Katharine of Aragon by Jean Plaidy

your servant,” he had said; but his looks belied the humility of his words.
    He had explained in Latin that he had come to escort her into London. “It is my father's command,” he said. “But had it not been I should have come.”
    She did not believe that, and she suspected him of being a braggart; but she was conscious of the fascination he had for her and she realized that she was not the only one who was conscious of his power.
    He had stared at her thick hair which she was to wear loose for the journey into London, and had put out a plump finger to touch it.
    “It is very soft,” he had said, and his little eyes gleamed.
    She had been aware that she seemed strange to him, with her hair flowing thus under the hat which was tied on her head with a gold lace; beneath the hat she wore a headdress of scarlet.
    “Your hat,” he had told her, “reminds me of that which Cardinals wear.”
    And he had laughed, seeming but a boy of ten in that moment.
    He had ridden on one side of her as they came through the streets while on the other side was the Legate of Rome. The people had lined the streets to see the procession and she had noticed that, although many curious glances came her way, eyes continually strayed to the young Prince riding beside her. He had been aware of this and she had noticed that he lost no opportunity of acknowledging his popularity and, she suspected, doing all he could to add to it.
    The citizens of London had organized a pageant to show their welcome for the Spanish Princess whom they regarded as their future Queen, and in the center of this pageant had been Saint Katharine surrounded by a company of virgins all singing the praises of the Princess of Wales.
    She had smiled graciously at the people and they had cheered calling: “Long live the Princess of Wales! God bless the Infanta of Spain! Long live the Prince of Wales! Long live the Duke of York!”
    And the young Duke of York had lifted his bonnet high so that the light caught his golden hair, and Katharine admitted that he was indeed a handsome Prince.
    When they had reached the Bishop's Palace, which was adjacent to the Cathedral, it had been the young Duke of York who took her hand and led her in.
    That had happened some days before, and now this was her wedding day; and once again that young boy would walk beside her and lead her to the altar where his brother would be waiting for her.
    She stood still in her elaborate wedding finery; indeed she found it not easy to move. Her gown stood out over the hoops beneath it, and on her head she wore the mantilla of gold, pearls and precious stones. The veil cascaded over her head and shielded her face. She was dressed as a Spanish Princess and the style was new to England.
    Henry came to her and looked at her in blank admiration.
    Then he spoke: “Why, you are beautiful!”
    “And you are kind,” she answered.
    “I am truthful,” he said. “That is not kindness, sister.”
    “I am glad that I please you.”
    His eyes narrowed suddenly in a manner which she already knew was a habit with him. “It is not I whom you wish to please,” he said sullenly. “Is that not so? It is my brother.”
    “I wish to please every member of my new family.”
    “You please Arthur,” he said, “and you please Henry. It is of no importance that you please the girls.”
    “Oh, but it is…it is of the greatest importance.”
    “You will please Margaret if you embroider.” He snapped his fingers. “Your eyes are too beautiful to strain with needlework. As for Mary, she is pleased by everyone who makes much of her. But you please me because you are beautiful. Is that not a better reason?”
    “To embroider means to have learned how to do so. There is great credit in that. But if I should be beautiful—which I do not think I am—that would be no credit to me.”
    “You will find that people in England admire your beauty more than your embroidery,” he told her. He frowned. He wished that he could