by Jean Plaidy
His answer would be cool and to the point. A Queen must go on bearing children as long as possible. It is her duty.
Did he, she wondered, ever give a thought to Katherine Lee, her own maid of honor? If he did, not even Katherine would know it. She doubted whether Henry was ever unfaithful to herself even in thought.
She had married a strange man, a cold man; but at least she had a faithful husband. Henry would indulge in a sexual relationship for only one purpose: the procreation of children; and to procreate children with any other partner than his wife would in his opinion be an unnecessary act.
There were times when the Queen of England wanted to cast aside her dignity and laugh aloud; but that would be hysterical laughter and the Queen was no more given to hysterical outbursts than her husband was.
So she bowed her head and told herself that she must inform her women that this would be one of the nights which the King would spend in her bed.
The Marriage of Arthur, Prince of Wales
THE INFANTA STOOD ON DECK AND WATCHED THE SPANISH coastline fade from view.
When would she see it again? she wondered.
Doña Elvira Manuel, the stern and even formidable duenna whom Queen Isabella had put in charge of the Infanta and her maids of honor, was also gazing at the land she was leaving; but Elvira did not share the Infanta’s sorrow. When she left Spain her authority began, and Elvira was a woman who dearly loved power.
She laid her hand on the Infanta’s arm and said: “You should not grieve. You are going to a new land whose Queen you will surely be one day.”
The Infanta did not answer. How could she expect Elvira Manuel to understand. She was praying silently, praying for courage, that she would not disgrace her family, that she would be able to remember all that her mother had taught her.
It had been a mistake to think of her mother. The thought had conjured up an image of that stern yet loving face which had changed in recent years. The Infanta remembered Queen Isabella, always full of quiet dignity but at the same time possessed of a purposeful energy. Sorrow had changed her—that sorrow which had come to her through her great love for her children.
In Spain I was dearly loved, thought the Infanta. What will happen to me in England? Who will love me there? I am not even beautiful as my maids of honor are. I shall look plainer than ever, compared with them. It was not kind of my father-in-law to stipulate that my maids of honor should all be handsome.
“All will be different,” she whispered.
Elvira Manuel said quickly: “Your Highness spoke?”
“I merely said that nothing will be the same, in this new land, as it has been in Spain. Even my name will be different. From now on I am no longer Catalina; I am Katharine. And they say there is little summer in England.”
“It cannot be colder there than it is in some parts of Spain.”
“But we shall miss the sun.”
“When you have children of your own you will not care whether or not the sun shines.”
The Infanta turned away and looked at the heaving waters. Yes, she thought, a son. Children would make her happy; she knew that. And she would have children. Her very device was the pomegranate, which to the Arabs signified fruitfulness. It reminded her of the pomegranate trees which grew so profusely, with the myrtle, in the gardens of the Alhambra. Whenever she saw her device, and she knew it would throughout her life be constantly with her, she would always remember the patios of Granada and the glistening waters in the fountains. She would think of her childhood, her parents and her brother and sisters. Would she always think of them with this deep yearning? Perhaps when she had children of her own she would overcome this desire to be back in her own childhood.
But it was long before she could expect children; and in the meantime she could only yearn for home.
“Oh, Mother,” she whispered, “I would give everything I have to be with you now.”
In the royal apartments in the Alhambra Queen Isabella would be thinking of her now. She could be certain of that. The Queen would pray for her daughter’s safety at sea until she reached England; then she would pray that her Catalina’s marriage with her English Prince might be fruitful, that Catalina might achieve a happiness which had been denied her sisters, Isabella and Juana, her brother Juan.
The Infanta shivered and Elvira said sharply: “A breeze is rising, Highness. You should retire to your cabin.”
“I am warm enough,” was the answer. She was unaware of the wind. She was thinking of early days in the nursery when they were all together. She felt almost unbearably sad to recall those days when she had sat at her mother’s knee while her sisters, Isabella and Maria, had worked at their tapestry and Juan read aloud to them. Her sister Juana had neither sat at her needlework nor read, nor nestled quietly at their mother’s feet—restless Juana who gave them all cause for such anxiety!
Her sister Isabella and her brother Juan were tragically dead; Maria had gone into Portugal recently to marry Isabella’s widower, Emanuel, King of Portugal. She would be happy there, for Emanuel was a kindly gentle man and would cherish Maria for the sake of her sister whom he had dearly loved. And Juana? Who could say what was happening to Juana? Her life would never run smoothly. There had been rumors that all was not well with her marriage to the handsome Archduke Philip and that in the Brussels court there was many a stormy scene of jealousy which ended in outbursts of strange conduct on Juana’s part.
All her life the Infanta had realized what a deep shadow her sister Juana cast over her mother’s happiness.
But that was the family she was leaving. What of the new one to which she was going?
“Arthur, Margaret, Henry, Mary.” She whispered their names. They would be her companions now; and to them she would be Katharine…no longer Catalina.
She was going into a new country. The King and Queen of England would be her father and mother now. “We shall regard the Infanta as our own daughter, and her happiness shall be our main concern….” Thus wrote the King of England to her mother, who had shown her those words.
“You see,” the Queen had said, “you will have a new family, so perhaps you will soon forget us all at home.”
At that she had been unable to preserve the dignity which was considered necessary to an Infanta of Spain, and had flung herself into her mother’s arms and sobbed: “I shall never forget you. I shall never cease to long for my return.”
Her mother had wept with her. Only we, her children, know how gentle she is, thought the Infanta. Only we know that she is the best mother in the world and that necessarily our hearts must break to leave her.
It was different, saying goodbye to her father.
He embraced her affectionately, kissed her fondly, but his eyes gleamed, not with tears at the parting but with satisfaction at the marriage. If he had had his way she would have been dispatched to England long before. He needed the friendship of England; he was eager for this marriage. He was fond of her, but the great loves of his life were power and money, and his feeling for his children was always second to the advantages they could bring him.
He had not attempted to hide his delight at the parting. There was little that was subtle about Ferdinand.
“Why, daughter,” he had said, “you’ll be Princess of Wales, and I’ll warrant it won’t be long before you’re Queen of England. You’ll not forget your home, my child?”
His meaning was different from that of her mother. The Queen meant: You will remember the love we bear each other, the happiness we have had together, all that I have taught you which will help you to bear your trials with fortitude. Ferdinand meant: Do not forget that you are a Spaniard. When you are at the Court of England be continually on the alert for the advantages of Spain.
“Write often,” Ferdinand had said, putting his lips close to her ear. “You know the channels through which any secret information should be sent to me.”
She closed her eyes now and looked at the gray waters.
It was true, a
storm was rising. The hazards of the sea were all about her. What if she should never reach England?
She gripped the rail and thought of Isabella and Juan, both of whom had finished with earthly trials. How long would it be before her mother joined them?
Such thoughts were wicked. She, not yet sixteen, to long for death!
Only in that moment had she realized the depth of her fear.
This is cowardice, she told herself sharply. How do I know what awaits me in England?
SICK FROM THE ROCKING of the ship, cold and drenched with sea water, Katharine stood on deck watching the land which grew more and more distinct as she stood there.
England! The land in which she was destined to be Queen.
Elvira was at her side. “Highness, you should prepare yourself to meet the King.”
“Do you think he will be at Plymouth to greet me?”
“Surely he will, and the Prince with him. Come! We must make you ready to receive them.”
They went to her cabin where her maids of honor clustered round her. All so much prettier than I, she thought; and she imagined Arthur, looking at them and being disappointed because she was the Infanta and his bride.
“We are far from London,” said Elvira. “I have heard that the journey to the capital will last three weeks.”
Katharine thought: Three weeks! What did it matter what discomfort she had to endure if it meant postponing the ceremony for three weeks!
When she was ready to go on deck the ship already lay at anchor. A beautiful sight met her eyes; the sun had come out and was discovering brilliants on the blue water. Stretched before her was the lovely coast of Devon, the grass of which was greener than any she had ever seen; and the gorse was golden.
Before her was Plymouth Hoe, and she saw that many people had gathered there and that they carried banners on which were the words—she knew little English but they were translated for her: “Welcome to the Princess of Wales!” “God bless the Infanta of Spain!”
There was the sound of cheering as she came on deck with her ladies, and she found that her spirits were lifted. Then she heard the bells ringing out and she saw a small boat approaching the ship; in it was a company of splendidly dressed men.
The English pilot who had brought them safely to England came to Katharine’s side and bowing to the veiled figure said: “Your Highness, you are safe from the sea. This is Plymouth Sound and the people of Devon are eager to show you how glad they are to have you with them. Here come the Mayor and his aldermen to give you formal welcome.”
She turned to an interpreter who stood beside her and told him to ask whether the King and Prince of Wales were in Plymouth.
“I doubt they could make the journey to Plymouth, Your Highness,” was the answer. “We are three weeks’ journey from London. But they will have sent orders that all are to welcome you right royally until they can do so themselves.”
She had a feeling that this was an apology for the absence of his King and Prince. It need not have been made to her. She was relieved that she could have a little respite before she met them.
She received the Mayor and his aldermen as graciously as even her mother could have wished.
“Tell them I am happy to be with them,” she said. “I am grateful that I have escaped the perils of the sea. I see a church steeple there. I would first like to go to church and give thanks for my safe arrival.”
“It shall be as Her Highness commands,” was the Mayor’s answer.
Then Katharine came ashore and the people of Plymouth crowded about her.
“Why,” they said, “she is naught but a child.” For although her face was veiled there was no doubt that she was young, and there was many a mother in the crowd who wiped her eyes to think of a young girl’s leaving her home and going to a strange land.
How brave she was! She gave no sign of her disquiet. “She’s a Princess,” they said, “every inch a Princess. God bless her.”
Thus Katharine of Aragon rode through the streets of Plymouth to give thanks for her safe arrival in England and to pray that she might give no offence to the people of her new country, but please them in every way.
Her spirits rose a little as she went through those streets in which the tang of the sea was evident. She smiled at the fresh faces which pressed forward to glimpse her. Their free and easy manners were strange to her; but they were showing her that they were pleased to see her, and that gave infinite comfort to a lonely girl.
THE JOURNEY TOWARDS LONDON had begun; it was inevitably a slow one, for the people of England had been commanded by their King to show a hearty welcome to the Princess from Spain. They needed no such injunctions; they were ever ready to accept an excuse for gaiety.
In the villages and towns through which the cavalcade passed the people halted its progress. The Princess must see their folk dances, must admire the floral decorations and the bonfires which were all in her honor.
They were attracted by this quiet Princess. She was such a child, such a shy, dignified young girl.
It was a pleasant journey indeed from Plymouth to Exeter, and Katharine was astonished by the warmth and brilliance of the sun. She had been told to expect mists and fog, but this was as pleasant as the Spanish sunshine; and never before had she seen such cool green grass.
At Exeter the nature of the journey changed. In that noble city she found more ceremony awaiting her than she had received in Plymouth, and she realized that thus it would be as she drew nearer to the capital.
Waiting to receive her was Lord Willoughby de Broke, who told her that he was High Steward of the King’s household and that it was the express command of His Majesty that all should be done for her comfort.
She assured him that nothing more could be done for her than had been done already; but he bowed and smiled gravely as though he believed she could have no notion of the extent of English hospitality.
Now about her lodgings were ranged the men at arms and yeomen, all in the royal green and white liveries—and a pleasant sight they were.
She made the acquaintance of her father’s ambassador to England and Scotland, Don Pedro de Ayala, an amusing and very witty man, whose stay in England seemed to have robbed him of his Spanish dignity. There was also Dr. de Puebla, a man whom she had been most anxious to meet because Ferdinand had warned her that if she had any secret matter to impart to him she might do it through Puebla.
Both these men, she realized, were to some extent her father’s spies, as most ambassadors were for their own countries. And how different were these two: Don Pedro de Ayala was an aristocrat who had received the title of Bishop of the Canaries. Handsome, elegant, he knew how to charm Katharine with his courtly manners. Puebla was of humble origin, a lawyer who had reached his present position through his own ingenuity. He was highly educated and despised all those who were not; and Ayala he put into this category, for the Bishop had spent his youth in riotous living and, since he came of a noble family, had not thought it necessary to achieve scholarship.
Puebla’s manner was a little sullen, for he told himself that if all had gone as he had wished he should have greeted the Infanta without the help of Ayala. As for Ayala, he was fully aware of Puebla’s feelings towards him and did everything he could to aggravate them.
As they left Exeter, Don Pedro de Ayala rode beside Katharine, and Lord Willoughby de Broke was on her other side, while Puebla was jostled into the background and fumed with rage because of this.
Ayala talked to Katharine in rapid Castilian which he knew Willoughby de Broke could not understand.
“I trust Your Highness has not been put out by this outrageous fellow, Puebla.”
“Indeed no,” replied Katharine. “I found him most attentive.”
“Beware of him. The fellow’s an adventurer and a Jew at that.”
“He is in the service of the Sovereigns of Spain,” she answered.
“Yes, Highness, but your noble father is fully aware that the fellow serves the King of En
gland more faithfully than he does the King and Queen of Spain.”
“Then why is he not recalled and another given his position?”
“Because, Highness, he understands the King of England and the King of England understands him. He has been long in England. In London he follows the profession of lawyer; he lives like an Englishman. Ah, I could tell you some tales of him. He is parsimonious—so much so that he brings disgrace to our country. He has his lodgings in a house of ill-fame and I have heard that when he does not dine at the King’s table he dines at this disreputable house at the cost of two pence a day. This, Highness, is a very small sum for a man in his position to spend, and I have heard it said that the landlord of this house is glad to accommodate him in exchange for certain favors.”
“What favors?” demanded Katharine.
“The man is a lawyer and practices as such; he is on good terms with the King of England. He protects his landlord against the law, Highness.”
“It seems strange that my father should employ the man if he is all you say he is.”
“His Highness believes him to have his uses. It is but a few years ago that the English King offered him a bishopric, which would have brought him good revenues.”
“And he did not accept?”
“He longed to accept, Highness, but could not do so without the consent of your royal parents. This was withheld.”
“Then it would seem that they value his services.”
“Oh, he has wriggled his way into the King’s confidence. But beware of the man, Highness. He is a Jew, and he bears his grudges like the rest.”
Katharine was silent, contemplating the unpleasantness of having to meet two ambassadors who clearly disliked each other; and she was not surprised when Puebla seized his opportunity to warn her against Ayala.
“A coxcomb, Highness. Do not put your trust in such a one. A Bishop! He knows nothing of law and has never mastered Latin. His manner of living is a disgrace to Spain and his cloth. Bishop indeed! He should be in Scotland now. It was for this purpose that he was sent to this country.”
