“I believed I did not displease Your Grace in remaining in my apartment.”
“You knew full well that I wished you to be beside me.”
“But Henry, when I explained my indisposition, you seemed contented enough that I should remain in the Palace.”
It was true; he had shrugged his shoulders when she had pleaded a headache; would she never learn that what he accepted at one time with indifference could arouse his anger at another?
“I liked it not,” he growled. “And if this headache of yours was so distressing, do you improve it with the needle? Nay, ’twas our rough English sports that disgusted you. Come, admit it. Our English games are too rough for Spanish ladies, who faint at the sight of blood. ’Tis so, is it not?”
“It is true that I find the torturing of animals distasteful.”
“’Tis odd in one who comes from Spain where they make a religious spectacle out of torturing people.”
She shuddered; the thought of cruelty was distasteful to her; she knew that during the reign of her revered mother the Spanish Inquisition had tortured heretics and handed them over to the Secular authorities to be burned to death. This she had often told herself was a matter of faith; those who suffered at the autos-de-fé in her native land did so because they had sinned against the Church. In her eyes this was a necessary chastisement, blessed by Holy Church.
She said quietly: “I do not care to witness the shedding of blood.”
“Bah!” cried the King. “’Tis good sport. And ’twould be well that the people see us together. Like as not we shall be hearing that all is not well between us. Rumors grow from such carelessness, and such rumors would not please me.”
“There are rumors already. I’ll warrant the secret of your mistresses is not kept to the Court.”
The King’s ruddy face grew a shade darker and there was a hint of purple in it. She knew she was being foolish, knew that he was like an ostrich, that he fondly imagined that no one was aware of his infidelities or, if they were, looked upon them as a kingly game no more degrading than the hounding of animals to death.
“And is it meet that you should reproach me for seeking elsewhere what I cannot find in your bed?” he demanded.
“I have always done my best to please you there.”
The eyes narrowed still more; the face was an even darker shade, the chin jutted out in a more bellicose manner; and only the beard prevented his looking like a boy in a tantrum.
“Then,” he shouted, “let me tell you this, Madam. You have not pleased me there!”
She closed her eyes waiting for the onslaught of cruel words. He would not spare her because, with the guilt of his adultery heavy upon him, he had to find excuses for his conscience. He was talking to that now—not to her.
The tirade ended; a slightly pious expression crossed the scarlet face; the blue eyes opened wider and were turned upwards. His voice was hushed as he spoke.
“There are times, Kate, when I think that in some way you and I have offended God. All these years we have prayed for a boy and again and again our hopes have been disappointed.”
And those words smote her ears like a funeral knell; the more so because they were spoken quietly in a calculating manner; he had momentarily forgotten the need to appease his conscience; he was planning for the future.
He had expressed that thought before, and always in that portentous manner, so that it sounded like the opening chorus, the prelude to a drama on which the curtain was about to rise.
So now she waited for what would follow. It must come one day. If not this day, the next. Perhaps a week might elapse, a month, a year…but come it would.
He was eyeing her craftily, distastefully, the woman who no longer had the power to arouse any desire in him, the woman who after twelve years of marriage had failed to give what he most desired: a son born in wedlock.
There was nevertheless still to be respite; for suddenly he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
But Katharine knew that the curtain was soon to rise.
AS THE COURTIERS left the King and Queen together, many an understanding glance was exchanged. It was common knowledge that all was not well between the royal pair. Who could blame the King, said the gay young men, married to a woman five years older than himself—a woman who was overpious and a solemn Spaniard—when he was surrounded by gay young English girls all eager for a frolic! It would have been different of course had there been a son.
There was one among the company whose smile was complacent. This did not go unnoticed. Edward Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, had good reason to be delighted by this lack of royal fertility. Secretly Buckingham believed himself to be more royal than the Tudors, and there were many who, had they dared to express such an opinion, would have agreed with him.
Buckingham was a proud man; he could not forget that through his father he was descended from Thomas of Woodstock, son of Edward III, and that his mother had been Catherine Woodville, sister of Elizabeth Woodville who had married Edward IV. And who were the Tudors but a bastard sprig from the royal tree!
Never could Buckingham look on the King without this thought crossing his mind: There but for the chances of fate might stand Edward Stafford.
Such thoughts were only safe when locked in the secret places of the mind; and it was unwise to betray, even by a look, that they existed. Buckingham was a rash man and therefore, since he lived under Henry VIII, an unwise one.
The old Duke of Norfolk who was at his side, guessing his thoughts, whispered: “Caution, Edward.”
As Buckingham turned to look at his friend a faint frown of exasperation appeared on his brow. Further resentment flared up in his mind against the King. Why should he have to be cautious lest the stupid young King should realize that he fancied himself in his place? If Henry had a spark of imagination, he would guess this was so.
Norfolk and Buckingham were intimate friends and there was a connection between the families because Buckingham’s daughter had married Norfolk’s son.
Buckingham smiled wryly. The old man would want no trouble to befall his friend and connection by marriage, and would be thinking that such trouble often embraced the whole of a family.
“Your looks betray your thoughts,” whispered Norfolk. “There are those who are ready to carry tales. Let us go to your apartments where we shall be able to talk in peace.”
Buckingham nodded and they disengaged themselves from the crowd.
“You should be watchful,” murmured Norfolk as they mounted the staircase on their way to Buckingham’s apartment.
Buckingham shrugged elegant shoulders. “Oh come,” he said, “Henry knows that I’m as royal as he is. He doesn’t need my careless looks to remind him.”
“All the more reason for caution. I should have thought you would have been warned by the case of Bulmer.”
Buckingham smiled reminiscently. It had been worth it, he decided; even though at the time he had suffered some uneasy moments.
But he was glad that he had shown his daring to the Court; there was no doubt of that when he had approached Sir William Bulmer, who was in the service of the King, and bribed him with an offer of better service in his own retinue. He had done this out of bravado, out of that ever persistent desire to show the King that he was of equal standing. Buckingham had never forgotten how Henry had sought to seduce his, Buckingham’s, sister, as though she were some serving girl at the Court. Perhaps Henry also had not forgotten Buckingham’s action in having the girl whirled out of his orbit by her enraged husband just at that moment when successful seduction seemed imminent. Buckingham had scored then. It was a glorious victory for a Duke to win over a King. And he had tried again with Bulmer. Not so successfully, for the King, no longer an uncertain boy, had summoned Bulmer to the Star Chamber and accused him of having deserted the royal service. Bulmer had cowered before the onslaught of the King’s anger and had been kept on his knees until he despaired of ever being allowed to rise.