Poor Katharine! How sad it was that it was she who, out of so many pregnancies, had been only able to produce one daughter while Bessie Blount should give the King a healthy son.
She brought presents for the child. She showed no resentment for she had already learned that it was wise to hide her true feelings.
The King seemed unaware of the indignity he was heaping upon her; he seemed at that time unaware of her.
And when the name of the newly born child was asked, it was Henry himself who answered in a deep, resonant voice which could be heard by alclass="underline" “This child’s name is Henry Fitzroy.”
And as he spoke he looked at Katharine. She was startled; she had always known that there was cruelty in his nature; but now she read his thoughts: You see, I can get me a son. But not through my wife. Here is my boy…my healthy boy. Is it not strange that you should have tried so many times and failed? Is it because our marriage is frowned on in Heaven? Is it, my wife? My wife!
Now her nightmares had taken shape. They were no vague phantoms.
She saw the speculation in those blue eyes.
She thought: I am the Queen. None can change that. And she would not meet his gaze for fear she should be tempted to look into the future.
She was here in the Manor he had bought for his mistress; she was attending the christening of his only son—and a son by that mistress.
For the present she was the Queen of England. She would not look beyond that.