celebrations, so he kept his temper, which was not easy.
“I shall look what I am—a Prince of England,” he said.
“Well
“I think you will look nice,” murmured Mary who always took his side when she was there.
“I shall look just as a Prince should look and the Infanta will wish that I was the one she is to marry.”
That made Margaret laugh still louder. “
“Into Scotland. It is a land of barbarians.”
“I shall be the Queen of Scotland.”
“I hate the Scots,” declared Henry.
“You will have to learn to love them when they are part of our family . . . through this marriage.”
“At least,” said Henry his eyes narrowed to slits, “I shall be grateful to the King of Scotland for taking you away.”
“And I shall be grateful to him for relieving me of your company.”
“Please don’t quarrel.” Mary had slipped her hand into that of Henry. “It’s so exciting . . . with Arthur’s wedding and then Margaret’s . . . don’t spoil it, Henry, please. . . .”
He stooped and kissed the beautiful little face turned up to his. Mary flushed with pleasure and Henry’s good humor was restored.
“Come with me, Mary,” he said. “And I’ll tell you all about what I shall do when the Infanta comes to London. I am to lead her in. You may be able to see me. Let’s leave Margaret . . . and we’ll sit together . . . and talk.”
Mary nodded. Margaret watched them with a curl of her lips.
“Boast away,” she shouted. “All the boasting in the world won’t make you the Prince of Wales. You’ll never be the King . . . though that’s what you want. You’re wicked. You wish Arthur was dead . . . yes, you do . . . yes you do. . . .”
Henry turned and looked at her; for once his rage was cold rather than hot.
“How dare you say such a wicked thing!” he cried.
“I didn’t mean it,” said Margaret, suddenly contrite. It was unlucky to talk of death outright in such a way. Many times she had heard the vague comments of the attendants, the innuendos about Arthur’s not making old bones . . . but that was different.
She should not have mentioned Arthur’s dying. What if Henry told their parents!
Henry said: “Come on Mary. We will leave this wicked girl alone.”
Margaret, subdued, muttered something and turned away and Henry and Mary went to the window seat and sat down.
He started to tell her what a glorious pageant it would be. He described others he had seen but this one would be different because he would be at the center of it.
Suddenly Mary said in a whisper: “If Arthur died would you marry the Infanta, Henry?”
“Hush,” he said. “You must not speak of death.”
Then he went on to describe what he thought the wedding would be like and when he did so he was not seeing Arthur as the bridegroom, but himself, miraculously grown a little older, as old as Arthur . . . old enough to be a bridegroom.
The picture made him very excited. It was nonsense, of course, just a dream, a fantasy; but it was very enjoyable.
And oddly enough he could not dismiss it from his mind.
When the Spanish Infanta stepped ashore at Plymouth with her duenna beside her, she was warmly received by the dignitaries of Plymouth. They had been warned of her arrival and had been awaiting it for several days and when the ship appeared on the horizon the call had gone up: “The Spanish Princess is here.”
The King had given orders that she was to be royally entertained. He would be sending Lord Brook the steward of the royal palace to look after her; he himself could not be expected to make the three-week journey to Plymouth, but he was determined that she should be entertained in accordance with her rank and that her parents should have nothing to complain of in the treatment she received in her new country.
Catalina herself was bewildered. It had been a frightening journey although she had set off from Granada in May and had not embarked at Corunna until August; but even then the ship in which she had set out had been forced back to the coast of Castile because of gales and storms. She had been so ill when she landed that she had not been able to set out again until September. Then her father had ordered that the finest ship he owned—one of three hundred tons—should be put at her disposal. This was a great deal more comfortable than the previous vessel and on the second of October when Plymouth was sighted, Catalina felt that she had been traveling for months.
“Catalina,” her mother had said, “you will have to learn the language of your new country and you will no longer be called Catalina. In English it is Katharine. But what is a name? You will still be my good Catalina whatever they call you.”
Was it so important to change a name? Only because it was a symbol. Everything would be different now. She had to learn. She had to be a credit to her parents. She had been told that often enough.
How desolate she had been when she stood on deck watching the green land come nearer! Only her strict
