Jean Plaidy - To Hold the Crown - The Story of King Henry VII and Elizabeth of York

Katharine wept when she read that letter. She must not complain. She was the most fortunate of daughters to possess such a mother.

The idea came to her that if she pawned her jewelery it should fetch a great deal. It was part of her dowry and the King had said that she should wear her jewelery and de Puebla had hinted that the King was in due course going to reject it as part of the dowry.

Doña Elvira was horrified at the idea of pawning the jewelery.

“I must pay my servants,” cried Katharine. “And I cannot appear at Court in threadbare gowns.”

“But this is the dowry you will bring to your husband.”

“My late husband’s revenues have not come to me. The King has taken them. I have nothing but the King’s small allowance. I must do something. When I am married to the Prince I shall be able to redeem the jewels.”

Doña Elvira shrugged her shoulders.

It was all very bewildering and it was true that Katharine must find money somewhere.

It will pass, thought Katharine. In two . . . perhaps three years I shall be married. Then all will be well. As my mother says I must be patient.

I will, she thought. I can be because I know that she is there . . . always loving and kind and watching over me.

De Puebla called at Durham House. Looking very somber he asked for an immediate audience with the Princess.

As soon as he came into her presence Katharine was filled with a terrible fear.

“What is wrong?” she cried.

“News from Spain,” he said.

“My mother . . .”

He nodded and was silent.

“News? What news? Tell me quickly.”

“My dear lady, you must prepare yourself for a great shock.”

“Is it my mother . . . my father . . . ?”

Again that nod and silence. It was more than Katharine could endure.

“It is my mother,” she said blankly. “She is ill. . . .”

He looked at her beseechingly. It was odd to see the sly de Puebla so moved.

Then he said clearly and with the greatest compassion in his voice: “Queen Isabella is dead, my lady.”

“Dead!”

She was trying to grasp what this meant and at the same time trying not to, for she could not bear to contemplate a world without her mother.

De Puebla was saying: “She had been ill for some time. The tertian fever it was said . . . and dropsy. Her last thoughts were for you . . . and your sisters.”

“Dear mother,” murmured Katharine. “It cannot be . . . it must not be. . . .”

“One of the last things she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She wanted to see it for herself. She wanted to assure herself that your betrothal to the Prince of Wales would go forward and none could dispute it.”

Katharine covered her face with her hands.

“I will send for your ladies,” said de Puebla. “My lady, it grieves me to have to bring you such news.”

“I know,” said Katharine. “Leave me . . . please. I would be alone.”

Alone! she thought. That is what I am now. She is gone. Alone . . . yes, alone in a hostile world.

Katharine was not the only one to be deeply affected by the death of Isabella. The King immediately realized what a difference this could make to his own position.

Without delay he sent for Empson and Dudley, those two who because of their wizardry with figures were more in his confidence than any others.

“I had thought, naturally,” he said to them when the three of them were alone, “that Ferdinand’s power would have been increased by the death of his wife.”

“Isabella was a shrewd woman. She loved Ferdinand as a husband—strange that such a woman could have such a feeling for her family—but as a ruler she was fully aware of his deficiencies.”

Henry nodded. “And now Ferdinand has lost a great deal of that power, which was his when his wife was alive.”

“For all her devotion to her family, she was always the one who held the power. She never forgot her position and was determined that it should not be passed on to Ferdinand.”

“Well, let us look at the facts,” said Henry. “She is dead and she has appointed her daughter Juana Queen Proprietor, and Castile is settled on her and Philip her husband.”

“One can be sure that the Archduke will take every advantage of the position.”

“She does say until the majority of her grandson Charles.”

“That is some time yet. He cannot be more than four years old.”

“The Lady Katharine is not such a good match as we had first thought,” mused the King.

“No, her position has changed considerably. It is a pity that she is betrothed to the Prince.”

Henry was thoughtful. “Oh,” he said, “there are loopholes. I saw to that. I have a feeling that that marriage may not take place. I agreed to the ceremony, yes . . . because the Sovereigns were getting restive and there was the dowry to be considered, but it must necessarily be some time before a marriage could take place and a great deal can happen in that time. See how the position has changed now with the death of Isabella.”

“My lord, what is to be done?”

“I have no doubt,” said the King, “that we shall put our heads together and discover how best to settle that matter. In the meantime I have decided that the Prince of Wales shall not go to Ludlow.”

His ministers looked at him in surprise. It was customary for the Princes of Wales to reside at Ludlow. The people of Wales expected it.

“I have decided,” went on the King, “that there is much that the Prince of Wales must learn and he will do that best at my side. I want him to learn the art of kingship. I think he will learn well enough . . . in the right environment.”

The ministers nodded.

“And the commitment to the Lady Katharine?”

“Of that more later.”

The King sent for his son. Young Henry was not very pleased with his father. He had greatly looked forward to setting up his own household at Ludlow and he had been curtly informed that he was not to go there; his father believed that he could be more profitably engaged at his side. This was all very well, but at Ludlow Henry could have played at being king; at his father’s side he was always of secondary importance and the King had a way of treating him as though he were still a boy—and was not always careful of his manner toward his son in the presence of others.

It seemed that the older he grew the more he chafed against the restraints of youth. He was nearly fourteen and two years had passed since his formal betrothal to Katharine of Aragon. He had been very interested in her naturally as she was his future wife, but he was not sure whether he was pleased about that or not. Sometimes he was, and sometimes he was not. He liked women very much. He talked about them incessantly with Charles Brandon and Lord Mountjoy. He had joined them in certain adventures—most illuminating and gratifying. There were many beautiful ladies at the Court and he liked to write verses about them and sometimes set them to music and strum them on his lute. All those about him declared he had a wonderful talent and he liked to think he had.

Well, he would be married very soon now—a year or two. Perhaps when he was fifteen. That would be an experience. He was not sure whether he wanted to marry Katharine or not. At times he did very much, when he thought of her poor and rather lonely, perhaps longing for the day when he would release her from her poverty and loneliness. He liked to think of coming to her rescue—true knight that he was—and in spite of the temptations of so many beautiful women—who were all eager to be honored by the Prince of Wales, he would marry her. “I gave you my promise,” he said in his fantasies about himself, “and I will remain steadfast to you.”