Katharine of Aragon (39 page)

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 realized 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 graybeard 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.

THE 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 honor of being the recognized mistress of a King.

His mouth was prim. He intended to be virtuous.

He sang quietly under his breath:

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 practicing 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 acknowledgment 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 vigor,” murmured Henry.

“All are aware of Your Grace's vigor,” 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 vigor—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.”

“That is so,” agreed Henry.

“There are some who would cling to their virtue even though it be the King himself who would assail it.”

“A little wooing might be necessary,” said Henry, implying his confidence that if he were the wooer he could not fail to be successful.

“Should the King woo?” asked Compton. “Should a King be a suppliant for a woman's favors? It seems to me, Your Grace, that a King should beckon and the lady come running.”

Henry nodded thoughtfully.

“I could sound the lady, I could woo her in your name. She has a husband and if her virtue should prove overstrong it might be well that this was a matter entirely between Your Grace, myself and the lady.”

“We speak of suppositions,” said Henry, laying a hand on Compton's shoulder. He picked up his lute. “I will play and sing to you. It is a new song I have here and you shall tell me your opinion of it, good Compton.”

Compton smiled and settled himself to listen. He would sound the lady. Kings were always grateful to those who arranged their pleasures. Moreover Anne Stafford was the sister of Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, an arrogant man whom Compton would delight in humiliating; for such was the pride of the Staffords that they would consider it humiliation for a member of their family to become any man's mistress—even the King's.

So, while Henry played his lute and sang his song, Sir William Compton was thinking of how he could arrange a love affair between the sister of the Duke of Buckingham and the King.

ANNE STAFFORD WAS BORED
. She was of the Court, but it was her sister Elizabeth who had found favor with the Queen; and this was because Elizabeth was of a serious nature which appealed to Katharine.

The Queen, thought Anne, was far too serious; and if she did not take care the King would look elsewhere for his pleasure.

Anne laughed to herself; she had very good reason to believe that he was already looking.

Anne had had two husbands and neither of them had satisfied her. In a family such as theirs there had been little freedom. They would never forget, any of them, their closeness to the throne, and they were more conscious of their connection with royalty than the King himself. Through her father Anne was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, a son of Edward III; and her mother was Catharine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had been Edward IV's Queen.

Anne's father had been an ardent supporter of the House of Lancaster, and Richard III had declared him a traitor and the “most untrue creature living.” He was beheaded in the marketplace at Salisbury, thus dying for the
Tudor cause, a fact which had endeared his family to Henry VII; and Henry VIII carried on his father's friendship for the Staffords.

And what was the result? Anne had been married twice without being consulted and given a place at Court; but there she was merely a spectator of the advancement of her elder sister.

Being a Stafford, Anne was not without ambition, so she thought how amusing it would be to show her family that the way to a King's favor could be as effectively reached in the bedchamber as on the battlefield. How amusing to confront that arrogant brother of hers, that pious sister, with her success! Once she and Henry were lovers, neither brother nor sister would be able to prevent the liaison's continuance, and then they would have to pay a little attention to their younger sister.

One of her maids came to tell her that Sir William Compton was without and would have speech with her.

Sir William Compton! The King's crony! This was interesting; perhaps the King had sent for her.

“I will see Sir William,” she told the maid, “but you should remain in the room. It is not seemly that I should be alone with him.”

The maid brought in Sir William and then retired to a corner of the room, where she occupied herself by tidying the contents of a sewing box.

“Welcome, Sir William,” said Anne. “I pray you be seated. Then you can comfortably tell me your business.”

Compton sat down and surveyed the woman. Voluptuous, provocative, she certainly was. A ripe plum, he thought, ready enough to drop into greedy royal hands.

“Madam,” said Compton, “you are charming.”

She dimpled coquettishly. “Is that your own opinion, or do you repeat someone else's?”

“It is my own—and also another's.”

“And who is this other?”

“One whose name I could not bring myself to mention.”

She nodded. “You have been watched, Madam, and found delectable.”

“You make me sound like a peach growing on a garden wall.”

“Your skin reminds me—and another—of that fruit, Madam. The peaches on the walls are good this year—warm, luscious, ripe for the plucking.”