The Shadow of the Pomegranate (5 page)

The Countess of Devonshire came unceremoniously to the Queen’s apartment. Katharine received her husband’s favourite aunt graciously but she was quick to see that the Countess was alarmed.

‘It is the Prince, Your Grace,’ she burst out. ‘He has had an uneasy night and seems to find breathing difficult.’

Katharine was filled with apprehension.

‘I must go to him at once,’ she said.

The Countess looked relieved. ‘I have called the physicians to look at him. They think his Royal Highness has caught a chill, and may be better in a few days.’

‘Then I will not tell the King . . . as yet.’

The Countess hesitated; then she said: ‘It might be well that the King is told, Your Grace. He will wish to see his son.’

Katharine felt sick with fear. So the child was worse than they pretended. They were trying to spare her, to break bad news gently.

‘I will tell the King,’ she said quietly, ‘and I am sure he will wish to make all speed with me to Richmond.’

It could not be true; Henry would not believe it. This could not happen to him. The son, of whom he had been so proud, little Henry his namesake, his heir – dead! The child had lived exactly fifty-two days.

He stood, his face puckered, his legs apart, looking at the Queen. The courtiers had left them together, believing that one could comfort the other and thus make their grief more bearable.

Katharine said nothing; she sat in the window seat looking out over the river, her body drooping, her face drawn. She looked like an old woman. Her eyes were red, her face blotched, for she had shed many bitter tears.

‘We should have taken greater care of him,’ she whispered.

‘He had every care,’ growled Henry.

‘He caught a chill at the christening. He was robust until then.’

Henry did not answer. It had been a splendid christening, with the Archbishop of Canterbury officiating and the Earl of Surrey and the Countess of Devonshire standing as sponsors; he had enjoyed every minute of it. He remembered thinking, as he watched the baby being carried to the font, that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. He had thanked God for His grace.

And now . . . the baby was dead.

He felt the anger bubbling within him. That this should happen to him! What he wanted more than anything in the world, he told himself, was a son – strong and healthy like himself – a boy whom he could watch grow up and teach to be a king.

He felt bewildered because Fate had dared take from him his greatest prize.

‘It was well that he was christened, since he is now dead,’ he said sullenly.

She could not be comforted. She longed for children; she needed them even as he did.

He thought how old she looked, and he felt angry with her because he wanted to feel angry with someone. He had been so grateful to her because she had given him a son; and now he was no longer grateful.

Katharine glancing up suddenly saw his eyes upon her – small, narrowed, cruel.

She thought: Dear God. Holy Mother, does he then blame me?

And her sorrow was tinged with an apprehension so faint that it was gone before she realised fully what it meant.

Even as he gazed at her his expression softened. He said: ‘This is a bitter blow, Kate. But I am no greybeard and you are young yet. We’ll have more children, you see. We’ll have a son this time next year. That’s the way to chase away our sorrow, eh?’

‘Oh Henry,’ she cried and held out her hand.

He took it.

‘You are so good to me,’ she told him. ‘I only live to please you.’

He kissed her hand. He was too young, too sure of himself, to believe that ill luck awaited him. This was an unfortunate accident. They would have more sons; so many that the loss of this one would cease to matter.

Chapter II

T
he King sat in the window seat strumming his lute and trying out a song of his own composition; there was a dreamy expression in his eyes and he did not see the courtyard below; he was picturing himself in the great hall, calling for his lute and surprising all present with the excellence of his song.

They would say: ‘But who is the composer? We must bring him to Court. There are few who can give us such music.’

He would put his head on one side. ‘I do not think it would be an
impossible
task to bring this fellow to Court. In fact I have a certain suspicion that he is with us now.’

They would look at each other in surprise. ‘But, Sire, if such genius were among us surely we could not be so blind as to be unaware of it. We pray Your Grace, summon him to your presence and command him to continue to delight us.’

‘I doubt he would obey my command. He is a rash fellow.’

‘Not obey the command of the King!’

Then he would laugh and say: ‘Now I will play you one of
my own songs . . .’ And he would play and sing the very same song.

They would look at each other in amazement – but not too much surprise. They must not run the risk of implying that they did not believe him capable of writing such music. They would quickly allow their bewilderment to fade and then it would be: ‘But how foolish of us. We should have known that none but Your Grace could give us such a song.’

In a little while the song would be sung throughout the Court. The women would sing it, wistfully, and with yearning in their eyes and voices. There were many women who looked at him with longing now. He knew he had but to beckon and they would be ready for anything he should suggest whether it was a quick tumble in a secluded garden or the honour of being the recognised mistress of a King.

His mouth was prim. He intended to be virtuous.

He sang quietly under his breath:

‘The best I sue,

The worst eschew:

My mind shall be

Virtue to use;

Vice to refuse

I shall use me.’

He would sing that song, and as he did so he would look at those wantons who tried to lure him into sin.

Of course, he told himself often, I am a King, and the rules which are made for other men are not for Kings. But I love my wife and she is devoted to me. She will bear me children in time, and to them and to my people will I set an example. None
shall say of me: There was a lecher. It shall be said: There goes the King who is strong, not only in battle, not only in state councils, but in virtue.

So his little mouth was prim as he sat playing his lute and practising the song with which, later that day, he would surprise the Court.

And watching at the window he saw her. She was neither tall nor short, and she was very beautiful. She looked up and saw him, and she dropped a curtsey. There was invitation in the way she lifted her skirts and lowered her eyes. He knew her. Her name was Anne and she was Buckingham’s younger sister who had recently married her second husband. Images of Anne Stafford with her two husbands came into his mind. The primness left his mouth which had slackened a little.

He bowed his head in acknowledgement of her curtsey and his fingers idly strummed the lute, for he had momentarily forgotten the song.

Anne Stafford went on her way, but before she had taken more than a few steps she turned to look again at the window.

This time she smiled. Henry’s lips seemed to be frozen; he did not acknowledge the smile but after she had disappeared he went on thinking of her.

He found that one of the grooms of the bedchamber was standing beside him. He started and wondered how long the man had been there.

‘So ’tis you, Compton,’ he said.

‘’Tis I, Your Grace,’ answered Sir William Compton. ‘Come to see if you have work for me to do.’

Henry strummed on the lute. ‘What work should I have for which I should not call you?’

‘I but seek excuses to speak awhile with Your Grace.’

Henry smiled. There were times when he liked to live informally among his friends; and Sir William Compton, a handsome man some ten years older than himself, amused him. He had been Henry’s page when he was Prince of Wales and they had shared many confidences. When he had become King, Henry had given Compton rapid promotion. He was now chief gentleman of the bedchamber, as well as Groom of the Stole and Constable of Sudeley and Gloucester castles.

‘Well, speak on,’ said Henry.

‘I was watching Lady Huntingdon pass below. She’s a forward wench.’

‘And why did you think that?’

‘By the glance she threw at Your Grace. If ever I saw invitation it was there.’

‘My dear William,’ said Henry, ‘do you not know that I receive such invitations whenever I am in the company of women?’

‘I know it, Sire. But those are invitations discreetly given.’

‘And she was not . . . discreet?’

‘If she seemed so to Your Grace I will say that she was.’

Henry laughed. ‘Ah, if I were not a virtuous married man . . .’

He sighed.

‘Your Grace would seem to regret that you
are
a virtuous married man.’

‘How could I regret my virtue?’ said Henry, his mouth falling into the familiar lines of primness.

‘Nay, Sire. You, being such a wise King, would not; it is only the ladies who are deprived of Your Grace’s company who must regret.’

‘I’ll not say,’ said the King, ‘that I would ask for too much
virtue in a man. He must do his duty, true, duty to state, duty to family; but when that is done . . .’

Compton nodded. ‘A little dalliance is good for all.’

Henry licked his lips. He was thinking of Anne Stafford; the very way she dipped a curtsey was a challenge to a man’s virility.

‘I have heard it said that a little dalliance away from the marriage bed will often result in a return to that bed with renewed vigour,’ murmured Henry.

‘All are aware of Your Grace’s vigour,’ said Compton slyly, ‘and that it is in no need of renewal.’

‘Two of my children have died,’ said the King mournfully.

Compton smiled. He could see how the King’s mind was working. He wanted to be virtuous; he wanted his dalliance, and yet to be able to say it was virtuous dalliance: I dallied with Anne Stafford because I felt that if I strayed awhile I could come back to Katharine with renewed vigour – so powerful that it must result in the begetting of a fine, strong son.

Compton, who had lived many years close to Henry, knew something of his character. Henry liked to think of himself as a deeply religious man, a man devoted to duty; but at heart he had one god and that was himself; and his love for pleasure far exceeded his desire to do his duty. Moreover, the King was not a man to deny himself the smallest pleasure; he was a sensualist; he was strong, healthy, lusty like many of his friends; but, whereas some of them thoughtlessly took their pleasures where they found them, Henry could not do this before he had first assured himself that what he did was the right thing to do. He was troubled by the voice of his conscience which must first be appeased; it was as though there were two men in that fine athletic body: the pleasure-seeking
King and the other, who was completely devoted to his duty. The former would always be forced to make his excuses to the latter, but Compton had no doubt of the persuasive powers of one and the blind eye of the other.

‘There are some ladies,’ mused Compton, ‘who are willing enough to give a smile of promise but never ready to fulfil those promises.’