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That was hopeless, for the King had shown so clearly that he would not allow the marriage to take place. Whenever she saw the Prince he had kindly smiles for her, which was comforting, for his importance grew daily, one might say hourly.
Katharine noticed that Francesca was not with them.
“Where is Francesca?” she asked.
“I have not seen her, Highness,” answered Maria de Salinas.
“Now that I recall it,” pursued Katharine, “she seems to absent herself often. What does she do when she is not with us?”
No one could answer that; which was strange because Francesca had been inclined to talk a great deal—often it seemed too much—of her personal affairs.
“I shall ask her when she returns,” said Katharine; and then they fell to discussing what would happen when Ferdinand learned that his ambassador had been refused admittance to the Palace.
Nothing would happen, thought Katharine wretchedly. Looking back over the years since Arthur’s death, she saw that her position had changed but little. She could go on living in penury and uncertainty for the rest of her days.
* * *
“HIGHNESS!” It was Maria de Rojas, and her voice was trembling with excitement.
Katharine had left her maids of honor an hour before because she wished to be alone; she had felt she could no longer endure their chatter, which alternated between the desire to raise her hopes by improbable changes of fortune and sighing for their native land.
She looked at Maria quickly, eager to know what had happened to change her mood.
“This has been delivered at the Palace. It is for you.”
Katharine took the letter which Maria was holding out to her. “It is in Francesca’s handwriting,” said Maria.
“Francesca!”
Katharine’s heart began to beat fast as she opened the letter, and she hastily sca
Francesca would never return. She had married Francesco Grimaldi, the banker from Genoa.
“It is…impossible!” breathed Katharine.
Maria was at her side; forgetting all ceremony, all discipline as she looked over Katharine’s shoulder and read the words which the newly married bride had written.
“Francesca…married! And to a banker! Oh, how could she? How could she! A banker! What will her family say? Highness, what will you do?”
“It must be some joke,” murmured Katharine.
But they both knew that it was no joke; Maria’s horror changed momentarily to envy. “At least she married,” she whispered; her lips quivered and there came to her eyes the frantic look of a prisoner who has heard of another’s escape, but sees no way out for herself.
“So this is where she has been,” went on Katharine. “It is the man with whom Fuensalida had his lodgings. How could she, a Carceres, so far forget the honor due to her rank as to marry a banker!”
Maria was speaking as though to herself: “Perhaps she fell in love with him. But it is more likely to be because he is very rich and we have been so poor. Francesca did not have an offer all the time we were here…perhaps she thought she never would have one.”
Katharine remembered her dignity. “Leave me now,” she said. “If she has left us we should make no effort to bring her back. She has chosen the way she wishes to go.”
“Your Highness will allow this?”
Katharine smiled bitterly. “You do not blame her, Maria. I can remember, when I came to England, how eager you all were to come with me. It seemed such a glorious future, did it not? But how differently it turned out! Francesca has escaped…that is all. As you would escape, Maria, if the opportunity offered itself. Go now. Break this news to the others. I’ll warrant they will share your envy of Francesca.”
Maria left her mistress and Katharine reread the letter. Francesca was happy, she said. She had married the man of her choice. There was excitement in every line. Francesca had escaped.
It seemed to Katharine in that moment that she touched the depth of hopelessness. Gay Francesca had risked the displeasure of kings and a powerful noble family to escape from the dreary existence which she had been forced to share with the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella.
* * *
IT WAS THE month of April. The birch and willow were in flower; the stitchwort threw a silvery sheen on the green hedges; and the meadows were bright with deep yellow cowslips.
In the Palace of Richmond, Henry VII lay dying, and in the streets the people rejoiced furtively. The old reign was passing and the new one would soon begin. People forgot that their King had brought peace to England. To most he had seemed unkingly because he hated war—not because of the misery it brought, it was true, but because of the waste of good money and lives which could be used to make the country prosperous. He had never spent lavishly on pageants for the people’s pleasure, and there had only been rich ceremonies when there had been the need to impress other rulers with England’s powers.
To the people he was a miserly King, insignificant in appearance; he had imposed cruel taxes on his subjects; he had shown little affection even to his family. They forgot that from 1485, when he had come to the throne, to this year of 1509 the country had lived in peace, and in place of a bankrupt state he had built up a rich treasury. They did not tell themselves that this was the first King who had lived within his income, who had laid the foundations on which could be built a major Power. They said: “The old miser is dying. Old Henry is passing; this is the day of young Henry.” And when they thought of their laughing, golden Prince, they said: “Now England will be merry.”
The excitement throughout the Court was growing to a feverish pitch. Courtiers gathered in little groups waiting for the cry of “The King is dead.”
That young Henry should marry almost immediately was a matter on which all seemed to agree. Such a Prince needed a Queen. Who should it be?
There were many who favored alliance with France. Let it be Marguerite of Angoulême, they said. There were others who believed that alliance with the Hapsburgs would be more advantageous. Let it be Eleanor, the daughter of Juana and Philip. Was Eleanor too young for their golden Prince? Well then, Duke Albert of Bavaria had a daughter. Maximilian would be delighted to sponsor such a match.
There was no mention of Katharine of Aragon, who had gone through a betrothal ceremony with the Prince of Wales some years before.
When Fuensalida came to visit Katharine he was gloomy. He was shut out from the Palace; he was useless as an ally. He told her that he was making arrangements to have her plate and jewels secretly shipped back to Spain.
He could not have said more clearly: The game is over, and we have lost.
* * *
THE PRINCE OF WALES waited in his apartments. Soon he would hear the stampede. They would come to acclaim him as their King. They, no less than he, had been waiting for this day.
He would tower above them all; none could mistake him, with his great height and his crown of fiery hair; his big, beaming and benign countenance was known throughout the country.
His eyes narrowed as he thought of the years of restraint when he, the beloved of the people, had been forced to obey his father.
He was no longer a boy, being in his eighteenth year. Surely this was the threshold of glorious manhood. He could not be merely a man; he was a god. He had so much beauty, so much strength. There was none at Court who could compare with him; and now, as though not content with the gifts which had been showered on him, fate was putting the crown of yellow gold on that red-gold head.
From his window he could see the courtiers. They were whispering together…about him. Of course it was about him. The whole country was talking about him. They were saying he should marry soon, and marry soon he would, for he had a fancy for a wife.