by Hall, Ian
Once here in Saint Paul’s, he knelt alone on the stage, his hands clasped together, waiting for the arrival of his bride.
Outside the Cathedral, I heard the crowd begin to cheer. It started almost unperceptively, then gradually grew to a huge roar that could be heard quite clearly inside. I knew from the practices that Prince Henry would be arriving with Catherine, both on white horses, wearing heavy white robes.
Then the trumpeters at the west end, by the Galilee porch, swung their long instruments in unison and played a blindingly loud fanfare.
The huge double doors were opened wide, and Prince Henry, grinning from ear to ear, led Princess Catherine of Aragon into the Cathedral. Both were clad in white and gold, their embroidered livery gleaming in the light of a million candles. Slowly they walked down the long nave, past the huge wooden pillars hung with lavish tapestries. As they went, Catherine’s long white robes came into view, held from the ground by the ten small children, all relatives of English nobility.
Keeping the same step to the trumpeter’s tune, Princess Margaret followed, then the small figure of Princess Mary.
I couldn’t see that well from my less than favored position, but it certainly looked impressive.
When the couple reached the steps to the stage, Henry let go her hand, and servants arrived to take the long robes away.
Catherine stepped slowly to the stage, Henry, Margaret, then Mary, got to their knees, and lay prostrate on the red covered steps.
As soon as Princess Catherine reached Arthur’s side, the fanfare faded like someone had turned the volume knob; wonderful job. Silence crept over the scene like a morning mist.
Then the choir from both sides, a thousand strong, let loose their strong-voiced dirge, releasing from the southern end the long line of Archbishops, Bishops, Cardinals, Legates, and witnesses from Spain. High crosses held by small pageboys punctuated high mitered hats, as the old men walked slowly to the stage, then tottered up the stairs.
With all the added weight, it’s a wonder the stage remained in place.
I couldn’t hear the words of the service, even with my Superman-quality hearing, but after witnessing at least six earlier practice versions, I’d already got the idea.
Basically Catherine relinquishes everything, and has no rights. Arthur gets everything, including Catherine’s rights, they both say a heck of a lot of Latin, the ball gets passed down the line of Bishops and Cardinals, and after sixty minutes of boring end to end play, the Archbishop of Canterbury blows his whistle, calling the end of the game.
Then a host of pages arrived on the stage with two long cloaks for the couple to wear.
Now, I’d heard the term, ‘cloth of gold’, but I’d never witnessed it, nor thought it could be quite so dramatic. Two shimmering masses of woven gold thread, every fold and facet glittering in every direction. In present day’s money, they must have been worth a fortune.
Wonderful.
But even the cloth of gold didn’t stem my increasing boredom.
Yeah, but there was still the triumphant slow march to the east bit of the Cathedral for the prayers and services of mass at yet another altar.
Then huge hymns from the huge choir.
Then Arthur left on his own, walking in fanfare and choir, past the stage again to the west end, then out to the Bishop of London’s palace. Once he had gone outside, Henry rose, walked to Catherine’s side, and again, he led her far in his brother’s wake. Once both had reached the outer palace, they would be married again.
The choir sang again.
Another fanfare.
Then silence, and absolute bedlam in the Cathedral, as four different groups of people tried to do four very different things. Some just sat where they were, waiting on a less hectic time to leave, some tried to rush outside to catch another glimpse of the couple, some, their wedding now over, looked for family members to chat to, and others, me included, tried to negotiate passage to the actual wedding banquet.
Yes, I had been invited to that.
And that meant getting from Saint Paul’s Cathedral to Westminster Palace, past a couple of hundred thousand plebs lining the route wanting as much Arthur and Catherine eye-candy as they could get, never mind the rare public appearance of their King, Queen, and their other kids.
So I took to the backstreets, and found myself amongst the lowest of the low in London. The real filthy class, who didn’t give a rat’s ass for the pomp and ceremony of their ruling class, and just wanted to make a penny profit on the day, legal or not.
I had dressed up for the wedding, and as I strolled the dirty backstreets, the plebs looked at me like a fattened turkey at Thanksgiving. So, probably leaving a couple of astonished faces behind me, I just switched on vampire hyper-drive and got the fuck out of there as fast as I could go.
Bam; Westminster Palace, even before the newlyweds.
You couldn’t turn a corner in the Saint Paul’s without bumping into someone who rushed around doing something. At first, on my way to my bedroom to get a little rest-time, that proved a problem, but then, feeling a little puckish, I just grabbed one of the cuter serving girls, whisked her into the first room I found, threw her on the bed, and literally took her there and then.
I didn’t even say “thank you.”
A little nap after my meal, and I walked down to the large hall that had been converted into tonight’s dining room.
Bedlam.
And of course, when you’re in a dining room the size of an arena, and your only claim to nobility is a passing fuck with Lady Jane Winterbrooke, you’re not going to get a top seat with a decent chance of good table-service.
I reckon the people at the tables numbered four or five thousand.
But the wine ran freely. In fact, at one end of the room stood a huge waterfall contraption which spouted streams of different colored wines from different dragons’ mouths.
New gold tapestries hung from every wall. Tablecloths, for once, covered every table surface in the room, even the lowly tables like mine.
Everywhere I looked, I recognized opulence for its own sake; a show of grandeur from King Henry to the rest of the world; a sign that the country had ‘arrived’. That at last England had made a match, an alliance that would herald their admission to the world stage.
But again, I got bored. I had already fed, and the human food, although ostentatious, lacked taste for me.
Cakes as big as horses, pastries in the shape of dragons, steaming pies like sailboats, with real bacon sails.
Man, I had no real love for the King, nor his attitude to his son, but he’d pushed the boat out for the wedding.
There were only so many courses that, as a vampire, I could put up with. I made no excuses to the people at my table, and simply left the room.
I took more enjoyment from people-watching outside, than the entertainment inside the room. I heard heralded trumpeters, string quartets, then the chorused laughter as the jugglers and jesters took to the stage.
Small, ten-minute plays in English and Latin interspersed the evening, and as a second round of jesters arrived, I walked away, searching for the ‘wedding room’ that the couple would soon be heading towards.
Two large guards on the door crossed long axes in my face as I moved to enter. Their hard stares left me in no doubt of their orders. But it only took a minute, my breath cascading over their faces, doing the vampire persuasion act to let me through.
The room beyond proved as uninspiring as I’d thought it would be; larger than most bedrooms in the palace, yet drab and cold in both appearance and atmosphere.
A huge four-poster bed stood against one wall; the only piece of furniture in the bedchamber, with a dark ornate carved headboard containing the coats of arms of both Arthur and Catherine. I pushed at the ‘mattress’ with the heel of my hand, finding it hard and unforgiving. The vast top coverlet was embroidered gold, but underneath, fine white silk sheets lay stretched tightly; the clean artist’s canvas for the coming night’s bloody
painting. These were the sheets that would be held high for all to see, proving beyond doubt the evidence of the broken hymen of a Spanish Princess. The sheets that would show the bloody stains that would be reported back to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella as the signs of a successful ploughing of her virgin daughter by a fifteen-year-old boy.
It all seemed so cold and barbaric.
“Wonderful,” I hissed into the room.
Thick drapes hung on all four bedposts, and I felt happy that the curtains which would hide the evening’s ‘entertainment’ were thick and heavy.
Feeling uneasy about the whole process, I considered leaving, but the headboard attracted my attention; the design, the slight gaps at each side. I pushed and the center section moved a fraction. I pulled the pillows away, and true enough, a seam ran along the bottom.
Suspecting the worst, I quickly left the room, turning right along the corridor for the next bedroom on the same side as the headboard. When I turned the corner, I found my goal. The door proved unlocked, but inside, the room looked black, and the candlelight from the corridor proved worthless. I twisted one of the candles from its mounting, and walked inside.
This long room lay totally bare, with no furnishings whatsoever. But as I walked to the wall behind the headboard, I could see the wall had been torn away, and the back of the wooden bed next door exposed. Two latch bolts secured the headboard in position. I pulled on both, releasing them, and pulled on the headboard, lifting it up in an arc on concealed hinges along the top. Beyond me lay the bed I had just witnessed, and thus access to the coupling newlyweds in a few hours.
As I let the heavy carving swing back into position and slid the securing bolts home, I wondered of the purpose of such a trapdoor.
Initially, yes, I suspected treason, some covert plot, a nefarious plan to kidnap the couple perhaps? But either plan would mean escape from the palace, and that seemed unlikely this night with so many guards in position.
As I stood in the pale light of my single candle, I reasoned with myself. The trapdoor would also give access to me, to help conduct proceedings, but it would also give me an opportunity to get some blood on the sheets after their coitus had concluded.
With new purpose, I strode from the room, and set off for the kitchen. I needed both blood and water, and some means of carrying them to the room. For once in this august day, I had a plan. I actually had something positive to do.
I set off with a smirk on my face that even a good beating wouldn’t remove.
November 14th, 1501
Bloody Sheets
With two small eggcups firmly clasped in my hands, one with water, one with pig’s blood, I made my way back to the door of the room, only to find two guards now in place there. I swept past them as if I had business elsewhere, cursing under my breath.
If questioned, I couldn’t explain away the two eggcups, so I quickly went to my bedroom and left them there.
Damn if things weren’t getting complicated.
But now guards stood on my new door, and I had to get inside. I mean, if they made opening windows, I’d have climbed up the outside, but it seems that hinges could only be used for headboards in this century, not windows.
I sat for a while, debating my next move, but there seemed only one plan; I had to get inside that room.
So, leaving the eggcups in my bedroom, I returned, determined to gain entry by means of doing a vampire/guard/breathy thing again. But as I neared the actual wedding room, three extra guards were standing in the corridor, ushering ladies inside, so I stood my ground, then walked past when the route was clear.
At last I rounded the corner, ready to do my vamp thing, but to my dismay, ran into another bottle jam. I felt both slightly surprised. “Lady Jane?”
She stood with a servant who carried a large candelabra and a covered tray. The guards letting them into the room turned abruptly, their long axes at the ready.
Jane paused on the threshold, slightly bemused. “Why, Master DeVere, what brings you to these parts tonight?”
The guards relaxed, and I brazenly walked past them, took my Lady Jane by the arm, and escorted her inside the room. “Nothing, my Lady, I just need a quick word.”
She looked so surprised at my actions, she walked on in silence.
A servant in front of us already stood in the room, the tray and candelabra shaking in her hands. She looked shocked and slightly frightened.
Jane must have noticed too. “It’s all right, Melda, Master DeVere is a tutor to Prince Arthur.”
“Ah.” She visibly relaxed and gave a grateful sigh.
“Eh, Lady Jane? Do you need Melda here tonight? I do need to talk to you.”
“Eh, no,” Jane said, her voice uncertain. “That’ll be all, Melda.” She took both the cloth-covered tray and candelabra from the girl, who now smiled, looking at me with an embarrassed look. She curtseyed and left, closing the door behind her. “Richard, this better be important, I have my reputation to consider.”
“It is,” I began. “But first, what are you here for?”
She suddenly looked upset, almost in panic. “I have tasks to do.”
“Tasks?” I left the word hanging in the air.
“Yes.” She shook her head. “I do have responsibilities, you know.”
“But here?” I asked, giving her a good serious stare. “Here in the room behind the couple’s bed?”
“Oh. You know about that?”
“Yes, and I know about the trapdoor in the headboard, too.” I looked at the tray, and saw the hilt of a knife poking out from under the cloth. “And what do you call this?” I lifted the cloth to reveal a small dirk, and a round, awful-looking bag.
Jane sighed, and petulantly shone the candelabra right above the tray. “This is a bag of sheep’s blood and this is the knife to cut it.” Her voice hissed at me.
I began to laugh.
Thankfully my light mood seemed to both calm and alarm her. She waved her hands at me, shushing me silent. “There are people next door, they’ll hear.” She looked at the back of the headboard. “What’s so funny?”
So I quickly told her about my suspicions, my discovery, and how right at this moment in time, two eggcups of blood and water sat in my bedroom, with the express same purpose as the contents of her tray.
“So we’re here for the same thing?”
I nodded and we both laughed softly.
“Well, now that you’ve forced me to get rid of my ‘help’, you’d better stay.”
She moved to the bed end of the room, and pushed large pillows into place at the floor. Placing the candelabra to one side, she knelt down on the floor, her dress billowing up behind her. I must admit a thought did cross my mind, but shaking my head, I knelt next to her, wondering if we were going to listen to the proceedings.
Then she moved a small wooden panel about the size of a playing card to one side, showing a hole beyond. She put a finger to her lips, urging me to silence.
In front of me, I saw my own panel, which I also moved; my own peephole.
Not only would we hear the ceremony, we’d be witnesses to the whole thing.
Oh, my sainted aunt.
As I put my eye to the hole, I saw Catherine of Aragorn, being helped out of her clothes by Isabella and one of Princess Margaret’s other ladies in waiting. Slowly, layer after layer became exposed as they fussed around her, pulling on lacing, untying knots, unclipping bodices by the dozen.
One lady removed her jeweled headpiece and began to tease her sandy colored hair loose. Soon her hair hung in rivulets down onto her shoulders.
Then to my amazement, they stripped her down to her last layer, then off that came, leaving the Princess totally naked, standing in profile, her small breasts standing firm in the candlelight of the room beyond. A small fluff of down protruded from her sex.
Stripped down to bare bones, Catherine of Aragon looked quite a stunning teenager.
“You shouldn’t be enjoying this part,” Jane whispered onto the w
ood.
“Oh, I’m not, trust me.” I grinned, not missing a single detail.
When they began to anoint her body with scented water, to my surprise, she showed no emotion at all; even when Isabella touched her between her legs, brushing the liquid onto her pussy and thighs. To my surprise, the old woman whispered endearments in Spanish as she did so, the first show of sweet talk I’d ever heard her utter.
Then, they lifted a nightshirt over her head, and then fitted a long golden cloak over her shoulders, which Catherine pulled close at the front.
“Ready?” the lady asked, and Catherine, still showing no emotion, nodded solemnly.
With the exception of the Princess, they all left the room, the now charming Isabella the last to leave, tears in her eyes, taking a last look at her child charge.
Then, almost immediately, the guests began to file into the room.
First the King, bowing to his new daughter-in-law, who merely nodded in return, no low curtseys for her tonight. Then the Queen, and the King’s mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, her age showing considerably.
Then the Spanish nobles, and the Spanish ambassador, the English nobles, the lords and ladies of the court.
And the Bishop of London, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, and three other miter-wearing churchmen.
Then three black-robed physicians, who stood with leather bags supposedly at the ready for some medical emergency.
I mean, come on, for fuck’s sake.
When they had all shuffled in to the room and spread into its every foot of floor space, they stood waiting, a small buzz of murmured conversation drifting across the room. Then they all parted for Prince Arthur, clad in an identical robe to the Princess Catherine, who strode into the room with all the excitement of a man at his own execution.
With at least twenty or thirty people in the room, I couldn’t really blame him.
