Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

“Why not? If both are true?” He hammered on the door even louder.

She gasped in horror and fell back against the bedpost.

“Your Grace?” came a shout from the outer chamber, and the door opened to reveal the groom of the bedchamber and a couple of pages, and behind them Doña Elvira and a lady-in-waiting.

Catalina stalked over to the window and turned her back to the room. Uncertainly, Arthur hesitated, glancing back at her for help, for some indication that he could stay after all.

“For shame!” Doña Elvira exclaimed, pushing past Arthur and running to throw a gown around Catalina’s shoulders. Once the woman was standing with her arm around Catalina, glaring at him, Arthur could not return to his bride; he stepped over the threshold and went to his own rooms.

I cannot bear him. I cannot bear this country. I cannot live here for the rest of my life. That he should say that I disgust him! That he should dare to speak to me so! Has he run mad like one of their disgusting dogs that pant everywhere? Has he forgotten who I am? Has he forgotten himself?

I am so furious with him I should like to take a scimitar and slice his stupid head off. If he thought for a moment, he would have known that everyone in the palace, everyone in London, probably everyone in this gross country, will laugh at us. They will say I am ugly and that I cannot please him.

I am crying with temper, it’s not grief. I tuck my head into the pillow of my bed, so that no one can hear me and tell everyone else that the princess cried herself to sleep because her husband would not bed her. I am choking on tears and temper, I am so angry with him.

After a little while, I stop, I wipe my face, I sit up. I am a princess by birth and by marriage, I should not give way. I shall have some dignity even if he has none. He is a young man, a young Englishman at that—how should he know how to behave? I think of my home in the moonlight, of how the walls and the tracery gleam white and the yellow stone is bleached to cream. That is a palace, where people know how to behave with grace and dignity. I wish with all my heart that I were still there.

I remember that I used to watch a big yellow moon reflected in the water of the sultana’s garden. Like a fool, I used to dream of being married.

Oxford,

Christmas 1501

THEY SET OFF A FEW DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Resolutely, they spoke to each other in public with utter courtesy, and ignored each other completely when no one was watching. The queen had asked that they might at least stay for the twelve-day feast, but My Lady the King’s Mother had ruled that they should take their Christmas at Oxford; it would give the country a chance to see the prince and the new Princess of Wales, and what the king’s mother said was law.

Catalina traveled by litter, jolted mercilessly over the frozen roads, her mules foundering in the fords, chilled to the bone however many rugs and furs they packed around her. The king’s mother had ruled that she should not ride for fear of a fall. The unspoken hope was that Catalina was carrying a child. Catalina herself said nothing to confirm or deny the hope. Arthur was silence itself.

They had separate rooms on the road to Oxford and separate rooms at Magdalene College when they arrived. The choristers were ready, the kitchens were ready, the extraordinarily rich hospitality of Oxford was ready to make merry; but the Prince and Princess of Wales were as cold and as dull as the weather.

They dined together, seated at the great table facing down the hall, and as many of the citizens of Oxford who could get into the gallery took their seats and watched the princess put small morsels of food in her mouth and turn her shoulder to her husband, while he looked around the hall for companions and conversation, as if he were dining alone.

They brought in dancers and tumblers, mummers and players. The princess smiled very pleasantly but never laughed, gave small purses of Spanish coins to all the entertainers, thanked them for their attendance but never once turned to her husband to ask him if he was enjoying the evening. The prince walked around the room, affable and pleasant to the great men of the city. He spoke in English all the time, and his Spanish-speaking bride had to wait for someone to talk to her in French or Latin, if they would. Instead they clustered around the prince and chatted and joked and laughed, almost as if they were laughing at her and did not want her to understand the jest. The princess sat alone, stiffly on her hard, carved wooden chair, her head held high and a small, defiant smile on her lips.

At last it was midnight, and the long evening could end. Catalina rose from her seat and watched the court sink into bows and curtseys. She dropped a low Spanish curtsey to her husband, her duenna behind her with a face like flint. “I bid you good night, Your Grace,” said the princess in Latin, her voice clear, her accent perfect.

“I shall come to your room,” he said. There was a little murmur of approval; the court wanted a lusty prince.

The color rose in her cheeks at the very public announcement. There was nothing she could say. She could not refuse him, but the way she rose and left the room did not promise him a warm welcome when they were alone. Her ladies dipped their curtseys and followed her in a little offended flurry, swishing off like a many-colored veil trailing behind her. The court smiled behind their hands at the high spirits of the bride.

Arthur came to her half an hour later, fired up by drink and resentment. He found her still dressed, waiting by the fire, her duenna at her side, her room ablaze with candles, her ladies still talking and playing cards as if it were the middle of the afternoon. Clearly, she was not a young woman on her way to bed.

“Sire, good evening,” she said and rose and curtseyed as he entered.

Arthur had to check his backwards step, in retreat at the first encounter. He was ready for bed, in his nightgown with only a robe thrown over his shoulders. He was acutely aware of his bare feet and vulnerable toes. Catalina blazed in her evening finery. The ladies all turned and looked at him, their faces unfriendly. He was acutely conscious of his nightgown and his bare legs and a chuckle of barely suppressed laughter from one of his men behind him.

“I expected you to be in bed,” he said.

“Of course, I can go to bed,” she returned with glacial courtesy. “I was about to go to bed. It is very late. But when you announced so publicly that you would visit me in my rooms, I thought you must be planning to bring all the court with you. I thought you were telling everyone to come to my rooms. Why else announce it at the top of your voice so that everybody could hear?”

“I did not announce it at the top of my voice!”

She raised an eyebrow in wordless contradiction.

“I shall stay the night,” he said stubbornly. He marched to her bedroom door. “These ladies can go to their beds, it is late.” He nodded to his men. “Leave us.” He went into her room and closed the door behind him.

She followed him and closed the door behind her, shutting out the bright, scandalized faces of the ladies. Her back to the door, she watched him throw off his robe and nightgown so he was naked, and climb into her bed. He plumped up the pillows and leaned back, his arms crossed against his narrow bare chest, like a man awaiting an entertainment.

It was her turn to be discomforted. “Your Grace…”

“You had better get undressed,” he taunted her. “As you say, it’s very late.”

She turned one way and then the other. “I shall send for Doña Elvira.”

“Do. And send for whoever else undresses you. Don’t mind me, please.”