Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

María de Salinas gave a little gasp of shock at Katherine’s bluntness. “The church says…”

“The church does not need decent physicians. The church does not need to know how sons are conceived,” Katherine snapped. “The church can continue with the revelations of the saints. It needs nothing more than Scripture. The church is composed of men who are not troubled by the illnesses and difficulties of women. But for those of us on our pilgrimage today, those of us in the world, especially those of us who are women: we need a little more.”

“But you said that you did not want pagan knowledge. You said to the doctor himself. Your said your mother was right to close the universities of the infidel.”

“My mother had half a dozen children,” Katherine replied crossly. “But I tell you, if she could have found a doctor to save my brother she would have had him even if he had been trained in hell itself. She was wrong to turn her back on the learning of the Moors. She was mistaken. I have never thought that she was perfect, but I think the less of her now. She made a great mistake when she drove away their wise scholars along with their heretics.”

“The church itself said that their scholarship is heresy,” María observed. “How could you have one without the other?”

“I am sure that you know nothing about it,” said Isabella’s daughter, driven into a corner. “It is not a fit subject for you to discuss and besides, I have told you what I want you to do.”

The Moor, Yusuf, is away from London but the people at his lodging house say that he has reserved his rooms to return within the week. I shall have to be patient. I shall wait in my confinement and try to be patient.

They know him well, María’s servant tells her. His comings and goings are something of an event in their street. Africans are so rare in England as to be a spectacle—and he is a handsome man and generous with small coins for little services. They told María’s servant that he insisted on having fresh water for washing in his room and he washes every day, several times a day, and that—wonder of wonders—he bathes three or four times a week, using soap and towels, and throwing water all over the floor to the great inconvenience of the housemaids, and to great danger of his health.

I cannot help but laugh at the thought of the tall, fastidious Moor folding himself up into a washing tub, desperate for a steam, a tepid soak, a massage, a cold shower, and then a long, thoughtful rest while smoking a hookah and sipping a strong, sweet peppermint tea. It reminds me of my horror when I first came to England and discovered that they bathe only infrequently and wash only the tips of their fingers before eating. I think that he has done better than I—he has carried his love of his home with him, he has remade his home wherever he goes. But in my determination to be Queen Katherine of England I have given up being Catalina of Spain.

They brought the Moor to Katherine under cover of darkness, to the chamber where she was confined. She sent the women from the room at the appointed hour and told them that she wanted to be alone. She sat in her chair by the window, where the tapestries were drawn back for air, and the first thing he saw, as she rose when he came in, was her slim, candlelit profile against the darkness of the window. She saw his little grimace of sympathy.

“No child.”

“No,” she said shortly. “I shall come out of my confinement tomorrow.”

“You are in pain?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, I am glad of that. You are bleeding?”

“I had my normal course last week.”

He nodded. “Then you may have had a disease which has passed,” he said. “You may be fit to conceive a child. There is no need to despair.”

“I do not despair,” she said flatly. “I never despair. That is why I have sent for you.”

“You will want to conceive a child as soon as possible,” he guessed.

“Yes.”

He thought for a moment. “Well, Infanta, since you have had one child, even if you did not bear it to full term, we know that you and your husband are fertile. That is good.”

“Yes,” she said, surprised by the thought. She had been so distressed by the miscarriage she had not thought that her fertility had been proven. “But why do you speak of my husband’s fertility?”

The Moor smiled. “It takes both a man and a woman to conceive a child.”

“Here in England they think that it is only the woman.”

“Yes. But in this, as in so many other things, they are wrong. There are two parts to every baby: the man’s breath of life and the woman’s gift of the flesh.”

“They say that if a baby is lost, then the woman is at fault, perhaps she has committed a great sin.”

He frowned. “It is possible,” he conceded. “But not very likely. Otherwise how would murderesses ever give birth? Why would innocent animals miscarry their young? I think we will learn in time that there are humors and infections which cause miscarriage. I do not blame the woman, it makes no sense to me.”

“They say that if a woman is barren it is because the marriage is not blessed by God.”

“He is your God,” he remarked reasonably. “Would he persecute an unhappy woman in order to make a point?”

Katherine did not reply. “They will blame me if I do not have a live child,” she observed very quietly.

“I know,” he said. “But the truth of the matter is: having had one child and lost it, there is every reason to think that you might have another. And there should be no reason you should not conceive again.”

“I must bear the next child to full term.”

“If I could examine you, I might know more.”

She shook her head. “It is not possible.”

His glance at her was merry. “Oh, you savages,” he said softly.

She gave a little gasp of amused shock. “You forget yourself!”

“Then send me away.”

That stopped her. “You can stay,” she said. “But of course, you cannot examine me.”

“Then let us consider what might help you conceive and carry a child,” he said. “Your body needs to be strong. Do you ride horses?”

“Yes.”

“Ride astride before you conceive and then take a litter thereafter. Walk every day, swim if you can. You will conceive a child about two weeks after the end of your course. Rest at those times, and make sure that you lie with your husband at those times. Try to eat moderately at every meal and drink as little of their accursed small ale as you can.”

Katherine smiled at the reflection of her own prejudices. “Do you know Spain?”

“I was born there. My parents fled from Málaga when your mother brought in the Inquisition and they realized that they would be tormented to death.”

“I am sorry,” she said awkwardly.

“We will go back, it is written,” he said with nonchalant confidence.

“I should warn you that you will not.”

“I know that we will. I have seen the prophecy myself.”

At once they fell silent again.

“Shall I tell you what I advise? Or shall I just leave now?” he asked as if he did not much mind which it was to be.

“Tell me,” she said. “And then I can pay you, and you can go. We were born to be enemies. I should not have summoned you.”

“We are both Spanish, we both love our country. We both serve our God. Perhaps we were born to be friends.”

She had to stop herself giving him her hand. “Perhaps,” she said gruffly, turning her head away. “But I was brought up to hate your people and hate your faith.”

“I was brought up to hate no one,” he said gently. “Perhaps that is what I should be teaching you before anything else.”

“Just teach me how to have a son,” she repeated.