by Jean Plaidy
The King said: “Pray leave the Queen and myself. We will share this painful sorrow alone.”
The Friar left them and even when the door shut on them they did not move towards each other; and for some seconds there was silence between them.
It was the King who broke it. “This is a bitter blow.”
She nodded. “He was never strong. I always feared it. Now it has befallen us.”
She lifted her eyes to her husband’s face and she was suddenly aware of a deep pity for him. She looked at the lean face, the lines etched by the sides of his mouth; the eyes which were too alert. She read the thoughts behind that lean and clever face. The heir to the throne was dead, and there was only one male child left to him. There was also a nobility which he would never trust and which was constantly on the alert to shout that the Tudors had no legitimate claim to the throne. All her life Elizabeth had lived close to the struggle to win and keep a crown. It was painful to her now that her husband should not think of Arthur as their dear son, but as the heir.
He would never know what it was to love, to feel acute sorrow such as she was feeling now. Should she feel envious of him because he did not suffer as she did through the loss of their son? No, even in this bitter moment she felt sorry for him because he would never know the joy of loving.
“Why does God do this to us?” demanded Henry harshly. “The Friar has just said that if we receive good at the hands of God, we must patiently sustain the ill He sends us.”
“It is true,” said Elizabeth. She went to the window and looked out on the river as it flowed peacefully past this Palace of Greenwich. “We have much for which to thank God,” she added.
“But this was my eldest son…my heir!”
“You must not grieve. You must remember that you have your duty to do. You have other children.”
“Yet the plague could carry off our children in a few hours.”
“Arthur was not strong enough to withstand the attack. The others are stronger. Why, Henry, your mother had but you, and look to what you have come. You have one healthy Prince and two Princesses.”
“Henry is my heir now,” mused the King.
Elizabeth had left the window and was walking towards him. She had to comfort him.
“Henry,” she said, “we are not old. Perhaps we shall have more children. More sons.”
The King seemed somewhat pacified. He put his arm about her and said with more feeling than he usually displayed: “You have been a good wife to me. But of course we shall get ourselves more sons.”
She closed her eyes and tried to smile. She was thinking of the nights ahead which must be dedicated to the begetting of children. She longed for peace at night. She was growing more and more aware of her need for rest. She thought of the weary months of pregnancy, which must precede a birth.
But it was the duty of Queens to turn their backs on sorrow, to stop grieving for the children who were lost to them, and to think of those as yet unborn.
Henry took her hand and raised it to his cold lips.
He said as he released it: “I see trouble ahead with regard to Katharine’s dowry. If only Arthur had lived another year it should all have been paid over, and perhaps by that time Arthur would have got her with child.”
The Queen did not answer; she fancied that her husband was reproving their delicate son for dying at a time most inconvenient to his father’s schemes.
Poor Henry! she mused. He knows nothing of love. He knows little of anything but statecraft and the best methods of filling the coffers of his treasury.
Why should she say Poor Henry! when he was quite unaware of any lack in his life? Perhaps she should say Poor Katharine, who at this time lay sick at Ludlow, her dowry half paid, her position most insecure. What would happen to Katharine of Aragon now? The Queen of England would do all in her power to help the poor child, but what power had the Queen of England?
BEFORE THE burnished mirror in his apartment young Henry stood.
He had received the news with mingled feelings. Arthur…dead! He had known it must happen, but it was nevertheless a shock when the news came.
Never to see Arthur again! Never to show off his superior prowess, never to strut before the delicate brother. It made him feel a little sad.
But what great avenues were opening out before him. To be Prince of Wales when one had been Duke of York! This was no trifling title, for one who had been destined to become Archbishop of Canterbury would one day be King of England.
King of England! The little eyes were alight with pleasure; the smooth cheeks flushed pink. Now the homage he received would be doubled, the cries of the people in the streets intensified.
No longer Prince Henry—but Henry, Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of England.
“Henry VIII of England!” There were no sweeter words in the English language.
When he contemplated them and all they meant he could cease to grieve for the death of his delicate brother Arthur.
IN A LITTER, covered with black velvet and black cloth, Katharine travelled from Ludlow to Richmond. How different was this journey from that other which she had taken such a short time before with Arthur!
The weather had changed, but Katharine was unaware of all the beauty of an English spring. She could think only of the husband whom she had lost, the husband who had been no husband.
And then there came a sudden blinding flash of hope as she remembered the fate of her sister Isabella, which was so like her own. Isabella had gone into Portugal to marry the heir to the throne, and shortly after their marriage he had died in a hunting accident. The result was that Isabella had returned to Spain.
Now, thought Katharine, they will send me home. I shall see my mother again.
So how could she be completely unhappy at that prospect? She believed that this time next year her stay in England would be like a distant dream. She would wander through the flagged corridors of the Alhambra; she would look through her windows on to the Courtyard of Lions; she would stray into the Court of Myrtles, and her mother would be beside her. The pomegranate would no longer merely be a device; it would be all about her—growing in the gardens, pictured on the shields and the walls of her parents’ palace. Happiest of all, her mother would be beside her. “You did your duty,” she would say. “You went uncomplaining to England. Now, my Catalina, you shall stay with me for ever.”
Katharine of Aragon would again become Catalina, Infanta, beloved daughter of the Queen.
So, as she went on her way to Richmond, she thought tenderly of Arthur who had been so kind to her in life, and who in death would, she believed, bring her relief from bondage.
QUEEN ELIZABETH was waiting to receive the widow.
Poor child! she thought. She will be desolate. How will she feel, alone in a strange land? Does she realize how her position has changed? She, who was Princess of Wales, is now merely a Spanish Princess, who has been married in name only. If there had been an heir on the way the circumstances would have changed considerably. But now…what is her position? How sad that girls should be used thus by ambitious men.
The King came to her apartment. He gave her that cool appraising look which she knew meant that he was looking for some sign of pregnancy.
She said: “The Infanta should arrive at Richmond tomorrow, I believe.”
A wary look replaced the speculative one in the King’s eyes.
“I will keep her with me for a while,” went on the Queen. “This is a terrible shock for her.”
“It would not be wise for her to remain at Richmond,” said the King quickly.
The Queen did not answer, but waited for his commands.
“She should be installed with her household outside the Court,” went on the King.
“I thought that, so soon after her bereavement…”
The King looked surprised. It was rarely that the Queen sought to question his orders.
“This is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs,” he said. “Our son dead w
ithin a few months of his marriage, and that marriage never consummated—or at least so we believe.”
“You have reason to suspect that it was consummated?” asked the Queen sharply.
The King shrugged his shoulders. “I ordered that it should not be, but they went to Wales together—two young people, not displeased with each other. It would not have been impossible for them to be together…alone.”
“If this happened,” said the Queen excitedly, “if Katharine should be with child…”
“Then she would be carrying the heir to the throne. Our son Henry would not be pleased, I’ll swear.”
“Henry! He is so like my father sometimes that I do not know whether to rejoice or tremble.”
“I thank God we have our son Henry, but I am not an old man myself, and I should have some years left to me…enough that Henry may be of age before his turn comes to take the throne. But, as you say, what if Katharine should be carrying a child? It is possible, although I doubt Arthur would have gone against my expressed wish. If only he had lived a few months longer. You may be sure there will be difficulty with those Spaniards.”
“They will be more inclined to meet your demands if we treat their daughter well.”
“I shall treat her as her dignity warrants. She shall stay with you at Richmond for a day or so; until she has had time to overcome her grief. Then she shall take up residence in the house opposite Twickenham Church. She shall live there with her own suite. Remember, she has no claim on us now and it would be as well that she shall not be at Court until we have negotiated with her parents as to what is to become of her.”
The Queen bowed her head. It was no use pleading with her husband. She would not be able to comfort the young girl, to treat her as she would a sorrowing daughter. The King would have the Sovereigns of Spain know that the death of the Prince of Wales had put their daughter in a precarious position.
KATHARINE WAS SORRY that she could not stay with the Court at Richmond, but she believed this to be only a waiting period, for she was certain that, as soon as her parents heard the news, they would give orders that she return to Spain. But it would take a little time for the message to reach Spain and for the Sovereigns’ orders to be sent to England.
It would have been pleasant to have had the company of Henry and Margaret. Margaret herself was in need of comfort, for she was soon to depart to Scotland as a bride.
But this could not be and, after a brief stay at Richmond, Katharine and her household were removed to a turreted house with the church opposite, and Doña Elvira took charge of all household arrangements.
It was soon decided that the palace of the Bishop of Durham, which was situated on the Strand, would be a more suitable dwelling for the Infanta; and so to Durham House she went.
Elvira was delighted with this seclusion because it meant that, removed from the Court as they were, she was in charge of the entire household. Her husband, Don Pedro Manrique, and her son, Don Iñigo, held high posts in Katharine’s household and Elvira was ambitious for them. She had determined that Maria de Rojas should be betrothed to Iñigo; she believed that Maria’s dowry would be a large one.
Elvira often thought of her brother, Don Juan Manuel, whose service to the Sovereigns should not go unrewarded. Isabella, she knew, thought highly of him and he should have had more honors than he had so far received. Elvira guessed that it was Ferdinand who barred his way to success, for Ferdinand was constantly seeking favors for his illegitimate children and, although the Queen insisted on having her way, Ferdinand was full of cunning and often scored in spite of his wife.
If there were no King Ferdinand, Elvira often thought, Juan would receive his dues.
She wished sometimes that she were in Spain; she felt sure that she would have been able to expedite Juan’s rise to favor in the same efficient way in which she was able to look after Iñigo’s in London.
But for the moment she was contented. The Infanta had reverted to her care, and as she was now a widow in a difficult situation, she relied on Elvira. Isabella would soon be sending instructions, and those instructions would come to Elvira.
So life in Durham House took on the pattern of that of a Spanish Alcazar. The English tongue was rarely heard; the English nobles who had held places in the entourage of the Prince and Princess of Wales disappeared, and their places were taken by Spaniards. Don Pedro Manrique was once more the first Chamberlain; Don Juan de Cuero was treasurer; Alessandro Geraldini remained the Infanta’s confessor; and Don Iñigo was at the head of her pages. Elvira ruled the household; but that did not mean that the animosity, which she had engendered in the heart and mind of Geraldini, was abated. Rather it had intensified.
Puebla remembered insults which the duenna did not cease to heap upon him.
Ayala watched mischievously, fearing that soon he might be recalled to Spain and so miss the fun which, he felt sure, must be lurking in such a delicate situation.
AS THE PARTY RODE towards Richmond, people stopped to stare at it.
“Spaniards!” they whispered. They knew, for they had seen Spaniards in plenty since the Infanta had come to England.
Something was afoot. Perhaps the gentleman who rode at the head of that party of foreigners had come to take the widowed Infanta back to Spain.
The party was riding towards the Palace where the King was in residence.
Hernan Duque de Estrada was thoughtful; he did not notice the attention he and his party attracted. He had a difficult task before him, which he did not relish; and it was going to be made doubly difficult because of his imperfect knowledge of the English language.
Beside him rode Dr. de Puebla—a man whom he could not like. How was it possible for an Asturian nobleman to have a fondness for a marrano! The fellow might be clever—it was clear that the Sovereigns thought so—but his appearance and his manners were enough to make a Spanish nobleman shudder.
Ayala was of a different kind. A nobleman to his fingertips, but lightminded. Hernan Duque was not very happy with his two colleagues.
“There lies the Palace of Richmond,” said Ayala, and Hernan Duque saw the line of buildings, the projecting towers, the far from symmetrical turrets. He, who had come hot-foot from the Alhambra, was not impressed by the architecture of the country, and he forgot momentarily that the beautiful building with which he was comparing this Palace was a masterpiece of Arabic, not Spanish, architecture.
“The King is often at Richmond,” Ayala explained. “He has a feeling for the place. It may well be that he likes to be near the river, for Greenwich is another favorite residence.”
Puebla put in: “And so we are to obey you without question.”
“The express orders of the Sovereigns,” Hernan Duque replied.
“It seems strange,” grumbled Puebla. “We, who have been here so long, understand the situation so much better than anyone in Spain possibly could.”
“I have their Highnesses’ instructions. It would go ill with you if you did not do all in your power to help me carry them out.”
Puebla tossed his head. “I do not envy you your task. You will find the Tudor is not an easy man with whom to drive a bargain.”
“It is so unfortunate that the death of the Prince occurred at this time.”
“What is your first move?” Ayala asked.
Hernan Duque looked over his shoulder.
“Let us ride on ahead,” said Ayala. “It is better to be absolutely sure. Although it is doubtless safe enough to talk. The English cannot learn the languages of others. Their secret belief is that all who do not speak English are barbarians and that foreigners deserve the name in any case.”
“An insular people,” murmured Duque. “I pity our Infanta.”
“Why should you? Do you not carry orders from their Highnesses that she is to return to Spain?”
“I brought three documents with me. You have seen the first…that which commanded you to obey me in all matters concerning this affair. The second and third are for the ey
es of the King. But he will not see the third until he has digested the second. Nor shall he know at this stage that it exists.”
“And the second?” asked Puebla.
“It demands the return of the hundred thousand crowns, the first half of the dowry, which has already been paid.”
“Do you wish to break the heart of the King of England?” demanded Ayala.
“He will not relish this, I know.”
“Relish it!” screamed Ayala. “The King loves those hundred thousand crowns more than he loved his son. You cannot deal him another blow—one so close on the other.”
“I shall do more. I shall demand those revenues which the Prince of Wales promised to his wife on the day of their marriage.”
“The King will never consent to that.”
“I shall then ask for the return of the Infanta to Spain.”
“With the spoils,” put in Ayala, laughing. “Not so bad—the dowry, one third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, and our Infanta, virginity intact. A pleasant little adventure for the Infanta, and a remunerative one for the Sovereigns. Ah, do you think the King of England will agree?”
“He will not like this, I know,” said Duque. “He will refuse, for I doubt not that he will never be induced to part with the money. Yet what alternative has he except to incur the displeasure of the Sovereigns of Spain? That is why the third document is of such great importance.”
“And this third document?” Puebla asked eagerly.
Duque looked once more over his shoulder. “The King has a second son,” he said quietly.
“Ah!” whispered Ayala.
“Dangerous!” Puebla put in. “He is her brother by marriage. Are we not told in Leviticus that a man is forbidden to marry his brother’s widow?”
“The Pope would give the dispensation. He gave it to Emanuel of Portugal when he married the Infanta Maria on the death of her sister Isabella.”
