“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. Dona 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
