HE RODE WITH COMPTON and Francis Bryan beside him, the rest falling in behind. He had caught a glimpse of her among the party. She rode well, which was pleasing.
He said to Compton: “We must not forget this day that we have ladies with us. The hunt must not be too fierce.”
“Nay,” answered Compton, “since Your Grace is so considerate of the ladies, so must we all be.”
It was impossible to keep secrets from Compton. He was one of those wise men who seemed to read the King’s secrets before Henry had fully made up his mind to share them. Bryan was such another. His friends had often hinted that the King should live less virtuously. “For,” Compton had said, “if Your Grace sinned a little the rest of us would feel happier about our own sins.”
He could rely on their help and, as they already guessed his feelings towards Bessie and were waiting for the culmination of that little affair, Henry decided that he would use their help.
“When I give the sign,” he said, “I wish you to turn aside from the rest of the party with me…keep about me to cover my retreat.”
Compton nodded.
“And see that Mistress Blount is of our party.”
Compton winked at Bryan knowing Henry could not see the signal. There was scarcely a man in the party who would not understand. But Henry always believed that those about him only saw that which he wished them to see.
“Your Grace,” said Compton, “I know of an arbor in the woods which makes an excellent shelter.”
“He has dallied there himself,” put in Bryan.
“Well, Sire, it is an inviting arbor. It calls out to be of use.”
“I would like to see this arbor and perhaps show it to Mistress Blount.”
“Your humble servants will stand guard at a goodly distance,” said Compton. “Near enough though to prevent any from disturbing Your Grace and the lady.”
Henry nodded. Alas, he thought, that love must be indulged in thus shamefully. If I were but a shepherd, he thought, and she a village maid!
The thought was entrancing. To be a shepherd for an hour’s dalliance one afternoon! And such was his nature—he who was more jealous of his rank and dignity than any man—that when he sighed to be a shepherd he really believed that it was his desire.
He saw her—his village maiden—among the women. Gracefully she sat her horse; and her eyes were expectant. It is a great honor I do her, Henry assured himself. And I’ll make a goodly match for her. It shall be a complaisant husband who will be happy to do this service for his King.
It was easily arranged under the skilful guidance of Compton and Bryan; and even the sun shone its wintry light on the arbor; and the lovers did not feel the chill in the air. They were warmed by the hunt—not only of the deer but for the quenching of their desire.
Henry took her roughly into his arms; kissed her fiercely; then expertly—for he had learned of these matters in Flanders—he took her virginity. She wept a little, in fear and joy. She was overcome with the wonder that this great King should look her way. Her modesty enchanted him; he knew too that he would teach her passion and was amazed by the new tenderness she discovered in his nature.
He wanted to dally in the arbor; but, he said, even a King cannot always do as he wishes.
He kissed his Bessie. He would find means of coming to her apartments that night, he promised. It would not be easy, but it must be done. He would love her forever; he would cherish her. She had nothing to fear, for her destiny was the King’s concern and she would find him her great provider.
“Nothing to fear, my Bessie,” he said running his lips along the lobe of her ear. “I am here…I your King…to love you forevermore.”
DURING THE WEEKS that followed Henry was a blissful boy. There were many meetings in the arbor; and scarcely anyone at Court did not know of the King’s love affair with Elizabeth Blount, except Katharine. Everyone contrived to keep the matter from her, for as Maria de Salinas, now Lady Willoughby, said on her visits to Court, it would only distress the Queen, and what could she do about it?
So Katharine enjoyed the company of a gentler Henry during those weeks; and she told herself that his thoughtfulness towards her meant that he was growing up; he had come back from Flanders no longer the careless boy; he had learned consideration.
He was a gentler lover; and he frequently said: “Why, Kate, you’re looking tired. Rest well tonight. I shall not disturb you.”
He even seemed to have forgotten that desperate need to get a child. She was glad of the rest. The last miscarriage together with all the efforts she had put into the Scottish conflict had exhausted her more than anything that had gone before.
One day the King seemed in a rare quiet mood, and she noticed that his eyes were overbright and his cheeks more flushed than usual.
She was sewing with her ladies when he came to her and sat down heavily beside her. The ladies rose, and curtseyed, but he waved his hand at them, and they stood where they were by their chairs. He did not give them another glance, which was strange because there were some very pretty girls among them, and Katharine remembered how in the past he had been unable to prevent his gaze straying towards some particular specimen of beauty.
“This is a charming picture you’re working,” he said, indicating the tapestry, but Katharine did not believe he saw it.
He said after a slight pause: “Sir Gilbert Taillebois is asking for the hand of one of your girls, Kate. He seems a good fellow, and the Mountjoys, I believe, are eager enough for the match.”
“You must mean Elizabeth Blount,” said Katharine.
“Ah yes…” Henry shifted in his seat. “That’s the girl’s name.”
“Your Grace does not remember her?” said Katharine innocently. “I recall the occasion when Mountjoy brought her to me and you came upon us. She was singing one of your songs.”
“Yes, yes; a pretty voice.”
“She is a charming, modest girl,” said Katharine, “and if it is your will that she should make the match with Taillebois, I am sure we shall all be delighted. She is after all approaching a marriageable age, and I think it pleasant when girls marry young.”
“Then so be it,” said Henry.
Katharine looked at him anxiously. “Your Grace feels well?”
Henry put his hand to his brow. “A strange thing…Kate, when I rose this morning I was a little dizzy. A feeling I never remember before.”
Katharine rose quickly and laid a hand on his forehead. “Henry,” she cried shrilly, “you have a fever.”
He did not protest but continued to sit slumped heavily on his chair.
“Go to the King’s apartments at once,” Katharine commanded the women who were still standing by their chairs. “Tell any of the gentlemen of the King’s bedchamber…any servant you can find, to come here at once. The King must go to his bed and the physicians be called.”
THE NEWS SPREAD through the Palace. “The King is sick of a fever.”
The physicians were about his bedside, and they were grave. It seemed incredible that this healthy, vital young King of theirs could be so sick. None knew the cause of his illness, except that he was undoubtedly suffering from high fever. Some said it was smallpox; others that it was another kind of pox which was prevalent in Europe.
Katharine remained in his bedchamber and was at his side through the day and night; she refused to leave it even when her women told her that she would be ill if she did not do so.
But she would not listen. It must be she who changed the cold compresses which she placed at regular intervals on his burning forehead; it was she who must be there to answer his rambling questions.