Katherine of Aragon, the True Queen

by Alison Weir

  There were cries of “Bravo!” when the dance came to an end, and then, as a compliment to the Queen, Katherine glided into the basse dance that Elizabeth had taught her the day before. Elizabeth clapped in delight, and kissed and embraced Katherine when she returned to the royal dais.

  “That was very well done, my lady,” Arthur complimented her.

  “Now it is your turn, Arthur,” the King said.

  Arthur seemed about to refuse, but he dutifully rose. Katherine was expecting him to lead her down to the floor, but he turned away and bowed before one of his mother’s ladies before taking her by the hand. Katherine’s cheeks burned. It was embarrassing to be ignored and spurned. She would not have expected to dance with Arthur while they were merely betrothed, for that would have been unseemly, but they were married now, and this was their wedding day! She was the bride, not Lady Whatever-her-name-was. But no one seemed to think anything strange of Arthur’s choice of partner, so Katherine was forced to conclude that this was yet another outlandish English custom. And her humiliation—for so it felt—did not last long, for Arthur returned to her side after just the one dance.

  “Will you dance again, my lord?” she asked hopefully.

  “I am a little weary,” he said, to her disappointment. “I do not dance often.”

  “Well, I do!” cried Prince Henry, jumping up and pulling his sister down to the floor, where he whirled her about in a lively branle. Everyone clapped in time, and when the dance was over, the Prince cried, “Another!” Throwing off his gown, he proceeded to jump about with Margaret in the saltarello, showing off outrageously, to the applause of his parents and his doting grandmother. Katherine thought it strange that none of them had suggested that Arthur should dance with his bride on his wedding day, of all days.

  —

  She had known before leaving Spain that in England there was such a thing as a bedding ceremony, when a bride and bridegroom were put to bed together by their guests, and the bed was blessed by a priest before everyone left the couple alone in their bedchamber. She had known it, but had been dreading it and hoping that Doña Elvira, usually so outspoken about anything she deemed unseemly, would protest against it. But the duenna remained silent. When Katherine had voiced her reluctance to be on public show in so immodest a manner, Doña Elvira surprised her.

  “The Queen your mother approved, and you should not question her wisdom. She wanted this public ceremony, so that all the world should see you bedded as man and wife together, for the avoidance of any doubt.”

  Katherine had said no more, realizing that if her mother had wanted this, her duenna would be immovable. But she cringed at the very thought of it, and when the King called for hippocras and wafers to be served, signaling the end of the evening’s festivities, she knew the moment was at hand. Normally abstemious, she accepted a large goblet of the sweet spiced wine, hoping it would calm her nerves. Maria, speaking in a whisper, and giggling, confided that her married sister had said that the first time could be painful…

  Arthur’s pallid face looked tired and drawn as the King summoned him to attend him. They left the hall followed by a host of lords and gentlemen, amid gusts of hearty laughter. The Queen rose and beckoned Katherine to go with her, and Doña Elvira and the ladies crowded behind them. Upstairs in the vast nuptial chamber the great tester bed had been made up with plump pillows and fine sheets, then spread with an ermine-trimmed counterpane and strewn with dried petals and herbs. The headpiece was adorned with the royal arms of England, newly painted and gilded.

  Katherine stood trembling while the Queen herself assisted Doña Elvira with the disrobing.

  “There is nothing to fear,” her mother-in-law said with a reassuring smile.

  Doña Elvira frowned. “The Princess has been taught her duty, your Highness.”

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “There should be more to it than duty, I hope,” she observed. “Well, daughter, that is a strange garment you are wearing!”

  “It is my farthingale,” Katherine explained. “We wear them under our gowns in Spain.”

  “Now that you are married you will wear English dress,” the Queen said.

  “I will be pleased to do so,” Katherine told her, glad to obey.

  Doña Elvira’s eyes flashed fire as she undid the ribbons holding the farthingale in place, tugging them viciously. “Hand me the night rail,” she barked at Maria.

  Maria exchanged glances with Katherine and reverently picked up a long night rail of the finest lawn, embroidered with blackwork at the low neck and the wide cuffs. Doña Elvira divested her charge of her chemise and for a moment Katherine stood there, naked and blushing, before the duenna lifted the night rail over her head. Then she combed her hair while the maids sprinkled Katherine with Hungary water scented with rosemary and thyme.

  The Queen took Katherine’s hand and assisted her into bed.

  “Prop yourself up on the pillows,” she instructed. Katherine did as she was told, pulling up the covers over her breasts as Doña Elvira thrust forward and briskly arranged her hair like a fan over her shoulders. Katherine could tell that the duenna resented the Queen being there and was making it clear she was the proper person to prepare her charge for her bridegroom.

  Katherine sighed inwardly. Queen Isabella had insisted that Doña Elvira remain with her after marriage, to be a friend and mentor to her in a strange land, but Katherine was beginning to realize that things would not be as simple as that. She had found it impossible to warm to her duenna, who—for all her rectitude and vigilance—was not the most lovable of mortals, and she feared there would be struggles ahead. But there was no time to fret because moments later the sound of approaching voices and guffaws announced Arthur’s coming.

  1501

  Katherine could have died of shame. She felt the hot blush rising from her chest to her face, for the Prince’s voice could be heard, boasting that he felt lusty and amorous, which met with a burst of earthy male laughter.

  “To it, lad, to it!”

  “For England and St. George!”

  Led by his father, Arthur entered the bedchamber, wearing a voluminous nightshirt embroidered along the gathered yoke with red and white roses. The men crammed in behind him, their leering eyes seeking the bride as she lay in her bed. Katherine’s cheeks were crimson as Arthur lifted the covers and climbed in beside her. They lay there stiffly together, two feet apart, as goblets were raised and bawdy jests made. Prince Henry was the most incoherent of all; there was no doubt he’d had too much wine. The Queen saw Katherine’s embarrassment and caught the King’s eye. He nodded.

  “Make way for His Grace of Canterbury!” he cried. Reluctantly, the men stood aside to allow the Archbishop through, and there was a semblance of hush as he raised a hand in blessing and prayed that God would make the union of the Prince and Princess fruitful.

  “Amen!” said the King. “And now, my lords and ladies, we must leave these young people alone together. A hearty good night to you both!” Taking the Queen’s hand, he escorted her out, dragging Prince Henry with the other hand, and the company straggled off unwillingly behind him. Doña Elvira, last of all, blew out all the candles but one, hauled herself out of the room, and closed the door.

  —

  Katherine lay there, her heart thumping. She heard Arthur swallow. He sounded as nervous as she was. The silence between them deepened.

  “Are you tired, Katherine?” he asked suddenly.

  “A little, sir,” she said, knowing she must not appear to be evading his attentions.

  “I am exhausted,” he said. “I could sleep for a week.” He coughed.

  “Are you ill, my lord?” Katherine asked in concern.

  “It is nothing. This rheum lingers.” He turned to face her and sighed deeply. “Do not look so frightened,” he said, reaching across and laying a hand on her shoulder. “It is my first time too.”

  She did not know what to do. Isabella’s euphemisms had not covered the practical aspects of the bu
siness.

  Arthur drew her toward him. She could feel his damp breath on her cheek. Now he was pulling up her night rail. He was breathing heavily. Then he turned his face away and coughed.

  She could feel his hand gently probing her breasts before moving down to the secret places between her legs. Her cheeks burning, she lay there unmoving, bearing it, not understanding if she needed to do anything in return. Suddenly Arthur clambered on top of her, and she braced herself for the pain she feared was coming.

  Arthur moved his body against hers, getting more and more agitated, but nothing else was happening. This wasn’t how the act had been described to her. There was supposed to be some sort of joining of flesh, she was sure. But after several minutes of grappling and ineffectual thrusting, in which their bodies kept sticking together sweatily, although not in the right way, Arthur fell back on the bed, coughing violently. In the moonlight, Katherine glimpsed his poor little member resting limply against his thigh before he pulled down his nightshirt and lay there panting.

  “I am sorry,” Arthur said. “I am not well.”

  “It does not matter,” Katherine whispered.

  “I think not.” He was really out of breath. “Whatever he says in public, my father does not want us to have children yet.”

  Katherine turned toward him, astonished. This went against everything she had been told.

  “He said we might consummate our marriage, but not cohabit afterward for a few years,” Arthur explained, his breathing slowing now. “He fears that I am too young to lie with you, and that it will ruin my health, especially with this cough.”

  Katherine felt a pang. “The King is right. My brother died at nineteen from too much indulgence in the marriage bed.”

  “That is one of the reasons my father gave me when he commanded me to wait. He is overanxious because I’ve been unwell. I keep telling him he should not worry, but he does, and he is adamant. We cannot disobey him. He is the King.”

  Katherine, watching Arthur as he lay silhouetted against the firelight, his face in shadow, could not tell whether he was grieved about his father’s decision. In fact, she had the slight impression that he had been glad of an excuse not to do his husbandly duty. But King Henry was right. Arthur was unwell, worryingly so. He was clearly unfit for the duties of marriage. And it was obvious now that he must have been ailing for some time. Why, oh why, had they not informed her?

  “Have my parents been told?” she asked.

  “Certainly, and they are content.” They, of all people, had good reason to be, after what had happened to Juan.

  “Then I am content to abide by what the King has decreed,” Katherine said. “We are to make a pretense of…of marriage?”

  “That is what he has commanded. We are to spend some nights together, to avoid talk. And I think we must let the world believe that we are man and wife in every way.” He paused. “In truth, I am glad that I did not give an account of myself this night, for I fear that, even if I had not been interrupted by this foul cough, I would have failed you miserably, I am so very weary.” It was a face-saving lie, of course, for he had given up before the cough had attacked. Now he was seized by another paroxysm, harsher and more prolonged this time.

  “It does not matter,” Katherine said when the fit had subsided. “I’m weary too. It’s been a long day, and I shall be glad to get some sleep. Do you know when the King means us to—to—”

  “When I am recovered, and maybe some time after that. He thinks that we should wait. He says we have our whole lives ahead of us.”

  —

  Arthur rose early the next morning and disappeared into his privy chamber next door, where his gentlemen were waiting to assist with his robing.

  Reluctant to leave the warmth of the comfortable bed—and who could blame a bride for lying late on the morning after her wedding?—Katherine could hear them talking, although she could not understand every word they said.

  “Willoughby, give me a cup of ale.” That was Arthur. “My throat is so dry today, for I have been this night in the midst of Spain. It’s good pastime to have a wife!” He repeated this several times, until Katherine—who had grasped the gist of it—began to fear that his bluff would be detected.

  There was some chuckling, and some bawdy talk to which she closed her ears, then the conversation turned to the coming tournaments and the wagers that were to be laid. Presently the outer door closed and all was silent. Katherine turned over and dozed. There were to be no entertainments today; she and Arthur were to be allowed some privacy before they appeared in public again. She lay there remembering what Arthur had said, and trying to analyze her reaction. Yes, she was relieved. Despite the intimacy they had briefly shared, there was still a distance between them. Maybe he was holding himself aloof because he felt unwell; or he was keeping that distance deliberately because he knew he was unable to make her his properly.

  Yet she could not help feeling a little cheated. How different her wedding night might have been—and how different her future would be—with a proper man in her bed. How would it look when the months passed and there was no sign of an heir? It would reflect badly on her, as if she had failed in her duty. But the King would understand, she was sure, because he was concerned about his son’s health, which was, of course, the greater issue. Did the King know something that she didn’t? Or was he just being cautious? He was a prudent, calculating man, her father had once said—like recognizing like. She comforted herself with that thought. If Arthur was that ill, he would surely not have been allowed to consummate the marriage at all.

  A little later Doña Elvira entered with Francesca de Cáceres.

  “Good morning, Highness,” Doña Elvira said. “I trust you slept well. Francesca, make up the fire and help your mistress to dress when she is ready. I will return presently.”

  Katherine sat up, rubbing her eyes. Now she must begin the great pretense.

  “Good morning, Francesca,” she greeted the slender, raven-haired girl bending at the hearth. “It’s time I arose.” She flung back the covers and lowered her bare feet to the rush-matted floor.

  “My nightgown please,” she commanded, reaching for her velvet slippers. Then she saw that Francesca was staring at the bed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Highness.” Francesca hastily collected herself.

  “No, there was something. You were looking at the sheets.”

  Francesca looked embarrassed. “Highness, I could not but notice that they are clean.”

  “Of course they are clean.” Katherine was puzzled.

  “But they should not be. My mother told me that a girl always bleeds the first time.”

  Francesca’s cheeks were pink.

  “Bleeds? Why?”

  “Highness, it is the breaking of the maidenhead.”

  That made some sense, and it explained why the process would be painful, but Katherine realized that, in their ignorance, she and Arthur had not considered this bar to their pretense.

  She thought rapidly. He had said they were to act as if they were one flesh, but he had not specifically forbidden her to tell the truth to those who would be in a position to help her. And Doña Elvira was coming back soon. She was a married lady herself and little escaped her eagle eye.

  Katherine was desperate to unburden herself. “Francesca,” she said, her voice catching in her throat, “nothing passed between Prince Arthur and me.”

  Francesca looked shocked. “Highness, I—I am sorry to hear that.”

  Katherine felt tears threatening. This was not how things should be! “I fear the Prince may never be able to have relations with me,” she said bleakly. “He is too ill, and too weak.”

  Francesca stared at her.

  “I see, Highness.” She paused uncertainly. “Doña Elvira should be told.”

  “And I will tell her, but I must rely on your discretion.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  Katherine said no more. She was dreading
discussing the problem with her duenna. Doña Elvira had an adult son, but it was impossible to imagine her in the act of conceiving him!

  Presently the duenna bustled in and dismissed Francesca. She stood there, her eyes boring into Katherine.

  “Highness, I must ask, as the Queen your mother will wish to know. Is all well between you and the Prince of Wales?”

  “Perfectly well,” Katherine said.

  “I mean—I should make myself plain—is your marriage consummated?”

  Katherine could feel herself flushing. “No. The Prince was not well enough.” She explained what the King had ordered.

  Doña Elvira frowned. “One can only applaud His Highness’s love and care for his son.”

  —

  The last thing Katherine wanted to hear, from an indignant Maria, was that Francesca de Cáceres had wasted no time in telling her fellow maids of honor how sad it was that the Princess was a virgin still.

  “Tell her, and the others, from me,” she said, with the newfound authority that came from being married, even if it was in name only, “that if I hear of any of them repeating what was told to Francesca in confidence, I will report them to the King.”

  Then she prayed that no one would dare, because she too should have held her tongue.

  —

  Fourteen days of jousts, feasts, plays, and dancing had passed, days filled with pageantry, color, laughter, and excitement.

  The court had come to the brand-new palace at Richmond the day before. To Katherine, approaching on the River Thames at the head of a flotilla of barges, it had seemed a place out of legend, rising above the river like a vision. The King had smiled to see her marveling at the fantastic pinnacles, the turrets surmounted by onion domes, the forest of gilded weather vanes, and the vast windows with their tiny diamond panes reflecting the winter sun. Proudly, he told her that he built the palace to his own specifications after the previous one had been badly damaged in a fire. He himself escorted her, the rest of the royal family following behind, along wide paths leading through courtyards with spouting fountains, fair gardens, and fragrant orchards, and along galleried cloisters. Everywhere there were brightly painted badges—roses, portcullises, coats of arms—and gilded statues of fantastic beasts.