Katharine of Aragon by Jean Plaidy Page A

think of something clever to say, the sort of remark which his tutor, John Skelton, would have made had he been present. Henry admired Skelton as much as anyone he knew. Skelton had taught his pupil a great deal—and not onlyfrom lesson books. Henry liked Skelton's bold, swaggering speech, his quick wit, and had absorbed all that he had taught him about the way a gentleman should live and a good deal else besides; Skelton was not averse to repeating Court gossip and tales of the scandalous habits of some of the courtiers. Often certain information passed between them which was to be secret; Skelton had said: “You have to be a man, my Prince, as well as an Archbishop, and if by ill fate you should be forced to enter the Church then you will do well to sow your wild oats early.” Henry knew a great deal about the kind of wild oats which could be sown and was longing to sow some. He pitied poor Arthur under the tutelage of Dr. Linacre, a solemn, wise old man who thought—and endeavored to make Arthur agree with him—that the main object in life should be the mastery of Greek and Latin.
    He wanted to tell Katharine now that although he was young he would doubtless make a better husband for her even at this stage than Arthur. But the precocious child did not know how to express such thoughts.
    So he took her by the hand, this wondrously apparelled bride of his brother's, and led her from the Palace to the Cathedral; and the people cheered and said: “What a handsome bridegroom our Prince Henry will make when his time comes!”
    Henry heard and was pleased; yet he was angry at the same time. Life had given him all but one important thing, he believed. Good health, handsome looks, vitality, the power to excel—and then had made him the second son.
    In the Cathedral a stage had been erected; it was circular in shape and large enough to contain eight people, including Katharine in her voluminous wedding dress. It was covered with scarlet cloth and about it a rail had been set up.
    To this dais Henry led Katharine; and there waiting for her was Arthur, dazzling in white satin adorned with jewels.
    Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York, watched the ceremony from a box at the side of the dais.
    The King thought how small Arthur looked beside his bride and wondered whether the unhealthy whiteness of his skin was made more obvious by the hectic flush on his cheeks. He was still undecided. To consummate or not consummate? To make an effort to get a grandson quickly and perhaps endanger his heir's health, or to let the pair wait a year or so? He had half the bride's dowry already; he could scarcely wait to get his hands on the other half. He would have to watch Ferdinand. Ferdinand was continually planning wars; he wanted to see the Italian states under Spanish control; he would make all sorts of excuses about that second half of the dowry.
    But I'll keep him to it, thought Henry. If there were a child, that would make him realize the need to pay the second half quickly. He would be doubly pleased with the marriage if his daughter conceived and bore quickly.
    And yet…
    Elizabeth was conscious of her husband's thoughts. They are too young, she considered. Arthur at least is too young. Over-excitement weakens him. If only Henry would talk to me about this matter! But what is the use of wishing that, when he never consults anyone. There will be one person to decide whether the young Infanta is to lose her virginity this night—and that will be the King of England. And as yet he is undecided.
    The Archbishop of Canterbury with nineteen bishops and abbots was preparing to take part in the ceremony. Now he was demanding of the young couple that they repeat their vows; their voices were only just audible in the hushed Cathedral. The Infanta's was firm enough; Arthur's sounded feeble.
    I trust, his mother thought uneasily, that he is not going to faint. It would be construed as an evil omen.
    Her eyes rested long on her white-clad