Katharine, the Virgin Widow

The Protest of the Prince of Wales

THE PRINCE OF WALES WAS APPROACHING HIS FOURTEENTH birthday, and he was determined that it should be celebrated with all the pomp due to his rank.

He would have masques and pageants such as had never been seen during his father’s reign. Fourteen was an age when one left childhood behind and became a man.

He was already taller than most men and had the strength of two. People often said that he was going to be a golden giant. He liked to hear that.

He refused to do lessons and commanded John Skelton to plan a masque.

“The kind I like best,” declared the Prince, “are those in which masked men appear at the joust and beg leave to be able to take part. One of them, taller than the rest and clearly noble, in spite of his disguise, challenges the champion.”

“And beats him,” whispered Skelton.

“Yes, and beats him; and then there is a cry of ‘This is a god, for no man on Earth could beat the champion.’ Then the ladies come forward and there is a dance.…”

“And the masked hero will allow only the most beautiful lady to remove his mask,” added Skelton.

“That is so, and when the mask is removed…”

“The god is revealed to be His Grace the Prince of Wales!” cried Skelton. “Fanfares.”

“Why, but that is exactly what I had planned,” cried Henry in surprise.

“Does it not show that our minds are in unison, Your Grace?”

“It would seem so.”

“But then we have had these pageants before, and methinks the unmasked hero has already made his debut. But, there is no reason I can see why he should not appear again…and again and again.”

Henry was never quite sure whether or not Skelton was laughing at him, but because he admired the man and believed he had much to learn from him, he preferred to think he was not, and invariably laughed with him.

“Fourteen,” he mused. “In another year I shall be betrothed.”

“A year will pass like a day, in the full life of Your Royal Highness.”

“It is indeed so, my good John. And have you heard that I am now to marry Marguerite d’Angoulême? They say she is very beautiful.”

“All high-born ladies are said to be beautiful,” answered John.

“It is not true, though their jewels and clothes often make them seem so.”

“I did not speak of what they are but what they are said to be.”

The Prince was thoughtful. Then he said: “They say that Marguerite adores her brother Francis. They say he is handsome and excels at all sports; that there is none like him in the whole of France and, if ever he comes to the throne, he will make a great King.”

“So there are two such paragons—one in England, one in France.”

The Prince drew himself up to his full height. “I believe him not to be as tall as I, and he is dark.”

“A minor paragon,” murmured Skelton.

“And,” went on the Prince, “there is no doubt that I shall one day be King. But Francis will only ascend the throne if old Louis dies childless. He must be beside himself with terror.”

“Why, my Prince, it is not easy for old men to beget children.”

“But for his future to hang on such a thread! His mother and sister call him Caesar. I hope Marguerite is soon brought to England.”

“Your Grace will have much to teach her, and not least of the lessons she will learn will be that there is a Prince more handsome, more excellent, more godlike than her brother.”

The Prince did not answer. His eyes were narrowed in the characteristic way; his small mouth was set. What a King he will make! thought Skelton. His ministers will have to learn to pander to his wishes, or it will go hard with them. Our golden god will be a despot, and heads will doubtless fly like tennis balls.

Henry was thinking of Marguerite. Surely she must come soon. He was going to insist on marrying this girl. Many had been offered to him, and then the offers had been withdrawn. He wanted Marguerite. She was beautiful, he had heard, and it was all very well for Skelton to say that all high-born ladies were beautiful; he did not believe it. Look at Katharine of Aragon in her faded gown, and her face pale and stricken with mourning. He rejoiced that it was Marguerite who had been chosen for him and not Katharine.

While he sat with Skelton a messenger from the King arrived and told the Prince that his father wished to see him without delay.

Skelton watched the Prince as he immediately obeyed the summons. There is one person alone who can deflate our great Prince, mused Skelton—his Royal Father. When he is no longer there, what an inflated King we shall have.

As soon as Henry came into his father’s presence the King waved his hand to those attendants who were with him, indicating that he wished to be alone with his son.

He looked at Henry sternly. The boy’s glowing health could not but give him the utmost satisfaction, yet he was afraid that young Henry had extravagant tastes. He must have a serious talk with him in the very near future; he must make him realize how carefully his father had built up a firm exchequer. It would be terrible if the wealth of the country and the Tudors were frittered away in useless pageants.

But he had not summoned the boy to talk of extravagance. That could wait. There was a matter which he considered more urgent.

“My son,” said the King, “one day you will be married, and that day is not far distant.”

“I hear, Sire, that a new bride is being suggested now. I like what I hear of Marguerite.”

“Yes, Marguerite,” said his father. “Do you remember that when you were thirteen you were betrothed to another in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury?”

“I remember it well—a hot day. The people cheered me as I came into Fleet Street!”

“Yes.” Henry’s tone was curt. “We know full well that the people cheer you wherever you go. Katharine of Aragon is not the match today that she was at that time. Circumstances change. Now that her mother is dead, her father’s position is not what it was. I do not trust her father. I feel sure that were a marriage to take place there would still be difficulty about getting the remainder of the dowry. In other words, I do not favor the marriage with Katharine.”

“No, Sire. I…”

The King lifted his hand. “We will not discuss your wishes because they are at this time of no moment.”

The blood flamed into young Henry’s face. A protest rose to his lips; then he remembered that this was his father; this was the King. One did not argue with Kings. He tried to suppress his anger. His mouth was tight and his eyes a blazing blue.

“According to what was arranged in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house a year ago, when you are fifteen you would marry Katharine. That is in a year’s time. I now desire you to make a formal protest. You are to meet Archbishop Warham here in the Palace. He is waiting now. You will solemnly protest that you have no wish for this marriage with Katharine of Aragon.”

“But…” began Henry.

“You will do as you are told, my son. The Archbishop is waiting to see you now.”

All the egoism in the Prince’s nature was rising in protest—not against marriage with Katharine but against his father’s management of what he considered to be his personal affair. Young Henry knew that royal marriages were usually arranged, but he was no ordinary Prince. He was old enough to have a say in his own affairs.

If he, of his own free will, decided against marrying Katharine, all well and good. But to be told to make such a protest offended his amour propre, which was extremely sensitive.

His father said testily: “This is what you will say: ‘The betrothal was contracted in my minority. I myself was not consulted in the matter. I shall not ratify it when the time comes, and it is therefore null and void.’”

“I should like time to consider this matter,” said Henry boldly.

“That is enough,” his father retorted; “you do as you are told. Come…say those words after me.”

For a few seconds Henry’s blazing eyes looked into his father’s. But he knew he must obey. He was only a boy not yet fourteen, and this man, whose face was lined with suffering, was the King. He murmured the words he had been told to repeat.

“Again,” said his father.

It was humiliating. Why should I? he asked of himself. Then a cunning thought came into his mind. It would not always be as it was now. One day he would be King, and the man who was now commanding him would be nothing but a moldering corpse. What did words matter? When young Prince Henry was King Henry, then he would have his way and, if he wished to marry Katharine of Aragon, there would be none to deny him his wish.

He repeated the words sullenly.

“Come,” said the King. “I dare swear Warham has arrived already.”

So, in the ground floor apartment in Richmond Palace, young Henry repeated the words which were his formal protest against a marriage with Katharine of Aragon.

Words, thought Henry as he went back to his own apartments. He would never allow a few words to stand between himself and what he wanted.

After that he thought of Katharine of Aragon more frequently. He remembered her as she had been when he had led her to the Palace after her wedding ceremony.

His father had made up his mind that he should never have Katharine, yet his father himself had wanted to marry her. Katharine was now out of reach. She represented a challenge. She had suddenly become quite attractive—more so than Marguerite, who was so enamored of her own brother that she thought him the handsomest boy in the world.