when the pain in his leg was so acute that his face became purple, then gray, and he could not suppress his cries of agony.
But now the bandages seemed less irksome and consequently he was less exhausted. He had hobbled into the musicroom to hear some verses of Surrey’s, and he was determined not to like them even before that arrogant young man had opened his mouth to recite them. He did not care for anything Surrey wrote, for Surrey himself was a source of anxiety to him.
By God, he mused, as he watched him now, a little more of the fellow’s arrogance and I’ll have him clapped into the Tower. What airs! What manners! And some would doubtless say: What beauty! Have I not suffered enough from these Howards? Anne was connected with them; that witch, that sorceress who deceived me into believing she could give me a son—and deceived me with others too! Then…young Catharine…
But he could not bear to think of Catharine. That affair was too recent and he had not had time to grow out of love with her. But nevertheless she also was a Howard. She had belonged to that accursed line.
He must not get overheated. His doctors had told him that. If he did, it would be necessary to apply the leeches again. No! He must think of pleasanter things than the Howards. There was Lady Latimer, looking fair enough, but sitting too far away from him.
He roared: “Bring Lady Latimer’s chair closer to mine. I would talk with her.”
She came slowly behind the men who had carried her chair. She drew it slightly back before she said: “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to sit?”
“You have it,” he answered, reaching for the chair and bringing it closer. “You must not be overawed, Lady Latimer, because we like to talk to you.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“We understand your feelings. We applaud them. We like modesty in our ladies.”
His face was close to hers and he noted the fine texture of her skin, the delicate bloom of health; he decided that none would guess she was thirty.
I like this woman! he told himself. I like her serenity. I like the respect she shows for her King. She’s no giddy girl. She’s no Anne Boleyn; no Catharine Howard. She may lack their beauty, but she’s a good woman; she’s a modest woman. She’s the sort of woman I like to see about my court.
“Believe us, Lady Latimer,” he said. “We feel the utmost kindness toward you.”
“Your Majesty is gracious.”
“We are indeed to those who please us. Now, Surrey, let us hear these verses of which you prate.”
Surrey stepped boldly forward, displaying both grace and nonchalance. He was very elaborately dressed, almost as elaborately as the King himself. His blue velvet cap was ornamented with gold, his doublet striped with blue and white satin, his hose of the same becoming shade of blue, and his person aglitter with diamonds and sapphires. The young poet bore himself like a king; there were some who said that it was Surrey’s boast that his house had more claim to the throne of England than had the Tudors. If his folly could be proved, ruminated the King, that handsome head would not long sprout so gracefully from those arrogant shoulders.
“It is a small poem,” the young nobleman was announcing, “on the means to attain a happy life, an it please Your Grace.”
“Let us hear these words of wisdom. We would fain hear of the means to attain a happy life.” Henry caught Katharine’s eye, and his intimate smile made her shiver. “Methinks you are over-young, my lord Earl, to have gleaned already so much knowledge.”
Gardiner, who was seated near the King, said: “It is the young, Your Majesty, who consider themselves to be wise men. When they grow older wisdom seems less sure.”
Henry grunted and winced with pain as he moved his leg. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Let us hear the verses and have done with it.”
Surrey stood elegantly, the scroll in one hand while the other was laid negligently on the jeweled
But now the bandages seemed less irksome and consequently he was less exhausted. He had hobbled into the musicroom to hear some verses of Surrey’s, and he was determined not to like them even before that arrogant young man had opened his mouth to recite them. He did not care for anything Surrey wrote, for Surrey himself was a source of anxiety to him.
By God, he mused, as he watched him now, a little more of the fellow’s arrogance and I’ll have him clapped into the Tower. What airs! What manners! And some would doubtless say: What beauty! Have I not suffered enough from these Howards? Anne was connected with them; that witch, that sorceress who deceived me into believing she could give me a son—and deceived me with others too! Then…young Catharine…
But he could not bear to think of Catharine. That affair was too recent and he had not had time to grow out of love with her. But nevertheless she also was a Howard. She had belonged to that accursed line.
He must not get overheated. His doctors had told him that. If he did, it would be necessary to apply the leeches again. No! He must think of pleasanter things than the Howards. There was Lady Latimer, looking fair enough, but sitting too far away from him.
He roared: “Bring Lady Latimer’s chair closer to mine. I would talk with her.”
She came slowly behind the men who had carried her chair. She drew it slightly back before she said: “Have I Your Majesty’s permission to sit?”
“You have it,” he answered, reaching for the chair and bringing it closer. “You must not be overawed, Lady Latimer, because we like to talk to you.”
“No, Your Grace.”
“We understand your feelings. We applaud them. We like modesty in our ladies.”
His face was close to hers and he noted the fine texture of her skin, the delicate bloom of health; he decided that none would guess she was thirty.
I like this woman! he told himself. I like her serenity. I like the respect she shows for her King. She’s no giddy girl. She’s no Anne Boleyn; no Catharine Howard. She may lack their beauty, but she’s a good woman; she’s a modest woman. She’s the sort of woman I like to see about my court.
“Believe us, Lady Latimer,” he said. “We feel the utmost kindness toward you.”
“Your Majesty is gracious.”
“We are indeed to those who please us. Now, Surrey, let us hear these verses of which you prate.”
Surrey stepped boldly forward, displaying both grace and nonchalance. He was very elaborately dressed, almost as elaborately as the King himself. His blue velvet cap was ornamented with gold, his doublet striped with blue and white satin, his hose of the same becoming shade of blue, and his person aglitter with diamonds and sapphires. The young poet bore himself like a king; there were some who said that it was Surrey’s boast that his house had more claim to the throne of England than had the Tudors. If his folly could be proved, ruminated the King, that handsome head would not long sprout so gracefully from those arrogant shoulders.
“It is a small poem,” the young nobleman was announcing, “on the means to attain a happy life, an it please Your Grace.”
“Let us hear these words of wisdom. We would fain hear of the means to attain a happy life.” Henry caught Katharine’s eye, and his intimate smile made her shiver. “Methinks you are over-young, my lord Earl, to have gleaned already so much knowledge.”
Gardiner, who was seated near the King, said: “It is the young, Your Majesty, who consider themselves to be wise men. When they grow older wisdom seems less sure.”
Henry grunted and winced with pain as he moved his leg. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Let us hear the verses and have done with it.”
Surrey stood elegantly, the scroll in one hand while the other was laid negligently on the jeweled
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