The Shadow of the Pomegranate (3 page)

He burst into the apartment, and she saw him standing on the threshold with Mary on one side of him and Brandon on the other. Behind him were other friends and courtiers.

‘Why, Kate,’ he cried, advancing, ‘we come to see how you are. Are you not weary of bed? We plan a great entertainment for you. So get well quickly.’

‘Your Grace is kind to me,’ answered the Queen.

‘Your King takes pleasure in pleasing you,’ replied Henry.

The courtiers were surrounding her bed, and she felt very tired but she smiled, because one must always smile for the King, that golden boy whose strict upbringing under his father’s rule had been perhaps a little too severe for his exuberant nature.

He was a little irritated by the sight of her. She must lie abed, and he was impatient with all inactivity. He was urging her to shorten the period of rest, but she dared not. She had to preserve her strength; she had to remember that this was one of many births which must follow over the coming years.

The baby in his cradle cried suddenly as though he came to his mother’s aid.

The King immediately swung round and the procession, with him at its head, went towards the cradle.

Henry took the child in his arms, and he looked at it with wonder.

‘Do you realise,’ he said, to those who crowded about him, ‘that this infant could one day be your King?’

‘We trust not until he is an old greybeard, Your Grace.’

It was the right answer. The King laughed. Then he began to walk up and down the Queen’s bedchamber, the child in his arms.

The Queen watched smiling.

He is a boy himself, she thought.

As soon as Katharine left her bed she prepared to leave Richmond for Westminster. The King had gone on before her; impatient and restless he had already journeyed to Walsingham, there to give thanks for his son at the Shrine of the Virgin.

But he had now returned to Westminster and was there waiting to receive the Queen.

Katharine who still felt weak would have enjoyed some respite, perhaps a few weeks of quiet at Richmond; but she knew that was too much to hope for because Henry begrudged every day he spent hidden from the public gaze. So did the people. Wherever he went they crowded about him to bless his lovely face and express their pleasure in him.

The people would not be excluded from the festivities at Westminster. One of the reasons why they loved their new King was because he showed them with every action, every gesture, that he was determined to be a very different King from his father. One of his first acts had been the public beheading of his father’s ministers, Dudley and Empson, those men whom the people had regarded as the great extortioners of the previous reign. Nothing could have been more significant. ‘These men imposed great taxes on my beloved people; they have brought poverty and misery to thousands. Therefore they shall die.’ That was what the young King was telling his people. ‘England shall now be merry as she was intended to be.’ So they cheered themselves hoarse whenever they saw him.

It seemed fitting to them that their handsome young King should be covered in glittering jewels, that his satin and velvet garments should be more magnificent than anyone had ever worn before. And because he was always conscious of the presence of the people, always determined to extract every ounce of their affection, he constantly won their approval.

They were now looking forward to the festivities at Westminster almost as eagerly as Henry was himself. Therefore there could be no delay merely because the Queen would have liked a little longer to recover from giving the King and country an heir.

All along the route the people cheered her. She was Spanish and alien to their English ways, but their beloved King had chosen her for his wife and she had produced a son; that was enough to make the people shout: ‘Long live the Queen!’

Beside Katharine rode her beautiful and favourite lady in waiting, Maria de Salinas, who had been with her ever since she had left Spain. It was significant that even when they were alone together she and Maria spoke English nowadays.

‘Your Grace is a little weary?’ asked Maria, anxiously.

‘Weary!’ cried Katharine faintly alarmed. Did she look weary? The King would be hurt if she did. She must never show him that she preferred to rest rather than to frolic. ‘Oh no . . . no, Maria. I was a little thoughtful, that was all. I was thinking how my life has changed in the last few years. Do you remember how we suffered, how we patched our gowns and often had to eat fish which smelt none too good because it was the cheapest that could be bought in the market, how we wondered whether my father would send for us to return ignobly to Spain, or whether the King of England would ever pay me an allowance?’

‘After such humiliation Your Grace can now enjoy all the fine gowns that you wish for, all the good food that you care to order for your table.’

‘I should be ungrateful indeed, Maria, if I allowed myself to be tired when so much is being arranged for my pleasure.’

‘Yet weariness is something over which we have no control,’ began Maria.

But Katharine laughed: ‘We must always have control over our feelings, Maria. My mother taught me that, and I shall never forget it.’

She smiled, inclining her head as the people called her name. Maria had guessed that she was weary; no one else must.

The Queen was seated in the tiltyard for the tournament would soon begin. All about her were signs of the King’s devotion. His enthusiasm was such that when he was gratified the whole world must know it. This woman whom his father had tried to withhold from him, but whom he had insisted on marrying, had proved his wisdom in marrying her, for she had quickly given him a son. He wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held her, and everywhere Katharine looked she could see those entwined initials H and K. They were on the very seat on which she sat – gold letters on purple velvet.

If my mother could see me now, she would be happy, thought Katharine. It was nearly seven years since her mother had died and ten since she had seen her, yet she still thought of her often and when something happened which was particularly pleasing, it was almost as though she shared her pleasure with her mother. Isabella of Castile had been the greatest force in her daughter’s life and when she had died it
seemed to Katharine that something very beautiful and vital had gone from her life. She believed that perhaps in the love she would bear towards her own children she would find some consolation for this aching loss; but that was in the future.

The ordinary people were crowding into the arena. They seemed always to be present. Henry would be pleased; he would triumph of course at the tournament and he liked his people to see him victorious. He would seem like a god to them in his glittering armour, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height – no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favour a man would have who happened to be an inch taller than the King.

She suppressed such thoughts. They came to her now and then but she constantly refused to entertain them. Her Henry was a boy and he had the faults of a boy. He was young for his years, but she must always remember that he had been repressed during his boyhood by a father who had always feared he might be spoiled by others, and who was eager that the eighth Henry should rule in a manner similar to that of the seventh.

All about her was the glittering Court. Henry was not present so she knew that he would appear later in the guise of some wandering king, perhaps a beggar, or a robber, some role which would make the people gasp with surprise. He would either tilt in his new role and as the conqueror disclose who he really was, or show himself before the joust and then proceed to conquer. It was the old familiar pattern, and every time Katharine must behave as though this were the first time it had happened. Always her surprise that the champion was in truth the King must appear to be spontaneous and natural.

What is happening to me? she asked herself. There had been a time when she was happy enough to enter into his frolics. Was that because in the first year of their marriage she had felt as though she were living in a dream? The period of humiliation had been so close in those days; now that it was receding, was she less grateful?

A hermit was riding into the arena and there was a hush in the crowd. He wore a grey gown and tattered weeds.

No, thought Katharine, he is not quite tall enough. This is not the great masquerade.

The hermit was approaching her throne and, when he was before her, he bowed low and cried aloud: ‘I crave the Queen’s Grace to permit me to tilt before her.’

Katharine said as was expected: ‘But you are no knight.’

‘Yet would I ask your royal permission to test my skill, and it shall all be for Your Grace’s honour.’

‘A hermit . . . to tilt in my honour!’

The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.

‘It is strange indeed to find a hermit in the tiltyard, and that he should wish to tilt stranger still. But our great King has such love for all his subjects that he would please them each and every one. The lowliest hermit shall tilt before us if it is his wish. But I warn you, hermit, it may cost you your life.’

‘That I would willing give for my Queen and my King.’

‘Then let it be,’ cried Katharine.

The hermit stepped back, drew himself to his full height, threw off his grey tattered robe, and there was a knight in shining armour – none other than Charles Brandon himself.

The Princess Mary, who was seated near the Queen, began to clap her hands, and all cheered.

Brandon now asked the Queen’s permission to present to her a knight of great valour who was desirous, like himself, of tilting in her honour.

‘I pray you tell me the name of this knight,’ said Katharine.

‘Your Grace, his name is Sir Loyal Heart.’

‘I like well his name,’ said Katharine. ‘I pray you bring him to me.’

Brandon bowed and there was a fanfare of trumpets as Sir Loyal Heart rode into the arena.

There was no mistaking that tall figure, that gold hair, that fresh fair skin which glowed with health and youth.

‘Sir Loyal Heart!’ shouted the ushers. ‘Who comes to tilt in honour of the Queen’s Grace.’

Before the Queen’s throne Henry drew up, while the people roared their approval.

Katharine felt that her emotions might prevent her in that important moment making the right gesture. Sir Loyal Heart! How like him to choose such a name. So naïve, so boyish, so endearing.

Surely I am the most fortunate of women, she thought; Mother, if you could but see me now, it would make up for all you have suffered, for my brother Juan’s death, for my sister Isabella’s death in childbirth, for Juana’s madness. At least two of your daughters inherited what you desired for them. Maria is the happy Queen of Portugal, and I am happier still, as Queen of England, wife of this exuberant boy, who shows his devotion to me by entwining my initials with his, by riding into the arena as Sir Loyal Heart.

‘How happy I am,’ she said in a voice which was not without a tremor of emotion, ‘that Sir Loyal Heart comes hither to tilt in my honour.’

There was nothing she could have said which would have pleased Henry more.

‘The happiness of Sir Loyal Heart equals that of Your Grace,’ cried Henry.

He had turned – ready for the joust. The tournament was opened.