The Shadow of the Pomegranate

“Sir Loyal Heart”

IN THE ROYAL BEDCHAMBER AT THE PALACE OF RICHMOND the Queen of England lay alone. “She should rest now,” the doctors said. “Leave her to sleep.”

Yet, tired as she was, Queen Katharine, who was known to the people as Katharine of Aragon although it was ten years since she had left her native land to come to England, had no desire to sleep. It was long since she had known such happiness. She had come through humiliation to enjoy the greatest esteem; she who had once been neglected was now courted and treated with great respect. There was no woman in England who was accorded more homage than the Queen. During the month just past she had celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday; she was reckoned to be handsome and, when she was dressed in her jewelled garments and her lovely hair with its tints of reddish gold fell loose about her shoulders, the looks of admiration which were bestowed upon her were those given to a beautiful woman, whether she were Queen or beggarmaid.

Her husband was devoted to her. She must share in all his pastimes; she must be present to watch his prowess at the joust; she must applaud his success at tennis; and it was to her he presented the spoils of the hunt. She was the luckiest of women because her husband was the King—five years her junior, it was true, but an open-hearted boy, generous, passionate, loving, who, having escaped from the tiresome restrictions of a miserly parent, was determined to please his people and asked only adoration and admiration from those surrounding him.

Katharine smiled thinking of this big handsome boy whom she had married, and she was glad that she was older than he was; she was even glad that she had suffered such poverty and humiliation when she had lived in England as the widow of Henry’s brother Arthur and had been used by her father-in-law, Henry VII, and her father, Ferdinand of Aragon, as a counter in their game of politics.

All that was over. Henry, headstrong, determined to make his own decisions, had chosen her as his bride; and as a result he, like some sixteenth-century Perseus, had rescued her, had cut her free from the chains of poverty and degradation and had declared his intention of marrying her—for she pleased him better than any other woman—and setting her beside him on the throne of England.

How could she ever show enough gratitude? She smiled. He was never tired of her gratitude; his small blue eyes, which seemed to grow more blue with emotion, would glisten like aquamarines when he looked back into the not very distant past and compared her state then with what it was now.

He would place a heavy arm about her shoulders and give her one of those hugs which took her breath away; she was not sure whether he was unaware of his strength or liked to pretend he was, and so make others the more aware of it.

“Ah, Kate,” he would cry; Kate was his name for her; he liked to be thought bluff and blunt, a King who could talk on equal terms with his humblest subject. Kate was a good old English name. “’Tis not so long, eh, since you were languishing in Durham House, patching your gowns. A different story now, eh, Kate!” And he would burst into that loud laughter which brought tears to those blue eyes and made them brighter than ever. Legs apart he would survey her, head on one side. “I brought you up, Kate. Never forget that. I…the King…who would let no other choose my woman for me. ‘You shall not marry Katharine,’ they said. They made me protest against the betrothal. That was when I was but a child and powerless. But those days are past. Now it is my turn to decide, and none shall say me nay!”

How he revelled in his power…like a boy with new toys! He was twenty, strong and healthy; he was well nigh perfect in the eyes of his subjects, and quite perfect in his own.

And Katharine, his wife, loved him; for who could help loving this golden boy?

“How happy you make me,” she had told him once.

“Ay,” he had answered proudly. “I have, have I not, Kate? And you shall make me happy too. You shall give me sons.”

The blue eyes looked complacently into the future. He was seeing them all—boys, big boys, with red in their hair and their cheeks; with eyes as blue as aquamarines, boys strong and healthy, all made in the image of their glorious sire.

She had determined that he should not be denied his desires. He should have sons; and within a few weeks of their marriage she had become pregnant. She had been very unhappy when her still-born daughter had been born. She, who had suffered in dry-eyed silence for so many years, wept at the sight of Henry’s disappointment. But he could not long believe in failure. The gods were smiling on him even as his Court and subjects did. All Henry desired must be his.

But she had quickly become pregnant again, and this time she had given him all that he needed to make his contentment complete.

In the cradle lay their son. What a happy omen that he should have been born on New Year’s Day!

Henry had stood by her bed, his eyes ablaze with triumph.

“Here lies Your Grace’s son and heir,” she had said. “My New Year’s gift to you.”

Then Henry had fallen on his knees beside her bed and kissed her hand. She had thought that he was but a boy himself, for all his joy, all his pleasure in her and his son, was in his face for everyone to see.

“I would ask a boon of you,” Katharine had whispered.

“Name it, Kate,” he had cried. “You have but to name it…and it is yours.”

He was ready to give her anything she asked because he wanted her to know how he felt; he wanted the whole Court, the whole world, to know of his gratitude to the Queen who had given him his son.

“It is that this Prince shall be called Henry after his most noble, his most beloved Sire.”

Henry’s eyes had been moist for a moment; then he had leaped to his feet.

“Your wish is granted!” he cried. “Why, Kate, as if I could deny you aught!”

She smiled, remembering. Almost at once he had been impatient to leave her, because he was planning the christening ceremony which he had decided must be more magnificent than any such ceremony had ever been before.

This was his first-born son, the heir to the throne, who was to be called Henry. He was the happiest of Kings; so she, in whom love for him had grown out of her great gratitude, was the happiest of Queens.

It was small wonder that she had no wish to slip into the world of sleep, when waking she could savor such happiness.

THE KING SMILED with affection at his opponent in the game of tennis which they had just finished. It had been a close game, but there had never been any doubt in the mind of the King that he would be the victor. There had been no doubt in the mind of Charles Brandon either. He was not such a fool as to think of beating the King, although, he was ready to admit, it was questionable whether he would have been able to. Henry excelled at the sport.

Now Henry slipped his arm through that of his friend with the familiarity which was so endearing. They were almost the same height, but not quite; Charles Brandon was tall but Henry was taller. Charles was handsome but he lacked the pink and golden perfection of his King; he was wily and therefore he always saw to it that, although he jousted as a champion and excelled at all sports, he just failed to reach the perfection of his master.

“It was a good game,” murmured Henry. “And I thought at one time you would beat me.”

“Nay, I am no match for Your Grace.”

“I am not sure, Charles,” answered the King, but his expression showed clearly that there could be no doubt whatsoever.

Brandon shook his head with feigned sorrow. “Your Grace is…unrivalled.”

The King waved a hand. “I would talk of other matters. I wish to plan a masque for the Queen as soon as she is able to rise from her bed, and to show in this my pleasure in her.”

“Oh fortunate Katharine to be Queen to such a King!”

Henry smiled. Flattery delighted him and the more blatant it was the better he liked it.

“I fancy the Queen is not displeased with her state. Now, Charles, devise some pageant which will please me. Let us have a tournament in which we shall appear disguised so that the Queen will have no notion who we are. We will surprise the company with our daring and then, when we are acknowledged the champions, let us throw off our disguise.”

“That would give Her Grace much pleasure, I am sure.”

“You remember how I surprised her at the Christmas festivities in the guise of a strange knight, and how I astonished all with my skill. And how surprised she was when I unmasked and she found in the strange knight her own husband?”

“Her Grace was delighted. She had been wondering how it was possible for any to rival her husband and when she had seen one who showed the same skill it was only to discover that it was the King in disguise!”

Henry burst into loud laughter at the memory. “I remember a time when I, with my cousin Essex, forced my way into her apartments dressed as Robin Hood and his men,” he mused. “And there was that occasion when, with Essex and Edward Howard and Thomas Parr…there were others also…we appeared dressed as Turks and we blacked the faces of our attendants so that they looked like blackamoors.”

“I remember the occasion well. Your Grace’s sister, the Princess Mary, danced disguised as an Ethiopian Queen.”

“She did well,” said the King fondly.

“It was a goodly sight though her pretty face was veiled.”

“’Twas well that it should be.” Henry’s mouth was a little prim. “My sister grows too fond of her pretty face.”

“Is that so?” murmured Brandon.

“She is a witch who can twist me about her finger,” murmured the King fondly. “But what would you? She is my only sister now that Margaret is away. It may be that I am overindulgent.”

“It is difficult not to indulge one so charming,” agreed Brandon.

Henry was faintly impatient. “But the masque, man. I would have you devise some pageant which will amuse the Queen.”

“I will give the matter my earnest attention.”

“And remember that there must be little delay. The Queen cannot lie abed much longer.”

It was on the tip of Brandon’s tongue to remind the King that the Queen had, in less than two years of marriage, twice been brought to bed for the purpose of bearing a child. But one only reminded the King of that which he wished to remember. He himself enjoyed perfect health; those who did not he considered to be rather tiresome.

“I’ll swear Her Grace is all impatience to join the revels,” said Brandon.

“It is so. So let us give her a worthy spectacle, Charles.”

“Your Grace commands, and it is my pleasure to obey. There shall be a spectacle such as none of your courtiers have ever seen before.”

“Then I shall go to the Queen and bid her hasten her convalescence.”

As they approached the Palace they were joined by many of the courtiers who hastened to pay compliments to the King.

“Listen,” commanded Henry, “I would have the Queen know our pleasure. There is to be a pageant.…”

They listened, all eager to join in the fun. The new King was a complete contrast to his father, and in this new reign to be young, gay, witty, to excel at the jousts, could lead the way to fortune. There was not a courtier, as there was not a man or woman in the street, who did not rejoice in the accession of Henry VIII.

They were joined by the King’s sister, the young Princess Mary, said by many to be the loveliest girl at Court. Henry’s eyes glistened with affection as they rested on her. She was now fifteen, full of life as became a Tudor, inclined to take liberties with her brother which no one else would dare; and he seemed to like it.

“Well, sister,” he said, “are you ready to join in our fun?”

Mary swept a deep curtsey and smiled at her brother. “Always ready to be at Your Grace’s side.”

“Come here to me,” said Henry.

She came and he slipped his arm through hers. She was a beauty, this little sister. Tudor, all Tudor. By God what a handsome race we are! thought Henry; then he remembered his father’s somewhat sere, sour face, and laughed.

“It will be necessary for you to show a little decorum, my child,” said Henry.

“Yes, Your Grace. I live but to please Your Grace.”

She was laughing at him, imitating his sycophantish courtiers, but he did not object. He took her cheek between his fingers and pinched it.

Mary cried out. “Too much pressure of the royal fingers,” she explained, taking those fingers and kissing them.

“I shall miss you, sister, when you leave us.”

Mary frowned. “It will be years yet.”

Henry looked at her; he could see the shape of her breasts beneath her bodice. Fifteen! She was a woman. It could not be long before she left England for Flanders to marry Charles, grandson of Maximilian and Ferdinand of Aragon, and heir to great dominions. He did not want to lose Mary, but, as he told himself sadly, a King must not think of his own feelings.

She guessed his thoughts and pouted. She was going to raise difficulties when the time came for her to go.

“It may be,” she said suddenly, and her lovely face was radiant, “that Your Grace will discover he cannot bear to part with his little sister—and Charles will then not get his bride.”

There was an appeal in the lovely eyes; they had strayed to Brandon’s face and rested there. Fifteen! thought Henry. She has the provocation of a girl some years older. He must warn her not to look at men like Brandon in that way. Charles Brandon had not lived the life of a monk. That was something Mary was as yet too young to understand; he should warn her, for he was not only her King but, since she had neither father nor mother, he must be her guardian too.

“Enough, enough,” he said. “Come turn your wits to the pageants. I expect you to give the Queen a goodly spectacle.”

The King’s thoughts had gone to the Queen and his son and purposefully he made his way through the Palace to her apartments.

In her bedchamber the Queen was awakened by the fanfares which announced the King’s coming. Her doctors had said that she must rest, but the King did not know this, or had forgotten.

She spread her hair about her pillows, for he liked it in that way and her hair was her one real beauty.

He burst into the apartment, and she saw him standing on the threshold with Mary on one side of him and Brandon on the other. Behind him were other friends and courtiers.

“Why, Kate,” he cried advancing, “we come to see how you are. Are you not weary of bed? We plan a great entertainment for you. So get well quickly.”

“Your Grace is kind to me,” answered the Queen.

“Your King takes pleasure in pleasing you,” replied Henry.

The courtiers were surrounding her bed, and she felt very tired but she smiled, because one must always smile for the King, that golden boy whose strict upbringing under his father’s rule had been perhaps a little too severe for his exuberant nature.

He was a little irritated by the sight of her. She must lie a-bed, and he was impatient with all inactivity. He was urging her to shorten the period of rest, but she dared not. She had to preserve her strength; she had to remember that this was one of many births which must follow over the coming years.

The baby in his cradle cried suddenly as though he came to his mother’s aid.

The King immediately swung round and the procession, with him at its head, went towards the cradle.

Henry took the child in his arms, and he looked at it with wonder.

“Do you realize,” he said, to those who crowded about him, “that this infant could one day be your King?”

“We trust not until he is an old graybeard, Your Grace.”

It was the right answer. The King laughed. Then he began to walk up and down the Queen’s bedchamber, the child in his arms.

The Queen watched smiling.

He is but a boy himself, she thought.

AS SOON AS KATHARINE left her bed she prepared to leave Richmond for Westminster. The King had gone on before her; impatient and restless, he had already journeyed to Walsingham, there to give thanks for his son at the Shrine of the Virgin.

But he had now returned to Westminster and was there waiting to receive the Queen.

Katharine, who still felt weak, would have enjoyed some respite, perhaps a few weeks of quiet at Richmond; but she knew that was too much to hope for because Henry begrudged every day he spent hidden from the public gaze. So did the people. Wherever he went they crowded about him to bless his lovely face and express their pleasure in him.

The people would not be excluded from the festivities at Westminster. One of the reasons why they loved their new King was because he showed them with every action, every gesture, that he was determined to be a very different King from his father. One of his first acts had been the public beheading of his father’s ministers, Dudley and Empson, those men whom the people had regarded as the great extortioners of the previous reign. Nothing could have been more significant. “These men imposed great taxes on my beloved people; they have brought poverty and misery to thousands. Therefore they shall die.” That was what the young King was telling his people. “England shall now be merry as she was intended to be.” So they cheered themselves hoarse whenever they saw him.

It seemed fitting to them that their handsome young King should be covered in glittering jewels, that his satin and velvet garments should be more magnificent than anyone had ever worn before. And because he was always conscious of the presence of the people, always determined to extract every ounce of their affection, he constantly won their approval.

They were now looking forward to the festivities at Westminster almost as eagerly as Henry was himself. Therefore there could be no delay merely because the Queen would have liked a little longer to recover from giving the King and country an heir.

All along the route the people cheered her. She was Spanish and alien to their English ways, but their beloved King had chosen her for his wife and she had produced a son; that was enough to make the people shout: “Long live the Queen!”

Beside Katharine rode her beautiful and favorite lady-in-waiting, Maria de Salinas, who had been with her ever since she had left Spain. It was significant that even when they were alone together she and Maria spoke English nowadays.

“Your Grace is a little weary?” asked Maria, anxiously.

“Weary!” cried Katharine, faintly alarmed. Did she look weary? The King would be hurt if she did. She must never show him that she preferred to rest rather than to frolic. “Oh no…no, Maria. I was a little thoughtful, that was all. I was thinking how my life has changed in the last few years. Do you remember how we suffered, how we patched our gowns and often had to eat fish which smelt none too good because it was the cheapest that could be bought in the market, how we wondered whether my father would send for us to return ignobly to Spain, or whether the King of England would ever pay me an allowance?”

“After such humiliation Your Grace can now enjoy all the fine gowns that you wish for, all the good food that you care to order for your table.”

“I should be ungrateful indeed, Maria, if I allowed myself to be tired when so much is being arranged for my pleasure.”

“Yet weariness is something over which we have no control,” began Maria.

But Katharine laughed: “We must always have control over our feelings, Maria. My mother taught me that, and I shall never forget it.”

She smiled, inclining her head as the people called her name. Maria had guessed that she was weary; no one else must.

THE QUEEN WAS SEATED in the tiltyard, for the tournament would soon begin. All about her were signs of the King’s devotion. His enthusiasm was such that when he was gratified the whole world must know it. This woman whom his father had tried to withhold from him, but whom he had insisted on marrying, had proved his wisdom in marrying her, for she had quickly given him a son. He wanted everyone to know in what esteem he held her, and everywhere Katharine looked she could see those entwined initials H and K. They were on the very seat on which she sat—gold letters on purple velvet.

If my mother could see me now, she would be happy, thought Katharine. It was nearly seven years since her mother had died and ten since she had seen her, yet she still thought of her often and when something happened which was particularly pleasing, it was almost as though she shared her pleasure with her mother. Isabella of Castile had been the greatest force in her daughter’s life and when she had died it seemed to Katharine that something very beautiful and vital had gone from her life. She believed that perhaps in the love she would bear towards her own children she would find some consolation for this aching loss; but that was in the future.

The ordinary people were crowding into the arena. They seemed always to be present. Henry would be pleased; he would triumph of course at the tournament and he liked his people to see him victorious. He would seem like a god to them in his glittering armor, with his looks which were indeed unrivalled, and his great height—no one at Court was taller than Henry. Katharine wondered what chance of favor a man would have who happened to be an inch taller than the King.

She suppressed such thoughts. They came to her now and then but she constantly refused to entertain them. Her Henry was a boy and he had the faults of a boy. He was young for his years, but she must always remember that he had been repressed during his boyhood by a father who had always feared he might be spoiled by others, and who was eager that the eighth Henry should rule in a manner similar to that of the seventh.

All about her was the glittering Court. Henry was not present so she knew that he would appear later in the guise of some wandering king, perhaps a beggar, or a robber, some role which would make the people gasp with surprise. He would either tilt in his new role and as the conqueror disclose who he really was, or show himself before the joust and then proceed to conquer. It was the old familiar pattern, and every time Katharine must behave as though this were the first time it had happened. Always her surprise that the champion was in truth the King must appear to be spontaneous and natural.

What is happening to me? she asked herself. There had been a time when she was happy enough to enter into his frolics. Was that because in the first year of their marriage she had felt as though she were living in a dream? The period of humiliation had been so close in those days; now that it was receding, was she less grateful?

A hermit was riding into the arena and there was a hush in the crowd. He wore a gray gown and tattered weeds.

No, thought Katharine, he is not quite tall enough. This is not the great masquerade.

The hermit was approaching her throne and, when he was before her, he bowed low and cried aloud: “I crave the Queen’s Grace to permit me to tilt before her.”

Katharine said as was expected: “But you are no knight.”

“Yet would I ask your royal permission to test my skill, and it shall all be for Your Grace’s honor.”

“A hermit…to tilt in my honor!”

The crowd began to jeer, but Katharine held up her hand.

“It is strange indeed to find a hermit in the tiltyard, and that he should wish to tilt stranger still. But our great King has such love for all his subjects that he would please them each and every one. The lowliest hermit shall tilt before us if it is his wish. But I warn you, hermit, it may cost you your life.”

“That I would willing give for my Queen and my King.”

“Then let it be,” cried Katharine.

The hermit stepped back, drew himself to his full height, threw off his gray tattered robe, and there was a Knight in shining armor—none other than Charles Brandon himself.

The Princess Mary, who was seated near the Queen, began to clap her hands, and all cheered.

Brandon now asked the Queen’s permission to present to her a knight of great valor who was desirous, like himself, of tilting in her honor.

“I pray you tell me the name of this knight,” said Katharine.

“Your Grace, his name is Sir Loyal Heart.”

“I like well his name,” said Katharine. “I pray you bring him to me.”

Brandon bowed and there was a fanfare of trumpets as Sir Loyal Heart rode into the arena.

There was no mistaking that tall figure, that gold hair, that fresh fair skin which glowed with health and youth.

“Sir Loyal Heart!” shouted the ushers. “Who comes to tilt in honor of the Queen’s Grace.”

Before the Queen’s throne Henry drew up, while the people roared their approval.

Katharine felt that her emotions might prevent her in that important moment making the right gesture. Sir Loyal Heart! How like him to choose such a name. So naïve, so boyish, so endearing.

Surely I am the most fortunate of women, she thought; Mother, if you could but see me now, it would make up for all you have suffered, for my brother Juan’s death, for my sister Isabella’s death in childbirth, for Juana’s madness. At least two of your daughters inherited what you desired for them. Maria is the happy Queen of Portugal, and I am happier still, as Queen of England, wife of this exuberant boy, who shows his devotion to me by entwining my initials with his, by riding into the arena as Sir Loyal Heart.

“How happy I am,” she said in a voice which was not without a tremor of emotion, “that Sir Loyal Heart comes hither to tilt in my honor.”

There was nothing she could have said which would have pleased Henry more.

“The happiness of Sir Loyal Heart equals that of Your Grace,” cried Henry.

He had turned—ready for the joust.

The tournament was opened.

DARKNESS CAME EARLY in February, and the Court had left the tiltyard for the whitehall of Westminster. This did not mean that the festivities were over. They would go on far into the night, for the King never tired and, until he declared the ball closed, it must go on.

He had scored great success in the tiltyard to the delight of the people. But none was more delighted than Henry. Yet now that the party had entered the Palace he had disappeared from Katharine’s side.

This could only mean one thing. Some pageant or masque was being planned in which he would play a major part. Several of his friends had crept away with him, and Katharine, talking to those who remained about her, tried to compose her features, tried to display great expectation while she hoped that she would be able to register that blank surprise when she was confronted with some denouement which she had guessed even before the play had begun.

One must remember, she reminded herself, that he has been brought up in a most parsimonious fashion. She knew that his father had ordered that his doublets must be worn as long as they held together and then turned if possible; he and the members of his household had been fed on the simplest foods and had even had to save candle ends. All this had been intended to teach him the ways of thrift. The result? He had rebelled against thrift. He was ready to dip into his father’s coffers to escape from the parsimony, which had been anathema to him, in order to satisfy his extravagance. His nature was such that he must passionately long for all that was denied him—so for him the scarlet and gold, the velvet and brocade; for him the rich banquets, the pomp and the glory. It was fortunate that the thrift of Henry VII had made it possible for Henry VIII to indulge his pleasure without resorting to the unpopular methods which his father had used to amass his wealth.

Katharine looked about the hall, which had been so lavishly decorated, and tried to calculate the cost to the exchequer. The English love of pageantry was unquestionable. What great pains had been taken to turn this hall into a forest. There were artificial hawthorns, maples and hazels, all so finely wrought that they looked real enough. There were the animals, a lion, an antelope, and an elephant all cleverly made. She did not know the price of the commodities necessary to make these things but she guessed it was high, for clearly no expense had been spared. There were beautiful ladies to roam the mock forest and they, with the wood-woos, who were wild men of the forest, had to be specially apparelled. The maids of the forest wore yellow damask, and the wood-woos russet sarcenet; she knew the high cost of these materials.

Should she remonstrate with the King? Should she point out that such pageants were well enough when there was some great event to celebrate—as there was at this time the birth of their son—but this was one among many. Since Henry had come to the throne feasting had followed feasting, and pageant, pageant.

She imagined herself saying: “Henry, I am older than you…and I had the advantage of spending my early years with my mother who was one of the wisest women in the world. Should you not curb these extravagances?”

What would be his response? She pictured the brows being drawn together over those brilliant blue eyes, the pout of a spoiled boy.

Yet was it not her duty?

One of the courtiers was at her elbow. “Your Grace?”

“You would speak with me?”

“Your Grace, I know of an arbor of gold, and in this arbor are ladies who would show you their pastime in the hope that they might please your Grace. Would you wish to see this arbor?”

“I greatly desire to see it.”

The courtier bowed, and then, drawing himself to his full height, he declaimed: “Her Grace Queen Katharine wishes to see the arbor of gold.”

A curtain which had been drawn across one end of the hall was then pulled back to disclose a pavilion in the form of an arbor. This was composed of pillars about which artificial flowers made of silk and satin climbed naturalistically. There were roses, hawthorn and eglantine, and the pillars had been decorated with ornaments of pure gold.

This arbor was carried by stout bearers and placed close to the Queen’s throne. She saw that in it were six of the most lovely girls, and that their dresses were of white and green satin which appeared to be covered with gold embroidery; but as they came closer she realized that what she had thought was embroidery were two letters entwined—the familiar H and K. She stared in admiration, for it was indeed a pretty sight, and as she did so six men dressed in purple satin which, like the gowns of the girls, was adorned with the entwined letters, sprang forth to stand three on either side of the arbor.

Each of these knights had his name on his doublet in letters of real gold; and there was one among them who stood out distinguished by his height and golden beauty; and across his doublet were written the words Sir Loyal Heart.

The ordinary people who revelled in these antics of the Court had pressed into the hall and now cheered loudly, calling “God bless his Grace! God bless the Queen!”

Henry stood before her, his face expressing his complete joy.

Katharine applauded with her ladies, and the King clapped his hands—a signal for the ladies to step from the arbor.

Each of the six ladies was taken as a partner by one of the six men.

“Make a space for us to dance!” commanded Sir Loyal Heart. And the bearers wheeled the arbor back through the forest to the end of the hall where the people who had crowded into the Palace from the streets stood agog watching all this splendor.

“Come,” cried the King to the musicians, and the music began.

Henry danced as he loved to dance. He must leap higher than any; he must cavort with greater verve. Katharine watching him thought: He seems even younger now than he did the day we married.

“Faster! Faster!” he commanded. “Who tires? What you, Knevet?” The glance he threw at Sir Thomas Knevet was scornful. “Again, again,” he commanded the musicians, and the dance continued.

So intent were all on the dancing of the gay young King that they did not notice what was happening at the other end of the hall.

One man, a shipmaster whose trade had brought him to the port of London, murmured: “But look at the trimmings on this arbor. These ornaments are real gold!”

He put up his hand to touch one, but another hand had reached it before him. A gold ornament was taken from the arbor, and several crowded round to look at it.

In a few moments many of the spectators had plucked a gold ornament from the arbor; and those at the back, who saw what was happening, determined not to be left out, pressed forward and in the space of a few minutes that arbor was denuded of all the gold ornaments which had made it such a thing of beauty.

Meanwhile the King danced on, smiling at the ladies, now and then glancing in the Queen’s direction. Was she watching? Was she marvelling?

Katharine was ready every time his eyes met hers; and she had managed to infuse that look of wonder into her expression which he constantly demanded.

At last the music stopped, and Henry stood smiling benignly at the company.

“You see,” he announced, “that the dresses of the performers are covered in gold letters. These form my own initial and that of the one who is most dear to me. I now invite the ladies to come and help themselves to these entwined letters and I trust they will treasure them and when their time comes to marry they will endeavor to live in perfect harmony and follow the example set by their Queen and…Sir Loyal Heart.”

The ladies rushed forward. There were many, Katharine noticed, to gaze coquettishly at the King, and then she was grateful to him for his loyalty and ashamed of her criticisms. He is but a boy, she told herself; a boy who wishes to be good.

There was a sudden shout from the back of the hall, where the once golden arbor had been transformed into a few sticks of wood. The populace who, as custom demanded, were permitted to see their King at his meals, at his dancing and games, rushed forward.

The ladies had been invited to strip the King of his ornaments; well, so they should; and the men would help them in the game.

There was a startled cry of surprise from the dancers as they found themselves surrounded. The King himself was in the hands of half a dozen laughing men and women, but in their eyes there was something more than laughter. They had looked on at the luxury of Westminster and had compared it with their own homes; they had seen men and women whose garments were covered in glittering jewels and gold ornaments, one of which would keep them in luxury for a very long time.

This was their King and their beloved King, but the mob stood together against its rulers and when the call came it was invariably ready. But this was merely a masque; and the people had caught the spirit of the masque. They would not have harmed their handsome King; but they wanted his jewels.

Listening to the cries of protest of his friends, being aware of the people—who smelt none too fresh—pressing close to him, Henry ceased to be a pleasure-loving boy. He was a man at once—shrewd and cunning. He knew no fear; he had always felt himself to be capable of dealing with any situation and, because it had been his pleasure to go among his people as often as possible, he was able to understand them; and of all the noblemen and women in that hall there was none more calm, more wise than the King.

There was no sign of anger in those blue eyes which could so easily grow stormy at a courtier’s careless word. They were purposely full of laughter. He had played his own game; now he must play the people’s game; but he did not forget that he was still the central player.

He smiled into the eyes of a pretty young seamstress who had snatched a gold button from his doublet.

“May it continue to make your pretty eyes shine,” he said.

She was startled, flushed scarlet, then she turned and ran.

They had stripped him of all his jewels; they had torn his cloak from his shoulders so that he was wearing nothing but his doublet and his drawers. He laughed aloud being aware that his courtiers were being more roughly handled than he was himself while they were being stripped of their valuables. Moreover he saw too that the guards had rushed into the hall, halberds raised, and were doing their duty. They had taken several of the people and were hustling them into a corner of the hall, from where they were loudly abusing the guards.

Henry glancing quickly round the company saw that the dishevelled ladies looked bewildered and that Sir Thomas Knevet who had climbed up one of the pillars was clinging there stark naked. Sir Thomas had protested so vigorously that the mob had denuded him not only of his jewels but of all his clothes.

Looking at Knevet clinging to the pillar Henry burst into sudden loud laughter; it was the signal. Clearly the King intended to treat the affair as part of the masque and everyone was expected to do the same. Those of the people who had been muttering now joined in the laughter. “God Save the King!” they cried, and they meant it. He had not disappointed them. He was a true sportsman and they had nothing to fear from such a king.

He was shouting to his courtiers: “Why do you look so glum? My people have helped themselves to largesse. Let us leave the matter at that, for I confess to a hunger which must be appeased, and I am thirsty too.”

The people were not loath to be hustled from the hall grasping the spoils they had snatched. The sound of their laughter came floating back to the hall. They were delighted. They loved their King. Now when he rode through the streets they would cheer him more loudly than ever.

Katharine, who had watched the incident with rising horror, had been much astonished by the attitude of the King. She had expected him to roar his anger, to summon the guard, to have the people punished; yet she, whose eyes had not left him, had seen no sign of anger in the bright flushed face.

He was not merely a boy, she realized now. He was a King. And his crown was more dear to him than all the jewels in the world; he was more than a feckless boy, because he knew that he kept that crown by the will of the people. He would rage against his courtiers; he would without hesitation send them to the block; but when he came face to face with the mob he would have nothing for them but smiling tolerance.

Then she did not know this man she had married as she had believed she did, and the knowledge that this was so filled her with faint misgivings.

He was at her side, mischievous in his doublet and drawers.

“Come, Kate,” he said. “I starve. Let us lead the way to the banquet that awaits us.”

He took her hand and led her into his own chamber where the feast awaited them; and seated at the place of honor at that table with Katharine on his right hand, he was very merry as he surveyed his courtiers in their tattered garments; nor would he allow any to leave the banquet except Sir Thomas Knevet who, he said, for dear decency’s sake must find himself some garments.

“My friends,” said Henry, “your losses are largesse to the commonalty. That is an end of the matter. Now to work!”

And laughing he tackled the good red meat which he loved.

THE COUNTESS OF DEVONSHIRE came unceremoniously to the Queen’s apartment. Katharine received her husband’s favorite 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 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.