Philippa Gregory - The Constant Princess

“It is still my crown,” I point out.

“But girls will hope for it,” she says. “It is the way of the world.”

“They will have to wait for my death,” I say bleakly. “That could be a long wait even for the most ambitious girl.”

Lady Margaret nods. I indicate behind me and she looks back. The ladies-in-waiting are scattered among the huntsmen and courtiers, riding and laughing and flirting. Henry has Princess Mary on one side of him and one of her ladies-in-waiting on another. She is a new girl to court, young and pretty. A virgin, without doubt, another pretty virgin.

“And which of these will be next?” I ask bitterly. “When I next go in for my confinement and cannot watch them like a fierce hawk? Will it be a Percy girl? Or a Seymour? Or a Howard? Or a Neville? Which girl will step up to the king next and try to charm her way into his bed and into my place?”

“Some of your ladies love you dearly,” she says.

“And some of them will use their position at my side to get close to the king,” I say. “Now they have seen it done, they will be waiting for their chance. They will know that the easiest route to the king is to come into my rooms, to pretend to be my friend, to offer me service. First she will pretend friendship and loyalty to me and all the time she will watch for her chance. I can know that one will do it, but I cannot know which one she is.”

Lady Margaret leans forwards and strokes her horse’s neck, her face grave. “Yes,” she agrees.

“And one of them, one of the many, will be clever enough to turn the king’s head,” I say bitterly. “He is young and vain and easily misled. Sooner or later, one of them will turn him against me and want my place.”

Lady Margaret straightens up and looks directly at me, her gray eyes as honest as ever. “This may all be true, but I think you can do nothing to prevent it.”

“I know,” I say grimly.

“I have good news for you,” Katherine said to Henry. They had thrown open the windows of her bedroom to let in the cooler night air. It was a warm night in late May and for once, Henry had chosen to come to bed early.

“Tell me some good news,” he said. “My horse went lame today, and I cannot ride him tomorrow. I would welcome some good news.”

“I think I am with child.”

He bounced up in the bed. “You are?”

“I think so,” she said, smiling.

“Praise God! You are?”

“I am certain of it.”

“God be praised. I shall go to Walsingham the minute you give birth to our son. I shall go on my knees to Walsingham! I shall crawl along the road! I shall wear a suit of pure white. I shall give Our Lady pearls.”

“Our Lady has been gracious to us indeed.”

“And how potent they will all know that I am now! Out of confinement in the first week of May and pregnant by the end of the month. That will show them! That will prove that I am a husband indeed.”

“Indeed it will,” she said levelly.

“It is not too early to be sure?”

“I have missed my course, and I am sick in the morning. They tell me it is a certain sign.”

“And you are certain?” He had no tact to phrase his anxiety in gentle words. “You are certain this time? You know that there can be no mistake?”

She nodded. “I am certain. I have all the signs.”

“God be praised. I knew it would come. I knew that a marriage made in heaven would be blessed.”

Katherine nodded. Smiling.

“We shall go slowly on our progress, you shall not hunt. We shall go by boat for some of the way, barges.”

“I think I will not travel at all, if you will allow it,” she said. “I want to stay quietly in one place this summer, I don’t even want to ride in a litter.”

“Well, I shall go on progress with the court and then come home to you,” he said. “And what a celebration we shall have when our baby is born. When will it be?”

“After Christmas,” Katherine said. “In the New Year.”

WINTER 1510

I should have been a soothsayer, I have proved to be so accurate with my prediction, even without a Moorish abacus. We are holding the Christmas feast at Richmond and the court is joyful in my happiness. The baby is big in my belly, and he kicks so hard that Henry can put his hand on me and feel the little heel thud out against his hand. There is no doubt that he is alive and strong, and his vitality brings joy to the whole court. When I sit in council, I sometimes wince at the strange sensation of him moving inside me, the pressure of his body against my own, and some of the old councilors laugh—having seen their own wives in the same state—for joy that there is to be an heir for England and Spain at last.

I pray for a boy but I do not expect one. A child for England, a child for Arthur, is all I want. If it is the daughter that he had wanted, then I will call her Mary as he asked.

Henry’s desire for a son, and his love for me, has made him more thoughtful at last. He takes care of me in ways that he has never done before. I think he is growing up, the selfish boy is becoming a good man at last, and the fear that has haunted me since his affair with the Stafford girl is receding. Perhaps he will take lovers as kings always do, but perhaps he will resist falling in love with them and making the wild promises that a man can make but a king must not. Perhaps he will acquire the good sense that so many men seem to learn: to enjoy a new woman but remain constant, in their hearts, to their wife. Certainly, if he continues to be this sweet-natured, he will make a good father. I think of him teaching our son to ride, to hunt, to joust. No boy could have a better father for sports and pastimes than a son of Henry’s. Not even Arthur would have made a more playful father. Our boy’s education, his skill in court life, his upbringing as a Christian, his training as a ruler, these are the things that I will teach him. He will learn my mother’s courage and my father’s skills, and from me—I think I can teach him constancy, determination. These are my gifts now.

I believe that between Henry and me, we will raise a prince who will make his mark in Europe, who will keep England safe from the Moors, from the French, from the Scots, from all our enemies.

I will have to go into confinement again but I leave it as late as I dare. Henry swears to me that there will be no other while I am confined, that he is mine, all mine. I leave it till the evening of the Christmas feast and then I take my spiced wine with the members of my court and bid them merry Christmas as they bid me Godspeed, and I go once more into the quietness of my bedroom.

In truth, I don’t mind missing the dancing and the heavy drinking. I am tired, this baby is a weight to carry. I rise and then rest with the winter sun, rarely waking much before nine of the morning, and ready to sleep at five in the afternoon. I spend much time praying for a safe delivery, and for the health of the child that moves so strongly inside me.

Henry comes to see me, privately, most days. The Royal Book is clear that the queen should be in absolute isolation before the birth of her child, but the Royal Book was written by Henry’s grandmother and I suggest that we can please ourselves. I don’t see why she should command me from beyond the grave when she was such an unhelpful mentor in life. Besides, to put it as bluntly as an Aragonese: I don’t trust Henry on his own in court. On New Year’s Eve he dines with me before going to the hall for the great feast, and brings me a gift of rubies, with stones as big as Cristóbal Colón’s haul. I put them around my neck and see his eyes darken with desire for me as they gleam on the plump whiteness of my breasts.