by Jean Plaidy
“And you are kind,” she answered.
“I am truthful,” he said. “That is not kindness, sister.”
“I am glad that I please you.”
His eyes narrowed suddenly in a manner which she already knew was a habit with him. “It is not I whom you wish to please,” he said sullenly. “Is that not so? It is my brother.”
“I wish to please every member of my new family.”
“You please Arthur,” he said, “and you please Henry. It is of no importance that you please the girls.”
“Oh, but it is…it is of the greatest importance.”
“You will please Margaret if you embroider.” He snapped his fingers. “Your eyes are too beautiful to strain with needlework. As for Mary, she is pleased by everyone who makes much of her. But you please me because you are beautiful. Is that not a better reason?”
“To embroider means to have learned how to do so. There is great credit in that. But if I should be beautiful—which I do not think I am—that would be no credit to me.”
“You will find that people in England admire your beauty more than your embroidery,” he told her. He frowned. He wished that he could think of something clever to say, the sort of remark which his tutor, John Skelton, would have made had he been present. Henry admired Skelton as much as anyone he knew. Skelton had taught his pupil a great deal—and not only from lesson books. Henry liked Skelton’s bold, swaggering speech, his quick wit, and had absorbed all that he had taught him about the way a gentleman should live and a good deal else besides; Skelton was not averse to repeating Court gossip and tales of the scandalous habits of some of the courtiers. Often certain information passed between them which was to be secret; Skelton had said: “You have to be a man, my Prince, as well as an Archbishop, and if by ill fate you should be forced to enter the Church then you will do well to sow your wild oats early.” Henry knew a great deal about the kind of wild oats which could be sown and was longing to sow some. He pitied poor Arthur under the tutelage of Dr. Linacre, a solemn, wise old man who thought—and endeavored to make Arthur agree with him—that the main object in life should be the mastery of Greek and Latin.
He wanted to tell Katharine now that although he was young he would doubtless make a better husband for her even at this stage than Arthur. But the precocious child did not know how to express such thoughts.
So he took her by the hand, this wondrously apparelled bride of his brother’s, and led her from the Palace to the Cathedral; and the people cheered and said: “What a handsome bridegroom our Prince Henry will make when his time comes!”
Henry heard and was pleased; yet he was angry at the same time. Life had given him all but one important thing, he believed. Good health, handsome looks, vitality, the power to excel—and then had made him the second son.
In the Cathedral a stage had been erected; it was circular in shape and large enough to contain eight people, including Katharine in her voluminous wedding dress. It was covered with scarlet cloth and about it a rail had been set up.
To this dais Henry led Katharine; and there waiting for her was Arthur, dazzling in white satin adorned with jewels.
Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York, watched the ceremony from a box at the side of the dais.
The King thought how small Arthur looked beside his bride and wondered whether the unhealthy whiteness of his skin was made more obvious by the hectic flush on his cheeks. He was still undecided. To consummate or not consummate? To make an effort to get a grandson quickly and perhaps endanger his heir’s health, or to let the pair wait a year or so? He had half the bride’s dowry already; he could scarcely wait to get his hands on the other half. He would have to watch Ferdinand. Ferdinand was continually planning wars; he wanted to see the Italian states under Spanish control; he would make all sorts of excuses about that second half of the dowry.
But I’ll keep him to it, thought Henry. If there were a child, that would make him realize the need to pay the second half quickly. He would be doubly pleased with the marriage if his daughter conceived and bore quickly.
And yet…
Elizabeth was conscious of her husband’s thoughts. They are too young, she considered. Arthur at least is too young. Over-excitement weakens him. If only Henry would talk to me about this matter! But what is the use of wishing that, when he never consults anyone. There will be one person to decide whether the young Infanta is to lose her virginity this night—and that will be the King of England. And as yet he is undecided.
The Archbishop of Canterbury with nineteen bishops and abbots was preparing to take part in the ceremony. Now he was demanding of the young couple that they repeat their vows; their voices were only just audible in the hushed Cathedral. The Infanta’s was firm enough; Arthur’s sounded feeble.
I trust, his mother thought uneasily, that he is not going to faint. It would be construed as an evil omen.
Her eyes rested long on her white-clad firstborn and she remembered that September day in Winchester Castle when she had first heard the feeble cries of her son.
She had been brought to bed in her chamber which had been hung with a rich arras; but she had insisted that one window should not be covered because she could not endure the thought of having all light and air shut out. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond, had been with her, and she had been grateful for her presence. Before this she had been considerably in awe of this formidable lady, for she knew that she was the only woman who had any real influence with the King.
The birth had been painful and she had been glad that she had only women to attend to her. Margaret had agreed with her that the delivery of babies was women’s work; so she had said farewell to all the gentlemen of the Court when her pains had begun and retired to her chamber, with her mother-in-law in charge of the female attendants.
How ill she had been! Arthur had arrived a month before he was expected, and afterwards she had suffered cruelly from the ague; but she had recovered and had tried not to dread the next confinement, which she knew was inevitable. A Queen must fight, even to the death, if necessary, to give her King and country heirs. It was her mission in life.
And there he was now—that fair, fragile baby, her firstborn—having lived precariously enough through a delicate childhood, preparing now to repeat the pattern with this young girl from Spain.
There was a tear in her eye and her lips were moving. She realized she was praying: “Preserve my son. Give him strength to serve his country. Give him happiness, long life and fruitful marriage.”
Elizabeth of York feared that she was praying for a miracle.
AFTER MASS HAD BEEN celebrated, the young bride and groom stood at the door of the Cathedral, and there the crowds were able to see them kneel while Arthur declared that he endowed his bride with a third of his property.
The people cheered.
“Long live the Prince and Princess of Wales!”
The couple rose, and there beside the bride was young Prince Henry as though determined not to be shut out from the center of attraction. He took the bride’s hand and walked with her and his brother to the banqueting hall in the Bishop’s Palace where a feast of great magnificence had been set out for them.
There Katharine was served on gold plate which was studded with precious gems; but as she ate she was thinking with trepidation of the night which lay before her, and she knew that her bridegroom shared her fears. She felt that she wanted to hold back the night; she was so frightened that she longed for her mother, longed to hear that calm, serene voice telling her that there was nothing to fear.
The feasting went on for several hours. How the English enjoyed their food! How many dishes there were! What quantities of wine!
The King was watching them. Was he aware of their fear? Katharine was beginning to believe that there was little the King did not understand.
The Queen was smiling too. How kind she was—or would have been if she had been allowed to be. The Queen would always be what h
er husband wished, thought Katharine; and there might be times when he wished her to be cruel.
Katharine had heard of the ceremony of putting the bride to bed. In England it was riotous and ribald…even among royalty. It could never have been so for her mother, she was sure. But these people were not dignified Spaniards; they were the lusty English.
She turned to Arthur who was trying to smile at her reassuringly, but she was sure his teeth were chattering.
THE MOMENT HAD COME and they were in the bedchamber. There was the bed, and the curtains were drawn back, while it was being blessed; Katharine knew enough English now to recognize the word fruitful.
She dared not look at Arthur, but she guessed how he was feeling.
The room was illuminated by many candles and their light shone on the scarlet arras, on the silk bed curtains and the many faces of those who had crowded into the bedchamber.
The King came to them and, laying a hand on the shoulder of each, he drew them towards him.
He said: “You are very young. Your lives lie before you. You are not yet ready for marriage, but this ceremony shall be a symbol, and when you are of an age to consummate the marriage then shall it be consummated.”
Katharine saw the relief in Arthur’s face and she herself felt as though she wanted to weep for joy. She was no longer afraid; nor was Arthur.
They were led to the bed and the curtains were drawn while their attendants stripped them of their clothes; and when there was nothing to cover their white naked bodies and they knelt side by side, still they were not afraid.
They prayed that they might do their duty; they prayed as all married people were expected to pray on the night of their nuptials. But this was no ordinary wedding night because it was the King’s express command that they were too young to consummate the marriage.
A cup of warm, sweet wine was brought to them and they drank as commanded. Then an attendant came and wrapped their robes about them. The ceremony was over.
The people who had crowded into the bedchamber departed; the servants of Katharine and Arthur—Spanish and English—remained in the antechamber; the door of the nuptial chamber was locked, and the bride and bridegroom were together.
Arthur said to her: “There is nothing to fear.”
“I heard the King’s command,” she answered.
Then he kissed her brow, and said: “In time I shall be your husband in truth.”
“In time,” she answered.
Then she lay down in the marriage bed still wearing the robe which her attendant had wrapped about her. The bed was big. Arthur lay down beside her in his robe.
“I am so tired,” said Katharine. “There was so much noise.”
Arthur said: “I am often tired, Katharine.”
“Goodnight, Arthur.”
“Goodnight, Katharine.”
They were so exhausted by the ceremonies and their attendant fears that soon they slept; and in the morning the virgin bride and groom were ready to continue with their wedding celebrations.
The Tragedy at Ludlow Castle
ALL LONDON WAS EAGER TO CELEBRATE THE MARRIAGE OF the Prince of Wales and the Infanta; the King was wise enough to know that his people must have some gaiety in their lives, and that if he allowed them to celebrate the marriage of his son, they might for a time forget the heavy taxes with which they were burdened.
“Let them make merry,” he said to Empson. “A fountain of wine here and there will be enough to satisfy them. Let there be plenty of pageantry. The nobles will provide that.”
Henry was even ready to contribute a little himself, for he was very anxious that his subjects should express their loyalty to the new Tudor dynasty. There was nothing the people loved so much as a royal wedding; and as this was the wedding of the boy who was destined to become their King, it was the King’s wish that the celebrations should continue.
Katharine felt a little bewildered by them. Arthur was tired of them, but young Henry revelled in them. Margaret uneasily wondered when her marriage would be celebrated, and as for little Mary, she was delighted whenever she was allowed to witness the pageantry.
The greatest pageant of all was staged at Westminster, to which the royal family travelled by barge. After the night following the wedding day, Katharine had been sent to Baynard’s Castle where she had been placed under the strict surveillance of Doña Elvira. The King had made it clear to the duenna that the marriage was not yet to be consummated; and as Elvira considered her Infanta as yet too young for the consummation she was determined that the King’s wishes should be respected.
So, by barge, came the Infanta with her duenna and lovely maids of honor.
Katharine sometimes wished that her maids of honor were not so beautiful. It was true that she was always dazzlingly attired, and her gowns were more magnificent than those of the girls, but beauty such as that possessed by some of these girls did not need fine clothes to show it off.
The people lined the river banks to cheer her on her way to Westminster and as she smiled and acknowledged their cheers she temporarily forgot her longing for home.
Alighting from her barge she saw that before Westminster Hall a tiltyard had been prepared. On the south side of this a stage had been erected; this was luxuriously hung with cloth of gold; and about the open space other stages, far less magnificent had been set up for the spectators.
This, Katharine discovered, was the joust, the Englishman’s idea of the perfect entertainment. Here the nobility of England would gather to tilt against each other.
On this, the occasion of the most important wedding in England, the great houses were determined to outshine each other, and this they endeavored to do with such extravagance that, as the champions entered the arena, there were continual gasps of wonder and wild applause.
Katharine was led on to the stage amid the cheers of the people; and there she seated herself on cushions of cloth of gold. With her were the King, the Queen and all the royal family. But she herself occupied the place of honor.
She thought how pleased her parents would be if they could see her now.
Beside her sat Arthur, looking pale and tired; but perhaps that was because Henry was also there, radiant and full of health. He had seated himself on a stool at the bride’s feet and sat clasping his hands about his knees in a manner which was both childish and dignified.
Margaret, of whom Katharine felt a little in awe, was seated with her mother, but Katharine noticed how she kept her eyes on young Henry. Little Mary could not resist bouncing up and down in her seat now and then with excitement. No one restrained her, for her childish ways found such favor with the people.
The King was pleased. At such moments he felt at ease. Here he sat in royal panoply, his family all about him—two Princes and two Princesses to remind any nobles, who might have disloyal thoughts concerning his right to the throne, that he was building the foundations of his house with firmness.
“Look,” said Henry. “There’s my uncle Dorset coming in.”
Katharine looked and saw the Queen’s half-brother entering the arena beneath a pavilion of cloth of gold which was held over him by four riders as he came. He looked magnificent in his shining armor.
“And,” cried Henry, “there’s my uncle Courtenay. Why, what is that he is riding on? I do declare it is a dragon!”
He gazed up at Katharine, eager to see what effect such wondrous sights were having upon her. Her serenity irritated him mildly. “I’ll warrant you do not see such sights in Spain,” he challenged.
“In Spain,” said Arthur, “there is the great ceremony of La Corrida.”
“I’ll warrant,” boasted Henry, “that there are no ceremonies in Spain to compare with those in England.”
“It is well,” Arthur replied, “that Katharine does not understand you or she would not admire your manners.”
Henry said: “I wish she would learn English more quickly. There is much I would say to her.”
Katharine smiled at the boy, whos
e attention was now turned back to the arena, where Lord William Courtenay, who had married Queen Elizabeth’s sister, came lumbering in astride his dragon.
Katharine was being introduced to English pageantry; she thought it a little vulgar, a little simple, but she could not help but marvel at the care which had gone into the making of these symbols; and the delight which they inspired was infectious.
Now came the Earl of Essex whose pavilion was in the form of a mountain of green on which were rocks, trees, flowers and herbs; and on top of the mountain sat a beautiful young girl with her long hair loose about her.
The spectators applauded wildly, but many of the nobles present whispered that Essex was a fool thus to display his wealth before the King’s avaricious eyes. His “mountain” was clearly very costly indeed and the days when nobles flaunted their wealth so blatantly were no longer with them.
So Katharine sat back in her place of honor and watched the jousting. She listened to the cheers of the people as their favorites rode into the arena; and she found her attention fixed not so much on those whose skill with the lance gave such pleasure to the company, but on the two brothers—her husband and Henry.
Henry’s eyes were narrow with concentration; his cheeks were flushed. It was clear that he longed to be down there in the arena and emerge as the champion. As for Arthur, he seemed to shrink into his golden seat, closing his eyes now and then when disaster threatened one of the combatants. He knew that death could easily result from these jousts and he had never been able to accept such accidents with equanimity.
That day there were no serious casualties and he was glad that it was November so that the dusk fell early and it was necessary to leave the tiltyard for the hall of the Palace, where the banquet and further entertainments were awaiting them.
At the center of the table on an elevated dais the King took his place, and on his left were seated Katharine, the Queen and the King’s revered mother, the Countess of Richmond. On the King’s right hand sat Arthur. Margaret and Mary were next to their grandmother on the Queen’s side, and on the King’s side next to Arthur, in order of precedence, were the nobility of England.
