Katharine kissed the letter; reread them many times, wrote her letter to the Queen of Naples and settled down to enjoy her feelings of immense relief.
The King received the messengers immediately on their return from Naples. They had had instructions that letters written by the Princess Katharine were to be delivered into the hands of no one but the Queen.
Now they returned with an account of what they had seen.
“Tell me of the Queen,” said Henry, coming straight to the point. “She is twenty-seven years of age, I know. Does she look so? Is she comely?”
“She looks young for her age, Sire, and she is comely. But it was not easy to see for every time we were in her presence she wore a great mantle, which revealed only her face. But she appeared to be handsome . . . as far as we could see.”
“Is she tall or short?”
“My lord, we could not see her feet and the height of her shoes. From what we did see it would appear she is of middle height.”
“Tell me how was her skin? Not blotched or marked?”
“No, my lord. Fair and clear . . . as far as we could see.”
“What color hair?”
“Judging by what we could see—and the color of her brows—it would be brown. Her eyes are brown . . . with a touch of gray.”
“Her teeth?”
“Fair and clear and well set. Her lips round and thickish. As for her nose . . .”
They hesitated and the King said quickly: “Yes, yes, her nose?”
“It is a little rising in the middle and a little coming and bowing at the end. She is well nosed.”
“Ah,” said the King. “But what of her breasts?”
“They are somewhat great and full, my lord. They are well trussed up after the fashion of the country, which makes them seem fuller than they are in truth and her neck appears shorter.”
“Has she hair on her lips?”
“No, my lord.”
“Tell me, did you get near enough to discover whether her breath was sweet?”
“We believe so, my lord.”
“Did you speak with her after she had fasted?”
“We could not come to her at such a time, my lord, nor could we have been sure that she had fasted. We can only say that her skin was fair and clear and we detected no unpleasant odors in her presence.”
“Ah,” said the King. “She seems worthy.”
He dismissed the ambassadors and thought about the new wife he would have.
She must be possessed of all the good qualities he had been so eager to confirm. He had to get children and he could so easily find the process repulsive if his new wife failed to comply with the necessary requirements. Queen Elizabeth had been one of the most beacutiful women in the country and he had felt no overwhelming desire; but he had always done his duty although he had to confess that he experienced a certain relief when his Queen was pregnant and the need for marital practices was removed.
And now . . . this new wife. The Queen of Naples. Naples was worth a good deal. He would go ahead with proposals for the marriage. He was sure that the people of Naples would be delighted to ally itself with England, which under its wise king was fast becoming a power on the European scene.
But there were other ambassadors whose account was even more important to Henry than his wife’s appearance. They had done their work well and were eager to tell him of their findings.
The news they brought was disquieting. Ferdinand had acted quickly on the death of the King of Naples and the Queen was now of very little importance. Her property had been confiscated and she was left with very little. She depended on Ferdinand of Aragon for the small income she received.
Henry sweated with horror when he heard this report. Had Isabella made the suggestion ironically—a little mischievously? He knew he had a reputation for being grasping and setting great store on possessions. He had just made up his mind that the Queen of Naples would do very well as the next Queen of England and had in fact been on the point of drafting out a request for her hand.
This changed everything.
Clear of skin and sweet of breath the Queen of Naples might be, but if she was penniless and her title was an empty one, she was no fit bride for Henry Tudor.
It was disappointing. Two brides lost in a very short time.
But he was not one to despair. The hunt for the new Queen of England would go on.
There was now no longer any excuse for delay. The betrothal ceremony was to take place and that was binding. Katharine must accept it; it was what she must take if she were to escape from marriage to the King.
There were several reasons why she must accept her fate besides that it was the wish of her parents. She was living in Durham House and she often wondered how she was going to find the money to pay her servants. Poverty made her feel that she was an exile. She had never experienced the lack of money before she came to England. Indeed she had never thought of money. It was different now. Her parents sent her nothing. Why should they? They had paid one hundred thousand crowns as the first part of her dowry and would pay the other half after her marriage. They were not going to send more, which would be used by Henry. It was his duty now to make sure that his son’s widow had adequate funds.
But Henry was not one to part easily with money and there was nothing coming from him. The gowns which she had brought with her from Spain were beginning to lose their freshness and some were even becoming threadbare, but the King considered that no concern of his. He had made a good proposition to her parents and it had been rejected. At the moment she was merely the widow of the Prince of Wales with a dowry only half of which had been paid and over that her parents were haggling.
Katharine was beginning to see that only by becoming the prospective wife of the heir to the throne could she expect to live in comfort.
Therefore she must forget that she had no great desire for this alliance, but the main reason was that her partner in it was only a boy.
On the other hand Henry was looking forward to the ceremony. He was always delighted by such and when he was the center of them his pleasure was greatly increased.
Margaret was subdued at this time. She had been boastful and arrogant and had never lost an opportunity of scoring over him, but now the prospect of going into Scotland was alarming her. She had grown quiet, less demanding; and Henry felt a little sorry for her. How glad he was that as king-to-be he would stay in his own country, at his own Court, surrounded by those who made much of him. That they did so because they feared to do otherwise he knew in his heart, but he liked that too. One of the best things in life was power. He had known that when he was a baby, holding sway over Anne Oxenbrigge because she loved him. But power which came through fear was equally exciting and desirable.
Yes, Henry was very pleased. How delighted Katharine must be. Poor girl! She had thought she was well set up in life when she married Arthur. But Henry secretly believed she had compared the two brothers and if she had, she must have known how much more attractive Henry was.
But she had seemed to like Arthur. Ah, but that was because she had not known then that there might be a chance of getting Henry.
Again he wished he were older. “The years seem as though they’ll never pass,” he commented to Charles Brandon who as a mature seventeen-year-old replied that they went fast enough for him.
Perhaps they did. He had reached the golden age. When I am seventeen where shall I be? wondered Henry.
Margaret came to see him. Her departure for Scotland was imminent and she wanted this brash brother of hers, of whom she was exceedingly jealous mainly because he was to stay in England, to lose a little of his assurance.
He looked splendid, of course he did. He had good looks and in spite of his youth a certain stature. He was taller than all of his companions who were of his age, and he was, of course, too sure of himself. It would give her satisfaction to prick that conceit if it were possible, it would be a little balm to her sorrow. Besides, she told herself virtuously, it would be good for Henry.
“So . . . our boy is going to be a bridegroom,” she said. “Ah, but that won’t be for a while will it? Our boy has to grow up first.”
“At least I’ll stay here in England. I haven’t to go to some bleak dour old country.”
As usual they sought and found the other’s most vulnerable spot.
“I believe my husband eagerly awaits me,” said Margaret.
“No doubt he will be there to greet you if he can spare the time from his mistresses.”
“I shall know how to deal with them.”
“Make sure they do not know how to deal with you.”
“I will come to my brother for advice. He is so knowledgeable, being eleven years of age he knows everything.”
“I am twelve.”
“Not for a few days.”
“I am mistaken for older.”
“Who makes that mistake? Everybody knows when our noble heir to the throne was born. They all mourn the loss of Arthur. He was the one who was the real Prince of Wales.”
“People seem to think I am more suitable for a king,” said Henry almost modestly.
“Because you’re here . . . that’s why. They loved poor Arthur. We all did. Particularly Katharine.”
“Katharine will have a new husband now.”
“Poor Katharine. She cannot like the change to a little boy.”
“How do you know?”
“I listen. She has asked her mother to take her away from here . . . to take her home . . . so that she doesn’t have to marry you.”
“She wants to marry me.”
“Oh no, she does not. I know she has written to her mother asking to be taken home.”
His eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be true. He was feeling gallant. He would have smiled at her, pressed her hand reassuringly. He liked to play the noble knight. That was what he had been taught to believe in. Chivalry. It was so necessary to knighthood. He had been thinking that he was rescuing Katharine from poverty at Durham House, making her important because of her alliance with him . . . and all the time she was writing to her mother begging to be taken home!
He would have liked to appear in her eyes as the chivalric knight who was going to rescue her from poverty and uncertainty, who was going to protect her from her fate. It should all have been very much in the knightly tradition and she had spoilt it all by writing to her mother and begging her to take her away.
She was seventeen years old. It was a mature age of course but that had not deterred him. He had cast his eyes on many a woman of her age who had been ready to fondle him. Charles Brandon had talked to him of his adventures with women and Charles had already a reputation of being a rake.
So it was not her age. And to think that he . . . Henry the Prince of Wales, king-to-be, did not appear in an attractive light to this woman who was so sorely in need of his protection.
His grandmother had explained to him how important the ceremony was. She often talked to him in place of his father who was too busy to do so. His father believed that the Countess of Richmond, being a woman and an extremely clever one, would understand children better than he did.
She was fifty-eight years old, for she had been barely fourteen when her son Henry Tudor had been born so that there was not a great difference in their ages. She seemed very old to Young Henry; she was small and thin and very austere looking; and rarely wore anything but the black and white of a nun. She was very religious, attended Mass five times a day, and spent a great time on her knees praying although she confessed that this resulted in excruciating back pains.
Skelton had said ironically: “That will increase her reward in Heaven.” And Henry had laughed as he always had laughed with Skelton. But he was in awe of his grandmother all the same.
Yet she adored him. He sensed that and he loved her for it. Not that she actually put her adoration into words. That would not have been her way. But her assiduous care for him and the manner in which she looked at him—when she thought he was not aware of it—betrayed her. He was strong, healthy and vigorous and she liked it. Of course Arthur had been something of a paragon with his quiet and studious ways but he had made them anxious in a way he, Henry, never had.
His grandmother’s piety impressed the people although Henry perceived that they did not greatly like her. It was the same with his father. Serious-minded men knew that Henry the Seventh had done a great deal for the country’s prosperity, but they did not like him all the same.
Henry was constantly hearing about his maternal grandfather, Edward the Fourth. There was a king they liked. He had heard the whispered comments of those who had grandparents old enough to remember. “When he came riding through the town the citizens hid their daughters.”
There was a king. Large, handsome and romantic.
Henry thought that when he was a king he would like to resemble his maternal grandfather rather than his father.
Meanwhile he was only twelve years old and he had to attend his betrothal to his brother’s widow.
His grandmother explained to him. “This betrothal will be per verba de presenti, which means that it is binding. In fact some of the marriage service will be included in the ceremony.”
“So,” said Henry, “I shall be married to Katharine of Aragon.”
“No, not exactly married. But you will have gone through this form of betrothal.”
“Does it mean that we shall most certainly be married later?”
His grandmother hesitated. She knew what was in the King’s mind and that he was determined to leave a loophole of escape so that he might keep the Spanish Sovereigns on tenterhooks—and at the same time keep that part of the dowry which they had already paid.
Henry noticed her hesitation and was nonplussed. “Why do we go through with such a ceremony if it is not really a marriage?” he demanded.
“The Spaniards want it.”
“Ah, they think I am a desirable husband do they?”
His grandmother gave one of her wintry smiles, which sat oddly on her austere features.
“They know, my boy,” she said firmly, “that you are one of the most desirable partis in the whole of Europe.”
“Who are the others equally so?” cried Henry, who could not bear competition without the immediate desire to eliminate it.
“Oh, we cannot go into that,” said his grandmother. “There are a few princes with hopes of inheritance. But you will be the King of England.”
Her face darkened for she thought immediately that he could only be so on the death of his father and her love for her son was almost fanatical and far exceeded even that she felt for her grandchildren.
Henry watched her thoughtfully. He was longing for the day when the crown would be placed on his head; but he realized that it should not be just yet. If it were now there would be too many surrounding him telling him what to do. He wanted that day to come when he would be an unshackled king—when everyone—even his grandmother—must bow to his word. Alas, that day had not yet come; and here he was again chafing against the slothful passage of time.
