bitter moment she felt sorry for him because he would never know the joy of loving.
“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”
“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.
“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”
“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”
“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”
“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”
“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.
Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.
“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”
The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”
She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.
But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.
Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.
He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine's dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”
The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father's schemes.
Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.
Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?
BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.
He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur… dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.
Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.
But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.
King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.
No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.
“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.
When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.
IN A LITTER , covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!
The weather had changed,
“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”
“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.
“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”
“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”
“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”
“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”
“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.
Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.
“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”
The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”
She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.
But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.
Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.
He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine's dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”
The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father's schemes.
Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.
Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?
BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.
He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur… dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.
Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.
But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.
King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.
No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.
“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.
When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.
IN A LITTER , covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!
The weather had changed,
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