It was spring of the year 1508 when the English emissary whom Henry had sent to Castile to find the real truth behind the diplomacy returned with the news that Ferdinand had secretly announced that he had no intention of allowing Juana to marry anyone. She was mad; and he was going to rule Castile in her name.
Henry was incensed.
He was feeling more and more wretched. He had emerged from the winter more or less crippled with rheumatism; he was in constant pain and none of his physicians could alleviate it. His temper, which for so long he had kept admirably under control, broke out.
The Prince of Wales came to him one day and found him glowering over one of the dispatches which had just arrived from his man in Castile.
He began to shout suddenly. “Ferdinand is playing with me. He has no intention of sending Juana here. He has cheated me . . . lied to me. Katharine has not helped. She has been telling her father of my ill treatment. They have no intention of giving me my bride. . . .”
The Prince of Wales looked at the poor man his father had become. He was no longer afraid of him. The crown was fast slipping out of the old man’s grasp. That which he had feared ever since he had seized it was about to come to pass, only it was not some claimant to the throne who would snatch it from him. It was Death.
I am all but King, thought young Henry. It cannot be long now.
He said: “It seemed clear from the start that Ferdinand would not agree to the match . . . nor would Juana.”
“What do you mean?” cried the King. “We have been negotiating. . . .”
“But never seriously on their side. Ferdinand had no intention . . .”
“What do you know of these matters? You are but a boy.”
“A boy no longer, my lord.” Henry looked pityingly at the shrunken man with the swollen joints who moved so painfully in his chair and he felt his own glorious youth urging him to escape his shackles. “I am aware of what goes on. And of what importance is this Spanish marriage? Juana is mad and you, my lord, are too old for marriage.”
“Too . . . old for marriage . . .,” spluttered the King.
“Indeed it is so. It is . . .”
The Prince stopped short, suddenly halted by the look of intense fury in his father’s pale eyes.
“How dare you!” cried the King. “You . . . you . . . young coxcomb . . . how dare you!”
“I . . . I . . . only spoke what I thought to be the truth.”
“Go from me,” said the King. “You have too high an opinion of yourself. You are a brash boy . . . nothing more. Take care. I am not yet in my grave remember, and the crown is not yet on your head. Go, I say. You offend me.”
The Prince retired with all speed. He was alarmed. He had felt the power of the King in that cold gaze and he was afraid that he was planning to take some action against him.
After his son had gone the King sat for a long time in silence, staring ahead of him.
The King’s health improved a little. The Prince was docile, making sure to obey his father in every respect. Nothing was said of that scene between them; but the two of them watched each other warily.
The King was too much of a realist not to admire his son. Henry had the makings of a king and he should be grateful for that. He would consolidate the House of Tudor. If he could curb his vanity, his extravagance, learn the true value of money he would do well enough.
As for the Prince he admired his father; he knew that he had been a great king and had labored under great odds. He disapproved of almost everything his father had done while at the same time he knew that his miserliness had enriched the country.
When my time comes, he thought, I will enjoy life. I will make the people happy. I will give them ceremonies and entertainments . . . jousts . . . tourneys and the conduits flowing with free wine. I will not be hampered by those old misers, Dudley and Empson. I shall know how to please the people.
The following June he would be eighteen years old; a man, and what a man—over six feet in height, towering above others, so handsome that women’s eyes sparkled as they looked at him—good at sport and at learning, a poet, a musician. He had everything.
He fancied that the whole country was waiting for that glorious moment when he should be proclaimed the King.
There were revelries at Court that Christmas and the King presided over them, seeming a little better. It was only in the clear light of morning that the yellowness of his skin was apparent. During the winter he suffered cruelly from his rheumatism and he was still looking for a bride.
The hard winter was at last over and it was April. But spring had come too late for the King in that year of 1509.
The Prince of Wales was summoned to the King’s bedchamber in Richmond Palace and everyone knew that the end was near.
Kneeling by the bed was the King’s mother—small and wizened, praying for the soul of her son.
She might have wondered how she would live without him who had been the whole meaning of life to her but it was not necessary, for she felt her own death was very close. It would be a gracious act of fate to take her with her son.
The Prince had come in. Oh, he was beautiful, she thought. Thank God for young Henry. This is not death when Henry is left to wear the crown, to populate the House of Tudor with illustrious sons.
The King was fighting for his breath, and thinking of his sins. There were many of them, he feared, but perhaps he had some virtues. He had killed . . . but only he could say, when it was for the betterment of England and if it was also for his own good, well then he would say that.
He would ask the Virgin to intercede for him and to plead that what he had done he had done for his country.
His mother was looking at him. She was assuring him that he had done well, that he had no need to fear death.
And there was young Henry . . . sad because death was sad. And yet there was a shine about him. He could feel the crown on his golden head now and that was satisfaction to him . . . as it had been to his father.
It was young Henry they should be praying for, not the old man. He was past praying for now.
“My lord.” It was the Archbishop putting his face close to the dying man’s. “The marriage of the Prince . . . Do you have any command?”
There was a brief silence. For a moment the King seemed to be more alive. His eyes sought those of his son. His lips moved. “The Prince will decide . . .,”he said.
That was how it would be. When he was no longer there, when Henry was the King he would do exactly what he pleased. He must not hamper the boy by making commands which he would disobey and then have to think up some elaborate reason to explain that he had not acted disobediently. Let him make his choice . . . freely . . . as he would in any case.
Moreover he had been cruel to Katharine. His conscience, which had been so quiet until now, was beginning to raise its head reproachfully.
He closed his eyes. They were watching him intently.
Then young Henry stood up. He knew that he was no longer Prince of Wales. He was the King.
King Henry the Eighth
He detained Katharine for he said he would speak with her. She thought how handsome he was with his newly acquired dignity and his endearing delight in it.
He took her hands and kissed them.
“I had always intended that you should be my Queen,” he said.
Waves of gladness swept over her. It was truly so. He was smiling, well pleased, loving himself as well as her. She thought how charming he was . . . how young. All the miseries of the last years were falling away from her. This young man with those few words and looks of tenderness in his eyes had brushed them aside.
She would never forget. She would be grateful forever.