The Shadow of the Pomegranate (32 page)

‘I would do what you ask, sister, if I could,’he cried, ‘but it does not rest with me.’

‘It does. It does,’ she cried vehemently. ‘You could refuse this day, and that would be an end to the matter.’

‘Then there would be no alliance with the French.’

‘Who cares for alliance with the French?’

‘We all must, sweet sister. It is a matter of policy. We have to stand against those two scoundrels. You cannot see how important this is because you are yet a girl, but it is a matter of state. Were it not, willingly would I give you what you ask.’

‘Henry, think of me – married to that old man!’

‘I do, sweetheart, I do. But it must be. It is the duty of us all to marry for the good of our country.’

‘He is old . . .
old
. . .’

‘He is no worse than Charles. Charles looked to me like an idiot. By God, were I a maiden I’d as lief take Louis as Charles.’

‘Charles is at least young. Louis is . . . ancient.’

‘So much the better. You’ll be able to twirl him round your pretty fingers. Ah, you’ll get your way with the King of France, my sister, as you do with the King of England.’

‘But do I? When he will not grant me this one little thing?’

‘’Tis the one thing I cannot grant my dear sister. Be good, sweeting. Marry the man. He’ll not live long.’

Mary drew away from him and looked long into his face. He saw the new hope spring up in her eyes.

‘Henry,’ she said slowly, ‘if I make this marriage, will you grant me one request?’

‘That’s my good sister,’he said. ‘Have done with your tantrums – for if news of these reached Louis’ ears he would not be pleased – and I’ll grant whatsoever you request.’

Mary took her brother’s face between her hands.

‘Swear this,’ she said.

‘I swear,’he answered.

Then she went on, speaking very slowly and distinctly: ‘I will marry old Louis; but when he dies, I have Your Grace’s promise that I shall marry wheresoever I like for me to do.’

Henry laughed.

‘You have my promise.’

Then she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him heartily on the lips.

Henry was delighted; she could always charm him, for his pride in this pretty sister – all Tudor, as he was fond of saying – was great.

Now the Court noticed that the Princess Mary had become resigned to the French marriage. There were no more displays of temper, no more tears of rage.

She allowed herself to be drawn into the preparations, and her manner was quiet and calculating yet a little aloof, as though she were looking far ahead, well into the future.

The summer was progressing. Henry was as deeply involved with Bessie as ever; he delighted in her, and familiarity did not pall.

He hated all Spaniards, he told himself; and he could not entirely forget that Katharine was one of them. She seemed to
grow less attractive and, had it not been for the fact that she was pregnant, he could have come near to hating her at this further revelation of her father’s treachery.

It was comforting to see Mary quieter and even showing an interest in the preparations for her wedding.

One day in the early autumn, when he was told that Caroz wanted to see him, he agreed to give the audience although he disliked the Spanish ambassador and had scarcely spoken to him since he had discovered that he had been betrayed by Ferdinand a second time.

Caroz came into his presence and Henry nodded briefly to him, without warmth.

‘Your Grace is indeed kind to receive me. I have sought this interview for many days.’

‘I have been occupied with state matters which do not concern your master,’ the King answered coldly.

‘It is a great grief to me that we are excluded from Your Grace’s favour.’

‘It is a greater grief to me that I ever trusted your master.’

Caroz bowed his head sorrowfully.

‘My master seeks to recall the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez.’

Henry was about to say that this was a matter for the Queen, but he changed his mind. His conscience had been worrying him lately. He was spending a great deal of time in Bessie’s company, and after a passionate night with her he often felt uneasy. During one of these uneasy periods he had told himself that Katharine had worked for her father rather than her husband, and this was another reason why she had forfeited the right to his fidelity.

Now he asked himself why he should consult Katharine
about the return of her confessor. He did not like the man. He did not like any Spaniards at this time.

Bessie had been particularly enchanting last night and consequently the burden of his guilt this day was heavier.

He stuck out his lower lip petulantly.

‘Then let the man be sent back to Spain,’he said sullenly.

Caroz bowed low; he was exultant. The Queen could not countermand the King’s order; and he had the King’s word that Fernandez should be sent back to Spain.

Katharine was distraught. She had sent for her confessor and had been told that he was no longer at Court.

In desperation she summoned Caroz to her presence.

‘What does this mean?’ she demanded. ‘Where is Fray Diego?’

‘On his way to Spain,’ replied Caroz, unable to restrain a smirk.

‘This is impossible. I was not told of his departure.’

‘The orders were that he was to leave immediately.’

‘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 on 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.’

Katharine 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 rumours 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 rumours 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, 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.