Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

“He says so.”

“Princess, you cannot want this?”

The princess’s little face was bleak. “He will not betroth me to Prince Harry,” she said. “He says the boy is too young. I cannot wait four years until he is grown. So what can I do but marry the king? I was born to be Queen of England and mother of the next King of England. I have to fulfill my destiny, it is my God-given destiny. I thought I would have to force myself to take Prince Harry. Now it seems I shall have to force myself to take the king. Perhaps this is God testing me. But my will is strong. I will be Queen of England and the mother of the king. I shall make this country a fortress against the Moors, as I promised my mother. I shall make it a country of justice and fairness defended against the Scots, as I promised Arthur.”

“I don’t know what your mother will think,” the duenna said. “I should not have left you alone with him, if I had known.”

Catalina nodded. “Don’t leave us alone again.” She paused. “Unless I nod to you,” she said. “I may nod for you to leave, and then you must go.”

The duenna was shocked. “He should not even see you before your wedding day. I shall tell the ambassador that he must tell the king that he cannot visit you at all now.”

Catalina shook her head. “We are not in Spain now,” she said fiercely. “D’you still not see it? We cannot leave this to the ambassador, not even my mother can say what shall happen. I shall have to make this happen. I alone have brought it so far, and I alone will make it happen.”

I hoped to dream of you, but I dreamed of nothing. I feel as if you have gone far, far away. I have no letter from my mother, so I don’t know what she will make of the king’s wish. I pray, but I hear nothing from God. I speak very bravely of my destiny and God’s will, but they feel now quite intertwined. If God does not make me Queen of England, then I do not know how I can believe in Him. If I am not Queen of England, then I do not know what I am.

Catalina waited for the king to visit her as he had promised. He did not come the next day but Catalina was sure he would come the day after. When three days had elapsed she walked on her own by the river, chafing her hands in the shelter of her cloak. She had been so sure that he would come again that she had prepared herself to keep him interested but under her control. She planned to lead him on, to keep him dancing at arm’s length. When he did not come she realized that she was anxious to see him. Not for desire—she thought she would never feel desire again—but because he was her only way to the throne of England. When he did not come, she was mortally afraid that he had had second thoughts, and he would not come at all.

“Why is he not coming?” I demand of the little waves on the river, washing against the bank as a boatman rows by. “Why would he come so passionate and earnest one day, and then not come at all?”

I am so fearful of his mother. She has never liked me and if she turns her face from me, I don’t know that he will go ahead. But then I remember that he said that his mother had given her permission. Then I am afraid that the Spanish ambassador might have said something against the match—but I cannot believe that de Puebla would ever say anything to inconvenience the king, even if he failed to serve me.

“Then why is he not coming?” I ask myself. “If he was courting in the English way, all rush and informality, then surely he would come every day?”

Another day went past, and then another. Finally Catalina gave way to her anxiety and sent the king a message at his court, hoping that he was well.

Doña Elvira said nothing, but her stiff back as she supervised the brushing and powdering of Catalina’s gown that night spoke volumes.

“I know what you are thinking,” Catalina said as the duenna waved the maid of the wardrobe from the room and turned to brush Catalina’s hair. “But I cannot risk losing this chance.”

“I am thinking nothing,” the older woman said coldly. “These are English ways. As you tell me, we cannot now abide by decent Spanish ways. And so I am not qualified to speak. Clearly, my advice is not taken. I am an empty vessel.”

Catalina was too worried to soothe the older woman. “It doesn’t matter what you are,” she said distractedly. “Perhaps he will come tomorrow.”

Henry, seeing her ambition as the key to her, had given the girl a few days to consider her position. He thought she might compare the life she led at Durham House—in seclusion with her little Spanish court, her furniture becoming more shabby and no new gowns—with the life she might lead as a young queen at the head of one of the richest courts in Europe. He thought she had the sense to think that through on her own. When he received a note from her, inquiring as to his health, he knew that he had been right; and the next day he rode down the Strand to visit her.

Her porter who kept the gate said that the princess was in the garden, walking with her ladies by the river. Henry went through the back door of the palace to the terrace, and down the steps through the garden. He saw her by the river walking alone, ahead of her ladies, her head slightly bowed in thought, and he felt an old familiar sensation in his belly at the sight of a woman he desired. It made him feel young again, that deep pang of lust, and he smiled at himself for feeling a young man’s passion, for knowing again a young man’s folly.

His page, running ahead, announced him, and he saw her head jerk up at his name and she looked across the lawn and saw him. He smiled. He was waiting for that moment of recognition between a woman and a man who loves her—the moment when their eyes meet and they both know that intense moment of joy, that moment when the eyes say: “Ah, it is you,” and that is everything.

Instead, like a dull blow, he saw at once that there was no leap of her heart at the sight of him. He was smiling shyly, his face lit up with anticipation; but she, in the first moment of surprise, was nothing more than startled. Unprepared, she did not feign emotion, she did not look like a woman in love. She looked up, she saw him—and he could tell at once that she did not love him. There was no shock of delight. Instead, chillingly, he saw a swift expression of calculation cross her face. She was a girl in an unguarded moment, wondering if she could have her own way. It was the look of a huckster, pricing a fool ready for fleecing. Henry, the father of two selfish girls, recognized it in a moment and knew that whatever the princess might say, however sweetly she might say it, this would be a marriage of convenience to her, whatever it was to him. And more than that, he knew that she had made up her mind to accept him.

He walked across the close-scythed grass towards her and took her hand. “Good day, Princess.”

Catalina curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

She turned her head to her ladies. “You can go inside.” To Doña Elvira she said, “See that there are refreshments for His Grace when we come in.” Then she turned back to him. “Will you walk, sire?”

“You will make a very elegant queen,” he said with a smile. “You command very smoothly.”

He saw her hesitate in her stride and the tension leave her slim young body as she exhaled. “Ah, you mean it, then,” she breathed. “You mean to marry me.”

“I do,” he said. “You will be a most beautiful Queen of England.”

She glowed at the thought of it. “I still have many English ways to learn.”

“My mother will teach you,” he said easily. “You will live at court in her rooms and under her supervision.”

Catalina checked a little in her stride. “Surely I will have my own rooms, the queen’s rooms?”