Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

She gave a little squeak of shock.

Arthur chuckled. He found that he dearly loved surprising her. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” he replied calmly. “My mother’s mother was probably the most hated woman in England at one time.”

“And where is she now?”

He shrugged. “She was at court for a while, but My Lady the King’s Mother disliked her so much she got rid of her. She was famously beautiful, you know, and a schemer. My grandmother accused her of plotting against my father and he chose to believe her.”

“She is never dead? They never executed her!”

“No. He put her into a convent and she never comes to court.”

She was aghast. “Your grandmother had the queen’s own mother confined in a convent?”

He nodded, his face grave. “Truly. You be warned by this, beloved. My grandmother welcomes no one to court that might distract from her own power. Make sure you never cross her.”

Catalina shook her head. “I never would. I am absolutely terrified of her.”

“So am I!” he laughed. “But I know her, and I warn you. She will stop at nothing to maintain the power of her son, and of her family. Nothing will distract her from this. She loves no one but him. Not me, not her husbands, no one but him.”

“Not you?”

He shook his head. “She does not even love him, as you would understand it. He is the boy that she decided was born to be king. She sent him away when he was little more than a baby for his safety. She saw him survive his boyhood. Then she ordered him into the face of terrible danger to claim the throne. She could only love a king.”

She nodded. “He is her pretender.”

“Exactly. She claimed the throne for him. She made him king. He is king.”

He saw her grave face. “Now, enough of this. You have to sing me your song.”

“Which one?”

“Is there another one about the fall of Granada?”

“Dozens, I should think.”

“Sing me one,” he commanded. He piled a couple of extra cushions behind his head, and she kneeled up before him, tossed back her mane of red hair and began to sing in a low sweet voice:

“There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down

Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun,

Here passed away the Koran and therein the Cross was borne,

And here was heard the Christian bell and there the Moorish

horn.

Te Deum Laudamus! Was up the Alcala sung:

Down from the Alhambra minarets were all the crescents flung,

The arms thereon of Aragon, they with Castile display.

One king comes in in triumph, one weeping goes away.”

He was silent for long minutes. She stretched out again beside him on her back, looking, without seeing, the embroidered tester of the bed over their heads.

“It’s always like that, isn’t it?” he remarked. “The rise of one is the fall of another. I shall be king but only at my father’s death. And at my death, my son will reign.”

“Shall we call him Arthur?” she asked. “Or Henry for your father?”

“Arthur is a good name,” he said. “A good name for a new royal family in Britain. Arthur for Camelot, and Arthur for me. We don’t want another Henry; my brother is enough for anyone. Let’s call him Arthur, and his older sister will be called Mary.”

“Mary? I wanted to call her Isabella, for my mother.”

“You can call the next girl Isabella. But I want our firstborn to be called Mary.”

“Arthur must be first.”

He shook his head. “First we will have Mary so that we learn how to do it all with a girl.”

“How to do it all?”

He gestured. “The christening, the confinement, the birthing, the whole fuss and worry, the wet nurse, the rockers, the nursemaids. My grandmother has written a great book to rule how it shall be done. It is dreadfully complicated. But if we have our Mary first then our nursery is all ready, and in your next confinement we shall put our son and heir into the cradle.”

She rose up and turned on him in mock indignation. “You would practice being a father on my daughter!” she exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t want to start with my son,” he protested. “This will be the rose of the rose of England. That’s what they call me, remember: ‘the rose of England.’ I think you should deal with my little rosebud, my little blossom, with great respect.”

“She is to be Isabella, then,” Catalina stipulated. “If she comes first, she shall be Isabella.”

“Mary, for the queen of heaven.”

“Isabella, for the Queen of Spain.”

“Mary, to give thanks for you coming to me. The sweetest gift that heaven could have given me.”

Catalina melted into his arms. “Isabella,” she said as he kissed her.

“Mary,” he whispered into her ear. “And let us make her now.”

It is morning. I lie awake. It is dawn and I can hear the birds slowly starting to sing. The sun is coming up and through the lattice window I can see a glimpse of blue sky. Perhaps it will be a warm day, perhaps the summer is coming at last.

Beside me, Arthur is breathing quietly and steadily. I can feel my heart swell with love for him, I put my hand on the fair curls of his head and wonder if any woman has ever loved a man as I love him.

I stir and put my other hand on the warm roundness of my belly. Can it be possible that last night we made a child? Is there already, safe in my belly, a baby who will be called Mary, Princess Mary, who will be the rose of the rose of England?

I hear the footsteps of the maid moving about in my presence chamber, bringing wood for the fire, raking up the embers. Still Arthur does not stir. I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” I say, my voice warm with love. “The servants are outside, you must go.”

He is damp with sweat, the skin of his shoulder is cold and clammy.

“My love?” I ask. “Are you well?”

He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “Don’t tell me it’s morning already. I am so weary I could sleep for another day.”

“It is.”

“Oh, why didn’t you wake me earlier? I love you so much in the morning and now I can’t have you till tonight.”

I put my face against his chest. “Don’t. I slept late too. We keep late hours. And you will have to go now.”

Arthur holds me close, as if he cannot bear to let me go; but I can hear the groom of the chamber open the outside door to bring hot water. I draw myself away from him. It is like tearing off a layer of my own skin. I cannot bear to move away from him.

Suddenly, I am struck by the warmth of his body, the tangled heat of the sheets around us. “You are so hot!”

“It is desire,” he says, smiling. “I shall have to go to Mass to cool down.”

He gets out of bed and throws his gown around his shoulders. He gives a little stagger.

“Beloved, are you all right?” I ask.

“A little dizzy, nothing more,” he says. “Blind with desire, and it is all your fault. See you in chapel. Pray for me, sweetheart.”

I get up from bed and unbolt the battlements door to let him out. He sways a little as he goes up the stone steps, then I see him straighten his shoulders to breathe in the fresh air. I close the door behind him, and then go back to my bed. I glance round the room, nobody could know that he has been here. In a moment, Doña Elvira taps on my door and comes in with the maid-in-waiting and behind them a couple of maids with the jug of hot water, and my dress for the day.

“You slept late, you must be overtired,” Doña Elvira says disapprovingly; but I am so peaceful and so happy that I cannot even be troubled to reply.