His leg pained him less on this day and he was ready to believe that the new remedies would prove efficacious, although common sense reminded him that he had been trying new remedies for years without avail. There were times when the pain in his leg was so acute that his face became purple, then gray, and he could not suppress his cries of agony.

But now the bandages seemed less irksome and consequently he was less exhausted. He had hobbled into the musicroom to hear some verses of Surrey’s, and he was determined not to like them even before that arrogant young man had opened his mouth to recite them. He did not care for anything Surrey wrote, for Surrey himself was a source of anxiety to him.

By God, he mused, as he watched him now, a little more of the fellow’s arrogance and I’ll have him clapped into the Tower. What airs! What manners! And some would doubtless say: What beauty! Have I not suffered enough from these Howards? Anne was connected with them; that witch, that sorceress who deceived me into believing she could give me a son—and deceived me with others too! Then…young Catharine…

But he could not bear to think of Catharine. That affair was too recent and he had not had time to grow out of love with her. But nevertheless she also was a Howard. She had belonged to that accursed line.

He must not get overheated. His doctors had told him that. If he did, it would be necessary to apply the leeches again. No! He must think of pleasanter things than the Howards. There was Lady Latimer, looking fair enough, but sitting too far away from him.

He roared: “Bring Lady Latimer’s chair closer to mine. I would talk with her.”

She came slowly behind the men who had carried her chair. She drew it slightly back before she said: “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to sit?”

“You have it,” he answered, reaching for the chair and bringing it closer. “You must not be overawed, Lady Latimer, because we like to talk to you.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“We understand your feelings. We applaud them. We like modesty in our ladies.”

His face was close to hers and he noted the fine texture of her skin, the delicate bloom of health; he decided that none would guess she was thirty.

I like this woman! he told himself. I like her serenity. I like the respect she shows for her King. She’s no giddy girl. She’s no Anne Boleyn; no Catharine Howard. She may lack their beauty, but she’s a good woman; she’s a modest woman. She’s the sort of woman I like to see about my court.

“Believe us, Lady Latimer,” he said. “We feel the utmost kindness toward you.”

“Your Majesty is gracious.”

“We are indeed to those who please us. Now, Surrey, let us hear these verses of which you prate.”

Surrey stepped boldly forward, displaying both grace and nonchalance. He was very elaborately dressed, almost as elaborately as the King himself. His blue velvet cap was ornamented with gold, his doublet striped with blue and white satin, his hose of the same becoming shade of blue, and his person aglitter with diamonds and sapphires. The young poet bore himself like a king; there were some who said that it was Surrey’s boast that his house had more claim to the throne of England than had the Tudors. If his folly could be proved, ruminated the King, that handsome head would not long sprout so gracefully from those arrogant shoulders.

“It is a small poem,” the young nobleman was announcing, “on the means to attain a happy life, an it please Your Grace.”

“Let us hear these words of wisdom. We would fain hear of the means to attain a happy life.” Henry caught Katharine’s eye, and his intimate smile made her shiver. “Methinks you are over-young, my lord Earl, to have gleaned already so much knowledge.”

Gardiner, who was seated near the King, said: “It is the young, Your Majesty, who consider themselves to be wise men. When they grow older wisdom seems less sure.”

Henry grunted and winced with pain as he moved his leg. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Let us hear the verses and have done with it.”

Surrey stood elegantly, the scroll in one hand while the other was laid negligently on the jeweled doublet. Arrogant young fool! thought the King; and he hated him for no more reason at that moment than that he was one of the most handsome young men at court. Henry had reason to hate all handsome men on this occasion, for now, with so many about him, he felt his age and infirmity keenly. These were so hard to accept when one had been the handsomest Prince in Christendom and had excelled at all manly pastimes and had been a King—not, he reminded himself scowling at Surrey, a would-be-King.

Surrey had begun to read:

“Martial, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I Find:

The richesse left, not got with pain;

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;

“The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;

No charge of rule, nor governance;

Without disease, the healthful life;

The household of continuance;

“The mean diet, no delicate fare;

True wisdom joined with simpleness;

The night dischargèd of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppress.

“The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleeps as may beguile the night:

Contented with thine own estate

Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.”

While the poet was reading, the King fidgeted in his chair, and all those present marveled at the rashness of Surrey, for it should have been perfectly clear to the poet that those sentiments must arouse unpleasant memories for the King. That talk of health and sleep and, above all, faithful wives! Surrey was a fool. It was almost as though he teased a dangerous bull, deliberately inviting attack.

There was a short silence. No one spoke before the King expressed an opinion, for it was unwise to differ from His Majesty in the appraisal of verses.

“Bravo!” growled the King eventually. “Your meter’s good, Surrey.”

Surrey bowed low. “My greatest delight in my simple verses must be the pleasure they afford my most Gracious Sovereign.”

“Not so simple!” cried Henry. “Not so simple, eh?” He glared about him. “What did you think, eh, Gardiner? A Bishop should appreciate good verses, And you, Master Wriothesley. You’ve heard enough verses to judge, I’ll swear.”

Gardiner could always be relied upon to say what was expected of him. “We have heard your Grace’s own verses, Sire.”

And Wriothesley, always eager for promotion and knowing the surest way to the King’s heart, added: “When your Gracious Majesty sets such a high standard …”

The Catholic faction must not be allowed to supply all the required compliments. Sir Thomas Seymour interrupted Wriothesley. “The verses seemed to me good enough, but I am a rough sailor, and know little of these matters. I have a fondness for Your Majesty’s own rhymes, it is true…”

Henry interrupted: “We deemed the verses good.” He was impatient with them all, except the woman beside him. He had been too long without a wife. He was wasting time. “Lady Latimer,” he said in a gentler voice, “what thought you of the verses?”

Katharine answered nervously: “I thought them good, Your Majesty. Very good.”

“You did, did you? And are you a judge of verses, Lady Latimer?”

“I fear not, Sire. I am only…”

“Ah!” cried Henry. “You are a lady of much modesty, and ’tis my belief you know more of the value of verses than these men who talk so readily of them. Methinks you should have an opportunity of judging your Sovereign’s.”

“Sire, my judgment would be of little worth.”

Surrey said ironically: “You would doubtless discover, Lady Latimer, that His Grace the King, as well as being the ruler of this land, is also its greatest poet.”

Henry shot a suspicious glance at the insolent youth, but he was too intent on Katharine to be drawn at this moment. He leaned forward and patted Katharine’s arm. “Such praise,” he said, “is to be prized since it comes from Surrey—as good a poet as any to be found in the realm, so some men say.”

“I trust Your Grace has never heard my verses compared with your own,” said Surrey; and if Henry did not recognize the subtle note of mockery in his voice, others fancied they did.

“Nay!” said the King. “Much sweet praise has been poured in our ears, and though we have heard your verses commended, yet never have we heard them set side by side with our own.”

Surrey gave what might have been a sigh of relief. “Your Grace has doubtless heard them compared with Wyatt’s?”

“Aye, that we have! And to Wyatt’s disadvantage.”

“A great poet… poor Thomas Wyatt!” said Surrey.

Henry was suddenly aware that Lady Latimer’s gaze was fixed on Seymour. The blood seemed to rush through his veins as though it would burst them.

“Seymour,” he cried, “you are silent, man.”

“I am out of my depth, Sire.”

Henry snorted. “He should learn the gentle art of rhyming, should he not, my friends? He would find it of use in his gallant adventures.” Everyone tittered, and Seymour smiled charmingly. The King turned away with a gesture of impatience. “Ah yes,” he went on. “Wyatt was a good poet and a handsome fellow.”

Of Surrey’s intentions that afternoon none could be sure. He seemed to be inviting the King’s displeasure. Perhaps he was thinking of those royal arms which had been given to his family five hundred years before; perhaps, as he spoke again, he was thinking that he was more royal than the heavy, diseased man who sat in the ornamented chair.

“I like nothing of Wyatt’s so well as that which ran thus: ‘And wilt thou leave me thus….’ Marry! I forget how it goes. Oh, this was it. Your Grace will remember.