Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

“I am?” Catalina replied, deliberately dense.

“You married one great prince of England and lost him; now it seems you will marry another.”

“This can come as no surprise,” Catalina observed in flawless French, “since I have been betrothed to him for six years. Surely, my lady, you never doubted that this day would come? You never thought that such an honorable prince would break his holy word?”

The old woman hid her discomfiture well. “I never doubted our intentions,” she returned. “We keep our word. But when you withheld your dowry and your father reneged on his payments, I wondered as to your intentions. I wondered about the honor of Spain.”

“Then you were kind to say nothing to disturb the king,” Catalina said smoothly. “For he trusted me, I know. And I never doubted your desire to have me as your granddaughter. And see! Now I will be your granddaughter, I will be Queen of England, the dowry is paid, and everything is as it should be.”

She left the old lady with nothing to say—and there were few that could do that. “Well, at any rate, we will have to hope that you are fertile,” was all she sourly mustered.

“Why not? My mother had half a dozen children,” Catalina said sweetly. “Let us hope my husband and I are blessed with the fertility of Spain. My emblem is the pomegranate—a Spanish fruit, filled with life.”

My Lady the King’s Grandmother swept away, leaving Catalina alone. Catalina curtseyed to her departing back and rose up, her head high. It did not matter what Lady Margaret might think or say, all that mattered was what she could do. Catalina did not think she could prevent the wedding, and that was all that mattered.

Greenwich Palace,

11th June 1509

I WAS DREADING THE WEDDING, the moment when I would have to say the words of the marriage vows that I had said to Arthur. But in the end the service was so unlike that glorious day in St. Paul’s Cathedral that I could go through it with Harry before me and Arthur locked away in the very back of my mind. I was doing this for Arthur, the very thing he had commanded, the very thing that he had insisted on—and I could not risk thinking of him.

There was no great congregation in a cathedral, there were no watching ambassadors or fountains flowing with wine. We were married within the walls of Greenwich Palace in the church of the Friars Observant, with only three witnesses and half a dozen people present.

There was no rich feasting or music or dancing; there was no drunkenness at court or rowdiness. There was no public bedding. I had been afraid of that—the ritual of putting to bed and then the public showing of the sheets in the morning; but the prince—the king, I now have to say—is as shy as I am, and we dine quietly before the court and withdraw together. They drink our healths and let us go. His grandmother is there, her face like a mask, her eyes cold. I show her every courtesy, it doesn’t matter to me what she thinks now. She can do nothing. There is no suggestion that I shall be living in her chambers under her supervision. On the contrary she has moved out of her rooms for me. I am married to Harry. I am Queen of England and she is nothing more than the grandmother of a king.

My ladies undress me in silence. This is their triumph too, this is their escape from poverty as well as mine. Nobody wants to remember the night at Oxford, the night at Burford, the nights at Ludlow. Their fortunes as much as mine depend on the success of this great deception. If I asked them, they would deny Arthur’s very existence.

Besides, it was all so long ago. Seven long years. Who but I can remember that far back? Who but I ever knew the delight of waiting for Arthur, the firelight on the rich-colored curtains of the bed, the glow of candlelight on our entwined limbs? The sleepy whispers in the early hours of the morning: “Tell me a story!”

They leave me in one of my dozen exquisite new nightgowns and withdraw in silence. I wait for Harry, as long ago I used to wait for Arthur. The only difference is the utter absence of joy.

The men-at-arms and the gentlemen of the bedchamber brought the young king to the queen’s door, tapped on it and admitted him to her rooms. She was in her gown, seated by the fireside, a richly embroidered shawl thrown over her shoulders. The room was warm, welcoming. She rose as he came in and swept him a curtsey.

Harry lifted her up with a touch on her elbow. She saw at once that he was flushed with embarrassment, she felt his hand tremble.

“Will you take a cup of wedding ale?” she invited him. She made sure that she did not think of Arthur bringing her a cup and saying it was for courage.

“I will,” he said. His voice, still so young, was unsteady in its register. She turned away to pour the ale so he should not see her smile.

They lifted their cups to each other. “I hope you did not find today too quiet for your taste,” he said uncertainly. “I thought with my father newly dead we should not have too merry a wedding. I did not want to distress My Lady his mother.”

She nodded but said nothing.

“I hope you are not disappointed,” he pressed on. “Your first wedding was so very grand.”

Catalina smiled. “I hardly remember it, it was so long ago.”

He looked pleased at her reply, she noted. “It was, wasn’t it? We were all little more than children.”

“Yes,” she said. “Far too young to marry.”

He shifted in his seat. She knew that the courtiers who had taken Hapsburg gold would have spoken against her. The enemies of Spain would have spoken against her. His own grandmother had advised against this wedding. This transparent young man was still anxious about his decision, however bold he might try to appear.

“Not that young; you were fifteen,” he reminded her. “A young woman.”

“And Arthur was the same age,” she said, daring to name him. “But he was never strong, I think. He could not be a husband to me.”

Harry was silent and she was afraid she had gone too far. But then she saw the glimpse of hope in his face.

“It is indeed true then, that the marriage was never consummated?” he asked, coloring up in embarrassment. “I am sorry…I wondered…I know they said…but I did wonder…”

“Never,” she said calmly. “He tried once or twice but you will remember that he was not strong. He may have even bragged that he had done it, but, poor Arthur, it meant nothing.”

“I shall do this for you,” I say fiercely, in my mind, to my beloved. “You wanted this lie. I shall do it thoroughly. If it is going to be done, it must be done thoroughly. It has to be done with courage, conviction; and it must never be undone.”

Aloud, Catalina said, “We married in the November, you remember. December we spent most of the time traveling to Ludlow and were apart on the journey. He was not well after Christmas, and then he died in April. I was very sad for him.”

“He was never your lover?” Harry asked, desperate to be certain.

“How could he be?” She gave a pretty, deprecatory shrug that made the gown slip off one creamy shoulder a little. She saw his eyes drawn to the exposed skin, she saw him swallow. “He was not strong. Your own mother thought that he should have gone back to Ludlow alone for the first year. I wish we had done that. It would have made no difference to me, and he might have been spared. He was like a stranger to me for all our marriage. We lived like children in a royal nursery. We were hardly even companions.”

He sighed as if he were free of a burden; the face he turned to her was bright. “You know, I could not help but be afraid,” he said. “My grandmother said…”