It was true that Arthur, the eldest and Prince of Wales, who was not quite fifteen, was a sickly boy. He was handsome enough with his pretty pink and white complexion, but that was not in his case the sign of health. Arthur coughed too much; there were occasions when he spat blood; yet he lived.
Perhaps there would have been cause for anxiety if Arthur had not possessed such a brother as Henry. There was a Prince to delight the eyes of any parent. Glances were even now straying to this ten-year-old boy. It was the same when they went among the people. It was young Henry whom the people called for. It was for him they had their smiles. Fortunately, Arthur had the sweetest temper and knew no envy. But perhaps he was too tired to feel envy; perhaps he was grateful to this robust, vital brother who could appear so fresh at the end of a day’s riding, who always knew how to respond to the people’s applause.
Between the two boys sat Margaret, a dignified Princess, looking older than twelve, keeping a watchful eye on her exuberant brother Henry who, strangely, did not seem to resent this. It was pleasant to see such affection between a brother and sister. And on the other side of Henry sat Mary, an enchanting creature of five years, a little wilful, because she was so pretty perhaps and doubtless overpampered because of it.
Four children, mused the King, and Arthur the only one whose health gives cause for anxiety. Edward’s daughter has done her duty well.
The Queen turned to him and was smiling. She read his thoughts. She knew that he was studying the children and had been thinking: There’s time for more.
Elizabeth of York stilled the sudden resentment which rose within her. The only real desire her husband would feel would be for the aggrandizement of the throne. She was dear to him, she knew, not because of any beauty or talents she might possess, but because she was the daughter of Edward IV, and when she married him the union had brought peace to England; she had also given him children, four of whom were living.
There was tension among the spectators, and the King’s attention was now on the arena, where the battle was not going according to expectations. Rex was lying on his back while one of the mastiffs had him by the throat; the others were leaping on him, tearing his flesh, their jaws bloody.
Prince Henry had risen to his feet.
“They have beaten Rex,” he cried. “Oh, bravo . . . bravo!”
The cry was taken up among the spectators, as the body of Rex lay lifeless and the dogs continued to worry it.
The Queen leaned slightly toward the King.
“I would not have believed that the dogs could defeat the lion.”
The King did not answer, but beckoned to one of the keepers of his menagerie.
“Take the dogs away,” he said; “remove the carcass of the lion and then return to me.”
As the man bowed low and went off to obey the King’s command, an excited chatter broke out among the children.
Henry was shouting: “Did you
Arthur was pale. He murmured: “I like not these sports.”
Henry laughed at him. “I like sport better than anything in the world, and never have I seen such a battle.”
Mary asked: “What has happened to the lion?” But no one took any notice of her.
Margaret gripped Henry’s arm. “Be silent,” she whispered. “Do you not see that our father is displeased?”
Henry turned to stare at the King. “But why . . .” he began. “I should have thought it was good sport. I . . .”
The King’s stern eyes rested on his son. “Henry,” he said, “one day you will learn that what
Henry looked puzzled, but it was impossible to check his exuberance.
The King signed to one of the keepers. “Let the bears and the ban-dogs be brought on,” he said.
The company stared aghast.
Before them in the arena scaffolds had been set up and on these hung the bodies of the four English mastiffs, the dogs which, but half an hour before, had conducted themselves so valiantly against the King’s fiercest lion.
The King silently watched the assembly. His chief counselors, Dudley and Empson, watched also.
The farce was ended, but everyone should have learned the lesson it was intended to convey.
The dogs had been sentenced to death for treason. They had dared to destroy Rex the lion. They were traitors.
The King had ordered the sentence to be read before the ropes were put about the animals’ necks. Then he had said in his low somber voice: “So perish all traitors!”
His subjects stared at the writhing dogs, but it was of the King they were thinking.
Indeed he must be a man beset by fears since he could not resist pointing out to them the fate of those who attempted to overcome the power of kings.
Henry rose suddenly and, as he left his seat, his family and immediate circle prepared to follow him.
The games were over for that day.
