Henry - Book Three of the Tudor Trilogy

by Tony Riches

  ‘That was in the spring, Don Pedro. Even allowing for the ships to be repaired, I ask what delays her now?’

  ‘The princess had to wait several weeks for favourable winds, Your Grace. Her captain was told not to sail until he was certain the storms had passed.’

  ‘When will the princess arrive in England?’

  ‘With a fair wind, I trust the princess will be here by the end of September.’ Don Pedro looked at Henry. ‘I will wait for her arrival and send a rider with word as soon as I know she is safe, Your Grace.’

  Henry studied the ambassador, knowing he had little alternative. ‘I shall pray for her safe voyage, Don Pedro. The arrival of the princess is eagerly anticipated, so it is good that I am a patient man.’

  His patience had worn thin by October, when he finally received word of Catherine’s arrival. Instead of docking at Southampton as planned, her flotilla was blown off course and finally landed in Plymouth. He sent his heralds and messengers to meet her with his official letter of welcome. He also sent an escort to ensure her safe arrival in London, which included Prince Harry, representing him for the first time, and to ride with her to the bishop’s palace at Lambeth.

  After more than a month had passed since the princess landed in Plymouth, Henry heard she was lodging at a manor house in Hampshire. Frustrated at the further delay, he rode to see her for himself, with a dozen lords and Prince Arthur at his side. They arrived late and unannounced and demanded to see the princess.

  A woman wearing a high-necked gown covered with a shawl appeared. She scowled at Henry, reminding him of a ship in full sail, and spoke in French with a harsh Spanish accent.

  ‘I am Doña Elvira Manuel, governess of the household of the Princess Catalina.’ She fixed Henry with a stern gaze. ‘The princess may not see you.’

  ‘Tell her the King of England will see her, with his dear son, her betrothed, Arthur, Prince of Wales.’ Henry, unused to being disobeyed, put as much authority into his voice as he could.

  Doña Elvira didn’t move. ‘I cannot, Your Grace, it is not our custom.’ She clasped her hands under her ample bosom as if the matter was closed.

  ‘Well, it is our custom, my lady, to obey the command of the king. If needs be I’ll go to her bedchamber and see her there!’

  A black-garbed bishop, wearing a large silver crucifix on a chain around his neck, came to see what was going on. He spoke English and bowed to Henry. ‘I am the Bishop of Malaga, Your Grace. It is my duty to inform you we are under orders from our Sovereign Lord. We are not to permit our lady princess any meeting or communication until the day of the marriage ceremony.’

  Henry glowered at him in amazement. He’d not expected such a discourteous response. He turned and left, calling for his chancellor, Sir Thomas Lovell, who’d ridden with them to Hampshire. Sir Thomas listened to Henry’s account of the situation.

  ‘This is unprecedented, Your Grace. I would counsel you to find some compromise.’

  Henry’s frustration rose again. ‘Must I allow these... foreigners to dictate to me?’

  Sir Thomas glanced back at the manor house, now in darkness, except for candlelight flickering behind shuttered windows. ‘The hour is drawing late. I imagine the princess has retired after her journey, so I suggest you allow her a little time to prepare for your meeting, Your Grace?’

  Henry could see the sense of Lovell’s suggestion. ‘Please propose this to them—and see that they understand I will not leave without seeing the princess?’

  ‘Of course, Your Grace.’ Sir Thomas and several other lords left to tell the Bishop of Malaga.

  Henry calmed a little as he waited with Arthur. ‘We must learn to understand their Spanish ways, although they must in turn respect ours.’

  ‘I am eager to see the princess, Father.’ Arthur looked back at the house.

  ‘As am I, Arthur, as am I.’

  At last Sir Thomas and the other lords emerged. ‘The princess will see you now, Your Grace.’

  Henry followed them to Princess Catherine’s rooms. She stood as he entered and spoke in Spanish. Henry couldn’t understand her but approved of what he saw. The candlelight turned her auburn hair to gold. Catherine wore a richly embroidered satin gown which showed a pleasant fullness of figure that promised fertility.

  Her stern governess was right. In his eagerness he’d not shown the young princess proper courtesy. Henry knew he must look tired and dishevelled in his plain riding clothes, yet he was keen to make a good impression on the Princess.

  He gave a slight bow. ‘Bienvenida, Princesa.’

  She looked surprised and spoke in Spanish, turning to the Bishop of Malaga to translate.

  The bishop smiled. ‘Princess Catherine is honoured to meet you, Your Grace.’

  Rodrigo de Puebla had taught Henry only one more phrase. ‘Este es el Príncipe Arthur.’

  His son stepped forward and bowed. He spoke in French. ‘Forgive our intrusion, Princess Catherine. We are pleased you are safely arrived in our country.’

  Princess Catherine looked from Arthur to Henry. She studied him with questioning eyes, as if comparing him with what she had been told. She spoke again in rapid Spanish. She glanced at Henry once as she talked and he sensed the sincerity of her strange words, even though they had no meaning to him.

  The bishop turned to Henry. ‘The princess looks forward to her wedding with great gladness and joy. She asks if you would like to see her Spanish minstrels perform?’

  For a moment Henry wondered if he’d misunderstood. ‘If the princess is not too tired after her journey.’

  As her answer Princess Catherine clapped her hands to summon servants to bring wine and clear the furniture, apart from chairs for her guests. A small group of musicians appeared and began to play rhythmic tunes with a lively beat that reminded Henry of music he’d heard in Brittany.

  Princess Catherine entranced them with a Spanish dance with two of her ladies. To the beat of a drum, they swirled their silken dresses and stamped their feet in an exotic style he’d never seen before.

  He discovered that the princess had a little French and Latin, which she spoke with a Spanish accent, although no effort had been made to teach her any English before she left Spain.

  The hour was late by the time Henry decided he should leave. He turned to the bishop who’d acted as their interpreter. ‘Please inform the princess my second son, Prince Henry, will be honoured to escort her to the bishop’s palace at Lambeth, from where she will proceed to London for the wedding.’

  He took one last look at his future daughter-in-law. He’d given little credence to Don Pedro’s description of her as a paragon of virtue, an innocent young goddess. Once, after too much wine, Rodrigo de Puebla confessed she was in fact rather short. He’d drawn an exaggerated female shape in the air with his hands and laughed as he explained she was still blessed with the plumpness of her youth.

  Henry knew Princess Catherine was yet to turn sixteen and had not even been born at the time of his coronation. He’d expected to see a shy girl, perhaps a little humbled by his unexpected visit. Princess Catherine was an exotic, confident and beautiful woman. Her dowry and the alliance with Spain would secure his throne and help ensure lasting peace. She was, he thought, the most perfect bride for his eldest son.

  Princess Catherine of Aragon shivered in the wintry chill as she rode a mule to her wedding in the Spanish tradition. Beside her, dressed in a tunic of cloth of gold rode Prince Henry on his fine black destrier. Catherine wore a scarlet, long-sleeved gown, glistening with diamonds that reflected sunlight as she moved.

  On her head she wore a braided coif and a wide-brimmed Spanish hat, held in place with gold lace. Her rich, reddish-gold hair, worn long to show her purity, reached below her waist and streamed loose over her shoulders.

  Behind her rode her Spanish ladies, dressed in black, each with an English lady riding at her side. Their escort, of four hundred mounted soldiers in red-and-black livery, were led by the handsome young noble
Sir Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham. Son of Lady Katheryn Woodville by her first husband, he was also to be the chief challenger at the grand wedding tournaments.

  Royal heralds led them through gawping crowds to London Bridge, where the Mayor of London welcomed them to the city. At a signal, the bells of all the churches, St Paul’s and Westminster began clanging. Colourful banners of welcome and celebration hung from windows and onlookers gathered in the streets.

  Bands of musicians played on street corners and wine flowed freely in the conduits. High wooden stands, built by the London companies, groaned under the weight of their members, assembled to watch. Nobles thronged the main streets with their finely dressed wives, armed yeomen and liveried retainers.

  Henry stood watching the procession with Elizabeth, Prince Arthur and his mother, from the high windows of a wealthy merchant’s residence.

  ‘I wonder what the princess makes of our mummers with their moral pageants?’

  His mother answered. ‘It takes little enough intelligence to understand them, even if she is unable to speak our language.’

  Elizabeth pointed as the first of the fireworks flashed into the sky over London Bridge. More fireworks exploded high in the air to gasps from the watching crowds who’d not seen them since Elizabeth’s coronation.

  She took Henry’s arm. ‘I understand there are many Spanish nobles in her entourage who have never seen England before. They are certain to remember their first sight of our city.’

  He watched as a large firework mounted high over the bridge began shooting great circles of crackling sparks into the air as a dramatic finale. ‘I trust they will report to King Ferdinand that we’ve spared little expense. He has agreed to pay the first instalment of one hundred thousand crowns for her dowry—but I have yet to see one penny of it.’

  ‘Have faith, Henry.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘Enjoy our eldest son’s wedding.’

  The procession arrived at the great cathedral of St Paul’s where the final pageant was held in the churchyard. The Mayor of London presented gifts to Catherine. A choir sang as she dismounted and entered the church, where she knelt in prayer before retiring to the archbishop’s palace for the night.

  The following afternoon, Catherine visited Elizabeth at Baynard’s castle, Henry’s mother’s mansion overlooking the river. The conversation was difficult as Doña Elvira acted as interpreter, but Elizabeth’s minstrels provided music. There was dancing well into the night, before Catherine returned to Lambeth.

  On a bright, cold November morning Princess Catherine left the bishop’s palace. A rosy-cheeked Prince Harry, dressed in silver embroidered with gold roses, walked at her side. Catherine looked magnificent in a white satin gown embroidered with a thousand pearls and pleated with gold thread in the Spanish style. A white silk veil, bordered with gold and precious stones, covered her face.

  Henry had stayed the night at the well-appointed house of Lord Abergavenny, close to St Paul’s Cathedral. On the morning of the wedding he rode in front of the procession on a white charger, wearing a silver breastplate studded with diamonds and rubies over his red velvet robes.

  Behind him in an open carriage pulled by four fine horses rode Elizabeth with Princess Catherine. Elizabeth wore a gown of white satin with a long train of royal purple silk.

  In keeping with tradition, Henry joined Elizabeth in a private room of the cathedral to watch the wedding ceremony from behind lattice windows. He took her hand in his.

  ‘I can hardly believe this day has come.’

  She smiled to see him happy at last. ‘Once they are married, you must not leave them in that damp castle in Ludlow. Bring them to court, Henry. I have started trying to help Princess Catherine understand our ways and it will be good for Arthur to learn how to rule.’

  ‘I plan they should make Ludlow Castle their home, Elizabeth. Arthur will learn to command the Welsh Marches. It is good for him to have the responsibility.’

  Elizabeth looked doubtful. ‘Do you remember yourself at his age, Henry?’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t be concerned about Arthur. I have appointed Sir Richard Pole as his administrator, and we shall have them come to London as often as they are able to.’

  The waiting crowds cheered as a deafening fanfare from the king’s trumpeters announced the arrival of the princess at the Galilee porch. Prince Harry escorted Catherine through the west door of the cathedral along a raised wooden walkway, covered with red carpet, which led from the door to the altar. They walked down the long nave between pillars hung with the colourful standards of the great families of England.

  Fifteen-year-old Prince Arthur waited at the altar, on a raised wooden stage. Dressed in white satin, he stood with the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Deane, surrounded by another nineteen other bishops, the Spanish Legate and their attendants, all dressed in rich silks and cloth of gold.

  The ceremony and mass lasted for three hours, before the newlyweds knelt to be blessed by Henry and Elizabeth. Princess Catherine and Prince Arthur returned to the west door to be greeted by a pageant representing King Arthur, flanked by the kings of Spain and France, all dressed in full armour.

  Trumpets blasted fanfares as the crowds shouted ‘Long live Prince Arthur,’ and ‘Long live King Henry.’

  The entire wedding party made their way to Lambeth Palace for the grand banquet served on gold plates which were decorated with precious jewels.

  As she had done with each christening, Lady Margaret organised every detail of the young couple’s first official night together. Henry applauded with the others as Prince Arthur was led in a grand procession of laughing young nobles, some already drunk, into his bride's bedroom.

  The princess waited for him in their nuptial bed, where she was prepared by her ladies and blessed in readiness. Doña Elvira, her governess, had been tasked by Queen Isabella to ensure the consummation of her marriage observed the proper tradition.

  Henry turned to Elizabeth. ‘Our son is made a man at last.’ He raised his goblet of wine. ‘Here’s to the next generation of Tudors!’

  The next day a flotilla of more than forty barges carried the wedding party as they made their way upriver to Westminster, music playing as they went. A week of jousting and celebrations followed. Lady Margaret and her husband, the Earl of Derby, hosted a banquet for the Spanish guests at Coldharbour.

  A splendid tournament was staged at Westminster, where the open area in front of the cathedral was paved with fine stones and sand for the horses. Princess Catherine sat and watched with the Queen, Lady Margaret and her two new sisters-in-law, the Princesses Margaret and Mary Tudor. Prince Arthur sat across from the ladies with Henry, his brother Harry, the Earl of Oxford and the Earl of Derby.

  At the tournament Sir William Courtenay entered the lists disguised as a fire-breathing dragon, led by his squires walking on high stilts to give him the appearance of a giant. Others arrived in a large ship, which appeared to be propelled by oarsmen who sang lustily as they rowed.

  After a week at Westminster the whole court sailed on barges to Richmond Palace. Henry knew his grand palace could not fail to impress the many members of the Spanish Court who had accompanied the Princess and would report back to her parents.

  Chapter Eighteen

  March 1502

  Henry worked alone in his study, high in his tower at Richmond Palace overlooking the paved inner courtyard. Although the cold winter was coming to an end the paving glistened with a heavy frost. His grand Italian marble water fountain was still frozen solid, like some surreal sculpture carved from ice by nature. He suffered with the cold and wore his fur coat over his robes, despite a good fire burning in his hearth.

  His study was also his library, with shelves of precious books lining the walls. It was impossible to replace many of the books destroyed in the fire. As with the rebuilding, Henry had taken it as a challenge and sent his agents to scour the country for copies of the older works, haggling for best prices.

  The rising number of printing
presses in London meant new English translations could be found to fill his shelves. In one section were his most precious books, original works in Greek and Latin. Bound in green and red leather, they had by some miracle survived the flames.

  In the corner by the window sat his pet, Rodrigo, watching him with wide, lavender-blue eyes. Secured by a long chain, the little monkey groomed its fur, searching for fleas. Once he’d left it alone too long and it tore the pages of his precious diary into small pieces.

  Henry’s mother said he should keep the animal with the others in the Tower, but he found the exotic pet worth the cost of the servant who cared for it. He sometimes spoke to it as he worked on his chamber accounts, checking the long list of expenses, initialling those he approved and making notes for those he wished to question.

  He’d wished to make a good impression on the Spanish but it seemed he’d fed half the population of London at banquets which lasted for days. Even taking into account the first payment of the dowry from King Ferdinand, it was the most extravagant wedding the country had ever seen.

  Henry took some comfort from the knowledge that his investment would secure public support of his son as the future King of England. King Ferdinand was also obliged to pay the balance of the dowry, a hundred thousand crowns, which would more than offset the costs of Princess Catherine’s household.

  He often found the neat records tiring to read and cursed his eyes, which continued to worsen despite the lotions of fennel and celandine prepared by his physician. He rarely wrote letters in his own hand now, even to his mother. His long-suffering scribe, a young cleric, was tasked to read his letters aloud and note Henry’s dictated replies.

  He tutted to himself as he made a marginal note to check the payments made to Elizabeth’s household. His wife now had more than thirty noble ladies in attendance, as well as her nursery maids and other servants of her household. He’d encouraged her patronage and liked to see the bright young women at his court, but the costs of Arthur’s wedding had eaten into his reserves.