The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The King Triumphant

LITTLE MARY WAS GROWING UP TO BE A MODEL CHILD. SHE was now two years old and had her separate establishment at Ditton Park in Buckinghamshire. Katharine could not bear to be separated from the child, and consequently she spent a great deal of time in her daughter’s nursery; and she contrived to be often at Windsor Castle so that the child could be ferried over to her there.

Katharine was going to supervise her education as Isabella had her children’s. She was going to take her mother as an example; Mary should learn to love and depend on her mother as she, Katharine, had on hers.

Already Mary was showing great promise. She had a lively intelligence, could speak clearly and knew how to receive important personages. It was a constant delight to present them to her that she might charm them as she charmed her parents.

Henry was almost as devoted as Katharine. He enjoyed taking the child in his arms or on his knees and playing with her. Only occasionally would the frown appear between his eyes, and Katharine would know then that he was thinking: Why is this child not a boy?

Mary quickly showed an aptitude for music, and, young as she was, Katharine taught her how to play on the virginals. The Queen would sit with the little girl on her lap, the four feet long box in which the keyboard was set, placed on the table; and there the childish fingers would pick out the notes.

Her progress was amazing, and Henry as well as Katharine liked to show off her talent as much as possible.

What happy days they were; and to crown her pleasure, Katharine discovered that she was once more pregnant.

“Now we have a healthy girl, we must get us a boy,” said Henry.

His tone was playful but there was a faint threat beneath it. He was determined to have a boy…from someone.

AUTUMN HAD COME and the King hunted all through the day and returned in the late afternoon to banquets and masques.

Katharine was spending the days in happy preoccupation with her domestic affairs. There was so much to occupy her days. She liked to sit sewing with her women; and it was her delight to embroider Henry’s linen, and garments for little Mary. She had moved away from the sphere of politics and was happier for it.

Her hopes of bearing another healthy child were high. Mary was a joy in more ways than one. Not only was she her charming self but she was a promise of future children, a symbol which insisted that what could be done once could be done again.

This was the happiest of her pregnancies—apart from the first one. This time she could feel almost complacent.

“But let it be a boy,” she prayed. “O Holy Mother, intercede for me and give me a boy.”

She was seated at the table on the dais; the hunters had returned hungry from the forest, and Henry was in his place at the center of the table where there was much jesting and laughter.

Elizabeth Blount was present. Katharine always looked for her among the guests, and she marvelled that Henry could have been faithful to a woman for so long. Elizabeth was, of course, a beauty; and she was entirely the King’s. The marriage to Sir Gilbert Taillebois was one in name only. They could be certain of this. Sir Gilbert would not dare to be a husband to Elizabeth while she was the King’s paramour.

Poor Gilbert! thought Katharine with some contempt. He stands by, like a cur, waiting for his master to throw the bone after he has finished gnawing it.

She felt no jealousy of Elizabeth; she felt nothing but this great desire to bear a son.

She did notice, however, that Elizabeth looked different tonight. She was even more attractive than usual. A diamond glittered at her throat. A gift from the King of course. She was dressed in blue velvet with cloth of silver, and those colors were very becoming to her fair beauty. She was subdued tonight. Had she perhaps noticed that the King was less attentive? Yet she seemed radiant. Had she another lover?

Katharine ceased to think of the woman. It was no concern of hers if Henry discarded a mistress, because there would be another if he dispensed with this one. She was not a giddy girl to look for faithfulness in a man such as Henry.

There was a burst of laughter at the table. The King had made a joke. It must be the King’s, for only his jokes provoked such abandoned laughter.

Katharine set her face into a smile, but she was not thinking of the King nor of Elizabeth Blount.

The child stirred suddenly within her. “Holy Mother, give me a healthy child…a healthy male child.”

HENRY’S HAND touched that of Elizabeth in the dance. She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

He pressed her hand warmly. He too had noticed the change in her tonight.

“But you are more fair than ever,” he whispered.

“Your Grace…” Her voice faltered.

“Speak up, Bessie.”

“There is something I must tell you.”

“What is this?”

“I…wish to tell you as soon as we can be alone.”

“You’re frightened, Bessie. What’s wrong?”

“I pray Your Grace…. When we are alone.”

Henry narrowed his eyes, but she was whirled away from him in the dance.

SHE WAS WAITING for him in the antechamber where he had bidden her go.

“Slip away,” he had said when their hands had touched again in the dance. “I will join you. None will notice us.”

At one time she would have smiled at his belief that, when he did not wish to be noticed, he never was. As if everyone in the hall was not aware of the movements of the King! But tonight she was too preoccupied with her thoughts and fears.

He shut the door and stood looking at her.

“Well, Bessie?”

“Your Grace…I…we…I am with child.”

Henry stared at her.

Then he began to laugh. “By God, Bessie,” he cried, “I had begun to think you were a barren woman. When I considered all the nights we have been together…and no sign of a child. I began to wonder what was wrong with you…or…”

He frowned, as though admonishing himself.

He came towards her then, and there was a tender smile on his lips.

“Your Grace is not displeased…?”

Bessie was thinking: This will be the end. He will not want a pregnant woman. There will be someone else. Nothing will ever be the same again.

“Displeased!” He took her face in his hands and gently pinched her cheeks. “There’s nothing could have pleased me more.”

He seized her in his arms and held her so tightly that she would have cried out with the pain if she had dared. Then he swung her into his arms and held her up, looking at her.

Displeased! he was thinking. He had said that nothing could please him more; that was not true. If Bessie gave him a son he would be delighted, but a legitimate son was what he desired more than anything on Earth.

Now that Bessie carried their child he could look more closely at the fears which had been trying to intrude into his mind.

When there was failure to produce children it was natural to presume that something might be wrong with the would-be parents—both of them perhaps. Katharine was not barren. She could become pregnant; her failure lay in not giving birth to a healthy male child. Among her offspring there had been boys—but stillborn, or, as in the case of the first, living only a few days.

If Bessie Blount bore a healthy child, it would prove, would it not, that the fault did not lie with him.

True there was Mary—but one living girl in all those pregnancies! It was almost as though God was against him in some way, as though He had said, you shall not have a male heir.

His high spirits began to overflow. He began dancing round the small chamber with Bessie in his arms.

Then he was sober suddenly. “We must take care of you, my Bessie,” he said, lowering her gently to the ground. “We must cherish this little body of thine now that it shelters a royal child.”

They returned to the ballroom and were covertly watched.

The King does not grow out of his love for Bessie Blount, it was whispered. See, he is as enamored of her now as he was when he first saw her.

KATHARINE WAS in her daughter’s apartments. Mary was seated at the table, propped up with cushions so that she was high enough to reach the virginals which had been placed on the table.

The plump little fingers were moving over the keys with a dexterity astonishing in one so young.

Katharine watched her. She was not yet three years old; surely there was not another child like her in the whole of the kingdom.

“My precious daughter,” she murmured.

Glancing through the window she saw that the November mist was wreathed about the trees like gray ghosts; the ghosts of unborn children, she thought, and shivered.

She placed her hands on the child in her womb; and involuntarily the prayer rose to her lips. “A boy. Let it be a boy.”

If I have a boy—as healthy, as bright as my little Mary, then Henry will be pleased with me. It is all he needs to make him happy. What need have I to concern myself with the Elizabeth Blounts of the Court if only I can have a healthy boy.

The child had finished her piece. Margaret Bryan clapped her hands, and the Duchess of Norfolk and her daughter, Lady Margaret Herbert, who were both in attendance on the little Princess, clapped with her.

Katharine rose to embrace her daughter and, as she did so, she felt the now familiar nagging pains begin.

She cried out in alarm. It was not the pains which frightened her. It was the gray mist out there. It looked like ghosts…ghosts of children who had made a brief appearance on Earth and then had gone away. It reminded her that this was but November and her child was not due to be born until the Christmas festivities should begin.

SO IT WAS OVER.

She lay frustrated, sick, weary and a little frightened. She heard voices which seemed to come from a long way off but which she knew were in her bedchamber.

“A daughter…a stillborn daughter.”

Oh my God, she thought, then You have forsaken me.

There were other voices, but these were in her mind.

“They say the King fears his marriage does not find favor in Heaven.” “They say it is because he married his brother’s wife.” “They say it would not be difficult to end such a marriage…now, for the Queen’s father is dead and there is no need to fear her nephew…he is but a boy. Why should the King fear him?”

She closed her eyes. She was too weak to care what became of her.

She thought: This was my last chance. I have tried so many times. We have one daughter. But where is the son he so desperately needs, where is the boy who could make him tender towards me?

HE WAS STANDING by her bedside, and they were alone. When he had that look in his eyes, people slunk away from him. Even his dogs were aware of it. She had seen him often standing, legs apart, eyes blue fire, chin jutting forward—the sullen, angry boy. The dogs waited in corners and the clever men like Cardinal Wolsey were called away on urgent state matters.

Now they had left him with her; and she lay helplessly looking up at him.

She said: “I am sorry, Henry. We have failed once more.”

“We have failed? I did my part. It is you who fail to do yours.”

“I do not know where I failed, Henry.”

Those were the wrong words. How easy it was to speak the wrong words.

“You would suggest that it is something in me!”

“I do not know what it is, Henry.”

She thought he would strike her then.

O God, she thought, how much it means to him! How angry he is!

He had taken one step towards the bed and stopped; then he turned and began pacing the room. He was holding in his anger. He was hurt and bewildered. He had thought, after Mary, that they would get a son.

She knew that with each attempt she lost some charm for him. Each time she took to her bed in the hope of giving birth, she rose from it more wan, more listless; each time she left some of her youth behind.

She understood him well enough to know that these failures hurt him so much because they brought an insidious doubt into his mind. He would admit this to none, but she who had lived close to him for nine years knew him perhaps better than he knew himself, for he was a man who would never know himself well because he refused to look where it was not pleasant to do so.

Yet he could not drive the question from his mind. Is it in some measure due to me? Am I incapable of begetting a healthy son?

He could not bear that he should be anything but perfect. He loved himself so much.

Even in that moment she, who was so much wiser, was sorry for him. If she could, she would have risen from her bed and comforted him.

He had paused before the device which hung on the wall. The device of the pomegranate—the Arabic sign of fertility.

Oh, if I could but go back to the happy days in Granada before I had seen England, when my beloved mother was alive, I would never have chosen this as my device.

Henry began to laugh, and his laughter was not pleasant to hear.

He lifted his hand, and she thought that he was about to tear the device from the wall and trample on it. As though with difficulty he restrained himself; then, without another look at her, he strode from the room.

HENRY RODE OUT to a certain Priory, and with him he took only his most intimate friends. Compton and Bryan were among them, and they chatted and laughed gaily as they went along.

But Henry had not his heart in the raillery. He listened half-heartedly and there was a strained expression on his face. And after a while they fell silent.

Henry believed what was waiting for him at the Priory was of the utmost importance. He was praying, as he went along, for a sign. He would discuss his thoughts with no one, for as yet he was afraid of them; but if what he hoped should happen, then he might begin to reshape his life.

When they reached the Priory, he rode ahead of his friends into the courtyard, and grooms who clearly were expecting the important visitor hurried out to do them service.

Henry leaped out of the saddle; he was striding into the building and as he did so he was met by two excited nuns; their faces under their black hoods were flushed and their eyes alight with excitement.

“What news?” demanded Henry.

“It is all over, Your Grace. Her ladyship is well and will be eager to see you.”

“And…is there a child?”

“Yes, Your Grace, a bonny child.”

Holy Mother of God, they torture me, thought Henry.

He shouted. “Boy or girl?”

“A bonny boy, Your Grace.”

Henry gave a shout of triumph.

He called to Compton who was close behind him: “Did you hear that? A boy! Bessie has my boy!” Then he seized the nearest nun by the shoulder. “Take me to them,” he cried. “Take me to Lady Taillebois and my son.”

They led the way, running, for this was an impatient King.

He saw her on her pillows, her red gold hair spread about her as he had seen it so many times before. She was pale and triumphant. She was his beautiful Bessie who had given him what he wanted, now as she always had.

“Why, Bessie.” He was on his knees by the bed. “So you’ve done it, eh, girl? You’ve come through it, eh?” He took her hand and kissed it loudly. “And the child? Where is he?” Suspicion shot up in his eyes. “Where is he, I say?”

A nun had appeared; she was holding a child.

Henry was on his feet, staring down at the burden in her arms.

So small. So wrinkled. Yet a child. His child. He wanted to shout with joy. There was the faint down on that small head—and it was Tudor red.

Tears were in his eyes. The smallness of the child moved him; this little one, his son!

Then he thought, Holy Mother, how could you do this to me…? You give Bessie my son…when I want to give him my crown.

He took the child from the woman.

“Your Grace, have a care. He is young yet.”

“Do you think to tell me to have a care for my own child? Let me tell you, woman, this child means as much to me as my crown. This is my son. By God, this boy shall know great honors….” He was overcome with love for the child, with gratitude to Bessie, who had not only given him a son, but proved his capability to beget sons. He said rashly: “This child might have my crown.”

Bryan and Compton exchanged glances.

The remarks of an exuberant father on beholding his son?

Mayhap. But both Bryan and Compton were wondering what effect the existence of this young child could have on the Queen.

HENRY HAD SUMMONED the whole Court to that Manor which he had some time since bought for Bessie Blount. This was the occasion of the christening of his son.

It was to be a grand ceremony, for he would have everyone know that since he welcomed his son into the world with such joy, so must they all.

There was one guest at the ceremony whom many thought it was cruel to have asked. She had come, pale and resigned, looking like a middle-aged woman since her last pregnancy.

Poor Katharine! How sad it was that it was she who, out of so many pregnancies, had been only able to produce one daughter while Bessie Blount should give the King a healthy son.

She brought presents for the child. She showed no resentment for she had already learned that it was wise to hide her true feelings.

The King seemed unaware of the indignity he was heaping upon her; he seemed at that time unaware of her.

And when the name of the newly born child was asked, it was Henry himself who answered in a deep, resonant voice which could be heard by all: “This child’s name is Henry Fitzroy.”

And as he spoke he looked at Katharine. She was startled; she had always known that there was cruelty in his nature; but now she read his thoughts: You see, I can get me a son. But not through my wife. Here is my boy…my healthy boy. Is it not strange that you should have tried so many times and failed? Is it because our marriage is frowned on in Heaven? Is it, my wife? My wife!

Now her nightmares had taken shape. They were no vague phantoms.

She saw the speculation in those blue eyes.

She thought: I am the Queen. None can change that. And she would not meet his gaze for fear she should be tempted to look into the future.

She was here in the Manor he had bought for his mistress; she was attending the christening of his only son—and a son by that mistress.

For the present she was the Queen of England. She would not look beyond that.