by Tony Riches
Henry sat in a high-backed gilded chair on the raised stage, under a cloth of gold canopy of estate, for the welcoming festivities in the great hall of Windsor Castle. Duke Philip, as guest of honour, sat to his right with the ambassador, Don Pedro and his senior nobles. Henry’s mother sat to his left, with Prince Harry and his daughter Mary, who would soon be celebrating her tenth birthday.
Unlike Harry, who grew more like a Plantagenet each day, Mary already had the willowy beauty of the Woodville women. She’d inherited Henry’s love of music and often reminded him of her mother. Mary had also become a great favourite of her grandmother and sometimes showed signs of Lady Margaret’s Beaufort steel.
As well as providing them with the best view of the entertainments, the red carpeted stage meant they looked down on the other guests. These were seated around the walls of the long hall, leaving an open dance floor in the centre.
Musicians tuned their instruments and played a few lively bars on fiddles and flutes, creating an air of anticipation as the guests assembled. Henry turned to his mother, who’d been responsible for arranging the evening’s entertainments.
‘What have you planned for us tonight, lady Mother?’
‘You will not be disappointed.’ Lady Margaret glanced at Duke Philip, who had already emptied one goblet of wine and was eyeing young ladies as he started on the next. ‘And neither will your guest.’ The note of disapproval in her voice was only heard by Henry.
Heads turned as the herald announced the arrival of Princess Catherine of Aragon. He’d expected Catherine to be resentful following the delays to her marriage to Harry. Instead, she’d flourished since being presented at court.
She wore a magnificent gown of scarlet velvet with a row of gold scallop shells decorating the square neckline. In place of the plain silver crucifix she wore a gold collar studded with diamonds, which sparkled in the light.
Flanked by two attractive Spanish ladies-in-waiting, Catherine looked ready to become a queen. She stared up at Henry and glanced once at Harry, seated at his side, before her elegant curtsey.
‘Good evening, Your Grace,’ she turned her head towards Harry, ‘and to you, my lord prince.’ She spoke in passable English.
‘Your understanding of English improves, Princess Catherine.’
‘I’ve had some,’ she struggled for the right word, ‘tuition from your daughter, Princess Mary, Your Grace.’
‘Good.’ Henry gestured towards the duke. ‘May I present Duke Philip, soon to be crowned King of Castile.’
Princess Catherine curtseyed to the duke. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Duke Philip. I should like to see my sister Joanna?’ She spoke to him in rapid Spanish.
The duke glanced at Henry. ‘My wife has been sent for. She should arrive in a day or so.’ He replied in Spanish.
After she left the duke turned to Henry. ‘She wishes to see her sister,’ he explained. ‘You would do well to watch her. You know she tells her father everything?’
The musicians struck up a traditional dance before Henry could reply. He turned to watch. Harry had already joined in and danced with an attractive lady Henry had never seen before. He glanced around for Lady Katheryn to ask her who it was and spotted her dancing with a handsome young courtier. He felt a flicker of jealousy and made a mental note to find out who the young man was.
Princess Catherine approached the duke and spoke to him in rapid Spanish. Henry didn’t understand what they said but Duke Philip was shaking his head. Curious, Henry leant across.
‘She asked you to dance with her?’
The duke gave him a wry look. ‘I told her I’m a mariner—not a dancer.’
Henry grinned. ‘That’s not what I recall from our last meeting at Guisnes Castle.’
The duke gave him a knowing look and glanced across at Catherine. ‘Her father would claim the throne of Castile if he could.’
‘I consider her father an important ally...’
‘Yet you recognise my right to Castile?’
Henry nodded. ‘I would feel obliged to—if you return the traitor, Edmund de la Pole.’
Duke Philip sat back in his chair. ‘I promised not to support him—but not to send him to his death.’ There was an arrogant edge to his voice, suggesting he had no idea he’d be held in England until he agreed.
The dance floor cleared except for Henry’s daughter Mary, who prepared to play her lute. She wore a blue silk gown, trimmed with gold lace, which Henry had bought for her. She looked up at him with shining eyes. He felt a flutter of concern for her as a group of young courtiers laughed at some shared joke. It would be difficult for Mary to hold the attention of her audience.
Then she began to play, her slender young fingers moving with amazing skill. Henry recognised the piece immediately as Elizabeth’s favourite. Seeing Princess Mary dressed like her mother, Henry’s heart filled with pride and sadness. Elizabeth would have loved to see her daughter play with such confidence in tribute to her.
When she finished to a thunder of applause, two servants carried her clavichord onto the dance floor. Although intended more for practice than for concerts, as she began to sing the room fell silent, spellbound by her clear young voice.
Princess Mary stood and gave a graceful curtsey after her performance to more rapturous applause. The servants carried away her instruments and she was joined by Catherine and one of her Spanish ladies, with the ambassador Don Pedro and two handsome young Spanish nobles as partners.
Henry’s minstrels were replaced with Princess Catherine’s musicians, who began playing a haunting Spanish dance, accompanied by drummers who struck up a rhythmic, hypnotic beat.
With their partners kneeling on one knee, Catherine, Mary and the Spanish lady swirled around them in circles, their long gowns billowing out as they spun. Henry watched in amazement to see how well his daughter had learnt the formal Spanish dance. He also noticed Prince Harry catch Catherine’s eye, grinning and applauding with the others.
Looking beautiful in her scarlet gown, Princess Catherine took the central role in the dance. Mary and her lady deferred to her as she danced with each of the men in turn, and even Don Pedro bowed to her when their dance ended.
Henry knew this was no spontaneous act on Catherine’s part. She must have taught Mary and rehearsed every move, as their dancing was striking and accomplished, arranged to display her importance to Duke Philip and also to attract Prince Harry. His mother must have helped her bring her own musicians to Windsor. Henry realised he must not under estimate Princess Catherine.
He was alone in his private apartments in the new three-storey tower he’d had built when his servant announced that Princess Catherine wished to see him. He was about to turn her away, mindful of her outburst at the bishop’s palace, then his curiosity got the better of him. He suspected she wished to warn him about Duke Philip, her father’s rival.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace.’
He could see concern in her eyes and realised something important had happened. ‘What is it?’
‘Might we speak in French, Your Grace?’ Her face reddened. ‘I am still finding English a difficult language.’
‘Of course.’ Henry replied in French.
‘My sister... Joanna has arrived here in Windsor.’
‘Good. I look forward to meeting her.’
‘That’s why I’ve asked to see you. Her husband is telling everyone she is mad and should be locked away.’ Her Spanish accent returned. ‘My sister told me he plans to rule Castile without her, Your Grace. He has treated her without respect and takes mistresses to dishonour her.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Duke Philip said your father wishes to rule in her place. Is that true?’
Princess Catherine’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘He would not wish my sister to be treated like this.’ She studied his face, as if trying to make a judgement. ‘Will you see my sister Joanna, in private, to hear her side?’
Henry nodded. ‘I had her brought here for exactly th
at reason. Bring her to me.’
Catherine curtseyed. ‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
After she left, Henry reflected on the implications of what she’d told him. He recalled his Uncle Jasper telling him about the madness of his own stepbrother, King Henry VI. Once, in his grief, he’d thought he was going mad. If what Catherine told him was true, it would be the cruellest trick Duke Philip could play on his wife. At the same time, he would expect Catherine to protect her sister’s interests.
A knock on the door announced their arrival and his servant showed them in. Queen Joanna wore a blue gown so dark it made her look as if she was in mourning. She had the same round face, blue eyes and reddish-gold hair as Catherine, showing under an embroidered Spanish coif. They both curtseyed and he invited them to come in and take a seat.
Joanna spoke first, in accented but fluent French. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Your Grace.’ She attempted a smile. ‘You will forgive me but I speak little English.’
Henry returned her smile and replied in French. ‘The honour is mine, Queen Joanna. I have heard much about you.’
He felt pity for Catherine’s attractive elder sister and her plight appealed to his sense of chivalry. Although she was one of the richest women in Spain and a queen in her own right, he sensed her deep despair.
Princess Catherine turned to her sister. ‘King Henry wishes you to speak the truth about your situation. You must speak freely.’
Joanna took a deep breath. ‘I am not mad, although my husband and my father conspire to drive me insane.’
‘Your father?’
Joanna nodded. ‘My father declared I am unfit to rule. He persuaded the Castilian nobles he should rule in my place–and even had coins minted, naming him as king. Now we fear my husband will go to war with him for the crown of Castile....’
‘Which is why he sails with so many German mercenaries?’ Henry understood now, although he didn’t see what he could do about it.
He sat between his mother and the duke at the banquet. The Bishop of London said a long grace, then Henry’s liveried servants carried in the first course, civet of hare, venison from the king’s herd and a loin of veal, covered with saffron and flavoured with cloves. Henry tore a chunk of bread and dipped it in the rich sauce.
He turned to the duke. ‘I have a proposal for you regarding Edmund de la Pole.’ Henry studied the man and realised he was already a little the worse for drink.
The duke held up his empty goblet for a servant to refill. ‘With respect, Your Grace, I’ve already told you I’ll not return him to have you cut off his head.’ As if to make his point, he cut a trencher of bread from a loaf with his knife.
‘I’m prepared to give you my word he’ll not be executed. I need you to order his transfer to Calais. He would have to face trial for treason—but I can exercise my prerogative if he is found guilty.’ Henry could see the duke was wavering now, and it might be his best chance.
A servant brought a sturgeon cooked in parsley and covered with powdered ginger, as well as a fierce pike with savage teeth, which appeared to be snarling from its silver platter, surrounded by small silver eels to represent the water.
Duke Philip chose the sturgeon. ‘Perhaps it was destiny that blew us onto your shores, King Henry, as I would be happy to agree such an arrangement.’ He cut a chunk of pale flesh from the sturgeon and tasted it. ‘I have a proposal of my own.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Duke Philip leant across. Your daughter, Princess Mary, is most talented.’ He grinned. ‘She would make a fine wife for my son Charles.’
Henry picked at a plate of fried whitebait. He liked the tiny fish although his teeth were giving him trouble again. He knew the duke’s son would be about six years old and would one day inherit not only the crown of Castile but also the duke’s other lands in Burgundy and perhaps even Aragon.
He called for more wine and raised his silver goblet in the air. ‘To our children, Duke Philip, and prosperity.’
As he drank the wine he glanced at his mother. She sat in silence at his side, missing nothing. He glimpsed a look of satisfaction on her face and realised the whole thing had been part of her plan.
The two last dishes were exotic fruits, gilt sugar-plums and pomegranates, in tribute to their Spanish guests. Henry turned to his mother.
‘What do you think of the prospect of this marriage of Princess Mary, lady Mother?’
‘After the days of his grandfather Maximilian, young Charles could become Emperor of Rome, with Mary at his side.’
Henry nodded. Such a marriage would bind their alliance against Ferdinand, as well as placing the Tudors at the centre of the world stage.
Henry decided to return to Richmond Palace as the leaves began to turn brown on the trees. Elizabeth’s greyhound sprawled in front of the fire in his study as Lady Katheryn helped him deal with his letters.
‘The pope has finally granted the dispensation for Prince Harry to marry Princess Catherine.’ She held up the parchment with a large wax seal for Henry to see.
‘I know. It was delivered by a papal emissary but I have been... too busy to acknowledge it.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I have still not heard from Catherine’s father. He plays games with us, Katheryn.’
‘I doubt he ever intended to pay the dowry.’ She lay the parchment down on the desk and stroked the greyhound, which raised its head, alerted by the tone of her voice.
For a moment it seemed to Henry as if Elizabeth was back in the room. With a jolt he realised Katheryn was wearing one of Elizabeth’s gowns. She must have altered it to fit. He remembered the dress now, as he watched her stroke the dog’s head, just as his wife used to.
He still didn’t understand why Katheryn showed him such kindness, but he’d grown fond of her and relied on her every day now. He listened to her advice yet she never asked for favours for herself or others.
He realised she was waiting for his response. ‘Perhaps you are right—but it’s a matter of principle, despite all that has changed.’
Katheryn broke the seal on another letter and scanned the contents. ‘Doctor Puebla says he has news of great importance that he must deliver in person.’
Henry sat up, intrigued. ‘The ambassador has a taste for the theatrical—but send for him, if you will?’
‘Do you think it concerns your daughter Mary’s marriage?’
‘God willing, Katheryn, God willing.’
The Spanish ambassador, Doctor Rodrigo de Puebla, was now only able to walk with the aid of a stick. His once jet-black hair showed ashen grey under his wide-brimmed Spanish hat, making him look even older than his advancing years. He sat heavily in one of Henry’s chairs and explained the important news from Spain.
‘It regards Archduke Philip, Your Grace, and I regret it is not good.’
‘He is ill?’ Henry had heard little from the duke since his visit to Windsor, although he had kept his word and Edmund de la Pole was now locked up in the Tower of London.
‘He is dead, Your Grace.’ De Puebla lowered his voice. ‘They say from too much drink and womanizing, although he was a relatively young man—and well used to drinking.’ He gave Henry a knowing look.
‘You think he might have been poisoned?’
Henry guessed who might be the culprit. He was prepared to bet it would not be long before Ferdinand was crowned King of Castile. A thought occurred to him.
‘What has become of Queen Joanna?’
‘She tries to rule,’ the ambassador shook his head, ‘although she does not have the support of the noble families, who think she suffers with madness.’
‘Nonsense!’ Henry’s chivalric instinct rose to protect her again, as it had when he met Joanna at Windsor Castle.
‘I regret, Your Grace, it seems she has refused to permit the burial of her husband’s body. I understand she has his coffin carried around with her... and keeps it in her chambers.’
True or not, Henry knew the story would have been enough for Ferdinand to hav
e his daughter locked away. He would insist on it for her own good. He felt his plans unravelling in an instant. Ferdinand had won after all, and he would no doubt oppose the marriage of Princess Mary.
Chapter Twenty-Three
April 1507
Henry gasped for a drink. His throat was as dry as parchment and he could hardly speak. The dreaded quinsy had returned, causing a painful swelling in his throat that made it impossible to swallow. He’d taken to his bed in a weakened state and would only see his mother and physicians.
His mother stood at his bedside with a silver cup in her hand and a frown of concern on her face. ‘You must take a sip, Henry.’ Her voice carried stern authority, as if she was speaking to a small child.
He tried to reply. ‘Pray for me...’ His words rasped like the growl of an old dog. He could see she struggled to understand. Leaning forward in his bed, he sipped the milk with sweet mead, warmed so it soothed his raw throat. Henry tried to swallow and choked, spluttering the drink over his embroidered silk coverlet.
He lay back and closed his eyes as he heard his mother calling in a shrill voice for the physician. She was always so controlled, particularly when dealing with physicians. To hear her note of panic could only mean she suspected the worst. He’d seen it in her eyes, the dreadful fear of a parent that they might outlive their child.
Henry slipped back into one of his favourite dreams, of the day he would be reunited in Heaven with his beloved Elizabeth and Arthur. Somewhere at the back of his mind doubt at the possibility of ever seeing them again lingered. Margaret’s confessor, John Fisher, spent long hours at his bedside to ensure he didn’t lose his faith in God’s providence.
His fiftieth birthday had passed without celebration in January. When he failed to appear on St George’s Day, a time when he would be seen by his people, rumours began to spread through the taverns of London. Some even suggested he was dead, those closest to him keeping up a pretence.
