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

The Bride and

the Widow

hey were seated at the banquet side by side, immediately good friends, their great attraction being that each of them knew there was nothing to fear from the other.

As she was residing in the Bishop’s house it was she who invited the King and the Prince to her apartments to sup and the Bishop being prepared for this was determined to win the King’s favor by making sure that his household provided such a meal as he would get in one of his royal palaces. Henry himself was no glutton, and in fact resented the amount of money which was wasted on food; but he was fully aware of the impression which must be made, not so much on the Princess as on her attendants who would return to Spain and report on the manner in which the Princess had been received and that would include a description of what there had been to eat at the Bishop’s table.

Henry doubted if such sucking pig, chickens, beef, mutton, fish and pies could be surpassed at the Spanish Court and the Infanta certainly seemed surprised by the abundance of it and the large amounts consumed by the guests.

The Prince looked less vulnerable now that he was free of his damp clothes and wore a fine velvet gown trimmed with ermine and a beautifully embroidered shirt. His hair gleamed and his blue eyes shone with pleasure; he was clearly delighted by Katharine’s gentleness.

He could not speak Spanish, but they discovered that they both understood Latin.

She would teach him Spanish, she said, and he felt excited as he always did at the prospect of studying some new subject.

He would teach her English, he promised and she told him that she had already learned a few words.

He asked her about her family and she described to him not what had happened recently but her early days when she had been the baby of a large family. She talked of her mother and he said: “You love her dearly.” She answered that her mother was not only one of the greatest queens of Europe but she had always had time for her children. He knew that Isabella was the ruler of Spain—for although Ferdinand ruled with her it was Isabella who was the leader of the two, for Castile was so much more important than Aragon—but according to Katharine she had also found time to be the best mother in the world.

“Perhaps she will visit you here. Or perhaps we shall go to Spain.”

“Could we?”

“We shall be the King and the Queen. They do not have to ask if they may.”

For the first time in his life he wanted to be king. He was amazed. Katharine had done that for him.

As the evening wore on and the feasting was over it was time for dancing. The minstrels were there and Don Pedro de Ayala whispered to Katharine that she should show the King some of their Spanish dances.

Katharine loved to dance and summoning some of her ladies she commanded them to dance with her. The King watched her. She was strong and healthy enough. He had nothing of which to complain and he was glad he had shown the Spaniards that he would have none of their Moorish customs in England.

He was anxious though, for as the Infanta had danced, this meant that the Prince would have to do the same. Not together. That would not be discreet until they were married. It was a good thing. The little Spaniard was too agile for Arthur.

He beckoned to Lady Guildford, one of the ladies of the royal nurseries, a motherly woman who had always shown concern for the children.

“Take the Prince in the dance,” he said. He looked at her steadily. “Do not keep him at it too long. Something short and not too lively . . .”

She understood.

So she and Arthur showed the Spanish Princess an English dance. The Prince was grateful and would have done well if he were not so short of breath.

He was greatly relieved to sit down and tried not to show how fatigued he was.

But Katharine noticed. It made her feel very tender toward him.

Prince Henry was delighted. Although he resented the fact that this was not his wedding, he was to play a big part in it. His father had chosen him to lead the Spanish Infanta first into the city and later to the altar.

He was smiling happily as his attendants gathered round him as he was dressed. He looked complacently down at his well-shaped legs in their close-fitting hose. His shirt and pourpoint were of the finest but what pleased him most was the coat—lined with ermine—and the gold chain which was placed about his neck. He would be recognized at once as a Prince.

So royally clad he mounted his horse, which was as grand as he was. Even his gold stirrups were decorated with jewels. He looked magnificent—older than his ten years for he was tall and broad and as he still possessed a very youthful-looking face he was certain to attract the admiration of the crowd. His usually pink cheeks were a shade deeper, and as the sun shone on the thick reddish curls which framed his face he was indeed a handsome sight.

His father himself had told him of what was expected of him. He had warned him that he must please the people. He had meant of course that he must not push himself too much to the fore, the people would not be so much interested in him as in the bride and bridegroom. He must remember to conduct himself with decorum as a prince and knight must always do.

Henry implied that he was well aware of this and added that his father would have no need to be ashamed of him.

And now here he was seated on his horse, waiting for the approach of the Spanish Princess. He had crossed London Bridge and was in St. George’s Field close to Lambeth Palace from which Katharine would emerge.

He was impatient to see her. He had heard that she was handsome and not ill-formed as had been feared because at first she was reluctant to show her face. Lucky Arthur to marry the daughter of Spain! Her mother was very rich and powerful and Katharine had brought many treasures with her from Spain.

Henry’s eyes sparkled at the thought of riches. Not that he would want to hoard them as it was rumored his father did. If he had the money he would spend it on grand occasions, jousting, feasting, fine clothes and riding among the people, giving them amusements, tournaments, baiting of animals and royal pageantry, so pleasing the people.

Alas, that fate had seen fit to make him a second son.

Now he could hear the music coming from Lambeth Palace—music which had a foreign flavor—Spanish, of course. The trumpets thrilled him; he was fond of music, which gave great satisfaction to those who tutored him in that subject. So he listened with pleasure, leaning forward a little in his saddle, eager to catch a first glimpse of her.

And there she was—in the midst of the knights and squires and Spanish gentlemen—a girl on a brilliantly caparisoned mule, which glittered and shone.

Her hair flowed about her shoulders—thick and auburn colored; he could not see her face clearly for she wore a hat which reminded him of the ones Cardinals wore.

His heart beat fast as she approached and he spurred his horse forward. They were face-to-face. He swept off his hat and bowed and said the words he had prepared.

She replied rather stumblingly and her smile told him at once that she liked him.

He was enchanted. He thought he had never seen anyone as beautiful as the Spanish Princess.

He placed himself on her right and prepared to escort her into the city.

How proud he was to be her escort, how conscious of the side-long glances she gave him! He guessed she was admiring him as he was admiring her.

“You will see how the city is determined to welcome you,” he said.

She lifted her shoulders and shook her head. She did not understand. He was angry with his tutors for not teaching him Spanish. Could she understand Latin? She could.

“It will be so helpful to us,” he said, and smiled.

He was able to tell her that he thought her beautiful and that her hat amused him. “It is like those worn by cardinals,” he said.

She smiled with him.

She was not very old really. She seemed almost his own age.

“I will be your friend,” he said. “You have nothing to fear.”

She murmured: “Thank you.”

He felt elated. This he thought is the happiest moment of my life: and then he remembered that she was to be Arthur’s bride and that Arthur would have not only herself but the crown. His happiness was immediately clouded; he forced his mouth to smile; the irrepressible Skelton had said that when he was angry his mouth betrayed him. “That mouth will send people to the block when . . . I mean if you are ever king.”

So he smiled and he wondered why Skelton often talked as though he would be the King one day. If Arthur died . . . but then Arthur was going to be married and married people had sons . . . If Arthur had a son that would be the end of his hopes. And this beautiful girl would help him to get one. She was really an enemy. But he could not think of her as such.

So he smiled at the people and he was sure they had almost as much interest in him as they had in the Spanish Princess. There were wonderful pageants in the streets. Virgins and saints greeted them but what Henry liked best was the castle, which had been set up near the Falcon Inn; it was so lifelike; it was a most exhilarating experience riding down Cornhill. The conduits in Chepeside were running with free wine to which the people helped themselves most liberally. Everywhere there were tributes to Arthur and his bride.

So Henry took her to the Bishop’s Palace, close to the Cathedral, where she was to rest a few days before the marriage ceremony.

Then again it was Henry’s turn to take her from the Bishop’s Palace to St. Paul’s.

He was delighted by her and could not take his eyes from her.

There was something so strange and exotic about her that made her different from any woman he had ever known. He thought of her spending her childhood in strange Moorish palaces; he thought of all the rich articles she had brought with her to England. He knew that they made his father’s eyes gleam with pleasure and rub his hands together in an anticipation of touching them. The daughter of the Sovereigns of Spain! How truly exciting. He had heard that the wagons which had come with her were full of priceless treasure—carpets of exquisite design; beds, intricately carved; cloths of the finest texture to say nothing of jewels and plate. And all this for Arthur!

Now he could not take his eyes from her. She wore a coif of white silk with a scarf spattered with gold and stones of many colors. It covered half her face as well as a good deal of her person. She told him that it was called a mantilla. Her gown was pleated and spread out in hoops from her tiny waist. It was the first time Henry had seen the fashion which he was to see many times later as it was noticed by many of the ladies who determined to imitate it.

He enjoyed leading her to the Cathedral and all the time he was suppressing his envy of Arthur.

And there was Arthur waiting in the Cathedral dressed in white satin, looking handsome and slightly less fragile than usual.

Henry noticed that his parents were not present and tried not to look up at the latticed box from where he knew they would be watching.

And so Arthur was married to the Princess of Spain and Arthur was now taking his bride to the door of the Cathedral so that the people in the streets could see them.

The cheers were deafening. There was no doubt that the people were pleased with Prince Arthur and his Spanish Princess.

Now Henry was to the fore again for it was his task to lead the bride from the Cathedral to the Bishop’s Palace where the banquet was waiting for them. His Aunt Cecilia, who had been widowed on the death of her husband Lord Wells some three years before, was one of the train bearers.

The feast had begun. There must be such a display as would impress the Spaniards and the King was determined that, much as he deplored spending the money, there should be nothing of which to complain.

And after the feasting there was the ceremony of the bedding, which had been causing not only the married pair but the King and Queen so much anxiety.

First the bed must be examined for lurking weapons—knives and daggers—concealed among the feathers. The moment which Arthur and Katharine had both been dreading had arrived.

There was the usual ribaldry and Arthur was glad that Katharine could not speak the language. The bed had been scented and sprinkled with holy water and the word which was used most frequently was fruitful. Katharine had always known that the first duty of a Princess was to get children but she was afraid and knew very little of the process necessary to their production.

Katharine was undressed by her ladies and, still veiled and in her bedgown, she was conducted to the bedchamber. Arthur had been led in—having similarly been disrobed by his attendants—and the two young people stood facing each other apprehensively.

The bed curtains were drawn back. The bed was blessed and the moment had come.

The King then approached them and said in a low voice which few but the bride and groom could hear: “You are young yet. There is plenty of time before you. You are not ready for marriage. There should be no consummation . . . until you are a little older.”

He was looking anxiously at his son. He need not have worried. Arthur was looking immensely relieved.

Katharine was smiling too.

So they were led to the bed where they lay side by side. Arthur reached for Katharine’s hand and held it fast; and they talked quietly together in Latin . . . until they fell asleep.

The pageantry continued. Before Westminster Hall a tiltyard was set up. There was a loge for the King’s party hung with cloth of gold; and round the entire area stages had been built for the people to sit and watch the tournament. It was received with the utmost delight. The people declared they had never seen such entertainment and they wished they had a marriage every week. It was wonderful to see the knights tilting with each other. They pointed out the famous people as they saw them. All knew the King and Queen and the royal children of course but figures like the Marquis of Dorset and the Earl of Essex and Lord William Courtney were names to them until they saw them take on life in the arena.

At dusk the party returned to Westminster Hall for feasting and dancing and Katharine would distribute the prizes won at the tournament.

The ladies took their places on the King’s left hand—Katharine with Queen Elizabeth, and the King’s mother the Countess of Richmond, the Princesses Margaret and Mary and other members of the family such as Lady Wells. On the King’s right hand was Arthur, Henry and other nobles arranged according to their rank.

The pageants were beautiful and all was done in honor of the marriage; and there was much dancing and singing.

Arthur must dance, of course, and the King had suggested that his Aunt Cecilia perform with him. Always, thought Henry, he must dance with elderly people. My father is afraid that the young would dance too fast for him. Arthur however looked graceful in his white satin and Aunt Cecilia was certainly determined not to force him into too much exertion, cleverly giving the impression that it was for her benefit rather than his.

Young Henry was waiting his chance. When it came he would show them. There would be no need for anyone to slow him down. He had always excelled at dancing and he was going to show the assembled company how much better he could perform than his brother.

His eyes fell on his sister Margaret. He and Margaret had never been good friends, but he did admire her dancing. She was as good as he was . . . or almost. The two of them together could astonish the company.

He could not wait. He went to her and took her hand. She was longing to dance too. She wanted some of the applause which had gone to others for doing something she knew she could do far better.

For a second she scowled at her brother. Then she smiled. She had to admit that he could dance well too and together they would be a perfect pair.

So they danced and the musicians watching them played the music more wildly and glancing at the King, Henry saw that his father was amused . . . more than amused . . . rather proud of these two bright healthy children of his.

“Faster, faster!” cried Henry and because his robe was encumbering him he took it off, threw it high in the air so that with greater freedom he could dance more vigorously. The company applauded as they watched the youthful pair cavorting in the center of the hall.

At last the music stopped. The dance was over. The applause was enthusiastic and even the King was smiling.

Henry looked at Katharine. She had clapped her hands together, smiling.

Henry bowed to his parents and then to her.

I am sure, Henry was thinking, Katharine would have liked me better than Arthur.

Dudley and Empson had brought the King a valuation of the Infanta’s dowry.

“Some one hundred thousand crowns, my lord,” said Dudley with satisfaction.

“A goodly sum,” mused the King, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His fingers moved as though to grasp those articles that he might add their value to his exchequer.

“The goods could be said to belong to you, Sire,” said Empson. “They are after all the Princess’s dowry.”

“But what were the rules laid down by the Sovereigns?”

“That the goods should remain in the possession of the Infanta until the second half of the dowry was paid.”

“That will be in a year’s time.”

“True my lord, but we could make good use of those goods now. However, perhaps some advice could be sought.”

“De Ayala?” said the King and shook his head. “De Puebla possibly.”

“We should get more satisfaction from him. I fancy he has a wish to please us for he does not stand so high in the Sovereigns’ favor as does de Ayala for instance.”

“No, they like not his origins but to my mind he is an abler man than de Ayala. I will sound de Puebla.”

“It is the best solution, my lord.”

Henry lost no time in seeking out de Puebla. He did not summon him for he did not wish him to think that the matter of the dowry was a weighty one. However during the course of the conversation between them he said suddenly: “I should like to have possession of the dowry.”

De Puebla folding his hands together, looked down at them gravely.

“The ruling was that it should remain the property of the Princess of Wales for one year after the celebration of the nuptials.”

“I know. I know . . . but in view of the fact that it is her dowry . . . which comes to me . . . to the Prince, why should we wait this year?”

De Puebla looked sly. “My lord King,” he said, “you know full well that I have always sought to be your friend, and that has not always been easy.”

The King nodded.

“This matter of the dowry now . . . Am I correct in thinking you would prefer one hundred thousand crowns to the jewels and the furniture?”

“You are right.”

“It is no use trying to get the Sovereigns to pass the goods to you. They will never do that. But what if the Princess were to wear the jewels . . . use the furniture . . .”

“Why should she? She has plenty of those.”

“If she had her own Court she would need these things and the jewels are part of her state regalia.”

“What do you suggest, my friend?”

De Puebla was thoughtful. He guessed that the marriage had not been consummated. The Sovereigns would be angry if they knew this. They were as anxious as Henry was to get an heir from the union. De Puebla knew that much as Henry wanted an heir he was terrified that sexual exertion would rob Arthur of what little strength he had. De Puebla was mischievous by nature. He liked to be the innocent party who stirred up the waters in the pond and made them troubled and then run away and disclaim all knowledge of what he had done. That was how he had always worked. De Ayala despised him; well, he despised de Ayala, that cultured gallant diplomat. His methods were no way to make history.

The royal pair had not consummated the marriage because Henry did not want it consummated yet and the only reason was that he was afraid for his son’s health. Let the boy take his chance, thought de Puebla, and if making love was too much for him then there would be further interesting situations to amuse de Puebla. Get the pair away from the anxious parental eye . . . and then they would see.

“Since you do me the honor of asking my opinion,” said de Puebla, “I will give it. This is between ourselves, Highness. Send the Prince and Princess away to a Court of their own . . . Wales, say. The people love the Prince there. They will love the Princess too. Let them hold Court, let the Princess wear the jewels . . . use the articles of the dowry . . . then when the time comes to hand them over you will say you cannot accept second-hand goods. The furniture will have suffered, the arras . . . the tapestries will be a little worse for wear. You can then demand one hundred thousand crowns, the first half of the dowry.”

“H’m,” said the King. “You are a devious thinker, my lord.”

“In the service of Your Highness.”

“And of your Sovereigns?”

De Puebla moved an imperceptible step nearer to the King. “My lord, I have had good friendship from you,” he said. “Better than . . .”

He did not finish and the King did not ask him to.

“I will think about this matter,” said the King.

A few days later it was announced that the Prince and Princess of Wales would reside for a while in Ludlow.

They were approaching the castle—Katharine with those who were left to her of the Spanish retinue she had brought with her, headed by Doña Elvira, and Arthur with a group of advisers who had been chosen by the King.

The castle was built high on a headland, its foundations grafted into the gray rock, and guarded by a deep and wide fosse. There was a vast early Norman square tower and impressive battlements, which gave it a comforting air of impregnability. It was set in beautiful country overlooking the town of Ludlow; on all sides was the green countryside—woods, hills and fields rolling on to the horizon.

Katharine thought it very beautiful; she loved the greenness of everything, which she had noticed on her arrival in England. She thought she would be very happy here, for she was happy with Arthur. They were good companions; they studied together; she was learning to speak English and was teaching him Spanish. She was always careful never to tire him and he was grateful because she did so unostentatiously.

The Welsh accepted them and liked them. The chieftains called at the castle. One of them brought his son hoping that he would learn to be a squire in the Prince’s household. Arthur accepted him and Griffith ap Rhys became a friend of both Arthur and Katharine, greatly to the delight of the boy’s father and the people of Wales.

Such happy days they were! Katharine had almost ceased to think of Spain and the longing to be with her mother was less than she had thought it possible to be.

Arthur’s health seemed to improve a little. He could ride for longer hours and he and Katharine tried out a few dances together. He was so grateful because if he became breathless she always made some excuse to stop.

They were ideal companions and Arthur was deeply contented with his marriage. He was able to explain to her how he dreaded having to take part in ceremonial and she understood.

“If I am ever king I shall dispense with a great deal of it,” he told her. “It is not necessary, you know. It does not make a good king because he has to dance and make good speeches. . . .”

Katharine agreed with him.

“When we are the King and Queen we will live at Ludlow . . . oh, I know, not for all the time. But we could come here often could we not?”

“We will,” said Arthur.

He could talk to Katharine as he had never been able to talk to anyone before. To her he confided that he had always thought he should have been born second, Henry first. “Henry would have made such a good king and I should have been well enough in the Church.”

“You would not have married me,” she reminded him.

“Ah,” said Arthur. “You are right. Then I would not have anything other than it is.”

News came from the Court. There was to be a grand celebration for Arthur’s sister Margaret was to be betrothed to the King of Scots. The news threw a certain gloom over the household at Ludlow. The thought of having to leave his newly found peace for the ceremonies of Court depressed Arthur.

Katharine comforted him but his depression frightened her a little. Surely their future life when Arthur was king would be a continuation of such occasions.

She would have to talk to him of this; she would have to stand beside him, help him to overcome his shyness. She was confident that together they would face whatever lay before them.

And then the good news. The King thought it was not necessary for the Prince of Wales to come to Court. His brother Henry would play his part in the ceremonies and Arthur should stay at Ludlow.

Arthur was overcome with joy and Katharine was delighted to see him so relieved; but afterward she thought of the matter and she knew that the reason his father had not wished him to be present was because he feared the journey to Richmond would be too strenuous for him and might have a damaging effect on his health.

She was very anxious when he looked so tired, but she assured herself that he was better since they had lived quietly at Ludlow. All was going to be well. She would look after him, make sure he did not exert himself and in time, she assured herself, his health would improve.

She must count her blessings. She was lucky. She only had to look back a little way to remember how she had been dreading her marriage; and here she was with the gentlest of husbands, who was kind and clever, interesting and tender. What good fortune was hers! She would write home and tell her mother how happy she was.

Another ceremony! How young Henry loved them—particularly, as on this occasion, when his brother was not present. That gave him added importance. He walked beside the King and was accorded the homage which would have been Arthur’s if he had been present, so that he could imagine that he was the Prince of Wales—king-to-be.

And he was secretly delighted by the reason for this occasion. Margaret was to be married—by proxy it was true—to the King of Scotland. Soon his sister would depart and he would be relieved of her irritating presence. Margaret was too much like himself, too forceful, too aware of her dignity, always trying to push herself forward. Moreover she was perceptive. She saw through him too easily and often put into words something which was only a thought in his mind. It was disconcerting. She was clever and older than he was. Perhaps she wished that she had been a boy and then . . . if anything happened to Arthur . . . she would have been the Sovereign.

Arthur was constantly in his mind—the health of Arthur, the possibilities of his death. Such thoughts were best hidden and the notion that Margaret guessed at them disturbed him a great deal. Therefore it was comforting to reflect that Margaret was destined for Scotland. It was a pity of course that their father had decreed that she was too young to leave England immediately.

Well, she would have to go in time and Skelton had told Henry that when she did get there she would find a situation which would engage all her talents to unravel.

What did he mean by that? Winks and nudges and those intriguing innuendos which were so characteristic of Skelton.

“James the King is a wild laddie, my lord. He abounds in love.”

“Well, is that not a good thing?”

“Love for women, my lord, reckless love for women. Mind you, none could compare with your own illustrious grandsire, so I’ve heard, but I’d be ready to swear James of Scotland runs him pretty close.”

“But when he is married to Margaret . . .”

“Ah, when he is married to Margaret! Marriage . . . that is the time when men repent of their sins; they have sown their wild oats and now settle down to sow a few tame ones, eh. I would I were there to see how Dame Margaret handles the Boyds, the Kennedys, the Drummonds . . . Ah, and how they handle her!”

Henry laughed. “She will know what to do, I promise you.”

“ ’Twill be a sight worth seeing I am sure.”

“And now I am to go to this matter at Richmond . . . in my brother’s place.”

“It becomes you well, my lord . . . your brother’s place . . .”

And there was Skelton, his expression changing from one of lewdness to speculation.

And so to Richmond and the ceremony. His father looked at him with a certain criticism as though reproaching him for his too healthy looks and his exuberant manner. The King might not like them but the people did, and Henry shrewdly suspected that the people’s approval was more important to him than even his father’s. It was not real criticism, Henry understood. It was only the wistful thought of how pleased he would be if Arthur had one half of Henry’s good health.

The Queen was looking pale though she had made attempts to disguise this. Skelton—who had a way of learning such things—said that the apothecary was constantly sending remedies to her and she often sent monks and priests to make pilgrimages to the well-known shrines of the country to pray for her.

Margaret was radiant. She had few qualms about going to Scotland. It was typical of Margaret that she could not imagine herself failing to succeed at anything. If she had heard rumors of her future husband’s irregular life she gave no sign of it. She would be sure that as soon as he clapped eyes on her and realized his good fortune nothing else would be of great importance to him.

They heard Mass in the chapel and then went from the chapel to the Queen’s great chamber where the marriage by proxy would be performed.

Henry listened to the voices.

“I, Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, procurator of the right excellent, right high and mighty Prince James, by the grace of God King of Scotland, my sovereign lord, having sufficient authority power and commandment to contract matrimony, per verba de presenti in the name of my said sovereign Lord with thee Margaret . . .”

On and on . . . He would be glad when this was over and the feasting began. There would be jousts . . . dancing and he would excel at them all.

And now her turn: “I, Margaret, first begotten daughter of the right excellent high and mighty Prince and Princess, Henry by the grace of God King of England and Elizabeth, Queen of the same . . .”

By the grace of God, thought Henry. Skelton said, By the grace of good fortune, Lady Luck who came to Bosworth Field.

“Good fortune was the grace of God surely,” Henry had argued.

“It is a matter which could be debated,” was the answer.

He was wicked, Skelton was. If the King knew what treason he uttered . . .

But I like him, thought Henry. No matter what he says . . . and he laughs at me sometimes . . . still for some strange reason I would have him near me.

At last . . . it was over. Now the feasting. The Queen was leading her daughter by the hand toward the dinner table. Two queens together. Henry felt a flush of anger. Margaret was a queen. Above a duke in rank, he supposed. It was insufferable.

But at the jousting and the pageants he excelled. He was sure everyone was watching him.

“A triumph, a triumph,” said Skelton later. “The bride conducted herself with grace and charm. And now we have a queen in the nursery we must take heed of our manners.”

“Queen! It is but a proxy marriage.”

“Queen never-the-less. You will see that henceforth she will be named always as the Queen of Scotland.”

“I hope she is soon sent to Scotland. Perhaps she won’t give herself such airs there.”

“Margaret will always be Margaret . . . and Henry Henry,” said Skelton.

“They treated me as the Prince of Wales.”

“As they would, my lord . . . if the Prince himself were absent.”

“Skelton . . . I wonder . . .”

“I have had news from Ludlow. The Prince is happy with his bride. He is breathless still and I believe spits blood, which he tries to hide . . . but it is hard to hide the secrets of the bedchamber from zealous servants’ eyes.”

“Skelton . . . you know something . . .”

“All I know I would tell my lord.” He put his mouth close to Henry’s ear. “The love between the royal pair increases. They are very tender . . . and much in each other’s company.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you put two loving people together . . . if they be man and wife . . . well, what would you . . . nature being what it is?”

“They must not have a child,” said Henry.

“Who says so? Great Harry. And he should be obeyed. But there are times when God turns a deaf ear even to princes. What we must pray for, my dear lord . . . is good fortune . . . and the grace of God.”

Spring was beautiful in England. It seemed particularly so after the dark days of winter; now the air had a balminess in it and the whole of nature seemed to be aware that spring was coming. Arthur showed Katharine wild daffodils when they rode out together and the mingling white of the daisies and gold of the dandelions seemed enchanting to her.

She was watchful of him, always declaring when she saw him begin to weary that she had been too long in the saddle and was tired. He was always solicitous, but he knew that she was thinking of him and he loved her for it.

They touched hands; they kissed; sometimes he would put an arm about her and hold her to him; but their endearments never went beyond that. They were watchful, Arthur remembering his father’s injunction; Katharine, aware of something she did not fully understand but fearing that it would be dangerous for Arthur, kept her emotions in check.

Perhaps it occurred to both of them that it could not last; perhaps that was why they were determined to enjoy those days to the full.

Change hit them suddenly.

One of the attendants came in to say that there was a case of sweating sickness in the town of Ludlow.

There was immediate consternation in the castle. Everyone was awaiting a summons from the King. They were sure that when the news reached him, Arthur would be removed at once.

But no message came. And then it was too late.

It was inevitable that the weakest member of the household should be the victim.

There was despair in the castle. Katharine prayed for the life of her young husband. Surely God could not be so cruel as to take him away now that they were becoming so happy together? The King would send down the finest physicians in the land. Arthur’s life must be saved.

But few survived the dreaded sweating sickness. Arthur most certainly could not.

They brought the news to her. She stared at them unbelievingly. Dead! Arthur. She could not believe it. She would not believe it.

“’Tis true, my lady,” they said. “God knows what the King will do when he hears this doleful news.”

She felt bereft, desolate. A wife and no wife . . . a virgin widow.

If only the marriage had been consummated. If only she could have had Arthur’s child. Then she would have had something to live for.

Now . . . she was alone.

The King was at Greenwich when he heard that Arthur’s Chamberlain had arrived from Ludlow and was urgently requesting to be brought to him.

Henry was seized with trembling for a terrible foreboding had come to him.

“Bring him to me with all speed,” he said, “and as soon as he comes.”

Arthur’s Chamberlain was heavy-hearted as he rode to Greenwich where the Court was in residence. He dreaded telling the King the tragic news and he decided that he would impart it first to the Council and ask their advice as to the best way of breaking it.

The Council was dismayed and after some consultation decided that it would be best for the King’s Confessor to tell him and this was arranged.

When Henry heard the discreet knock on the door he knew that it was his Confessor who stood without and, suspecting nothing, he bade him enter.

The man’s woebegone expression sent quivers of alarm running through the King’s mind and he immediately thought of Arthur.

“You have ill news,” he said.

The Confessor replied: “I have, my lord, and you are going to need all the strength that God can give you.”

“It is my son,” said the King quietly.

“It is, my lord.”

“He is sick?”

The Confessor did not answer.

“Dead!” cried the King. “Dead . . . !”He turned away. He could never bear any man to see his emotion. Why had he loved this boy who had been such a disappointment to him? All his hopes had been in Arthur although he had been frail from birth. It was a mistake to become involved with others. He had always known this and tried to avoid it. Why was Arthur the one person who had made him diverge from the path of wisdom so that he must suffer constant anxiety—as he had since the boy had been born!

Now this was the final blow.

He turned to the Confessor. “Send the Queen to me. I must be the one to break this news to her.”

“My lord, would you wish to kneel first in prayer.”

“I would wish first to see the Queen. I would not want her to hear this news from any but myself.”

The Confessor bowed and retired and returned shortly after with the Queen.

She was alarmed. She knew from Henry’s expression that something terrible had happened. He had lost something dear to him. His crown . . . his . . . son!

“What is it?” she said. “Is it . . . ?”

He nodded. “Arthur,” he said quietly. “He died of the sweating sickness.”

She covered her face with her hands. Henry was so overcome with emotion that he could not speak. She lowered her hands and looked at him and saw the anguish in his face and she knew how deeply he whose feelings were usually so well hidden was suffering and suddenly the need to comfort him was more important to her than anything else.

“Our beloved son,” she said quietly. “His health was always an anxiety. We were always expecting this. Henry . . . we have another son. Thank God for him. We have two fine daughters.”

“That is true,” said Henry. “But Arthur . . .”

“Arthur was our firstborn . . . so gentle always. Such a good boy. But he was never strong in health. In Henry we have one who will step into his shoes. We should be thankful for that.”

“I am,” he said. “We have one son left to us. . . .”

“Your mother had but one son, and look you, he is King of England, the comfort of his realm, the comfort of his Queen and his children.”

“Elizabeth, you are a good wife to me . . . a good mother to our children.”

“Subdue your grief, my lord. Remember God wills that we go on . . . even after such a bitter blow. We are young yet. Who knows we may have more princes. But we have Henry and he is a fine strong boy.”

The King was silent. “You comfort me,” he said.

And she left him for she could no longer contain her grief and when she reached her own chamber she threw herself onto her bed and gave way to it.

She had loved Arthur as much as Henry had—more tenderly, as a mother does. This was her firstborn. Her beloved child . . . loved, she must admit, beyond the others. Her grief was such that it overwhelmed her and when her women found her they were alarmed for her and sent for her physician.

He went to the King and told him that he must comfort the Queen.

So then it was Henry’s turn and he went to her and talked to her quietly of Arthur—Arthur as a child, Arthur growing up, how delighted they had been with his cleverness, how perpetually anxious for his health.

“Somehow,” he said, “I knew that it would happen . . . and now it has. Dear Elizabeth, we must be brave. We must go on. You were telling me this and now I am telling you. We have our son Henry. We will get more sons, and perhaps in time we shall cease to mourn so bitterly.”

There were three weeks when the Prince of Wales lay in state and then began the funeral procession from Ludlow Castle to the Cathedral at Worcester.

There was one among the mourners who wept with the others, but he could not suppress the fierce joy in his heart.

This was what he had always longed for. To be the firstborn. But that was of no consequence now. Miraculously he was there in the place he had longed for.

No longer Duke of York, but Prince of Wales.

“Henry the King,” he murmured to himself. “Henry the Eighth.”

He could not help studying his father, whose face was pale, whose hair was gray and whose eyes were without luster. Arthur’s death had aged him a great deal. Well, the Prince of Wales was only eleven and even he recognized that was rather young to be a king.

“I can wait awhile,” he told himself, “knowing that one day it will come.”