“Why, Bessie.” He was on his knees by the bed. “So you’ve done it, eh, girl? You’ve come through it, eh?” He took her hand and kissed it loudly. “And the child? Where is he?” Suspicion shot up in his eyes. “Where is he, I say?”
A nun had appeared; she was holding a child.
Henry was on his feet, staring down at the burden in her arms.
So small. So wrinkled. Yet a child. His child. He wanted to shout with joy. There was the faint down on that small head—and it was Tudor red.
Tears were in his eyes. The smallness of the child moved him; this little one, his son!
Then he thought, Holy Mother, how could you do this to me…? You give Bessie my son…when I want to give him my crown.
He took the child from the woman.
“Your Grace, have a care. He is young yet.”
“Do you think to tell me to have a care for my own child? Let me tell you, woman, this child means as much to me as my crown. This is my son. By God, this boy shall know great honors….” He was overcome with love for the child, with gratitude to Bessie, who had not only given him a son, but proved his capability to beget sons. He said rashly: “This child might have my crown.”
Bryan and Compton exchanged glances.
The remarks of an exuberant father on beholding his son?
Mayhap. But both Bryan and Compton were wondering what effect the existence of this young child could have on the Queen.
HENRY HAD SUMMONED the whole Court to that Manor which he had some time since bought for Bessie Blount. This was the occasion of the christening of his son.
It was to be a grand ceremony, for he would have everyone know that since he welcomed his son into the world with such joy, so must they all.
There was one guest at the ceremony whom many thought it was cruel to have asked. She had come, pale and resigned, looking like a middle-aged woman since her last pregnancy.
Poor Katharine! How sad it was that it was she who, out of so many pregnancies, had been only able to produce one daughter while Bessie Blount should give the King a healthy son.
She brought presents for the child. She showed no resentment for she had already learned that it was wise to hide her true feelings.
The King seemed unaware of the indignity he was heaping upon her; he seemed at that time unaware of her.
And when the name of the newly born child was asked, it was Henry himself who answered in a deep, resonant voice which could be heard by all: “This child’s name is Henry Fitzroy.”
And as he spoke he looked at Katharine. She was startled; she had always known that there was cruelty in his nature; but now she read his thoughts: You see, I can get me a son. But not through my wife. Here is my boy…my healthy boy. Is it not strange that you should have tried so many times and failed? Is it because our marriage is frowned on in Heaven? Is it, my wife? My wife!
Now her nightmares had taken shape. They were no vague phantoms.
She saw the speculation in those blue eyes.
She thought: I am the Queen. None can change that. And she would not meet his gaze for fear she should be tempted to look into the future.
She was here in the Manor he had bought for his mistress; she was attending the christening of his only son—and a son by that mistress.
For the present she was the Queen of England. She would not look beyond that.
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