Виктория Холт - The Shadow of the Pomegranate

“Henry, I swear this to be untrue.”

“Swear if you will. But who trusts a Spaniard?”

“You talk to me as though I were a stranger…and an enemy.”

“You are a Spaniard!” he said.

She reached for the table to steady herself.

Evil rumors had been in the air of late. She had disregarded them as mere gossip: If the Queen does not give the King a child soon, he may decide that she is incapable of bearing children and seek a divorce.

She had thought at the time: How can people be so cruel? They make light of our tribulations with their gossip.

But now she wondered what had set such rumors in motion. When his eyes were narrowed like that he looked so cruel.

She turned away.

“I must go to my apartment,” she said. “I feel unwell.”

He did not answer her; but stood glowering while she walked slowly and in an ungainly manner from the apartment.

* * *

SHE WAS WAITING NOW—waiting for the birth of the child which would make all the difference to her future. If this time she could produce a healthy boy, all the King’s pleasure in his marriage would return. It was merely this run of bad luck, she told herself, which had turned him from her. So many failures. It really did seem that some evil fate was working against them. No wonder Henry was beginning to doubt whether it was possible for them to have a family; and because he was Henry, he would not say, Is it impossible for us to have children…but, for her? He would not believe that any failure could possibly come from himself.

She prayed continually: “Let me bear a healthy child. A boy, please, Holy Mother. But if that is asking too much, a girl would please, if only she may be healthy and live…just to prove that I can bear a healthy child.”

In her apartments the device of the pomegranate mocked her. It hung on embroidered tapestry on the walls; it was engraved on so many of her possessions. The pomegranate which signified fruitfulness and which she had seen so many times in her own home before she had understood the old Arabic meaning.

How ironic that she should have taken it as her device!

She dared not brood on the possibility of failure, so she tried to prove to Henry that she was completely faithful to his cause. When the French ambassadors arrived she received them with outward pleasure and the utmost cordiality; she gave a great deal of time to the sad young Mary, helping her to live through that difficult time, cheering her, recalling her own fears on parting from her mother, assuring her that if she would meekly accept her destiny she would eventually triumph over her fears.

She was invaluable at such a time. Even Henry grudgingly admitted it and, because he knew that she was telling him that she had cut off her allegiance to her own people and was determined to work entirely for his cause, he softened towards her.

With the coming of that July the negotiations for the French marriage were completed and the ceremony by proxy was performed.

Mary, her face pale, her large eyes tragic, submitted meekly enough; and Katharine, who was present at the putting to bed ceremony, was sorry for the girl. Quietly she looked on while Mary, shivering in her semi-nakedness, was put to bed by her women, and the Duc de Longueville, who was acting as proxy for the King of France, who was put to bed with her, he fully dressed apart from one naked leg with which he touched Mary. The marriage was then declared to be a true marriage, for the touching of French and English body was tantamount to consummation.

* * *

IN OCTOBER of that year Mary was taken with great pomp to Dover, there to set sail for France. Katharine and Henry accompanied her, and Katharine was fearful when she saw the sullen look in Mary’s eyes.

It was a sad occasion for Katharine—that stay at Dover Castle while they waited for storms to subside, for she could not help but remember her own journey from Spain to England and she understood exactly how Mary was feeling.

How sad was the fate of most Princesses! she thought.

She was eager to comfort her young sister-in-law, and tried to arouse Mary’s interest in her clothes and jewels; but Mary remained listless except for those occasions when her anger would burst out against a fate which forced her to marry an old man whom she was determined to despise because there was another whom she loved. The marriage had done nothing at all, Katharine saw, to turn her thoughts from Charles Brandon.

They seemed long, those weeks at Dover. Henry strode through the castle, impatient to have done with the painful parting and return to London, for there could be no real gaiety while the Queen of France went among them, like a mournful ghost of the gay Princess Mary.

Again and again Katharine sought to comfort her. “What rejoicing there will be in Paris,” she said.

But Mary merely shrugged her shoulders. “My heart will be in England,” she said, “so I shall care nothing for rejoicing in Paris.”

“You will…in time.”

“In time!” cried Mary, and her eyes suddenly blazed wickedly. “Ah,” she repeated, “in time.”

There were occasions when she was almost feverishly gay; she would laugh, a little too wildly; she would even sing and dance, and the songs were all of the future. Katharine wondered what was in her mind and was afraid.

Her women doubtless had a trying time. Katharine had noticed some charming girls among the little band who were to accompany Mary to France. Lady Anne and Lady Elisabeth Grey were two very attractive girls and she was sure they were helping in upholding Mary’s spirits.

One day when she went to Mary’s apartments she saw a very young girl, a child, there among the women.

Katharine called to her and the little girl came and curtsied. She had big, dark eyes and one of the most piquantly charming faces Katharine had ever seen.

“What are you doing here, my little one?” she asked.

“Your Grace,” answered the child with the dignity of a much older person, “I am to travel to France in the suite of the Queen. I am one of her maids of honor.”

Katharine smiled. “You are somewhat young for the post, it would seem.”

“I am past seven years old, Your Grace.” The answer was given with hauteur and most surprisingly dignity.

“It would seem young to me. Do you travel with any member of your family?”

“My father is to sail with us, Your Grace.”

“Tell me the name of your father, my child.”

“It is Sir Thomas Boleyn.”

“Ah, I know him well. So you are his daughter…Mary, is it?”

“No, Your Grace. Mary is my sister. My name is Anne.”

Katharine, amused by the precocity of the lovely little girl, smiled. “Well, Anne Boleyn,” she said, “I am sure you will serve your mistress well.”

The child swept a deep and somewhat mannered curtsey, and Katharine passed on.

WHEN MARY HAD SAILED FOR FRANCE THE COURT RETURNED to Richmond, and with the coming of the winter Katharine felt that she had regained a little of her husband’s esteem which she had lost through the treachery of her father.

December was with them and plans for the Christmas festivities were beginning to be made. There were the usual whisperings, the secrets shared by little groups of courtiers, plans, Katharine guessed, for a pageant which would surprise her; there would doubtless be a Robin Hood or a Saracen Knight to startle the company with his prowess and later disclose himself to be the King. No round of gaiety would be complete without that little masquerade.

She felt old and tired, contemplating the excitement going on about her—like a woman among children. How was it possible for her to feel excitement about a pageant when she was so concerned with her own allimportant and most pressing problem. Is it true, she asked herself, that I am growing old, far in advance of the King?

It was a cold day and she awakened feeling tired. This was proving a difficult pregnancy and she wondered whether she was less robust than she had been; an alarming thought, because she foresaw many pregnancies ahead of her, and if her health failed, how could she go on attempting to bear children? And if she did not, of what use was she to her King and country? The word Divorce was like a maggot in her brain.

Because she felt too tired to talk she dismissed her women and sat alone. She went to her prie-dieu and there she prayed, remaining on her knees for nearly an hour, begging, pleading that this time she might have a healthy child.

She rose and stood for some time before the embroidered tapestry on the wall, which portrayed her device of the pomegranate.

This time all will be well, she promised herself.

She thought she would take a walk in the gardens, and as she wished to be alone she went down by a rarely frequented spiral stone staircase.

As this part of the Palace was seldom used, it was very quiet here. She felt a curiosity about it and wondered why it had been neglected. She paused on the staircase to open a door, and saw a pleasant enough room. Entering, she found that the windows looked out on a courtyard in which grass grew among the cobbles. There was little sun in this part and she idly supposed that was why it was so rarely used.

She shut the door quietly and went on. Halfway down the staircase was another door and, as she passed this, hearing the sound of voices, she paused and listened. Surely that was Henry’s voice.

She must be mistaken, for she had heard that he had gone off with the hunt that day. Impulsively she opened the door, and thus discovered what most members of the Court had known for many months. There could be no mistake. Bessie Blount, Lady Taillebois, was lying on a couch and Henry was with her. There could be no doubt whatever what they were doing: rarely could any have been discovered so completely in flagrante delicto. Katharine gave a gasp of horror.

Henry turned his head and looked straight at her, and in that second of time shame, fury, hatred flashed from his eyes.

Katharine waited for no more; she turned, shut the door, and stumbled back the way she had come. As she missed her footing and fell, the cold stone struck into her body, and she felt a sharp pain that was like a protest from the child; but she picked herself up and hurried on.

When she reached her own apartments she shut herself in.

One of her women came to her and asked if she were ill.

“I am merely tired,” she said firmly. “I wish to be alone that I may rest.”

* * *

HENRY CAME into the room, his face was scarlet and his eyes sparkled with anger.

He had been caught by his wife in an extremely compromising situation with another woman, and he was deeply ashamed of the figure he had cut in her eyes. When Henry was ashamed of himself he was angry, and because he had always come to terms with his conscience before he indulged in what might be considered sinful, he was always prepared to defend his virtue. Thus he was doubly angry when he was shamed, and as he could never be angry with himself the flood of that anger must be allowed to flow over someone else.

He stood glowering at her as she lay on her bed.

She did not attempt to rise as she would have done on any other occasion. For one thing she felt too ill and there was a dull nagging pain in her womb which terrified her.

He said: “Well, Madam, what have you to say?”

She was suddenly too tired to placate him, too weary to hide her anger. She was no longer the diplomatic Queen; she was the wronged wife.

“Should I have anything to say? Should not you be the one to explain?”

“Explain! Do you forget I am the King? Why should I be called upon to explain?”

“You are also my husband. What I saw…horrified me.”

Henry was thinking of what she had seen and he grew hot with indignation—not with himself and Bessie for being thus together, but with Katharine for shaming them.

“Why so?” he asked, battling with the rage which threatened to make him incoherent.

“You ask that! Should I be delighted to see you behaving thus…with that woman?”

“Listen to me,” said Henry. “I brought you to your present eminence. What were you when I married you? Daughter of the King of Spain. A man who neglected you and used you to trap me. Yet I married you. Against the advice of my ministers I married you…because I pitied you…because I thought you would make me a good wife…would give me children. And what have you given me? Stillborn children! One son who lived for a few days! Madam, I am beginning to wonder whether you are incapable of bearing children.”