He waited in trepidation for the reply; but he was at peace with his conscience. He had had a very good reason for signing that document, which while it did not actually annul the ceremony through which he and Katharine had gone, it did give him a loophole to escape if necessary.
The Pope treated his letter with the utmost seriousness and replied that any vows Katharine had made which might affect the health of her body could be revoked by her husband.
The husband was master of the wife and the procreation of children was the very special blessing of matrimony and Henry had the Church’s full permission to restrain his wife and to prevent her from carrying out any vows she might have made which would endanger her ability to perform those functions, which were the duty of a wife.
Henry was delighted. Now if he should not wish—or not be allowed—to marry Katharine he had a very good excuse for not doing so. He could produce a copy of the letter he had sent to the Pope’s reply. He could say Katharine’s way of life had made marriage with her unsuitable and it was for this reason that he had signed the repudiation—not because his father had forced him to.
He became happy again.
But he had discovered his conscience and he knew that forever more it would be necessary to placate it.
The King was still looking for a wife and his eyes had turned to France. The Comte d’Angoulême had died leaving a widow with two children, Francçois and Marguerite. It seemed that the son Francçois had a chance of reaching the throne of France for he was the nephew of Louis the Twelfth. The widowed Comtesse was considered to be very beautiful and gifted and her daughter Marguerite, who was about a year younger than Henry, had a reputation for a beauty and intelligence, which equaled that of her mother.
So the King’s eyes had turned to this family.
Why not the mother for him and the daughter for Henry?
Young Henry was told by his father that emissaries had been sent to Angoulême to discover the state of affairs there. The King thought the match would be an ideal one for it did appear that the Spanish connection was becoming weaker every month.
The Prince was very interested in Marguerite and wanted to hear all that he could about her. He had decided that Katharine had ruined her health by her refusal to lead the life of an ordinary Court lady. He shut his eyes to the fact that she was too short of money to do so, and he refused to listen to those who hinted that something should be done about this. It was for her family to help her, he reasoned. The dowry . . . well that had not been paid and he had heard that a great part of the first instalment had been in jewelery which she had pawned.
He pretended to be rather shocked by that. For did the jewelery indeed belong to Katharine?
He was building up quite a little bank of excuses why he should not marry her.
And here was Marguerite—younger than he was, which was better than being five years older. She was very beautiful. He liked that. She was very clever. He liked that less. He did not want a wife who thought herself as clever as he was. Still Marguerite sounded most exciting.
He questioned one of the men who had gone to the Court of Angoulême because he wanted to hear a firsthand account of someone who had actually seen her.
“I would like you to tell me the absolute truth,” he said. “Hold nothing back. I shall take it ill if I find that you have given me too glowing a picture that was not true.”
“I would not dream of doing so, my lord,” was the answer. “But I can tell you that Marguerite of Angoulême is one of the most beautiful ladies I have ever seen. She is brilliantly clever. She writes poetry and enjoys the company of poets. She is the constant companion of her brother, the young Duc d’Angoulême.”
“And what of him?”
“He is handsome, gracious, sparkling, my lord.”
Henry frowned; he did not like other people to be too brilliant.
“They are indeed a most beautiful trio.”
“Trio?”
“The mother, the brother, and the sister. They are always together but the object of their adoration is Duc François.”
“He is younger than I.”
“Yes, my lord, by a few years. He loves his sister dearly and she loves him. She is probably the more cultivated of the two—very learned in Greek, Latin and Philosophy. It is clear that the Duchess hopes her son will be the King of France she calls him her king, her lord and her Caesar.”
Henry was envious. He would have enjoyed being so adored. He thought of his sister—another Margaret—who had pretended to be contemptuous of him. And there was certainly no adoration from his father; as for his mother, she had been kind and tender, but he could not imagine her calling him Caesar.
He began to feel mildly irritated with these perfect beings.
“And Marguerite, what does she call this wonder brother of hers?”
“Caesar indeed. All their hopes and dreams and love are centered on that boy. I wonder he has not more conceit of himself than he has . . . but that is great enough. His mother talks of nothing else but the wonders of this boy . . . nor does the sister. It seems that a short while ago he let loose a wild boar in the courtyard at Amboise, which set the palace guards to flight but François himself chased the boar up the apartments, killed it with his sword and sent it rolling down the great staircase to the courtyard. They speak of all he does as though they were the greatest deeds worthy of the Court of King Arthur. I tell you, my lord, what the mother and sister feel for François of Angoulême is sheer idolatry. They think there is no one in the world like him . . . nor ever will be.”
“I daresay Madame Marguerite is of the opinion that no man can match her brother.”
“That is so, my lord. It is the law at Angoulême.”
Indeed, was it! The more he heard of this Marguerite the less inclined he felt to take her.
He was rather glad when no more was heard of the possibility. It might be that wily old Louis the Twelfth had put a stop to it.
But it made Henry thoughtful. Katharine, meek, turning to prayer because she felt frustrated and may possibly have heard of that rather shameful repudiation of her, seemed rather attractive.
How grateful she would be if in spite of everything he married her. How different from flamboyant Marguerite. He imagined her coming to the Court. All the time she would be comparing him to this brother of hers. Caesar indeed! Oh yes, there was much to be said for meek and grateful women.
He began to think of Katharine somewhat romantically. He visualized himself going to her and saying: “They were against our marriage. When I was young they forced me to sign a paper. I did so, but I had no intention of breaking my promises. And here I am, Katharine, ready to rescue you and make you my ever-loving queen.”
She would never forget what he had done. She would realize that he was a very perfect knight whose honor prevailed through all vicissitudes.
She would be grateful to him for the rest of their lives.
His conscience was so happy that it was lying dormant.
I shall marry Katharine, he told himself, no matter what the opposition.
And he looked ahead into a misty future. It might well be that when the time came there would be no one to go against his wishes.
The future looked glorious and rosy. He would dream of Katharine and the chivalrous rescue.
Shipwreck
She very much feared the King; she felt that his attitude toward her was entirely cynical. He, who had professed affection for her and such delight when she had come to marry Arthur, was now grudging her the small allowance he had made her and letting her see that he very much regretted that she had ever come to England.