During Henry’s absence the campaign in Scotland had, mercifully, gone well for the English. Hertford had sacked both Leith and Edinburgh; and Katharine had been able to send this joyful news to the King. Henry himself was full of optimism. Francois was already putting out inquiries for a secret peace, but Henry had for some time cast longing eyes on Boulogne and did not intend to leave the soil of France until he had captured the town.
Henry was satisfied with the way the regency was being conducted, but if anything were to happen to the little Prince, he would certainly blame the consort who had so far failed to provide him with another boy. Moreover, if the heir to the throne died, it would seem imperative that the King find a wife who could supply an heir.
What can I do? Katharine asked herself. Get him out of London to the country, or stay here? Which would be the greater risk?
Lady Jane Grey was watching her. The child was always watching her.
“What is it, Jane?” asked the Queen, laying her hands on the soft curls.
The little girl said: “Your Majesty is uneasy. I would I could do something to help.”
Katharine bent and kissed the pretty head. “You do much to help me with your presence,” she told Jane. “You are like my own child. I wish to God you were.”
“Is that what ails Your Majesty… that you have no children?”
Katharine did not answer. She bent swiftly and kissed the child again.
The wise little creature had struck right at the root of her fears. If she had a child, if she had a son, she would have no need to be continually in fear of losing her life. If Princess Elizabeth had been a boy, it might well have happened that Anne Boleyn would still be alive and on the throne.
Yes, that was the very root of her troubles. It was the old cry of “Sons!”
“Have you seen the Prince today, Jane?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And how was he?”
“He had the pain in his head and he was tired.”
Then Katharine made up her mind suddenly.
“Go to the Prince, Jane. Tell him we are leaving for the country. We leave this very day. Go, my dear, quickly. I wish to leave as soon as possible.”
KATHARINE WAS PROVED to be right in the action she had taken. The plague had died down with the passing of the hot weather, and the little Prince’s health was no worse than it had been before his father left England.
Katharine had been fortunate during those months of the regency. Might it not be that fortune had decided to favor her? She was full of hope.
The King came home not altogether displeased with the way affairs had gone abroad. He had taken Boulogne; but it was not long before he and Charles had fallen out. They had been uneasy allies. The enemy was a common one, but the motives of the two allies were quite different. Henry wished to force the French to abandon Scotland to the might of England; Charles wished Francois to give up his claim to Milan and his help to the German Princes. The Emperor, convinced that Henry’s possession of the town of Boulogne would satisfy him, and that having achieved it he would desert his ally, made a secret peace with the French. Henry was furious. The French and the Spaniards were now allies, and England was their enemy. It was necessary for him to return to England, for there was a possibility that the French might attempt an invasion of his island. This he did, leaving Boulogne heavily fortified. Yet, he was not displeased. He had set out to capture Boulogne and he had captured the town; he swore to keep it, no matter at what cost.
There had been great rejoicing at the capture of Boulogne all through the country, and the King returned, a conquering hero.
The journey across the water had not improved his health. The sores on his leg were spreading; the other leg had become infected; and both were so swollen that it was difficult for him to move about his apartments. A chair on wheels was made for him, and this had to be pushed about by his attendants and carried up staircases.
All this did not improve the royal temper; yet again Katharine realized that his infirmity made her more important to him, and her position seemed less precarious than it had before he left the country. She was once more his sweetheart and his little pig; as he told her, none could dress his legs as she could.
“We missed you on our journeyings,” he said. “None but clumsy oafs to bandage me! I said: ‘I’ll not stray far from my Queen again!’ And I meant it, sweetheart. Aye! I meant it.”
Then would come those days when he would feel better and could walk with the aid of a stick. It was the well- remembered routine. There would be feasting and music; and the King would grow mellow and glance with appreciation at the more beautiful of the young ladies. He would reiterate those reproaches. Why had he not another son? Why should some of the noblemen in his realm have sons—great stalwart men—while their King could not get himself another to set beside Prince Edward? God had been unjust to him. He had given him power but denied him sons. And why should God be unjust to one who served him as had Henry the Eighth of England? There was only one answer: The fault could not lie with the King. It lay in his partners. He had exposed those wicked women who had cheated him; then he had known why sons had been denied him. When he meditated thus, he would watch his sixth wife with narrowed eyes and think what a comely wench was that young Duchess, or that Countess—or perhaps that simple daughter of a knight.
Something was wrong. Why, why should sons be denied him?
Then again the leg would be so painful that he could think of nothing else. There was Kate, dear Kate, with the gentle hands, who never for a moment showed that she did not regard it as the greatest honor to wait upon him.
Chapuys, the Spanish Ambassador and spy of his master, wrote home to Spain: “This King has the worst legs in the world.”
But those legs were the Queen’s salvation; and the worse they grew, the safer she became.
But her life was still in danger. There was never a day when she dared not be on the alert. Royal storms could spring up in a moment, and how could she know what the outcome of those storms would be?
