The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The French Marriage

IN THE BED, ABOUT WHICH THE ELABORATE CURTAINS HAD been drawn, Thomas Wolsey felt shut away from the world with Mistress Wynter.

He talked to her more freely than he could to any other person because he trusted her completely. It was his pride—that integral part of his nature which in its way was responsible for his rise to power and against which he knew he must continually be on guard, because as it sent him soaring, so could it send him crashing to disaster—which made these sessions so sweet to him. He must hide his brilliance from the rest of the world, how he was always a step in front of the rest, how he always knew what could happen and must wait…patiently, ready to leap into the right position at that half second before others saw the leap, so that it appeared that he had always stood firmly there.

Only his Lark knew how clever he was, only to her could he be frank.

They were both sad because his visits to the little house were less frequent now.

“Matters of state, sweetheart,” he would murmur into that pretty ear; and she would sigh and cling to him and, even while she listened to the tales of his genius, she still longed for him to be an ordinary man, like the merchants who were her neighbors.

They had eaten and drunk well. The table in this house was more lavish than it had been a year before; the garments his wife and children wore, more splendid. He had talked to his children, listened to an account of their progress; had dismissed them; and had brought Mistress Wynter to this bedchamber where they had made love.

Now was the time for talk; so he lay relaxed and spoke of all that was in his mind.

“But when you are Pope, Thomas, how shall I be able to see you then?”

“Why, ’twill be easier then, my love,” he told her. “A Pope is all-powerful. He does not have to fight his petty enemies as a Bishop does. Roderigo Borgia, who was Pope Alexander the Sixth, had his mistress living near the Vatican; he had his children living with him and none dared tell him this should not be done…except those who lived far away. The power of the Pope is as great as that of the King. Have no fear. When I am Pope our way will be made easier.”

“Then Thomas, how I wish you were Pope!”

“You go too fast. There are a great many steps, I can tell you, from tutor to King’s almoner, from King’s almoner to…My love, I have a piece of news for you. I have heard that I am to receive the Cardinal’s hat from Rome.”

“Thomas! Now you will be known as Cardinal Wolsey.”

She heard the ecstasy in his voice. “The hat!” he whispered. “When it is brought to me, I shall receive it with great ceremony so all may know that at last we have an English Cardinal; and that is good for England. Cardinal Wolsey! There is only one more step to be taken, my love. At the next conclave…why should not an English Pope be elected to wear the Papal Crown?”

“You will do it, Thomas. Have you not done everything that you have set out to do?”

“Not quite all. If that were so I should have my family with me.”

“And you a churchman, Thomas! How could that be?”

“I would do it. Doubt it not.”

She did not doubt it.

“You are different from all other men,” she said, “and I marvel that the whole world does not know it.”

“They will. Now I will tell you of the new house I have acquired.”

“A new house! For us, Thomas?”

“No,” he said sadly. “It is for myself. There I shall entertain the King; but perhaps one day it will be your home…yours and the children’s.”

“Tell me of the house, Thomas.”

“’Tis on the banks of the Thames, well past Richmond. The Manor of Hampton. It is a pleasant place and belongs to the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. I have bought the lease of this mansion and now I intend to make it my very own, for as it stands it suits me not. There I shall build a palace and it shall be a great palace, my sweetheart…a palace to compare with the palaces of Kings, that all the world shall know that if I wish to have a palace, I have the means to build me one.”

“It will be some time before this palace is built as you wish it.”

“Nay. I shall have them working well for me, sweetheart. I am setting the most prominent members of the Freemasons to work for me, and who now would care to displease Cardinal Wolsey? I have decided that there shall be five courts about which the apartments will be built. I tell you, they will be fit for a King.”

“Does the King know of this, Thomas? I mean, what will he say if a subject builds a palace to match his own?”

“He knows and shows great interest. I am well acquainted with our King, sweetheart. He likes not the display of wealth of certain noblemen who have the temerity to fancy themselves more royal than the Tudors, but with one whom he believes he has brought out of obscurity, it is a different matter. In Hampton Court Palace, my love, he will see a reflection of his own power. So I talk to him of the palace and he is of the opinion that I take his advice. But it is he, you know, who always takes mine.”

Wolsey began to laugh, but Mistress Wynter trembled slightly and when he asked what ailed her, she said: “You have come so high, Thomas, perilously high.”

“And you think—the higher the rise the greater the fall? Have no fear, my Lark, I am sure-footed enough to remain perilously high.”

“I was fearing that you might be too high to remember us…myself and the children.”

“Never. You shall see what I will do for our son…for you all. Remember, my prosperity is yours.”

“And soon you will be leaving England again for France.”

Wolsey was thoughtful. “I am not sure of that.”

“But the King is going to war this year as last. The whole country talks of it.”

“There are certain matters which set me wondering, my dear. When we were in Lille we made a treaty with Maximilian and Ferdinand to attack the French. We won two towns which were of the utmost importance to Maximilian, and we paid him thousands of crowns to work with us. It seemed to me at the time that Maximilian came very well out of that campaign—as Ferdinand did out of the previous one. What was in it for England? But the King was pleased, so it was necessary for his servant to be pleased. One thing I have learned: a man must never go against his King. So, because Henry is pleased, so must I seem to be. But I am uncertain. I believe that Henry will soon discover that Maximilian and Ferdinand are not the friends he believes them to be.”

“Then there would be no war in France?”

“It might well be so. My dear one, imagine these two wily old men. They have great experience of statesmanship. Remember that Maximilian’s son Philip, and Ferdinand’s daughter, mad Juana, were married. Their sons are Charles and young Ferdinand. They have their eyes on Italy, not on France. They want Italy for young Ferdinand because Charles will have the whole of Spain and possibly the Austrian Empire, which includes the Netherlands. The King of France also has his eyes on Italy. ’Tis my belief that the English invasion of France is being planned by Ferdinand and Maximilian to put fear into Louis’ heart, and that if they can make favorable terms with him regarding Italy they will be ready to leave their English allies to fight France alone. It was significant that after the capture of Thérouanne and Tournai Maximilian was very eager that hostilities should cease. He knew further battles would mean bitter losses and he did not wish to impoverish himself, but to be in a strong position to bargain with the French.”

“And our King does not know this?”

“As yet he is a happy boy; he thinks with the mind of a boy. He trusts others because he is frank himself. He has had warning of Ferdinand’s perfidy; yet he is prepared to trust him as ever.”

“It is because Ferdinand is his father-in-law, perhaps.”

“The Queen is a clever woman, I believe, but she is fast losing her influence. The King is enamored of Lady Taillebois but Katharine does not know this. Lady Taillebois does not interest herself in politics. But she might not please the King forever, and if there were a woman who made great demands on the King and sought to influence him…who knows what would happen.”

“Thomas, I am alarmed by all this. It seems so dangerous.”

“You have nothing to fear, my love. I will always protect you and our children.”

“But Thomas, what if…?”

She did not say it. It seemed sacrilege even to think of it. Thomas would always maintain his place. There was no man in England who was as clever as her Thomas.

THE KING PACED up and down his apartment and with him was Charles Brandon, the newly created Duke of Suffolk. Suffolk, recently returned from Flanders, looked grim.

“So she’ll not have you,” Henry was saying.

“She was adamant in her refusals. You can be sure Maximilian has had a hand in this.”

“An English Duke is match enough for a Duchess of Savoy!” growled Henry.

“Alas, Your Grace. She—or perhaps the Emperor—would not agree. And there is another matter.”

Henry nodded. “Say on, Charles.”

“There was a hesitancy in the Emperor’s manner when, on your instructions, I tried to bring the negotiations for the Princess Mary’s marriage to completion.”

“Hesitation! What do you mean?”

“He was evasive. He seemed unwilling to make the final arrangements. Your Grace, it appears to me that the Emperor is one such as Ferdinand. He makes plans with us, and at the same time with others elsewhere.”

Henry’s brows were drawn together, he was thinking of the man who had placed himself under his banner and declared his willingness to serve the King of England.

“I cannot believe this,” he shouted. “He served me well.”

“He was paid well for doing so, Your Grace.”

Henry’s face darkened; but he could take more from Brandon than almost any other man.

“What means this change of front?”

“I know not, Your Grace, but let us be prepared.”

Henry stamped angrily from the apartment, but he gave orders that preparations for war were to go on apace.

IT WAS A WEEK or so later when an envoy from France arrived to negotiate for those prisoners whom Henry had taken at the battles of Thérouanne and Tournai and who still remained in England.

The envoy asked if he might speak in private with the King and, when Henry received him—in Wolsey’s presence—the envoy said: “I have words for Your Grace’s ears alone.”

Wolsey retired with dignity, knowing that the King would immediately pass on the news to him, and indeed having a shrewd notion as to what it must be.

When they were alone the envoy said to Henry: “Your Grace, I have a message from my master, the King of France. He wishes to warn you that King Ferdinand has renewed the truce he made with France, and that the Emperor Maximilian stands beside him in this.”

“Impossible!” cried Henry. “This must be untrue.”

“Your Grace will soon hear confirmation of this,” said the envoy. “But my master, wishing to prepare you and to show you that he is willing to be your friend, determined to let you know of it as soon as the truce had been signed.”

The veins stood out at Henry’s temples; his face was purple and he cried: “The traitors! By God, I’ll be revenged for this. My friends indeed! Base traitors both. They’ll be sorry if these words you speak are truth. And if they are lies…then shall you be.”

“I speak truth, Your Grace.”

“By God!” cried Henry, and strode from the apartment; storming into Wolsey’s quarters, he told him the news.

Wolsey, who was already prepared for it, received it calmly enough.

“What now?” demanded Henry.

“We know our false friends for what they are.”

“That will not conquer France for us.”

“A project which Your Grace will doubtless decide must be set aside for a while.”

The King’s eyes were glazed with anger, and in those moments he looked like a petulant boy who has been deprived of some much desired toy.

“Your Grace, what else had the envoy to say?”

“What else? Was that not enough?”

“Enough indeed, Sire. But I thought mayhap the King of France, showing his friendship in this way, might have further signs of friendship to show us.”

Henry looked bewildered.

“Would Your Grace consider recalling the envoy? Perhaps a little delicate questioning with Your Grace’s usual subtlety might reveal something of the mind of the King of France.”

“What is this you are saying? Do you believe it possible that I might become the ally of the King of France!”

“Your Grace, the other powers of Europe have proved themselves no friends of yours.”

“’Tis true enough, by God.”

“And Your Grace is now telling yourself, I know, that there can be no harm in hearing what this Frenchman has to say.”

“Send for him,” growled Henry.

In a short time the envoy stood before them.

Wolsey said: “Is it Your Grace’s wish that I speak of those matters which you have explained to me?”

“Speak on,” said Henry.

“It would seem,” said Wolsey, “that the motive of the King of France is friendship towards his brother of England.”

“That is my master’s desire, Your Grace, Your Excellency.”

“Then how would he show this friendship?”

“By making a peace with the English who shall be his friends, and forming an alliance which could not but bring dismay to those who have so clearly shown themselves the enemies of both countries. He says that to show his good faith he would be happy to make a marriage between France and England. As you know, Your Grace, Your Excellency, the King is without a wife. He is still of marriageable age. The marriage of the Princess Mary with the treacherous Hapsburg surely cannot now take place. The King of France would be happy to take the Princess as his bride.”

Wolsey caught his breath. The King was astounded. This was a complete volte-face. But the treachery of Ferdinand and Maximilian rankled; and what better revenge could possibly be achieved than such a treaty, such a marriage? It would be France and England against Austria and Spain. Henry saw now that those two wily old men had wanted to set him fighting France while they turned their attention to Italy—thus widening the dominions of their grandsons.

It was all startlingly clear. And the revenge: this alliance, this marriage.

Wolsey was looking cautiously at the King. “His Grace will wish to have time to consider such a proposal,” he said.

“That is so,” said Henry.

The envoy was dismissed, and, placing his arm through that of Wolsey, Henry began to pace the apartment with him while they talked.

THE NEWS WAS OUT and Katharine was bewildered. So once more her father had shown his treachery. He and Maximilian together had been profiting by the inexperience of the King of England and had used him shamelessly: Ferdinand in the conquest of Navarre, Maximilian for the capture of those two towns which were important to Netherlands trade. In addition Maximilian had received many English crowns as payment for his double dealing. They had endeavored to win concessions from the King of France by informing him of imminent invasion by England so that he would be ready to make peace with them, almost at any price in order to be free to tackle the English invaders.

Louis however had had a plan of his own to outwit them: the French and English should forget old enmities and stand together as allies.

Caroz was bewildered; he did not know which way to turn; and, as on a previous occasion he saw that he would be in the position of scapegoat. He hurried to see Katharine and was met by Fray Diego Fernandez who informed him haughtily that the Queen was in no way pleased with his conduct of Spanish affairs.

Caroz, angry beyond discretion, pushed aside the priest and forced his way into the Queen’s apartment.

Katharine met him coolly.

“Your Grace,” he stammered, “this news…this alarming news.… The English are incensed against us.”

“Against you and your master,” said Katharine coldly.

“My…master…your Grace’s father.”

“There is nothing I have to discuss,” said Katharine. “I dissociate myself from the instructions of the King of Spain.”

Caroz was astonished, because he sensed the coldness in Katharine’s voice when she spoke of her father.

“Do you understand,” stormed Caroz, “that there is a possibility of a treaty of friendship between England and France?”

“These are matters for the King and his ministers,” said Katharine.

“But our country…”

“Is no longer my country. I count myself an Englishwoman now, and I put myself on the side of the English.”

Caroz was shocked. He bowed and took his leave.

As he went from the Queen’s apartments he saw Fray Diego who smiled at him insolently.

His recall to Spain shall be immediate, Caroz decided. It is he who has poisoned the Queen’s mind against her father.

THE PRINCESS MARY came hurrying into Katharine’s apartments, her lovely eyes wild, her hair in disorder.

“Oh Katharine,” she cried, “you have heard this news?”

Katharine nodded.

“I!” cried Mary. “To marry with that old man! He is fifty-two and they say he looks seventy. He is old, ugly and mean.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Katharine, “but I know of nothing I can do.”

Mary stood clenching her hands. She was of a deeply passionate nature and had been greatly indulged by her brother. Her youth and beauty aroused his tenderness; and the fact that he was her guardian had always made him feel sentimental towards her, so that she had had her own way in all other matters and was furious that in this, the most important of all, she could not.

“I will not be used in this way. I will not!” she cried.

“Oh Mary,” Katharine tried to soothe her, “it happens to us all, you know. We are obliged to marry the person who is chosen for us. We have no choice in the matter. We must needs obey.”

“I’ll not marry that old lecher,” cried Mary.

“You’ll be Queen of France.”

“Who cares to be Queen of France! Not I…if I have to take the King with the crown.”

“He will be kind to you. He has heard of your beauty and is very eager for the match.”

“Lecher! Lecher! Lecher!” shouted Mary, and Katharine thought how like her brother she was in that moment.

“He will be gentle, perhaps kinder, more gentle than a younger man.”

“Do I want gentleness! Do I want an old man drooling over my body!”

“Mary, I pray you be calm. It is the fate of us all.”

“Did you have to marry a rheumaticky old man?”

“No, but I came to a strange land to marry a boy whom I had never seen.”

“Arthur was handsome; he was young. And then you had Henry. Oh you fortunate Katharine!”

“You may be fortunate too. I am sure he will be kind to you, and kindness means so much. You were prepared to marry Charles, yet you did not know him.”

“At least he is young.” Mary’s eyes blazed afresh. “Oh, it is cruel…cruel. Why should I, because I am a Princess, not be allowed to marry the man of my choice?”

Katharine knew that she was thinking of Charles Brandon. The whole Court knew of her feelings for that handsome adventurer; none more than Brandon himself who would dearly have liked to match her passion with his own. And now that it seemed he was not going to get Margaret of Savoy, he would doubtless be very happy to take the Princess of England.

Mary’s defiance crumbled suddenly; she threw herself onto Katharine’s bed and began sobbing wildly.

WOLSEY WAS DIRECTING the King’s thoughts towards the French alliance. He could see great advantages there. He believed the King was willing enough; Henry had counted on the help of Ferdinand and Maximilian to enable him to win territories in France; he had memories of Dorset’s disastrous campaign, and he had begun to see the dangers of tackling the conquest of France alone.

Wolsey was forever at his ear, explaining without appearing to do so; carefully, skilfully planting those thoughts in the King’s mind which he wished him to have.

Contemplating an expedition to France gave Wolsey nightmares. What if they should fail to maintain supplies? What if there should be disaster for the English? There had to be a scapegoat, and that might well be the almoner who had won such praise for his conduct of the previous campaign. No, Wolsey was determined that there should not be an expedition to France this year.

There was something else which made him long for the French alliance.

He had received information from the Vatican to the effect that the Holy Father would be pleased to see an alliance between France and England and trusted his newly created Cardinal would work to that end. It was very necessary to please the Pope. It was important that the Holy Father and his Cardinals in the Vatican should feel they had a good friend in Cardinal Wolsey. It would be remembered when the time for the next conclave arrived.

So each day Henry began to see more clearly the advantages of the suggested alliance; and one of the most important clauses would be the marriage treaty between the Princess Mary and Louis XII.

In vain did Mary storm; Henry was sorry, but England must come before his sister’s whims.

He was truly sorry for her and his eyes were glazed with tenderness when she flung her arms about his neck and sought to cajole him.

“I would do what you ask, sister, if I could,” he cried, “but it does not rest with me.”

“It does. It does,” she cried vehemently. “You could refuse this day, and that would be an end to the matter.”

“Then there would be no alliance with the French.”

“Who cares for alliance with the French?”

“We all must, sweet sister. It is a matter of policy. We have to stand against those two scoundrels. You cannot see how important this is because you are yet a girl, but it is a matter of state. Were it not, willingly would I give you what you ask.”

“Henry, think of me—married to that old man!”

“I do, sweetheart, I do. But it must be. It is the duty of us all to marry for the good of our country.”

“He is old…old…”

“He is no worse than Charles. Charles looked to me like an idiot. By God, were I a maiden I’d as lief take Louis as Charles.”

“Charles is at least young. Louis is…ancient.”

“So much the better. You’ll be able to twirl him round your pretty fingers. Ah, you’ll get your way with the King of France, my sister, as you do with the King of England.”

“But do I? When he will not grant me this one little thing?”

“’Tis the one thing I cannot grant my dear sister. Be good, sweeting. Marry the man. He’ll not live long.”

Mary drew away from him and looked long into his face. He saw the new hope spring up in her eyes.

“Henry,” she said slowly, “if I make this marriage, will you grant me one request?”

“That’s my good sister,” he said. “Have done with your tantrums—for if news of these reached Louis’ ears he would not be pleased—and I’ll grant whatsoever you request.”

Mary took her brother’s face between her hands.

“Swear this,” she said.

“I swear,” he answered.

Then she went on, speaking very slowly and distinctly: “I will marry old Louis; but when he dies, I have Your Grace’s promise that I shall marry wheresoever I like for me to do.”

Henry laughed.

“You have my promise.”

Then she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him heartily on the lips.

Henry was delighted; she could always charm him, for his pride in this pretty sister—all Tudor, as he was fond of saying—was great.

Now the Court noticed that the Princess Mary had become resigned to the French marriage. There were no more displays of temper, no more tears of rage.

She allowed herself to be drawn into the preparations, and her manner was quiet and calculating yet a little aloof, as though she were looking far ahead, well into the future.

THE SUMMER was progressing. Henry was as deeply involved with Bessie as ever; he delighted in her, and familiarity did not pall.

He hated all Spaniards, he told himself; and he could not entirely forget that Katharine was one of them. She seemed to grow less attractive and, had it not been for the fact that she was pregnant, he could have come near to hating her at this further revelation of her father’s treachery.

It was comforting to see Mary quieter and even showing an interest in the preparations for her wedding.

One day in the early autumn, when he was told that Caroz wanted to see him, he agreed to give the audience although he disliked the Spanish ambassador and had scarcely spoken to him since he had discovered that he had been betrayed by Ferdinand a second time.

Caroz came into his presence and Henry nodded briefly to him, without warmth.

“Your Grace is indeed kind to receive me. I have sought this interview for many days.”

“I have been occupied with state matters which do not concern your master,” the King answered coldly.

“It is a great grief to me that we are excluded from Your Grace’s favor.”

“It is a greater grief to me that I ever trusted your master.”

Caroz bowed his head sorrowfully.

“My master seeks to recall the Queen’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez.”

Henry was about to say that this was a matter for the Queen, but he changed his mind. His conscience had been worrying him lately. He was spending a great deal of time in Bessie’s company, and after a passionate night with her he often felt uneasy. During one of these uneasy periods he had told himself that Katharine had worked for her father rather than her husband, and this was another reason why she had forfeited the right to his fidelity.

Now he asked himself why he should consult Katharine about the return of her confessor. He did not like the man. He did not like any Spaniards at this time.

Bessie had been particularly enchanting last night and consequently the burden of his guilt this day was heavier.

He stuck out his lower lip petulantly.

“Then let the man be sent back to Spain,” he said sullenly.

Caroz bowed low; he was exultant. The Queen could not countermand the King’s order; and he had the King’s word that Fernandez should be sent back to Spain.

KATHARINE was distraught. She had sent for her confessor and had been told that he was no longer at Court.

In desperation she summoned Caroz to her presence.

“What does this mean?” she demanded. “Where is Fray Diego?”

“On his way to Spain,” replied Caroz, unable to restrain a smirk.

“This is impossible. I was not told of his departure.”

“The orders were that he was to leave immediately.”

“Whose orders?”

“Those of the King of Spain.”

“The King of Spain’s orders are invalid here at the Court of England.”

“Not, I venture to point out, Your Grace, when they are also the orders of the King of England.”

“What do you mean?”

“The King, your husband, ordered that Fray Diego should be sent back to Spain with all speed. He had no wish for him to continue to serve you as confessor.”

Katharine hurried to the King’s apartment with as much speed as she could, for her body was now becoming cumbersome.

Henry, who was with Compton mixing an ointment, turned with the pestle in his hand to stare at her.

She said curtly to Compton: “I would speak to the King alone.”

Compton bowed and retired.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Henry.

“I have just heard that my confessor has been dismissed.”

“Is that so?” said the King in a deceptively light tone.

“Dismissed,” went on Katharine, “without any order from me.”

“It is my privilege,” Henry told her, and so disturbed was she that she did not see the danger signals, “to decide who shall and who shall not remain at my Court.”

“My own confessor.…”

“A Spaniard!” Henry almost spat out the word. “May I tell you, Madam, that since I have had dealings with your father I do not trust Spaniards.”

“He has been with me many years.…”

“All the more reason why he should return to his own country.”

Katherine felt the tears in her eyes. Pregnancies were becoming more trying than they had been in the beginning, and her weakness often astonished her; usually she was not one to give way to tears.

“Henry…,” she began.

“Madam,” he interrupted, “do not seek to dictate to me. There have been spies enough at my Court. I would like to rid it of all Spaniards.”

She caught her breath with horror.

“You have forgotten that I am…,” she began.

But he cut in: “I do not forget. I know full well that you have been in league with your father, whispering in my ear, tempting me to this or that project…knowing all the while that it was to your father’s benefit…and not to mine.”

“Henry, I swear this to be untrue.”

“Swear if you will. But who trusts a Spaniard?”

“You talk to me as though I were a stranger…and an enemy.”

“You are a Spaniard!” he said.

She reached for the table to steady herself.

Evil rumors had been in the air of late. She had disregarded them as mere gossip: If the Queen does not give the King a child soon, he may decide that she is incapable of bearing children and seek a divorce.

She had thought at the time: How can people be so cruel? They make light of our tribulations with their gossip.

But now she wondered what had set such rumors in motion. When his eyes were narrowed like that he looked so cruel.

She turned away.

“I must go to my apartment,” she said. “I feel unwell.”

He did not answer her; but stood glowering while she walked slowly and in an ungainly manner from the apartment.

SHE WAS WAITING NOW—waiting for the birth of the child which would make all the difference to her future. If this time she could produce a healthy boy, all the King’s pleasure in his marriage would return. It was merely this run of bad luck, she told herself, which had turned him from her. So many failures. It really did seem that some evil fate was working against them. No wonder Henry was beginning to doubt whether it was possible for them to have a family; and because he was Henry, he would not say, Is it impossible for us to have children…but, for her? He would not believe that any failure could possibly come from himself.

She prayed continually: “Let me bear a healthy child. A boy, please, Holy Mother. But if that is asking too much, a girl would please, if only she may be healthy and live…just to prove that I can bear a healthy child.”

In her apartments the device of the pomegranate mocked her. It hung on embroidered tapestry on the walls; it was engraved on so many of her possessions. The pomegranate which signified fruitfulness and which she had seen so many times in her own home before she had understood the old Arabic meaning.

How ironic that she should have taken it as her device!

She dared not brood on the possibility of failure, so she tried to prove to Henry that she was completely faithful to his cause. When the French ambassadors arrived she received them with outward pleasure and the utmost cordiality; she gave a great deal of time to the sad young Mary, helping her to live through that difficult time, cheering her, recalling her own fears on parting from her mother, assuring her that if she would meekly accept her destiny she would eventually triumph over her fears.

She was invaluable at such a time. Even Henry grudgingly admitted it and, because he knew that she was telling him that she had cut off her allegiance to her own people and was determined to work entirely for his cause, he softened towards her.

With the coming of that July the negotiations for the French marriage were completed and the ceremony by proxy was performed.

Mary, her face pale, her large eyes tragic, submitted meekly enough; and Katharine, who was present at the putting to bed ceremony, was sorry for the girl. Quietly she looked on while Mary, shivering in her semi-nakedness, was put to bed by her women, and the Duc de Longueville, who was acting as proxy for the King of France, who was put to bed with her, he fully dressed apart from one naked leg with which he touched Mary. The marriage was then declared to be a true marriage, for the touching of French and English body was tantamount to consummation.

IN OCTOBER of that year Mary was taken with great pomp to Dover, there to set sail for France. Katharine and Henry accompanied her, and Katharine was fearful when she saw the sullen look in Mary’s eyes.

It was a sad occasion for Katharine—that stay at Dover Castle while they waited for storms to subside, for she could not help but remember her own journey from Spain to England and she understood exactly how Mary was feeling.

How sad was the fate of most Princesses! she thought.

She was eager to comfort her young sister-in-law, and tried to arouse Mary’s interest in her clothes and jewels; but Mary remained listless except for those occasions when her anger would burst out against a fate which forced her to marry an old man whom she was determined to despise because there was another whom she loved. The marriage had done nothing at all, Katharine saw, to turn her thoughts from Charles Brandon.

They seemed long, those weeks at Dover. Henry strode through the castle, impatient to have done with the painful parting and return to London, for there could be no real gaiety while the Queen of France went among them, like a mournful ghost of the gay Princess Mary.

Again and again Katharine sought to comfort her. “What rejoicing there will be in Paris,” she said.

But Mary merely shrugged her shoulders. “My heart will be in England,” she said, “so I shall care nothing for rejoicing in Paris.”

“You will…in time.”

“In time!” cried Mary, and her eyes suddenly blazed wickedly. “Ah,” she repeated, “in time.”

There were occasions when she was almost feverishly gay; she would laugh, a little too wildly; she would even sing and dance, and the songs were all of the future. Katharine wondered what was in her mind and was afraid.

Her women doubtless had a trying time. Katharine had noticed some charming girls among the little band who were to accompany Mary to France. Lady Anne and Lady Elisabeth Grey were two very attractive girls and she was sure they were helping in upholding Mary’s spirits.

One day when she went to Mary’s apartments she saw a very young girl, a child, there among the women.

Katharine called to her and the little girl came and curtsied. She had big, dark eyes and one of the most piquantly charming faces Katharine had ever seen.

“What are you doing here, my little one?” she asked.

“Your Grace,” answered the child with the dignity of a much older person, “I am to travel to France in the suite of the Queen. I am one of her maids of honor.”

Katharine smiled. “You are somewhat young for the post, it would seem.”

“I am past seven years old, Your Grace.” The answer was given with hauteur and most surprisingly dignity.

“It would seem young to me. Do you travel with any member of your family?”

“My father is to sail with us, Your Grace.”

“Tell me the name of your father, my child.”

“It is Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

“Ah, I know him well. So you are his daughter…Mary, is it?”

“No, Your Grace. Mary is my sister. My name is Anne.”

Katharine, amused by the precocity of the lovely little girl, smiled. “Well, Anne Boleyn,” she said, “I am sure you will serve your mistress well.”

The child swept a deep and somewhat mannered curtsey, and Katharine passed on.