The Shadow of the Pomegranate (25 page)

There was no time now to indulge in those restful hours of sewing with her ladies. Disastrous news came from the North, where James had mustered an army of, some said, one hundred thousand men and was crossing the Tweed determined on battle.

She saw panic in certain faces about her. The King abroad on his French adventure, his country undefended and only a woman in control. Was this to be the end of the Tudor dynasty? Were the Stuarts going to do what they had longed to do for generations – join the two countries under Stuart rule?

It was unthinkable. She was riding about the country rousing the people to a realisation of their danger because that army must be raised somehow. Surrey could not be expected to drive back a hundred thousand warlike Scots unless he had an army to match them.

But she knew she should rest more. There were times when she threw herself on her bed too exhausted to take off her clothes. In this national danger she forgot even the child because there seemed only one goal: to save England.

As she passed through the various towns and villages she stopped to talk to the people who flocked to see her. She looked magnificent on her horse, her eyes alight with purpose.

‘God’s hand is over those who fight for their homes,’ she cried. ‘And I believe that in valour the English have always surpassed all other nations.’

The people cheered her and rallied to her banner, and when she reached Buckingham she had raised a force of sixty thousand men.

‘I will lead them to York,’ she said, ‘and there join up with Surrey.’

When she dismounted she could scarcely stand, so exhausted was she. But she was triumphant because she had achieved that which had seemed impossible and had surely proved herself to be a worthy Regent.

Tired as she was she found time to write to Henry before she slept. She also sent a note to Wolsey – that most able man – who in the midst of all his exertions never failed to find time to write to the Queen, although often Henry was too busy to do so.

She feared that Henry might be too rash on the battlefield; she was worried about his tendency to catch cold; she was having new linen sent for him as she knew how fastidious he was in such matters; and she asked good Master Wolsey, on whom she relied, to look after the King and keep him well, and advise him against over-rashness.

She sealed the letters and sent them off before she dropped into a deep sleep.

In the morning she was unable to leave her bed; her limbs were cramped, and there were frightening pains in her womb.

She felt sick with apprehension but she said to Maria de Salinas: ‘I rode too long yesterday. My condition is making itself felt.’

‘Your Grace should abandon the idea of riding North, and stay here for awhile,’ said Maria anxiously. ‘You have raised the men. They can join Surrey and his army while you rest a little.’

She protested but even as she did so she knew that however much she wished to ride on she would be unable to do so.

She spent that morning in bed after giving orders that the army was to march on without her. And as she lay, racked by periodic pains, she remembered how her mother had told her that she had once sacrificed a child to win a war.

That night her pains had increased and she could no longer feign not to understand the cause. The time had not come and the child was about to be born.

‘Oh God,’ she murmured, ‘so I have failed again.’

Her women were about the bed. They understood.

‘Why, Maria,’ she said, her mouth twisted bitterly, ‘it has come to be a pattern, has it not. Why . . . why should I be so forsaken?’

‘Hush, Your Grace. You need your strength. You are young yet. All your life is before you.’

‘It is the old cry, Maria. Next time . . . next time . . . And always this happens to me. Why? What have I done to deserve this?’

‘You have exhausted yourself. You should never have left Richmond. It is easy to understand why this has happened. My dearest lady, rest now. Do not take it too hard. There will be another time . . .’

Katharine cried out in pain, and Maria called to those who were waiting: ‘The child is about to be born.’

It had been a boy. She turned her face into the pillows and wept silently.

She would meet Henry on his return and her arms would be empty. He would look at her with those blue eyes, cold and angry. So you have failed once more! those eyes would say. And a little more of his affection would be lost.

They brought news to her as she lay in bed mourning for the lost boy.

‘Your Grace, the Scots attacked Surrey’s men six miles south of Coldstream. They fought there on Flodden Hill and it is victory, Your Grace, with the King of Scots dead and his men slain or in retreat. It is such a victory that warms the heart. They can never rally after this.’

She lay still. So her efforts had not proved in vain. She had helped to save England for Henry, and she had lost him his child.

But how could she rejoice whole-heartedly? A kingdom for the life of a child! Her mother had paid the same price. But how different had been the position of Isabella of Castile from that of Katharine of Aragon!

In the streets they were singing of victory. The battle of Flodden Field would be remembered down the ages, because it would be years before the Scots would be in a position to rise again. And this had been achieved with the King away from home and the Queen in control of the Kingdom.

‘Long live Queen Katharine!’cried the people.

And she smiled and thought: How happy I should have been if I could have stood at the windows holding my child in my arms.

The people were singing Skelton’s song:

‘Ye were stark mad to make a fray,

His Grace being then out of the way.

Ye wanted wit, sir, at a word

Ye lost your spurs and ye lost your sword . . .’

And on the other side of the Border they were mournfully bewailing their dead.

But it was victory, thought Katharine, even though the child was lost. Had the Scots triumphed the kingdom might have been lost. As for the child – she was telling herself what so many others had told her: You are young yet. There is still time.

She sat down to write to Henry.

‘Sir,

My lord Howard hath sent me a letter open to Your Grace within one of mine by which you shall see the great victory which our Lord hath sent your subjects in your absence . . . To my thinking this battle hath been to Your Grace and all your realm, the greatest honour that could be and more than should you win all the crown of France. Thanked be God for it and I am sure Your Grace forgetteth not to do so.’

She went on to say that she was sending him the coat of the King of Scotland for his banner. She would have sent the body of the King of Scots himself, but those about her had persuaded her against this. She wished to know how the dead King’s body should be buried and would await Henry’s instructions on this matter.

‘I am praying God to send you home shortly, for without this no joy here can be accomplished. I am preparing now to make my journey to our Lady of Walsingham.’

She did not mention the death of the child. As yet she could not bring herself to do so.

Chapter X

A
s Henry rode with Maximilian to the court of the Duchess of Savoy in the town of Lille he felt completely happy.

The townsfolk had come out to see him and, as he rode among them, they shouted greetings; and when he asked Maximilian what they said, the Emperor answered him: ‘But this is not a King, this is a God.’

His own subjects could not have been more appreciative and, when some of the beautiful women placed garlands about his neck, he took their hands and kissed them and even went so far, when the girls were pretty, to kiss their lips.

He came as a conqueror and he could never resist such homage.

Margaret of Savoy greeted him with pleasure. He thought her fair enough but she seemed old to him, twice widowed, or one might say three times if her first betrothal to the Dauphin of France were counted. Henry found some of the pretty girls of Lille more to his taste.

As for Margaret herself, she seemed mightily taken with that seasoned charmer, Brandon, and Henry, amused, made
a point of bringing them together on all occasions.

So this was Charles, he mused, studying the fourteen-year-old boy, who was to be his brother-in-law. He could not help feeling complacent at the sight of him for, when Ferdinand and Maximilian died, this boy could be heir to their dominions which constituted a great part of Europe not to mention those lands overseas which their explorers had discovered and brought under their sway.

This boy would therefore be one of the rivals with whom Henry would juggle for power in Europe. It was an amusing thought. The boy’s somewhat bulging eyes suggested that he needed great concentration to understand what was being said; he seemed to find difficulty in closing his mouth; his hair was yellow and lustreless; his skin so pale that he looked unhealthy.

His mother’s mad, thought Henry. And, by God, it seems that the boy too could be an idiot.

Charles, however, greeted his grandfather and the King of England in the manner demanded by etiquette and he appeared to be endeavouring to take in everything that was being said.