“I should enjoy that,” cried Katharine.

She rose and selected two maids of honor. They would show the English, she said, one of the stateliest of the Spanish dances; and she signed to the minstrels to play.

The three graceful girls, dancing solemnly in the candlelit apartment, were a charming sight.

Arthur watched, his pale eyes lighting with pleasure. How graceful was his Infanta! How wonderful to be able to dance and not become breathless as he did!

The King’s eyes were speculative. The girl was healthy, he was thinking. She would bear many children. There was nothing to fear. Moreover Arthur was attracted by her, and had seemed to grow a little more mature in the last hour. Was he ready? What a problem! To put them to bed together might terrify this oversensitive boy, might disclose that he was impotent. On the other hand, if he proved not to be impotent, might he not tax his strength by too much indulgence?

What to do? Wait? There could be no harm in waiting. Six months perhaps. A year. They would still be little more than children.

If Henry had only been the elder son!

Ayala was at the King’s elbow, sly, subtle, guessing his thoughts.

“The Infanta says that she does not wish Your Grace to think that only solemn dances are danced in Spain; she and her ladies will show you something in a different mood.”

“Let it be done,” answered the King.

And there was the Infanta, graceful still, dignified, charming, yet as gay as a gipsy girl, her full skirts twirling in the dance, her white hands as expressive as her feet. Katharine of Aragon could dance well.

The King clapped his hands and the Prince echoed his father’s applause.

“We are grateful to the ladies of Spain for giving us such enjoyment,” said Henry. “I fancy our English dances are not without merit; and since the Infanta has danced for the Prince, the Prince should dance for the Infanta. The Prince of Wales will now partner the Lady Guildford in one of our English dances.”

Arthur felt a sudden panic. How could he match Katharine in the dance? She would despise him. She would see how small he was, how weak; he was terrified that he would be out of breath and, if he began to cough, as he often did at such times, his father would be displeased.

Lady Guildford was smiling at him; he knew her well, for she was his sisters’ governess and they often practiced dancing together. The touch of her cool fingers comforted him, and as he danced his eyes met the grave ones of the watching Infanta, and he thought: She is kind. She will understand. There is nothing to fear.

The dance over he came to sit beside her once more. He was a little breathless, but he felt very happy.

* * *

* * *

* * *

THIS WAS HER wedding day. She was waiting in the Bishop’s Palace of St. Paul’s to be escorted to the Cathedral for the ceremony. She would be led to the altar by the Duke of York, whom she had already met and who disturbed her faintly. There was something so bold and arrogant about her young brother-in-law, and an expression which she could not understand appeared on his face when he looked at her. It was an almost peevish, sullen expression; she felt as though she were some delicious sweetmeat which he desired and which had been snatched from him to be presented to someone else.

That seemed ridiculous. She was no sweetmeat. And why should a boy of ten be peevish because his elder brother was about to be married?

She had imagined this; but all the same she felt an unaccountable excitement at the prospect of seeing the Duke of York again.

She had ridden into London from Lambeth to Southwark by way of London Bridge, and her young brother-in-law had come to escort her.

He was certainly handsome, this young boy. He swept into the apartment as though he were the King himself, magnificently attired in a doublet of satin, the sleeves of which were slashed and ruched somewhat extravagantly; there were rubies at his throat. His face was broad and dimpled; his mouth thin, his eyes blue and fierce, but so small that when he smiled they seemed to disappear into the smooth pink flesh. His complexion was clear, bright and glowing with health; his hair was shining, vital and reddish gold in color. There could be no mistaking him for anyone but a Prince. She found it hard to believe that he was merely ten years old, for he seemed older than Arthur, and she wondered fleetingly how she would have felt if this boy had been her bridegroom instead of his brother.

They would not have married her to a boy of ten. But why not? There had been more incongruous royal marriages.

He had taken off his feathered hat to bow to her.

“Madam, your servant,” he had said; but his looks belied the humility of his words.

He had explained in Latin that he had come to escort her into London. “It is my father’s command,” he said. “But had it not been I should have come.”

She did not believe that, and she suspected him of being a braggart; but she was conscious of the fascination he had for her and she realized that she was not the only one who was conscious of his power.

He had stared at her thick hair which she was to wear loose for the journey into London, and had put out a plump finger to touch it.

“It is very soft,” he had said, and his little eyes gleamed.

She had been aware that she seemed strange to him, with her hair flowing thus under the hat which was tied on her head with a gold lace; beneath the hat she wore a headdress of scarlet.

“Your hat,” he had told her, “reminds me of that which Cardinals wear.”

And he had laughed, seeming but a boy of ten in that moment.

He had ridden on one side of her as they came through the streets while on the other side was the Legate of Rome. The people had lined the streets to see the procession and she had noticed that, although many curious glances came her way, eyes continually strayed to the young Prince riding beside her. He had been aware of this and she had noticed that he lost no opportunity of acknowledging his popularity and, she suspected, doing all he could to add to it.

The citizens of London had organized a pageant to show their welcome for the Spanish Princess whom they regarded as their future Queen, and in the center of this pageant had been Saint Katharine surrounded by a company of virgins all singing the praises of the Princess of Wales.

She had smiled graciously at the people and they had cheered calling: “Long live the Princess of Wales! God bless the Infanta of Spain! Long live the Prince of Wales! Long live the Duke of York!”

And the young Duke of York had lifted his bonnet high so that the light caught his golden hair, and Katharine admitted that he was indeed a handsome Prince.

When they had reached the Bishop’s Palace, which was adjacent to the Cathedral, it had been the young Duke of York who took her hand and led her in.

That had happened some days before, and now this was her wedding day; and once again that young boy would walk beside her and lead her to the altar where his brother would be waiting for her.

She stood still in her elaborate wedding finery; indeed she found it not easy to move. Her gown stood out over the hoops beneath it, and on her head she wore the mantilla of gold, pearls and precious stones. The veil cascaded over her head and shielded her face. She was dressed as a Spanish Princess and the style was new to England.

Henry came to her and looked at her in blank admiration.

Then he spoke: “Why, you are beautiful!”

“And you are kind,” she answered.

“I am truthful,” he said. “That is not kindness, sister.”

“I am glad that I please you.”

His eyes narrowed suddenly in a manner which she already knew was a habit with him. “It is not I whom you wish to please,” he said sullenly. “Is that not so? It is my brother.”