The Shadow of the Pomegranate

The King’s Indiscretion

THE KING SAT IN THE WINDOW SEAT STRUMMING HIS LUTE and trying out a song of his own composition; there was a dreamy expression in his eyes and he did not see the courtyard below; he was picturing himself in the great hall, calling for his lute and surprising all present with the excellence of his song.

They would say: “But who is the composer? We must bring him to Court. There are few who can give us such music.”

He would put his head on one side. “I do not think it would be an impossible task to bring this fellow to Court. In fact I have a certain suspicion that he is with us now.”

They would look at each other in surprise. “But, Sire, if such genius were among us surely we could not be so blind as to be unaware of it. We pray Your Grace, summon him to your presence and command him to continue to delight us.”

“I doubt he would obey my command. He is a rash fellow.”

“Not obey the command of the King!”

Then he would laugh and say: “Now I will play you one of my own songs….” And he would play and sing the very same song.

They would look at each other in amazement—but not too much surprise. They must not run the risk of implying that they did not believe him capable of writing such music. They would quickly allow their bewilderment to fade and then it would be: “But how foolish of us. We should have known that none but Your Grace could give us such a song.”

In a little while the song would be sung throughout the Court. The women would sing it, wistfully, and with yearning in their eyes and voices. There were many women who looked at him with longing now. He knew he had but to beckon and they would be ready for anything he should suggest whether it was a quick tumble in a secluded garden or the honor of being the recognized mistress of a King.

His mouth was prim. He intended to be virtuous.

He sang quietly under his breath:

“The best I sue,

The worst eschew:

My mind shall be

Virtue to use;

Vice to refuse

I shall use me.”

He would sing that song, and as he did so he would look at those wantons who tried to lure him into sin.

Of course, he told himself often, I am a King, and the rules which are made for other men are not for Kings. But I love my wife and she is devoted to me. She will bear me children in time, and to them and to my people will I set an example. None shall say of me: There was a lecher. It shall be said: There goes the King who is strong, not only in battle, not only in state councils, but in virtue.

So his little mouth was prim as he sat playing his lute and practicing the song with which, later that day, he would surprise the Court.

And watching at the window he saw her. She was neither tall nor short, and she was very beautiful. She looked up and saw him, and she dropped a curtsey. There was invitation in the way she lifted her skirts and lowered her eyes. He knew her. Her name was Anne and she was Buckingham’s younger sister who had recently married her second husband. Images of Anne Stafford with her two husbands came into his mind. The primness left his mouth which had slackened a little.

He bowed his head in acknowledgment of her curtsey and his fingers idly strummed the lute, for he had momentarily forgotten the song.

Anne Stafford went on her way, but before she had taken more than a few steps she turned to look again at the window.

This time she smiled. Henry’s lips seemed to be frozen; he did not acknowledge the smile but after she had disappeared he went on thinking of her.

He found that one of the grooms of the bedchamber was standing beside him. He started and wondered how long the man had been there.

“So ’tis you, Compton,” he said.

“’Tis I, Your Grace,” answered Sir William Compton. “Come to see if you have work for me to do.”

Henry strummed on the lute. “What work should I have for which I should not call you?”

“I but seek excuses to speak awhile with Your Grace.”

Henry smiled. There were times when he liked to live informally among his friends; and Sir William Compton, a handsome man some ten years older than himself, amused him. He had been Henry’s page when he was Prince of Wales and they had shared many confidences. When he had become King, Henry had given Compton rapid promotion. He was now chief gentleman of the bedchamber, as well as Groom of the Stole and Constable of Sudeley and Gloucester castles.

“Well, speak on,” said Henry.

“I was watching Lady Huntingdon pass below. She’s a forward wench.”

“And why did you think that?”

“By the glance she threw at Your Grace. If ever I saw invitation it was there.”

“My dear William,” said Henry, “do you not know that I receive such invitations whenever I am in the company of women?”

“I know it, Sire. But those are invitations discreetly given.”

“And she was not…discreet?”

“If she seemed so to Your Grace I will say that she was.”

Henry laughed. “Ah, if I were not a virtuous married man….” He sighed.

“Your Grace would seem to regret that you are a virtuous married man.”

“How could I regret my virtue?” said Henry, his mouth falling into the familiar lines of primness.

“Nay, Sire. You, being such a wise King, would not; it is only the ladies who are deprived of Your Grace’s company who must regret.”

“I’ll not say,” said the King, “that I would ask for too much virtue in a man. He must do his duty, true, duty to state, duty to family; but when that is done…”

Compton nodded. “A little dalliance is good for all.”

Henry licked his lips. He was thinking of Anne Stafford; the very way she dipped a curtsey was a challenge to a man’s virility.

“I have heard it said that a little dalliance away from the marriage bed will often result in a return to that bed with renewed vigor,” murmured Henry.

“All are aware of Your Grace’s vigor,” said Compton slyly, “and that it is in no need of renewal.”

“Two of my children have died,” said the King mournfully.

Compton smiled. He could see how the King’s mind was working. He wanted to be virtuous; he wanted his dalliance, and yet to be able to say it was virtuous dalliance: I dallied with Anne Stafford because I felt that if I strayed awhile I could come back to Katharine with renewed vigor—so powerful that it must result in the begetting of a fine, strong son.

Compton, who had lived many years close to Henry, knew something of his character. Henry liked to think of himself as a deeply religious man, a man devoted to duty; but at heart he had one god and that was himself; and his love for pleasure far exceeded his desire to do his duty. Moreover, the King was not a man to deny himself the smallest pleasure; he was a sensualist; he was strong, healthy, lusty like many of his friends; but, whereas some of them thoughtlessly took their pleasures where they found them, Henry could not do this before he had first assured himself that what he did was the right thing to do. He was troubled by the voice of his conscience which must first be appeased; it was as though there were two men in that fine athletic body: the pleasure-seeking King and the other, who was completely devoted to his duty. The former would always be forced to make his excuses to the latter, but Compton had no doubt of the persuasive powers of one and the blind eye of the other.

“There are some ladies,” mused Compton, “who are willing enough to give a smile of promise but never ready to fulfil those promises.”

“That is so,” agreed Henry.

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

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

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

Henry nodded thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is my own—and also another’s.”

“And who is this other?”

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

She nodded.

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

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

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

“Ah yes,” she answered. “Do you come to me with a message?”

Compton put his head on one side. “That will come later. I would wish to know whether you would be prepared to receive such a message.”

“I have an open mind, Sir William. I do not turn away messengers. I peruse their messages; but I do not always agree to proposals.”

“You are wise, Madam. Proposals should always be rejected unless they are quite irresistible.”

“And perhaps even then,” she added.

“Some proposals would be irresistible to any lady; then it would be wise to accept them.”

She laughed. “You keep company with the King,” she said. “What is this new song he has written?”

“I will teach it to you.”

“That pleases me.” She called to her maid and the girl put down the box and hurried forward. “My lute,” said Anne. And the girl brought it.

“Now,” went on Anne.

Compton came close to her and they sang together.

When they stopped he said: “I shall tell the King that you sang and liked his song. It may be that His Grace would wish you to sing for him. Would that delight you?”

She lowered her eyelids. “I should need some time to practice. I would not wish to sing before His Grace until I had made sure that my performance could give the utmost satisfaction to him…and to myself.”

Compton laughed.

“I understand,” he murmured. “I am sure your performance will give the utmost pleasure.”

ANNE WAS PASSING through an anteroom on her way from an interview with her sister. She was feeling annoyed. Elizabeth had been very severe. She had heard that Sir William Compton had visited Anne on several occasions and such conduct, she would have Anne know, was unseemly in a Stafford.

“I was never alone with him,” Anne protested.

“I should hope not!” retorted Elizabeth. “Do behave with more decorum. You must keep away from him in future. The Queen would be displeased if she knew; and what of your husband? Have you forgotten that you are a married woman?”

“I have been twice married to please my family, so I am scarcely likely to forget.”

“I am glad,” replied Elizabeth primly.

Anne was thinking of this as she hurried through the rooms. The Queen would be displeased! She laughed. Indeed the Queen would be displeased if she knew the true purpose of Sir William’s visits. Perhaps soon she would be ready for that encounter with the King, and once that had taken place she was sure that Queen Katharine’s influence at Court would be a little diminished. There would be a new star, for Anne Stafford, Countess of Huntingdon, would be of greater importance even than her brother, the Duke of Buckingham.

As she came into an anteroom a woman rose from a stool and came hurriedly towards her.

“My lady Huntingdon.” The voice was low and supplicating, and vaguely familiar. The accent was foreign and easily recognizable as Spanish since there had been so many Spaniards at Court. This was a very beautiful woman. “You do not know me,” she said.

“I know your face. Were you a lady-in-waiting to the Queen?”

“I was, before she was Queen. My name is Francesca de Carceres and I am now the wife of the Genoese banker, Francesco Grimaldi.”

“I do remember,” said Anne. “You ran away from Court a few months before the Queen’s marriage.”

“Yes,” said Francesca and her lovely face hardened. She had schemed for power; she had imagined that one day she would be the chief confidante of the Queen; but the Queen had been surrounded by those whom Francesca looked upon as her enemies, and in despair Francesca had run away from Court to become the wife of the rich and elderly banker.

Her banker was ready to lavish his fortune upon her, but it was not jewels and fine garments which Francesca wanted; it was power. She realized that fully, now that she had lost her place at Court; and she cursed herself for a fool because she had run away two months before Henry had announced his intention to marry Katharine. Had she waited two months longer, as one of Katharine’s ladies-in-waiting, as a member of one of the noble families of Spain, she would have been given a husband worthy of her background; she would have remained in the intimate circle of the Queen.

Having lost these things Francesca now realized how much they meant to her, and she presented herself at Court in the hope of getting an audience with Katharine, but Katharine had so far declined to see her. Francesca had been a troublemaker; she had quarreled with Katharine’s confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez; she had intrigued with Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida who had been the Spanish ambassador at the time and whose arrogance and incompetence had aroused Katharine’s indignation and had resulted in his being sent back to Spain.

Moreover in Katharine’s eyes Francesca had committed the unforgivable sin of marrying a commoner, and she wished her former maid of honor to know that there was no longer a place at Court for her.

But Francesca was not one to give way lightly; and she was constantly to be seen in anterooms, hoping for a glimpse of the Queen that she might put her case to her and plead eloquently for that for which she so much longed.

Francesca now said eagerly: “I wonder if you could say a word in my favor to Her Grace the Queen.”

“You mistake me for my sister,” Anne answered. “It is she who is in the service of Her Grace.”

“And you…are in the service of…?”

Anne smiled so roguishly that Francesca was immediately alert.

“I am the younger sister,” said Anne. “My brother and sister think me of little account.”

“I’ll warrant they’re wrong.”

Anne shrugged her shoulders. “That may well be,” she agreed.

“The Queen has changed since her marriage,” went on Francesca. “She has grown hard. There was a time, when she lived most humbly in Durham House and I waited on her. Then she would not have refused an audience to an old friend.”

“She disapproved strongly of your marriage; she is very pious and surrounds herself with those of the same mind.”

Francesca nodded.

“My sister is one of them. I have just received a letter on the lightness of my ways, when all I did was to receive a gentleman—one of the King’s gentlemen—in the presence of my maid.”

“It is natural,” said Francesca slyly, “that the Queen’s friends should be disturbed when a gentleman of the King’s household visits a lady as beautiful as yourself…on the King’s orders.”

“But I did not say…,” began Anne, and then she burst into laughter. She went on incautiously: “She is indeed so much older than he is, so much more serious. Is it to be wondered at?”

“I do not marvel,” replied Francesca. “And, Lady Huntingdon, if ever you should find yourself in a position to ask favors, would you remember that I have a desire to return to Court?”

Anne’s eyes gleamed. It was a glorious thing to be asked such favors; the power of the King’s mistress would be infinite.

She bowed her head graciously.

“I would be your friend for evermore,” murmured Francesca.

Anne laughed lightly and said: “I shall not forget you.”

She walked on as though she were a Queen instead of a potential King’s mistress.

Little fool! thought Francesca. If she ever does reach the King’s bed she will not stay there long.

There was a constricted feeling in Francesca’s throat which was the result of bitterness. She was the most unfortunate of women. She had endured all the years of hardship as Katharine’s friend; and then two months before the coming of power and glory she had run away to Grimaldi—she, who longed to live her life in an atmosphere of Court intrigue, whose great delight was to find her way through the maze of political strategy.

She went back to the luxurious house where she lived with her rich husband.

He watched her with a certain sadness in his eyes. To him she was like some gorgeous bird which had fluttered into the cage he had prepared for her and was now longing to escape.

She was so young and so beautiful, but lately the lines of discontent had begun to appear on her brow.

“What luck?” he asked.

“None. When do I ever have luck? She will not receive me. She will never forgive me for marrying you. I have heard that she thinks I did it to cover up a love affair with Fuensalida. Our Queen cannot understand a noblewoman’s marrying a commoner except to avoid a great scandal. Fuensalida was of a family worthy to match my own.”

“And I am a vulgar commoner,” sighed Grimaldi.

Francesca looked at him, her head on one side. Then she smiled and going to him she took his head in her hands and laid her lips lightly on the sparse hair. She loved power and he gave her power over him. He would do anything to please her.

“I married you,” she answered.

He could not see her mouth, which had twisted into a bitter line. I married him! she thought. And in doing so I brought about my exile from the Court. It was so easy to offend. She thought of the frivolous Anne Stafford who was hoping—so desperately hoping—to begin a love affair with the King.

Then she smiled slowly. Such a woman would never keep her place for more than a night or two. Francesca could not place herself on the side of such a woman; and if it was going to be a matter of taking sides there would be another on which she could range herself.

If Katharine were grateful to her, might she not be ready to forgive that unfortunate marriage?

KATHARINE WAS on her knees praying with her confessor, Fray Diego Fernandez, and the burden of her prayer was: Let me bear a son.

Fray Diego prayed with her and he comforted her. He was a young man of strong views and there had been certain rumors, mainly circulated by his enemies, the chief of whom was the ambassador Fuensalida with whom he had clashed on more than one occasion; and another was Francesca de Carceres who had been convinced, first that he was preventing her returning to Spain and, now that she was married and exiled from Court, that he was preventing her being received again.

The pugnacious little priest was the kind to provoke enemies; but Katharine trusted him; indeed in those days, immediately before her marriage, when she had begun to despair of ever escaping from the drab monotony of Durham House, and had discovered the duplicity of her duenna, Doña Elvira, and the stupidity of her father’s ambassador, Fuensalida, she had felt Fray Diego to be her only friend.

Katharine was not likely to forget those days; her memory was long and her judgment inflexible. If she could not forgive her enemies, she found it equally difficult to forget her friends.

Fuensalida had been sent back to Spain; Francesca had proved her treachery by deserting her mistress and escaping to marriage with the banker; but Fray Diego remained.

She rose from her knees and said: “Fray Diego, there are times when I think that you and Maria de Salinas are the only part of Spain that is left to me. I can scarcely remember what my father looks like; and I have almost as little esteem for our present ambassador as I had for his predecessor.”

“Oh, I do not trust Don Luis Caroz either, Your Grace,” said the priest.

“I cannot think why my father sends such men to represent him at the English Court.”

“It is because he knows his true ambassador is the Queen herself. There is none who can do his cause more good than his own daughter; and none more wise or understanding of the English.”

Katharine smiled tenderly. “I have been blessed in that I may study them at the closest quarters…singularly blessed.”

“The King is full of affection towards Your Grace, and that is a matter for great rejoicing.”

“I would I could please him, Fray Diego. I would I could give him that which he most desires.”

“And is there any sign, Your Grace?”

“Fray Diego, I will tell you a secret, and secret it must be, for it is as yet too soon to say. I believe I may be pregnant.”

“Glory be to the saints!”

She put her fingers to her lips. “Not a word, Fray Diego. I could not endure the King’s disappointment should it not be so. You see, if I told him he would want to set the bells ringing; he would tell the entire Court…and then…if it were not so…how disappointed he would be!”

Fray Diego nodded. “We do not wish Caroz to prattle of the matter.”

“Indeed no. Sometimes I wonder what he writes to my father.”

“He writes of his own shrewdness. He believes himself to be the greatest ambassador in the world. He does not understand that Your Grace prepared the way for him. He does not know how you continually plead your father’s cause with the King.”

“I do not see it as my father’s cause, Fray Diego. I see it as friendship between our two countries. I would have perfect harmony between them, and I believe we are working towards it.”

“If Caroz does not ruin everything, it may well be. He is such an arrogant man that he does not know that Your Grace’s father sent him to England because he had sufficient wealth to pay his own way.”

“Ah, my father was always careful with the gold. He had to be. There were so many calls upon it.”

“He and the late King of England were a pair. The King, your husband, is of a different calibre.”

Katharine did not say that her husband’s extravagance sometimes gave her anxiety; she scarcely admitted it to herself. Henry VII had amassed a great fortune, and once his successor had had a surfeit of pleasure he would shoulder his responsibilities and turn his back on it. Katharine often remembered his behavior when the people had robbed him of his jewellery so unexpectedly; and she believed that when he was in danger he would always know how to act. He was a boy as yet—a boy who had escaped from a parsimonious upbringing. He would soon grow tired of the glitter and the gold.

Fray Diego went on: “Your Grace, Francesca de Carceres was at the Palace today, hoping for an audience.”

“Did she ask it?”

“She did and I told her that Your Grace had expressed no desire to see her. She abused me, telling me that it was due to me that you had refused, that I had carried evil tales about her. She is a dangerous woman.”

“I fear so. She is one who will always scheme. I do not wish to see her. Tell her I regret her marriage as much as she evidently does; but since she made it of her own free will I should admire her more if she were content with the station in life which she herself chose.”

“That I will do, Your Grace.”

“And now, Fray Diego, I will join my ladies. And remember I have not even told Doña Maria de Salinas or Lady Elizabeth Fitzwalter of my hopes.”

“I shall treat it as a secret of the confessional, Your Grace; and I shall pray that ere long the whole Court will be praying with me that this time there may be an heir who lives.”

FRANCESCA DE CARCERES was furiously angry as she left the Palace. She had always hated Fray Diego Fernandez but never quite so much as she did at this time. She had persuaded herself that it was due to his influence that Katharine would not receive her; and she decided to seek the help of the Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Caroz.

This was not difficult to arrange, because her husband transacted business for Caroz as he had done for Fuensalida, and the ambassador was a frequent visitor to the Grimaldi household.

So on his very next visit Francesca detained him and told him that she had news of an intrigue which was taking place at Court and of which she felt he should not be kept in ignorance.

She then told him that she believed that the King was either conducting, or preparing to conduct, a love affair with Lady Huntingdon.

The ambassador was horrified. It was essential to Spanish interests that Katharine should keep her influence with the King, and a mistress could mean considerable harm to those interests.

“The affair must be stopped,” he said.

“I doubt whether it has begun,” answered Francesca. “The King has been a faithful husband so far, in spite of temptations; but I think he is eager to subdue his conscience and take a mistress. I believe therefore that we should take some action…quickly. The Queen will not see me. Could you approach her, tell her that I have discovered this and am sending the news to her through you? You might hint that if she would see me I could tell her more.”

The ambassador shook his head. “It would be dangerous to approach the Queen. We cannot be sure what action she would take. She might reproach the King, which could have disastrous results. Nay, this woman has a sister who is in the service of the Queen. We will approach the sister, Lady Fitzwalter. She will almost certainly call in the help of her brother the Duke and I am sure that the proud Staffords would not wish their sister to become the mistress even of the King. They will doubtless realize that the relationship with this rather foolish woman would be of short duration.”

Francesca was silent. She did not see how this was going to help her win the Queen’s favor, which was her sole object; but she had grown wise since making her fatal mistake. Her most powerful friend was the ambassador, and if she wished to keep his friendship she must fall in with his wishes.

“You are right,” she said at length. “The important thing is to prevent the Queen from losing her influence over the King.”

Caroz smiled slowly. “I think you might ask for an audience with Lady Fitzwalter. Tell her what you know. We will then watch how the Staffords receive the news. If things do not work out as we wish, we might take other action.”

“I shall do exactly as you say,” Francesca assured him.

He answered: “You are a good friend to Spain, Doña Francesca.”

She felt more hopeful than she had for a long time. Perhaps previously she had been wrong to count so much on getting an audience with the Queen. She must work her way back through more devious paths. The Spanish ambassador might even report to Ferdinand her usefulness. It was possible that Katharine’s father would command his daughter to take such a useful servant of Spain back into her service.

EDWARD STAFFORD, third Duke of Buckingham, looked at his elder sister in dismay which was quickly turning to anger.

Buckingham’s dignity was great. Secretly he believed that he was more royal than the King himself, for the Tudor ancestry could not bear too close a scrutiny; but the Staffords had royal blood in their veins and the present Duke could never forget that he was directly descended from Edward III.

Buckingham was a member of the King’s most intimate circle, but Henry had the Tudor’s suspicion of any who had too close a connection with the throne, and would never have the same affection for the Duke as he had for men like Sir William Compton.

In spite of his ambition Buckingham could not overcome his pride. Because he himself could never forget his royal descent he could not help making others aware of it on every conceivable occasion. Often his friends had warned him to beware; but Buckingham, although being fully conscious of possible danger, could not curb his arrogance.

As yet the danger was not acute. Henry was young with a boy’s delight in sport and pageantry. He enjoyed perfect health and his bursts of ill temper, although liable to occur suddenly, were quickly over and forgotten. So far he was sure of his popularity with his people and therefore inclined to be a little careless of the ambitions of others. But there were times when those suspicions, which had been so much a part of his father’s character, made themselves apparent.

Buckingham’s reactions to the news his sister was telling him were so fierce that he forgot that the King was involved in this matter.

He burst out: “Has the woman no family pride! Does she forget she is a Stafford?”

“It would seem so,” answered Elizabeth Fitzwalter. “I am informed that it can only be a matter of days before she surrenders.”

“She is such a fool that she would not hold the King’s attention more than a night or so,” growled Buckingham. “Moreover, the King is still too enamored of the Queen for a mistress to have any chance of making her position really secure.”

Elizabeth bowed her head. She was deeply shocked that a sister of hers should be ready to indulge in such immorality, but she was after all an ambitious Stafford and did know that the families of King’s mistresses rarely suffered from their connection with royalty. But she, like her brother, realized that Anne’s triumph would be short-lived; therefore it was advisable to stop the affair before it went too far.

“I suppose the whole Court is gossiping of this matter!” said Buckingham.

“I do not think it is widely known as yet; but of course as soon as she has shared the King’s bed for one night it will be known throughout the Court. So far Compton is acting as go-between, and the final arrangements have not yet been made. Our sister is behaving like a simpering village girl—clinging to her chastity with reluctant fingers.”

“And likely to let go at any moment. Well, she shall not do so. I trust that we may rely on our informants.”

“I am sure of it. You remember Francesca de Carceres? She is a clever woman and very eager to return to Court. She is anxious to show the Queen that she is still her humble servant. Anne—the little fool—allowed this woman to wheedle her secret from her; and I believe that Carceres feels that if she can prevent our sister’s becoming the King’s mistress she will have earned the Queen’s gratitude. She makes a good spy, that woman.”

The Duke nodded. “There is one thing to be done. I will send immediately for Huntingdon. He shall take his wife away to the country with all speed.”

“I was sure you would know what should best be done, Edward.” She looked anxious. “And the King? I am a little worried concerning his feelings when he knows that she has been whisked away from him.”

“He will have to understand,” said Buckingham haughtily, “that if he wants to take a mistress he must not look for her among the Staffords, whose blood is as royal as his own.”

“Edward, do not let anyone hear you say that.”

Buckingham shrugged his shoulders. “It does not need to be said. It is known for the truth by any who care to look into the matter.”

“Still, have a care, Edward. I shall be so pleased when her husband has taken her out of danger.”

ANNE’S MAID CAME to tell her that Sir William Compton was begging an audience.

“Then bring him to me,” said Anne, “and do not forget to remain in the room.”

He came in and once again the maid set about tidying the sewing box.

“I declare you grow more beautiful every time I have the pleasure of seeing you.”

“You are gracious, sir.”

“I come to tell you that impatience is growing strong in a certain breast.”

“And what should I do about that?”

“It is only yourself who can appease it. I come to ask you if you will allow me to arrange a meeting between you and this impatient one.”

“It would depend.…”

“On what, Madam?”

“On when and where this meeting should take place?”

Compton came closer and whispered: “In one of the royal apartments. None would see you come to it. It should be a matter between you and him who bids me tell you of his impatience.”

“Then it seems this would be a command rather than a request.”

“It could seem so,” agreed Compton.

She smiled, her eyes gleaming. “Then I have no alternative but to say, Tell me when…tell me where.…”

The door opened suddenly. The Countess of Huntingdon gave a little cry of alarm, and the maid dropped her sewing box as the Duke of Buckingham strode into the room.

“Why, brother, is it indeed you?” stammered Anne.

“Whom else did you expect? Your lover! Or is this one he? By the saints, Madam, you forget who you are! This is conduct worthy of a serving wench.”

“My lord Buckingham,” began Compton sternly, “I come on the King’s business.”

“Neither the King nor anyone else has business in the private apartment of a married woman of my family.”

“The King, I had always believed, might have business with any subject, an he wished it.”

“No, sir, you are mistaken. This is my sister, and if she has forgotten the dignity due to her name, then she must be reminded of it.” He turned to Anne. “Get your cloak at once.”

“But why?”

“You will understand later, though it is not necessary for one so foolish to understand, but only to obey.”

Anne stamped her foot. “Edward, leave me alone.”

Buckingham strode forward and seized her by the arm. “You little fool! How long do you think it would last for you? Tonight? Tomorrow night? Disgrace to your name. That you are ready to bear. But, by God and all the saints, I’ll not suffer disgrace to mine. Come, you would-be harlot, your cloak.” He turned to the maid. “Get it,” he shouted, and the girl hurried to obey.

Compton stood looking at the Duke. He wondered how long such arrogance could survive at Court. But Buckingham was no youngster; he was well past his thirtieth birthday; he should be able to look after himself, and if he valued his family pride more than his life, that was his affair.

Compton shrugged. He was faintly amused. It would be interesting to see how the spoiled golden boy responded to this.

Buckingham snatched the cloak from the maid’s trembling hands and roughly threw it about his sister’s shoulders.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“To your husband who, if he takes my advice, will place you this night in a convent. A pallet in a cell for you, sister; that is what your lust shall bring you.”

Compton plucked the sleeve of the Duke’s doublet.

“Do you realize that His Grace will not be pleased with you?”

“I,” retorted Buckingham haughtily, “am far from pleased with His Grace’s attempt to seduce my sister. Nor do I care for pimps—even though they be the King’s own—to lay hands on me.”

“Buckingham,” murmured Compton, “you fool, Buckingham.”

But Buckingham was not listening; he had taken his sister by the shoulders and pushed her before him from the room.

“AND SO, YOUR GRACE,” said Compton, “the Duke burst into his sister’s apartment, bade her maid bring her cloak, and thereupon hustled her from the apartment with threats that he was taking her to her husband, and that the pair of them would see that this night she would lie in a convent.”

The King’s eyes were narrow and through the slits shone like pieces of blue glass; his fresh color was heightened.

“By God and our Holy Mother!” he cried.

“Yes, Sire,” went on Compton. “I warned the Duke. I told him of Your Grace’s pleasure.”

“And what said he?”

“He cared only for his sister’s honor.”

“I planned to honor the woman.”

“’Tis so, Sire. The Duke has another meaning for the word.”

“By God and his Holy Mother!” repeated the King.

Anything can happen now, thought Compton. The frisky cub is a young lion uncertain of his strength. He will not be uncertain long. Soon he will know its extent, and then it will go ill for any who oppose him.

Compton tried to read the thoughts behind those pieces of blue flint.

Frustrated desire! Now the lady seemed infinitely desirable. Out of reach in a convent! Could he demand her release? Could he have her brought to his apartments, laid on his bed? But what of the people, the people who adored him, who shouted their approval of their golden boy? They had seen him embrace his wife whom he had married because he said he loved her more than any woman. The people wanted their handsome King to be a virtuous husband. What would they say if they heard the story of the King and Buckingham’s sister? They would laugh; they would snigger. They might say: Well, he is a King, but he is a man as well. They would forgive him his frailty; but he wished to have no frailty in their eyes. He wished to be perfect.

His eyes widened and Compton saw that they were the eyes of a bewildered boy. The cub was not yet certain of his strength; he had not yet grown into the young lion.

Now there was anger on the flushed face…vindictive anger. He would not send for the woman and there would be no scandal. Yet he would not lightly forgive those who had frustrated him.

He turned on Compton. “How did Buckingham discover this?”

“It was through his sister—Your Grace may recollect that the Duke has two sisters—Anne, your Grace’s…friend, and Elizabeth, Lady Fitzwalter.”

“I know her,” growled Henry. “She is with the Queen.”

“A lady of high virtue, Your Grace. And much pride, like her brother.”

“A prim piece,” said Henry, and his eyes were cruel. Then he shouted: “Send for Buckingham.”

Compton left him, but Buckingham was not at Court. He, with Anne and Lord Huntingdon, were on their way to the convent which Buckingham had ordered should be made ready to receive his erring sister.

THE KING’S ANGER HAD had time to cool by the time Buckingham stood before him; but Henry was not going to allow anyone to interfere in his affairs.

He scowled at the Duke.

“You give yourself airs, sir Duke,” he said.

“If Your Grace will tell me in what matter I have displeased you I will do my best to rectify my error…if it be in my power.”

“I hear you have sent your sister into a convent.”

“I thought she needed a little correction, Your Grace.”

“You did not ask our permission to send her there.”

“I did not think Your Grace would wish to be bothered with a family matter.”

The King flushed hotly; he was holding fast to his rising temper. The situation was delicate. He was wondering how much of this had reached the Queen’s ears and hoping that he could give vent to his anger in such a manner that Katharine would never hear of it.

“I am always interested in the welfare of my subjects,” he grumbled.

“Her husband thought she was in need of what the convent could give her.”

“I could order her to be brought back to Court, you know.”

“Your Grace is, by God’s mercy, King of this realm. But Your Grace is a wise man, and knows the scandal which would be bruited about the Court and the country itself, if a woman who had been sent by her husband into a convent should be ordered out by her King.”

Henry wanted to stamp his feet in rage. Buckingham was older than he was and he knew how to trap him. How dared he stand there, insolent and arrogant! Did he forget he was talking to his King?

For a few moments Henry told himself that he would send for Anne; he would blatantly make her his mistress and the whole Court—ay, and all his subjects too—must understand that he was the King, and when he ordered a man or woman to some duty they must obey him.

But such conduct would not fit the man his subjects believed him to be. He was uncertain. Always he thought of the cheering crowds who had come to life when he appeared; he remembered the sullen looks which had been thrown his father’s way. He remembered too the stories he had heard of his father’s struggle to take the throne. If he displeased the people they might remember that the Tudor ancestry was not as clean as it might be—and that there were other men who might be considered worthy to be Kings.

No. He would remain the public idol—perfect King and husband; but at the same time he would not allow any subject of his to dictate to him what should be done.

“My lord Buckingham,” he said, “you will leave Court. And you will not present yourself to me until I give you leave to do so.”

Buckingham bowed.

“You may go,” went on the King. “There is nothing more I have to say to you. I should advise you to be gone in an hour, for if I find you lingering after that I might not be so lenient.”

Buckingham retired, and the King paced up and down like a lion in a cage.

He summoned one of his pages to him and said: “Send for Lady Fitzwalter, I would have immediate speech with her.”

The page rushed to do his bidding and soon returned with Elizabeth Fitzwalter.

She looked disturbed, Henry was pleased to notice. A prim woman, he thought, with none of her sister’s voluptuousness. The sight of her reminded him of Anne, and he was furious once more to contemplate what he had lost.

“Lady Fitzwalter,” he said, “you are, I believe, one of the Queen’s women.”

She was bewildered. Surely he knew. He had seen her so often when he was in the Queen’s company.

“Did I say you are one of Her Grace’s women? It was a mistake, Lady Fitzwalter. I should have said you were.”

“Your Grace, have I offended…?”

“We do not discuss why we banish from our Court those who do not please us, Lady Fitzwalter. We merely banish.”

“Your Grace, I beg to…”

“You waste your time. You would beg in vain. Go back to your apartment and make all haste to leave Court. It is our wish that you are gone within the hour.”

The startled Lady Fitzwalter curtseyed and retired.

Henry stared at the door for a few minutes. He thought of voluptuous Anne and realized suddenly how urgently he desired a change, a new woman who was as different from his wife as could be.

Then he began to pace up and down again…a lion, not sure of his strength, but aware of the cage which enclosed him. The bars were strong, but his strength was growing. One day, he knew, he would break out of the cage. Then there would be nothing—no person on Earth to restrain him.

ELIZABETH FITZWALTER came unceremoniously into the apartment where the Queen sat sewing with Maria de Salinas.

Katharine looked with surprise at her lady-in-waiting, and when she saw how distraught Elizabeth was she rose quickly and went to her side.

“What has happened to disturb you so?” she asked.

“Your Grace, I am dismissed from the Court.”

“You, dismissed! But this is impossible! None has the authority to dismiss you but myself. Why…,” Katharine paused and a look of horror spread across her face. There was one other who had the power, of course.

Elizabeth met Katharine’s gaze, and Katharine read the truth there.

“But why?” demanded the Queen. “On what grounds? Why should the King dismiss you?”

“I find it hard to say, Your Grace. I am to leave at once. I have been told to make ready and go within the hour. I pray you give me leave to make ready.”

“But surely the King gave you a reason. What of your brother?”

“He has already gone, Your Grace; and my sister also.”

“So the King is displeased with all your family. I will go to see him. I will ask him what this means. He will keep nothing from me.”

Maria de Salinas, who loved Katharine sincerely and with a disinterested devotion, laid her hand on the Queen’s arm.

“Well, Maria?”

Maria looked helplessly at Elizabeth as though asking for permission to speak.

“What is it?” asked Katharine. “If it is something I should know, it is your duty to tell me.”

Neither of the women spoke, and it was as though each was waiting for the other to do so.

“I will go to the King,” said Katharine. “I will ask him what this means, for I see that you both know something which you believe you should keep from me.”

Maria said: “I must tell Her Grace. I think she should know.”

Katharine interrupted sternly: “Come Maria, enough of this. Tell me at once.”

“The Countess of Huntingdon has been taken away from Court by her husband and brother because they…they feared the King’s friendship.”

Katharine had grown pale. She was almost certain now that she was with child and had been wondering whether she could tell the King. She had looked forward to his pleasure and had told herself how thankful she should be to have such a faithful husband.

She looked from Maria to Elizabeth and her gaze was bewildered. The King’s friendship for a woman could surely mean only one thing.

But they must be mistaken. They had been listening to gossip. It was not true. He had always been faithful to her. He had firm notions on the sanctity of marriage: he had often told her so.

She said quietly: “Pray go on.”

“Sir William Compton acted as His Grace’s emissary in the matter,” said Elizabeth. “Francesca Carceres discovered what was happening and warned me. I told my brother and, as a result, my sister has been sent to a convent. But the King was displeased with my brother and myself.”

“I cannot believe this to be true.”

“Your Grace, pray sit down,” whispered Maria. “This has been a shock.”

“Yes,” said the Queen, “it has been a shock, a shock that such rumors can exist. I believe it all to be lies…lies.…”

Maria looked frightened. Elizabeth whispered: “Your Grace, give me leave to retire. I have to prepare with all speed to leave Court.”

“You shall not go, Elizabeth,” said Katharine. “I will speak to the King myself. There has been some terrible mistake. What you believe has happened is…an impossibility. I will go to him now. You will see, he will give me the explanation. I will tell him that I wish you to remain. That will suffice.”

Katharine walked from the apartment, while Maria looked after her sadly; and Elizabeth, sighing, went to make ready to leave.

IT SEEMED TO HENRY that he saw his wife clearly for the first time.

How sallow her skin is! he thought comparing her with Anne Stafford. How serious she was! And she looked old. She was old of course, compared with him, for five years was no small matter.

She seemed distasteful to him in that moment, because he felt guilty, and he hated to feel so.

“Henry,” she said, “I have heard some disturbing news. Elizabeth Fitzwalter comes to me in great distress and says that you have commanded her to leave Court.”

“It is true,” he said. “She should be gone within an hour of our giving her the order to leave.”

“But she is one of my women, and I do not wish her to go. She is a good woman and has given me no offence.”

The color flamed into his face. “We will not have her at Court,” he shouted. “Mayhap it escapes your notice, but our wishes here are of some account.”

Katharine was afraid, yet she remembered that she was the daughter of Isabella of Castile, and it ill became any—even the King of England—to speak to her in such a manner.

“I should have thought I might have been consulted in this matter.”

“No, Madam,” retorted Henry. “We saw no reason to consult you.”

Katharine said impetuously: “So you had the grace to try to keep it from my notice.”

“We understand you not.”

She realized then that he was using the formal “we,” and she guessed he was attempting to remind her that he was the King and master of all in his dominions, even his Queen. She saw the danger signals in his eyes, for his face always betrayed his feelings, but she was too hurt and unhappy to heed the warning.

“It is true then,” she burst out, “that the woman was your mistress.…”

“It is not true.”

“Then she was not, because Buckingham intervened in time.”

“Madam, if the King wishes to add to his friends it is no concern of any but himself.”

“If he has sworn to love and cherish a wife, is it not his wife’s concern if he takes a mistress?”

“If she is wise and her husband is a King, she is grateful that he is ready to give her children…if she is able to bear them!”

Katharine caught her breath in horror. It is true then, she thought. He blames me for the loss of our two children.

She tried to speak but the words would not pass the lump of misery in her throat.

“We see no reason to prolong this interview,” said Henry.

Her anger blazed suddenly. “Do you not? Then I do! I am your wife, Henry. You have told me that you believe that husband and wives should be faithful to each other; and as soon as a wanton woman gives you a glance of promise you forget your vows, you forget your ideals. The people look upon you as a god—so young, so handsome, so model a king and a husband. I see now that your vows mean nothing to you. You think of little but seeking pleasure. First it is your pageants, your masques…now it is your mistresses!”

He was scarcely handsome in that moment. His eyes seemed to sink into his plump red face. He hated criticism and, because he was so deeply conscious of his guilt, he hated her.

“Madam,” he said, “you should do your duty. It is what is expected of you.”

“My duty?” she asked.

“Which is to give me sons. You have made two attempts and have not been successful. Is it for you to criticize me when you have failed…so lamentably?”

“I…failed? You would blame me, then. Do you not know that I long for sons as much as you do? Where have I failed? How could I have saved the lives of our children? If there is a way, in the name of the saints tell it to me.”

Henry would not look at her. “We lost them both,” he mumbled.

She turned to him. She was about to tell him that she had hopes of bearing another child; but he looked so cruel that she said nothing. She was bewildered, wondering if this man who was her husband was, after all, a stranger to her.

Henry felt uneasy. He hated to know that Katharine had become aware of his flirtation with Anne Stafford. Looking back it was such a mean little affair—it had not even approached its climax. He felt small, having sent Compton to do his wooing for him, and taking such a long time to make up his mind whether he should or shouldn’t, and so giving Buckingham time to whisk his sister away.

He was angry with everyone concerned in the affair and, as Katharine was the only one present, he gave vent to his venom and let it fall upon her.

“It may be,” he said coldly, “that the difference in our ages is the cause. You are five years older than I. I had not realized until today how old you are!”

“But,” she stammered, “you always knew. I am twenty-five, Henry. That is not too old to bear healthy children.”

Henry looked past her, and when he spoke—although he did so more to himself than to her—she felt a cold terror strike at her.

“And you were my brother’s wife,” was what he said.

She could bear no more. She turned and hurried from his presence.

Before Lady Fitzwalter had left Court the news was circulating. “The King and Queen have quarrelled bitterly. This is the first quarrel. Perhaps there will be fewer of those entwined initials. Perhaps this is the end of the honeymoon.”

MARIA DE SALINAS helped the Queen to her bed. Never had Maria seen Katharine so distraught; for even in the days of humiliating poverty she had never given way to her grief but had stoically borne all her trials.

“You see, Maria,” said Katharine, “I feel I did not know him. He is not the same. I have glimpsed the man behind my smiling happy boy.”

“He was angry,” said Maria. “Perhaps Your Grace should not have spoken to him on the matter yet.”

“Perhaps I should never have spoken to him on the matter. Perhaps the love affairs of Kings are to be ignored by all, including their wives. My father was not entirely faithful to my mother. I wonder if she ever complained. No, she would be too wise.”

“You are wise too. Perhaps your mother had to learn also to curb her jealousy.”

Katharine shivered. “You speak as though this is but a beginning, the first of many infidelities.”

“But he was not unfaithful, Your Grace.”

“No, the lady’s brother and husband intervened in time. It is naught to do with the King’s virtue. I think that is why he is so angry with me, Maria…because he failed.”

“He is young, Your Grace.”

“Five years younger than I. He reminded me of it.”

“It will pass, dearest lady.”

“Oh, Maria, I am so tired. I feel bruised and wounded. I have not felt so sad…so lost…since the old days in Durham House when I thought everyone had deserted me.”

Maria took the Queen’s hand and kissed it. “All did not desert Your Grace.”

“No. You were always there, Maria. Oh, it is good to have staunch friends.”

“Let me cover you. Then you should try to sleep. When you are rested you will feel stronger.”

Katharine smiled and closed her eyes.

IT WAS LATER that night when she was awakened by pains which gripped her body and brought a sweat upon her skin.

She stumbled from her bed, calling to her ladies as she did so; but before they could reach her she fell groaning to the floor.

They put her to bed; they called her physicians; but there was nothing they could do.

On that September night Katharine’s third pregnancy ended. It had been brief, but the result was no less distressing.

Once more she had failed to give the King the son for which he longed.

She was ill for several days, and during that time she was tormented with nightmares. The King figured largely in these—an enormous menacing figure with greedy, demanding hands which caressed others, but when he turned to her, held out those hands, crying: “Give me sons.”