The Sixth Wife_ The Story of Katherine P - By Jean Plaidy Page 0,21

Catholic faction must not be allowed to supply all the required compliments. Sir Thomas Seymour interrupted Wriothesley. “The verses seemed to me good enough, but I am a rough sailor, and know little of these matters. I have a fondness for Your Majesty’s own rhymes, it is true…”

Henry interrupted: “We deemed the verses good.” He was impatient with them all, except the woman beside him. He had been too long without a wife. He was wasting time. “Lady Latimer,” he said in a gentler voice, “what thought you of the verses?”

Katharine answered nervously: “I thought them good, Your Majesty. Very good.”

“You did, did you? And are you a judge of verses, Lady Latimer?”

“I fear not, Sire. I am only…”

“Ah!” cried Henry. “You are a lady of much modesty, and ’tis my belief you know more of the value of verses than these men who talk so readily of them. Methinks you should have an opportunity of judging your Sovereign’s.”

“Sire, my judgment would be of little worth.”

Surrey said ironically: “You would doubtless discover, Lady Latimer, that His Grace the King, as well as being the ruler of this land, is also its greatest poet.”

Henry shot a suspicious glance at the insolent youth, but he was too intent on Katharine to be drawn at this moment. He leaned forward and patted Katharine’s arm. “Such praise,” he said, “is to be prized since it comes from Surrey—as good a poet as any to be found in the realm, so some men say.”

“I trust Your Grace has never heard my verses compared with your own,” said Surrey; and if Henry did not recognize the subtle note of mockery in his voice, others fancied they did.

“Nay!” said the King. “Much sweet praise has been poured in our ears, and though we have heard your verses commended, yet never have we heard them set side by side with our own.”

Surrey gave what might have been a sigh of relief. “Your Grace has doubtless heard them compared with Wyatt’s?”

“Aye, that we have! And to Wyatt’s disadvantage.”

“A great poet… poor Thomas Wyatt!” said Surrey.

Henry was suddenly aware that Lady Latimer’s gaze was fixed on Seymour. The blood seemed to rush through his veins as though it would burst them.

“Seymour,” he cried, “you are silent, man.”

“I am out of my depth, Sire.”

Henry snorted. “He should learn the gentle art of rhyming, should he not, my friends? He would find it of use in his gallant adventures.” Everyone tittered, and Seymour smiled charmingly. The King turned away with a gesture of impatience. “Ah yes,” he went on. “Wyatt was a good poet and a handsome fellow.”

Of Surrey’s intentions that afternoon none could be sure. He seemed to be inviting the King’s displeasure. Perhaps he was thinking of those royal arms which had been given to his family five hundred years before; perhaps, as he spoke again, he was thinking that he was more royal than the heavy, diseased man who sat in the ornamented chair.

“I like nothing of Wyatt’s so well as that which ran thus: ‘And wilt thou leave me thus….’ Marry! I forget how it goes. Oh, this was it. Your Grace will remember.

“‘And wilt thou leave me thus!

That hath loved thee so long

In wealth and woe among:

And is thy heart so strong

As for to leave me thus?’ ”

Henry’s face was contorted, whether with rage against Surrey or the pain of his leg none could be sure.

“You liked those verses, did you?” he roared. “Methinks there is a cheapness in the sentiment.”

There was complete silence as the Earl and the King looked at each other. Every member of the gathering was aware that Surrey had quoted the words which Wyatt had written to Anne Boleyn. It seemed to Katharine, sitting fearfully beside the King, longing for the privacy of her home in Yorkshire, that Surrey was like a gorgeous dragonfly determined to tease an already angry bull.

“Cheapness, Your Grace?” said Surrey. “In Wyatt’s appeal to an unkind mistress? Poor Wyatt!”

Henry looked almost defiantly at those about him, as though he was determined to show them that Surrey’s careless words had not reminded him of Anne Boleyn. “I liked that fellow, Wyatt… fool that he ofttimes was. I mourned his death. Marry, it is a year ago! But what subject is this for a lady’s ears? Death? No! We will not speak of it. I would have speech with Lady Latimer… and I would have speech alone.”

Even as he said those words he remembered the old days, when, wishing