Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

“Whose orders?”

“Those of the King of Spain.”

“The King of Spain’s orders are invalid here at the Court of England.”

“Not, I venture to point out, Your Grace, when they are also the orders of the King of England.”

“What do you mean?”

“The King, your husband, ordered that Fray Diego should be sent back to Spain with all speed. He had no wish for him to continue to serve you as confessor.”

Katharine hurried to the King’s apartment with as much speed as she could, for her body was now becoming cumbersome.

Henry, who was with Compton mixing an ointment, turned with the pestle in his hand to stare at her.

She said curtly to Compton: “I would speak to the King alone.”

Compton bowed and retired.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.

“I have just heard that my confessor has been dismissed.”

“Is that so?” said the King in a deceptively light tone.

“Dismissed,” went on Katharine, “without any order from me.”

“It is my privilege,” Henry told her, and so disturbed was she that she did not see the danger signals, “to decide who shall and who shall not remain at my Court.”

“My own confessor.…”

“A Spaniard!” Henry almost spat out the word. “May I tell you, Madam, that since I have had dealings with your father I do not trust Spaniards.”

“He has been with me many years.…”

“All the more reason why he should return to his own country.”

Katherine felt the tears in her eyes. Pregnancies were becoming more trying than they had been in the beginning, and her weakness often astonished her; usually she was not one to give way to tears.

“Henry…,” she began.

“Madam,” he interrupted, “do not seek to dictate to me. There have been spies enough at my Court. I would like to rid it of all Spaniards.”

She caught her breath with horror.

“You have forgotten that I am…,” she began.

But he cut in: “I do not forget. I know full well that you have been in league with your father, whispering in my ear, tempting me to this or that project…knowing all the while that it was to your father’s benefit…and not to mine.”

“Henry, I swear this to be untrue.”

“Swear if you will. But who trusts a Spaniard?”

“You talk to me as though I were a stranger…and an enemy.”

“You are a Spaniard!” he said.

She reached for the table to steady herself.

Evil rumors had been in the air of late. She had disregarded them as mere gossip: If the Queen does not give the King a child soon, he may decide that she is incapable of bearing children and seek a divorce.

She had thought at the time: How can people be so cruel? They make light of our tribulations with their gossip.

But now she wondered what had set such rumors in motion. When his eyes were narrowed like that he looked so cruel.

She turned away.

“I must go to my apartment,” she said. “I feel unwell.”

He did not answer her; but stood glowering while she walked slowly and in an ungainly manner from the apartment.

* * *

SHE WAS WAITING NOW—waiting for the birth of the child which would make all the difference to her future. If this time she could produce a healthy boy, all the King’s pleasure in his marriage would return. It was merely this run of bad luck, she told herself, which had turned him from her. So many failures. It really did seem that some evil fate was working against them. No wonder Henry was beginning to doubt whether it was possible for them to have a family; and because he was Henry, he would not say, Is it impossible for us to have children…but, for her? He would not believe that any failure could possibly come from himself.

She prayed continually: “Let me bear a healthy child. A boy, please, Holy Mother. But if that is asking too much, a girl would please, if only she may be healthy and live…just to prove that I can bear a healthy child.”

In her apartments the device of the pomegranate mocked her. It hung on embroidered tapestry on the walls; it was engraved on so many of her possessions. The pomegranate which signified fruitfulness and which she had seen so many times in her own home before she had understood the old Arabic meaning.

How ironic that she should have taken it as her device!

She dared not brood on the possibility of failure, so she tried to prove to Henry that she was completely faithful to his cause. When the French ambassadors arrived she received them with outward pleasure and the utmost cordiality; she gave a great deal of time to the sad young Mary, helping her to live through that difficult time, cheering her, recalling her own fears on parting from her mother, assuring her that if she would meekly accept her destiny she would eventually triumph over her fears.

She was invaluable at such a time. Even Henry grudgingly admitted it and, because he knew that she was telling him that she had cut off her allegiance to her own people and was determined to work entirely for his cause, he softened towards her.

With the coming of that July the negotiations for the French marriage were completed and the ceremony by proxy was performed.

Mary, her face pale, her large eyes tragic, submitted meekly enough; and Katharine, who was present at the putting to bed ceremony, was sorry for the girl. Quietly she looked on while Mary, shivering in her semi-nakedness, was put to bed by her women, and the Duc de Longueville, who was acting as proxy for the King of France, who was put to bed with her, he fully dressed apart from one naked leg with which he touched Mary. The marriage was then declared to be a true marriage, for the touching of French and English body was tantamount to consummation.

* * *

IN OCTOBER of that year Mary was taken with great pomp to Dover, there to set sail for France. Katharine and Henry accompanied her, and Katharine was fearful when she saw the sullen look in Mary’s eyes.

It was a sad occasion for Katharine—that stay at Dover Castle while they waited for storms to subside, for she could not help but remember her own journey from Spain to England and she understood exactly how Mary was feeling.

How sad was the fate of most Princesses! she thought.

She was eager to comfort her young sister-in-law, and tried to arouse Mary’s interest in her clothes and jewels; but Mary remained listless except for those occasions when her anger would burst out against a fate which forced her to marry an old man whom she was determined to despise because there was another whom she loved. The marriage had done nothing at all, Katharine saw, to turn her thoughts from Charles Brandon.

They seemed long, those weeks at Dover. Henry strode through the castle, impatient to have done with the painful parting and return to London, for there could be no real gaiety while the Queen of France went among them, like a mournful ghost of the gay Princess Mary.

Again and again Katharine sought to comfort her. “What rejoicing there will be in Paris,” she said.

But Mary merely shrugged her shoulders. “My heart will be in England,” she said, “so I shall care nothing for rejoicing in Paris.”

“You will…in time.”

“In time!” cried Mary, and her eyes suddenly blazed wickedly. “Ah,” she repeated, “in time.”

There were occasions when she was almost feverishly gay; she would laugh, a little too wildly; she would even sing and dance, and the songs were all of the future. Katharine wondered what was in her mind and was afraid.

Her women doubtless had a trying time. Katharine had noticed some charming girls among the little band who were to accompany Mary to France. Lady Anne and Lady Elisabeth Grey were two very attractive girls and she was sure they were helping in upholding Mary’s spirits.

One day when she went to Mary’s apartments she saw a very young girl, a child, there among the women.

Katharine called to her and the little girl came and curtsied. She had big, dark eyes and one of the most piquantly charming faces Katharine had ever seen.

“What are you doing here, my little one?” she asked.

“Your Grace,” answered the child with the dignity of a much older person, “I am to travel to France in the suite of the Queen. I am one of her maids of honor.”

Katharine smiled. “You are somewhat young for the post, it would seem.”

“I am past seven years old, Your Grace.” The answer was given with hauteur and most surprisingly dignity.

“It would seem young to me. Do you travel with any member of your family?”

“My father is to sail with us, Your Grace.”

“Tell me the name of your father, my child.”

“It is Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

“Ah, I know him well. So you are his daughter…Mary, is it?”

“No, Your Grace. Mary is my sister. My name is Anne.”

Katharine, amused by the precocity of the lovely little girl, smiled. “Well, Anne Boleyn,” she said, “I am sure you will serve your mistress well.”

The child swept a deep and somewhat mannered curtsey, and Katharine passed on.

WHEN MARY HAD SAILED FOR FRANCE THE COURT RETURNED to Richmond, and with the coming of the winter Katharine felt that she had regained a little of her husband’s esteem which she had lost through the treachery of her father.

December was with them and plans for the Christmas festivities were beginning to be made. There were the usual whisperings, the secrets shared by little groups of courtiers, plans, Katharine guessed, for a pageant which would surprise her; there would doubtless be a Robin Hood or a Saracen Knight to startle the company with his prowess and later disclose himself to be the King. No round of gaiety would be complete without that little masquerade.