by Tony Riches
His mother waited while her servant filled her Venetian glass with the watery mead she now drank. ‘Once the issue of your widowed daughter-in-law is resolved.’ She watched his face, waiting to see his reaction. ‘Prince Harry has been betrothed to Princess Catherine for a year now.’
‘We wait for the papal dispensation—and it suits us to delay. King Ferdinand has only paid half of the dowry he agreed.’
Henry pushed his plate of pie to one side and the servant took it away, replacing it with a dish of larks cooked in mace and ginger. He picked at the tiny bones, searching for the succulent meat. ‘I shall have the dowry paid in full.’
‘And in the meantime you keep Princess Catherine as a hostage to her misfortune?’
His mother was right. He’d been so overtaken by grief and illness he’d forgotten how difficult the uncertainty must be for Princess Catherine. It was Elizabeth, not him, who moved her from Ludlow to Durham Manor, a bishop’s palace overlooking the Thames.
Henry took another sip of his wine. ‘We had to wait to see if she was with child. After that...’ He didn’t want to talk about what happened after that.
‘I understand she has never said her marriage was not consummated, yet that is what we must accept.’
‘What about Prince Arthur’s reputation?’ Henry felt the old wound reopen.
It was unfortunate that he’d first heard the news from the Spanish Ambassador. Doctor Rodrigo de Puebla informed Henry that Doña Elvira, governess of Princess Catherine’s household, had already confirmed to King Ferdinand that his daughter remained a virgin. Henry reacted with outrage before he’d understood the game they all played.
De Puebla claimed to have done his best to defend Prince Arthur’s honour. Henry recalled how the stubborn Doña Elvira had tried to prevent him even seeing the princess at their first meeting. This could be her act of revenge, to slight the name of Tudor and blacken his son’s memory.
His mother’s chair creaked as she leaned forward. ‘If you question her word, it will mean returning the princess to Spain, as well as her dowry.’
Henry frowned. ‘I shall keep my silence, although the world knows they lived as man and wife.’
‘Then we will wait for the dispensation—and you must prepare Prince Harry.’
Prince Harry had hardly spoken with him since Elizabeth’s death, a situation Henry wished to correct without further delay. Even when he’d decided to make Harry Prince of Wales there were few words exchanged between them. He’d always been close to Elizabeth and Henry suspected he blamed him for her death.
He decided he would not risk allowing his second son to be based in the doomed castle at Ludlow. Instead he would be moved from Eltham to Richmond Palace, where he should begin to learn the duties of a king. He summoned Harry to tell him the good news.
Harry was already taller than Henry, with the solid build and confidence of his maternal grandfather. He wore a fashionable doublet and had an iridescent feather in his cap. A silver dagger shone at his belt and he wore a thick gold chain around his neck.
He also had something his self-opinionated tutors might have taught him but Henry doubted it. Harry had a presence, a strength of character he’d never seen in Arthur. He was young, yet he had the makings of a king.
‘Come out to the stables,’ Henry grinned as he greeted his son, ‘I have something for you.’
They crossed the cobble-stoned stable yard to where one of Henry’s grooms held a lively black stallion by the bridle. Henry patted its neck. The horse was the finest he had ever seen and cost him a small fortune.
‘It’s yours, Harry, a present to celebrate your birthday.’
Harry grinned. ‘You remembered.’
‘Thirteen years.’ Henry studied his son, much as he had the horse. ‘You’re big enough for this horse now—a destrier, a worthy mount for the joust.’
‘Thank you, Father. It’s the finest horse I’ve ever seen.’ Harry ran a hand over its smooth flank. ‘Does it have a name?’
‘Draig.’ Welsh for dragon. Like me, he was born in Wales.’
‘Might I ride him,’ Harry pleaded, ‘in the tourney?’
‘You may try him at the quintain first.’ Henry grinned at his son’s eagerness. ‘You must have the measure of him before you try him in a joust.’
With a jolt he recalled the men he’d seen die jousting. He’d wished Arthur would ride at the joust but realised he could not afford to take such risks with his sole surviving heir. He would watch over Harry, keep him close, keep him safe.
Henry designed the royal apartments at Richmond Palace to allow for privacy. Before the fire at the old palace of Sheen, his rooms were connected to Elizabeth’s by a long, narrow corridor. Poorly-lit, the floorboards used to creak. The passageway was also used by servants, who would scuttle back and forth like mice in the kitchens.
The rebuilding improved this arrangement with a private interconnecting door. Henry often used it to visit Elizabeth without the need to pass his guards and servants, who had their own door and stairway leading to the service accommodation.
He’d not been in the queen’s apartments since her death, so it felt strange to open the door and step into her room. He lifted his hand to knock, as he once used to out of courtesy, as if he half expected to see her there, surrounded by her gossiping ladies. Her outer chamber was exactly as he remembered, with colourful tapestries to brighten the walls, and the low, silk covered chairs.
It had taken him more than a year to come to terms with his loss and he’d kept Elizabeth’s room exactly as she left it, a shrine to her memory. His mother persuaded him the room should be used by Prince Harry, now he’d moved with his growing retinue of tutors and servants from Eltham Palace. It would give them the chance to know each other better and he’d be able to keep an eye on him.
He stood there, remembering Elizabeth. If he closed his eyes he could picture her, working on her embroidery by the light of the window, looking up at him with a twinkle in her eye. He imagined he could hear her in her bedchamber, singing in her soft, tuneful voice as she prepared for bed.
He opened his eyes and realised he wasn’t imagining it. Someone was in Elizabeth’s bedchamber. A woman, probably a servant. He frowned in annoyance, as he’d wanted a private moment in her room. Crossing to the closed door, he reached for the handle then hesitated. The singing stopped at the sound of his footsteps.
Henry pushed the door open and stared. Lady Katheryn Gordon’s blue eyes held his for a moment. He’d not seen her for so long the sight of her brought back a confusion of repressed memories. While he’d aged with illness and grief, she looked as beautiful as ever. She sat at the elegant desk where Elizabeth once wrote her letters, with a quill in her hand.
She stopped her work and stood to curtsey as he entered. ‘Your Grace.’ Her voice still had the soft Scottish accent he’d found so attractive.
‘I...’ Henry struggled to think why she should be there. He’d not been alone with her since their first meeting, when she’d bewitched him into being lenient with her errant husband. He knew it wasn’t right for them to have been alone together that first time and they should not be alone together now.
He realised she wore one of the dresses he’d given her, a rich black-and-crimson velvet gown with gold embroidery. A coif and formal hood hid her hair, making her look older. He guessed she must be about thirty now but she still retained her slender figure.
She seemed to understand his awkwardness. ‘Lady Margaret asked me to note everything in the room, before we have the servants clear it.’ She gestured to the desk where she’d been working on a list.
Henry realised it wasn’t too late to change his mind. There were other apartments that would suit Prince Harry, although none so close. A part of him wished to cling to Elizabeth’s memory. It seemed as if by clearing her rooms all trace of her would be lost.
The lid of one of her wooden chests was open and there was a casket on the table, next to some leather bound books belongin
g to Elizabeth, including her precious book of hours.
He looked at Lady Katheryn. ‘I thought you might return—to Scotland?’ He’d given no thought to what became of Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting. The year had passed in a dark emptiness of grief and illness, with his mother doing what she could to deal with matters in his prolonged absence.
‘My life is here, Your Grace. Lady Margaret took me into her household and has shown me kindness.’
‘I didn’t know...’
‘I was sorry... about the queen, Your Grace.’ Her voice was soft. Hesitant to talk about his loss, she took one step closer to him then stopped, as if unsure what to say or do.
Henry spotted neat piles of Elizabeth’s clothes behind her on the bed and crossed over to them. He picked up one of her white gloves. The fingers seemed too small, as if meant for a child. He wanted to remember her as the beautiful, intelligent woman she had once been, not the pale shadow, clinging to life on her deathbed.
‘I wish these gloves as a keepsake. The rest of her clothes must go.’ He glanced across at the desk. ‘I’ll also take her book of hours.’
‘There is some jewellery, Your Grace.’ Lady Katheryn took the casket from the table and opened the lid before handing it to him.
Henry examined the contents. Diamonds glinted in the light amidst gold broaches, rings and necklaces. He reached in and took out a pearl necklace. It had been a present from him, one of Elizabeth’s favourites. He held it up to take a closer look. Each pearl was perfect and glowed with an incandescent light.
‘I would like you to have this, for your service to the queen.’ He handed her the necklace.
She hesitated, then stepped forward. ‘I shall treasure her memory.’
Henry smiled. They had been an unlikely pairing. He would never have expected his wife to have befriended the wife of his adversary, but then Lady Katheryn was no ordinary lady-in-waiting. She was a cousin to the Scottish King, now linked to the Tudors through his daughter’s marriage.
‘Let me help you with it.’
‘You want me to wear it now?’
He held it out in both hands and she turned so he could fasten it at the back of her neck. The gold clasp was a delicate test for his eyesight but he managed and stepped back. He’d been so close he felt the warmth of her neck.
She faced him and examined the pearls. ‘They are exquisite, Your Grace.’ her eyes sparkled. ‘Thank you.’
Henry watched as she crossed to Elizabeth’s table where she’d been working. Dipping her quill in ink she offered it to him. ‘Might I ask you to initial the list, Your Grace.’
He crossed to the table and took the quill from her. ‘I must confess, my sight is not so perfect as it was for reading—although I see your writing is impeccable. She smiled and guided his hand to the item on the list. He breathed her delicate perfume as he wrote gift to Lady Kateryn and initialled it. An idea occurred to him.
‘I’m concerned about my daughter, Margaret. Since she married your cousin I’ve heard little from her. I will recommend you as her lady-in-waiting.’ He studied her face, watching for her reaction. ‘You could become my agent in the Scottish court and tell me how she is?’
Lady Katheryn’s eyes widened at his suggestion. ‘Your lady mother is in mourning for her late husband. She has little need for my company. If you wish me to return to Scotland, then...’
‘Or you could assist me?’ The thought had been forming at the back of his mind from the moment he’d seen her in Elizabeth’s room. He felt as flustered as a young boy as he realised how his suggestion would sound. ‘Bishop Foxe, my secretary, has his duties in Winchester. The cleric who helps with my letters is a worthy man yet poor company.’
She smiled again. ‘I would be honoured, Your Grace. although...’
‘You are concerned at what people might say?’
Katheryn nodded. ‘Not for my reputation.’
‘Let them say what they wish. I will speak to my mother, Lady Katheryn, and welcome you to my household.’
Chapter Twenty-One
June 1505
Henry decided to visit Princess Catherine. He’d heard disconcerting rumours about the growing number of Spanish courtiers now living at Durham House, the bishop’s palace by the Thames. He had also received complaints from her about her allowance and decided to see her situation for himself.
Ambassador de Puebla, his trusted source of information on the health of the princess, had fallen ill. Instead, he had to rely on the arrogant Don Pedro de Ayala, who accompanied him as they rode from Westminster.
‘I regret to tell you the princess is in great debt, Your Grace. She finds it difficult to manage her household on her current allowance.’
Henry glanced across at him, noting the implied criticism in the Spaniard’s words. ‘I’ve heard as much from Doctor Puebla, although I also know she brought a fortune in jewels from Spain as part of her dowry.’
Don Pedro shook his head. ‘Princess Catherine had no choice but to sell some of her jewels. The rest are used as collateral for loans, which now become due.’
‘I don’t see why she has to maintain such a household. Many of those who arrived with her have returned to Spain?’
‘They have, Your Grace, including Doña Elvira, who kept her household in order.’
‘Her governess is gone?’ Henry remembered the stern Doña Elvira and wasn’t sorry he’d not see her again. Doctor Puebla disliked her and suggested she was a bad influence on the princess.
‘Doña Elvira became blind in one eye, Your Grace, and retired back to her homeland. I’ve done what I can to support the princess and informed her father of her plight—yet I must confess you will find her in reduced circumstances.’
The news jolted a memory for Henry. His mother had told him to make proper provision for Princess Catherine. Grief and his own poor health had distracted him from attending to her welfare and now Don Pedro’s words troubled him.
When they arrived at Durham House the scene was one of a hasty attempt to conceal disorder. Henry sensed that Don Pedro sent word ahead to prepare for his visit but he wasn’t fooled. He knew the signs of a poorly run household. Well-trodden rushes crackled underfoot and cold ashes spilled over the neglected hearth. It seemed Princess Catherine was missing her formidable housekeeper.
Princess Catherine appeared wearing a long-sleeved mourning gown, her hair covered with a black Spanish hood. Born two months after his coronation, she would now be nineteen years old, a reminder of how long he’d been on the throne.
‘Welcome, Your Grace.’ She curtseyed but her face remained impassive.
Henry studied her for a moment. He noted a plain silver crucifix worn on a chain under a hint of a double chin. He also noted the neat repairs to the sleeves and hem of her gown. It seemed Don Pedro might be right about her hardship.
‘Good day, Princess Catherine. I’ve not seen you since the loss of your mother and offer my condolences.’ He replied in French, a language they shared.
‘Thank you, Your Grace, it has been a difficult time for us all.’ Her English was little improved since their last meeting. She stared back at him with sadness in her eyes. ‘May I speak with you—in private?’
Henry glanced at Don Pedro. ‘Of course.’
She led him into a room that smelt of cheap tallow candles, with views out over the gardens leading to the river. Again, he noted the old rushes under his feet. Her allowance should provide for such things. Henry realised Catherine was struggling to find the words as she clasped her hands together.
‘Please do not abandon me, Your Grace.’ She spoke again in French and the pleading in her voice was unmistakable.
Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘I have not... abandoned you, Princess Catherine.’ He glanced around the well-appointed room. ‘You have a fine palace—and more people in attendance than I can count.’
‘I have no money left. The allowance you provided has stopped and I’ve had to sell the jewellery and gold plate I brought with me from
Spain to pay for food for myself and my household.’ She spoke so fast her shrill voice sounded hysterical, with her Spanish accent returning.
Henry took a step back. He’d forgotten to renew her allowance and guessed she wished to ask him for more money. All the same, the passion of her outburst left him speechless for a moment. He should not have agreed to see her without the ambassador.
She stared at him with wild eyes. ‘My good mother is dead and my father refuses to send me money. He wrote that I am to depend on Your Grace for my maintenance. I am the widow of one of your sons and betrothed to another, yet I must dress in rags and eat pottage—like a servant?’
‘I will increase your allowance to a hundred pounds, and will write to your father about your dowry, which remains an obstacle between us. In the meantime, you must reduce the number of your household to only those necessary.’
As he returned to Westminster, Henry resolved to keep a closer eye on Princess Catherine. It had been a mistake to leave her to her own devices. Without her governess, she had whittled away her fortune.
All he wished was to end the drawn-out wrangling over the dowry and make the best marriage he could for his son. Bishop Foxe devised a plan to break the deadlock, yet now Henry had to explain it, the whole idea troubled him.
Prince Harry appeared confused. ‘So does that mean I will no longer marry Princess Catherine, Father?’ He’d taken to pacing the room, as Henry did when he was agitated. He still wore his heavy riding boots and they clumped on the wooden floorboards. He also wore a short sword, hanging low at his belt.
Henry shook his head. ‘The death of Queen Isabella means King Ferdinand no longer has the same importance as an ally.’
‘I don’t see what difference that makes, Father. I am old enough to marry now—and to start a family, if I wish to.’
He’d not expected Harry to object, although he had been told he’d marry Princess Catherine on the eve of his fourteenth birthday. Henry didn’t want to compromise his relationship with his son yet had to listen to his advisors. Harry was young and impatient, so all Henry could do was hope he would learn the value of waiting until the time was right.
