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.