding him.

He was profoundly shaken. He feared that if he showed any more interest in Lettice he would be banished from the Court.

Elizabeth was triumphant. She had established a new relationship between them. She wished him to stay at Court. He was a favorite—one of many.

This change did not go unnoticed.

Leicester’s reign is over, it was whispered. The Queen has fallen out of love. What of this new man, Heneage? Is he to take the favorite’s place? What had he that Robert had not? It was true that he was a little younger, but in everything else he was inferior.

Heneage was with the Queen on that day at Greenwich when, after supper, the whole Court was dancing in the great hall, and Cecil came to the Queen to tell her that the Scottish ambassador was without and wished to see her.

There was news from Scotland, and when Cecil had whispered this news into the Queen’s ear, she no longer had any heart for dancing. She sat down, putting her hand to her head, unable to hide her deep feeling. She said in a mournful voice to her women who had gathered about her: “The Queen of Scots is lighter of a fair son, and I am but a barren stock.”

Cecil waved away the women and, bending over her, whispered: “Madam, I know your feelings; but it would not be well for Melville to see you in this state. You must let him see you rejoice in the Prince’s birth.”

She grasped his arm and said: “You are right, as you generally are, my friend. Now bring in Melville.”

She was up and dancing when he came. She pirouetted merrily at the sight of him.

“This is good news you bring us,” she cried. “I have not felt so well for many weeks as I do on contemplating the birth of this fair son to my sister.”

Melville knelt before her and kissed her hand.

He said with emotion: “My Queen knows that of all her friends Your Majesty will be the gladdest of this news. Albeit her son has been dear bought with peril of her life. She has been so sorely handled in the meantime that she wishes she had never married.”

Elizabeth was pleased with this remark which the wily Scot had clearly added for her pleasure.

“You will be gossip to the baby Prince, Your Majesty?” asked Melville.

Elizabeth said that she would be pleased to stand godmother to the child.

But when she dismissed the ambassador and there was no longer need to play a part, she remembered with some disquiet that here was another claimant to the English throne who could not lightly be dismissed.

There was now no doubt that the Earl of Leicester had lost much of the Queen’s favor. Norfolk and Sussex came out in the open and showed their dislike on every occasion. Only Cecil, being wiser, kept aloof from the feud between them.

For the Twelfth Night Festivities the Queen astonished all by proclaiming Sir Thomas Heneage King of the Bean—a role which normally would have fallen to Robert Dudley, for none had the wit, the charm, and the gaiety to play the part as he had always played it.

Robert was secretly furious but he could do nothing. It was impossible for him to have private audience with the Queen, and he wished to speak to her in a way which he could not use before others.

Elizabeth appeared to be completely diverted by the new favorite. Norfolk and Sussex tittered together, and some of their followers were involved in quarrels with Robert’s men.

It was an intolerable position for Robert. Cecil was outwardly his friend, but Robert knew that he was merely following his cautious course; one word from the Queen that her indifference had turned to dislike, and Robert would have hardly a friend at Court. As for the people, he had never been popular with them; they had blamed him for all the scandal which had touched the Queen.

He was wondering whether he would support the marriage with the Archduke. But he could not do that; it would be to deny all that he had hoped for. He had ceased to look at Lettice, and was greatly disturbed because the Queen did not seem to be interested, while she herself continued to smile at Heneage. He had believed in the first place that when he dropped Lettice, she would drop Heneage; but she was clearly showing him that he and she were no longer on the old terms. If he were to continue at Court he would, like everyone else, have to obey the Queen.

He felt desolate and melancholy; and the Twelfth Night Festivities seemed to him the climax of his suffering, for during them Heneage was deliberately insulting. He ordered Leicester to ask the Queen a question, which was: “Which is the more difficult to erase from the mind, an evil opinion created by a wicked informer, or jealousy?”

This was a significant question, made doubly so since the man Elizabeth had once so evidently loved must ask it of her.

With the nonchalance to be expected of him, Robert put the question to the Queen, who smiling, pretended to consider deeply before answering: “My lord, it is my opinion that both are hard to be rid of, but jealousy is the harder.”

After the revels Robert, in a fury, sent one of his men to Heneage’s apartments with a warning that he should prepare himself for the arrival of the Earl of Leicester, who was about to set out with a stick with which he would administer a beating to Thomas Heneage.

Heneage’s reply was that the Earl of Leicester was welcome, but if he should come with a stick he would find a sword waiting for him.

Robert was baffled. He dared not provoke a duel, for duels had been forbidden by the Queen herself.

When the Queen heard of this she dismissed from Court the gentleman who had dared to take Robert’s message to Heneage. Dueling was forbidden by her command, and any man who took part in any attempt to provoke one should be punished.

She sent for Robert.

“As for you, my lord Leicester,” she said, without looking at him; “I beg of you, retire to your apartments.” She stamped her foot suddenly, crying out: “God’s Death, my lord! I have wished you well, but my favor is not so locked up in you, that others shall not participate thereof, for I have many servants, unto whom I have and will, at my pleasure, confer my favor; and if you think to rule here, I will have to teach you otherwise. There is one mistress here and no master. Those who by my favor become impudent, must be reformed. They should remember that as I have raised them up, so could I lower them.”

Robert bowed and without a word retired.

In the utmost dejection he kept to his apartments for four days. But at the end of that time Elizabeth cried in pretended surprise: “Where is my lord of Leicester? It seems some time since I saw him.”

He presented himself, and although she was gracious to him, she was no more than that.

Leicester is in decline, said his enemies gleefully.

Yet again she acted as though he meant no more to her than any other courtier.

Sussex openly flouted him while the Queen looked on.

Antagonisms flared up. Robert insisted that his followers wore blue stripes or laces that he might know them immediately and recognize any stranger among them. Norfolk put his followers into yellow laces. Quarrels were continually breaking out between the two factions; and the Queen’s reprimand was as harsh for Robert as it was for Norfolk.

In despair Robert asked permission to leave Court, and to his even greater despair it was granted.

He went to Kenilworth, asking himself if his dream were over. Not only did he fear that she would never marry him, but it seemed she had taken a violent dislike to him.

He tried to interest himself in enlarging the castle and extending its parks. When Kenilworth had come to him it had been a small estate, but he had spent thousands of pounds enlarging and beautifying it; and now it was one of the most magnificent places in the country.

Robert soon found that more trouble lay ahead, when his kinsman and servant, Thomas Blount, came riding to Kenilworth Castle. He had brought news that a man had sworn to Norfolk and Sussex that he had, for the sake of the Earl of Leicester, covered up a crime which the Earl had committed some time since; this concerned the death of Leicester’s wife which without doubt had been a case of murder.

The man who was thus attacking him, said Blount, was Amy’s halfbrother, John Appleyard.

“He has been talking in Norfolk, my lord; and this having come to the ears of those noble lords, they have lost no time in seeking out Appleyard and promising him rewards if he will say in a Court of Justice in London what he has been saying to his rustic friends.”

Robert laughed wryly. He said: “To think I have rewarded that man. Much land and possessions he owes to me. In the last years he has asked me now and then for help, but since I left Court I have not responded to his requests as readily as I did, so he must seek to be revenged on me.”

“My lord,” said Blount, “you must deny this charge. You have done so before. You will do so again.”

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “Once,” he said, “I was the Queen’s friend. Now I no longer enjoy that privilege. I see now that but for her I should not have escaped my enemies when Amy died.”

“But for her, Amy would not have died!” said Blount fiercely.

“The verdict was accidental death!” retorted Robert.

But he was listless. For the first time in his life a woman had turned against him and, no longer desiring his company, wished to be rid of him.

He was growing old. He was not the man he had been. Some of his ardor for living had deserted him.

Kat was alone with her mistress and, said Kat, this was like the old days before her dearest Majesty was called Her Majesty in public, and only in private by those who loved her.

“I remember it, Kat,” said Elizabeth.

“And the cards, dearest lady?”

“Aye, and the cards.”

“And now we have Master Cornelius Lanoy working for us to produce his elixir, you no longer have need of poor old Kat Ashley to look into the cards for you.”

“Will he produce it, think you, Kat?”

“If he should do what he says he will, dearest, he will find an elixir which will give eternal life and youth! Make sure that none but your own darling lips drink of it, for if it becomes common property that will do us little good. With everyone perpetually living and perpetually young, it would be as though Time stood still.”

“Nay,” said the Queen, “it shall only be Elizabeth who drinks of Lanoy’s mixture; but perhaps I’ll let my dear old Kat have a sip for old times’ sake.”

“Just a sip, Madam!”

“Mayhap two sips, for where should I be without you? If I am to live forever I must have Kat with me.”

“The man is a fraud, Madam.”

“Is it so then, Kat? Perhaps you are right.”

“You believe in him because Your Majesty believes that all the good you hope for will come to pass. Mayhap therein lies the secret of greatness. Others say ‘It cannot be.’ Great Bess says ‘It shall be!’ And because she is a witch and a goddess, there is good chance that she will be right.”

“You talk like a courtier, Kat.”

“Why, my love, you’ve lost another aglet from your gown. ’Tis the ruby and diamond, I’ll swear. And I wanted to fix it on the cloth of gold you’ll be wearing this night. And do I talk like a courtier then? But courtiers no longer talk as they once did.”

“What means that?”

“That one, who talked better than any and whose words pleased Your Majesty more than any I know of, is no longer with us.”

Elizabeth was silent.

“He is sad, I trow, to be away from Court,” said Kat.

“Doubtless he amuses himself with the women round Kenilworth!” snapped Elizabeth.

“You should not be jealous of Lettice Knollys, my darling.”

Elizabeth swung round, her eyes blazing and shining with tears; she slapped Kat sharply. Kat put her hand to her cheek and grimaced.

Then she said: “’Tis a pity. That ruby and diamond aglet will be lost, I swear; and it makes the pair.”

“Oh, be silent!”

Kat obeyed, and after a while Elizabeth burst out: “Why do you stand there sulking? Why do you not speak of him if you wish to?”

“Have I your gracious permission to speak of the man, Your Majesty?”

“What is it you have to say of him?”

“That it is sad to see Your Majesty fretting for him.”

“I fret for him! Leave fretting to that she-wolf!”

“To whom, Your Majesty?”

“That harlot, that lewd woman, that Lettice…or whatever her name is. She married some man…Hereford, was it? I pity him! I pity him!”

“Ah!” sighed Kat. “It is a sorry thing to see a man, once proud, fall low. The dogs are at his throat now, my lady. They’ll drag him to death and disgrace, if I mistake not.”

“Dogs! What dogs?”

Kat whispered: “His great and mighty Grace of Norfolk. My lord of Sussex. My lord of Arundel. They are the dogs who will tear our pretty gentleman to pieces. Does Your Majesty not know that they have taken John Appleyard and put the man to question? He swears that he helped to cover up the murder of his half-sister for the sake of Robert Dudley.”

Elizabeth was staring straight ahead. It must not be. Old scandal must not be revived. Amy Robsart must not be dragged from her grave to smirch the Queen’s honor.

“So,” went on Kat, “I say it is a sad thing to see a great man brought low. Why, those are tears in your sweet eyes, my darling. There! There! It matters not that your Kat sees them. Do you think you deceived her? You love him, and you think he loves Lettice better…or would if she were the Queen.”

Elizabeth laid her head suddenly on Kat’s shoulder. She murmured with a catch in her voice: “The Court is so dull without him, Kat. These…these others…”

“They are not the same, my love.”

“No one is the same, Kat. We were together in the Tower, were we not. Can I forget him?”

“Of course you cannot.”

“Heneage…”

Kat blew contempt in imitation of her royal mistress.

“A pretty man,” she said, “nothing more. The lioness amuses herself with a pretty puppy. But they’ll have the people against my lord of Leicester, dearest Majesty. The dogs are at his throat. They’ll say: ‘The lioness has left him to his fate, and he is wounded…’”

Elizabeth stood up. Her eyes were shining, for she felt it to be good when inclination and common sense could march together. “We’ll have him back at Court,” she said. “I’ll recall him. I’ll not let the dogs get him, Kat. You shall see how they go slinking away. As for Master Appleyard, he shall wish he had never left his orchards! Kat, there must be no more scandal, though. He must have done with his arrogance. I’ll not brook that.”

“Shall I look at the cards?” suggested Kat.

“Nay, not now. He shall just return to Court as a gentleman we have missed. It is merely because he has so many enemies that I shall have him back. I would not wish it to be thought that I forgot those I once loved.”

“And still love?” said Kat quietly.

So he came back to Court and his enemies retreated.

John Appleyard confessed that he had been offered a reward to speak against Robert; he admitted that his brother-in-law had been very generous to him in the past, and that it was since he had fallen into disfavor that his gifts had ceased. Had John Appleyard whispered against the Earl of Leicester when he had been accepting those gifts? He had not. So it was only when he did not receive them that he thought unkindly of his generous brother-in-law? John Appleyard was glad to slip back into obscurity.

The affair of Amy’s death was not to be revived.

Rumor started up again. Was the Queen contemplating marriage with Leicester? She had dropped Heneage now, and appeared to have no special favorite. She must marry someone soon. Did she think that because she was a Queen she could defy the passing of time?

When Parliament was opened and the Queen asked for certain monies which she needed for her exchequer, she was met by stern opposition from the House of Commons.

It was pointed out to her that she was still unmarried and that the country needed an heir. The Commons refused to discuss the money bill unless the Queen would give her word to marry without further delay. There was an alternative; if she was set against marriage so strongly that she would not undertake it, she must name her successor. There was a great deal of argument; blows were exchanged in the House. The Commons, in an ugly mood, finally approached the Lords, demanding that they join them in their stand against the Queen; and this the Lords, after some hesitation, decided to do.

Elizabeth might accept what she called insults from the Commons, but she would not from the Lords.

Robert, understanding now that it would be wise for him—as there was no hope of marrying her himself—to support the marriage with the Archduke Charles, allied himself with the Lords and Commons. He knew that, if he did not, he would stand alone, and he was no longer sure of the Queen. During his exile, he had discovered the power of his enemies. He surmised that this was really what she wished him to do, for his exile had been partly due to her wish to show foreign powers that she had no intention of marrying him. He had been greatly heartened by her summons to return to Court, and it had been wonderful to realize that when he appeared to be deserted and his enemies ready to attack, she should have come to his aid. Yet she herself had been involved in the scandal attached to Amy’s death, and her motive in recalling him might not have been entirely due to her wish to see him back at Court. He must play her game, which was, after all, out of necessity, his own. So now he ranged himself with those who were urging her either to marry, or name her successor.

She turned on them angrily. She dismissed Pembroke as a swaggering soldier. Let him get back to the battlefield, for it was all that he was fit for. As for Norfolk—he was a little too proud. It would be well for him to remember how her father had dealt with some of his family. Then she turned to Robert.

“And you, my lord of Leicester, you too have abandoned me! If all the world did that, I should not have expected it from you.”

Robert knelt before her and tried to take her hand. “Madam,” he said, “I would die for you this minute if you were to command it.”

She pushed him away with her foot. “Much good would that do me!” she cried. “And it has nothing to do with the matter.”

Her eyes went to the Marquis of Northampton, who was recently divorced and had married a new young wife.

“It is a marvelous thing, my lord, that you dare talk to me of marriage with your mincing mumping words. As if I did not know that you have just most scandalously divorced one wife and taken another.”

And with that she turned and left them all staring after her.

Uncertain how to act, the Lords and Commons began to concoct a petition. They were determined that the Queen should either marry or fix the succession; but when Elizabeth heard that they were doing this, she summoned certain leaders from both Houses to appear before her. There she harangued them with fury.

“You and your accomplices tell me you are Englishmen and bound to your country, which you think will perish unless the succession is fixed. We have heard the Bishops make their long speeches telling us what we did not know before!” Her eyes flashed scorn at them and she said with an air of great wisdom: “That when my breath fails me I shall be dead!” She laughed. “That would be a danger to the state, they think. It is easy for me to see their object. It is to take up some cause against me.

“Was I not born in this realm? And were not my parents born in this realm? Is not my Kingdom here? Whom have I oppressed? Whom have I enriched to other’s harm? What turmoil have I made in this commonwealth that I should be suspected of having no regard for the same? How have I governed since my reign? I will be tried by envy itself! I need not use too many words, for my deeds do try me.”

She glared at them and continued: “This petition you prepare is, I understand, to consist of two points: my marriage and the succession. My marriage you noble lords put first—for manners’ sake! I have said I will marry. I hope to have children, otherwise I would never marry. I suspect you will be as ready to mislike my husband as you are now ready to urge me to marriage; and then it will appear that you never meant it at all. Well, there never was so great a treason but might be covered under as fair a pretense.

“You prate of succession, my lords. None of you has been a second person in this realm as I have and tasted of the practices against my sister. Would to God she were alive! When friends fall out the truth appears; there are some gentlemen in the Commons now who, in my sister’s reign, tried to involve me in conspiracy. I would never place my successor in the position I once endured. The succession is a baffling question, full of peril to the country, though, my lords, in your simplicity you imagine the matter must needs go very trim and pleasantly. I would honor as angels any who, when they were second in this realm, did not seek to be first, and when third, second.

“As for myself, I care nothing for death, for all men are mortal, and though I be a woman, yet I have as good a courage as ever my father had. I am your anointed Queen. I will never be by violence constrained to do anything. I thank God I am endued with such qualities that if I were turned out of my realm in my petticoat, I were able to live in any place in Christendom.”

She was invincible at such times, in every respect a ruler. Those who had spoken with her were for stopping the petition, but other members of the Commons insisted that they should proceed with it.

Elizabeth recklessly forbade them to discuss the matter. Then members of the Commons talked of privilege. There were now three questions demanding discussion instead of two: the Queen’s marriage, the succession, and the privilege of the House.

Elizabeth knew when she had gone too far. Cautious Cecil was at her elbow advising her, and once again she recognized his wisdom. She lifted the veto on free discussion. She could be gracious when she knew herself at fault. Not only were they at liberty to discuss, she said, but she had decided to remit a third of the money for which she had first asked. Thus she came safely through a difficult situation; but the questions of her marriage and the succession were still open. She had given her word to marry, and she would marry the Archduke, she said, if she could be assured that he was not ill-formed, and ugly of person.

Exasperation filled the minds of those about her. Such feminine views should be suppressed. But it was well known that she could not endure ugly people near her. Only a few days earlier a lackey had been taken from her immediate service because he had lost a front tooth.

The Archduke was the best match available, she was reminded. The Earl of Sussex was sent to Austria to report on him, and sent back the news that his personal appearance left nothing to be desired, and that even his hands and feet were well-shaped.

“There is,” said Elizabeth, “the question of religion.”

The statesmen about her had now divided into two parties—one under the Duke of Norfolk, the other under Leicester. They could not agree as to the proposed marriage. Norfolk and his followers were for it. Robert, sensing her reluctance, which meant a rebirth of his own hopes, was against it. The Queen was still cool to him, but he knew her well enough to realize that she was not eager to marry the Archduke, and wished for this division between her statesmen.

It was characteristic of her that while she worried about her suitor’s personal appearance, while she became again coquettish and entirely feminine, she suddenly should put the matter so clearly before them that they were astounded by her insight and the truth of what she said.

“You talk of my marriage!” she cried. “You talk of the succession. My friends, look at France. There the succession is happily fixed, you would say. Yet that country has been torn by civil war. Look at Scotland! There is a Queen who married as you, my lords, would have wished. She has produced a fine son and that, my lords, is what you would say is a good thing. And here, in this country, there rules a barren woman. Yet, my lords, in this poor country under this poor woman, you have enjoyed peace and growing prosperity. What this country—what any country needs—is not an heir to the crown, but peace…peace from wars which torment it and suck away its riches. A week ago a man went to an altar while the service was in progress and he cast down the candlesticks and stamped upon them. There are many to support that man. In this country religious differences have not made wars. But what if your King were of the Catholic Faith, my lords? What if he wished to lead your Church back to Rome? We should have troubles such as you now see in France between Catholic and Huguenot. Nay! It is not a husband for your Queen that you need. It is not even an heir to your crown. It is peace. Think of my sister who made a foreign marriage. Think of these things, gentlemen, and see whether I am wrong to hesitate.”

As before, she had made them pause. She had shown them the statesman hidden behind the frivolous woman.

Now the coolness between them was over. She could not hide her pleasure in having him beside her. He was not to be arrogant, she wished him to understand; he was not to think her favor was exclusively his. He was never so far to forget his respect for her as to go courting another lady of her household. He was her servant, her courtier, but a very favorite one.

Who knew, in time, she might even marry him!

He was her “Eyes” once more. No one could amuse her as he could. She doubted not that if he would remember all she asked of him, he would rekindle that old affection which had seemed to die.

He was cautious now; he was wiser; he was not content merely to be the courtier. He would be the statesman also. He stood with Cecil to govern the country.

It became clear to those about him that they would be wise not to ignore him in the future. He might have his differences with the Queen; but he was still her favorite man.

When he fell ill, she was herself filled with anxiety. She visited him in his apartments on the lower floor of the palace and, examining them, declared that she feared they were damp and not good for his health. He should be moved to better quarters immediately, for she could not allow her Eyes to run such risks.

The quarters she chose for him were immediately adjoining her own.

A gasp of astonishment greeted this decision. It was an indiscretion which might have been committed in the days of her early passion for the man.

It became clear that, although there might be differences between them, those differences would be as ephemeral as lovers’ tiffs, provoked rather for the enjoyment of ultimate reconciliation than through anger or by a lessening of their love.

EIGHT

As time passed, Robert was constantly with the Queen, but their relationship had become a more sober one. He was still her favorite, but they were like a married couple who have passed through stages of passion to trust and friendship, which was, in its way, more satisfying than the earlier relationship had been.

All eyes were now watching events in Scotland, and the matrimonial adventures of Queen Mary were leading all England to think that, in remaining unmarried, Elizabeth was again showing her sagacity.

After the murder of Rizzio, the Queen’s husband—Darnley—had met a violent death in which many believed Mary to have played a part.

Elizabeth was alert. She thought of Mary in that wild and barbaric land, a dainty woman, brought up at the intellectual but immoral Court of France, a passionate and lustful woman who had a power to attract men which was apart from her crown.

Mary was weak in those characteristics which were the strength of Elizabeth. She would be impetuous where Elizabeth would always employ the greatest caution. Yet Elizabeth knew that there were some in the country—and this applied particularly to those staunch Catholics, the Northern Peers such as the Percys and the Nevilles—who would like to see Mary on the throne of England. Therefore, everything that Mary did was of the utmost importance to England.

But Mary was a fool in some matters, whereas Elizabeth was the wiliest woman in the world.

Elizabeth thought often of all that had happened to Mary. Had she, wondered Elizabeth, planned the murder of Darnley with that ruffian Bothwell? She knew that the barbaric chief—which was how she thought of Bothwell—had had to divorce his wife in order that he might marry Mary. Was it true that he had raped and abducted the Queen of Scots?

Mary was a fool to give great power to a man like Bothwell. Mary forgot that which Elizabeth would never forget—the dignity of queenship.

Cecil came to her with fresh news.

“Madam, the lords of Scotland have risen against Bothwell and the Queen. They accuse them of the murder of Darnley. Bothwell has escaped to Denmark and the Queen of Scots has been brought captive to Edinburgh.”

“A prisoner…in her own capital city!” cried the Queen.

“The people of Edinburgh have abused her as she passed through their streets. They cry out that she should be burned alive. They say she is an adulteress and a murderess, and should not be allowed to live.”

“How dare they!” cried Elizabeth. “And she a Queen!”

Cecil looked at her. His eyes were steady. He was telling her without words that if the people of Edinburgh should take it upon themselves to do what they would call justice to the Queen of Scotland, Elizabeth would be without a powerful rival. Perhaps his thoughts ran on as hers did. If they could have the baby Prince brought to England and put in charge of the Queen’s Parliament, much trouble might be saved.

Mary’s disaster was Elizabeth’s opportunity—as Cecil saw it.

But Elizabeth could not get out of her mind the picture of Mary, a captive, riding through the streets of Edinburgh, while the mob shouted at her. All other emotions were submerged by the horror of that picture, for Mary, like Elizabeth, was a Queen. How could one Queen rejoice in the insults thrown at another? Elizabeth might be jealous of Mary; she might even hate Mary; but she would never approve of insults being thrown at an anointed Queen, for no such evil precedent must be set.

Cecil, watching her, marveled at her yet again. The woman and the Queen! He could never be sure with which of them he had to deal.

When the little coffer of silver and gilt was brought to England, feelings ran high against Mary, for the coffer contained those letters—always known as the Casket Letters—which Bothwell was reputed to have left behind him in his flight. These letters—if they were not forgeries—damned the Queen, labeling her as Bothwell’s accomplice in the murder of Darnley.

Still Elizabeth would defend her. And when Mary escaped from her captors, raised men to fight for her, was defeated and threw herself once more on Elizabeth’s mercy, though there were many to urge the execution of this dangerous woman, still Elizabeth continued to remember that Mary was a Queen. Elizabeth must uphold the status of royalty. Kings and Queens might err, but the common people must see them as the chosen of God, and the peers must never be allowed to judge them. Mary was certainly a foolish woman; there was little doubt that she was a murderess; there was still less that she was an adulteress; but she was a Queen.

“The lords have no warrant nor authority by the law of God or man,” said Elizabeth, “to be superiors, judges, or vindicators over their Prince and Sovereign, howsoever they do gather and conceive matters of disorder against her.”

That was the Queen’s verdict, and she did not forget that Mary and Bothwell stood in relationship to Darnley as once she and Robert had to Amy Robsart.

She would have a dangerous enemy to contend with, but that enemy was merely a woman and a foolish one; she had the Catholics to consider; but these matters were tangible. A subtle canker growing in the minds of the people was an entirely different matter; for that grew unseen and unchecked; it could undermine all thrones, all royalty.

She offered Mary asylum in England, first in the Castle at Carlisle, then, as she felt that to be too near the borders of England and Scotland, in the Castle of Bolton at Wensleydale. Let her stay there while the Queen of England waited on her old friend Time.

Mary was tempestuous, arrogant, and willful. She had expected to be received at Elizabeth’s Court. She had not come as a prisoner, she complained, but as a visiting Queen.

Elizabeth could deal with that matter. Mary, she answered, was being given protection, for her position was a dangerous one. The Queen of England would be remorseful to the end of her days if aught happened to her dear sister while she was in her care. And as for coming to the Court, Mary would readily see that the Queen—as an unmarried woman so closely related to Lord Darnley—could not, in propriety, receive Mary at her Court while she was still under suspicion of Darnley’s murder.

Her dear sister of Scotland must understand that nothing would delight her more than to hear that the truth had been discovered and Mary proclaimed innocent of her husband’s murder.

So Mary had to be content with her captive state; and the Queen waited, ever watchful of her dear sister, yet determined to show the people that Queens were above reproach, no matter what charges were brought against them.

This was necessary, for Amy Robsart had a disturbing habit of rising from the grave now and then. The people must not be allowed to make unhappy comparisons.

It was at this time that the rift with Spain became too wide to be ignored.

To England the Queen was a symbol. She gathered handsome and chivalrous men about her; they must be gallant and adventurous. She wished to be to them a fair ideal, the mistress they all wished to serve because they were in love with her perfections; yet she was the mother, and their welfare was the clearest concern of her life. She was Woman, warm and human, yet because she was an anointed Queen, she was invulnerable and unassailable. She wanted her men to be bold, to perform feats of courage and adventure for her sake; these she rewarded with her smiles and favors. She was a spiritual mistress; they must be faithful to her; they must perpetually seek to please her; their words to her, their thoughts of her, must be the words and thoughts of lovers. They must all be in love with her; to them she must be the perfect woman. But they must never forget that she was mistress of them all. And while to her handsome and gallant courtiers, to her statesmen and soldiers, she was the queenly mistress and beloved woman, they must constantly remember that to her people she was Mother—the all-embracing Mother—and her thoughts and her energies were directed toward the good of her people. She wished England to be a happy home for her people—a prosperous home—and as, to her belief no home could be happy and prosperous unless it were peaceful, she abhorred war.

Often she would say to her ministers when she reproved them for urging her to some action, of which she did not approve, against a foreign power: “My father squandered great wealth in war. I have studied the histories of many countries, and I have never yet seen any good come out of war. There is a great waste of a nation’s substance and its man-power; there is poverty, famine, pain, and heartbreak but never good. I am not a King to seek military glory. That has no charm for me. I am a Queen—not the father but the mother of my people; and I wish to see them content in their home. I know this contentment can be brought about by our prosperous merchants, by good harvests. My people would love me less if I wrung taxes from them to pay for wars, as others have done before me. And I am a mother who wishes to keep her children’s love.”

So did she hate the thought of war that she would grow angry if any spoke of it; and often during a meeting of the Council she would slap a statesman’s face or take off her slipper and throw it at him, because she believed he was urging his fellows toward a war-like policy.

But at the same time she longed to make England great; and England was beginning to be aware of her sea power. John Hawkins had begun the slave trade, which was proving profitable for England; he was taking cargoes of men and women from West Africa to Central America and the West Indies for the local planters. His young cousin, Francis Drake, had given up dreaming dreams on Plymouth Hoe and had joined Hawkins. These two intrepid seamen of the West Country had already come into stormy contact with the Spaniards on the high seas and off the coasts of Mexico and Peru. Martin Frobisher was wondering why the sea and the new lands should be left a prey to Spain and Portugal. Were not the English as bold—if not bolder—than the Spaniards! If English ships lacked the elegance of Spanish galleons, the bravery of English seamen made up for that. Moreover, did they not serve a Queen before whom they wished to show their mettle!

She applauded them, but silently. She was the mistress before whom they might strut, at whose feet they must lay their treasures. But it was to be clearly understood that they must bring no harm to her family. If these adventurers looked upon the Spaniards on the high seas as their natural enemies, if they took on the role of pirates and stole the plunder which the Spaniards had already stolen before them—that was all well and good; but her family must remain safe. She would not go to war on behalf of her pirates. What they did was their own affair. They must finance their own adventures; she would not tax her children to provide the funds. Let them show themselves true men—men who believed in their ventures; she would love them all the better for that.

Thus she secretly encouraged her adventurers while openly she washed her hands of them. Spain looked on in puzzled irritation. What could be done against such a woman? She made her own rules. She was perversely feminine when it suited her to be.

She had always had the common touch, but during these years the affection of the people deepened for her. They accepted her at her own valuation—as someone more than human. Yet she was continually showing them how human she was, continually discarding formality, which she said was made for her, not the Queen for it. She had pet names for those who served her. First, of course, was her beloved Eyes; and now a new young man, Christopher Hatton, had won her favor. Handsome, charming, capable of making flowery speeches, he was also the most excellent dancer she had ever known. She called him her “Lids.” Meanwhile Cecil had become her “Spirit.”

The trouble with Spain had increased with the dismissal of her ambassador, Dr. Mann, from Madrid. Elizabeth bridled. The Queen would not, she said, lightly forget this insult from Spain. She added that Philip had never forgiven her for refusing to marry him, and that was why he had sent that odious de Spes as ambassador to replace his charming predecessor. De Spes did not compliment her nor flatter her, and she disliked him intensely; she was sure he was determined to misrepresent her to his master.

She was in this mood when four Spanish ships on the way to Flanders were chased by French pirates and forced to take refuge in Southampton, Falmouth, and Plymouth.

When Cecil and Robert brought the news to her she smiled complacently.

“And what do these ships contain?” she asked.

“Bullion,” Cecil told her. “It comes from Genoese merchants, and is a loan on the way to Alba in Flanders.”

“And Your Majesty knows well for whom that money is intended,” said Robert.

“I do. It is to pay those soldiers of his who are making it possible for him to stay in that wretched land and torture its people.”

“I fear so, Your Majesty,” said Cecil.

“It makes me sad to think of those poor souls,” she said, “at the mercy of Alba and his Inquisition.”

“Many of those who have escaped have found refuge in this land,” Robert reminded her. “They will bless Your Majesty until they die.”

“Poor men! Poor men! And this bullion is to pay those wretches…those soldiers who serve such tyrants. What think you, my dear Eyes? What think you, Sir Spirit, would His Most Catholic Majesty do if that bullion never reached his tyrant Duke?”

“He would say that of Your Majesty which I would not dare utter,” said Robert.

“I did not ask what he would say, Robert. I asked what he would do.”

Cecil said: “His hands are tied. He could do nothing. His forces are not at his disposal. He has too much territory to guard. If the bullion did not reach Alba it is possible that his soldiers would mutiny.”

She gave her high laugh and her eyes sparkled. “Then, my dear lords, the bullion must not reach Alba. Have not the French pirates attempted to attack the ships in my ports? Let the bullion be brought to London for safekeeping. It is private property, is it not? It is the property of Genoese merchants. I cannot see that it belongs to His Most Catholic Majesty any more than to me. We could use a loan, could we not? And here it is on our very shores.”

Cecil was silent. Robert was gleeful.

“God’s Death!” he cried, using one of her oaths. “Why should we not crush this Catholic domination? Why should Your Majesty not be supreme head of the Protestant world?”

“There speaks the soldier,” she said, giving him a sharp tap on the cheek. “Let us have war that my lord of Leicester may distinguish himself and bring great glory to his name! Nay, Robert, the good things are won in peace. Is that not so, Master Cecil?”

“At this time, Madam, it would be daring enough to confiscate the bullion.”

“What reprisals could be taken by our little saint in his Escorial?”

“I do not think he is in a position to do overmuch. But there is the wool trade to consider and, as Your Majesty is well aware, our best customers are the Low Countries. Alba could seize our merchants’ goods there.”

“Well, we could seize the goods of the Netherlanders in England, which I believe are greater. Think of the riches these Netherlanders have built up in our country. Why, if we seized their goods and property here they would make such an outcry that the Spaniards would be forced to come to a peaceful settlement. Nay, my dear lords, no harm will come of this. We shall have the bullion as our loan; and this will teach these Spaniards to have more respect for Englishmen on the high seas. Hawkins was treated maliciously by those Spanish Dons in Mexico. Shall I allow my subjects to be treated thus?”

“But Hawkins gave as good as he got, Your Majesty,” said Robert.

“As good as he got? Nay, better, which is what I would expect of an Englishman.”

And in such good mood was she that Robert dared show his jealousy of her newest favorite.

“This Hatton man,” he said, when Cecil had left them. “Your Majesty cannot truly be so delighted with his company as it would seem.”

“But I am, Robert. I am. I declare my Lids are as necessary to me as my Eyes…or nearly so.”

“How can you say that?” he demanded passionately.

“Because it is true, dear Eyes.”

“Your Majesty seeks to torment me.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I have loved you long and you grow tired of such enduring devotion.”

“God’s Body!” she cried. “Never would I tire of fidelity. It is to my way of thinking the most endearing quality.”

“And Your Majesty doubts mine?”

“I doubt it not, dear Robin. Doubt not mine for you.”

He kissed her hand, wondering whether he might speak to her of marriage, but he was more cautious than he had been in the days before that spell of disfavor. She smiled at the frown between his brows, and she thought: Dear Robin, he grows older. He loses those handsome looks.

There were streaks of white in the once black hair; the skin beneath the eyes was a little pouchy, the fine line of the jaw a little flabby. A tenderness came over her. She would not tell him so, but she loved him no less than she had in the days when she had so often thought of him as a husband. If her thoughts were calmer now, they were no less affectionate.

She was still the coquette; but she had made her wishes clear. She was to be eternally young, even though Lanoy had failed to find his elixir. All handsome men, whatever their ages, must be in love with her. It was part of the homage she demanded as their Queen.

She was ready to tease Robert a little about Hatton, that greedy man, who had been bold enough to ask for part of the Bishop of Ely’s garden. Hatton had received his garden—twenty acres of fertile land between Holborn Hill and Ely Place—although Bishop Cox had protested most bitterly.

“Methinks, Robert,” she said, “you are more than my Eyes. I read your thoughts. I have given a garden to Hatton. But think, my dear friend, what I have given to you. And I doubt not that, ere you and I leave this Earth, I shall give you much more. Yet in return what do I ask? Your affection, your loyalty to the Queen, and your fidelity to Elizabeth.”

“They are yours, my beloved.”

She smiled at him, and although the smile was tender it held a warning. She had heard that two sisters at Court were madly in love with him; and that there was continually strife between them because of this. One was Lady Sheffield and the other was Frances Howard. He must so far have remembered the pain of his exile, which had started with a flirtation with Lettice Knollys, for Elizabeth had not heard that he had given either of these sisters the slightest encouragement.

And, she thought grimly, it would be wiser for him not to do so. She could not tolerate any of her favorites’ marrying, but that her first favorite should have a love affair at Court was more than she could bear. It seemed to her that her life and Robert’s life were closely bound; she had always been attracted to him—first in the nursery, then in the Tower and later at Court; she knew now that she would always love him beyond all others whatever befell. She felt a similar affection for Kat Ashley. She might quarrel with her and with Robert, but she would love them until she died. And whereas Kat was the friend, Robert was the lover.

He made one more attempt, and she enjoyed his making it because it was the symbol of his jealousy.

“What is it you admire so much in the popinjay?”

“Come, Robert, do not show your jealousy of a man because he is younger and more agile on his feet than you. Have you seen the fellow in the dance?”

“The dance!” said Robert. “I will bring Your Majesty a dancing master who will perform more gracefully before your eyes than Master Christopher Hatton.”

“Pish!” said the Queen. “I’ll not see your man. It is his trade to dance.”

She laughed at his discomfiture. She was pleased, thinking of her love for Robert, of the bullion which would shortly lie in her coffers, and of the pique and embarrassment of that pale man of Spain who had had the bad taste, after seeking to marry her, not to wait for more than a few months before marrying a French Princess.

In the Castle which was now her prison, Mary Queen of Scots heard of the tension between Spain and England. Tempestuous and impulsive herself, she was certain that this would mean war between the two countries. She did not understand the characters of Philip and Elizabeth; neither was of a nature to plunge into war. Mary, alas for herself, knew no such caution. Now she had wild hopes. If there were war, and Spain were victorious, she would not only be restored to her throne, but given that of England as well, providing she was ready to return the country to the Catholic Faith; and this she would be most happy to do.

The Casket Letters were causing a great deal of scandal, and many were asking themselves and each other how such a woman as Mary, obviously unfitted to govern her country, could possibly be restored to her throne. A solution was suggested: Why should she not marry an English husband chosen for her by the English Parliament, and one whom she could marry with Elizabeth’s consent? Then she might be considered next in succession if Elizabeth died childless. If her husband were an Englishman, England could be sure of peace with Scotland. There was one man very suitable for the position of Mary’s husband; this man was the first peer of England, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.

This opinion was put forward by the Catholic peers of the North, for although Norfolk professed himself to be of the Anglican Faith, he was at heart a Catholic.

Leicester, with Sussex and Throckmorton, decided that, providing Norfolk and Mary became good Anglicans and took the rites of the Church of England to Scotland, this match could not fail to be beneficial to England.

Ambition made Norfolk eager for the marriage, but he was a little shaken by the revelation of the Casket Letters.

The Queen, hearing of the plan, sent for Norfolk. “So, my lord, you make great plans?” she said. “You would marry the Queen of Scots and change your rank of Duke for King?”

“Nay, Your Majesty. Why should I seek to marry so wicked a woman, such a notorious adulteress, and one who had committed murder? I love to sleep on a safe pillow.”

“There are some who might consider a crown worth such risks.”

The old Norfolk pride showed itself. “Your Majesty, I count myself, by your favor, as good a Prince at home in my bowling alley in Norfolk as she is in the heart of Scotland.”

The Queen nodded. Those were not idle words. Norfolk, first peer of England, the country’s only Duke, was one of its richest men.

“And, Your Majesty,” went on Norfolk, “I could not marry with her, knowing that she pretends a title to the present possession of Your Majesty’s crown. If I did so, Your Majesty might justly charge me with seeking the crown of England.”

“I well might do so,” said the Queen grimly.

Norfolk felt that he had come well out of a difficult interview, but the thought of a crown, even though it was but the crown of Scotland, could not lightly be dismissed. Mary was a dangerous woman, but she was a fascinating one.

He discussed the matter with Robert, who felt that he could not oppose the marriage while the succession was still not fixed. Elizabeth was strong and healthy, but often people died suddenly. If Mary became Queen of England, Elizabeth’s favorite would have little to hope for unless he showed himself, during the lifetime of Elizabeth, not unfriendly to Mary. Robert’s love and loyalty were for Elizabeth; but he did not see how this marriage of Mary with Norfolk could affect that.

“I will do my best,” said Robert, “to show the Queen the advantages of this marriage. The tormenting problem of the succession must be fixed in some way, and how better than this?”

Norfolk looked at his old enemy. They had never liked each other. Norfolk still regarded Robert as an upstart; Robert did not forget old insults.

Robert arranged that Norfolk should sup with the Queen and put his case before her; but Elizabeth was suspicious, and before he had a chance of speaking of the marriage, she leaned toward him and, taking his ear between her thumb and forefinger, nipped it hard.

“I would wish you, my lord,” she said, “to take good heed to your pillow.”

That was a sly reference to his own remark. The pillow could mean that which he shared with Mary, or another one of wood on which he might lay his head before the axe descended.

Norfolk rose from the supper table at which they sat and, throwing himself upon his knees before her, assured her that his one wish was to serve her, and that he had no intention of making any marriage which should not be in accordance with her wishes.

He left, relieved that he had emerged from a difficult situation with safety. But the matter did not end there. Mary began to write letters to him; and into those letters it seemed that she infused some of that charm of which he had heard so much. She was an adulteress, he believed; he suspected her of murder; but he became more and more fascinated, not only by Scotland’s crown, but by Scotland’s Queen.

In spite of Elizabeth’s objections, the lords would not abandon the idea of the marriage, for it seemed to them the only means of avoiding war with the great Catholic countries, France and Spain, who were ever watching, seeking an opportunity to overthrow Protestant England. The Netherlands were in a sorry state and, once they were completely subdued by the iron hand of Alba and the Inquisition, it might be that Alba’s next task in the establishment of the Catholic Faith throughout the world would be to subdue England. There was one way of holding off that calamity: Promise the succession to Mary Queen of Scots and, to ensure her good behavior, give her a good English husband, a man who could be trusted as they believed they could trust the Duke of Norfolk. The project was the hope of the Catholics in England, and of these there were many.

These peers believed that if they could get rid of Cecil and his party they could achieve this object, for Cecil was upholding the Queen in her objections to the match.

A conspiracy was set on foot to depose Cecil and, because many remembered what had happened to Thomas Cromwell in the days of the Queen’s father, they had the axe in mind for Cecil.

Robert, who had somewhat half-heartedly thrown in his lot with the opponents of Cecil, was chosen as the man to lay the proposition before the Queen. He chose a meeting of the Council to do this; and he pointed out to her that it was the considered opinion of those of her ministers who were not of Cecil’s party, that his policy was leading England toward danger. This policy had, it was felt, so far alienated England from France and Spain, that the only way in which the damage might be remedied was to offer Cecil as a sacrifice to Catholic opinion abroad.

Never had Robert seen the Queen in such a rage.

“These are not my father’s days!” she cried. “I do not send my ministers to the block to make way for others who fancy their rewards! If Cecil is against the marriage of Mary of Scotland to Norfolk, then so is Cecil’s mistress! And you, my lords, should look to your own ways, for it may well be that you will find yourselves in the sort of trouble you plan for Cecil. As for the Queen of Scots, she had better have a care or she may find some of her friends shorter by a head!”

It was clear that the enraged lioness was going to protect her cub Cecil, and that if the lords were to go on with their project, they must do so in secret.

Shortly after that meeting there was a plan to arrest Cecil out of hand, but Robert, who knew of their plans, was alarmed. He was aware of the Queen’s nature; he knew how furious she would be if her ministers acted against her orders and her well-known wishes. He knew that she was a woman who, having once given her loyalty, was not lightly to be turned from it. Cecil had been her good friend; if he had failed in his policy—and the Queen would not admit that he had—he had served her faithfully.

Robert therefore disengaged himself from the plotters and warned them that, unless they desisted, he would have no alternative but to tell the Queen what they intended to do. Cecil himself came to the rescue by offering to modify his attitude; he declared that if the Queen consented to the marriage he would not stand against it.

The Queen of Scots was a born schemer. She could not wait for the propitious moment. She was binding Norfolk more closely to her. Robert saw what was happening. He knew that if there was a rising—and he believed that Norfolk, under the influence of Mary, might be foolish enough to attempt one—civil war would sweep the land; and he, having sided with those who were for the marriage, might be perilously involved.

Elizabeth was his Queen and his love; he would never work with any against her. He felt his position to be dangerous, however, and that it was necessary for him to have an immediate audience with the Queen.

Even so, if he put his case frankly before her, he could not be sure that Elizabeth would entirely acquit him of mischievous dabbling. He knew his Queen better than any one else did; so he retired to his bed in his manor at Tichfield.

It was not necessary to feign sickness, for he was sick with anxiety. He sent a messenger to the Queen, telling her that he thought he was dying and that he must see her before he left this world.

Then he lay back on his pillows, rehearsing his apologies while he waited for the coming of the Queen.

Elizabeth was with her women when the message was brought to her. She rose, and they noticed how she swayed a little. Robert dying! It was impossible. She would not allow it. Her sweet Robin, her Eyes, the man she would love until she died! They were too young to part. There must be many years left for them to be together.

Kat was beside her. “Bad news, Your Majesty?”

“We must leave at once for Tichfield.”

“My lord of Leicester?”

“He is ill…asking for me.”

Kat turned pale. She more than any knew of her mistress’s feelings for that man. It would break Elizabeth’s heart if aught happened to him.

“Do not stand staring!” cried the Queen. “We will set out at once. We will take doctors and simples…elixirs which must bring him back to health.”

As she rode to Tichfield, she thought of all he had meant to her. She could not get out of her mind the memory of his face behind the prison bars in the Beauchamp Tower.

She hurried to his bedchamber. The sight of him in his bed, wan and exhausted, hurt her profoundly. She knelt by his bed and, taking his limp hand, covered it with kisses.

“Leave me,” she said to Kat and those who had accompanied her. “I would be alone with my lord.”

“Robert,” she said when they had all gone. “My dearest Eyes, what ails you, my sweet Robin?”

He murmured: “Your Majesty, it was good of you to come to sweeten my going.”

“Do not speak of it. It shall not be. I’ll not allow it. You shall be nursed back to health. I myself will nurse you.”

“I, your humble servant, have called you to my bedside…”

“God’s Body!” she cried. “My humble servant indeed! You are my Robert, are you not? There are times when I seem to be the humble servant.”

“Dearest lady, I must not waste the time that is left to me. I must talk with you. There is a plot afoot and I do not hold myself guiltless. I believed that it would be good for England if Norfolk married Mary. Dearest, I feared your life to be in danger while the succession was unsettled.”

“Have done with the succession. It is a bogey that haunts you.”

“Nay, ’tis not so. I fear now that Your Majesty may be in danger. Norfolk makes plans, I fear, in secret with the Queen of Scots. Many of your lords are involved in this…as I myself have been. They meant no treason. They fear Your Majesty to be in danger. Their plan is no more than to restore Mary to Scotland with a good friend of England as her husband, and to satisfy France and Spain by proclaiming Mary your successor.”

“I see, I see,” she said.

“Then I am forgiven for the part I played in this—though I was thinking only of my dearest lady’s safety? Then I am to die happy?”

She bent over him and kissed him. “If there was aught to forgive, my darling, it is forgiven.”

“Now I shall die happy.”

“You’ll do no such thing!”

He smiled at her wanly. “I know, dear lioness, that it is forbidden to speak of death in your presence. There again I crave your pardon. You are strong. You are impatient of death. You are immortal.”

“Come,” she said, with a “pup” of her lips, “we are going to get you well. I myself shall see to that.”

Then she called to her women. She would try her physician’s new medicine. It should cure my lord of Leicester. She commanded him to be cured.

“Already,” said Kat, “he seems miraculously recovered. He looks almost himself.”

“Her Majesty’s presence at my bedside is more health-giving than any elixir,” he murmured.

Elizabeth set about restoring him to health; but meanwhile she sent a messenger to Norfolk bidding him return to Court.

Norfolk was now in the Tower.

Elizabeth’s ministers were of the opinion that Norfolk was loyal to her, but had been led astray, and that he might be released with a warning not to dabble in treasonable matters again.

But the Queen was unsure. She insisted that they wait awhile, keeping him a prisoner while they waited.

Norfolk had many friends at Court, and some of these smuggled messages to him concealed in bottles of wine. This trick was discovered, and the Queen, declaring that Norfolk was guilty of treason, summoned Cecil to her.

“Now, Master Cecil,” she said, “we have proof of his treason.”

“How so, Madam?” asked Cecil.

“These letters which have been sent to him in bottles. What better proof?”

“They prove nothing except that he received messages in bottles, Your Majesty.”

The Queen merely glared at her minister.

“Madam, I will send you the statute of Edward III in which there is clear statement of what does and what does not constitute treason.”

“So you are all for letting Norfolk go that he may plot my downfall?”

“Why not marry Norfolk to someone else, Your Majesty? That would be the best way to put an end to this plan for marriage with Mary.”

She smiled at him. She could trust Cecil. His mind worked in the same way as her own. “I think, Sir Spirit, that you have a good plan there.”

But even as he was leaving her presence a messenger arrived, with the news that all through the North of England the bells were ringing backward. The men of the North, those ardent Catholics who had risen against her father in the Pilgrimage of Grace, were now ready to rise again; and they looked on Mary Queen of Scots as their leader. The Queen was aghast. War she dreaded more than anything; and here was war in her own country, the most hated of all wars: civil war.

Cecil said: “They will try to reach Mary, and our first task must be to remove her from Tutbury. I will send men there at once. We will send her with the utmost speed to Coventry.”

The Queen nodded her approval.

Civil war! Her own people rising against her. The thought made her wretchedly depressed until her anger replaced such feelings. Mary had caused this. Wherever Mary was, there would trouble be. Mary was her hated rival whom she longed to put to death, but for the sake of royalty—that divine right of Kings—she dared not.

The rebellion was speedily quelled. Poor and simple men from the hamlets and the villages were hanging from the gibbets for all to see what happened to those who rebelled against the Queen.

In her wrath, men said, she is as terrible as her father was.

Six hundred men who had followed their leaders were now lifeless hanging corpses, and the North was plunged into mourning.

They must learn, said Elizabeth; they must understand the rewards of treason to the throne.

But Mary she merely kept more closely guarded, while Norfolk lived on in the Tower.

Norfolk had learned his lesson, said the Queen; and she was not entirely sure that he was responsible for the rising. As for Mary, adulteress, murderess, and fomenter of plots that she might be, as a Queen she was apart from ordinary mortals.

Elizabeth’s ministers shook their heads in sorrow and anger. They assured her that she risked her life while Mary lived; she also risked the safety of England.

Elizabeth knew she was risking much, but she felt that in tampering with the privileges of royalty, she risked more.

Mary could not learn her lessons and it was not long before she was plotting again. This time the services of a Florentine banker, named Ridolfi, were employed. Ridolfi lived in London, where he had a branch of his business, but he traveled freely about the Continent, and for this reason he was chosen to carry messages between the Pope, the Spanish ambassador, and the Catholic peers in England.

Norfolk, now home at his county seat, was still under some restraint since his release from the Tower. He was approached by Ridolfi, and, weakling that he was, under the spell of Mary to whom he had been sending money and gifts, found himself once more drawn into mischief and danger.

This time the danger was unmistakable, for messages had come from Alba himself, who promised that if Norfolk would start a revolt, he would send an Army to England to consolidate any success.

The Queen, snapping her fingers at Cecil’s detractors, had created him Lord Burghley; and Burghley was not a man to forget that Norfolk was under grave suspicion, although no longer a prisoner. A messenger from Ridolfi was captured as he landed in England from the Continent, where the Florentine now was. The message was vague and merely indicated that all was going well; but Burghley and his spies were on the scent; and when Norfolk’s servants were put to severe questioning, it was discovered that a plot was in train, involving Norfolk, Mary, the Catholic peers, and—most disturbing—the Pope, Philip, and his commander Alba.

Burghley’s spies were busy and, when letters were smuggled in to Mary, they were intercepted; so the plot was discovered before it had fully matured.

Burghley could restrain his impatience no longer; he presented his evidence to the Queen, with the result that Norfolk was arrested and the Spanish ambassador sent back to his own country.

Now the Queen’s ministers were calling for the blood—not only of Norfolk but of Mary. Elizabeth was calm, as always in moments of danger.

Strangely enough she was still reluctant to execute either Norfolk or Mary. The truth was that she hated strife; she hated executions. Her father and sister had left a bloody trail behind them, and she did not wish to rule as they had—by fear. She had given her consent to the execution of the six hundred at the time of the rebellion, but that, she assured herself, had had to be, for royalty must be maintained and men must learn that it was a cardinal sin to rise against their ruler. Yet, Burghley would reason with her, had not Norfolk rebelled? Was not the Queen of Scots more worthy of death than those six hundred men?

What he said was true. But Mary was a Queen, and Norfolk was the first peer in the land.

She faced her ministers; she listened to their railings against Mary and Norfolk.

“This error has crept into the heads of a number,” said one man, “that there is a person in this land which no law can touch. Warning has already been given her. Therefore the axe must give the next warning.”

“Shall we say,” said another, “that our law is not able to provide for such mischief? If this is so it is defective in a high degree. Mercy was shown my lord of Norfolk but no good followed.”

Then came the great cry from all: “To the scaffold with that monstrous dragon, that adulteress and murderess. And to the scaffold with the roaring lion of Norfolk.”

She temporized as she knew so well how to do. She gave them Norfolk, and on a hot June day he walked out to the scaffold on Tower Hill; but she would not give them Mary.

NINE

During these politically troublous times, Robert’s private life was providing complications.

Robert, as he himself admitted, was a frail man where women were concerned; yet the Queen did not seem to understand how frail he was in this respect; she did not seem to understand the strain she put upon him. He longed for children. He had two charming nephews of whom he was very fond—Philip and Robert Sidney; they were to him as sons; but he was not a man to be content with his sister’s sons.

Burghley had a son of his own. It was true that Robert Cecil was a puny creature, had been hard to rear and had inherited his humped back from his studious mother. Only Robert Dudley, the most virile, the most handsome at Court, was without legitimate children.

His first and most cursed marriage had been a childless one; he knew that was due to Amy and not to himself; he had proved that. But illegitimate children were not what he wanted; to them he could give his affection, but not the Dudley name.

For some years he had been having a very pleasant love affair with Douglass, Lady Sheffield. This was highly dangerous, but his passion for Douglass had been so strong that, to satisfy it, he had been ready to risk discovery and the Queen’s displeasure.

He remembered well the beginning of their love affair. The Queen had been on one of her summer pilgrimages which she had insisted should take place every year. A great procession would set out from Greenwich, Hampton, or Westminster—the Queen usually on horseback but sometimes in a litter followed by numerous carts containing furnishings and baggage. All must show a gusto to equal her own in these journeys.

The people would come for miles to see her pass, and stage entertainments for her. She loved the easy manners of the people who, she declared, though they might lack the grace of her courtiers, loved her no less than they did.

As to the route which should be followed, she changed her mind again and again. One farmer, having heard that she was to go one way, and then had decided against it before finally taking the road she first intended, shouted beneath the window of the inn where she was staying that night: “Now I know the Queen is but a woman; and she is very like my wife, for neither can make up their minds.” Her ladies were shocked. How dared the man thus talk of the Queen? But Elizabeth put her head out of the window and cried to her guards: “Give that man money to shut his mouth.”

One man called to the royal coachman to “Stay the cart that I may speak with the Queen!” And the Queen, smiling graciously, commanded that the cart be brought to a full stop; and not only did she speak to the man but she gave him her hand to kiss.

These familiarities endeared her to the people. When she stayed at humble inns, she would insist that the good innkeeper did not beggar himself to entertain her; but when she stayed at noble houses she expected lavish display.

On the occasion of which Robert was thinking, the party rested at Belvoir Castle, the estate of the Earl of Rutland; and among those noblemen who came from the surrounding country to pay homage to the Queen was Lord Sheffield.

The most beautiful woman in that assembly was Douglass, Lady Sheffield. She was of high birth, being a Howard of the Effingham branch; she was young and impressionable.

She had heard of the great Dudley who had recently been created Earl of Leicester and offered as husband to Mary Queen of Scots. Circulating about the country were stories in which the Queen figured largely; the whole of England had gossiped about the love affair, the murder of Amy, the children they had had, and of the Queen’s passionate jealousy regarding him. It seemed to Douglass that this Earl of Leicester was not so much a man as a god—often a malignant god, but an intensely fascinating one.

And when she saw him, magnificently attired and sitting his horse as no other sat his, she thought—as others had thought before her—that nowhere in the world and at no time had a man lived to equal the physical perfection of this Robert Dudley.

When Douglass knelt before the Queen, Leicester was beside Her Majesty; and for a moment Douglass saw his eyes upon her. She shivered. This was the man who had planned the murder of his wife for the sake of the Queen. This was the man who some said was the wickedest in England. He was aware of her look. He smiled, and she felt that was one of the most important moments of her life.

There was a banquet and ball that night in Belvoir Castle. The Queen was flirting in her lively fashion with her new favorite, Hatton, and inclined to be tart with Robert. It might have been that she had noticed his glance at the beautiful Lady Sheffield.

Thinking of Douglass, Robert knew, out of his experience, that in her case there would be a quick surrender, and felt a sullen anger toward the Queen rising within him. What a life he might have had! What if he had married a woman such as the charming Lady Sheffield? What children they might have had—sons like Philip and Robert Sidney. If he had married the Queen, their son would have been heir to a kingdom. But she was perverse and would rule alone. Amy had died in vain and he had an evil reputation. He had suffered much on account of this, and yet he might have remained married to Amy all these years, for all the difference it had made.

In the dance he found himself next to Douglass.

She was not bold, as Lettice Knollys had been. Lettice had been attracted because of his reputation, Douglass in spite of it. But he was excited by this young woman. Let Elizabeth flirt with her dancing master.

He bent close to Douglass and said: “Fate brings us together.”

She started, and he went on: “You have heard evil tales of me. Do not believe them, I beg of you.”

“My lord,” she began, but he interrupted with: “Come. ’Tis true. Much evil has been spoken against me.”

She recovered her composure. “We know you here for the great Earl…the greatest Earl…”

“The wickedest Earl!” he put in. “That saddens me. I would like an opportunity of proving to you that it is not true.”

“I…I did not believe it,” she said.

But the dance had taken her from him. He thought of the pleasure which would be his when she became his mistress. He pictured happy meetings, riding away from Court to meet her at one of his houses; perhaps even arranging that the Sheffields should come to Court. It would be dangerous, but he was in the mood for recklessness.

The dance had brought him to the Queen.

“I have been watching you at the dance, my lord.” Her eyes challenged him.

He answered ironically, excited by Douglass who was so young and charming: “I am honored by Your Majesty’s attention. I did not believe that in the dance your Eyes could interest you as do your Lids.”

She gave his arm a nip. “You must not be jealous, Robert. There are some who excel at one thing, others at another; some are born dancers, some lovers of women.”

“And some fortunate ones, both, Your Majesty.”

She gave him her hand and he pressed it fervently. He saw that she was satisfied, and that was what he wished; he wanted no interference with his new experience.

Yet for all his arts and wiles it was not until the last day of his stay at Belvoir Castle that Douglass became his mistress. She feared her husband; he feared the Queen; therefore a meeting was not easy to arrange.

But he was expert at such arrangements. He managed to lure her away from the others during a hunt; he knew of an inn nearby where they might stay awhile to refresh themselves. He was so fascinating, so debonair that he could conduct such matters with skill and charm. To Douglass it seemed that he was all-powerful; and in any case he was quite irresistible.

Yet such an important personage could not absent himself even for a few hours without attracting some attention. Mercifully the Queen did not notice his absence, but there were others to smile behind their hands and to whisper together of my lord’s latest amorous adventure.

When the royal party left Belvoir, promises were exchanged between the lovers.

That had happened some time ago, yet Robert had never lost interest in Douglass. She was so charming, so well-bred, being one of the Howards of Effingham; she displayed none of the Tudor tantrums.

Two or three years after their first meeting, Lord Sheffield had unfortunately died. Robert regretted this because Douglass had changed when she became a widow. She was by nature a virtuous woman, and only the great fascination which Robert was able to exert could have made her break her marriage vows; consequently she had suffered much remorse, and she longed for a regular union. Whilst her husband lived, that, happily for Robert, was out of the question; but when he died and a suitable period had elapsed, she began pleading for marriage. She was even more in love with him than she had been during those ecstatic days at Belvoir Castle. It would be the happiest day of her life, she told him, when she could enjoy their union and feel herself to be free from sin.

It was at this time that a new danger presented itself. Douglass came to Court; and her sister, Frances Howard, who was also at Court, became enamored of Robert. The two sisters were jealous of each other and their jealousy became a subject for gossip.

And as if this were not enough, Douglass continued to plead for marriage.

Robert was charmingly regretful. “But, my dear Douglass, you know my position at Court. You know what I owe to the Queen’s favor. I doubt not that I should lose all that I have gained if there was a marriage between us.”

“What of a secret marriage, Robert?”

“Do you think such a matter could long be kept secret from the Queen? She has her spies everywhere. And I have my enemies.”

“But our love has been a secret.”

He smiled wryly at her. If only it had been so, he would have felt much easier in his mind.

“Do you know,” he asked her, “what I have risked for your sake?”

“Oh, Robert, if I should bring disaster to you I should never forgive myself.”

He would consider it worthwhile, he told her; but it would be senseless to run unnecessarily into danger.

Then the troublous times had come. The rebellion and the execution of Norfolk had given him other matters with which to occupy his mind. There was a new personality at Court—Sir Francis Walsingham—a protégé of Burghley’s and a man of great astuteness. He had been ambassador to the Court of France and, when he returned to England, had become a member of the Privy Council. Robert had recognized the dynamic qualities of this dark-skinned man and was trying to win him over to his side, that, if need be, they might stand together against Burghley. These matters took his thoughts from Douglass until it was necessary for her to leave Court because she was to have a child.

Now Douglass was alternately joyful and despairing. She wanted the child but could not bear that it should be born a bastard. How could she explain its existence, she wanted to know. It was some years since her husband had died. Robert must marry her now.

Robert himself was torn with indecision. What if the child should be a boy? Had he not always longed for a son? And yet…what of the Queen?

Frantically he searched for a solution.

Douglass, retiring though she was, was by no means a calm woman; she was given to bouts of melancholy and hysteria; and Robert was afraid that in her pregnancy these weaknesses might be intensified. He had many enemies, but he also had his supporters. There was his own family; his brothers and sisters and all those connected with the Dudley family looked to him as their leader; if he fell, they would fall too. He had his followers and they were dependent on him, so he could trust their loyalty. He was without doubt a powerful man, but because his power had come to him through his personal qualities rather than his achievements, he regarded it more lightly than a man would have done who had earned it by careful, constant effort. Robert had had much success; he believed he could succeed in what others dared not attempt.

So at last he agreed to go through a form of marriage with Douglass very quietly at Esher, with only a few of his trusted servants as witnesses.

This seemed to him a master-stroke, for he felt sure that the Queen’s anger would not be lasting if he were not properly married; and at the same time, as a result of this mock marriage, Douglass could call herself—in secret—the Countess of Leicester, and soothe her qualms.

She was soothed and thought of nothing but preparing for the child.

It was a boy, and they called him Robert.

But their enemies were already whispering one with another that the Earl of Leicester had secretly married, and that it was well known how he and the lady had been lovers before the death of Lord Sheffield.

The death of Lord Sheffield! Now how had Lord Sheffield died? Of a catarrh, it was said. Might it not have been an artificial catarrh which stopped his breath?

They only had to cast their minds back to another death. Had they forgotten the poor lady who had been found with her neck broken at the foot of a staircase at Cumnor Place! That was when Lord Robert had thought he might marry the Queen. And now that the Earl of Leicester wished to marry another lady, that lady’s husband had most conveniently died.

Such rumors there would always be concerning one so prominent, one who had known such spectacular good fortune.

Robert must make sure these rumors did not reach the ears of the Queen.

News of one of the most horrible massacres the world had ever known came to England.

On the Eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day, King Charles with his mother, Catherine de’ Medici, and the Duke of Guise had incited the Catholics of Paris to murder thousands of Huguenots assembled in the capital for the wedding of Catherine’s daughter, Marguerite, to Henry of Navarre.

The whole Protestant world was shocked and scandalized by the bestial cruelties which had been let loose. The streets of Paris, it was said, were running with the blood of martyrs. Two thousand, it was reported, had been slain in Paris alone; and in Lyons, Orléans, and many other cities the horror had been repeated. The noble Coligny himself—known throughout the world as the most honorable of men—was one of the victims; his son-in-law Téligny had followed him, as had many other gentlemen of high reputation.

The little boats were crossing the Channel and thousands of men and women were seeking refuge in England; the whole of the Protestant world was ready to take arms against the Catholics.

Preachers thundered from pulpits; letters of warning were sent to the Queen and her Council. “Death to all Catholics!” cried the people. “Make a treaty of friendship with Germany, with the Netherlands, and with Scotland. Stand together against the bloodthirsty idolators. And take that dangerous traitress, the pestilence of Christendom, the adulteress and murderess, Mary of Scotland, without delay to the block. Was it not her relations, the Guises, who had been behind the massacre! The Duke of Guise had conceived the murderous plan in conjunction with that Jezebel, the Italian Catherine de’ Medici. The Queen of England was in danger. Let her not bring rape, robbery, violence, and murder into the land for the sake of her miserable mercy to a horrible woman who carried the wrath of God with her wherever she went.”

Elizabeth was shaken. Like everyone else she daily expected war. She believed that the massacre was a preliminary move in a full campaign of the Catholics against the Protestants. She had all the ports manned; the ships of England were ready. She allowed Burghley and Leicester to persuade her to take some action with regard to Mary; but she would not agree to her execution. Mary was to be sent back to Scotland where she would doubtless be tried for Darnley’s murder and executed. Thus Mary would die and Elizabeth be said to have had no hand in her death.

But the months passed and there was no attack by the Catholics. Mary was still detained in England; but Elizabeth and her ministers knew that as long as there were Catholics and Protestants in the world there would be strife in one form or another between them.

Even as she looked at those ministers about her, Elizabeth sensed their irritation with her actions regarding Mary.

Burghley was a stern Protestant. Robert, though not religious, was giving himself to the Protestant cause. Only the Queen remained lukewarm. She would not admit it, but she favored neither sect. Both provoked bloodshed, and that fact prevented her from approving of either. How could it matter, she would ask herself in secret, whether a man believed the bread of the sacrament to be the body of Christ or blessed bread! What mattered was that she should continue to reign over her people, that her people loved her, and that her country should come to greatness through that peaceful prosperity which only tolerance could bring.

Life flowed more easily in England, although the Queen and her ministers were watching events abroad with an even keener interest than they had before the massacre.

The Dutch, under the Prince of Orange, were rebelling against the Spaniards who, with their relentless Inquisition, had inflicted such cruelty upon them.

Later the Queen issued a law against the wearing of over-sumptuous apparel among the common people, although her own wardrobe had never been so magnificent. There was trouble in Ireland and, to subdue it, Elizabeth had sent over the Earl of Essex who had been Lord Hereford and the husband of Lettice—the central figure in Robert’s escapade of some years before.

The King of France died, and Elizabeth, who had considered the Duke of Anjou, who was now Henri Trois of France, as one of her suitors, pretended to be annoyed because he had married unexpectedly.

Wheat was scarce and the price rose to six shillings a bushel. This was disquieting; the people began to murmur.

Then came the threat of war. The Prince of Orange and the Provinces of Zeeland and Holland suggested to Elizabeth that she should become their Queen, but she was stout in her refusal. Her ministers begged and implored. “What!” she cried. “Plunge my people into war with Spain!”

In vain did they protest and point out that she would become the head of the Protestant world. She wanted no part in the wars of religion, she told them. Let others fight such wars. She would remain aloof. She believed that those who stood aside and looked on at the wars of others were the real victors.

That summer she took her usual trip through the countryside. Robert had gone on ahead of the royal party, for the route that year passed through Kenilworth and Robert was to be the Queen’s host for twelve days of July. He was determined to prepare such pageants and entertainments as had never before been seen.

He was uneasy as he rode North. He could not help wondering whether she had heard the rumors concerning Lord Sheffield’s death; he wondered whether any had dared face her wrath by telling her that Douglass believed herself to be married to him and that he and Douglass had a son.

Elizabeth had been haughty with him recently and it was this that had started those uneasy thoughts. She was more devoted to her old Mutton and Bellwether—her new names for Hatton. She was very fond of her Moor; this was Walsingham, who was swarthy enough to merit the name. Therefore, thought Robert, he must plan such diversions as had never been known, even in the days of Cardinal Wolsey and her father.

Kenilworth Castle was surrounded by nearly twenty miles of rich estates. Robert had spent thousands of pounds beautifying the place and cultivating the land. He was a proud man as he rode through his estates. He wished that his father—who had always been his model—were alive to see him. This year alone the Queen had already seen that fifty thousand pounds had come his way—and that was in addition to the income he received from his many activities.

He no longer hoped for marriage with the Queen, for he now believed that she would never marry. She was a strange woman, not to be judged by ordinary standards. Many rumors circulated concerning her. Some said that she would not marry, knowing herself, on account of an obstruction, to be incapable of sexual intercourse. He knew the Queen better than any living person. He knew that love, for her, was a matter of flattery, compliments, kisses, and fond embraces. Her eyes would glisten at the sight of a handsome man; she could not refrain from caressing him. She was indeed a strange woman. She was fond of men, but she was perpetually in love with power. And…she wished to linger in romantic lanes, never reaching any definite journey’s end.

When he arrived at the Castle, a shock awaited him, for Douglass was there, and the child was with her. He was astounded. She should be at one of his manor houses awaiting the day when he could visit her. Although these people who were with him were his friends, he was not entirely sure that he could trust their discretion forever.

She had evidently decided not to embarrass him. “My dear friend,” she said, “I was passing nearby and, hearing of your great plans, called in to give you my help. You will have much to do here and I fancy I can be of some service to you.”

Were there amused smiles among the spectators? Was that a frown of anxiety between Philip Sidney’s eyes? Robert’s nephew loved him as did no other man, and Philip was wise. He scented danger.

Robert’s quick wits asserted themselves. “You are good indeed, Lady Sheffield,” he said. “I doubt not that I owe much to your kindness.”

But he was thinking: What, when the Queen is here! And his delight was turned to apprehension.

Elizabeth was very gay as she set out on her journey. With her were all the ladies of the Court, forty earls, and more than sixty lords and knights. She was looking forward with pleasure to her arrival at Kenilworth, to see Robert surrounded by that magnificence which he owed to her.

Dear Robert! He was not so young now. To tell the truth the figure which had once been lithe and slender was no longer so; the dark curling hair which she had loved to fondle was thinning and turning gray, and there were pouches under the beautiful eyes. She, who loved him, saw him clearly; all his faults she saw, but they mattered not, for they could not alter her affection. He had not the clever mind of her Sir Spirit or her dear exasperating Moor; yet he had twice their ambition. He was—she would confess to herself—a little too careful of his health; he loved taking a physic; she often smiled to hear the earnestness with which he discussed a new cure with another such as himself. She herself defied pain; she would never admit she had any. She defied death and old age.

She could scarcely take her mind off the pleasures in store and give attention to serious matters.

Peters and Turwert, the two anabaptists from Holland, were to be burned at the stake while she was out of her capital. She had had many letters concerning these men. Bishop Foxe, whose chief concern was with martyrs, had written to her begging her not to sully her name, her reign and the Reformed Church by emulating the Catholics. Bishop Foxe and those who agreed with him did not understand. She must not come into the open as a supporter of anabaptists. Philip of Spain was watching. If only her people knew how she dreaded that man, how in her heart she knew that he, with that fanatical fervor she had once glimpsed in his eyes, was waiting for the day when he and the Catholic community would dominate the world, and all men would go in fear of the Inquisition!

She did not concern herself overmuch with these two Dutchmen. She was, like her father, not given to brooding over torture inflicted on others.

There was another matter which offered more pleasing reflection.

Catherine de’ Medici—now that her beloved son Henri was King of France and a married man—was hoping that Elizabeth might reconsider as a suitor her younger son, he who had been Alençon and, since his brother had become King, taken his brother’s title of Duke of Anjou.

Elizabeth found it amusing to play at courtship again.

The little man was quite ugly, she had been told; but the French ambassador—that most charming La Mothe Fenelon—was loud in his praises. The little Duke, he intimated, was beside himself with love for the English Queen; and if she were older than he was, he liked her for that. He was no callow youth to enjoy mere girls. Elizabeth had also heard that he was a little pock-marked, which she had said, made her hesitate. Catherine de’ Medici wrote to Elizabeth saying that she knew of an excellent remedy which, it was claimed, would remove all trace of the pox and make the skin smooth again. Elizabeth replied that this was excellent news; and they must at once have the remedy applied to the face of the Duke.

And now…to Kenilworth.

It was July and very warm when the procession arrived at Long Ichington, which was six or seven miles from the Castle. Here Robert had erected a tent in which a banquet was prepared.

The Queen, in good humor and most affectionate, would have Robert sit beside her; and when the banquet was over, Robert had a fat boy, six years old, brought to her—the fattest she had ever seen, but so foolish as to be unable to understand that she was his Queen. After the fat boy, she was invited to inspect an enormous sheep: the biggest of their kind, these two, and both bred on Robert’s territory. The Queen laughed immoderately, and this was a good beginning.

They left the tent and followed the chase which was to lead them to Kenilworth Castle.

The Queen, at the head of the chase, kept Robert beside her, and while he pointed out with pride all the beauties and richness of the scene, he said: “I owe all this to my dearest mistress. May I die the moment I forget it!”

She was pleased, and as she was reluctant to give up the hunt, there was little daylight left when they reached the gates of Kenilworth Park.

In the Park, pageants greeted her. Smiling, she acknowledged the greetings of all; and when she reached the castle itself, there at the entrance stood a man of immense stature, carrying a club and keys. As she approached he expressed surprise at the magnificence of the company, until, affecting to see the Queen for the first time, he went on with great wonder:

“Oh, God, a priceless pearl!

No worldly wight, I doubt—some sovereign goddess sure!

In face, in hand, in eye, in other features all,

Yes, beauty, grace and cheer—yea, port and majesty,

Shew all some heavenly peer with virtues all beset.

Come, come, most perfect paragon, pass on with joy and bliss:

Have here, have here, both club and keys, myself, my ward, I yield.

E’en gates and all, my lord himself, submit and seek your shield.”

The Queen smiled happily; she loved such eulogies; and she loved this particularly because it had been designed by her Robert.

As the company passed through the castle gates, Robert saw, for the first time, one in that company who made his heart leap with sudden pleasure.

Lettice Knollys had come to Kenilworth.

Robert conducted the Queen to her chamber. Through the windows she could see the fireworks which made a good display in the Park, a sign to the countryside that the Queen had come to Kenilworth. At intervals the guns boomed forth. It was as though a King entertained a Queen. And that was how Elizabeth would have it.

“Robert,” she said, “you are a lavish spender.”

“Who could spend too lavishly in the entertainment of Your Majesty?”

She gave him the familiar tap on the cheek, thinking: Age cannot take his charm from him. It is there just as it was in the days of his flaming youth; and now he is a subtler man, and I doubt not many would love him still; yet he has remained unmarried for my sake.

“I shall remember my stay in Kenilworth to the end of my days,” she said. Then, to hide her emotion, added: “The clock there has stopped.”

He smiled. “All clocks in the Castle were stopped the moment Your Majesty entered.”

She “pupped” her lips and raised her eyebrows.

“Time stands still for goddesses,” he said.

That was a nice touch and typical of Robert.

He took her hand and kissed it. “You have promised to rest here for twelve days. During that time we will forget clocks. We will forget all but the entertaining of Your Majesty.”

“There was never one like you…never!” she said tenderly.

“Madam,” he answered, “a goddess might lose her Mutton and her Bellwether, her attendant Moor, and even her Spirit; but her Eyes do her better service than any of these.”

“Mayhap there’s truth in that,” she said. “Now leave me, Robin. I am tired with the day’s journey.”

He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips.

She was smiling affectionately after he had gone.

In a corridor he came face to face with Lettice, and he knew that she had waylaid him. She was more beautiful than she had been in those days when he had first attracted her. She was no longer Lady Hereford, for her husband had been made Earl of Essex. She seemed bolder, and because of that faint resemblance to the Queen which came from her grandmother, Mary Boleyn, she reminded him of the young Elizabeth whom he had known in the Tower of London.

“A merry day to you, my lord,” she said.

“I knew not that you would come.”

“You remember me?”

“Remember! I do indeed.”

“I am honored. So the great Earl of Leicester forgets me not! The most honored man in the realm—by the Queen if not by the people—does not forget a humble woman on whom he once looked without disfavor.” Her eyes flashed angrily. She was reminding him that he had dropped her while their affair had still promised much enjoyment to them both.

“How could a man look with disfavor on one so beautiful?” he asked.

“He might if his mistress commanded him to do so…if he were so much her creature that he dared do no other.”

“I am no one’s creature!” he retorted haughtily.

She came nearer and lifted her brown eyes to his face. “Then you have changed, my lord,” she mocked.

Robert was never at a loss. He could not with any credit to himself explain his neglect in words, so he embraced her and kissed her. Such kisses were more adequate than any words could have been.

Douglass came to his apartment, bringing her boy with her. Poor Douglass! She felt that their son might appeal to his affections, even if she could not.

He dismissed his servants, trusting he could rely on their loyalty.

“It was foolish of you to come here,” he burst out when they were alone.

“But, Robert, it is so long since I saw you. The boy so longed to see you.”

He lifted the boy in his arms. It seemed to him dangerously obvious that this little Robert had the Dudley looks. The child smiled and put his arms about Robert’s neck. He loved this handsome glittering man, although he did not know that he was his father.

“Well, my boy. What have you to say to me?”

“This is a big castle,” said the boy.

“And you like it, eh?”

The boy nodded, staring in fascination at his father’s face.

“Mamma says that it is Kenilworth.”

Had she said: “You are the rightful heir to Kenilworth!” No! she would not dare.

He held the boy against him. For the sake of this child he was almost ready to acknowledge Douglass as his wife. He would have been proud to have taken young Robert by the hand and introduce him to the company. “Behold my son!” What consternation those words would cause.

The Queen would never forgive him; and indeed, he was weary of this boy’s mother. Her meek compliance and her suppressed hysteria reminded him uncomfortably of Amy. Why could not these women fall out of love as easily as he could?

Lettice was a different kind of woman; and Lettice too had a fine son. She had called him Robert. Was that in memory of Robert Dudley? This boy of hers, now eight years old, was of outstanding beauty. Why should Lettice not give him sons?

He thought of their embrace in the corridor. They were two experienced people, he and Lettice; she could give him much that he had hoped for all his life, and which, because of the Queen, he had missed: pleasure, children, and family life.

Lettice had a husband. Robert shrugged his shoulders. Then he looked at Douglass, who was watching him closely, and it seemed to him that he heard the mocking laughter of Amy Robsart in that room.

He said angrily: “Have a care! This is a great indiscretion. If the Queen should discover aught, this might not only be the end of me but of you.”

She fell down onto her knees and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Robert, I will take care. I promise you…she shall not know.”

“You should never have come here,” he reproved her.

But the boy, seeing his mother’s distress, began to cry, and, picking him up to comfort him, Robert thought: If his mother were another woman—not one of whom I am heartily tired—if she were Lettice, I believe I would marry her for the sake of this boy.

The next day, being a Sunday, all the company went to church; and later in the day there was a banquet more splendid than that of the previous day; there was dancing and music, and as soon as darkness came, the sky was illumined with greater and better displays of fireworks; and the guns boomed once more.

During that day three women thought often of their host, each longingly, each in her own way in love with him.

There was Douglass—apprehensive and nervous—knowing that he no longer loved her and that, but for the child, he would have wished he had never loved her; it seemed to her that throughout the Castle of Kenilworth there was an air of foreboding, of warning perhaps from another woman who had been Robert’s wife and whom he had found an encumbrance.

The Queen thought of him tenderly—the best loved of all men in her life. Even Thomas Seymour had never excited her as Robert did; she doubted whether, had Thomas lived, he could have held her affection as did this man. For all Robert’s weaknesses she loved him now as once she had loved him for his strength. In those glorious days of youth when he had been the hero of the tiltyard, she had loved him as the most perfect and virtuous man she knew. Now she knew him to be neither perfect nor virtuous, yet she loved him still. She was the very contented guest at Kenilworth.

Lettice’s thoughts were all of him. She wanted Robert for her lover, but she was no Douglass to be taken up and cast aside. If Robert Dudley became her lover she must become the Countess of Leicester. She brooded and smiled, for she was a woman who, when she wanted something badly, had found that it invariably fell into her hands.

The days were hot and sultry. The Queen kept within the castle until five in the evening, when she would ride forth with a great company of ladies and gentlemen to hunt in the surrounding country. There was always a pageant to greet her on her return to Kenilworth Park, and each day’s pageant strove to be more grand, more splendid than the last.

But the first day’s pleasure was clouded as the days passed. Perhaps she was tired of listening to speeches concerning her own virtues. Robert was preoccupied, and she had an uneasy feeling that this was not only due to the vast pains he was taking to entertain her. He was looking worn and strained.

She brought her horse close to his and asked: “Are you not sleeping well, my lord?”

He started, and such a look of guilt came into his face that her fears were increased. She suspected an entanglement with a woman. She knew Robert’s nature. It was to his eternal credit that he had remained outwardly faithful to her; but surely at such a time he would not dare to think of another woman.

“You start!” she said harshly. “Is it a crime then, not to sleep?”

“It should be a crime to be laid at my door, Your Majesty, if you did not sleep whilst under my roof.”

“We were not discussing my rest, but yours.”

“I feared that Your Majesty had been put in mind of the matter because of your own ill rest. I beg of you to tell me if your chamber be not to your liking. We will have it changed. We will have an apartment refurnished for you.”

She tapped him sharply on the arm. “A plain question demands a plain answer, my lord; and it should be given its reward…unless it is feared that the giving might not please.”

“My dearest lady, I would not wish to trouble you with my ailments.”

“So you are sick again?”

“It is naught but an internal humor.”

She laughed aloud in her relief. “You eat too much, my lord.”

“I could not expect Your Majesty to do full justice to my table unless I did so also. You might think I disdained that which had been prepared for your royal palate.”

“Then ’tis just a sickness of the body. I feared it might be an indisposition of the mind that kept you awake at night.”

Sensing her suspicion, he said: “Your Majesty shall know the truth. It is a woman.”

He saw her quick intake of breath and he turned to her with all the passionate fervor of which he was capable. “Knowing that she whom I love lies beneath my roof,” he said, “how could I sleep at night unless she lay with me.”

The Queen whipped her horse and galloped ahead; but he had seen the pleased smile on her face.

“My lord,” she said over her shoulder, “you are offensive. Pray do not ride beside me. I do not wish to scold my host, yet so great is my anger that I fear I shall do so.”

Nevertheless he kept beside her. “Your Majesty…nay…Elizabeth, sweetest Elizabeth as you were to me in the Tower…you have forgotten, but I shall remember till I die. You put too great a strain upon me.”

She spurred on her horse; and she did not speak to him again, but all her good humor was restored; and when the hart was caught alive in a pool, she cried: “Do not kill him. I am in a merciful mood. I will grant him his life, on condition that he loses his ears for a ransom.”

And she herself cut off the poor creature’s ears, and smiling, watched him rush bewildered away with the blood dripping from his head. Then she called out: “Where is mine host? Why is he not beside me?”

Robert came to her and they rode side by side back to Kenilworth.

“I trust, my lord,” she said primly, “that you will not so far forget yourself again. I might not be so lenient if you were to do so.”

“I would not swear it,” he answered. “I am but a man, and perchance must take the consequences of my rash speech.”

And while he complimented her he was thinking of Lettice and the many passionate meetings between them, the delight they found in each other, the sudden surrender of both which would not be checked, the knowledge that nothing on Earth could keep them apart, nor stem the violent passion which they each had for the other.

And if Elizabeth discovered this? He kept thinking of the trapped animal with the haunted look in his eyes as she had stood over him with the knife; he thought of the blood-lust of the huntress which showed in her face; and he thought of the poor creature, running from them. That was the Queen’s mercy.

In the Park a pageant was awaiting her. A tall man, dressed as the god Sylvanus, stood before her and recited a eulogy of her charms. But she was tired of his oration before he reached the end and, turning her horse, rode on. But the young poet, not to be outdone, and determined to serve his master in the praise of Her Majesty, ran beside her horse, declaiming her virtues; and she, with a wry smile, pulled up, for he was clearly suffering from loss of breath.

He bowed before her. “Your Majesty,” he said, “if it is your wish to proceed, pray do so. If my rude speech doth not offend your royal ears, I can run and speak for twenty miles or so. I would rather run as Your Majesty’s footman than be a god on horseback in heaven.”

She rewarded the man with a smile and gracious words, for she liked that tribute better than his verses. “I like,” she said, “that which comes from the heart better than that learned by it.”

But when Sylvanus had finished his speech, he broke the branch he was carrying and threw it from him. Unfortunately it fell near the Queen’s horse, which reared violently.

There was immediate consternation, but the Queen, controlling her horse, cried out: “No hurt! No hurt!” Then she turned to console Sylvanus, who was beside himself with grief.

Robert brought his horse close to the Queen’s. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I pray you let us go into the castle. I feel your precious person will be safer there.”

He was apprehensive as they entered the castle.

It had been an exciting day with the bears. Ban dogs, which had been kept locked away, were suddenly let loose on thirteen of them. The noise, the shrieks, the growls, and the tearing of flesh had set the Queen’s eyes sparkling.

The sun was hot and the Queen and some of her ladies were sitting in the shade of the trees on one of the lawns when a small boy made his way toward them.

He stood still and stared at the Queen. He was such a handsome little boy and the Queen, being fond of all handsome people, including children, called to him: “What is it, my little man? Have you come to see the Queen?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

“Then come closer that the Queen may see you.”

He came, his eyes wide. He laid his hands on her knees and looked up into her face. “You are a beautiful lady,” he said.

Nothing could have delighted her more.

“You are handsome enough yourself,” she answered. “You know who I am. Now tell me who you are.”

“I am Robert,” said the child.

She laughed. “That is my favorite name.”

He smiled and touched one of the aglets on her gown; as he bent his little head to study it she noticed how the dark hair curled about his neck. Involuntarily she put out a hand to touch it.

“What do you here, my child?”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Who brought you?” she asked.

“My Mamma.”

“And who is your Mamma?”

“My Mamma!” he said with surprise.

“Of a certainty. How foolish of your Queen!” she beckoned to one of her women. “Whose boy is this, do you know?”

“My lady Sheffield’s, Your Majesty.”

The Queen frowned. “Sheffield died some time ago, did he not? I thought it long ago. How old are you, little one?”

“Three.”

Robert, seeing from afar that his son was with the Queen, felt dismayed and angry that this should be so. Who was responsible for this? He hesitated, wondering how much damage had been done, and whether it would be wiser now or later to face anything that had to be faced. He decided to go straight to the Queen and discover the worst.

He quickly realized that this was a mistake for, as soon as the child saw him, he deserted the Queen and running to Robert caught him about the knees and looked up at him with an expression which clearly indicated that this was not their first meeting.

With perfect naturalness Robert picked him up and said: “And what is this, and what do you here?”

The boy laughed and pulled at Robert’s beard.

“The young man seems very familiar with the Earl of Leicester,” said the Queen; and Robert fancied he heard the sharp note of suspicion in her voice.

“Who would not be friends with a boy like this?” he said lightly. He put down the boy and came to kneel before the Queen; he took her hand and asked if his humble entertainment left anything to be desired.

“We are being well entertained,” said Elizabeth with a trace of tartness.

The boy again trotted up.

“Whose son is this?” asked the Queen, looking at Robert.

“Lady Sheffield’s.”

“She is not of the Court now.”

“You remember Sheffield, Your Majesty. He was a friend of mine. His widow, with the boy, her friends and servants, has been resting here at Kenilworth while I was at Court. Then, Your Majesty, they expressed such a desire to see you that I could not turn them away.”

“We do not remember having seen them. Why have they not been presented?”

“Lady Sheffield has been indisposed.”

“I will see her at once.”

“I will myself inform her of Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

“Let a servant go to her and command her to come to me.”

Robert turned in order to see if there was any servant, whom he could trust, within reach. He saw such a man and called to him.

“Her Majesty wishes Lady Sheffield to come to her. Pray bring her here.”

“I will, my lord.”

“And,” added Robert, “take the boy with you. Doubtless his nurse will be looking for him.”

The servant went away with young Robert, while his father fervently hoped that Douglass would do what was expected of her.

The Queen talked of the bears, and how she had enjoyed the spectacle. But all the time Robert sensed that she was watching him closely.

To his great relief the servant came back alone.

“Lady Sheffield sends her thanks to Your Most Gracious Majesty. Lady Sheffield is distraught because she is so unwell that she cannot leave her bed. She begs that Your Majesty, with your well-known clemency, will excuse her for this occasion.”

“We will,” said the Queen. “Yet will we see her before we leave. We will visit her in her bedchamber if need be. But tell her now that we excuse her for this day.”

Robert felt almost gay.

“I seem to have seen that boy before,” said the Queen.

“I am fond of him,” said Robert, “and I have a reason for being so.”

She was alert.

“He reminds me of a boy I knew long ago…in the Tower of London. I was a desolate prisoner and he took flowers from me to a goddess whom I adored from the moment I saw her.”

Such flattery was food and drink to Elizabeth. She remembered too.

“He was a pleasant child,” she said, “but methinks he lacked the good looks of this young Robert.”

Robert went on: “I remember the day you came by, and I looked through my prison bars. I firmly believe that I have never been happier in the whole of my life than I was then.”

“A poor life has been yours, my lord, if your best moments were those of a poor prisoner. Is that the way for a proud man to talk?”

“It is indeed, gracious Majesty, for then I had hopes…great hopes. I dreamed of love…of a perfect being. But alas, my dreams were only partly fulfilled. I had high hopes once.”

“A man should never give up hope, my lord. Surely you know that. Never as long as he lives.”

“But, Madam, what is a man to do when he finds the woman he loves is a goddess, above all earthly desires and needs?”

“He might become a god. Gods may mate with goddesses.”

So did he delight her with this flattering conversation, luring her away from a train of thought which, started by a handsome boy named Robert who had something of the Dudley looks, might have led to grave disaster.

Robert and Lettice met in a quiet chamber of the castle. Their meetings must be brief for they must not both be missed at the same time; and Robert was expected to be in constant attendance upon the Queen.

Meetings were very precious. Lettice might have urged him to recklessness, but she was looking far ahead. Once she had lost him through the Queen, and she was determined not to do so again.

She said to him as they lay behind locked doors in that small room: “And what afterward?”

“We must see each other,” he said, “and often.”

“How so?”

“Doubtless it can be arranged.”

“The Queen watches you as a dog watches a rabbit. And what when my husband returns from Ireland?”

“Essex must not return from Ireland.”

“How can that be prevented when his task is completed?”

“There will be a way.”

“There may be a way. But we shall not meet. There is too much to prevent our doing so.”

“We shall,” he insisted. “We must.”

“I would that we might marry. I long for that. To live graciously…without these secret meetings…to have sons like my own Robert, but your sons.”

“You cannot know how fervently I wish that.”

“Will you spend the rest of your days behaving like the Queen’s lap-dog, yapping at her heels, cowering from her anger, being taken up and set down at the whim of a moment?”

“Nay!” he said passionately.

She strained herself against him. “Should we not mold our own lives, Robert? Were we not meant to marry, to have children?”

“You are right. We were meant to. But,” he added, “there is Essex.”

She was silent for a while, then she said: “Mean you, my lord, that only Essex stands between our marriage…not the Queen?”

“But for Essex we would marry. We could keep that secret from the Queen.”

She said quietly: “It would have to be a true marriage. My family would insist on that. My sons would be your heirs…nothing less.”

“Nothing less,” he repeated.

“And only Essex is between us and that?”

“Only Essex.”

He thought of the boy whom she had borne Essex—young Robert Devereux—one of the tallest and most beautiful children he had ever seen. Such would his sons be if he married Lettice. He loved Douglass’ boy, but not enough to make Douglass his true wife.

Her next words startled him: “How much do you love me?”

He answered: “Infinitely.”

He knew then that she was thinking of Amy Robsart; and next day, during the water pageant he had planned for the Queen’s delight, he also was thinking of Amy.

Douglass knelt before the Queen. She had never been so frightened in the whole of her life. She had scarcely seen Robert since the Queen had come to Kenilworth. He had paid one visit to her to tell her how she must conduct herself before the Queen. He had been cold, and she had sensed his deep anger; and that anger she knew was directed against herself.

She knew too that he was in love with the Countess of Essex. She had heard it whispered. They could not keep it secret as they would wish; it showed in their faces when they looked at each other. Pray God the Queen did not notice. No one would tell her, for she would not thank the one who did, and that person would gain the eternal enmity of the Earl of Leicester.

And now who knew what questions the Queen would ask of Doug lass, whose mind was not quick and clever. She prayed that she might find the right answers.

The Queen was in a mellow mood. She bade Douglass rise while she studied her closely. Douglass had been a beautiful woman, but the days and nights of strain had left their mark upon her face in dark shadows under her eyes; and an air of drooping melancholy could not be hidden from the Queen.

He may have loved her once, mused Elizabeth, but he no longer does.

“Come, Lady Sheffield, sit beside us. We hear you have been indisposed, and we are sorry.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious.”

“It is a pity indeed that you have missed those pageants which have been prepared for our delight. Our host has surpassed even himself, and we have rarely been so entertained. We hear you had some hand in the arrangements.”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty. My husband was a friend of the Earl’s who graciously gave me permission to rest here while he was at Court. And so did I. I confess that a desire to see Your Majesty made me delay my departure.”

“Well, you have seen me now. I trust you are pleased with the sight. Have I changed since you served at Court?”

“Your Majesty performs the miracle of growing more beautiful with the passing years.”

“You have a charming son.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Named Robert, eh?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“The Earl seems fond of him.”

“The Earl, like Your Majesty, has a fondness for children.”

“That’s so. And the boy is three years old, I hear.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I remember your husband…Sheffield.”

Elizabeth had the pleasure of watching the flush spread from Douglass’ neck to her brow, and the circumstances seemed clear to her. But she was sure the affair was over, so she was only mildly annoyed; her wicked Robert, she told herself, must be given a little license.

But she must be sure that the affair was over. She would keep the woman where she might see how she behaved in the future.

She said: “Lady Sheffield, I like your manners. You shall join us in our journeyings, and when we return to Court there will be a place for you in the bedchamber.”

Douglass fell to her knees in gratitude. Her joy shone from her eyes. If she were at Court, she would see Robert constantly.

A few days after that interview the royal procession left Kenilworth.

The Queen was thrown into a flutter of excitement by the arrival at Court of Monsieur Simiers, for this energetic little Frenchman came on a romantic mission; he came on behalf of his master, the Duke of Anjou, to ask for the Queen’s hand in marriage.

Elizabeth, certain now that Douglass’ child was also Robert’s, felt the need for a little courtship, and she welcomed Monsieur Simiers graciously.

Very soon the young man became her Monkey (because of his name, she told him, but his features did suggest the name) and he was seen walking with her, riding with her, sitting beside her; in fact he seemed scarcely ever out of her presence. He was practiced in all the arts at which the French excelled—dancing, paying compliments, adoring her with his eyes, hinting that he would barter twenty years of his life if he might be her lover in reality and not as proxy for another.

She bestowed upon him all the favors which she was wont to bestow on others; and his was the cheek which was affectionately tapped, his the arm on which she leaned, his the lips which kissed her hands. Her Monkey put her Eyes, her Lids, and her old Bellwether into the shade.

It was all a little ridiculous for, although she was well over forty, she was behaving like a girl of sixteen—and a frivolous lovesick one at that.

So absorbed was she with her Monkey that she scarcely noticed that the Earl of Essex was back in England and that there seemed to be burning within him a smoldering anger.

When Robert informed her that Essex’s work was not completed in Ireland and that he must therefore be sent back at once, she gave her consent and the Earl went most reluctantly.

Essex had been back in Ireland little more than a month when the news came that he had died of a flux; and there were rumors that his death was not a natural one.

Elizabeth snatched a few moments from the society of her Monkey to discuss this matter with Robert.

“What think you?” she asked. “Doubtless the man had his enemies. I like not these rumors.”

Robert answered: “Rumor must be quashed. There shall be an inquest, and my brother-in-law Sidney, as the Deputy of Ireland, will see that it is carried out in a fitting manner.”

“Let that be done then.”

And it was, for Sir Henry Sidney was able to report that the death of the Earl of Essex was due to natural causes.

Shortly afterward a man who had been closely connected with Essex died similarly. This man had uttered wild words; he had said that a very notable person in England had so urgently wished for the death of my lord of Essex that he had sent his professional poisoners to Ireland to dispatch him; and as those in charge of the inquest had been very near to that notable person, and their fortunes wrapped in his, the matter was not sifted as it might otherwise have been.

But this man was of no standing, and his death did not call for the investigation which had followed that of the Earl of Essex.

Kat, hearing the rumors, was frightened.

The gossip in her longed to disclose to the Queen all she had heard. But Kat loved her royal mistress even more than she loved gossip. The murder of Essex could mean only one thing: Leicester must this time be so deeply in love that he was considering marriage. It was all very well for Elizabeth to flirt with her Monkey, to speak of the charms of her dear Bellwether. Lightly she loved these men; but there was one whom she truly loved.

If she had married him, reasoned Kat, she would have been happier than she was without him. She would still have been the Queen and he would have had to obey her. She had chosen the wrong man if she expected him meekly to accept a position which was well-nigh intolerable.

She said to Elizabeth when they were alone: “Dearest Majesty, this Monkey and his master…you are not serious?”

“I am.”

“Would you then marry a man so much younger than yourself?”

“Am I so old then? Am I so ugly?”

“You are the youngest lady in the world—but that is in spirit, sweetheart. You are the most beautiful; but he is small and puny; and his skin is pock-marked.”

“How do you know?”

“We have heard it; and even his mother admits he has not the stature of his brother.”

“You meddle, Kat.”

“’Tis because of my love.”

“I know that. But I want no meddling.”

“Darling, why did you not marry him whom you truly love?”

“I know not whom you mean.”

“Ah yes, you do, darling. You have loved him long and he has loved you…and he is the one for you, and you for him.”

“Leicester!” she snapped; and her face hardened.

Was she thinking of Lady Sheffield and her child? wondered Kat. Or had she heard of the greater menace that was to come from the Countess of Essex?

Kat did not know and dared not ask; but she believed that it must be of Lady Sheffield that the Queen was thinking, for she would be less composed if she knew of his liaison with Lettice.

“What!” she cried. “Shall I so far forget myself as to prefer a poor servant of my own making to the first Prince in Christendom?”

Kat shook her head and was filled with sorrow.

“God preserve your Majesty from all unhappiness,” she murmured.

And Elizabeth lifted a hand to pat Kat’s arm affectionately.

Robert was on his way to a meeting with Douglass. He had asked her to come that day to the Close Arbor in the grounds about Greenwich Palace.

He was worried concerning Douglass, who was becoming hysterical now that she guessed something of his plans regarding Lettice. Douglass had a post in the Queen’s bedchamber and that was a highly dangerous situation, since it brought her into close contact with the Queen.

He had made up his mind.

He had heard of Elizabeth’s words to Kat Ashley; and he was sure now that, for many years, she had had no intention of marrying. Perhaps if he had never married Amy, if he had been free when they were both young, there would have been a different story to tell. But it was too late to think of that. He wanted children. He thought often of all the fine young men about the Court today who were the sons of his contemporaries. There were boys like Philip and Robert Sidney, and Bacon’s son Francis; there was Lettice’s own son Robert Devereux, since his father’s death, the Earl of Essex; and even Burghley’s son, young Robert Cecil, though humpbacked and far from prepossessing, was a son. The Queen was fond of him in spite of his lack of beauty, and this was not only because he was his father’s son; his keen wits and alert intelligence made him a son of whom to be proud; even the Queen, who could not tolerate ugliness, had a fondness for him and had christened him her Pigmy. And he, Robert, had no legitimate son! Come what may, he had decided to marry Lettice.

Accompanying him to this tryst with Douglass were a few of his trusted servants, those whose fortunes were so closely bound with his own that they dared not betray him even if they wished to do so.

Douglass was waiting for him.

He posted several of his men outside the Close Arbor that he might be warned of the approach of any whom he would not wish to witness this meeting between himself and Douglass.

She was pale and trembling.

He smiled kindly at her and, laying his hand on her shoulder, said: “You must not be afraid, Douglass. As you know, I have long both loved and liked you. I have always found that earnest and faithful affection in you which has bound me greatly to you. Douglass, that still exists, does it not?”

“It does,” she answered.

“But I made clear, did I not, on my first coming to you, in what sort my good will should and must always remain to you? It seemed to me that you were fully disposed to accept this.”

“It was before the child was born,” she said.

“But I had made my meaning clear ere that time. Had I not told you that I was not free to marry, that if I did and the Queen should hear of it, I were undone, disgraced, and cast out of favor forever?”

“Yes, but that was before the child came…and we were married.”

“It was no true marriage, Douglass. It was entered into for the sake of your peace of mind. You have no claim on me, but I will give you seven hundred pounds a year if you will disclaim that false ceremony and forget that it happened.”

“I could not do it.”

“You must,” he insisted.

“I must think of my son. Shall he face the world as a bastard?”

“We must all face the world as we are, my dear. Have no fear as to his future. I will watch him as carefully and with as much love and affection as though he were my legitimate son.”

“I cannot. I cannot. I believe he is your legitimate son. He is your heir.”

“Think over what I have said. Take the money I offer. Accept my good services for your son; for if you do not, what good can come to yourself and to him? I should never see you again and you would have no money from me. But take this income; admit there was no marriage; and all will go well with you and with him.”

She shook her head and began to weep as he took his leave of her.

Douglass lay on her bed. Her women stood round her. She had long lain staring at the tester, and those about her feared for her sanity.

One of her maids, who had been with her since she was a child, had wept bitterly when she had witnessed her mistress’s infatuation for the Earl of Leicester.

Now this good servant dismissed the women and sat by her mistress’s bed, quietly watching her; and when she saw that the tears had started to flow down Douglass’s cheeks she came nearer and said quietly: “Dearest mistress, do as he asks. It is the only way. Remember Amy Robsart…and remember what has recently befallen a gentleman in Ireland.”

Douglass did not answer her but asked that her child be brought to her.

The boy knelt on the bed and asked her why she was so sad; but she merely shook her head and said: “It will pass.”

“I know of one who could make you happy,” he said. “I will find him and bring him to you.”

Wearily she shook her head.

“But you are always happy when the great Earl comes to see you…and so am I!”

She looked at him sadly and, drawing him to her, she kissed him.

“You and I will be happy together, my darling,” she said at last.

But she seemed to hear a voice warning her: “Be wise. Remember Amy Robsart!”

Robert and Lettice were married at Kenilworth that summer. They were reckless, both of them; yet they strove to keep their secret from the Queen.

Lettice’s family heard what had happened, and insisted that the ceremony be repeated under their auspices at their house in Wanstead. They were not going to see their daughter in the position of poor Douglass Howard.

The Knollys family had been greatly disturbed when they heard of their daughter’s infatuation, and at the lengths to which it had carried her and the Earl. No one in the kingdom believed Robert guiltless of the murder of his first wife, and now the name of Essex was added to his victims. Rumors concerning him had multiplied, and yet, oddly enough, the news of the marriage had so far not reached the Queen.

But when Lettice’s family had assured themselves that Robert could not repudiate the marriage even if he wished to do so, and when they considered his power and his Protestant leanings, they realized the great advantages which could accrue from a connection between their house and his.

Philip of Spain had carried his persecution too far when he had set up the Inquisition in the Netherlands. William the Silent was leading his people against the tyranny and fanatical cruelties of the Spaniards. It was more than a local struggle. It was a world-wide struggle between Protestants and Catholics; and the Knollys’s—that great Protestant family—wished to see England join in the struggle; they held, as did many statesmen, that the Queen’s aversion from war might lead the country to disaster, and that refusal to join the smaller conflict with friends might leave her to face a greater one alone. If Spain were victorious in the Netherlands, undoubtedly Philip’s savage fanaticism would be turned against the greatest stronghold of Protestantism in the world, which was England.

The Protestant Party must stand firm and strengthen itself in every way possible; and, in marrying a daughter of the foremost Protestant house, it was considered that Robert had abandoned his lukewarm profession of Protestantism and was now its staunch ally. Robert’s nephew, Philip Sidney, had married the daughter of another great Protestant, Sir Francis Walsingham. So now, as one of the greatest statesmen of the day, by his marriage with Lettice Robert found himself looked upon as the leader of the Protestant Party. And the Protestant Party opposed the Queen’s marriage with the Duke of Anjou.

Meanwhile Elizabeth continued to flirt with her Monkey, who was becoming more and more impatient with the passing of every day.

Would not Her Majesty allow him to bring her the marriage contracts? he was continually asking. His master was well-nigh sick with love of her.

She became perverse, as she always was when matters were being driven toward a conclusion.

“Dear Monkey,” she said, “I could not decide on marrying a man whom I have not seen.”

“Madame, I assure you he is the most handsome Prince in Christendom.”

“We have heard views to the contrary.”

“If he lacks a little in stature, he makes up for it in the bigness of his heart, Your Majesty.”

“But those pock-marks! I think of them often.”

“Now that his beard has grown, they are scarcely visible.”

“And the French are such deceivers. I think of his father who kept a mistress to whom he did more honor than to his wife.”

“He is more enamored of Your Majesty than any man ever was—even of his mistress.”

“As for his grandfather, I am too modest to speak of his conduct.”

“Ah! The Duke comes from a family of great lovers.”

“Lovers of women who were not their wives!”

“Those Kings loved incomparable women. King François loved above all others Madame de Chateaubriand and Madame d’Étampes; but these, Madame, were goddesses, not women. And my master’s father, great Henri Deux, loved throughout his life Diane de Poitiers. She too was a goddess. But there is one goddess incomparably beyond all others, a hundred times more beautiful, a thousand times more fascinating. She wears the crown of England; and I swear on my life that when my master sees her he will never think of another woman.”

“All the same I should wish to see a man before I married him!”

“Then, Your Majesty, allow me to bring him to you.”

“I am but a woman, dear Monkey. My ministers command me. They speak against the marriage.”

“The greatest Queen on Earth in fear of her ministers!”

“And my people…they murmur against the marriage.”

“Are you not their ruler, Madame?”

“In the long run rulers rule only by the will of their people.”

Simiers was growing angry. Always there was hope and then this perpetual frustration. Sometimes he felt it was all more than he could endure.

He knew who his enemies were. He realized that he was being outwitted by the Protestant Party, and at the head of that Party was the man who had on more than one occasion prevented the Queen’s marrying a French suitor.

The climax came when the Queen invited Monsieur Simiers to accompany her in her barge from Hampton to Greenwich. Elizabeth had been in conversation with Simiers and, as soon as the Frenchman took his leave of her, a shot rang out. It had been fired from a nearby boat.

There was great consternation, and in the confusion, the marksman, in his boat, made off. One of the Queen’s bargemen lay on the deck of the royal barge, shot through the arm.

The Queen was calmer than those about her, in spite of the fact that she believed this to have been an attempt on her life. She unwound her scarf and bound up the man’s wound herself.

“Be of good cheer,” she comforted him. “I shall see that you never want. That bullet was meant for your Queen, and you took it in her stead.”

But the bullet had passed very close to Monsieur Simiers, and he had his own ideas about the intended target.

Back in his apartments he paced up and down in angry exasperation.

“Now,” he said to the members of his suite, “they are attempting to take my life. What can I do? How can I bring about a match between Monsieur and such a woman? They are barbarians, these people. And I know who is the instigator of this plot. It is Leicester. Would to God some of his enemies would take it into their heads to kill him. If that could be done, much trouble might be saved.”

“He still hopes,” said one of Simiers’ men, “to marry the Queen himself.”

“I do not see how that can be,” said another, “for I heard news of my lord of Leicester only the other day and, if it is true, he must have lost all hope of marrying Her Majesty.”

“What story is this?”

“It is said that he has married the Countess of Essex.”

Simiers threw back his head and laughed aloud. Then he became serious. “Did not the Earl of Essex die mysteriously in Ireland some time ago?”

“That is so.”

“And there was an inquiry into his death conducted by Leicester’s brother-in-law! Come, this is the best news I have heard since I first set foot in this land. We have played Monsieur Leicester’s game too long. Now he shall play ours.”

Simiers presented himself to the Queen.

“Your Majesty blooms like a rose…and that after your mishap on the river!”

“’Twas nothing, Monsieur Monkey. A Queen must be prepared for any possibility.”

“She needs a strong arm to protect her.”

“Do not fear, Monsieur; she is strong enough to protect herself.”

“She needs the affection of a husband. Will you not sign this document which I have prepared? It is a summons to my master to appear before you. Once he sees this he will come with all speed. Then you will see for yourself how he adores you; and, Your Majesty, so handsome is he, that I doubt not you will find him the most irresistible man you have ever set eyes upon.”

She pretended to consider this. How could she send for him? Did she want trouble with France? To send for him and refuse him would be an insult they would never overlook. One did not inspect Princes as one did a horse.

“Ah, would it were in my power, dear Monkey. These ministers of mine…”

“Your Majesty should marry. Is not marriage in the air? Those about you enjoy its blessings. Will Your Majesty remain aloof from them?”

“Those about me? You mean…some of my ladies?”

“Nay, Your Majesty; I was referring to my lord of Leicester and his recent marriage to the beautiful Countess of Essex.”

She put out a hand as though to steady herself. He snatched it and put it to his lips.

She did not see his ugly face. She only saw those two together: Lettice, who was not unlike herself, but younger and more beautiful, and Robert, her favorite whom she loved as she would never love another person.

She could not doubt the words of this man. She wondered why she had not guessed what had happened. She remembered now the change in Robert and the mincing complacency of that she-wolf. There had been secret looks among her ladies and gentlemen.

Now she was possessed by such rage as she had never felt before.

“Where is this document, man?” she cried harshly.

“Here…here, Your Majesty.” Simiers turned from her to hide the triumph in his eyes. He spread the papers on a table and handed her a pen.

Even her signature was an angry one.

“Your Majesty, my master will be enraptured. This will be the happiest day of his life…”

“Leave me now,” she said.

Sly and knowledgeable, hiding his delight, he bowed low and hurried away before she could change her mind.

Now there was no longer need for restraint. “Where are my women?” she shouted. “Why do they not attend me? Kat…you sly devil, where are you? What have you been doing all these weeks?”

They came running in and stood before her, trembling.

“What news of Leicester?” she spat out at them.

They were silent, each waiting for another to speak first.

She stamped her foot. “What of that snake?” she screamed. “What of Leicester?” She took the woman nearest her and shook her until she begged for mercy.

The Queen’s hair had broken loose from her headdress; her eyes grew wilder and purple color flamed into her face.

No one dared speak until at last Kat said: “Dearest Majesty…dearest…dearest…”

“Did you not hear me?” shouted the Queen. “I said: ‘What of that snake who calls himself a man?’ So he has married that sly animal, has he? He has married that low creature, that she-wolf?”

“Majesty,” said Kat, “it is true. They married…”

“They married!” cried Elizabeth. “Did they ask my consent? Did they keep it secret? Did you? Did you…and you?” Each “you” was accompanied by a stinging blow on the cheek for all those nearest. “And you…and you and…you…knew this, and thought it meet to keep it from me?”

“Dearest, dearest!” begged Kat. And in an agonized whisper she added: “Remember…remember…do not betray your feelings thus.”

Elizabeth was swaying vertiginously with the intensity of her emotion.

“Quick!” cried Kat. “Help me unlace Her Majesty’s bodice. There, my love. Kat has you. Come, lie on your couch, darling. You’ll feel better then. Kat’s here beside you.”

With great presence of mind Kat dismissed all the women; she knelt by the couch, chafing the Queen’s hands while the tears ran down Kat’s cheeks and words babbled from her lips. “Oh, my darling, I would have given my life to spare you this. But, dearest, you would not marry him. You must not blame him…”

“Blame him!” flared Elizabeth. “By God’s Body, I’ll blame him! He shall pay for all the pleasure he has had with her.”

“Darling, it was only natural. You see, he has been so long unmarried.”

“Have I not been long unmarried?”

“But it was my darling’s royal wish.”

“They shall lose their heads for this, and I’ll see the deed done.”

“Be calm, my sweeting. Be quiet, my sweet Bess. Let me get you a little wine.”

“You know I do not like wine.”

“I’ll mix water with it. It will revive you, dearest. There…there…that’s better.”

“It is not better, Kat. It will never be better. You know how I loved him.”

“But you did not marry him, dearest.”

“Stop all this talk of marriage. You do it but to torment me.”

“Dearest Majesty, remember you are the Queen. You must not show your jealousy like this. You are above such things.”

“I am indeed. I am above them all, and I’ll have obedience. They shall go to the Tower at once…both of them.”

“Yes, yes, my love. They shall go to the Tower.”

“If you try to soothe me, Madam, and continue to talk to me as though I am four years old, you shall accompany them to the Tower.”

“Yes, darling, so I shall.”

“Oh Kat! What a deceiver! What a scoundrel!”

“He is the worst man in the world,” said Kat.

“How dare you say it! You know he is not. It is all her fault. Ha! Little does he know the woman he has married. Let him discover.”

She stood up suddenly. Kat watched her fearfully as she strode to the door.

She said to the guards there: “The Earl of Leicester is here at Greenwich, is he not?”

“He is, Your Majesty.”

“Then go to his apartments with a party of the strongest guards. Place him under close arrest, and tell him he may expect to leave shortly for the Tower.”

She came back to her couch and, flinging herself upon it, gave way to bitter weeping.

All England was talking about the “Mounseer.” He had come to England, and he had come without ceremony, and in disguise had appeared suddenly at Greenwich with only two servants, asking to be taken to Her Majesty that he might throw himself at her feet.

He was very small and far from handsome; his face was dark and pock-marked; but he could murmur the kind of compliment that delighted the Queen as none of her courtiers—not even Robert—had been able to do. His clothes were exquisite; he could foot a measure with such grace as to make Christopher Hatton appear clumsy; he displayed French graces of such elegance that Elizabeth, smarting under what she privately called Leicester’s betrayal, declared that she was charmed with him.

Robert and Lettice were under arrest, and Elizabeth had the satisfaction of knowing that they could not meet. She had not sent Robert to the Tower as she had at first intended; Burghley with Sussex had begged her not to do so and thereby expose her jealousy and passion to the world. To keep him a prisoner at Greenwich until her anger cooled was one thing; to make him a state prisoner in the Tower quite another, they cautioned her.

She saw the wisdom of this advice, and kept Robert prisoner at Greenwich in his own apartments, while she amused herself with Monsieur.

And how she seemed to enjoy herself! At least it was some balm to her misery. Kat, who loved her so tenderly, in dismay watched her caressing the little Prince in public. She had quickly nick-named him her Frog, and continually wore on her bosom a jeweled ornament in the shape of a frog.

But the country was not pleased with the suitor. The marriage would be a ridiculous one, it was said, since the Queen was forty-six and Anjou twenty-three. Was it possible for the Queen to have a child at her age? it was asked. And what other reason could there be for the marriage?

A man named Stubbs published a pamphlet he had written denouncing the match.

“This man,” he wrote, “is the son of King Henry, whose family ever since he married with Catherine of Italy is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been, every one after the other, as a Domitian after a Nero.”

Stubbs and his publisher were imprisoned by order of the Queen, and both condemned to have their right hands cut off. Crowds gathered in the market place at Westminster to see this done, and the people murmured against the Queen.

This grieved Elizabeth; but she had, in a moment of passion, sent for the Duke, and she dared not risk offending the French by allowing their royal family to be insulted while the Duke was actually her guest.

Philip Sidney—who was handsome, gifted and charming as well as being Robert’s nephew—was one of the Queen’s favorite younger men. He now wrote to her in a manner which was more insulting to the French Prince than even Stubbs had been.

“How the hearts of your people will be galled,” he wrote, “if not aliened when they see you take as husband a Frenchman and a papist, in whom the very common people know this: he is the son of that Jezebel of our age, and his brother made oblation of his own sister’s marriage, the easier to massacre our brethren in religion…”

Philip Sidney was banished from the Court.

There were storms in the Parliament. Some of her ministers were quite blunt, saying she was old enough to be the Duke’s mother. Others, more politic, implied the same thing in a more courteous way: They did not wish to see the Queen risk her life by attempting to bear children.

And Elizabeth, when she was not flirting with Monsieur, or raging against Robert—or fretting for him—was thinking of what was happening in the Netherlands, and how Philip of Spain was gaining domination over the poor suffering people of that land; and she wondered what would happen when he had completely subdued them.

Then, all the world thought, and Elizabeth must think it too, his attention would turn to England, for was not his dream to abolish Protestantism throughout the world, and was not England a refuge for the Huguenots of France and the Netherlands?

Elizabeth could tremble when she thought of that day. The great dread of her life was war; and even now that dread seeped through her miseries caused by Robert’s defection, and curbed her gaiety in the French Prince’s wooing.

While her statesmen wondered how a woman of her age and genius could act with such girlish folly, simpering, giggling, urging her wooer on to what—in the eyes of Englishmen—seemed the most foppish folly, she was flattering him as he was flattering her. Not only did she lead him to believe that he was a very fascinating man, but she let him know that she considered he was born to command an army; and since it was the destiny of France to go to war with Spain, and she was sure there was a kingdom to be won in the Netherlands by a man of courage, spirit, and genius, such as Monsieur undoubtedly possessed, she wondered why he did not seek his fortune in Flanders.

His brother, a young man, was on the throne of France; it was a sad thing, she knew from experience, to be near the throne and have serious doubts of ever reaching it. There were always plots and counter-plots; it was a wise thing to make a kingdom for oneself; and if one were a man, brave as a lion, a military genius—as she was convinced her little Frog was—he should first win his kingdom, and then come for his bride.

She knew the man with whom she was dealing. He had need to assert himself. As little Hercule, the youngest of his family, he had suffered much humiliation. To be small and ugly and to have been marred by the pox was bad enough, but to be called Hercule into the bargain had been an intolerable insult which Fate had given him. Mercifully his name had been changed to François, but no one could change his face. His mother disliked him because he was his brother’s enemy, and he believed that she had tried to poison him. He needed to show the world what a great man he was, and he was determined that all should see him as Queen Elizabeth had. He would go to the Netherlands and fight the Spaniards.

The Queen, he believed, was so much in love with him that she would help him to finance his expedition.

So the Queen sat smiling, and her ministers marveled that the seemingly foolish woman was sending Anjou away in the utmost amity to fight England’s war in the Netherlands. Should the money be granted? Indeed it should! This was a master-stroke of policy.

The Queen was so pleased with her plan—and glad in truth to say good-bye to her little Frog, who was beginning to tire her—that she smiled on all the world.

He must have an escort to take him across the sea, she declared.

“Master Leicester has been idle too long. I will put him in command of my dear Frog’s escort and make some use of the man.”

This was a sign to all that once more she had forgiven Robert.

TEN

She took him back, but whenever she saw him with Lettice she was jealous and alert.

She was angry because the marriage seemed to be successful. Robert had ceased to look at other women. Was it his age? wondered the Queen. Or had that she-wolf some magic power? She was sure the wolf was capable of anything. Wolves were treacherous animals.

A son was born to them—another Robert Dudley—and Elizabeth did not know whether she was pleased or angry. He had once said that she should perpetuate her beauty. She thought: He has perpetuated his, mayhap, and I am glad of that, though I would the boy were not that woman’s son.

Lettice already had one son, and the Queen could not help being attracted by him in spite of his mother, for young Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, was the handsomest young man she had seen since the days when his stepfather had enchanted her.

Often she would look sadly at her Robert and think: We are getting old now—too old for jealousy, too old for enmity. She would compare him with the young man who had ridden to her at Hatfield on a white horse, to tell her she was Queen. Poor Robert, he had put on much weight; his face was over-red from too much good living; that sensuality which had been virility in youth became grossness in old age.

And she herself? She was a goddess; she would not be frightened by the encroaching years. All about her were men—men of her Robert’s age and others of young Essex’s age—to tell her she was a goddess who—without Cornelius Lanoy’s elixir—had found eternal youth.

Anjou had failed in the Netherlands, but William the Silent was waging furious war there for his people’s freedom. All eyes in England were on the Netherlands; the outcome of that war for freedom was of the utmost importance.

And the eyes of the Spaniards were on England. What sort of a woman is this? was being asked in Spanish Councils. What sort of a country does she rule? It is only part of an island, yet she acts as though she rules the world. Her seamen are arrogant pirates. They are diverting treasure from Spanish coffers. They are bold and adventurous; they have no respect for His Most Catholic Majesty. They insult the Holy Inquisition itself.

There were names which were spoken of with horror and dread in Spanish ships and Spanish territories: Drake, Hawkins…the fearless ones. How could men be so fearless as these were? How could they always win? It was because they were in the pay of the Devil. They were not men; they were sorcerers.

Clearly these men and their arrogant Queen would have to be taught a lesson. Francis Drake came sailing home from Chile and Peru with all the treasure plundered from Spanish towns in the new world, and from Spanish galleons. He had rounded the Cape, and by so doing, the world. And what did the Queen do when this pirate arrived home? Did she hang him as he deserved? Did she treat him as a thief, a robber, and a murderer of His Most Catholic Majesty’s subjects?

No! He was a handsome man, and she liked him for that among other things. She liked his Devon burr and she liked his flashing eyes. He was a man after her own heart, for, in his country way, he could pay a gallant compliment.

The Queen told him that the Spaniards went in fear of him. They called him a bold and wicked man.

“Are you such a man, sir?” she asked. “I believe you may be, and I must perforce cut off your head with a golden sword.”

She thereupon called for a sword, and bade him kneel that she might with all speed perform the task which would put an end to plain Francis Drake.

She laid the sword on his shoulders and she said: “Arise, Sir Francis.”

He rose, bowed low and kissed her hand, and said that he would sail the world twenty times and bring back twenty times as much treasure for one smile from Her Majesty’s lips.

There came a tragic year for Robert. His son—in whom he had taken great pride—died suddenly. They buried him in Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick. “Robert Dudley, aged 4 years, the noble Impe,” were the words inscribed on his tomb.

Robert was distraught and the Queen forgot her jealousy and did her best to comfort him.

Kneeling at her feet he said: “It is a retribution. I went against Your Majesty’s wishes in my marriage. This is God’s justice.”

“Nay,” she said gently, “it is not so. The innocent should not suffer. Robert, we are too old and too sad to do aught but comfort each other.”

She made him sit at her feet, and while she caressed his hair she dreamed that it was black and luxuriant as it had once been.

Robert tried to forget his loss by taking under his charge that other Robert, his son by Douglass. He railed against a fate which took his legitimate son and left the other—though he loved both boys and wished to keep them.

He was frequently ill. He had lived too well, and now that he had turned into his fifties he must pay the penalty.

He could not talk of his ailments to the Queen; she hated talk of illness.

More troubles came.

That year, Robert Parsons, a Jesuit, published a book in Antwerp. He was a Catholic, and Leicester was now known throughout the world as England’s Protestant Leader. This book, which was printed on green paper, was referred to as Father Parsons’ Green Overcoat. It was a scurrilous life-study of the Earl of Leicester; and as the Queen had played a large part in that story, she did not escape scandalous references.

Here was an account of the lust between the Queen and her favorite with no details spared. The numbers of children they were reputed to have produced were mentioned. Robert was credited, not only with the murder of Amy Robsart, but of Douglass’s husband and the husband of his present wife, Essex. Every mysterious death which had occurred—and some natural ones—were laid at the door of the Earl of Leicester and his professional poisoners.

The book was brought into England and secretly distributed. Copies were passed from hand to hand. The affairs of Leicester were discussed afresh in every tavern. He was the world’s worst villain. He had contaminated the Queen with his own evil. He was the son of the devil.

Elizabeth raged and stormed and threatened terrible punishment on anyone found with a copy of this foul book, which she swore to be utterly false.

Philip Sidney, indignant on behalf of the uncle whom he loved as a father, wrote an answer to the base knave who had dared circulate such lies against a great nobleman of England.

He declared that although through his father he belonged to a noble family, his greatest honor was to know himself a Dudley.

But no matter what was written and what was said, the memory of Amy Robsart was as fresh now as it had been nearly twenty years before. And those who understood such matters knew that this was more than an attack on Leicester and the Queen. It was a preliminary skirmish in the Catholic-Protestant war.

In that year William of Orange met his violent death. The Protector of his country, the leader, who had inspired his countrymen to fight against the Spanish tyranny, was gone.

The Netherlanders were turning desperate eyes toward England, and Elizabeth was uneasy. War, which she longed to avoid, was being thrust on her. She wanted to hold back, to cling to the prosperity she was building up through peace in her land. But there was no shutting her eyes to the position now. Most of the wool markets in the Netherlands had fallen completely under the Spanish yoke, and the prosperity which had come to England through the wool trade was declining. New markets must be found; but would the English be allowed to find them? Philip had his eyes on England, and he was a fanatic with a mission. In his harbors he was building up the greatest fleet of ships the world had ever known—the Invincible Armada, he called it; and its purpose, all knew, was to sail to the shores of that land whose Queen and whose seamen had so long defied his might.

Elizabeth called her ministers to her. They were in favor of intervention in the Netherlands. They did not feel as she did. They were men who hoped to win power and glory through war. She was only a women, longing to keep her great family of people secure, herself possessing that understanding which told her that even wars which were won brought less gain than continued peace would have brought, without waste of men and gold.

But she could no longer hold back, and the Netherlands were asking that one to whom they could look as a leader be sent to them, one whom they could follow as they had followed their own William of Orange. This was the man who had put himself at the head of the Protestant Party and was, as the world knew, so beloved of the Queen that she would never set him at the head of an enterprise to which she would not give her wholehearted support.

The Netherlands were crying out for Leicester.

And so she gave her consent that he should go.

As she bade him a fond farewell, she thought how handsome he was, how full of enthusiasm and ambition. He appeared to be almost a young man again.

He did not suffer at the parting as she did. He was going in search of honor and that military glory which had always appealed to him.

She must stay behind, following his exploits through dispatches and letters, rejoicing in one fact only: if he were separated from her, he was also separated from his wife.

Robert rode in state through the clean little towns to the sound of rapturous applause. It was as though a lifelong ambition was at last realized. For so many years he had longed to be a King; and these people cheered him, knelt before him, as though he were more than a King—their savior.

It was shortly after his arrival at the Hague that the greatest honor of his life was paid to him.

It was New Year’s morning, and he was dressing in his chamber when a delegation arrived to see him. Without waiting to finish his dressing he went to the antechamber. There the leader of the delegation knelt and told him that Dutchmen, looking upon him as their leader, wished to offer him all those titles which had belonged to the Prince of Orange. He should be Governor, ruler, Stadholder.

Robert was overwhelmed with delight. He had longed all his life for something like this: his own kingdom to rule, a kingdom he owed, not to the good graces of the Queen, but to his own statesmanship and popularity.

This was the great testing time of Robert’s life; and how was he to know that, when honors came easily, the hands did not grow strong enough to hold them, that it was by hard work and achievement only that such strength came? He had been carried up to greatness in a litter prepared for him by a doting woman; when he reached the top the air was too rarified for him without his litter to support him; and these Hollanders were asking him to stand on his own feet. Philip of Spain was close; the Duke of Parma was waiting; and in England there was the Queen, who must give her consent to his acceptance of such honors.

He hesitated. He wanted to accept, to take his laurels. He longed to ride through the streets and receive the people’s homage. Dare he do so, and later persuade the Queen to support him? It was an irritating shock to realize that he could not maintain his position without that support.

He hesitated and succumbed to temptation.

He was the Governor of the Netherlands now. He was to be Stadholder, and the people called him Excellency.

The news came to England.

Lettice, seeing herself as the Queen of the Netherlands, decided to join her husband in his new kingdom.

Great preparations were made. Lettice would travel in state to the Hague, with all the trappings of a Queen.

Elizabeth, furious because he had dared accept his new position without even consulting her, was writing angry letters to him. He should at once renounce what he had dared to take up.

“How contemptuously we conceive ourselves to have been used by you, you shall by this bearer understand. We could not have imagined had we not seen it come to pass, that a man raised up by ourself, and extraordinarily favored by us above any other subject in the land, would have so contemptuously broken our commandment…”

While she was writing, Kat came to tell her of the preparations Lettice was making to join her husband.

Elizabeth laid down her pen.

“She may prepare all she will,” she sneered. “She shall never go.”

“She plans to go in the state of a Queen, surpassing even Your Majesty’s state.”

Elizabeth’s eyes blazed. “Let the she-wolf make her plans. She shall ere long wish she had not joined herself to a man whom I shall bring so low as I shall this one. This is the end of the kindness I have shown my lord of Leicester. That man, I promise you, shall wish he had never been born. As for that harlot, that she-wolf, we shall soon see her deserting him. He will see who his friends are. Does he think she has been faithful to him while he has been away?”

“I know, Your Majesty, there are rumors of that most handsome Christopher Blount.”

“Years younger than she is!” snapped the Queen. “A friend of her son’s. There is pleasant news for my lord! But I shall make him smart more than she ever can!”

She picked up her pen and wrote, commanding him to lay aside his newfound honors. He would make an open and public resignation in the very place where he had accepted absolute government without his Queen’s consent. He would show himself to his new “people” as a man of no account, a man unable to make a decision without the consent of his mistress—and most firmly she withheld that consent.

“Fail you not,” she ended, “as you will answer the contrary at your uttermost peril.”

Then she laid aside her pen and let her anger blaze, while she thought with furious resentment of the wicked woman who had dared betray him with a younger man.

Robert, in desperation, sent home two men to plead his cause with the Queen. The matter was too far gone for open withdrawal he pointed out. If she repudiated him, the people of the Netherlands would lose heart; and she must think what that would mean to England. He was contrite; he had offended her and he would rather have died than have done that. But for the good of England, she must give him time to slip out gracefully from his terrible blunder; she must see that public repudiation would be playing into the hands of Philip of Spain.

Her ministers agreed with that view. Robert had to be allowed to disentangle himself with as much tact as possible.

She was now in turn outraged mistress and apprehensive Queen. Worried by the state of affairs in the Netherlands, fervently she wished that England had not become so involved. She accused Robert of squandering England’s money. To that accusation he made a magnificent gesture by selling his own lands and giving up a great part of his fortune to the campaign in the Netherlands.

But he was not suited to his task. He had been too long favored, and had never learned to win success through tedious application. His experience of war was limited. He could sense approaching that military disaster, which lack of the Queen’s support must mean.

His greatest source of consolation was his nephew, Philip Sidney, who was there with him.

He dearly loved Philip and trusted him completely. Philip had urged him not to send for Lettice, and Philip was proved right; for Robert, knowing Elizabeth, realized that the real cause of her anger was the fact that Lettice had arrogantly prepared to join him with the state of a Queen.

Philip had sent one of his players, who had accompanied them to Holland, with urgent messages to Walsingham—Philip’s father-in-law—asking him to use all his influence to prevent Lettice making the journey.

Unfortunately the player had been a head-in-the-clouds fellow—a young man named Will, an actor from Stratford-on-Avon—and, said Philip, recalling the way in which this actor had performed his mission, it would have been a better thing if he had stayed in Stratford; for he had delivered the letters to Lettice herself instead of to Walsingham, and thereby much trouble had been caused which might have been avoided.

Robert was beginning to hate the Netherlands; he was longing for nothing so much as to return home. He wished he had never thought of leaving England and had not been tempted lightly to take that which had been offered.

His melancholy turned to bitter grief when, after the battle of Zutphen, in which he himself fought valiantly, the dead were brought in and he found among them the body of his nephew.

He listened to the accounts of how nobly Philip Sidney had died. This gallant young man had given part of his armor to another man, although he knew himself to be in need of it. When Philip had been fainting from wounds a cup of water had been put to his lips by one of his men; but Philip, seeing a soldier close by groaning in agony, had sent his man over to the sufferer that the water might be given to one who was in greater need of it than he himself. Robert was proud of his nephew, but he felt that he would have given everything that was left to him if he might have brought him back to life.

So Robert lived through his gloomiest hour. He felt in that moment that death would have been preferable to the plight in which he found himself.

When Robert was suffering in the Netherlands, news of the Babington Conspiracy swept through England. Babington, a young man fascinated by the charm of the Queen of Scots when he had been a page in her household, had been persuaded by a group of men to communicate with the Queen with a view to effecting the assassination of Elizabeth and the setting of Mary upon the throne.

Mary had lost none of her impetuosity during the years and, to her, plotting was an exciting pastime.

The conspirators had forgotten what elaborate spy-systems had been set in motion by the alert Walsingham.

Walsingham understood what was happening in the early stages of the plot, for a priest, Gilbert Gifford, having been sent to England secretly to work against Protestantism with the help of the great Catholic families, was captured. Walsingham promised to spare his life if he would become his spy.

This the priest agreed to do and, when Mary was removed from Tutbury to Chartley, Gifford arranged with the brewer who supplied the Chartley beer to convey letters to and from Mary. These were wrapped in waterproof cases and put through the bunghole of the kegs—letters going to Mary in full kegs, hers coming out in empty ones. Gifford took these letters and, before passing them on to those for whom they were intended, handed them to Walsingham, who, putting them into the hands of an expert decoder, learned their contents and was able to follow every twist and turn of the plot.

It was arranged that six men should assassinate Elizabeth. One of the six was to be Babington. If the deed were successfully carried out, these men believed that it would be a simple matter to set Mary on the throne.

Walsingham, as one of the leaders of the Protestant Party, had always deplored the fact that Mary had been allowed to live; and as soon as Mary’s letter to the conspirators—in which she gave her full support to the assassination of Elizabeth—was in his hands, he lost no time in arresting the men and laying the whole plot before the Queen and her Council.

All England rejoiced as soon as the news was made known. Bonfires were lighted; in the country there was dancing on the village greens; in the towns there was singing in the streets. The beloved Queen had narrowly escaped, and at last the Jezebel of Scotland was shown to her most merciful Majesty for what she was. There were services in the churches and on street corners.

Elizabeth noted these expressions of love and loyalty with deep gratification; but she knew that the people were demanding the death of Mary.

Seven of the conspirators whose names had appeared in the letters were placed on hurdles and dragged through the City from Tower Hill to St. Giles’ Fields. Anthony Babington was one of the seven. After these seven had been hanged, they were cut down alive and disemboweled while still living. Such cruelties had been frequently witnessed during the reign of the great Henry; they were rarer in these days.

The agonized screams of tortured men were heard beyond St. Giles’ Fields, and many thought, as they listened, of the wicked woman whom they held responsible for the terrible suffering of these men whose crime was that they had attempted to serve her.

The next day seven more men were condemned to die in the same terrible manner; but Elizabeth, who knew the mood of the people, and who knew too that they expected clemency from her, commanded that the men should not be cut down until they were dead. The mutilations of their bodies should be performed after death.

There remained Mary; and Elizabeth knew that she must die, Queen though she was.

She was taken from Chartley to Fotheringay and there tried before the commissioners of peers, privy councillors and judges; and in spite of her protestations of innocence, her repeated cries that Walsingham had forged the letters which he had laid before the Queen and her ministers, she was found guilty of plotting against Elizabeth and condemned to die.

Elizabeth was even now reluctant to sign the death warrant. That Queens were above the judgment of ordinary men was a maxim she wished to preserve; but great pressure was brought upon her. The situation vis-à-vis Spain was recalled to her mind, and eventually she was prevailed upon to sign the warrant. But she did not dispatch it; and as Walsingham was at that time indisposed, the responsibility for sending the warrant to Fotheringay fell upon a secretary, William Davison.

One February morning, Mary, dressed in black velvet, her crucifix in her hand, went to the hall of the castle of Fotheringay where the block and the executioner were awaiting her. Calmly she bade farewell to her servants.

“Weep not,” she told them, “for thou hast cause rather to joy than to mourn, for now thou shalt see Mary Stuart’s troubles receive their long-expected end.”

The whole Catholic world was talking of the wicked Walsingham’s forgeries, of the evil act of the Jezebel of England whose hands were red with the blood of her enemies.

Walsingham and Burghley would snap their fingers at their enemies. Not so the Queen. The threat of war was moving nearer; in the Spanish harbors work was going on apace in the building of that Armada which was to conquer the world; and its first victim was to be Elizabeth’s England.

The Queen sought to placate her enemies. Her great desire was to hold off the evil day. Time was her ally—now as ever.

She chose William Davison as her scapegoat. She declared she had never meant the warrant to be sent to Fotheringay. She mourned her sister of Scotland. She had never wished for Mary’s death.

She had Davison sent to the Tower. He was to pay a fine which would impoverish him. But she told him before he went that she would continue to pay his salary while he was a prisoner and, as he fell on his knees before her, she let one of her long slender hands pat his shoulder.

The Queen’s reassuring touch told Davison that he was merely the scapegoat she was offering to Spain; and she herself hated Spain as fiercely as any in her realm.

As it turned out, Davison continued to receive his salary, for the Queen kept her word; and when he was shortly afterward released, she did not forget to reward him.

So Mary Stuart died; but the Spanish menace grew and Elizabeth knew that the whole of England was threatened.

When Robert returned from the Netherlands he was greeted rapturously by the Queen. It was a year since she had seen him, and she felt a great and tender pity touch her as she looked into his face.

How he had suffered! His dignity was lost, and the great position for which he had longed was taken from him. She had heard that he was ill in the Netherlands and needed his English doctors. She had at once had them sent to him, for when she heard of his illness all her rancor had disappeared. Lettice was blatantly unfaithful with that young and handsome Christopher Blount. So how could Elizabeth scold him at such a time? How could she do anything but take him under her wing? He had lost dear Philip Sidney, that handsome and most clever young man. Life had suddenly turned cruel to Robert; and seeing this, the Queen knew the height, depth and breadth of her love which had flickered and flamed for nearly forty years and which, she knew, nothing could ever entirely extinguish.

Now she would keep him by her side. She would make up to him for the loss of his beloved nephew, for the loss of his honor, and for the unfaithfulness of his wife. Dear Robert, once the conquering hero, was now the conquered.

Elizabeth had believed that it would be impossible for her to love a man who was no longer handsome, who was no longer the most perfect, the most virtuous; nevertheless she found that she could not cease to love Robert.

The whole country was in a state of tension.

All along the south coast the watchers were alert for the first sight of a sail. The bonfires were ready. In Plymouth Sir Francis Drake was impatient to get at the enemy. Lord Howard of Effingham was begging the Queen for more supplies. The ships, even in the little harbors, were being hastily made ready all through the nights by the light of flares and cressets. The coastal fortifications were being strengthened at fever-heat; and off the Devon coast Ark and Achates, Revenge and Rainbow, Elizabeth Bonaventure and Elizabeth Jonas with their fellow escorts were waiting.

Burghley and Walsingham were frantically counting the cost of the preparations, demanding of one another whence the money was coming to pay for this and that. The Queen, who was always reluctant to spend money, was refusing permission to victual the ships, refusing the money to pay her seamen.

Elizabeth knew that she now faced the greatest peril of her reign, of her life; if her gallant sailors failed to beat off the invader, England would suffer worse than death. Elizabeth loved her country with a great maternal love, with a passion she had never given to any person. Her one idea had been to bring it through peace to prosperity; and this she had done; and this she would have continued to do had that tyrant of the Escorial allowed men and women to follow the religion of their choice. Let him have his priests and his Holy Inquisition—that unholy band of torturers—let him burn his own subjects at the stake; let him torture them on the chevalet; let him tear their limbs with red hot pincers in the name of the Holy Catholic Church; Elizabeth cared not that this should be. If they chose to follow such a Faith and such a King, let them.

But it was not as easy as that. They were sailing now steadily toward her shores—Andalucian, Biscayan, San Felipe, San Juan, and many others; they brought the Spanish dons, the Spanish grandees, the Spanish soldiers and sailors; but they brought more than these: they brought their priests, their inquisitors; they brought the instruments of torture from their dark chambers of pain. They hoped to bring, not only conquest, but the Inquisition.

She had been afraid, but she would overcome that fear. How could she lose? How could England be beaten? It was impossible. She had her men—her beloved men—who in the service of the goddess, the perfect woman, the Queen, the mistress, the mother, could never fail.

There was Lord Howard of Effingham, that fine sailor; there was the incomparable Drake; there was Frobisher, Hawkins; and there were all her dear friends: her Spirit, her Moor, her old Mutton and Bellwether—all those whom she loved; and above all there was Robert.

She had shown her confidence in him, and the return of all her love in this great emergency. He was forgiven the terrible calamity in the Netherlands for which she knew she must accept part of the blame; for if Lettice had not thought of joining him as his Queen, would Elizabeth have felt so insistent on robbing him of his new office, of destroying Flemish trust in England?

She had appointed Robert Lieutenant and General of her Armies and Companies. That would show everyone what she thought of him. That would make it clear that in adversity they stood together, as they had stood when Amy Robsart had died and he had been accused of her murder.

She trusted him; he was her beloved; he was again her Eyes; he was the only man she would have married if she had decided to take a husband.

Robert had divided his forces into two armies—one of which he had stationed at St. James’s, the other at Tilbury. They would be ready, those soldiers of his, to defend their country if the dons dared to land. But Howard and Drake and their men were determined they should never land. Would English seamen give the victory to English soldiers? Never! England owed her prosperity to her seamen—so said Drake—and he was bent on capturing the credit for himself.

Elizabeth wished to be with her armies at such a time—and was not Robert at the head of those armies? She sent a dispatch to him, telling him of her determination to see and talk with her soldiers.

His answer came back.

“Your person,” he wrote, “is the most sacred and dainty thing that we have in the world to care for, and a man must tremble when he thinks of it…”

He would have preferred her, he said, to have stayed in the safest place in England.

“Yet I will not that in some sort so princely and so rare a magnanimity should not appear to your people and the world as it is…”

She read the letter through many times; she kept it with her; she kissed it often, as she used to kiss his letters in the early days.

When she reached Tilbury, gay with flags, Robert met the barge to the sound of thundering cannon, and rode with her in a coach decorated with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.

She was truly noble as she went among her soldiers. This she knew to be the greatest moment of her country’s history; therefore it was Elizabeth’s greatest moment. Her fear had left her; she no longer believed in the possibility of defeat. The odds might seem against the English. The Spaniards had the ships; they had the ammunition; but they had not Elizabeth; they had not Drake; they had not—and this was their greatest lack—the calm knowledge that they could not fail.

There at Tilbury she mounted a great horse and, holding a truncheon in her hand, she sat more like a soldier than a woman; and thus she addressed them:

“My loving people, we have been persuaded by some that are careful of our safety to take heed how we commit ourself to armed multitudes for fear of treachery. But I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and my loving people. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that, under God, I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects; and therefore I am come amongst you, as you see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the midst of the heat and battle, to live or die amongst you all, to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honor and my blood, even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which, rather than any dishonor shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know, already for your forwardness, you have deserved rewards and crowns; and we do assure you, in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you.”

This speech of the Queen’s put courage into the hearts of all those who heard it. She was invincible, as she had always known she would be, for, foolish though she might be, vain, coquettish, ill-tempered, selfish—when the occasion arose, she had the gift of greatness.

And the Armada sailed into the English Channel.

It was Spain’s tragedy that, with the finest ships in the world, with the best ammunition and equipment, she was doomed to failure. Her commander had no wish for the task which he had implored the King to give to another. His seamen were afraid of El Draque, the Dragon, that Englishman whom they believed to be no ordinary man, but one possessed of superhuman power, and destined to destroy them. They had seen him in action, and no ordinary man was ever so fearless as El Draque. He had sailed calmly into Cadiz Harbor and burned and pillaged the ships which lay at anchor there; he had delicately referred to this operation as “Singeing the Beard of the King of Spain.” He had sailed the high seas, and he had come back with Spanish treasure rich enough to fortify his country against Spain. The Devil was at work here, and Spaniards feared the Devil.

It was England’s glory that, with her little ships, ill-equipped, her sailors short of food, with sickness aboard and a tragic lack of shot and powder, she was invincible. She believed in victory. She had not the hope that she would win; she had the knowledge that she could not fail.

The fight was not of long duration.

The Spaniards were outclassed in courage and the genius of seamanship which the world had already seen displayed by Drake.

The battle raged. The fire-ships were sent among the Spaniards who were beaten before a storm arose to make their disaster complete.

England was saved. The might of Spain was broken.

The Inquisition would never come to the Queen’s England.

It was the greatest hour of a proud reign.

The Queen of half an island had set herself against the mightiest monarch in the world; and a small, courageous nation had beaten and broken the power of mighty Spain.

All through the towns and villages there was rejoicing such as had never before been known. The church bells rang out. With the appearance of the first stars the bonfires were lighted. Revelry was heard throughout the land.

Robert wrote to the Queen that he longed to be with her, but the fever which had troubled him so often had returned and he was going to Kenilworth, and thence to Leamington to take the baths, that he might not present himself until he felt well enough to enjoy that which gave him more delight than anything in the world—the company of his beloved and gracious mistress.

In the course of his journey he paused at a mansion in Rycott, and there he wrote to her again.

“I most humbly beseech Your Majesty to pardon an old servant who is so bold as to write and ask how my gracious lady doth. The chiefest thing in the world I do pray for is for her to have good health and a long life. I hope to find a perfect cure at the bath and with the continuance of my wonted prayer for Your Majesty’s most happy preservation, I humbly kiss your foot.”

She read this through several times and tenderly put it into the box where she kept his letters.

Then she went forth to the rejoicing.

It was September, less than a month after she had talked to her soldiers at Tilbury, when Kat brought the news to her.

Kat came and knelt before her and, lifting her face to that of her mistress, could find no words. Elizabeth looked into this dear friend’s face and, seeing the tears flow slowly down her cheeks, she herself was afraid to speak.

She feared this news. She wanted to run from it; but she was calm as she would always be in the important moments of her life, whatever sorrow they might bring her.

“What is it, sweet Kat? Do not be afraid.”

Still Kat could not speak.

“Mayhap I know,” said Elizabeth. “He looked so sick when I last saw him.”

“It was at Cornbury near Oxford, Your Majesty. It was the continual fever. It returned more violently and…he did not rise from his bed.”

The Queen did not speak. She sat very still. She was thinking: So he died near Oxford—near Cumnor Place. It is twenty-eight years since they found her at the foot of the stairs. Oh, Robert, Robert…never to see your face again! But we have been so near, so close in all things. Dearest Eyes, why have I lost you? How can I be aught but blind to the joy in life without you?

“Dearest…” said Kat; and she threw her arms about the Queen and sobbed wildly.

Elizabeth was quiet while the tears flowed down her cheeks. Suddenly she spoke: “In the streets they are still shouting Victory, Kat. I have a warm place in their hearts. They love me—their Queen—as they never loved King or Queen before me. Once I thought that was my dearest wish…so to be loved, Kat, by my own people. Our country is safe from danger; and I, who should be the happiest woman in the world, am the most wretched.”

“Dearest, do not speak,” implored Kat. “It hurts you so, sweetest Majesty.”

“I will speak,” she said. “I will speak through my tears and my torment. I loved him. I always loved him; and I shall love him till I die. Philip has lost his Armada, but mayhap he is not less happy this night than I. For I have lost Robert, sweet Robin, my love, my Eyes.”

Now she began to give way to her grief, and her sobs were so violent that they frightened Kat, who threw her arms about the Queen once more and comforted her.

“Dearest, remember your life lies before you. You are a Queen, my darling. My dearest, there is much left for you. You are no ordinary woman to cry for a lost lover. You are a Queen—and Queen of England.”

Then Elizabeth looked at Kat and, laying her hands gently on her shoulders, kissed her. “You are right, Kat. You are right, dear friend. I am the Queen.”

Then she went to the box wherein she kept his letters. She took out the one she had received but a few days before, and calmly she wrote upon it: “His last letter.”

She kissed it vehemently and put it quickly into the box. She turned, and she was smiling with apparent serenity.

Robert had gone, and he had taken much of the joy from her life, but when she faced Kat she was no longer the woman who had lost the only man she had loved; she was the triumphant Queen of victorious England.

Read Jean Plaidy’s Queens of England series in historical order:

The Courts of Love

The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine

The Queen’s Secret

The Story of Queen Katherine

The Reluctant Queen

The Story of Anne of York

The Lady in the Tower

The Story of Anne Boleyn

The Rose Without a Thorn

The Story of Katherine Howard

In the Shadow of the Crown

The Story of Mary Tudor

Queen of This Realm

The Memoir of Elizabeth I

Loyal in Love

The Story of Henrietta Maria, Wife of Charles I

previously published as Myself My Enemy

The Merry Monarch’s Wife

The Story of Catherine of Braganza

previously published as The Pleasures of Love

The Queen’s Devotion

The Story of Queen Mary II,

previously published as William’s Wife

Victoria Victorious

The Memoir of Queen Victoria

VISIT THREERIVERSPRESS.COM FOR INFORMATION ON OUR NEWEST HISTORICAL FICTION.

AVAILABLE FROM THREE RIVERS PRESS WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD

To see all of Jean Plaidy’s other novels available from Three Rivers Press visit

www.threeriverspress.com.

These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Hold the Crown

Copyright © 1982 by Jean Plaidy. Reader’s Group Guide copyright © 2008 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. Original published as Uneasy Lies the Head in hardcover in Great Britain by Robert Hale Limited, London, in 1982 and subsequently published in slightly different form by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, in 1984.

Katharine of Aragon

Katharine, The Virgin Widow copyright © 1961 by Jean Plaidy. The Shadow of the Pomegranate copyright © 1962 by Jean Plaidy. The King’s Secret Matter copyright © 1962 by Jean Plaidy. Copyright © renewed 1990 by Eleanor Hibbert. Reader’s Guide copyright © 2005 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. This compilation originally published in Great Britain by Robert Hale, London, in 1968.

Murder Most Royal

Copyright © 1949, 1972 by Jean Plaidy. Reader’s Guide copyright © 2006 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. Originally published in Great Britain by Robert Hale, London, in 1949, and subsequently in the United States by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, in 1973.

The King’s Confidante

Copyright © 1954, 1970 by Jean Plaidy. Reader’s Group Guide copyright © 2009 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. Originally published as St. Thomas’s Eve in hardcover in slightly different form in Great Britain by Robert Hale Limited, London, in 1954 and in the United States by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, in 1970.

The Sixth Wife

Copyright © 1953, 1969 by Jean Plaidy. Reader’s Guide copyright © 2005 by Three Rivers Press, a division of Random House, Inc. Originally published in Great Britain by Robert Hale, London, in 1953 and subsequently in the United States by Putnam, New York, in 1969.

The Thistle and the Rose

Copyright © 1973 by Jean Plaidy. Reading Group Guide copyright © 2004 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in the United States by Putnam, New York, in 1973.

Mary, Queen of France

Copyright © 2003 by Patricia Hamilton for the Estate of Jean Plaidy. Reading Group Guide copyright © 2003 by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published in Great Britain by Robert Hale, London, in 1964 and subsequently in the United States by Penguin Putnam, New York.

For a Queen’s Love

Copyright © 1954, 1971 by Jean Plaidy. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain as The Spanish Bridegroom by Robert Hale Limited, London, in 1954, and in hardcover in the United States by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, in 1971.

A Favorite of the Queen

Copyright © 1955 by Jean Plaidy. Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain as Gay Lord Robert by Robert Hale Limited, London, in 1955, and in hardcover in the United States by G. P. Putnam’s Son, New York, in 1971.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.crownpublishing.com

Three Rivers Press and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

eISBN: 978-0-307-71973-7

v3.0

Contents

Cover Page

Publisher’s Note

Character Guide

To Hold the Crown

Katharine of Aragon

Murder Most Royal

The King’s Confidante

The Sixth Wife

The Thistle and the Rose

Mary, Queen of France

For a Queen’s Love

A Favorite of the Queen

Also by Jean Plaidy

Publisher’s Note

Three Rivers Press is pleased to share this amazing collection of novels by Jean Plaidy for the first time as a package of eBooks. Jean Plaidy is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt and Philippa Carr; she wrote more than one hundred and fifty novels in her lifetime. In this special collection you’ll meet the most famous royal dynasty: The Tudors. Following the enigmatic Henry VIII and the ever fascinating women of his court, as well as the foreign royals who become betrothed to (or otherwise entangled with) the Tudors, these novels lend iconic characters a level of intrigue and complexity that provides a vivid portrait of the era—and plenty of entertaining reading. We hope you enjoy these books in their electronic incarnation; we think Ms. Hibbert would have been proud to see her work in print after more than fifty years—and in this new digital format!

Character Guide

1. To Hold the Crown

Henry VII

Elizabeth of York

Arthur, Prince of Wales

Henry VIII

Katharine of Aragon

2. Katharine of Aragon

Katharine of Aragon

Arthur, Prince of Wales

Henry VIII

Anne Boleyn

Princess Mary

3. Murder Most Royal

Henry VIII

Anne Boleyn

Catherine Howard

4. The King’s Confidante

Sir Thomas More

Meg More Roper

Henry VIII

Jane Colt

5. The Sixth Wife

Henry VIII

Katherine Parr

Thomas Seymour

6. The Thistle and the Rose

Margaret Tudor

Henry VII

James IV of Scotland

Henry VIII

James V of Scotland

7. Mary, Queen of France

Mary Tudor

Henry VIII

Princess Mary

King Louis

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk

8. For a Queen’s Love

Philip II of Spain

Maria Manoela

Don Carlos

Mary Tudor

Elizabeth de Valois

9. A Favorite of the Queen

Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester

Elizabeth I

Amy Robsart