The Shadow of the Pomegranate (41 page)

She said: ‘I am sorry, Henry. We have failed once more.’

‘
We
have failed? I did my part. It is you who fail to do yours.’

‘I do not know where I failed, Henry.’

Those were the wrong words. How easy it was to speak the wrong words.

‘You would suggest that it is something in me!’

‘I do not know what it is, Henry.’

She thought he would strike her then.

O God, she thought, how much it means to him! How angry he is!

He had taken one step towards the bed and stopped; then he turned and began pacing the room. He was holding in his anger. He was hurt and bewildered. He had thought, after Mary, that they would get a son.

She knew that with each attempt she lost some charm for him. Each time she took to her bed in the hope of giving birth, she rose from it more wan, more listless; each time she left some of her youth behind.

She understood him well enough to know that these failures hurt him so much because they brought an insidious doubt into his mind. He would admit this to none, but she who had lived close to him for nine years knew him perhaps better than he knew himself, for he was a man who would never know himself well because he refused to look where it was not pleasant to do so.

Yet he could not drive the question from his mind. Is it in some measure due to me? Am I incapable of begetting a healthy son?

He could not bear that he should be anything but perfect. He loved himself so much.

Even in that moment she, who was so much wiser, was sorry for him. If she could, she would have risen from her bed and comforted him.

He had paused before the device which hung on the wall. The device of the pomegranate – the Arabic sign of fertility.

Oh, if I could but go back to the happy days in Granada
before I had seen England, when my beloved mother was alive, I would never have chosen this as my device.

Henry began to laugh; and his laughter was not pleasant to hear.

He lifted his hand, and she thought that he was about to tear the device from the wall and trample on it. As though with difficulty he restrained himself; then, without another look at her, he strode from the room.

Henry rode out to a certain Priory, and with him he took only his most intimate friends. Compton and Bryan were among them, and they chatted and laughed gaily as they went along.

But Henry had not his heart in the raillery. He listened halfheartedly and there was a strained expression in his face. And after a while they fell silent.

Henry believed what was waiting for him at the Priory was of the utmost importance. He was praying, as he went along, for a sign. He would discuss his thoughts with no one, for as yet he was afraid of them; but if what he hoped should happen, then he might begin to reshape his life.

When they reached the Priory, he rode ahead of his friends into the courtyard, and grooms who clearly were expecting the important visitor hurried out to do them service.

Henry leaped out of the saddle; he was striding into the building and as he did so he was met by two excited nuns; their faces under their black hoods were flushed and their eyes alight with excitement.

‘What news?’ demanded Henry.

‘It is all over, Your Grace. Her ladyship is well and will be eager to see you.’

‘And . . . is there a child?’

‘Yes, Your Grace, a bonny child.’

Holy Mother of God, they torture me, thought Henry.

He shouted. ‘Boy or Girl?’

‘A bonny boy, Your Grace.’

Henry gave a shout of triumph.

He called to Compton who was close behind him: ‘Did you hear that? A boy! Bessie has my boy!’ Then he seized the nearest nun by the shoulder. ‘Take me to them,’ he cried. ‘Take me to Lady Taillebois and my son.’

They led the way, running, for this was an impatient King.

He saw her on her pillows, her red-gold hair spread about her as he had seen it so many times before. She was pale and triumphant. She was his beautiful Bessie who had given him what he wanted, now as she always had.

‘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 honours . . .’ 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 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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