“She gives us much pleasure,” said the King. “We like her manners and we like her singing. Who is her father?”

“My brother Edmund, sir. Your Majesty doubtless remembers him. He did well at Flodden Field.”

The King nodded. “I remember well,” he said kindly. “A good servant!” He was ready to see through a haze of benevolence, every member of a family which could produce such a charming child as Catherine Howard.

“Doubtless Your Most Gracious Majesty would do my little niece the great honor of speaking to her. A royal compliment on her little talents would naturally mean more to the child than the costliest gems.”

“Right gladly I will speak to her. Let her be brought to me.”

“Your Majesty, I would humbly beg that you would be patient with her simplicity. She has led but a sheltered life until recently she came to court. I fear she may seem very shy and displease you with her gauchery. She is perhaps too modest.”

“Too modest!” the King all but shouted. “How is it possible, my lord, for maidens to be too modest!” He was all impatience to have her close to him, to study the fresh young skin, to pat her shoulders and let her know she had pleased her King. “Bring her to me without delay.”

Norfolk himself went to Catherine. She stopped playing and looked at him in fear. He always terrified her, but now his eyes glittered speculatively and in the friendliest manner.

Catherine stood up. “Have I done aught wrong?”

“Nay, nay!” said his Grace. “Your singing has pleased His Majesty and he would tell you how much. Speak up when he talks to you. Do not mumble, for he finds that most irritating. Be modest but not shy.”

The King was waiting impatiently. Catherine curtseyed low and a fat, white, jeweled hand patted her shoulder.

“Enough!” he said, not at all unkindly, and she rose and stood trembling before him.

He said: “We liked your singing. You have a pretty voice.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious....” she stammered and blushed sweetly. He watched the blood stain her delicate cheeks. By god, he thought, there never has been such a one since Anne. And his eyes filled with sudden self-pity to think how ill life had used him. He had loved Anne who had deceived him. He had loved Jane who had died. And now he was married to a great Flanders mare, when in his kingdom, standing before him so close that he had but to stretch out his hands and take her, was the fairest rose that ever grew in England.

“We are glad to be gracious to those who please us,” he said. “You are lately come to court? Come! You may sit here...close to us.”

“Yes, please Your Majesty. I...I have lately come...”

She was a bud just unfolding, he thought; she was the most perfect creature he had ever seen, for while Anne had been irresistible, she had also been haughty, vindictive and demanding, whereas this little Catherine Howard with her doe’s eyes and gentle frightened manner, had the beauty of Anne and the docility of Jane. Ah, he thought, how happy I should have been, if instead of that Flemish creature I had found this lovely girl at Rochester. How I should have enjoyed presenting her with costly sables; jewels too; there is naught I would not give to such a lovely child.

He leaned towards her; his breath, not too sweet, warmed her cheek, and she withdrew involuntarily; he thought this but natural modesty and was enchanted with her.

“Your uncle has been talking to me of you.”

Her uncle! She blushed again, feeling that the Duke would have said nothing good of her.

“He told me of your father. A good man, Lord Edmund. And your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess is a friend of ours.”

She was silent; she had not dreamed of such success; she had known her voice was moderately good, nothing more, certainly not good enough to attract the King.

“And how do you like the court?” he asked.

“I like it very much, please Your Majesty.”

“Then I am right glad that our court pleases you!” He laughed and she laughed too. He saw her pretty teeth, her little white throat, and he felt a desire to make her laugh some more.

“Now we have discovered you,” he said, “we shall make you sing to us often. How will you like that, eh?”

“I shall find it a great honor.”

She looked as if she meant this; he liked her air of candid youth.

He said, “Your name is Catherine, I know. Tell me, how old are you?”

“I am eighteen, sir.”

Eighteen! He repeated it, and felt sad. Eighteen, and he close to fifty. Getting old; short of breath; quick of temper; often dizzy; often after meals suffering from diverse disorders of the body; his leg getting worse instead of better; he could not sit his horse as once he had done. Fifty...and eighteen!

He watched her closely. “You shall play and sing to us again,” he said.

He wanted to watch her without talking; his thoughts were busy. She was a precious jewel. She had everything he would look for in a wife; she had beauty, modesty, virtue and charm. It hurt him to look at her and see behind her the shadow of his Queen. He wanted Catherine Howard as urgently as once he had wanted Anne Boleyn. His hunger for Catherine was more pathetic than that he had known for Anne, for when he had loved Anne he had been a comparatively young man. Catherine was precious because she was a beacon to light the dark days of his middle age with her youthful glow.

Sweetly she sang. He wanted to stretch out his hands and pet her and keep her by him. This was cold age’s need of warm youth. He thought, I would be a parent and a lover to her, for she is younger than my daughter Mary, and she is lovely enough to make any but the blind love her, and those she would enchant with her voice.

He watched her and she played again; then he would have her sit with him; nor did she stir from his side the evening through.

A ripple of excitement went through the court.

“Didst see the King with Mistress Catherine Howard last night?”

“I declare I never saw His Majesty so taken with a girl since Anne Boleyn.”

“Much good will it do her. His mistress? What else since he has a Queen?”

“The King has a way with queens, has he not?”

“Hush! Dost want to go to the Tower on a charge of treason?”

“Poor Queen Anne, she is so dull, so German! And Catherine Howard is the prettiest thing we have had at court for many years!”

“Poor Catherine Howard!”

“Poor, forsooth!”

“Would you change places with her? Remember...”

“Hush! They were unfortunate!”

Cromwell very quickly grasped the new complications brought about by the King’s infatuation for Catherine Howard, and it seemed to him that his end was in sight. Norfolk could be trusted to exploit this situation to the full. Catherine was a Catholic, a member of the most devout Catholic family in England. Continental events loomed up darkly for Cromwell. When the Emperor had passed through France there were signs that his friendship with Francis was not quite as cordial as it had been. Charles was no longer thinking of attacking England, and it was only when such plans interested him that he would be eager to take Francis as an ally. Trouble was springing up over Charles’s domains and he would have his hands tied very satisfactorily from Henry’s point of view if not from Cromwell’s. When the Duke of Cleves asked for help in securing the Duchy of Guelders, Henry showed that he was in no mood to give it.

Cromwell saw the position clearly. He had made no mistakes. He had merely gambled and lost. When the marriage with Anne of Cleves had been made it was necessary to the safety of England; now England had passed out of that particular danger and the marriage was no longer necessary, and the King would assuredly seize an excuse to rid himself of his most hated minister. Cromwell had known this all the time. He could not play a good game if he had not the cards. With Charles and Francis friendly, he had stood a chance of winning; when relations between these two were strained, Cromwell was unlucky. On Cromwell’s advice Henry had put a very irritating yoke about his neck. Now events had shown that it was no longer necessary that the yoke should remain. And there was Norfolk, making the most of Cromwell’s ill luck, cultivating his niece, arranging meetings between her and the King, offering up the young girl as a sacrifice from the House of Howard on that already bloodstained altar of the King’s lusts.

Henry’s mind was working rapidly. He must have Catherine Howard. He was happy; he was in love. Catherine was the sweetest creature in the world, and there was none but Catherine who could keep him happy. She was delightful; she was sweetly modest; and the more he knew her, the more she delighted him. Just to see her skipping about the Hampton Court gardens which he had planned with her cousin Anne, made him feel younger. She would be the perfect wife; he did not want her to be his mistress—she was too sweet and pure for that—he wanted her beside him on the throne, that he might live out his life with none other but her.

She was less shy with him now; she was full of laughter, but ready to weep for other people’s sorrows. Sweet Catherine! The sweetest of women! The rose without a thorn! Anne had perhaps been the most gorgeous rose that ever bloomed, but oh, the thorns! In his old age this sweet creature should be beside him. And he was not so old! He could laugh throatily, holding her hand in his, pressing the cool, plump fingers against his thigh. He was not so old. He had years of pleasant living in front of him. He did not want riotous living, he told himself. All he had ever wanted was married happiness with one woman, and he had not found her until now. He must marry Catherine; he must make her his Queen.