He had come to the end. The paper lay on a table and under the King’s scrutiny they all signed after Henry had done so.
They came out into the sunshine. Young Henry was resentful. He did not feel that he had acted as a chivalrous knight.
Henry had lost a certain pleasure in himself. The perfect knight had broken his vows; he had acted in a way which the laws of chivalry would have condemned as debasing; and he had acted so because he had been afraid to do otherwise. He could not forget Katharine in her well-worn gowns looking to him, he fancied, with an appeal in her eyes. She had looked to him as her savior and he had repudiated her.
It was not the role in which he saw himself. Usually he could lead his mind away from thoughts of disloyalty to himself. But there was the evidence in very fact; he had signed his name to that paper indicating that he did not consider himself bound to Katharine.
It was policy. His father had insisted and he had to obey his father who was more than an ordinary father; he was the King. A true knight obeyed his king without question. No, not when the case was a dishonorable one. Then a good and true knight rebelled. He served God first, the King second. Whichever way Henry looked at it he came up against his conscience.
It was the first time in his life that he realized what a strong force that was with him. He wanted to be above all other men and recognized to be so. He had little patience with the saints. He wanted to be a man. He must be the superior every time—in stature, in looks, in skill both mental and physical. He must excel at the joust; he was always to be the victor; he must win every battle against his adversaries. He must possess the best qualities of all his most illustrious ancestors. He must tower above them all in every way.
He wanted people to admire him. To look up to him. To say: There is a king victorious always, never failing in war . . . in peace . . . in honor.
There was the rub. He had gone through what was tantamount to a marriage ceremony with Katharine; and now he had denied it; and he knew why. It was because her mother was dead and the Kingdom of Castile had not passed to Katharine’s father Ferdinand (which would have meant Katharine remained an important factor in policy making), but had gone to Isabella’s sister who had an ambitious husband. Therefore Katharine was no longer to be considered so the King had forced his son most cynically to repudiate her.
And I did it, thought Henry.
Katharine was never far from his thoughts. He was ashamed of his action and as it was against his policy ever to be in the wrong he began to look for excuses for his conduct. It was no use telling himself that his father had forced him to do it, because it destroyed his image of himself if he allowed himself to be forced. That was why the matter was so disturbing. There had to be a reason why he had done what he had and it had to be a good one. His conscience demanded that.
It came in due course.
It was Charles Brandon who found it for him—not that Charles knew it. Charles was a gossip and took great delight in gathering the secrets of those about him. He had always been particularly interested in Katharine not only because she was affianced to Henry and was destined to become the future Queen, but because she belonged to one of the most important Houses in Europe.
Now he talked a great deal about the death of Isabella and the difference this would make in Spain.
“They say the Princess Katharine is desolate. She and her mother were on the best of terms.”
Henry frowned; he remembered that Katharine had asked her mother to send for her, to take her back to Spain which meant of course that she preferred that to marrying him.
That had been unflattering; but it was not enough excuse for breaking his sworn promise to her. His conscience would not accept that—although he had tried hard to make it do so.
“And the Kingdom of Castile goes to Katharine’s sister . . . mad Juana, they call her.”
“Is she truly mad?”
“Mad indeed. There is madness in the family.”
Hope shone in Henry’s eyes, but this was dispelled immediately by Brandon’s light remark: “Well, is there not madness somewhere in most families?”
“It is a wonder,” said Henry, “that they allowed her to marry.”
“Who would not marry a mad woman for the sake of a crown?”
Henry shivered.
“Philip has her under control. They say he is extremely handsome.”
“Is he, do you think?”
“Oh yes. Undoubtedly so. Juana is possessively in love. She cannot bear him out of her sight.”
“She is a warm-hearted lady.”
“My dear Prince, she burns with passion,” Charles laughed. “I should like to meet her. Do you know the latest story about her? I have it on good authority and can swear to the truth of it. Philip indulges himself, you know. He is not the man to content himself with one woman . . . even if she had been a paragon of the virtues . . . which Juana is not.”
“She loves him passionately, you say?”
“Passionate possessive love becomes cloying . . . as no doubt you will learn one day, my Prince. There is no doubt that you are going to be the target of much tender passion.”
Henry glowed with pleasure at the prospect.
“But steer clear of women like Juana.”
