Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

Henry would not look at her. “We lost them both,” he mumbled.

She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.

Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair—it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.

He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.

“It may be,” he said coldly, “that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realized until today how old you are!”

“But,” she stammered, “you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.”

Henry looked past her, and when he spoke—although he did so more to himself than to her—she felt a cold terror strike at her.

“And you were my brother’s wife,” was what he said.

She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.

Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. “The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.”

* * *

MARIA DE SALINAS helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.

“You see, Maria,” said Katharine, “I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.”

“He was angry,” said Maria. “Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.”

“Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.”

“You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.”

Katharine shivered. “You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.”

“But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.”

“No, the lady’s brother and husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria…because he failed.”

“He is young, Your Grace.”

“Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.”

“It will pass, dearest lady.”

“Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad…so lost…since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.”

Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. “All did not desert Your Grace.”

“No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.”

“Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.”

Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.

* * *

IT WAS LATER that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.

She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.

They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.

On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.

Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.

She was ill for several days, and during that time she was tormented with nightmares. The King figured largely in these—an enormous menacing figure with greedy, demanding hands which caressed others, but when he turned to her, held out those hands, crying: “Give me sons.”

AS THE DAYS PASSED THEY TOOK SOME OF KATHARINE’S sorrow with them, and she began to look at her life in a more philosophical way. Through the ages Kings had taken mistresses who bore them children, but it was the children who were born in wedlock who were heirs to their father’s crown. She must be realistic; she must not hope for impossible virtue from her lusty young husband.

More than ever she thought of her mother, who had borne the same tribulations before her; she must endeavor as never before to emulate Isabella and keep the memory of her as a bright example of how a Queen should live.

As for Henry, he was ready enough to meet her halfway. Reproaches would only result in sullen looks; and the pout of the little mouth, the glare of the little eyes in that large face implied that he was the King and he would do as he wished. But any signs of a desire on her part to return to the old relationship brought immediate response; dazzling smiles would light up his face; he would be boisterously affectionate, sentimental, calling her his Kate—the only woman who was of any real importance to him.

So Katharine set aside her illusions and accepted reality; which was, she assured herself, pleasant enough. If she could have a child—ah, if she could have a child—that little creature would make up to her for all else. That child would be the center of her existence; and her husband’s philandering would be of small importance compared with the delight that child would bring her.

In the meantime she would concern herself with another important matter. Since she had become Queen of England she had been in close contact with her father. She waited for his letters with the utmost eagerness, forgetting that, when she had been living in neglected seclusion at Durham House, he had not written to her for years.

“What a joy it is to me,” Ferdinand assured her, “that you, my daughter, are the Queen of England, a country which I have always believed should be my closest ally. I am beginning to understand that a father can have no better ambassador than his own daughter.”

Ferdinand in his letters to her artfully mingled his schemes with his news of family affairs. His daughter was the beloved wife of young Henry, and if the King of England was occasionally unfaithful to his marriage bed, what did that matter as long as he continued to regard his wife with affection and respect!

“If your dear mother could know what a comfort to me you have become, what a clever ambassadress for her beloved country, how happy she would be.”

Such words could not fail to move Katharine, for the very mention of her mother always touched all that was sentimental in her nature.

After receiving her father’s letters she would put forward his ideas to Henry, but never in such a manner that it would appear she was receiving instructions from Spain.

“The King of France,” Ferdinand wrote, “is an enemy to both our countries. Singly we might find it difficult to subdue him. But together…”

Henry liked to walk with her in the gardens surrounding his palaces. When he felt particularly affectionate towards her he would take her arm and they would go on ahead of the little band of courtiers, and occasional he would bend his head and whisper to her in the manner of a lover.

On such an occasion she said to him: “Henry, there are certain provinces in France which are by right English. Now that there is a young King on the throne, do you think the people would wish to see those provinces restored to the crown?”

Henry’s eyes glistened. He had always longed for the conquest of France. He was beginning to think he had had enough of empty triumphs at the jousts and masques. He wished to show his people that he was a man of war no less than a sportsman. Nothing could have given him greater pleasure at that time than the thought of military conquest.

“I’ll tell you this, Kate,” he said. “It has always been a dream of mine to restore our dominions in France to the English crown.”

“And what better opportunity could we have than an alliance with my father who also regards the King of France as his enemy?”

“A family affair. I like that. Your father and I standing together against the French.”

“I believe my father would be ready enough to make a treaty in which you and he would agree to attack the French.”

“Is it so, Kate? Then write to him and tell him that, having such regard for his daughter, I would have him for my friend.”

“You have made me happy, Henry…so happy.”

He smiled at her complacently. “We’ll make each other happy, eh Kate?” His eyes were searching her face. There was a question in them which he did not need to put into words. It was the perpetual question: Any sign, Kate? Any sign yet that we may expect a child?

She shook her head sadly. He did not share her sadness today. The thought of war and conquest had made him forget temporarily even the great need for a son.

He patted her arm affectionately.

“Have no fear, Kate. We’ll not suffer ill luck for ever. I have a notion, Kate, that England and Spain together are…invincible! No matter what they undertake.”

She felt her spirits rising. It was a great pleasure to see that his thoughts were turned for a while from the matter of childbearing; and it was equally gratifying that he was so willing to fall in with her father’s desires. Thus she could please them both at the same time. And surely her next pregnancy must result in a healthy child!