IT WAS ON the 18th day of February of the year 1516, in the Palace of Greenwich, when Katharine’s child was born.
Katharine came out of her agony to hear the cry of a child.
Her first thought was: “Then the child is alive.”
She saw faces about her bed, among them Henry’s. She heard a voice say: “The child is healthy, Your Grace. The child lives.”
She was aware of a great contentment. How she loved that child! All my life I shall love it, she thought, if only for the joy it has brought me in this moment.
But why did they say “the child?”
“A…boy?” she asked.
The brief silence told her the answer before it came: “A bonny girl, Your Grace.”
There was a faint intake of breath. But it was too much to hope for a boy and a child that lived.
Henry was beside her bed.
“We have a healthy child, Kate,” he said. “And the next…why, that will be a boy.”
Days of acute anxiety followed; she was terrified that events would take the same tragic course as on so many other occasions. But this little girl was different from the beginning; she lived and flourished.
When it was time for her christening it was decided that she should be called Mary after Henry’s sister who, having returned to England and been publicly married to the Duke of Suffolk at Greenwich, was now installed high in the King’s favor.
It was the Queen’s great delight to watch over the Princess Mary. She loved her with deep devotion which could scarcely have been so intense but for all the disappointments which had preceded the birth.
Even the grief she suffered when she heard of her father’s death, and the faint fear which, knowing something of the exigencies of state, this event must arouse in her, was softened, because at last she had her child, her healthy little Mary, the delight of her life.
KATHARINE, playing with her daughter, knew that this was the happiest period of her life. The child was charming; she rarely cried but would lie solemnly in her cradle or in Katharine’s arms.
Katharine would stand with the wet-nurse, Katharine Pole, and the governess, Margaret Bryan, wife of Sir Thomas Bryan, about the little Princess’s cradle; and they made an admiring circle, while they watched the child playing with the gold pomander which had been a present from her Aunt Mary, now Duchess of Suffolk. The child seemed to love that ornament which later she might stuff with perfumes and wear about her waist, but which at the moment she liked to suck.
Henry would come in and join the circle. Then Katharine Pole and Margaret Bryan would draw back and leave the parents together.
Henry’s eyes would be glazed with tenderness. This was his child and he told himself that more than anything on Earth he wanted children. He marvelled at those plump wrists, at the fingers, at the eyes which looked solemnly into his. He was delighted with the down of reddish hair on that little head, because it was his own color.
Katharine watching him loved him afresh; they had something they could share now: this adorable little daughter.
“By God, Kate,” murmured Henry, “we’ve produced a little beauty.”
He wanted to hold her; and he was delighted when she did not cry as he picked her up. He would sit, looking a little incongruous, that big figure, glittering with jewels, holding the baby somewhat awkwardly yet so tenderly in his arms.
He insisted on having her brought to the banqueting hall or his presence chamber when his courtiers were present or when he was receiving foreign ambassadors.
“My daughter,” he would say proudly, and take her in his arms, rocking her to and fro.
She never cried as most children would, but her large solemn eyes would stare at that big face at this time all suffused with tenderness and love.
The ambassadors would look on, admiring the baby, and the courtiers were continually discovering new likenesses to the King.
“She has the temper of an angel,” said the Venetian ambassador.
“You are right there,” cried Henry. “By God, Mr. Ambassador, this baby never cries.”
Mary was almost perfect in the eyes of the King. If she had but been a boy she would have been quite so.
BEFORE FERDINAND’S DEATH he had recalled Caroz and sent in his place Bernardino de Mesa, a very different type from Caroz. De Mesa was a Dominican friar, quiet, seemingly humble but in truth one of the shrewdest of Spaniards. It was a master stroke for Ferdinand to have sent him because his outward meekness was just what was needed to offset Wolsey’s arrogance and ostentation.
Ferdinand had realized too late that the Cardinal was the real ruler of England. However, de Mesa immediately began an attempt to repair the damage Caroz had done; and it was on de Mesa’s suggestion that Ferdinand had sent Henry the handsome present.
But Ferdinand was dead; de Mesa would have a new master; Katharine was no longer interested in politics as her attention was focused on her daughter; but Wolsey favored the Spanish ambassador because he was knowledgeable in that field which was one of the utmost interest to the Cardinal—the Papal Court.
De Mesa waited apprehensively for new policies. While Ximenes was Regent he imagined that there would be little change; but what would happen when young Charles took the reins of government, guided no doubt by his Flemish favorites?
De Mesa sought to speak to the Queen of these matters but Katharine had become half-hearted, since her father’s perfidy and death had shocked her deeply.
She no longer wanted to feel herself a Spaniard; she had her daughter to absorb her; and all the time de Mesa was seeking to draw her attention to European politics she was thinking: How she grows! To think that we can dispense with Katharine Pole’s services now! She will be easily weaned. Was there ever such a good tempered child? They say sweet temper means good health. Soon she will have her own household, but not yet. For a while her place will be in her mother’s apartments.
She smiled absently at the Spanish ambassador, but she did not see him; she saw only the bright eyes of her daughter, the round, chubby cheeks and that adorable fluff of reddish hair on the top of the exquisite little head which so delighted the child’s father.
And when Henry’s sister, Margaret, Queen of Scotland, came to London to seek her brother’s help against her enemies, Katharine’s great interest was in discussing Margaret’s children with her and trying to win her sister-in-law’s admiration for the beloved little Princess.
“’Prentices and Clubs”
THE FOLLOWING SPRING THERE WAS DISQUIET IN THE streets of London.
During recent years many foreigners had settled there, and these people, being mostly exiles from their native lands—serious people who had fled perhaps for religious reasons—were by nature industrious. Day in, day out, they would be at their work, and so they prospered. There were Flemings who were expert weavers; Italians who were not only bankers but could make the finest armor and swords. The Hanseatic traders brought over leather, rope, wax, timber, nails and tar; and of course since the coming of Katharine to London to marry Prince Arthur there had always been Spaniards in London.
Life was hard for the citizens of London. During the cruel winter many had died of starvation in the streets and there had been rumblings of dissatisfaction all through the year.
With the coming of spring the young apprentices gathered in the streets and talked of the injustice of foreigners coming to their city and making a good living, while they and their kind lived in such poor conditions.
They themselves could not understand the joy some of these cordwainers and weavers, these glaziers and lacemakers found in the work alone. They did not seem to ask for pleasure as the apprentices did. They cared for their work with the passion of craftsmen, and those who lacked this skill were angry with those who possessed it.