There was another matter which was disturbing him. He was twenty-four years of age and affianced to Mary who was nine. He was tired of waiting, and his ministers had implied that the people of Spain were eager for an alliance with Portugal.

His cousin, Isabella of Portugal, was of a marriageable age at this present time, and her dowry was nine hundred thousand golden ducats. How useful such a sum would be! And Mary’s dowry? He had had it already in loans from her father, and he knew that to take Mary would merely be to wipe off the debts he had incurred in the war.

He wanted a wife now…not in three years’ time. In three years’ time he might have a lusty son. When he went to war he would have a Queen to leave in Spain as his regent. Moreover Portugal had always been closely allied with Spain. The people wanted one of their own as their Queen, not a strange little girl who, although half Spanish, would seem to them wholly English.

True, he had given his promise, but his grandfathers had made promises when it was expedient to do so; and when state policy demanded that those promises should be broken, they broke them. Charles was sorry because his aunt would be hurt and the King of England would be angry. But he did not greatly care for the King of England. A strip of Channel divided them and they had always been uneasy allies.

Wolsey had turned against him he knew from the few letters he had received from de Praet; and he was certain that he had not received all that de Praet had written. Wolsey was a wily fellow and it was unfortunate that they should be enemies, but that must be accepted.

He could not simply jilt Mary, but he could make a condition that her parents would find it impossible to fulfil. Suppose he demanded that she be sent at once to Spain? He knew his aunt would never agree to part with her daughter at this stage. He would demand half as much again as Henry had already paid towards the cost of the war, knowing that this would be refused. But these would be the terms he would insist on if he were to carry out his part of the bargain.

The Portuguese ambassador was waiting to see him; he would have to have something to tell him when he came. He must decide whether there should be discussions between the two countries regarding the betrothal of himself and Isabella.

He therefore sent for a gentleman of his entourage, and while he was waiting for him he wrote a letter which, on account of the news it contained, he put into code.

When the Knight Commander Peñalosa was shown into his presence, he signed to him to be seated.

“I have a letter here which you are to take to England. It is in code, so you must go at once to de Praet who will decode it for you. Then you will read the contents and discuss with de Praet and the Queen the best manner of putting the proposals it contains to the King of England. De Praet will then inform me of the King’s reception of this news. This is of the utmost importance. You must leave at once.”

Peñalosa left with the letter and prepared to set out for England, while Charles received the Portuguese ambassador.

By the time Peñalosa reached England, de Praet had left and there was no one who could decode the letter. Peñalosa sought an audience with the Queen, but the Cardinal, who was more watchful of her than ever, had so surrounded her with his spies that Peñalosa was never allowed to see her except in public. If Katharine’s eyes alighted on him by chance she had no notion that he was an important messenger from her nephew.


* * *

KATHARINE WAS with her women engaged in that occupation which so frequently occupied her—the making of clothes for the poor—when the storm broke.

The King strutted into her apartment and one wave of his hands sent her women curtseying and scuttling away like so many frightened mice.

“Henry,” Katharine asked, “what ails you?”

He stood, legs apart, that alarming frown between his brows, so that she felt her spirits sink. She knew that he had come to tell her of some great disaster.

In his hand he carried a document, and her heart began to beat rapidly as she recognized her nephew’s seal.

“You may well ask,” said the King ominously.

“It is news from the Emperor?”

“It is, Madam. News from the biggest scoundrel that ever trod the soil of Europe.”

“Oh no…Henry.”

“Oh yes, Madam. Yes, yes, yes. This nephew of yours has insulted us…myself, you and our daughter.”

“The marriage…”

“There will be no marriage. Our daughter has been tossed aside as though she were of no importance…tossed aside for what he believes to be a better match.”

“It is impossible.”

“So you would doubt my word.”

“No, Henry, but I am sure there is some explanation.”

“There is explanation enough. This treacherous scoundrel believes that he can serve himself better by marriage with his cousin of Portugal. He has already possessed himself of Mary’s dowry in loans…which will never be repaid. Now his greedy hands are reaching out for his cousin’s ducats.”

“But he is promised to Mary.”

Henry came close to her and his eyes looked cruel. “When have your family ever respected their promises? I should have understood. I should have suspected. I do not forget how your father deceived me again and again. And Maximilian…this Charles’s grandfather…he deceived me in like manner. I am deceived every way I turn. Spain! I would to God I had never heard of that country. What have I ever had from Spain? Broken promises…my treasury rifled…lies…lies…lies and a barren wife!”

“Henry…I implore you…”

“You would implore me? What would you implore, Madam? That I say thank you to this nephew of yours? Thank you for deceiving me. Thank you for jilting my daughter. I’d as lief thank you, Madam, for all the sons you have not given me!”

“That was no fault of mine,” she said with spirit. “I have done my best.”

“No fault of yours? Then whose fault, Madam? You know I have a healthy son. It is more than you have. All those years and one daughter…and that daughter, jilted…by your nephew.”

For the moment tears came to his eyes—tears of self pity. All that he desired was denied him. The crown of France; the sons; the marriage of his daughter to the greatest monarch in Christendom; the favors of a sprightly young girl who persistently avoided him. Why was the King so frustrated?

His conscience gave him the answer. Because you have offended God. You have lived with a woman who is not your wife because she was first the wife of your brother. You will never know good fortune while you live in sin, for God will continue to turn his face from you.

He hated her then—this woman with her sagging shapeless body. How different from that other! This woman who could no longer arouse the slightest desire within him. The woman whose nephew had betrayed him and their daughter.

It was difficult to hold in the words, to remember that as yet it was the secret matter.

But how he hated her!

She flinched before the cruelty in his eyes; she saw the brutal curve of his mouth. Thus had he looked when he had determined to send Buckingham to the scaffold.

He was controlling himself; she knew that. He was holding in the words he longed to utter. She almost wished that he would speak so that she might know what thoughts were in the secret places of his mind.

He forced himself to leave her; he went straight to his apartments and summoned Wolsey.

He would be revenged on Charles. He could not reach the Emperor, but the aunt should suffer for the nephew. None should treat him so scurvily and escape. Charles should learn that he, Henry, cared nothing for the House of Spain and Austria. Had Charles forgotten that there was one member of that House who was completely in his power?

“Come, Wolsey,” he growled, while he waited for his Chancellor. “We’ll make peace with France; we’ll have a French Prince for Mary. We’ll form an alliance to make His Imperial Highness tremble. We shall show you, Master Charles, that we care naught for you and yours! A plague on the House of Spain and Austria—and all those who belong to it!”


* * *

THAT JUNE DAY a ceremony took place in Bridewell Palace and the King had commanded all the high officials of the Court to attend: he was particularly anxious that Peñalosa, who was the only ambassador Charles had in England at the time, should be present at the ceremony and send an account of it to his master.

The hero of this occasion was a small boy, six years old. He was handsome, and his pink and gold Tudor beauty both delighted and exasperated Henry.

Every time he looked at the boy he said to himself: Why could he not have been my legitimate son!

Henry had ceased to think of the boy’s mother; she had been handsomely rewarded for giving the King a proof of his ability to beget sons. Manors in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire had been bestowed on her, so she would have no cause to regret those days when she had been the King’s mistress.

Henry had watched with smouldering eyes while this handsome boy was created a Knight of the Garter; and now this even more significant ceremony was taking place.

He came to stand before the King; on either side of him were the leading Dukes of England—Norfolk and Suffolk.

But this boy, thought Henry, shall take precedence over all. For I would have all understand that he is my son and living proof of the fact that I can get sons with other women—though not with my wife.

Holy Mother of God, he prayed as he watched; I see my fault. I live in sin with my brother’s wife and for that reason my union is not blessed with sons. How could it be when in the eyes of God it is a sinful union!