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

The Search for a Queen

he king was restive. He had lost his queen but he could not afford to waste time in grief. He was not yet so old that he was beyond getting children. He was forty-six—a mature age it was true—but he was by no means impotent. His life with the Queen had shown that. He could convince himself that he was a comparatively young man and therefore he must at once make plans to remarry.

The Spanish Sovereigns were being awkward about the dowry. Ferdinand was a wily man to deal with and Henry did not trust him. Isabella was a great queen but she was concerned for her daughter and Henry believed that Katharine might have written to her expressing repugnance for the match with young Henry. He knew, of course, that that would carry little weight with Ferdinand, but with Isabella it might be another matter.

But suppose he had a more dazzling proposition to put before the Sovereigns? He sent for de Puebla, a clever man who delighted in intrigue and was not averse to a little sharp practice. He was the sort of fellow who could always be safely sounded out and who for considerations could be counted on to give consideration to every scheme—however shocking it might appear to some.

Henry said: “The Sovereigns are no doubt a little concerned about their daughter’s future.”

“Why, my lord, they know that she is to have Prince Henry. That seems to them a sensible and happy conclusion to the Infanta’s matrimonial affairs.”

“Henry is only a boy, not yet twelve years old. I fancy that the Sovereigns are concerned about waiting for him to come of age before the final ceremony can take place. I have another idea. How would they feel about seeing their daughter Queen of England immediately?”

“My lord!”

“Why not? I am free to marry.”

“And you would take your son’s widow!” Even the worldly de Puebla was taken aback.

“It seems reasonable. Katharine is here. There would not be the expense of bringing her over. She is a widow. I am a widower.”

“I do not know how it would be regarded,” said de Puebla. “But it can be put to the Sovereigns.”

“We could marry almost immediately. I have always held the Princess Katharine in high regard.”

Why, thought de Puebla, she could be in childbed before the year is out . . . she might manage even that. No time wasted between the birth of the little Princess and the birth of the next child even though there had to be a change of queens. Even by de Puebla’s standards there was something very cynical about this king.

“Well?” said the King.

“I will put the notion to the Sovereigns without delay.”

“Do that,” said the King. “We do not wish for unnecessary delay.”

De Puebla could not resist the chance to break the news to Katharine. Moreover he felt that by so doing he might ingratiate himself with her. He wanted to assure her that he was working for her, so he called on her.

“My lady Princess,” he said, “I have news which I thought I should impart to you without delay. I have this day written to your noble parents.”

“Written of me?” she asked, growing pale.

“Yes, at the request of King Henry.”

“Of what does he wish them to know?”

“He is sending them a proposition. He is asking for your hand. . . .”

“For Prince Henry, I know. That has been decided.”

“No . . . for himself.”

Katharine stared at him. She could not have heard correctly.

“The King . . .”

“’Tis so. The King would make you his queen . . . without delay.”

“I can’t believe this. The Queen has not been dead two months.”

“The King is in a hurry.” He came closer to her. “He is obsessed by the need to get heirs. Elizabeth gave him several but too many died. He wants you who are young and strong to take the place of the Queen in his bed.”

De Puebla was smiling in a way which nauseated her. Horrible pictures sprang into her mind . . . images of something she did not understand and which made her uneasy, more than that—terrified her.

“No,” she said. “No. I shall never agree.”

“I have been ordered by the King to write to your parents.”

“Oh no, no,” she cried. “Not that . . . anything but that . . .”

“I believe Queen Isabella has decided you shall have Prince Henry. My Princess, when I hear from her I shall come straight to you. I thought it best to warn you . . . that you may be prepared.”

She stood staring straight before her and de Puebla, bowing low, asked leave to retire.

Poor girl! If the Sovereigns decided it would be expedient for her to take old Henry she would have to. And he fancied Ferdinand would rather like the idea of seeing his daughter Queen of England now . . . even though he would have to pay the second half of the dowry.

When she was alone Katharine went to her apartments and shut herself in. Doña Elvira tried to discover what ailed her but she would tell no one. She wanted to be alone with her horror.

Fervently she prayed, calling on God to save her, calling on her mother to come to her aid.

The days began to pass slowly.

Whenever she was in the company of the King, which she thanked God was rarely, she saw his eyes on her. They were not lascivious, speculative rather, as though he were assessing how fit she was to bear children. She compared him with Arthur and weeping afresh for her young husband, she longed above everything else for home, to be able to tell her mother of her fears, to see those dear kind eyes filled with understanding. If she could but see her mother, explain to her, she was sure that no matter how advantageous this marriage would be to Spain, Isabella would never allow it to take place.

What if she wrote to her mother? But de Puebla had told her in confidence. Her father might see the letter. Henry might learn that she begged not to be married to him. She could visualize all sorts of dire results; and she decided that nothing could be done but hope and pray.

Henry himself was restive. He was not well and the arrogance of his young son irritated him now and then. He should of course be grateful for having such a son who was so suited to being a king; but sometimes the boy behaved as though he were already one and he wondered whether young Henry was looking forward with a little too much zeal to the day when he would ascend the throne. Sometimes those rather small but intensely alert blue eyes would be caught studying his father as though, thought the King, he were summing up my ability to cling to life, and assessing how many more years were left to him.

The prospect of a crown was too glittering for a young boy of Henry’s temperament to reconcile himself to waiting patiently until it could be justly put upon his head.

The King gave a great deal of thought to his son and the Prince of Wales was not the least of his anxieties. The boy had to be kept on a firm rein and the King fervently prayed that more years might be granted him so that he did not leave the country in the hands of this exuberant boy until he had attained some maturity.

The King had dismissed John Skelton from the Prince’s household for he had come to believe that the poet tutor had a bad inflcuence on the Prince. In a way the King admired Skelton. He was a poet of some ability and above all he was a fearless man. He had shown that in his verses about the Court, which he had portrayed quite derisively. But Henry believed he was too worldly to be the daily companion of a young impressionable boy, and fancied he had probably already initiated the Prince into the enjoyment of pleasure between the sexes and that, unlike in his own case, these pleasures would be very much to young Henry’s taste.

Well, Skelton had gone; Henry did not want to be unjust to any man. He had no desire to be harsh and rarely acted so except when common sense demanded it. So although Skelton had lost his post as tutor to the Prince of Wales he was given the living of Diss in Norfolk and in addition to this Henry gave him forty shillings a year in recognition of his service in the royal household. Therefore Skelton had done rather well for himself for the pension added to his stipend put him in a position to be envied by other less fortunate priests.

Skelton had settled down to write more scandalous poems and young Henry had a new tutor, William Hone. The Prince had greeted the change with a certain resentment. If he had been a little older and more sure of himself there would have been open rebellion, the King believed; and it was one of the factors which added to his uneasiness.

Hone was a meek man. Perhaps the difference from Skelton was too marked, and young Henry became quickly reconciled because he found William Hone very easy to handle.

The fact was young Henry was finding people generally easy to handle—largely, the King suspected, because those around him had their eyes on the future. They would be thinking: How much longer is the old lion going to last? Then it will be the young cub’s turn. Therefore wise far-seeing young men that they were, they made sure to keep in the prospective King’s good graces.

It was an uneasy situation and one entirely distasteful to the King but he was too much of a realist not to see that it could not be otherwise.

He would have to content himself with keeping an eye on his son and when he thought a man was too dangerous—as in the case of Skelton—discreetly getting rid of him.

He often considered the young men who were the Prince’s particular friends. There was Charles Brandon . . . something of a rake and five years Henry’s senior, which was a matter for some concern. Brandon was making Henry grow up too quickly. He was turning the young Prince into a sophisticate . . . and he not twelve years old yet! There was a world of difference between twelve and seventeen but Brandon had been brought to Court because of the gratitude Henry owed his father. The King liked to reward those who had been with him at Bosworth Field where Brandon’s father had been his standard bearer and had died standing steadfastly with Henry. So Charles Brandon was there . . . at Court . . . young Henry’s companion and confidant. But he must be watched . . . in spite of his father’s loyal service on that decisive field of battle.

Then there was young Edward Neville—tall as Henry with the same fair skin and reddish hair, a fine boy, but of course belonging to one of those families who had made a great deal of trouble in the land. One who was descended from Warwick the Kingmaker would have to be watched.

Henry Courtenay was another boy. He was younger than Henry and was at Court because his mother was there, sister to the late Queen; but his father was now in the Tower on account of complicity with Suffolk, which had resulted in the execution of Sir James Tyrrell. The late Queen had said that it was her duty to look after her Courtenay nephews and nieces. And Henry could not very well turn them away in view of their relationship to the Queen. Moreover, children should not be blamed for the sins of their fathers.

Yes, the King would have liked to make a change in those surrounding his son; but he had other matters on his mind now and he had at least sent Skelton away.

Perhaps he was too sensitive about his son’s ambitions. After all the boy had to be brought up to kingship. There was some small comfort in the fact that he knew he would inherit the throne. That was so much more to be desired than coming to it suddenly. No, young Henry was preparing himself for the role and the King should be pleased that he took to it with such alacrity.

Pray God he himself could live for a few more years until Henry was of a sober age. The King had no doubt that with maturity would come some suppression of that egoism, which was so much a part of his son’s nature. All young men could be unwise. He will settle to it, thought the King. He just needs a firm hand now.

The sound of voices below broke into his reverie and going to the window he saw a group of young people at play. He was alert immediately because he caught sight of young Henry among them. His son was on horseback for the game—as most games played by the boys—was a military as well as an equestrian exercise. Henry stood out among them—although he was younger than most. The King could not repress his parental pride. He will soon be taller than I am, he thought, half resentfully, half fondly. And the boy glowed with health as his father had never done.

He would look the part, and he would play it to the full, but would he have the stability, the cunning . . . the King reproached himself. Young Henry was but a boy yet. The correct training, the molding, the watchfulness would shape him into the sort of king his father wanted him to be and whom the country needed.

The game was that which was a favorite of the young: quintain. On a pivot stood a figure in the form of a knight in armor. It was life-sized and fixed to one hand was a sandbag. The player must ride at full gallop to the figure, attack it and retreat before the arm shot up when the sandbag could hit the rider. Like all such games there was a strong element of danger in it, for the rider who was not quick enough in getting away could receive such a blow from the sandbag as would unseat him, and there had been accidents—one or two fatal.

Although the King was nervous about his son’s taking part in dangerous games he knew that he must do so; and this favorite one of quintain would not have interested the boys at all but for the danger they had to avoid.

He watched them for a while. He noted that young Henry had more turns than the others, that the applause which greeted his successes was more vociferous than that awarded to the others.

Inevitable, thought the King. But I must be watchful of him. If I had another son . . .

His expression lightened. Katharine was here . . . on the spot, and if there were objections he would impress on his ministers the need for another male heir. It is never wise to have but one. Henry seemed healthy but let them remember the Black Prince and the disaster his death had brought with the accession of the boy Richard.

Katharine had not been tested for fertility yet, and he had to be thankful that she had not, for if the union with Arthur had been consummated that might have made marriage with him too distasteful to be accepted. But as it was he saw no reason why she should not be his wife. She had married his son it was true, but it had been no physical marriage.

He had hopes of Ferdinand. Of Isabella he was not so sure.

Even as he watched his son at play he heard the sounds of approaching hoofbeats and glancing away from the game in the opposite direction he saw that the visitor was de Puebla and he guessed that the Spaniard brought news from his Sovereigns.

A faint pulse beat in his temple. He found that he was quite excited. There should be as little delay as possible. There would be a lavish wedding to satisfy the people’s love of ceremony . . . and then . . . the consummation and the results.

One of his squires was at the door to tell him that Dr. de Puebla was below and seeking an audience.

“I will see him now,” said the King.

De Puebla came in and bowed. He looked grave and knowing the man well the King’s spirits sank. There were going to be obstacles. That much was apparent.

“You have heard from the King and Queen?” asked the King.

“My lord, I have heard from Queen Isabella.”

The King was even more dismayed. It was from that quarter that he expected opposition. Ferdinand was much more likely to agree if the match was advantageous enough. Isabella was too emotional and feminine, too much the doting mother, which was strange in a woman of her ambitions and abilities. And Isabella was Castile, and Ferdinand Aragon and Castile was the more important. Ferdinand in a way owed his greatness to Isabella and loving wife and mother though she was, Isabella never forgot it.

“She refuses sanction for your marriage with the Infanta,” said de Puebla.

“Refuses? But she must see the advantages.”

“She says it is against the laws of nature. The Pope would not agree.”

“The Pope will agree if we explain to him his need to do so,” said Henry tersely.

“But Isabella will doubtless explain his need not to grant a dispensation,” said de Puebla slyly.

Henry disliked the man although it was to his advantage to cultivate him. He was a good go-between, serving Henry almost as much as the Sovereigns. It was for this reason that he had done so well in England and that his rival had been recalled.

“My lord,” went on de Puebla, “the Queen is very firm. She says no to such a marriage. She is surprised that it should be suggested.”

“And Ferdinand?”

“You know, my lord, that he could not act without Isabella.”

Henry nodded.

“Perhaps we should not give up hope. But I deplore the wasting of time.”

De Puebla smiled again with that sly look. “None could accuse you, my lord, of doing that. I must tell you truly that the tone of Queen Isabella’s letter is very strong. I know my mistress well. She is not pleased that the possibility of marriage should even have been suggested. She says that Katharine is to marry the Prince of Wales and she desires that the binding ceremony of betrothal takes place without delay. If this is not done she demands the return of the half of the dowry, which was sent on Katharine’s marriage to Prince Arthur.”

Henry was silent. He was astute enough to know that in asking for the hand of Katharine so soon after his wife’s death he had made a grave error.

De Puebla went on: “The Queen however understands your need for a wife and she would draw your attention to the recently widowed Queen of Naples.”

“The Queen of Naples?”

“Young, comely . . . and a queen,” said de Puebla.

Henry was silent and de Puebla went on: “If you should need my services, Sire, I should be happy to give them.”

“Thank you,” murmured the King. He felt old and tired. But he was not one to waste time in regrets.

Already his mind had turned from Katharine of Aragon to the Queen of Naples.

When de Puebla presented himself to Katharine a few days after his audience with the King he came to her smiling enigmatically. He felt the good news would be more appreciated if she suffered a few moments of anxiety first.

“You have news from my mother?” cried Katharine.

“My lady, I have indeed such news.”

He paused, allowing a smile to creep slowly across his face. She was waiting breathlessly and he realized he could delay no longer.

“The Queen, your noble mother, refused to allow a match between you and the King.”

Overcome by relief, Katharine covered her face with her hands. She should have known. How she thanked God for her beloved mother! While she was there, steadfast and caring, there could be little to fear.

“She is, however, eager for a binding contract between you and the Prince of Wales and is insisting that this be settled within the next few months.”

Katharine could not speak. The Prince of Wales seemed a good prospect compared with his father; but mainly she supposed because marriage with him must necessarily be postponed until he was of a marriageable age. He was not quite twelve so there would be at least two years’ freedom. Oh, this was good news indeed.

“I am aware that you are pleased with your mother’s refusal.”

“I am so recently widowed. I have no wish to marry again . . . yet.”

“You will have to wait awhile for the Prince to grow up.” De Puebla was smiling. He had a little commission from the King and he was wondering how best he could put it to Katharine. He went on: “Your mother has suggested that the young Queen of Naples would be a suitable match for the King. She is recently widowed and some twenty-seven years of age.”

“She would be more suitable in age than I, most certainly.”

“Your mother would expect you to write a note of condolence to the Queen of Naples. She has just lost her husband and you, so recently widowed yourself, would understand her melancholy.”

“I will of course do so.”

“That is good. And it shall be delivered into the hands of the Queen of Naples herself.”

“Was that my mother’s only request?”

“Yes. But I have letters from her for you.”

Katharine reached out to seize them eagerly and after handing them to her de Puebla bowed himself out.

Eagerly she read the letters. They assured her of her mother’s love and care. Isabella never ceased to think of her although so many miles divided them. She would soon be the betrothed of the Prince of Wales and one day Queen of England. She must always remember that she was Spanish by origin even though by marriage she became English. She must never forget that her mother thought of her constantly, cared for her and was working all the time for her good.

Katharine kissed the letter; reread them many times, wrote her letter to the Queen of Naples and settled down to enjoy her feelings of immense relief.

The King received the messengers immediately on their return from Naples. They had had instructions that letters written by the Princess Katharine were to be delivered into the hands of no one but the Queen.

Now they returned with an account of what they had seen.

“Tell me of the Queen,” said Henry, coming straight to the point. “She is twenty-seven years of age, I know. Does she look so? Is she comely?”

“She looks young for her age, Sire, and she is comely. But it was not easy to see for every time we were in her presence she wore a great mantle, which revealed only her face. But she appeared to be handsome . . . as far as we could see.”

“Is she tall or short?”

“My lord, we could not see her feet and the height of her shoes. From what we did see it would appear she is of middle height.”

“Tell me how was her skin? Not blotched or marked?”

“No, my lord. Fair and clear . . . as far as we could see.”

“What color hair?”

“Judging by what we could see—and the color of her brows—it would be brown. Her eyes are brown . . . with a touch of gray.”

“Her teeth?”

“Fair and clear and well set. Her lips round and thickish. As for her nose . . .”

They hesitated and the King said quickly: “Yes, yes, her nose?”

“It is a little rising in the middle and a little coming and bowing at the end. She is well nosed.”

“Ah,” said the King. “But what of her breasts?”

“They are somewhat great and full, my lord. They are well trussed up after the fashion of the country, which makes them seem fuller than they are in truth and her neck appears shorter.”

“Has she hair on her lips?”

“No, my lord.”

“Tell me, did you get near enough to discover whether her breath was sweet?”

“We believe so, my lord.”

“Did you speak with her after she had fasted?”

“We could not come to her at such a time, my lord, nor could we have been sure that she had fasted. We can only say that her skin was fair and clear and we detected no unpleasant odors in her presence.”

“Ah,” said the King. “She seems worthy.”

He dismissed the ambassadors and thought about the new wife he would have.

She must be possessed of all the good qualities he had been so eager to confirm. He had to get children and he could so easily find the process repulsive if his new wife failed to comply with the necessary requirements. Queen Elizabeth had been one of the most beacutiful women in the country and he had felt no overwhelming desire; but he had always done his duty although he had to confess that he experienced a certain relief when his Queen was pregnant and the need for marital practices was removed.

And now . . . this new wife. The Queen of Naples. Naples was worth a good deal. He would go ahead with proposals for the marriage. He was sure that the people of Naples would be delighted to ally itself with England, which under its wise king was fast becoming a power on the European scene.

But there were other ambassadors whose account was even more important to Henry than his wife’s appearance. They had done their work well and were eager to tell him of their findings.

The news they brought was disquieting. Ferdinand had acted quickly on the death of the King of Naples and the Queen was now of very little importance. Her property had been confiscated and she was left with very little. She depended on Ferdinand of Aragon for the small income she received.

Henry sweated with horror when he heard this report. Had Isabella made the suggestion ironically—a little mischievously? He knew he had a reputation for being grasping and setting great store on possessions. He had just made up his mind that the Queen of Naples would do very well as the next Queen of England and had in fact been on the point of drafting out a request for her hand.

This changed everything.

Clear of skin and sweet of breath the Queen of Naples might be, but if she was penniless and her title was an empty one, she was no fit bride for Henry Tudor.

It was disappointing. Two brides lost in a very short time.

But he was not one to despair. The hunt for the new Queen of England would go on.

There was now no longer any excuse for delay. The betrothal ceremony was to take place and that was binding. Katharine must accept it; it was what she must take if she were to escape from marriage to the King.

There were several reasons why she must accept her fate besides that it was the wish of her parents. She was living in Durham House and she often wondered how she was going to find the money to pay her servants. Poverty made her feel that she was an exile. She had never experienced the lack of money before she came to England. Indeed she had never thought of money. It was different now. Her parents sent her nothing. Why should they? They had paid one hundred thousand crowns as the first part of her dowry and would pay the other half after her marriage. They were not going to send more, which would be used by Henry. It was his duty now to make sure that his son’s widow had adequate funds.

But Henry was not one to part easily with money and there was nothing coming from him. The gowns which she had brought with her from Spain were beginning to lose their freshness and some were even becoming threadbare, but the King considered that no concern of his. He had made a good proposition to her parents and it had been rejected. At the moment she was merely the widow of the Prince of Wales with a dowry only half of which had been paid and over that her parents were haggling.

Katharine was beginning to see that only by becoming the prospective wife of the heir to the throne could she expect to live in comfort.

Therefore she must forget that she had no great desire for this alliance, but the main reason was that her partner in it was only a boy.

On the other hand Henry was looking forward to the ceremony. He was always delighted by such and when he was the center of them his pleasure was greatly increased.

Margaret was subdued at this time. She had been boastful and arrogant and had never lost an opportunity of scoring over him, but now the prospect of going into Scotland was alarming her. She had grown quiet, less demanding; and Henry felt a little sorry for her. How glad he was that as king-to-be he would stay in his own country, at his own Court, surrounded by those who made much of him. That they did so because they feared to do otherwise he knew in his heart, but he liked that too. One of the best things in life was power. He had known that when he was a baby, holding sway over Anne Oxenbrigge because she loved him. But power which came through fear was equally exciting and desirable.

Yes, Henry was very pleased. How delighted Katharine must be. Poor girl! She had thought she was well set up in life when she married Arthur. But Henry secretly believed she had compared the two brothers and if she had, she must have known how much more attractive Henry was.

But she had seemed to like Arthur. Ah, but that was because she had not known then that there might be a chance of getting Henry.

Again he wished he were older. “The years seem as though they’ll never pass,” he commented to Charles Brandon who as a mature seventeen-year-old replied that they went fast enough for him.

Perhaps they did. He had reached the golden age. When I am seventeen where shall I be? wondered Henry.

Margaret came to see him. Her departure for Scotland was imminent and she wanted this brash brother of hers, of whom she was exceedingly jealous mainly because he was to stay in England, to lose a little of his assurance.

He looked splendid, of course he did. He had good looks and in spite of his youth a certain stature. He was taller than all of his companions who were of his age, and he was, of course, too sure of himself. It would give her satisfaction to prick that conceit if it were possible, it would be a little balm to her sorrow. Besides, she told herself virtuously, it would be good for Henry.

“So . . . our boy is going to be a bridegroom,” she said. “Ah, but that won’t be for a while will it? Our boy has to grow up first.”

“At least I’ll stay here in England. I haven’t to go to some bleak dour old country.”

As usual they sought and found the other’s most vulnerable spot.

“I believe my husband eagerly awaits me,” said Margaret.

“No doubt he will be there to greet you if he can spare the time from his mistresses.”

“I shall know how to deal with them.”

“Make sure they do not know how to deal with you.”

“I will come to my brother for advice. He is so knowledgeable, being eleven years of age he knows everything.”

“I am twelve.”

“Not for a few days.”

“I am mistaken for older.”

“Who makes that mistake? Everybody knows when our noble heir to the throne was born. They all mourn the loss of Arthur. He was the one who was the real Prince of Wales.”

“People seem to think I am more suitable for a king,” said Henry almost modestly.

“Because you’re here . . . that’s why. They loved poor Arthur. We all did. Particularly Katharine.”

“Katharine will have a new husband now.”

“Poor Katharine. She cannot like the change to a little boy.”

“How do you know?”

“I listen. She has asked her mother to take her away from here . . . to take her home . . . so that she doesn’t have to marry you.”

“She wants to marry me.”

“Oh no, she does not. I know she has written to her mother asking to be taken home.”

His eyes narrowed. It couldn’t be true. He was feeling gallant. He would have smiled at her, pressed her hand reassuringly. He liked to play the noble knight. That was what he had been taught to believe in. Chivalry. It was so necessary to knighthood. He had been thinking that he was rescuing Katharine from poverty at Durham House, making her important because of her alliance with him . . . and all the time she was writing to her mother begging to be taken home!

He would have liked to appear in her eyes as the chivalric knight who was going to rescue her from poverty and uncertainty, who was going to protect her from her fate. It should all have been very much in the knightly tradition and she had spoilt it all by writing to her mother and begging her to take her away.

She was seventeen years old. It was a mature age of course but that had not deterred him. He had cast his eyes on many a woman of her age who had been ready to fondle him. Charles Brandon had talked to him of his adventures with women and Charles had already a reputation of being a rake.

So it was not her age. And to think that he . . . Henry the Prince of Wales, king-to-be, did not appear in an attractive light to this woman who was so sorely in need of his protection.

His grandmother had explained to him how important the ceremony was. She often talked to him in place of his father who was too busy to do so. His father believed that the Countess of Richmond, being a woman and an extremely clever one, would understand children better than he did.

She was fifty-eight years old, for she had been barely fourteen when her son Henry Tudor had been born so that there was not a great difference in their ages. She seemed very old to Young Henry; she was small and thin and very austere looking; and rarely wore anything but the black and white of a nun. She was very religious, attended Mass five times a day, and spent a great time on her knees praying although she confessed that this resulted in excruciating back pains.

Skelton had said ironically: “That will increase her reward in Heaven.” And Henry had laughed as he always had laughed with Skelton. But he was in awe of his grandmother all the same.

Yet she adored him. He sensed that and he loved her for it. Not that she actually put her adoration into words. That would not have been her way. But her assiduous care for him and the manner in which she looked at him—when she thought he was not aware of it—betrayed her. He was strong, healthy and vigorous and she liked it. Of course Arthur had been something of a paragon with his quiet and studious ways but he had made them anxious in a way he, Henry, never had.

His grandmother’s piety impressed the people although Henry perceived that they did not greatly like her. It was the same with his father. Serious-minded men knew that Henry the Seventh had done a great deal for the country’s prosperity, but they did not like him all the same.

Henry was constantly hearing about his maternal grandfather, Edward the Fourth. There was a king they liked. He had heard the whispered comments of those who had grandparents old enough to remember. “When he came riding through the town the citizens hid their daughters.”

There was a king. Large, handsome and romantic.

Henry thought that when he was a king he would like to resemble his maternal grandfather rather than his father.

Meanwhile he was only twelve years old and he had to attend his betrothal to his brother’s widow.

His grandmother explained to him. “This betrothal will be per verba de presenti, which means that it is binding. In fact some of the marriage service will be included in the ceremony.”

“So,” said Henry, “I shall be married to Katharine of Aragon.”

“No, not exactly married. But you will have gone through this form of betrothal.”

“Does it mean that we shall most certainly be married later?”

His grandmother hesitated. She knew what was in the King’s mind and that he was determined to leave a loophole of escape so that he might keep the Spanish Sovereigns on tenterhooks—and at the same time keep that part of the dowry which they had already paid.

Henry noticed her hesitation and was nonplussed. “Why do we go through with such a ceremony if it is not really a marriage?” he demanded.

“The Spaniards want it.”

“Ah, they think I am a desirable husband do they?”

His grandmother gave one of her wintry smiles, which sat oddly on her austere features.

“They know, my boy,” she said firmly, “that you are one of the most desirable partis in the whole of Europe.”

“Who are the others equally so?” cried Henry, who could not bear competition without the immediate desire to eliminate it.

“Oh, we cannot go into that,” said his grandmother. “There are a few princes with hopes of inheritance. But you will be the King of England.”

Her face darkened for she thought immediately that he could only be so on the death of his father and her love for her son was almost fanatical and far exceeded even that she felt for her grandchildren.

Henry watched her thoughtfully. He was longing for the day when the crown would be placed on his head; but he realized that it should not be just yet. If it were now there would be too many surrounding him telling him what to do. He wanted that day to come when he would be an unshackled king—when everyone—even his grandmother—must bow to his word. Alas, that day had not yet come; and here he was again chafing against the slothful passage of time.

He was in a sullen mood when he arrived at the Bishop’s House in Fleet Street where the formal betrothal was to take place. It did not diminish even when he saw Katharine looking beautiful in an elegant dress, which was not quite in the style to which he was accustomed and all the more attractive for that. He couldn’t help thinking that the hooped petticoat over which the dress fell in alluring folds was interesting, just as the cardinal’s hat she had worn on their first meeting had been.

She intrigued him in a way because she was different from the other ladies of the Court; he had liked the way she had spoken English and he had fancied that she had liked him very much when she had first come. He knew that she was anxious about her future and that quite a number of her attendants were too, for he had made a point of discovering all about her that her servants could tell him and the latter always liked to have an answer for him. He knew for instance that it was a long time since she had had a new dress and even this one she was wearing for such an important ceremony was one she had brought with her from Spain.

His father was present with his grandmother. They both looked stern and serious. He would have liked to say: “I will not betroth myself to this Princess who prefers her own Court of Spain to mine.”

To mine! His father would be angry at that. He had reminded him once or twice that he was not king yet.

He took Katharine’s right hand and said the lines he had had to learn off by heart to make sure that he did not leave out anything and that he said them in the right manner.

He rejoiced, he said, to contract matrimony with Katharine and to have her for his wife, forsaking all others during the term of their lives.

Katharine had turned to him and she was saying the same thing in rather halting English, which in a way was endearing.

Then she smiled at him, a little fearfully, almost appealingly and all his rancor vanished.

She was beautiful; he liked her maturity; more fervently than ever he wished he were seventeen. Alas, he was a few days from twelve and he must needs wait, but his feelings of chivalry had overcome his resentment. He was foolish to listen to Margaret. She was just annoyed because she had to go away to Scotland.

Katharine was his affianced wife; she looked to him for protection, and chivalrous knight that he was she should not look in vain.

Henry’s moods changed quickly and it was in one of pride and joy that hand in hand with Katharine he emerged from the Bishop’s House into the sunshine of Fleet Street on that June day.