Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

“Amen,” Catalina said through cold lips, and went on.

The double doors to the inner chamber were thrown open and Catalina went in. A makeshift apothecary’s room had been set up in the prince’s privy chamber—a trestle table with large glass jars of ingredients, a pestle and mortar, a chopping board—and half a dozen men in the gabardine gowns of physicians were gathered together. Catalina paused, looking for Dr. Bereworth.

“Doctor?”

He came towards her at once and dropped to his knee. His face was grave. “Princess.”

“What news of my husband?” she said, speaking slowly and clearly for him in French.

“I am sorry, he is no better.”

“But he is not worse,” she suggested. “He is getting better.”

He shook his head. “Il est très malade,” he said simply.

Catalina heard the words but it was as if she had forgotten the language. She could not translate them. She turned to Lady Margaret. “He says that he is better?” she asked.

Lady Margaret shook her head. “He says that he is worse,” she said honestly.

“But they will have something to give him?” She turned to the doctor. “Vous avez un médicament?”

He gestured at the table behind him, at the apothecary.

“Oh, if only we had a Moorish doctor!” Catalina cried out. “They have the greatest skill, there is no one like them. They had the best universities for medicines before…Ifonly I had brought a doctor with me! Arab medicine is the finest in the world!”

“We are doing everything we can,” the doctor said stiffly.

Catalina tried to smile. “I am sure,” she said. “I just so wish…Well! Can I see him?”

A quick glance between Lady Margaret and the doctor showed that this had been a matter of some anxious discussion.

“I will see if he is awake,” he said, and went through the door.

Catalina waited. She could not believe that only yesterday morning Arthur had slipped from her bed complaining that she had not woken him early enough to make love. Now he was so ill that she could not even touch his hand.

The doctor opened the door. “You can come to the threshold, Princess,” he said. “But for the sake of your own health, and for the health of any child you could be carrying, you should come no closer.”

Catalina stepped up quickly to the door. Lady Margaret pressed a pomander stuffed with cloves and herbs in her hand. Catalina held it to her nose. The acrid smell made her eyes water as she peered into the darkened room.

Arthur was sprawled on the bed, his nightgown pulled down for modesty, his face flushed with fever. His blond hair was dark with sweat, his face gaunt. He looked much older than his fifteen years. His eyes were sunk deep into his face, the skin beneath his eyes stained brown.

“Your wife is here,” the doctor said quietly to him.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open and she saw them narrow as he tried to focus on the bright doorway and Catalina, standing before him, her face white with shock.

“My love,” he said. “Amo te.”

“Amo te,” she whispered. “They say I cannot come closer.”

“Don’t come closer,” he said, his voice a thread. “I love you.”

“I love you too!” She could hear that her voice was strained with tears. “You will be well?”

He shook his head, too weary to speak.

“Arthur?” she said demandingly. “You will get better?”

He rested his head back on his hot pillow, gathering his strength. “I will try, beloved. I will try so hard. For you. For us.”

“Is there anything you want?” she asked. “Anything I can get for you?” She glanced around. There was nothing that she could do for him. There was nothing that would help. If she had brought a Moorish doctor with her, if her parents had not destroyed the learning of the Arab universities, if the church had allowed the study of medicine, and not called knowledge heresy…

“All I want is to live with you,” he said, his voice a thin thread.

She gave a little sob. “And I you.”

“The prince should rest now, and you should not linger here.” The doctor stepped forwards.

“Please, let me stay!” she cried in a whisper. “Please allow me. I beg you. Please let me be with him.”

Lady Margaret put a hand around her waist and drew her back. “You shall come again, if you leave now,” she promised. “The prince needs to rest.”

“I shall come back,” Catalina called to him, and saw the little gesture of his hand which told her that he had heard her. “I shall not fail you.”

Catalina went to the chapel to pray for him, but she could not pray. All she could do was think of him, his white face on the white pillows. All she could do was feel the throb of desire for him. They had been married only one hundred and forty days, they had been passionate lovers for only ninety-four nights. They had promised that they would have a lifetime together, she could not believe that she was on her knees now, praying for his life.

This cannot be happening, he was well only yesterday. This is some terrible dream and in a moment I will wake up and he will kiss me and call me foolish. Nobody can take sick so quickly, nobody can go from strength and beauty to being so desperately ill in such a short time. In a moment I will wake up. This cannot be happening. I cannot pray, but it does not matter that I cannot pray because it is not really happening. A dream prayer would mean nothing. A dream illness means nothing. I am not a superstitious heathen to fear dreams. I shall wake up in a moment and we will laugh at my fears.

At dinnertime she rose up, dipped her finger in the holy water, crossed herself, and with the water still wet on her forehead went back to his chambers, with Doña Elvira following, close behind.

The crowds in the halls outside the rooms and in the presence chamber were thicker than ever, women as well as men, silent with inarticulate grief. They made way for the princess without a word but a quiet murmur of blessings. Catalina went through them, looking neither to left nor right, through the presence chamber, past the apothecary bench, to the very door of his bedchamber.

The guard stepped to one side. Catalina tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open.

They were bending over him on the bed. Catalina heard him cough, a thick cough as though his throat were bubbling with water.

“Madre de Dios,” she said softly. “Holy Mother of God, keep Arthur safe.”

The doctor turned at her whisper. His face was pale. “Keep back!” he said urgently. “It is the Sweat.”

At that most feared word Doña Elvira stepped back and laid hold of Catalina’s gown as if she would drag her from danger.

“Loose me!” Catalina snapped and tugged her gown from the duenna’s hands. “I will come no closer, but I have to speak with him,” she said steadily.

The doctor heard the resolution in her voice. “Princess, he is too weak.”

“Leave us,” she said.

“Princess.”

“I have to speak to him. This is the business of the kingdom.”

One glance at her determined face told him that she would not be denied. He went past her with his head low, his assistants following behind him. Catalina made a little gesture with her hand and Doña Elvira retreated. Catalina stepped over the threshold and pushed the door shut on them.

She saw Arthur stir in protest.

“I won’t come any closer,” she assured him. “I swear it. But I have to be with you. I cannot bear—” she broke off.

His face when he turned it to her was shiny with sweat, his hair as wet as when he came in from hunting in the rain. His young, round face was strained as the disease leached the life out of him.