The Nymph from Heaven, page 11
part #1 of The Tudor Chronicles Series
The bishops of Rochester and London waited in front of the cathedral at the top of the massive stone stairs. The assembling of the great host in the massive space outside the great church took some few minutes. Once the royal party was assembled inside, as many common folk as would fit would be allowed inside to hear the mass. People began to press closely, jostling for position. Mary felt the collective crowd sway. Without a word Henry and Brandon exerted their force and the press of bodies gave way around the royal ladies. Then the signal was given and the great mass of people organized itself for a stately entry into the cathedral. Henry gave his left hand to Mary and his right to Lady Margaret, and following them, Brandon provided support for Mary’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Guildford, and Lady Dacre, whose duty it was to wait upon Lady Margaret.
All that could be heard in the great space inside were the tolling bells and the shuffle of feet, a few phantom, whispered words. And then suddenly all was silent, all was still, and the Bishop of London began to sing the mass. The dirge rose until it filled every space in the vast emptiness. Mary lifted her face and the sight that met her eyes was that of her father’s catafalque, raised high and black-draped in front of the altar.
Mary endured the rest of that night and the following days in a haze of emotional agony. Prince Henry spent the night in the king’s chambers at Westminster Palace, but Mary chose to stay with her grandmother at Cheyney Gate, a small home Lady Margaret owned adjoining Westminster.
Only vaguely did Mary remember in her exhaustion the comparatively brief ride through London from St. Paul’s, across the Strand and into the City of Westminster after the mass. Burned in her mind as she rode was the last sight she had had of her father’s catafalque, draped in yards of black cloth and lit by six enormous standing golden candelabra holding the thickest white candles she had ever beheld. Arrayed solemnly around the huge structure, bathed in the eerie light, stood a guard of the king’s knights and heralds. They would change shifts throughout the night until all had taken this last chance to serve the sovereign lord they loved.
The following morning the mourners assembled once more at St. Paul’s to hear John Fisher, the Bishop of Rochester, deliver a requiem mass, after which the coffin and the life-like effigy were once again placed on the chariot. This would be King Henry’s last ride, and those who loved him found it hard to conceal their grief as they escorted him down Fleet Street, past Charing Cross, and finally to Westminster Abbey. There the final requiem was celebrated by William Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury. The King’s Guard took their turn at standing vigil until the next morning when the final obsequies would take place.
Mary passed a night of fitful sleep, haunted by dreams that, while disturbing enough to wake her, eluded her memory once she was awake. Her ladies, helping her to dress that morning, thought that never had she looked so pale, so ethereally lovely in her stark black velvet.
Finally it was time for the most private of the services. The king’s coffin was placed in the vault next to his queen’s, dead these past six years, and King Henry’s Lord Steward broke the staves of his office and placed them into the crypt.
Lady Margaret stood dry-eyed through it all, her grief beyond tears. Mary stood wide-eyed, the tears flowing from her eyes unheeded.
Some remarked in respectful whispers upon the beauty of the sculptures of the king and queen that graced the top of the vault. The Venetian ambassador would later remark in his official dispatch to his master that King Henry, in death, now reposed in greater splendor than that in which he had ever lived, and while that was an exaggeration, no one could look upon the subtle lines of the face, the flowing robes, or the praying hands, so cunningly contrived in metal by that master, Torrigiano, and remain unmoved.
When it was finally all over, Mary sat in the window seat of the parlor at Cheyney Gate, staring out at the gardens in a daze of misery. Suddenly a great clap of thunder sounded, and the rain began. Even the sky is crying, she thought sadly.
Greenwich Palace, June 1509
Mary awoke from another haunting dream to see the pale moonlight streaming in through the window across the bed. Jane hated sleeping with the bed curtains drawn; every night after the ladies-in-waiting had put them both to bed, drawn the curtains around them and withdrew for the night, Jane would rise and open them again. Mary looked over at Jane. Her figure was just a dark hump on the other side of the large bed. Mary quietly slipped out and walked to the window. The night was clear and warm. Henry and Katharine would have fine weather for their wedding on the morrow.
Mary had thought that it would be difficult to put aside her grief over her father’s death a mere two months hence for Henry’s coronation. She had been shocked when, a week after the funeral, Henry had announced that he planned to marry on the eleventh of June, just a month and a day after King Henry’s funeral. And to Katharine! That had been a surprise to almost everyone.
It was Mary who had realized how close her father was to death on that morning of April twenty-first. The physicians knew, of course, but none dared to speak of it. Thinking of, speaking of, the king’s death, was forbidden. It was Mary who had sent the page running to fetch Lady Margaret from her prie-dieu, where she had been on her knees fervently praying for the past two days hoping to prevent that which was about to happen despite her efforts. Henry, always a fleeting presence in the sick-room, had had to be fetched from the deer park.
All the while, Mary held her father’s hot hand, looking earnestly for signs of life in the eyes which were now only barely visible between the narrow slits of his eyelids. She had been peering very closely when he had opened his eyes and whispered, “Child, you must not grieve for me. I am an old man and I am prepared to die.”
Startled, Mary had jumped and cried, “Oh, Father! Please, try! Do please try!”
“Nay,” he whispered. He disengaged his hand from hers and lifted it weakly to her face. He cupped her chin and used his thumb to wipe away her tears. “I have lived to see all my dreams and ambitions realized, Mary. There are not so many men who can say as much. I have loved England and she has loved me. I have accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I have brought this land from the brink of disaster to prosperity. I am content to die.”
“But not now!” cried Mary. “Sire, can you not stay but a little?”
Henry managed a laugh that promptly turned into a protracted coughing fit. The linen squares were now no longer adequate; the king spit blood and pieces of his disintegrating lungs into a bejeweled golden cup. When he had recovered he said, in a rasping whisper, “Nay, my child, I wish to wait no longer. Daughter, listen to me. Always obey your brother. He is…will be…king, and he deserves your obedience in all things.”
Even in her extremity of sorrow Mary realized that her father had stressed obedience; not love, not respect, but obedience. For the first time in her life, Mary felt as transparent as the rose-scented water in which she bathed. Merciful God, what else had he seen? Not her love for Brandon…?
“Oh, my son!” Lady Margaret appeared at the door and swept to Henry’s bedside. “Can it be so?”
“Mother, you have always been so brave and strong. What I did, I could not have done without you. You must go on being brave and strong.” His eyes strayed to where Mary sat, quietly sobbing.
The slow, quiet tears of old age made their silent journeys down the furrowed cheeks. In control of herself again, Lady Margaret replied, “I will, my son. Be assured, I will. For as long as I must.” Which I pray to Saint Michael and All His Angels will not be for long, she thought. I have had enough of this world. And to live every day in a world without Henry…it was not to be borne.
A movement in the corner of her eye caused Lady Margaret to swiftly turn her head. Mary had risen in a flurry of russet silk and run for the door. There stood Prince Henry, resplendent in his riding clothes, flushed from the physical exertions of the hunt. He stood over six feet tall, with golden-red hair, and piercing blue eyes. A commanding figure, indeed. My son, thought the king. He had presence, to be sure; but would that be enough? If only I had more time, he thought. His body cries out that he is a man, but he is a child yet in some ways. But what a picture they made, standing there, his handsome children. Would that Margaret were here; but she is better where she is, he thought. Henry will need her in Scotland.
“Father?” said Henry quietly. In that one word, spoken in that questioning voice, King Henry knew at last what he needed to know. The boy thinks he is ready; that will have to suffice. This was no querulous, shaking, fearful voice, now that he was faced with the awesome task of being King of England. This was anticipation.
“Come here, my son,” said the king. Henry sat by his father’s side on the massive testered bed. There were patches of sweat under his arms and moisture beaded on his forehead. But this was not cold sweat, tainted with fear. This was sweat from the headlong ride to his father’s bedside, sweat from the too-hot invalid’s room. “You must marry,” said the king. “The country needs an heir.”
“I will, Father,” Henry replied.
“Do not marry the Spanish princess,” he said. Prince Henry shifted uneasily on the mattress. “Hear me out. I have held Katharine here for six years and spent her dowry. She was married to Arthur, and it was mine to dispose of as I wished, despite the blusterings of that dissembler across the Channel. What father would allow me to treat his daughter as I have treated Katharine? He cannot be trusted. Do not tie yourself to him.”
“But, Father, you said…”
“I have changed my mind. That is a prerogative of kings, as you will learn soon enough. Wait a decent interval and sue for the hand of Marguerite.”
“The Austrian duchess? But I thought you said that we have need of only one marriage alliance with the Hapsburgs. Mary and Charles…”
Lady Margaret, who was holding Mary’s hand, felt her stiffen at the mention of her pending marriage. I must see to that, she thought. She had waited far too long to have another talk with Mary about her duties and obligations as a princess of England.
King Henry shook his head, but another cough racked him into paroxysms when he tried to speak. Finally, when he had his breath back, he gasped, “I refer to Marguerite of Alençon, the sister of the Dauphin. You must ally yourself with France. Otherwise, the treasury will be wasted on continental wars.”
The prince’s eyes widened. How could he tell his father that with those words, he was shattering the two plans most dear to his heart? He would marry Katharine, as he had vowed to do when he was twelve, and longed to do ever since he had first set on eyes on her when he was ten, and he would return France to the crown of England, as Henry the Fifth had done. He had dreamed of little else for most of his life. But lying was as unnatural to him as the breaking of vows; he took refuge in silence. The king did not respond; perhaps he knew that his son would go his own way and that there was little he could do about it.
Suddenly an anguished cry escaped the lips of Grandmother Beaufort. The king was dead. Long live the king.
It was her father’s last moments that haunted Mary so. She would dream that she gazed at her father’s face on his deathbed, and that where in one glance a man had lain, in the next there was a skeleton. Or she would think she was looking at her father, and her mother’s face would appear. But not as she had seen her last, pale and beautiful in death; she looked as she would now, after six long years…Mary shivered. She would not go back to sleep this night.
# # #
The same moonlight streamed across Katharine’s bed, but she was not sleeping and paid it no heed. So it was to happen at last. After all the waiting, all the humiliation, all the anxiety, Henry was going to keep his promise. No one had been more surprised than she when Prince Henry had strode into her apartments at Greenwich that April day just four weeks ago.
She had been sewing, a favorite pastime whether she was turning hems, mending tears, or embroidering an altar cloth. She had heard a commotion outside her door and before she could ring to send one of her ladies to investigate, the door had burst open and there was Henry.
“Your Grace!” she exclaimed.
Henry just stood there staring at her for a moment and then he rushed over and took her hands in his. “The king is dead,” he said, without preamble.
Katharine loosed a hand, crossed herself and said, “God rest his soul.”
Henry guffawed. “You can say that?”
For once at a loss for words, she stammered, “I…”
“Never mind that,” Henry said. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and taking one of her hands into his own, he said, “I have never been able to tender a proper proposal of marriage to you. All has been treaties and old men’s talk and dispensations. Katharine,” he said, searching her eyes, “Will you marry me? Will you be my queen?”
Katharine came of stoic stock, and was the product of a formal Spanish court. Tears did not come easily to her. But at this proof of Henry’s love, at the sight of this romantic boy, now a king, on his knees before her, her eyes welled with tears. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, and yes!” Henry rose and took her into his strong arms, kissed her as she had never been kissed before. It was a good thing he held her; she felt a swoon coming on for the first time in her life.
She had all but given up; at twenty-three years of age she was no longer considered such a desirable parti. And Henry was not even eighteen. At this end of life, six years was not so long; but what about…?
“Are you listening to me?” he bellowed.
Instantly, she knew her role. “But of course,” she replied. “It is just that I am so overwhelmed…”
“All right, then. The wedding will be June the eleventh, here at Greenwich.” Most of the significant events of his life had taken place here; he was very attached to the place. Of all that he would…my God, he thought, had…inherited, this was his favorite palace. “We’ll have a quiet ceremony at the Franciscan oratory, and then receive our wedding guests here. Will that suit you?”
Katharine’s thoughts raced. Should she ask her father’s formal permission? Should Henry? Was that even necessary, in light of their former betrothal, when presumably, all had been decided? It was not Henry’s fault that he had been forced to denounce that arrangement. And what of the papal dispensation they already possessed? No, dispatches to Spain took time. There must be no delay. She had waited too long, too much rode, for her, on this match. “It suits me well, My Lord,” she replied.
“No, no,” he said, and her eyes widened momentarily in fear. Was he repudiating her again? “Do not call me that. Call me Henry. No, better yet, call me Hal. Only my closest friends are allowed to address me such.”
“All right…Hal,” she said, in that charming way she had of speaking her aitch’s from the back of her throat. This was so different from Spanish manners, Spanish etiquette. What had her mother, the redoubtable Queen Isabella, called her father, in private, at night in the bed chamber? The bed chamber! Merciful God! At the thought of what she would be called upon soon to submit to, and by this great hulking man! A pleasant shiver traveled up her spine. This was no poor, feeble, unable Arthur. This was a sea change; ten minutes ago she had been the poor Spanish princess, penniless, aging, barely tolerated and tossed aside. Now she was the future Queen of England. It was a new world.
“It will have to be a quiet affair,” Henry said. As he spoke, he paced the room like a restless lion. “With Father so recently buried. But we’ll make up for it at the coronation, Kate.” He had always, all these years, thought of her not as his dead brother’s wife, but as His Kate. She had been promised to him, and his she would be.
There was nothing Katharine could do except nod and smile. Henry would take care of everything. She felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her, as indeed, it had. She looked at Henry’s sparkling eyes, behind which was hidden that uncertain look, that need for her approval. This was triumph. This was vindication. Against all odds, she was to be queen of England after all, and Henry’s wife.
# # #
A cloud scudded across the sky, dimming the room but not completely obscuring the moonlight. It quickly passed and the room became bright with the moon’s deathly pale light once more. Katharine looked over at the shape of Maria de Salinas, her faithful lady-in-waiting. She was sleeping peacefully. Katharine knew a moment of supreme satisfaction as she thought that soon, soon, it would be Henry sleeping at her side.
# # #
One other restless soul was wakeful in Greenwich Palace that night. But for Lady Margaret, this was not an unusual state of affairs. The older she got, it seemed, the less sleep she needed. Her room was brightly lit, and she held her Book of Hours in her hands. But as hard as she tried to read and concentrate upon the pious, comforting words, she realized that she was simply staring at the page and thinking her own thoughts. She laid the book aside with a sigh.
Henry would marry Katharine on the morrow, in direct contradiction to his father’s dying wishes. That boded ill for the future, but it was a future in which Lady Margaret would not participate. That, she thought, should comfort her, but it did not. She would discharge her duties as regent until the coronation, and then her task was finished. No, it was more than that, really; her day was done. She had outlived her beloved son, and with his passing, her usefulness.
Both she and Mary had plainly heard the king tell Henry he was to marry Marguerite de Alençon, and not Katharine of Aragon, and Lady Margaret wholly agreed with this decision. She had never liked Katharine, but it went beyond that. She had respected, while somehow resenting, Katharine’s undoubtedly royal blood; she had respected the girl’s intelligence, her grave manners, and her fortitude in difficult times. But like the girl she just could not. There was something…unlucky about her. I’m a foolish old woman, she thought. Since when had luck ever played a part in English politics? But that Katharine was not the wife for Henry, that trouble in some form would come of him marrying her in defiance of his father’s wishes, she was in no doubt. The real crux of the matter, what was at the heart of her concern, was that in his defiance of his father’s will Henry was defying her authority, too. She was regent, after all, and Henry knew that she had heard his father’s words as plainly as had he.
