The Shadow of the Pomegranate Read Online Free PDF Page A

‘He has had an uneasy night and seems to find breathing difficult.’
    Katharine was filled with apprehension.
    ‘I must go to him at once,’ she said.
    The Countess looked relieved. ‘I have called the physicians to look at him. They think his Royal Highness has caught a chill, and may be better in a few days.’
    ‘Then I will not tell the King . . . as yet.’
    The Countess hesitated; then she said: ‘It might be well that the King is told, Your Grace. He will wish to see his son.’
    Katharine felt sick with fear. So the child was worse than they pretended. They were trying to spare her, to break bad news gently.
    ‘I will tell the King,’ she said quietly, ‘and I am sure he will wish to make all speed with me to Richmond.’

    It could not be true; Henry would not believe it. This could not happen to him. The son, of whom he had been so proud, little Henry his namesake, his heir – dead! The child had lived exactly fifty-two days.
    He stood, his face puckered, his legs apart, looking at the Queen. The courtiers had left them together, believing that one could comfort the other and thus make their grief more bearable.
    Katharine said nothing; she sat in the window seat looking out over the river, her body drooping, her face drawn. She looked like an old woman. Her eyes were red, her face blotched, for she had shed many bitter tears.
    ‘We should have taken greater care of him,’ she whispered.
    ‘He had every care,’ growled Henry.
    ‘He caught a chill at the christening. He was robust until then.’
    Henry did not answer. It had been a splendid christening, with the Archbishop of Canterbury officiating and the Earl of Surrey and the Countess of Devonshire standing as sponsors; he had enjoyed every minute of it. He remembered thinking, as he watched the baby being carried to the font, that this was one of the happiest moments of his life. He had thanked God for His grace.
    And now . . . the baby was dead.
    He felt the anger bubbling within him. That this should happen to him! What he wanted more than anything in the world, he told himself, was a son – strong and healthy like himself – a boy whom he could watch grow up and teach to be a king.
    He felt bewildered because Fate had dared take from him his greatest prize.
    ‘It was well that he was christened, since he is now dead,’ he said sullenly.
    She could not be comforted. She longed for children; she needed them even as he did.
    He thought how old she looked, and he felt angry with her because he wanted to feel angry with someone. He had been so grateful to her because she had given him a son; and now he was no longer grateful.
    Katharine glancing up suddenly saw his eyes upon her – small, narrowed, cruel.
    She thought: Dear God. Holy Mother, does he then blame me?
    And her sorrow was tinged with an apprehension so faint that it was gone before she realised fully what it meant.
    Even as he gazed at her his expression softened. He said: ‘This is a bitter blow, Kate. But I am no greybeard and you are young yet. We’ll have more children, you see. We’ll have a son this time next year. That’s the way to chase away our sorrow, eh?’
    ‘Oh Henry,’ she cried and held out her hand.
    He took it.
    ‘You are so good to me,’ she told him. ‘I only live to please you.’
    He kissed her hand. He was too young, too sure of himself, to believe that ill luck awaited him. This was an unfortunate accident. They would have more sons; so many that the loss of this one would cease to matter.

Chapter II
THE KING’S INDISCRETION
    T he King sat in the window seat strumming his lute and trying out a song of his own composition; there was a dreamy expression in his eyes and he did not see the courtyard below; he was picturing himself in the great hall, calling for his lute and surprising all present with the excellence of his song.
    They would say: ‘But who is the composer? We must bring him to Court. There are few who can give us such music.’
    He