To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

The Spanish Princess

he Court was at Richmond. Prince Henry with his sisters Margaret and Mary had ridden in the day before from Eltham; everyone was excitedly talking about the imminent arrival of the Infanta from Spain.

Prince Henry was now ten years old, and more resentful than ever because he had not been born the eldest. It was small consolation that when he and Arthur rode together he was the one people cheered and he knew their eyes were on him. When he remarked with a certain modesty—he thought—that he could not understand why the people stared so: was there anything wrong with him? his sister Margaret who had a very sharp tongue, retorted: “Yes, a great deal.”

Mary would snuggle close to him and say that it was because he was so much prettier than Arthur, which was what he wanted to hear—though he would have preferred handsome to pretty. He must tell Mary that boys were not pretty.

Mary was very ready to learn. She admired him and thought he was the most wonderful person at Court. Margaret, who did not share their sister’s views, said that Henry had too great a conceit of himself.

He and Margaret were not good friends; Henry never liked people who were critical of him—except perhaps his tutor John Skelton who was constantly laughing at something in a way which was not exactly complimentary. Henry did not know why he bore John Skelton no resentment—perhaps it was because he amused him and wrote such witty poems. But no one else must criticize him—except of course his father whom he could not prevent doing so and whose cold looks were a continual criticism. Henry had known from his early days that his father was one of the few people who preferred Arthur. It was because Arthur was the eldest, the Prince of Wales, the King-to-be. The odd thing was that Arthur didn’t seem to be greatly impressed with his superiority.

It was late summer when they rode into Richmond Palace. Henry never passed under the gateway without remembering that day just before Christmas three years before when Shene Palace had been burned down. It had been nine o’clock at night. He had been in the nursery apartments he shared with Margaret and Mary when he had been roused from his pallet by his sister Margaret shouting to him. Leaping out of bed, he had smelt the strong acrid smell of smoke and immediately the children had been surrounded by excited men and women and were marshaled together and taken to their parents. The fire had started in the royal apartments; the rushes were aflame in a very short time and before anything could be done to save the palace it was burning fiercely. Beds, hangings and tapestries were destroyed on that night. The King had been desolate, thinking of all the valuable things which had been lost, but everyone was safe, which was a consolation; and his father had immediately ordered that a new palace should be built on the ruins of the old. Thus old Shene had become Richmond Palace, always a favorite of them all because of its nearness to London—that most exciting city—and the view from the front, of the River Thames. Henry liked its long line of buildings with their towers both circular and octagonal topped by turrets, though Skelton said that the chimneys looked like pears turned upside down. It was his father’s favorite residence, perhaps for the reason that he had rechristened it Richmond after one of the titles he had had before he became King. So they were there very often.

Henry was beginning to believe that his father was not always so calm and self-assured as he tried to pretend he was. Henry sensed quickly that though the people accepted his father as their king they did not like him very much. Their cheers were not spontaneous as they were for him. He always hoped when they were riding in procession that his father would notice how they smiled and waved and called for Prince Henry. He knew how to make them like him. He waved and smiled and sometimes blew kisses—which delighted them. His father had said to him afterward: “The people like you yes but it will be well for you to remember that you are not the Prince of Wales.”

“I know, my lord, that I am not. It is my brother who is he.”

“Remember it,” was all his father said.

The King was a man of few words, and those words did not always express what he was thinking. Henry liked to watch his father; his little eyes would narrow in speculation. Henry knew about Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck. He had exchanged words with Simnel about his falcon for Simnel was a good falconer and very pleased when Henry asked him questions. It was impossible to believe that he had once thought he would be king. Perkin Warbeck was different. He had paid the price of his ambitions. His head had been killed, which was the best way of treating traitors. Skelton talked about Perkin Warbeck. There was no subject about which Skelton could not be lured to talk. Skelton thought Warbeck was probably a natural son of Edward the Fourth because he was so like him.

“Your noble grandfather was in Flanders some months before the birth of Warbeck. And I can tell you this, my young lord, where Edward was there might well spring up little bastards. . . . He was a great man. Great in all ways . . . as you will be, my young bantam lord. Oh yes, I see another such as great Edward strutting there.”

It was disrespectful talk. His father would not agree with it, but Henry liked it. It was pleasant to think he was going to be like his maternal grandfather. Skelton remembered the late King when he was a man of forty and said his years had sat lightly on him. “Even the men cheered Edward,” Skelton went on. “It seems they liked him to admire their wives . . . and as his admiration was of a practical nature if you know what I mean . . .” He nudged young Henry who laughed with delight. “Then you do know what I mean!”

Skelton was a wonderful tutor, for he was a clever poet, a man of education who had studied the classics and French literature; he had translated Cicero’s Letters. That he was ribald and bawdy was accepted because of his achievements and Henry would not have changed him for anyone else. He attended to all aspects of Henry’s education and gave him not only an appreciation of the arts but of women. Sometimes he talked to the boy as though he were a man. Henry liked it. He could never bear anyone to refer to his youth.

At that time Henry was destined for the Church.

He disliked the idea but Skelton laughed at him. “A very good time can be had in the Church, my lord. Particularly for one of your rank. I swear you’ll be Archbishop of Canterbury before you are very old. Think of the power you’ll have.”

“I do not wish to go into the Church.” Henry’s eyes were narrowed. But at the same time he looked up at the sky to placate an angry god who might be listening, for what he feared more than most things was heavenly vengeance. “At least . . .” he added. “At least . . . if I can serve my country in any other way. I do not think I am suited to the Church.”

“Nor are you, my lord, but wise men fit the post to themselves not themselves to the post. And think of our illustrious Pope Alexander the Sixth . . . otherwise known to the world as Rodrigo Borgia. He manages to live a very full and varied life . . . Church or not. Don’t tell me my lord that you as an Archbishop of Canterbury cannot be as clever as the Pope of Rome.”

That was how Skelton talked—laughing, irreverent, full of anecdotes. A very exciting person to be with.

Skelton was glad he was not Arthur’s tutor. “There would be no fun with our Prince of Wales,” he said. “He is a very serious young gentleman. Not like you, my lord of York . . . ah, my lord of York, my Prince Henry, my willing pupil . . . there is a man . . . a man who was born to be king.”

Skelton should never leave him if he could help it.

Henry thought a great deal about his father and he came to the conclusion that he did not really enjoy being a king, which was strange because to Henry that seemed the ultimate achievement—that was happiness and contentment.

The King acted very strangely now and then. Henry remembered something, which had happened not very long ago, which gave him a certain insight into his father’s nature.

It had happened at the arena. The King kept a large menagerie and he was very fond of sports in which the animals took part. Young Henry believed that his father was always trying to make the people like him. He showed them how lenient he was to his enemies; they were always present at tournaments and shows in the arena. But he always looked so stern and he rarely smiled. If only he would smile, speak to some of them in a friendly way, he would have been liked so much more than he was because he forgave Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck too . . . for a very long time. If I were the King . . . Henry thought. It was a recurring observation.

But on this day in the arena the King’s lion was brought out. He was a fierce and splendid animal and when the dogs were set on him he was always the victor. His name was Rex, which meant he was the King.

On that day four mastiffs were set against him. Never had the dogs beaten Rex, but they did that day. Young Henry loved the dogs and they put up a magnificent fight against old Rex. They were battered and wounded . . . but the dogs won in the end and it was Rex who lay dying in the center of the arena.

Young Henry’s impulse had been to shout with excitement but he had caught the stern looks of his father, and his mother, who sat beside the King, was watching Henry and her look begged him to restrain his high spirits. Then he realized that the King saw something significant in this episode. The King had been set on and killed. Poor Rex was king of the animals no more.

It was a symbol. These mere dogs had set on the king of the beasts and killed him. Rex was the King. Henry saw it clearly when John Skelton pointed it out to him.

The King had left the arena in silence. People had thought it was because he had loved his lion. But it was more than that. Before sunset those four victorious mastiffs were brought out from the kennels and hanged on gibbets in the arena. Their bodies dangled there for two days so that all might see them.

It was a symbol and a warning to all would-be traitors. The mastiffs had killed the king of the beasts. Therefore they were traitors.

Henry was a little bewildered. He talked over it with Skelton.

“But it wasn’t the fault of the dogs. They were put in the arena to fight Rex,” he pointed out.

Skelton said: “One does not have to be at fault to be hanged as a traitor.”

“Then how can they help it?”

“They cannot. Young Warwick couldn’t help it, could he? He was born to what he was . . . so he was a potential traitor if another should take over the throne.”

“Warwick wanted to take my father’s place,” said Henry.

Skelton bowed low. “Ah, the noble Tudors. Bless me, I had forgot. They have a right to the throne. The rank of Lancaster! Of course. Of course. York must stand aside for the Tudors.”

Henry laughed as he often did at Skelton. But he would not repeat quite a lot of what Skelton said because he knew that if he did he would his lose his tutor and who knew—his tutor might lose his head. But he did know, through Skelton’s innuendos, that his father was very much afraid that someone would rise up and take the throne from him.

There was another occasion when the King had one of his best falcons killed. This amazed young Henry. He loved his own falcons and he could not understand why the very best one of all should be destroyed.

The falcon had matched itself with an eagle, he was told. And it had bettered the eagle. All knew that the eagle was the king of the birds as the lion was the king of the beasts.

The King had said: “It is not meet for any subject to offer such wrong to his lord and superior.”

Henry was bewildered. He came to Skelton for explanation.

“It’s a parable, my lord. Your noble father is fond of parables. That is because he sees himself as our god. He wishes it to be remembered that he will brook no traitors. Any who threaten his throne will go the way of the mastiffs and the falcon. Poor innocent creatures who must be so sadly used in order that the King’s human subjects be provided with a lesson.”

“I would never destroy my best falcon,” said Henry.

“Let us hope, dear lord, that if you should attain the throne you would never find it necessary to teach us all such a lesson.”

“I should just wait until I had real traitors and then cut off their heads.”

“Ah, if my Prince ever came to the throne then the heads would begin to roll, would they?”

“Traitors’ heads would.”

“And traitors would be any who opposed my lord’s will. Ah, but such talk is treason . . . to our lord the King and to the Prince of Wales. I must take care or I shall find myself hanging beside the mastiffs.”

“I would prevent that, good Skelton,” said Henry.

Skelton laughed and coming close to Henry whispered in his ear: “Ah, but my lord Prince, you are not the King . . . yet.”

“You say yet . . . good Skelton as though . . . as though . . .”

Skelton laughed. “Life is full of chances,” he said. “You are at the moment second in line. . . .”

“Skelton, have you been seeing the soothsayers and wise men?”

Skelton shook his head. “The wisdom comes from inside this head, my lord. And it tells me that . . . there is a chance . . . Of course when our Prince of Wales has sons . . . then, my lord of York, your chances fade with the birth of each one.”

“Arthur is not very strong. Do you think he will be able to do that which is necessary to get children.”

Skelton looked slyly at his pupil. “There is only one, my lord, who can answer that question.”

“Who? Where is he? Find him . . .”

“I do not have to. He is here with us now.”

“Whisper his name.”

Skelton put his lips to the ear of the Prince and said: “Father Time.”

Henry was irritated and slunk away in a temper, cross even with Skelton.

Now he looked from the windows—a dull and misty October day. He liked the spring—the lovely season when the world refreshed from the winter started to burgeon again. The spring, the hot summer . . . journeys into the country to be cheered by the people, to let them see what a fine son their King had got for them. “Alas,” he imagined them saying. “He should have been the firstborn.”

He ran an impatient finger along the ledge of the window seat. It was decorated with roses. Tudor roses they called them. It was roses everywhere. Red roses the most prominent of course because the red rose of Lancaster was slightly superior to the white rose of York. They were entwined now; and he liked to remember the white rose. His glorious grandfather had proudly worn it. He was the one who impressed Henry—not the obscure Tudors. In the gardens some of the roses lingered on as though loath to go. In the summer they made a colorful display. He liked to run across the grass past the statues to the end of the garden where that building, which was called The Houses of Pleasure, was situated.

There it was possible to play games at which he was beginning to excel. He had real mastery at tennis and he loved the game. Arthur would never play with him. But he played with others and he almost invariably won. Sometimes he wondered whether they allowed him to because he could be rather angry if they didn’t. He never said so but he tried not to play with the winner again. Skelton noticed—Skelton noticed everything.

“It is all very well to hate to be beaten. Natural, right and proper but to show you hate it . . . now that is quite another matter.”

There were times when he wished Skelton were not so perceptive. Sometimes they played chess together.

“Now, my lord Duke,” Skelton had once said, “how is your mood this day? May I beat you? Or would your temper not stand it?”

“Skelton you rogue,” he said, “the better man will win.”

“Oh that is how you wish it, is it? Very well. I just wished to know whether I was to consider my lord Duke’s skill or his temper.”

He saw too much, knew too much. There were times when he felt he would have rid himself of the man if he could. But he knew he never would. Skelton was too clever, too entertaining.

He would like to play a game of tennis and he was in no mood to be beaten, so he selected one of his squires who had not the skill to beat him even if he did not know it was impolitic to do so.

“Come,” he said. “I would to the tennis court. We can get a game before it is dark.”

So they went and while they were playing a barge drew up at the river bank. Henry dropped his racquet and ran to see what this meant.

“What news?” he cried. “What news?”

“I must see the King,” said the messenger.

“I am the Duke of York,” said Henry.

“My lord.” The man bowed. “I must see the King with all speed.”

Henry was sullen. His squire was watching. He had thought the messenger would be so impressed by meeting the son of the King that he would immediately tell his business. But it was not so.

One of the King’s attendants had seen the messenger approaching and came hurrying out.

“I have news for the King,” said the messenger.

“Come this way.”

Henry followed. The King, aware of the arrival of the messenger, was already in the hall. The man approached him and fell on to his knees.

“Your Grace. The Infanta of Spain is in England. She has arrived at Plymouth.”

“Good news! Good news!” said the King. “We must thank God for her safe arrival.”

He noticed his son standing there but gave him no greeting.

Then he said: “I will go to tell the Queen this good news.” And to the messenger: “Go to the kitchens where you will be refreshed.”

Henry looked after his father as he left the hall.

He felt angry and frustrated. Arthur would be summoned. This was his bride.

Oh why did I have to be the second son? he thought, with more bitterness than usual. He wanted a bride. He wanted a marriage. It was true he was only ten—but he was so advanced for his age.

It was maddening, frustrating. He would have suited the occasion so much better than pallid Arthur.

He was excited when a short while after he was summoned to his father’s apartment.

When he arrived his mother was already there.

He went forward and bowed as he had been taught to do. He noticed his mother’s eyes on him with a certain pride and satisfaction which pleased him.

“Henry,” said the King, “there are going to be some splendid celebrations. This marriage with Spain is very dear to my heart and to that of your mother.”

The Queen nodded in agreement. She would always agree with her husband.

“Your brother Arthur is a very fortunate young man,” said the King.

Henry smiled almost imperceptibly. Arthur was in Wales and Henry wondered how he would receive the news of his good fortune. He was now fifteen, pale and more like his father than his mother; he was gentle, hated great ceremonies in which he had to play a part, and he would be very apprehensive about those which would inevitably be the result of his “good fortune.”

“The Infanta is on our shores. There can be no hitch now. The marriage will most certainly take place and when it does we shall have a powerful ally. This is a happy time for us all.”

“Henry will have his part to play,” said the Queen, smiling at him.

The color rose to Henry’s cheeks touching the normal healthy pink to rosy red—the color of a Lancaster rose. His eyes sparkled. He was going to enjoy these celebrations if he could forget that they were for Arthur’s wedding, for Arthur’s bride, and that Arthur would be at the center of them.

“And,” went on the Queen, still smiling, “I am sure he will play it well.”

“What must I do?” asked Henry eagerly.

“I have decided that you shall bring the Infanta into London. You shall be her escort companion when she enters the capital.”

“Oh thank you, my lord.”

“You are pleased?” said the King.

“Oh yes, indeed I am. I would I could do more.”

“That will be enough,” said his father. He was trying not to compare the boy with Arthur. Henry was tall for his age and he had bulk too. His skin was glowing with health; he was vigorous and excelled at games, archery, horsemanship; and Skelton said he was good with his books too. He should have been the firstborn, of course. But they had Arthur. The King was fond of his eldest son in a way which he had not believed he could be fond of anyone. Arthur was so vulnerable. In Arthur he saw something of himself. Long ago Henry had dreamed of kingship. In his Welsh stronghold his uncle Jasper had primed him, and the thought had been constantly with him in exile: “One day you will be King.” It had seemed the ultimate goal, the end of the road. Now it was here he was tortured by anxieties, not knowing from one day to the next when some Pretender would arise to claim the crown on which he seemed to have such a light hold. Arthur was uneasy too. Prince of Wales . . . accepted successor . . . and the longer Henry remained on the throne the more firm his seat would be. But he could see that Arthur was afraid of the future, even as he was. Arthur did not want this grand marriage; he did not want the crown.

Had it been young Henry, how different it would have been.

“Very well my son,” said the King, “you must prepare yourself for this duty. You will have to ride through the streets of London with the Infanta. I know you can manage your horse as well as our best knights. But it will be more than that. You will have to treat her with the utmost courtesy. Remember she is a Princess of Spain and she will be one day Queen of England. Now you will show her the utmost respect. I do not know yet how you conduct yourself with the ladies.”

“I am very gallant with them, my lord.”

The Queen’s lips curved in a smile but the King regarded his son sternly.

“You have a good opinion of yourself, Henry.”

“One must have, my lord, for if one has not a good opinion of oneself who else would have one?”

That was pure Skelton. It amused the Queen but the King showed no sign of mirth.

“A little more than gallantry will be required,” said the King. “I will have you taught what you should do. The Infanta has to come from Plymouth. That is a long way off so you will have plenty of time to learn how to conduct yourself. Now you may go. We have matters to discuss which do not require your presence.”

He left a little dispirited in spite of the prospect ahead.

He went to the nurseries. His sisters Margaret and Mary were there. Margaret was drawing and Mary, watching her, was saying it was beautiful and Margaret was very clever.

Mary was so young and naively admired her brother and sister so much because they could do things which she could not.

Margaret said: “Have you seen the messenger?”

“I have been with our father,” replied Henry grandly.

“Oh Henry . . . have you really!” cried Mary. “What did you talk about?”

“This coming marriage,” said Henry importantly. “The Infanta is at Plymouth. She will have to be met and brought to London. I suppose I shall have to lead her into the city.”

“A little boy of ten!” cried Margaret.

“I tell you I am going to do it. I have just told our father that I will.”

“She is grown up. She is sixteen . . . even older than Arthur. You will look such a baby beside her.”

There were times when he would have liked to strike Margaret. There would be terrible trouble if he did. It would be quite against the rules of chivalry. They might even prevent him from taking part in the wedding celebrations, so he kept his temper, which was not easy.

“I shall look what I am—a Prince of England,” he said.

“Well I think you will look very silly,” said Margaret.

“I think you will look nice,” murmured Mary who always took his side when she was there.

“I shall look just as a Prince should look and the Infanta will wish that I was the one she is to marry.”

That made Margaret laugh still louder. “You marry. . . . That won’t be for years. I am to be married soon.”

“Into Scotland. It is a land of barbarians.”

“I shall be the Queen of Scotland.”

“I hate the Scots,” declared Henry.

“You will have to learn to love them when they are part of our family . . . through this marriage.”

“At least,” said Henry his eyes narrowed to slits, “I shall be grateful to the King of Scotland for taking you away.”

“And I shall be grateful to him for relieving me of your company.”

“Please don’t quarrel.” Mary had slipped her hand into that of Henry. “It’s so exciting . . . with Arthur’s wedding and then Margaret’s . . . don’t spoil it, Henry, please. . . .”

He stooped and kissed the beautiful little face turned up to his. Mary flushed with pleasure and Henry’s good humor was restored.

“Come with me, Mary,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about what I shall do when the Infanta comes to London. I am to lead her in. You may be able to see me. Let’s leave Margaret . . . and we’ll sit together . . . and talk.”

Mary nodded. Margaret watched them with a curl of her lips.

“Boast away,” she shouted. “All the boasting in the world won’t make you the Prince of Wales. You’ll never be the King . . . though that’s what you want. You’re wicked. You wish Arthur was dead . . . yes, you do . . . yes you do. . . .”

Henry turned and looked at her; for once his rage was cold rather than hot.

“How dare you say such a wicked thing!” he cried.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Margaret, suddenly contrite. It was unlucky to talk of death outright in such a way. Many times she had heard the vague comments of the attendants, the innuendos about Arthur’s not making old bones . . . but that was different.

She should not have mentioned Arthur’s dying. What if Henry told their parents!

Henry said: “Come on Mary. We will leave this wicked girl alone.”

Margaret, subdued, muttered something and turned away and Henry and Mary went to the window seat and sat down.

He started to tell her what a glorious pageant it would be. He described others he had seen but this one would be different because he would be at the center of it.

Suddenly Mary said in a whisper: “If Arthur died would you marry the Infanta, Henry?”

“Hush,” he said. “You must not speak of death.”

Then he went on to describe what he thought the wedding would be like and when he did so he was not seeing Arthur as the bridegroom, but himself, miraculously grown a little older, as old as Arthur . . . old enough to be a bridegroom.

The picture made him very excited. It was nonsense, of course, just a dream, a fantasy; but it was very enjoyable.

And oddly enough he could not dismiss it from his mind.

When the Spanish Infanta stepped ashore at Plymouth with her duenna beside her, she was warmly received by the dignitaries of Plymouth. They had been warned of her arrival and had been awaiting it for several days and when the ship appeared on the horizon the call had gone up: “The Spanish Princess is here.”

The King had given orders that she was to be royally entertained. He would be sending Lord Brook the steward of the royal palace to look after her; he himself could not be expected to make the three-week journey to Plymouth, but he was determined that she should be entertained in accordance with her rank and that her parents should have nothing to complain of in the treatment she received in her new country.

Catalina herself was bewildered. It had been a frightening journey although she had set off from Granada in May and had not embarked at Corunna until August; but even then the ship in which she had set out had been forced back to the coast of Castile because of gales and storms. She had been so ill when she landed that she had not been able to set out again until September. Then her father had ordered that the finest ship he owned—one of three hundred tons—should be put at her disposal. This was a great deal more comfortable than the previous vessel and on the second of October when Plymouth was sighted, Catalina felt that she had been traveling for months.

“Catalina,” her mother had said, “you will have to learn the language of your new country and you will no longer be called Catalina. In English it is Katharine. But what is a name? You will still be my good Catalina whatever they call you.”

Was it so important to change a name? Only because it was a symbol. Everything would be different now. She had to learn. She had to be a credit to her parents. She had been told that often enough.

How desolate she had been when she stood on deck watching the green land come nearer! Only her strict upbringing had prevented her from turning to Doña Elvira Manuel and begging to be taken home to her mother.

What foolishness that had been! She had left Spain forever. Whatever anyone had said to comfort her she knew that and the fear that she might never see again her beloved mother was what hurt her most.

She had known for a long time—since she was ten years old and she was now sixteen—that it had had to happen. A similar fate had overtaken her sisters Maria and Juana. They had left Spain—lost to their home forever. Her eldest sister Isabella and her adored brother Juan had been even more irrevocably dealt with for Death had taken them.

How often had she asked herself during that long and exhausting journey why life had to be so cruel. If only time could stand still, and they remain children, all happy together, for they had been such a happy family and it was their mother who had made them so. She had loved them all dearly and if they had—every one of them—been in awe of her, they had loved her with a devotion which had made them desperately unhappy to leave her.

People were crowding round her. They were speaking and she could not understand what they were saying, but she knew these smiling cheering crowds were telling her that they liked her and that she was welcome on their shores.

She was taken into a small mansion and there conducted to an apartment where she might wash and rest before food was served. What she wanted more than anything was to be alone, but she knew that she could not hope to be without her duenna.

“I am thankful we have come through the journey safely,” said Doña Elvira. “I thought it was the end for us . . . but the saints preserved us and before anything else we should give thanks to them.”

Queen Isabella had chosen Doña Elvira to conduct her daughter to England because she had faith in her trustworthiness and religious principles. Elvira watched with hawklike eyes and Catalina knew that if she did anything which was not correct according to strict Spanish etiquette, her mother would hear of it.

“You look too sad,” said Doña Elvira. “You must not look so. It is not good manners. You must show these people that you are happy to be here.”

“But I am not, Doña Elvira. I am most unhappy. I hope the Prince doesn’t like me . . . and sends me home.”

Doña Elvira clicked her tongue in exasperation. “And what grief would that cause your gracious mother? And your father would be angry and only send you back again and then we should have to face those terrible seas once more.”

“It is just that I keep thinking of the past . . . when I was little . . . when we were in the nursery together . . . Juan, Maria and Juana . . .”

“Childhood does not last forever.”

“They have all gone, Doña Elvira. . . . My dear dear brother . . .”

“He is with the saints. . . .”

“And Isabella . . . She didn’t want to go back to Portugal. She had married once for state reasons. That should have been enough. It was strange how she was so unhappy about going to Portugal but she loved her husband in time. I think she was fond of both her husbands, though she loved Alfonso most. But Emmanuel was very kind to her and she was grateful for that.”

“That is how it should be. That is how it will be with you, my lady Catalina. But I must call you Katharine now. . . . It is not so easy to say. But we must all learn to change.”

“If that were the only thing one had to learn it would be easy. Katharine seems different. Catalina was the girl who was so happy. When we were young I was so proud, Doña Elvira . . . proud to be the daughter of the Sovereigns who had driven out the Moors and united Castile and Aragon . . .”

“So you should have been . . . and still should be. Never forget who you are, Catalina . . . Katharine.”

“But we soon learned that Spain was more important than any of us. The greatness of Spain. The glory of Spain. That was what mattered. That was why Isabella had to go back to Portugal and marry Emmanuel. . . .”

“Who had loved her ever since she set foot on Portuguese soil to marry Alfonso, and was a good husband to her.”

“But she didn’t want to go back. I remember her sadness so vividly. I was only ten at the time . . . but I remember. They sent her back and she died . . . and now Maria has had to go to marry Emmanuel . . . because friendship with Portugal is important to Spain.”

“Perhaps you should rest. You are talking too much.”

“It relieves me to talk. I must talk to you. These people here don’t speak our language. I wonder what Arthur will be like.”

“He is to be your husband. You will love him because it will be your duty to do so.”

“I wonder if Juana loves her husband.”

“There has been enough of this talk. Now you are going to lie down for twenty minutes. I shall awaken you at the end of that time and you must prepare yourself to meet the important people whom the King will send.”

“Will the King come himself?”

“Of course the King will come. He will want to show how grateful he is to be able to welcome the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain.”

“I hope they will like me.”

“What nonsense is this! How could they fail to like the daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella? Now rest. You are wasting the time in idle talk.”

She allowed her veil to be taken off and lay back on the cool cushions. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the future by looking back over the past.

Did Juana love her husband? She couldn’t stop thinking of her. The truth about Juana had come to her suddenly. It was after one of those distressing scenes in the nursery when Juana had suddenly begun to dance wildly around and climbed onto the table and danced and when their governess tried to stop her she had clung to the arras hanging on the walls, swinging there. Their mother had been called and she had ordered that Juana be seized but none could take her because she kicked at them as they tried, and all the time she was laughing wildly.

Then Queen Isabella had said, “Juana, listen to me.”

And that had made Juana stop laughing.

“Come,” the Queen had gone on quietly. “Come down to me, my darling.”

Then Juana had come down and flung herself into her mother’s arms and her wild laughter was substituted by sobbing, which was as wild.

The Queen had said quietly, “I will take the Infanta to her apartments. Bring one of her potions.” She had led Juana away, but as she left, the Queen had seen the wide frightened eyes of Catalina. She touched her on the head caressingly and passed on.

It had been later when the Queen had sent for her. They were alone together. Those had been the occasions which meant so much to Catalina. Then Queen Isabella was not so much the great Sovereign—greater even than Ferdinand, many said—she was the fond mother.

“Come to me, Catalina,” she had said, holding out her hand and the child had run to her, clinging to her. The Queen had lifted her youngest daughter onto her lap and said: “You were frightened, my child, by what you saw today. Juana is not to blame. She is not wicked. She does not do these things to grieve us. She does them because they are a compulsion . . . do you understand? Sometimes there is a little seed in families which is passed on . . . through the generations. Be kind always to Juana. Do not provoke her. Juana is not the same as we are. My mother suffered from the same affliction. So you see what has happened to Juana has come to her through me. You understand why I wish us to be very, very kind to Juana.”

She had nodded, happy to be nestling close to that great queen who was also her dear mother.

She had never forgotten that. She had never provoked Juana, and had always tried to follow her mother’s wishes and keep Juana quiet.

But even if Juana had been different from the others she still had to play her part. Insane or not she must marry for the glory of Spain; and a grand match indeed had been found for her—no less than the heir of the Hapsburgs, Philip son of Maximilian—and so she would unite the houses of Hapsburg and Spain.

It had been a match which made King Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle, and the alliance had been even stronger when Margaret, Maximilian’s daughter, married Juan.

Dear, dear Juan, who had been so beautiful and so good. No wonder they said of him that he was too good for long life. The angels wanted him for themselves, that was what Catalina had heard someone say. And there had been that terrible time at Salamanca when the town was en fête to welcome Juan and Margaret his bride and the news that Juan was dead had come to them. There seemed no reason . . . except, as they said, that the angels wanted him in Heaven.

Catalina remembered her mother’s grief. She suspected that loving all her children as the Queen did, Juan was her favorite, her beloved son, her only son. That was a melancholy time of mourning. Margaret his new wife was heartbroken because, being Juan, he had already charmed her.

Doña Elvira was at the side of her couch.

“Is it time then?” she said.

“I gave you a little longer, so we must hurry now.”

It was no use thinking of the past. She had to face the future. Catalina was left behind in Spain. Katharine was here . . . in England.

It seemed that they were not to meet the King and Prince Arthur at this stage, but were to begin the journey to London without delay. Doña Elvira was a little put out. She thought that the bridegroom at least should have been waiting at Plymouth to greet his bride.

“I am not sorry,” said Katharine. “It will give me time to know a little of this land . . . and to see the people. . . .”

She was feeling better as the effects of the sea journey were wearing off, and was making an effort to stop grieving for her family and feel an interest in the new sights which presented themselves.

How green was the grass! What a number of trees there were! “It is a beautiful green country,” she said to Elvira. She liked the villages through which they passed—the gabled houses which clustered round the church, the village greens. “Always green,” she said. “It is the color of England.”

It was only when they came to Exeter that she saw crowds again. They had come to look at her, the Spanish Princess, the Queen-to-be. “She is so young,” they said. “Only a child. Well, Arthur is the same. It is better for him to have someone of his own age.”

But they were disappointed because she was veiled and they could not see her face clearly.

“Is there something wrong that we are not allowed to see her?” Her hair was beautiful—long and luxuriant, hanging down her back, and there was a glint of red in it.

At Exeter Lord Willoughby de Broke was waiting to greet her.

He was charming. The King would soon be on his way, he told her. In the meantime he had the King’s express command to make sure that everything which could be done to make her comfortable was done.

She thanked him and said she had been made very welcome.

“You will discover how delighted we are to have you with us,” he told her. “I am the High Steward of the King’s Household and he has sent me from Westminster to make sure that nothing is left undone. The Spanish ambassadors are here in Exeter and they will be calling upon you soon, I doubt not. They will want to make sure that you are well cared for and if there is anything that does not please you, you must tell me and I promise you it shall be rectified.”

Katharine assured Lord Willoughby de Broke that she was well cared for. He was able to speak a little of her language and she was grateful for that. She realized that she would have been wiser to have spent the time when she was waiting to come to England in learning the English language. It was going to be very difficult for her to understand and make herself understood. She wondered why her parents had not insisted that she learn English and could only assume that her father might have been unsure that the match would take place and she be whisked off to some other country for the interest of Spain.

Almost immediately she was told that Don Pedro de Ayala had called to see her.

She was delighted to meet one of her own countrymen and asked that he be sent to her immediately.

Don Ayala was elegant and gallant and he reminded her so much of home when he spoke to her in Castilian. She felt comforted to have him at her side.

“The King is eager for you to arrive in the capital as soon as possible,” he said. “There the marriage will take place without delay. The King will meet you near London that you may be escorted there with all the deference due to an Infanta of Spain.”

“I had thought the King might have come to Plymouth,” she said.

“It is three weeks’ journey from London, Infanta.”

“It does not seem that he is eager to meet me.”

“He is eager, I promise you. This is a fortunate day for you, my lady, for England and for Spain. This marriage is one of the finest things that has happened since the expulsion of the Moors from our country.”

“Surely not as important as that. I should have thought my brother’s and sisters’ marriages were more important than mine.”

“Nay. We need the friendship of this island. Your father-in-law is a shrewd man. He is making England a country to be reckoned with. You may find it necessary to speak with me from time to time. You may think that there are certain matters which would interest your mother and your father.”

“Am I to be a spy in my new husband’s household?”

“Never that. Just a good friend to England and perhaps an even better one to Spain.”

“I cannot say,” she answered coolly. “There is so much I have to learn.”

Dr. de Puebla was announced while de Ayala was with her.

De Ayala’s face crinkled in distaste.

“Must you see this man, Highness?” he asked.

“He is my father’s ambassador,” she answered.

“I must warn you of him. He is a man of the people, lacking in education and manners. He is a Jew. He seems to forget his Spanish upbringing and lives like an Englishman.”

“I have been told that I must become an Englishwoman,” she replied. “Perhaps Dr. de Puebla is wise in his habits. My parents think highly of him.”

“He is on good terms with King Henry. Such good terms that he has been offered a bishopric.”

“Which he refused? Would that not have brought him in a good income?”

“It would indeed and his fingers itched to grasp it. But your father forbade it. He did not want him working entirely for the King of England.”

“Which makes me believe he is a man of sound sense. I shall receive him, Don Pedro. It would be churlish not to.”

“Then it must be, but I warn you, be careful of the man. He is of low origins and this comes out.”

De Puebla was brought in. He bowed obsequiously to Katharine and she noticed the looks he cast on de Ayala. The antagonism between these two was apparent. She would have to steer a path between them because they would be her chief advisers at the Court of England—de Puebla no less than de Ayala.

De Puebla assured her of his delight at seeing her, of the King’s pleasure at the marriage and of the joy this brought all lovers of Spain.

“And of England,” said de Ayala pointedly.

“My lady Princess,” said de Puebla, “the friendship between the two countries is the ardent wish of the Sovereigns . . . and of the King of England . . . no less. I’ll swear that the joy of the bride’s family equals that of the bridegroom.”

“I am very pleased that you are both here to be of service to me. I know I shall need your help.”

“It shall be my greatest desire to give it,” said de Ayala.

“And do not forget good Dr. de Puebla is standing by awaiting your command.”

When they left Exeter she rode between Lord Willoughby de Broke and de Ayala; and de Puebla was furious because he had to fall in behind.

She knew that she was going to have to endure their enmity when de Ayala continued to complain about the low-born Jewish lackey and de Puebla whispered to her to have a care of de Ayala . . . a self-seeker, a man bound by manners and customs rather than good sense, a coxcomb more interested in the cut of a jacket than matters of state.

“I will take care,” she promised both of them.

It was de Puebla who touched on those matters which de Ayala would have thought not for her ears.

De Puebla dispensed with Spanish innuendos. An inexperienced girl of sixteen who was going to be thrust into the heart of politics needed plain speaking. She must, thought de Puebla, have some inkling of what it was all about. De Ayala thought that she was just a symbol. All she had to do in his opinion was look beautiful, charm the King and the Prince, let the former see that she had no intention of meddling and to be fruitful and within a few years have half a dozen lusty boys playing in the royal nurseries.

He said: “Arthur will be manageable.”

“Manageable?” she asked.

De Puebla nodded. “He will love you, I am sure. He has been told that he must, and Arthur always does as he is told. He is delicate. Pray God he lives. But he is gentle and you will have no trouble from him. The Queen is mild and does not interfere so the King is very fond of her. Arthur has two sisters and a brother but they need not concern you very much. The older sister Margaret has to go to Scotland to marry the King there. Mary the other is very young yet. Henry the brother is ten years old—rather a lusty young fellow. You can be thankful that he is not the elder. Arthur—if he were a little stronger—would be the ideal match. You’ll have to watch his health a little. He’s delicate and if he died it would not be so good for Spain. But your main concern is to please the King.”

“How shall I do this?”

“Oh, be docile, bear children. Take a pattern from the Queen. The King trusts nobody. He is suspicious of all. This is due to the fact that there are other claimants to the throne. Recently two impostors arose on the scene. Their claims were clearly false and he overcame them. But there was one other . . . fortunately he is no longer in a position to menace the King. But the fact that they could appear and there be people to follow them has frightened the King. He is continually on the alert and would be very resentful if he thought anyone was trying to work against him.”

“Spain would never do that.”

De Puebla smiled. “Our two countries are friends,” he said. He moved closer to her and whispered: “But sometimes it is necessary to be watchful of friends.”

She could see what de Ayala meant. There was something offensive about de Puebla. But he was clever—she sensed that, and her father had told her that she must listen to him and do what he asked just as she must with the ambassador de Ayala.

It was a slow journey; she was very glad sometimes to ride in the horse litter which Lord Willoughby de Broke had provided. When she was tired of the litter there was her palfrey ready for her. She certainly could not have complained of a lack of attention.

She was learning something about the people of England. They were independent and did not stand on the same ceremony that she was accustomed to. The people came out to see her as she passed and they were clearly surprised that she should be veiled. They were frankly curious about her. Why, they asked, if she has nothing to hide in her face does she hide it?

They had no natural dignity, she decided; but she rather liked that. They shouted to each other, jostled each other and called to her in a manner she believed was not as respectful as it should have been.

The amounts of food that were consumed seemed enormous; it was interesting to be housed in the mansions of the squires and knights of the places they passed through. Here there would be fires in great fireplaces and minstrels to sing for her delight.

So she learned about her new country and her conversations with both de Ayala and de Puebla gave her some indication of what she must expect.

She was most interested to hear of Arthur.

“A gentle boy,” was de Ayala’s comment.

“Like a piece of clay he’ll be in your hands,” said de Puebla. “Mild as milk and sweet as honey. He’s a good boy. He’s caused no trouble to his father and he’ll cause none to his wife.”

“Is he not very strong?” she asked.

“He is not as robust as his younger brother,” said de Ayala.

“He’ll grow out of it,” said de Puebla. “Give him a wife. That’s what he needs.”

“Perhaps he seems more delicate than he is because he is constantly compared with young Henry,” commented de Ayala.

“There you speak truth,” said de Puebla in such a voice that meant “For once.” “I reckon they would have been happier if their roles had been reversed. Henry for King, Arthur for Church.”

“I beg you to refrain from such observations before the Infanta,” said de Ayala.

“The Infanta will forgive me,” said de Puebla . . . “particularly when she sees the truth of my remarks. My dear lady, your father has instructed me to give you an account of the English Court and that is what I must do.”

“Thank you,” said Katharine, “you are helping me a great deal.”

De Ayala lapsed into silence. He was always annoyed when she talked with de Puebla.

When they were within fifteen leagues of London messengers came to say that the King was on his way and was to meet the bride as soon as he arrived.

Doña Elvira said grimly: “The King may come but he shall not meet the Infanta until after the wedding. You know it is not the custom for the bridegroom and his family to see the bride before the ceremony of marriage has taken place.”

De Ayala said: “This is the King of England. It is not the same.”

“It is the same,” said Doña Elvira. “I should consider myself unworthy of my task if I allowed it.”

Prince Arthur was riding south from Wales. His father had commanded him to come with all possible speed for he wished them to be together to greet the Infanta.

Arthur was very uneasy. He was to be married. What would that mean? What was his bride like? He was terrified of marriage. There were obligations which he might not be able to fulfil. He was tired—he had always been tired for as long as he remembered. Too much was expected of him; and when he could escape the eyes of his father and his father’s ministers he was always relieved.

But all the time he had been in Wales this fate had been hanging over him. Marriage . . . It was hard enough being the Prince of Wales but to be expected to be a husband as well seemed almost too much for him to endure. He was spitting a little blood now. He did not want his father or mother to know; it drove his mother to despair and his father to look so anxious that he felt he was being reproached for his weakness.

I should never have been Prince of Wales, he often thought. How much better it would have been if Henry had been born before me. Henry could do everything that was expected of a Prince of Wales and what was so important liked doing it. Nothing pleased Henry more than to be at the center of affairs, to have everyone looking at him; he enjoyed answering their questions; he could dance, ride, hawk, hunt . . . do anything better than Arthur. Even at his books he excelled. There was only one thing he lacked. He was not the firstborn. And he resented that. Arthur had often seen the flashes of anger in his brother’s eyes, that sudden pout of the rather small mouth when Arthur was given precedence, as being Prince of Wales he always was; even at three years old he had been made a Knight of the Bath and two years later Knight of the Garter.

He was better at his studies than he was at outdoor sports. It was the one field in which he could beat Henry, in spite of the fact that Henry was no dullard and his tutors spoke highly of his ability to learn. But Henry of course had interests which Arthur could never have; Arthur loved his studies, he liked nothing better than to be allowed to sit with his tutor and read and discuss what he read and studied. His father had put the blind Poet Laureate Bernard André to teach him and they had become great friends. Another tutor and friend was Dr. Linacre who was a doctor besides being a classical scholar. Arthur wondered whether his father had appointed Dr. Linacre to keep a watch on his health as well as his studies. If this was so the doctor performed this duty very discreetly. He was some forty years old at this time and he seemed to Arthur full of widsom, having traveled widely in Italy and he had even attained a degree in Padua. He was considered to be one of the most learned men in the realm.

He had dedicated a translation from the Greek into Latin of Proclus on the Sphere to Arthur who felt very privileged to claim such a man as his friend. Oddly enough although he felt inadequate in the company of Court gallants he was quite at home with men like Dr. Linacre and Bernard André. He wished he could go on sharing his life with such people, but he had his duties—as his father was fond of reminding him—and now those duties entailed marriage with the Spanish Princess. She had arrived in England and his sojourn in Wales had come to an end.

“I am riding from Shene to meet her,” was the command his father had sent. “It would be well if you were to join me just before that meeting takes place.”

So he had begun the journey to London without delay, and at East Hampstead he joined his father’s cavalcade.

The King was delighted with the way everything had happened. At last the Infanta was in England and there could be no turning back now. Friendship with Spain was assured; and the dowry would be useful. Henry’s eyes glistened as he thought of that. His great anxiety was Arthur’s health. He had been disturbed to hear that the Infanta’s brother had died shortly after his marriage. Had he overexerted himself? It was a way with these young people and if they were not very strong it could be disastrous. It was difficult to imagine Arthur’s taking violent action in such a sphere but one could never be sure. This bride and bridegroom could be delayed for a little while . . . a few months . . . a year perhaps. His son the young Prince Edmund had died recently; that meant he had only two boys. True Henry was virile enough, but one could never be sure when people would sicken so he and the Queen must get more children. More boys.

When he rode into East Hampstead he was pleased to find that Arthur was there.

He watched his son approach and kneel. The greeting was formal. Henry found it difficult to be otherwise. But his smile was as warm as could be expected. Arthur looked at him almost apologetically. Did the boy know how wan he looked, that there were dark shadows under his eyes and how much the pallor of his skin alarmed the King?

“I see you in good health, my son,” he said.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Arthur a little too eagerly.

“That is well. We have some duties ahead of us. The Sovereigns will expect a fine wedding for their daughter. Are you eager to meet your bride?”

Arthur said again with that emphasis which was a little too firm: “I am indeed, my lord.”

“That is well, and I’ll swear she is as eager to meet you. We shall set out tomorrow morning at dawn . . . and we shall soon intercept her, I doubt not.”

Perhaps the boy would look better after a rest, thought the King. Of course he was tired out after the journey. Perhaps it would be better if the marriage were not consummated . . . just yet. Let them wait a year or so . . . Arthur would be stronger then.

“The Infanta is at Dogmersfield,” said the King. “Tomorrow we shall set out to meet her. I am sure you are overcome with eagerness.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Arthur spoke quietly. He hated to lie to his father but duty demanded that he should. How could he tell his father that he hated the prospect and his dearest wish was that he could have a quiet life free from his obligations.

“Then we shall rest well tonight,” said the King, “and set off with the dawn.”

Arthur gratefully retired. The King was very uneasy. Every time he saw Arthur he thought he looked a little more frail.

When next morning they set out it had started to rain. The King’s anxious eyes were on Arthur. The boy would get a wetting and the doctors had said that was not good for him; it started up his cough.

There was more trouble to come. Before they reached the Bishop’s Palace at Dogmersfield where Katharine was spending the night, they were met by de Ayala and a group of his entourage.

De Ayla rode up to the King and the two men confronted each other in the rain.

“My lord King,” said de Ayala. “Is it true that you are coming to visit the Infanta?”

“Indeed it is,” replied Henry. “My son is anxious to greet his bride. You look surprised. Do you not understand that we are all eagerness to welcome the Infanta to our shores?”

“I know it so, my lord. But the Spanish law is that none shall see the Infanta unveiled until the marriage has been celebrated.”

“My lord, you cannot be telling me that I am not allowed to look on my son’s bride.”

“That is what I do say, my lord, and you must forgive me but it is the law in Spain.”

“It is not in England,” said the King grimly.

“My lord, our Infanta is the daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain and she is accustomed to Spanish laws and customs.”

“She will perforce learn to accept our English ones, for when she marries she will be one of us.”

“The ceremony has not yet taken place.”

The King was aghast. He had part of the dowry. That was the first thought that struck him. What was it about the Infanta that they were afraid of his seeing? Was she deformed in some way? Was she incapable of bearing children? He must not see her! What absurd custom was this? They were behaving like infidels. Of course, their country had been the home of the Moors for centuries. Perhaps some of their customs had been preserved in Spain. But this was England and he was the King and none of his subjects should defy him.

“You will understand, Don Pedro de Ayala,” he said, “that I am unaccustomed to being forbidden to act as I will in my own country. You say this is the wish of the Sovereigns of Spain. It is certainly not my wish. I will talk with my ministers. Fortunately they are with me and if they agree that with their help I make the rules in this country and they decide that I shall see the Infanta, then so be it, I shall.”

De Ayala bowed. “It would be against the will of my Sovereigns.”

“Then we shall see,” said the King.

He turned and addressed his followers and told them what de Ayala had said. “I am therefore calling a council here in that field yonder and there we will determine what is to be done.”

It was an extraordinary scene with the rain now turned to fine drizzle and in the field, with Arthur beside him, Henry asked his ministers to advise him on how to act in these extraordinary circumstances.

With one accord all declared that the King was ruler in his own country and the ridiculous—one might say barbaric—law of Spain must be set aside if it were the King’s will. It would be unwise to let the Sovereigns think that they could control events in England.

So they left the field and went to de Ayala who was waiting on the road.

The King told him what had happened. De Ayala bowed his head and said he would ride ahead to Dogmersfield and inform the Infanta and her household of the King’s decision.

De Ayala was laughing secretly. His nature was such that he enjoyed situations such as this one. He applauded the King’s decision secretly and he would have despised Henry if he had given way, but now he was eager to see what effect this would have on the Infanta’s entourage and particularly on Doña Elvira who was, he had secretly thought for some time, getting a little above herself.

When he returned, the Infanta’s entourage was thrown into turmoil.

“Never,” cried Elvira. “This is a violation of custom. Queen Isabella would never forgive me . . . .”

“It is perhaps a matter for the Infanta herself to decide,” suggested de Ayala.

“The Infanta! She is only a child.”

“She is soon to be a bride and she is at the center of this storm. I see no alternative but to lay the matter before her. And it must be done with all speed as the King is even now riding this way and when he comes he will demand to see the Infanta.”

Katharine listened gravely and gave her decision.

“This is England. Their customs are not ours. The King has declared he will see me unveiled. Well, so must it be. I will receive him and the Prince as they wish.”

Elvira scolded. “What will your gracious mother say when she hears?”

“She will understand,” said Katharine.

De Ayala watched her with admiration. She had spirit, this Princess, and as far as her looks were concerned she might not be an obvious beauty but certainly she had nothing to hide.

“I should be veiled,” cried Elvira. “I should cover my face in shame.”

Katharine shrugged her shoulders and turned away. Elvira must understand that although she had an important position in the household she did not rule it.

Katharine was waiting for the King when he arrived and begged that he be brought to her without delay.

Henry entered. He came to her and stood before her. Then as she bowed he took her hands in his and kissed them.

She looked up at him and saw a man of spare figure, pale skinned, with damp reddish hair falling to his shoulders. The ermine on the sleeves of his gown was wet and bedraggled. He could not speak Spanish and it was difficult for them to talk together but he did manage to convey to her that he was delighted to see her and that he apologized for overriding the laws of her country.

All the time he was studying her intently. She looked strong and healthy. He was relieved to see that it was only a custom and that there had been no ulterior motive in keeping her face covered.

He wanted her to know that he was delighted to see her for he applauded her good sense in adjusting so quickly to English customs.

He turned to one of his attendants and said: “Send in the Prince the moment he arrives.”

He talked to Katharine gently, quietly and although she understood little of what he said, she found him reassuring. She was glad that she had not refused to unveil; she could understand that in this country it would seem a very foolish custom. She was sure her mother would agree with her. She had been brought up to be reasonable.

There was a fanfare from without announcing the arrival of the Prince of Wales and there he was, standing before her . . . a frail boy, smaller than herself, very damp from his ride through the rain, looking at her with apprehension in his pale blue eyes.

She smiled at him and he returned the smile.

Then remembering what was required of him he took her hand and kissed it.

He is only a boy, she thought, younger than I. There is nothing to fear from him.

The King was smiling on them benignly. There was no doubt that they had taken a fancy to each other.

Good! thought the King, but Arthur is too frail as yet for the consummation.

He hurried through the ceremony, and murmured something to Arthur’s squire that the Prince should take off his damp clothes as soon as possible, be rubbed down and put into dry ones.