Читать интересную книгу To Hold the Crown: The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York - Jean Plaidy

What if she wrote to her mother? But de Puebla had told her in confidence. Her father might see the letter. Henry might learn that she begged not to be married to him. She could visualize all sorts of dire results; and she decided that nothing could be done but hope and pray.

Henry himself was restive. He was not well and the arrogance of his young son irritated him now and then. He should of course be grateful for having such a son who was so suited to being a king; but sometimes the boy behaved as though he were already one and he wondered whether young Henry was looking forward with a little too much zeal to the day when he would ascend the throne. Sometimes those rather small but intensely alert blue eyes would be caught studying his father as though, thought the King, he were summing up my ability to cling to life, and assessing how many more years were left to him.

The prospect of a crown was too glittering for a young boy of Henry’s temperament to reconcile himself to waiting patiently until it could be justly put upon his head.

The King gave a great deal of thought to his son and the Prince of Wales was not the least of his anxieties. The boy had to be kept on a firm rein and the King fervently prayed that more years might be granted him so that he did not leave the country in the hands of this exuberant boy until he had attained some maturity.

The King had dismissed John Skelton from the Prince’s household for he had come to believe that the poet tutor had a bad inflcuence on the Prince. In a way the King admired Skelton. He was a poet of some ability and above all he was a fearless man. He had shown that in his verses about the Court, which he had portrayed quite derisively. But Henry believed he was too worldly to be the daily companion of a young impressionable boy, and fancied he had probably already initiated the Prince into the enjoyment of pleasure between the sexes and that, unlike in his own case, these pleasures would be very much to young Henry’s taste.

Well, Skelton had gone; Henry did not want to be unjust to any man. He had no desire to be harsh and rarely acted so except when common sense demanded it. So although Skelton had lost his post as tutor to the Prince of Wales he was given the living of Diss in Norfolk and in addition to this Henry gave him forty shillings a year in recognition of his service in the royal household. Therefore Skelton had done rather well for himself for the pension added to his stipend put him in a position to be envied by other less fortunate priests.

Skelton had settled down to write more scandalous poems and young Henry had a new tutor, William Hone. The Prince had greeted the change with a certain resentment. If he had been a little older and more sure of himself there would have been open rebellion, the King believed; and it was one of the factors which added to his uneasiness.

Hone was a meek man. Perhaps the difference from Skelton was too marked, and young Henry became quickly reconciled because he found William Hone very easy to handle.

The fact was young Henry was finding people generally easy to handle—largely, the King suspected, because those around him had their eyes on the future. They would be thinking: How much longer is the old lion going to last? Then it will be the young cub’s turn. Therefore wise far-seeing young men that they were, they made sure to keep in the prospective King’s good graces.

It was an uneasy situation and one entirely distasteful to the King but he was too much of a realist not to see that it could not be otherwise.

He would have to content himself with keeping an eye on his son and when he thought a man was too dangerous—as in the case of Skelton—discreetly getting rid of him.

He often considered the young men who were the Prince’s particular friends. There was Charles Brandon . . . something of a rake and five years Henry’s senior, which was a matter for some concern. Brandon was making Henry grow up too quickly. He was turning the young Prince into a sophisticate . . . and he not twelve years old yet! There was a world of difference between twelve and seventeen but Brandon had been brought to Court because of the gratitude Henry owed his father. The King liked to reward those who had been with him at Bosworth Field where Brandon’s father had been his standard bearer and had died standing steadfastly with Henry. So Charles Brandon was there . . . at Court . . . young Henry’s companion and confidant. But he must be watched . . . in spite of his father’s loyal service on that decisive field of battle.

Then there was young Edward Neville—tall as Henry with the same fair skin and reddish hair, a fine boy, but of course belonging to one of those families who had made a great deal of trouble in the land. One who was descended from Warwick the Kingmaker would have to be watched.

Henry Courtenay was another boy. He was younger than Henry and was at Court because his mother was there, sister to the late Queen; but his father was now in the Tower on account of complicity with Suffolk, which had resulted in the execution of Sir James Tyrrell. The late Queen had said that it was her duty to look after her Courtenay nephews and nieces. And Henry could not very well turn them away in view of their relationship to the Queen. Moreover, children should not be blamed for the sins of their fathers.

Yes, the King would have liked to make a change in those surrounding his son; but he had other matters on his mind now and he had at least sent Skelton away.

Perhaps he was too sensitive about his son’s ambitions. After all the boy had to be brought up to kingship. There was some small comfort in the fact that he knew he would inherit the throne. That was so much more to be desired than coming to it suddenly. No, young Henry was preparing himself for the role and the King should be pleased that he took to it with such alacrity.

Pray God he himself could live for a few more years until Henry was of a sober age. The King had no doubt that with maturity would come some suppression of that egoism, which was so much a part of his son’s nature. All young men could be unwise. He will settle to it, thought the King. He just needs a firm hand now.

The sound of voices below broke into his reverie and going to the window he saw a group of young people at play. He was alert immediately because he caught sight of young Henry among them. His son was on horseback for the game—as most games played by the boys—was a military as well as an equestrian exercise. Henry stood out among them—although he was younger than most. The King could not repress his parental pride. He will soon be taller than I am, he thought, half resentfully, half fondly. And the boy glowed with health as his father had never done.

He would look the part, and he would play it to the full, but would he have the stability, the cunning . . . the King reproached himself. Young Henry was but a boy yet. The correct training, the molding, the watchfulness would shape him into the sort of king his father wanted him to be and whom the country needed.

The game was that which was a favorite of the young: quintain. On a pivot stood a figure in the form of a knight in armor. It was life-sized and fixed to one hand was a sandbag. The player must ride at full gallop to the figure, attack it and retreat before the arm shot up when the sandbag could hit the rider. Like all such games there was a strong element of danger in it, for the rider who was not quick enough in getting away could receive such a blow from the sandbag as would unseat him, and there had been accidents—one or two fatal.

Although the King was nervous about his son’s taking part in dangerous games he knew that he must do so; and this favorite one of quintain would not have interested the boys at all but for the danger they had to avoid.

He watched them for a while. He noted that young Henry had more turns than the others, that the applause which greeted his successes was more vociferous than that awarded to the others.

Inevitable, thought the King. But I must be watchful of him. If I had another son . . .

His expression lightened. Katharine was here . . . on the spot, and if there were objections he would impress on his ministers the need for another male heir. It is never wise to have but one. Henry seemed healthy but let them remember the Black Prince and the disaster his death had brought with the accession of the boy Richard.

Katharine had not been tested for fertility yet, and he had to be thankful that she had not, for if the union with Arthur had been consummated that might have made marriage with him too distasteful to be accepted. But as it was he saw no reason why she should not be his wife. She had married his son it was true, but it had been no physical marriage.

He had hopes of Ferdinand. Of Isabella he was not so sure.

Even as he watched his son at play he heard the sounds of approaching hoofbeats and glancing away from the game in the opposite direction he saw that the visitor was de Puebla and he guessed that the Spaniard brought news from his Sovereigns.

A faint pulse beat in his temple. He found that he was quite excited. There should be as little delay as possible. There would be a lavish wedding to satisfy the people’s love of ceremony . . . and then . . . the consummation and the results.

One of his squires was at the door to tell him that Dr. de Puebla was below and seeking an audience.

“I will see him now,” said the King.

De Puebla came in and bowed. He looked grave and knowing the man well the King’s spirits sank. There were going to be obstacles. That much was apparent.

“You have heard from the King and Queen?” asked the King.

“My lord, I have heard from Queen Isabella.”

The King was even more dismayed. It was from that quarter that he expected opposition. Ferdinand was much more likely to agree if the match was advantageous enough. Isabella was too emotional and feminine, too much the doting mother, which was strange in a woman of her ambitions and abilities. And Isabella was Castile, and Ferdinand Aragon and Castile was the more important. Ferdinand in a way owed his greatness to Isabella and loving wife and mother though she was, Isabella never forgot it.

“She refuses sanction for your marriage with the Infanta,” said de Puebla.

“Refuses? But she must see the advantages.”

“She says it is against the laws of nature. The Pope would not agree.”

“The Pope will agree if we explain to him his need to do so,” said Henry tersely.

“But Isabella will doubtless explain his need not to grant a dispensation,” said de Puebla slyly.

Henry disliked the man although it was to his advantage to cultivate him. He was a good go-between, serving Henry almost as much as the Sovereigns. It was for this reason that he had done so well in England and that his rival had been recalled.

“My lord,” went on de Puebla, “the Queen is very firm. She says no to such a marriage. She is surprised that it should be suggested.”

“And Ferdinand?”

“You know, my lord, that he could not act without Isabella.”

Henry nodded.

“Perhaps we should not give up hope. But I deplore the wasting of time.”

De Puebla smiled again with that sly look. “None could accuse you, my lord, of doing that. I must tell you truly that the tone of Queen Isabella’s letter is very strong. I know my mistress well. She is not pleased that the possibility of marriage should even have been suggested. She says that Katharine is to marry the Prince of Wales and she desires that the binding ceremony of betrothal takes place without delay. If this is not done she demands the return of the half of the dowry, which was sent on Katharine’s marriage to Prince Arthur.”

Henry was silent. He was astute enough to know that in asking for the hand of Katharine so soon after his wife’s death he had made a grave error.

De Puebla went on: “The Queen however understands your need for a wife and she would draw your attention to the recently widowed Queen of Naples.”

“The Queen of Naples?”

“Young, comely . . . and a queen,” said de Puebla.

Henry was silent and de Puebla went on: “If you should need my services, Sire, I should be happy to give them.”

“Thank you,” murmured the King. He felt old and tired. But he was not one to waste time in regrets.

Already his mind had turned from Katharine of Aragon to the Queen of Naples.

When de Puebla presented himself to Katharine a few days after his audience with the King he came to her smiling enigmatically. He felt the good news would be more appreciated if she suffered a few moments of anxiety first.

“You have news from my mother?” cried Katharine.

“My lady, I have indeed such news.”

He paused, allowing a smile to creep slowly across his face. She was waiting breathlessly and he realized he could delay no longer.

“The Queen, your noble mother, refused to allow a match between you and the King.”

Overcome by relief, Katharine covered her face with her hands. She should have known. How she thanked God for her beloved mother! While she was there, steadfast and caring, there could be little to fear.

“She is, however, eager for a binding contract between you and the Prince of Wales and is insisting that this be settled within the next few months.”

Katharine could not speak. The Prince of Wales seemed a good prospect compared with his father; but mainly she supposed because marriage with him must necessarily be postponed until he was of a marriageable age. He was not quite twelve so there would be at least two years’ freedom. Oh, this was good news indeed.

“I am aware that you are pleased with your mother’s refusal.”

“I am so recently widowed. I have no wish to marry again . . . yet.”

“You will have to wait awhile for the Prince to grow up.” De Puebla was smiling. He had a little commission from the King and he was wondering how best he could put it to Katharine. He went on: “Your mother has suggested that the young Queen of Naples would be a suitable match for the King. She is recently widowed and some twenty-seven years of age.”

“She would be more suitable in age than I, most certainly.”

“Your mother would expect you to write a note of condolence to the Queen of Naples. She has just lost her husband and you, so recently widowed yourself, would understand her melancholy.”

“I will of course do so.”

“That is good. And it shall be delivered into the hands of the Queen of Naples herself.”

“Was that my mother’s only request?”

“Yes. But I have letters from her for you.”

Katharine reached out to seize them eagerly and after handing them to her de Puebla bowed himself out.

Eagerly she read the letters. They assured her of her mother’s love and care. Isabella never ceased to think of her although so many miles divided them. She would soon be the betrothed of the Prince of Wales and one day Queen of England. She must always remember that she was Spanish by origin even though by marriage she became English. She must never forget that her mother thought of her constantly, cared for her and was working all the time for her good.

Katharine kissed the letter; reread them many times, wrote her letter to the Queen of Naples and settled down to enjoy her feelings of immense relief.