The girl straightened herself and stood forlornly waiting for what the Queen had to say.

“You are the center of a most distressing scandal,” began Katharine, and watching the slow flush mount to the girl’s forehead, thought that it was some small comfort that she felt some shame. “It is unbecoming of you and…in those who share your misdemeanors.”

Mary looked at her helplessly. She wanted to explain: It was at Ardres or Guisnes—she was not quite sure. She had noticed his eyes upon her; and she had known the meaning of the looks he gave her. Then he had caught her alone one day and when his hands had strayed over her body there was nothing she could do but say Yes. She would have said Yes to anyone who was as handsome and had such need of her. With the King, of course, there could be no thought of refusal. Did not the Queen understand this? Poor lady. Mary believed she really did not. She did not know the King very well then. She did not know the way of the Court.

But how explain? She hung her head for she was ashamed; and she was deeply sorry that she had caused the good and pious Queen distress. Strangely enough she had never thought of the Queen; she could never think of anything at such times but the need for gratification, and when it was over it was too late. Mary was not the sort to waste regrets on things which it was too late to change.

What was the Queen asking of her now? To refuse the King! Did anyone ever refuse the King?

Then an idea occurred to her. The Queen still had some power, even with the King. Although she was so old and the King was clearly tired of her, she was still a Princess of Spain and her nephew was the most important monarch in Europe.

Mary had wanted to tell the Queen that she was sorry, that she would willingly end her liaison with the King tomorrow if she could. But it was so difficult to explain. So Mary did the only thing possible; she burst into tears.

Katharine was quite unprepared for such a loss of control, and for a few moments did not know what to say to the girl.

“Your Grace,” sobbed Mary. “I wish I were a good woman…but I’m afraid I’m not. I was made this way. And now that I want to marry Will…Oh dear, it is all so difficult, but I wish…oh how I wish…”

“You should control yourself,” said the Queen coldly.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Mary, dabbing at her eyes.

“What is this talk of marriage?”

“I am in love, Your Grace, with Will Carey. He is a younger son, and my father does not find him a good enough match for me. He has…forbidden us…”

“I see. So this young man is willing to marry you in spite of the scandal you have brought on yourself.”

“There would be no more scandal, Your Grace, if only I could marry Will. I want none but Will, and he wants none but me. If Your Grace would speak for us…”

A strange state of affairs, pondered the Queen. I send for her to reprimand her for her lewd conduct with the King, and she asks me to help her to marry with a young man whom she says she loves.

Yet there was something lovable about the girl. Katharine had never thought that she could feel a slight degree of tenderness towards any of her husband’s mistresses, but she was finding that this could be so. Mary with her plump bosom that seemed to resent being restrained within that laced bodice, her tiny waist and her flaring hips, had the air of a wanton even when she was distressed as she was at this moment; and there was also a look of the slattern about her; and yet that gentleness, that desire to please, that certain helplessness was appealing.

How could he deceive me with such a one? Katharine asked herself. Elizabeth Blount had been different—a young and beautiful virgin when he had first seen her; and their affaire had been conducted with decorum. But Katharine was certain that the King had not been this girl’s first lover.

And for many nights he had not visited his wife because the creature had claimed his attention. This slut had been preferred to a princess of Spain; the daughter of Thomas Boleyn—who for all his airs had his roots in trade—had been preferred to the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand!

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She was jealous of this girl, because she knew that there would be such passion between her and the King as there never had been between the King and his wife. How did you manage to attract him? she wanted to ask. How did you manage to keep him? He went to you in spite of his conscience, in spite of the scandal which he hates. Yet he cannot bring himself to come to me when it is right and proper that he should, and it is his duty to give me the chance of bearing a son.

She ought to hate the girl, but it was impossible to hate her when she stood there, an occasional sob still shaking her body.

The Queen said: “So you have spoken to your father of this marriage?”

“Yes, Your Grace. He is against it.”

“Why so?”

“Because Will is only a younger son.”

“And do you not think that you might look higher?”

“I could not look higher, Your Grace, than the man I love.”

Katharine was shaken. She had expected to find a calculating mind beneath that voluptuous exterior; but the girl’s looks did not lie. She was indeed soft and loving.

“That is a worthy sentiment,” murmured the Queen. “When I sent for you I had thought of dismissing you from the Court, of sending you back to your father’s castle at Hever.” The Queen half closed her eyes, visualizing the scene with Henry if she had dared to do this. “But,” she went on, “since you speak to me of your love for this young man, and speak of it with sincerity, I feel that I should like to help you.”

“Your Grace!” The babyish mouth was slightly open; the dark tearful eyes wide.

“Yes,” said the Queen. “I can see that you need to be married. Your husband will then keep you out of mischief.”

“And Your Grace will…”

“I will arrange for your marriage to Will Carey. The ceremony shall be here at Court and I myself will attend.”

“Your Grace!”

There was no mistaking the joy in the girl’s face.

Katharine held out her hand, Mary took it and pressed a damp hot face against it.

“You may go now,” said the Queen graciously, and watched the girl depart.

A slut, she thought. And no virgin when he found her. Yet he desired her as he never did his wife.

Why should this be? Katharine asked herself passionately. Is there no hope left to me? What is the use of praying for a son when the King has given up all hope of begetting one? How can there be a son when he never comes to me, when he spends his manhood on girls such as Mary Boleyn?


* * *

THERE WERE isolated moments in life, thought Katharine, which were sheer happiness; and what had happened in the past and what the future held could not touch them. As she sat watching her daughter Mary leaning against her father’s knee while he instructed her in playing the lute, she assured herself that this was one of them.

The King’s face was flushed and he was smiling; there was rare tenderness about his mouth; he dearly loved children, and he would have been a contented man if, instead of one small girl in the nursery, there were half a dozen—and more than one lusty boy among them.

But in this happy moment he was well pleased with his little daughter.

How enchanting she is! thought Katharine. How dainty! How healthy with that flush in her cheeks and her long hair falling about her shoulders! Why am I ever sad while I have my Mary?

“Ha!” boomed the King, “you are going to be a musician, my daughter. There is no doubt of that.” He turned, smiling to Katharine. “Did you hear that? She shall have the best teacher in the land.”

“She already has that,” said Katharine meaningfully, and she went to the pair and laid her hand lightly on the King’s shoulder. He patted that hand affectionately.

Holy Mother of God, the Queen prayed silently, if we had only one son, all would be well between us. Who would believe, witnessing this scene of domestic felicity, that he continually betrays me and that…

But she would not allow herself to say it even to herself. It was impossible. Only her enemies had whispered it because they hated her. They must have forgotten that she was of the House of Spain and that the Emperor was her own sister’s son.

“Henry,” went on Katharine, “I want to discuss her general education with you. I wish her to receive tuition in languages, history and all subjects which will be of use to her in later life.”

“It shall be so,” agreed Henry.

“I have been talking to Thomas More on this subject.”

“A good fellow, Thomas More,” murmured the King, “and none could give you better advice.”

“His daughters, I have heard, are the best educated in England. He firmly believes that there should be no difference between the education of girls and boys.”

The King’s look of contentment faded; his lower lip protruded in an expression of discontent.

I should not have said that, thought Katharine. I have reminded him that while Thomas More has a son, he, the King, has none—at least not a legitimate son.

These pitfalls appeared on every occasion. Was there no escaping them?

The King was staring at Mary’s brown curls, and she knew that he was thinking to himself: Why was this girl not a boy?

The little girl was extremely sensitive and this was not the first time that she had been aware of the discontent she aroused in her father. She lowered her eyes and stared at the lute in his hands. He frightened her, this big and glittering father, who would sometimes pick her up in his arms and expect her to shout with glee because he noticed her. She did shout, because Mary always tried to do what was expected of her, but the glee was assumed, and in her father’s presence the child was never completely free from apprehension.