The Sixth Wife_ The Story of Katherine P - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,20
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 doublet. Arrogant young fool! thought the King; and he hated him for no more reason at that moment than that he was one of the most handsome young men at court. Henry had reason to hate all handsome men on this occasion, for now, with so many about him, he felt his age and infirmity keenly. These were so hard to accept when one had been the handsomest Prince in Christendom and had excelled at all manly pastimes and had been a King—not, he reminded himself scowling at Surrey, a would-be-King.
Surrey had begun to read:
“Martial, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I Find:
The richesse left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind;
“The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;
“The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night dischargèd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress.
“The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night:
Contented with thine own estate
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.”
While the poet was reading, the King fidgeted in his chair, and all those present marveled at the rashness of Surrey, for it should have been perfectly clear to the poet that those sentiments must arouse unpleasant memories for the King. That talk of health and sleep and, above all, faithful wives! Surrey was a fool. It was almost as though he teased a dangerous bull, deliberately inviting attack.
There was a short silence. No one spoke before the King expressed an opinion, for it was unwise to differ from His Majesty in the appraisal of verses.
“Bravo!” growled the King eventually. “Your meter’s good, Surrey.”
Surrey bowed low. “My greatest delight in my simple verses must be the pleasure they afford my most Gracious Sovereign.”
“Not so simple!” cried Henry. “Not so simple, eh?” He glared about him. “What did you think, eh, Gardiner? A Bishop should appreciate good verses, And you, Master Wriothesley. You’ve heard enough verses to judge, I’ll swear.”
Gardiner could always be relied upon to say what was expected of him. “We have heard your Grace’s own verses, Sire.”
And Wriothesley, always eager for promotion and knowing the surest way to the King’s heart, added: “When your Gracious Majesty sets such a high standard …”