She longed to please him and applied an almost feverish concentration on her lessons, and in particular, her music; and because she knew that he liked to boast of her abilities, she was terrified that she would fall short of his expectation.

Those occasions when he smothered her with his exuberant affection were almost as alarming as when he showed his displeasure in her sex.

She had begun to ask herself: “Where did I fail? What could I have done to have made myself be born a boy?”

She took a swift glance at her mother. How glad she was that the Queen was present, for in the company of her mother she felt safer. If she could have had her wish they would have been together always; she would have liked to sleep in her mother’s chamber, and stay with her the whole day long. Whenever she was afraid, she thought of her mother; and when they were alone together she was completely happy.

Now she raised her eyes and found her mother’s gaze upon her. The Queen smiled reassuringly because she immediately sensed her little daughter’s disquiet.

We must never show our differences in the child’s presence, thought Katharine. But how long can I protect her from rumor? She already knows that her father constantly rages against the fate which made her a girl and not a boy.

The Queen said quickly: “Now that you have the lute in your hands, Henry, play us one of your songs, and sing to us.”

The frown lifted from the King’s brow. He was still boyish enough to be drawn from discontent by a treat. It was like offering a child a sweetmeat, and compliments were the sweetmeats Henry most desired.

“Since you ask me, Katharine, I will sing for you. And what of my daughter? Does she wish to hear her father sing?”

The little girl was alert. She said in a shy voice: “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You do not sound quite certain,” he growled.

The Queen put in hastily: “Mary is all eagerness, but a little shy of showing her pleasure.” She held out her hand to the Princess who immediately ran to her.

Oh the comfort of those velvet skirts, the joy of hiding her face momentarily in them, of feeling that gentle, protective hand on her head! The Princess Mary looked up at her mother with adoration shining in her eyes.

The Queen smiled and held that head against her skirts once more. It would not be wise for her father to see that the love she had for her mother was greater than that which she had for him. Mary did not understand that he demanded always to be the most admired, the best loved.

“I do not look for shyness in my daughter,” murmured the King. But his fingers were already plucking at the lute and he was singing his favorite song in a pleasant tenor voice.

The Queen settled herself in her chair and kept her arm about her daughter.

Snuggling up to her Mary prayed: “Please, Holy Mother of God, let me stay with my mother…always.”

The song came to an end and the King stared before him, his eyes glazed with the pleasure he found in his own creation, while the Queen clapped her hands and signed to her daughter to do the same. Thus the King was appeased.

When their daughter had been returned to her governess, Katharine said to the King: “Mary Boleyn has been to see me to plead for permission to marry.”

The King did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “Is that so?”

“Yes. It seems that she wishes to marry a certain William Carey, who is a younger son and I fancy not to her father’s liking.”

“Thomas Boleyn wants a better match for the girl, I’ll warrant.”

“Thomas Boleyn is an ambitious man. I have promised to help the girl.”

The King shrugged his shoulders. “The matter is in your hands.”

“I had thought in the circumstances…”

He swung round on her, his eyes narrowed. What was she hinting? Was she reproaching him because he had found the girl attractive?

“In what circumstances?” he demanded.

She saw that she had strayed into one of those pitfalls which it was always so necessary to avoid. She should have murmured that, as the girl was of the Court and her father stood high in the King’s favor, she had believed that she should first ask for the King’s approval before consenting to her marriage.

But her natural dignity revolted. Was she not, after all, a daughter of the House of Spain? Should she allow herself to be treated as a woman of no importance? The recent interview with her daughter had reminded her of her own mother, and she believed that little Mary felt for her the same devotion that she herself had felt for Isabella of Castile. Isabella would never have lost her dignity over one of her husband’s mistresses.

Katharine said coldly: “In view of the fact that the girl is—or was—your paramour…”

The King’s face darkened. In his eyes sins seemed blacker when they were openly referred to. He might placate his conscience to some extent (“I am but a man. The girl was more than willing. My wife is sickly and after each pregnancy she grows more so. Providence sends me these willing girls, who, by God, lose nothing through the affair, that I may save my wife discomfort”) but when his wife actually spoke of the matter with that smouldering resentment in her eyes she emphasized the unworthiness of his conduct. Therefore if he had been dissatisfied with her a moment before, as soon as she uttered those words he hated her.

“You forget to whom you speak, Madam,” he said.

“Why should you think that? Is the girl then the mistress of others? I must say it does not surprise me.”

“This girl’s marriage is of no interest to me,” cried Henry. “But your insolent accusations are, Madam, I would have you know. I have suffered much. I have been a loving husband. You forget how I brought you out of poverty…exile, one might say. You forget that against the advice of my ministers I married you. And how did you repay me? By denying me that which I longed for above all else. All these years of marriage…and no son…no son…”

“That is our mutual sorrow, Henry. Am I to blame?”

His eyes narrowed cruelly. “It is strange that you cannot bear a son.”

“When Elizabeth Blount has done so for you?” she demanded.

“I have a son.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and his attitude had become pious. “As King of the realm and one whose task it is to provide his country with heirs I thought it my duty to see wherein the fault lay.”

How could one reason with such a man? He was telling her now that when he had first seen that beautiful young girl and had seduced her, it was not because he had lusted after her, but only to prove to his people that, although his Queen could not give him a son, another could.

No, it was impossible to reason with him because when he made these preposterous statements he really believed them. He had to believe in the virtuous picture he envisaged. It was the only way in which he could appease his conscience.

He was going on: “I have prayed each day and night; I have heard Mass five times a day. I cannot understand why this should be denied me, when I have served God so well. But there is a reason.”

Cunning lights were in his eyes; they suggested that he had his own beliefs as to why his greatest wish should have been denied him. For a moment she thought he was going to tell her; but he changed his mind, and turning, strode to the door.

There he paused, and she saw that he had made an effort to control his features. He said coldly: “If you wish to arrange the marriage of any of the Court women, you should consult me. This you have done and in this case I say I pass the matter into your hands.”

With that he left her. But she was scarcely listening.

What plans was he making? What did he say of his marriage, behind locked doors in the presence of that man Wolsey?

A cold fear touched her heart. She went to her window and looked out on the river. Then she remembered the visit of the Emperor and that he would come again.

Henry wanted the friendship of the Emperor, for England, even as she did.

He would not be so foolish as to dare harm, by word or deed, the aunt of the most powerful monarch in Europe.


* * *

ON A BLEAK January day Mary Boleyn was married to William Carey. The Queen honored the bride and bridegroom with her presence, and the ceremony was well attended because Mary, on account of her relationship with the King, was a person of interest.

When Mary took the hand of her husband, there were whispers among those present. What now? they asked each other. Surely if the King were still interested in the girl he would have made a grander match for her than this. It could only mean that he had finished with her, and Mary—silly little Mary—had not had the wits to ask for a grand title and wealth as a reward for services rendered.

But Mary, as she passed among the guests, looked so dazzlingly happy that it appeared she had gained all she sought; and the same could have been said for Will Carey.

The Queen received the young couple’s homage with something like affection—which seemed strange, considering how proud the Queen was and that the girl had lately been her rival.

The general opinion was that the King’s affair with Mary Boleyn was over. The fact that Thomas Boleyn did not attend the ceremony confirmed this.

“I hear he has renounced her,” said one of the ladies to the nearest gentleman.

“Small wonder!” was the reply. “Thomas was climbing high, doing his duty as complaisant father. He’s furious with the girl and would have prevented the marriage if Mary had not won the Queen’s consent.”

“And the Queen readily gave it—naturally.”