Anne said: “Your brother Arthur is a good boy. Now why don’t you try to be more like the Prince of Wales?”
“I should be Prince of Wales,” said Henry.
“Now, now, that’s silly. Arthur is older than you. It is his right.”
“It’s my right really. . . .”
“The pride of him!” said Anne, kissing him. “Now you try to be a good boy and don’t send that horse of yours crashing into Margaret. You hurt her badly.”
“I’m glad.”
“Now that is really wicked.”
“I am wicked. I want to be wicked. I am going to hurt Margaret with my horse. My knight doesn’t like her. He doesn’t like Arthur. He thinks I ought to be Prince of Wales.”
“Tut, tut!” said Anne; he heard her say afterward to one of the maids: “Our young Henry has a fine conceit of himself. I fancy he is jealous of his brother. I’m always telling him he ought to be more like him. I thank the Virgin that he is not.”
Henry was all ears. The perfidy of women! Wasn’t Anne always telling him that he should be good and quiet like Arthur, studying his lessons—and now she was thanking the Virgin that he was not! This was interesting.
“Delicate,” whispered Anne. “Takes after his mother.”
“Don’t suppose he’ll make old bones.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. It’s a good thing we have young Henry.”
“There’s a sturdy little fellow for you. They say he takes after his grandfather King Edward. I never saw him but I hear he was big and tall and more handsome than anyone ever before.”
“I reckon that’s about right and young Henry will be such another. It’s a pity he wasn’t born first. . . .What a king he would have made!”
“Well . . . who knows . . . ?”
“Hush! We shouldn’t talk like this. The Queen would think we were illwishing her eldest.”
“God forbid. He’s a dear boy.”
“Easier to manage than young Henry I can tell you.”
“Ah well, he’s a boy to be proud of . . . though a handful.”
The “handful” went off brooding on what he had heard. A resentment had started to grow in his heart. It was rather unkind of God not to have made him the eldest—more than unkind, foolish, for it was clear that he would have made a much better king than Arthur.
He was growing fast and he was a big child. He was secretly delighted to realize that he was catching up on Arthur. Arthur was a little thin and weedy; Henry was sturdy rather than plump; he had a cherubic face with a pink and white complexion, whereas Arthur’s face was thinnish and rather pale; Henry’s reddish hair was thick and plentiful, Arthur’s was inclined to be less vital. Margaret was very like Henry. Vociferous and demanding, there was bustle surrounding her always and she was constantly in some argument with the nurses because she wanted to do something which was forbidden.
Henry felt the nursery would have been a happier place without Margaret—without Arthur too for that matter. He would have liked a nursery where he was the eldest and perhaps one or two brothers and sisters who looked up to him as though he were already a king.
He liked to leave the Palace, which he had done on one or two occasions when he had been to see his parents at Westminster. He had ridden on his palfry—led by a squire—and the people had liked him. They had cheered him wildly—him more than the others he was sure—and he had smiled at them and waved and he fancied his father had been rather pleased with him. He thought it was a shame that they had to come back to Eltham; it was a pleasant palace but away from everything that was especially exciting. Although it was only eight miles from London it was shut away. He felt when he was crossing the drawbridge over the very deep moat that he was leaving the exciting world behind. The walls were so high, the archway so lofty, he felt shut in by all those gray stones and he longed to be older that he might go to Court and hear the people cheer him.
He sat at table with his brother and sister.
Arthur was constantly told: “Now you must eat that, my lord. You’ll never grow into a big strong boy if you don’t.”
No need to tell Henry. He could always eat all the beef or mutton which was put before him; he always asked for his pewter tankard to be refilled with the ale which they were given to drink. They never had water; it could be dangerous. He liked good spiced meat far better than that salt fish they had on Fridays and in fact he disliked Fridays because of the fish, for food meant a great deal to him.
Meals were quite a ceremony. They were presided over by squires well suited to the task, for princes must be taught to conduct themselves in a seemly fashion at the table and not fall on the food like ravenous wolves. They must not show too great an interest in the food—because that was what the needy would do. They must wash their hands both before and after a meal; they must eat with a knife gracefully and use the correct fingers for holding the food. Even the washing of hands was a ceremony, for one of the carvers would bring the bowl, then kneel and pour water over Henry’s hands while another servant stood by with a towel to dry them.
The most difficult part was to show indifference to the food. That was something Henry could not feel for he was invariably ravenously hungry.
It was September about three months after Henry’s third birthday when messengers arrived at the Palace. They came to announce that in a few days the King and Queen would be visiting Eltham.
The household was in a twitter of excitement, which was mainly apprehension. They were all very much in awe of the King, for although he rarely spoke to any of them, if he noticed anything of which he disapproved there would be a complaint and the fact that it would not be made in the hearing of the one to blame made it worse because there was no chance of answering the charge.
The Queen was a beautiful, gentle lady, but it was the King who counted.
Henry was at the nursery window with Arthur and Margaret when the cavalcade rode into the great courtyard. He saw the magnificently caparisoned horses and the servants of the King in their green and white livery mingling with those of the Queen’s purple and blue. It was exciting. Henry jumped up and down in his glee.
“Be still, Henry,” admonished Margaret. “You are behaving like a stable boy.”
Henry‘s little blue eyes narrowed. He would have liked to send his bronze horse and knight rushing straight at her. But this was not the time for retaliation so he merely scowled at her, which did not bother her in the least and she laughed at him saying, “Now you look really ugly!”
As though he ever did! As though he ever could! How often had he heard the servants say he was the image of his grandfather Edward and he had been one of the most handsome men in England.
Anne Oxenbrigge was running into the nursery casting an anxious eye over them all. Arthur’s tutor was there with other attendants and servants because now was the time for the children to go down and greet their parents.
Arthur led them into the great hall.
They knew what they had to do. They must bow to the King and Queen and wait until they were spoken to.
The King was a disappointment to Henry. He did not look like a king. Henry would have liked to see his father in purple velvet and ermine with a golden crown on his head.
When I am King . . . he thought . . . and then with a guilty look at Arthur . . . if I am King I shall always look splendid. My father might be just a squire or a lord . . . out for a day’s hunting. The Queen was beautiful though—like a picture, rather remote, with her plump rather expressionless face and a certain longing in her eyes, which the children did not understand.
The King watched them to make sure they behaved in the correct manner and when the first ceremony of greeting was over they were all a little more comfortable.