by Jean Plaidy
“Well, what are you thinking?” Henry asked.
“If you are like this at twelve, what will you be at eighteen?”
Henry laughed aloud. “Much taller. I shall be the tallest English King. I shall stand over six feet. I shall outride all my subjects. I shall be recognized wherever I go as the King of England.”
“You do it as much as ever,” she said.
“What is that?”
“Begin every sentence with I.”
“And why should I not? Am I not to be the King?”
He was half laughing, but half in earnest. Margaret felt a new rush of sadness. She wished that she need not go to Scotland, that she could stay here in London and see this brother of hers mount the throne.
PUEBLA BROUGHT the news to Katharine. The little man was delighted. It seemed to him that what he had continued to work for during many difficult months was at last achieved. In his opinion there was only one way out of the Infanta’s predicament: marriage with the heir of England.
“Your Highness, I have at last prevailed upon the King to agree to your betrothal to the Prince of Wales.”
There had been many occasions when Katharine had considered this possibility, but now she was face to face with it and she realized how deeply it disturbed her.
She had at once to abandon all hope of returning home to Spain. She remembered too that she had been the wife of young Henry’s brother, and she felt therefore that the relationship between herself and Henry was too close. Moreover she was eighteen years old, Henry was twelve. Was not the disparity in their ages a little too great?
Yet were these the real reasons? Was she a little afraid of that arrogant, flamboyant Prince?
“When is this to take place?” she asked.
“The formal betrothal will be celebrated in the house of the Bishop of Salisbury in the near future.”
Katharine said quickly: “But I have been his brother’s wife. The affinity between us is too close.”
“The Pope will not withhold the Bull of Dispensation.”
There was no way out, Katharine realized, as she dismissed Puebla and went to her own apartment. She wanted to think of this alone, and not share it even with her maids of honor as yet.
She had escaped the father to fall to the son. She was certain that the King filled her with repugnance, but her feelings for young Henry were more difficult to analyze. The boy fascinated her as he seemed to fascinate everyone. But he was too bold, too arrogant.
He is only a boy, she told herself; and I am already a woman.
There came to her then an intense desire to escape, and impulsively she went to her table and sat down to write. This time she would write to her father, for she was sure of her mother’s support, and if she could move his heart, if she could bring him to ask her mother that she might return, Isabella would give way immediately.
How difficult it was to express these vague fears. She had never been able to express her emotions. Perhaps it was because she had always been taught to suppress them.
The words on the paper looked cold, without any great feeling.
“I have no inclination for a second marriage in England…”
She sat for some time staring at the words. Of what importance were her inclinations? She could almost hear her mother’s voice, gentle yet firm: “Have you forgotten, my dearest, that it is the duty of the daughters of Spain to subdue their own desires for the good of their country?”
What was the use? There was nothing to be done. She must steel herself, become resigned. She must serenely accept the fate which was thrust upon her.
She continued the letter:
“But I beg you do not consider my tastes or convenience, but in all things act as you think best.”
Then firmly she sealed the letter and, when her maids of honor came to her, she was still sitting with it in her hands.
She turned to them and spoke as though she were awakening from a dream. “I shall never again see my home, never again see my mother.”
THE HOT JUNE SUN beat down on the walls of the Bishop’s house in Fleet Street.
Inside that house Katharine of Aragon stood beside Henry, Prince of Wales, and was formally betrothed to him.
Katharine was thinking: It is irrevocable. When this boy is fifteen years old, I shall be past twenty. Can such a marriage be a happy one?
Henry studied his fiancée and was aware that she was not overjoyed at the prospect of their marriage. He was astounded, and this astonishment quickly turned to anger. How dared she not be overjoyed at the prospect! Here he was, the most handsome, the most popular and talented of Princes. Surely any woman should be overjoyed to contemplate marriage with him.
He thought of some of the girls he had seen about the Court. They were a constant provocation; they were very eager to please him and delighted when he noticed them. John Skelton was amused at such adventures, implying that they were worthy of a virile Prince. And this woman, who was not outstandingly beautiful, who had been his brother’s wife, dared to appear doubtful.
Henry looked at her coldly; when he took her hand he gave it no warm pressure; his small eyes were like pieces of flint; they had lost something of their deep blueness and were the color of the sea when a storm is brewing.
He was annoyed that he must go through with the betrothal. He wanted to snatch his hand away and say: “You do not care to marry me, Madam. Well, rest assured that affects me little. There are many Princesses in the world who would count you fortunate, but since you are blind to the advantage which is yours, let us have no betrothal.”
But there was his father, stern, pale, with the lines of pain etched on his face, and while he lived Prince Henry was only Prince of Wales, not King of England. It was doubly humiliating to realize that he dared not flout his father’s orders.
As for the King, he watched the betrothal with satisfaction. He was to keep the hundred thousand crowns which he had already received as the first payment of Katharine’s dowry and another hundred thousand crown would be paid on her marriage. Meanwhile she would receive nothing of that third of the revenues of Wales, Chester and Cornwall, which was her right on her marriage to Arthur; although when she married Henry she would receive a sum equal to that.
This was very satisfactory, mused the King. Katharine would remain in England; he would keep the first half of the dowry; she would not receive the revenues due to her; and the betrothal was merely a promise that she should marry the heir to England; so that if the King should change his mind about that before the Prince reached his fifteenth birthday—well, it would not be the first time that a Prince and Princess had undergone a betrothal ceremony which was not followed by a wedding.
Yes, very satisfactory. Thus he could keep what he had, maintain a truce with the Sovereigns of Spain, and shelve the marriage for a few years.
Now he was only waiting to hear from Naples. His own marriage was of more urgency than that of his son.
Out into the June sunshine of Fleet Street came a satisfied King, a sullen Prince and an apprehensive Princess.
NOW THAT KATHARINE was formally betrothed to the Prince of Wales, she could not be allowed to live in seclusion at Durham House, and life became more interesting for her.
The maids of honor were delighted by the turn of events because it meant that now they could go occasionally to Court. There was activity in their apartments as they hastily reviewed their wardrobes and bewailed the fact that their gowns were shabby and not of the latest fashion.
Katharine was upset. Badly she needed money. Her parents had written that they could send her nothing, because they needed everything they could lay their hands on to prosecute the war, and military events were not going well for Spain. Katharine must rely on the bounty of her father-in-law.
It had been uncomfortable having to rely on the bounty of a miser. And it was the fact that she was unable to pay her servants that had upset Katharine most.
But now that she was betrothed to his son, the King could
no longer allow her to live in penury, and grudgingly he made her an allowance. This was relief, but as it was necessary to maintain a large household, and debts had been steadily mounting, the allowance was quickly swallowed up, and although the situation was relieved considerably, comparative poverty still prevailed at Durham House.
Doña Elvira was the only one who resented the change. She was jealous of her power and was becoming anxious to settle the matter of Maria de Rojas and Iñigo.
It was all very well to prevent letters, concerning Maria’s hoped-for marriage to the grandson of the Earl of Derby, from reaching the Sovereigns, but this was not arranging a match between Maria and Iñigo.
She had given Iñigo full power over the pages and he was continually seeking the company of the maids of honor—Maria de Rojas in particular. He was not popular however and Hernan Duque complained of his insolent manner.
This infuriated Elvira, who promptly wrote off to Isabella declaring that, if she were to be responsible for the Infanta’s household, she could not have interference from their Highnesses’ ambassadors and envoys.
Isabella, who put complete trust in Elvira as her daughter’s guardian, wrote reprovingly to Hernan Duque; and this so delighted Elvira that she became more domineering than ever.
Katharine was growing weary of Elvira’s rule. She was no longer a child and she felt that it was time that she herself took charge of her own household. She began by commanding Juan de Cuero to hand over some of her plate and jewels, which she pawned in order to pay her servants’ wages.
When Elvira heard of this she protested, but Katharine was determined to have her way in this matter.
“These are my jewels and plate,” she said. “I shall do with them as I will.”
“But they are part of the dowry which you will bring to your husband.”
“I will use them instead of the revenues I was to have received from my late husband,” answered Katharine. “The jewels and plate will not be needed until I am married to the Prince of Wales. Then I shall receive an amount similar to that which I have had to renounce. I shall redeem the jewels with that.”
Doña Elvira could not believe that her hold on Katharine was slackening, nor that it was possible for her to be defeated in any way.
So she continued, as determined as ever to govern the household, not realizing that Katharine was growing up.
KATHARINE FOUND Maria de Rojas in a state of despondency.
“What ails you, Maria?”
Maria blurted out that she had met her lover at the Court and that he was less ardent.
“What could one expect?” demanded Maria. “All this time we have waited, and your mother ignores your requests on my behalf.”
“It seems so very strange to me,” said Katharine. “It is unlike her to ignore such a matter, for she would clearly see it as her duty to look to the welfare of my attendants.”
Katharine pondering the matter remembered that Iñigo was hoping for Maria, and that Doña Elvira approved of his choice. That was certain, for he would never have dared show it if that had not been so.
Katharine said slowly: “I will write to my mother again, and this time I will send the letter by a secret messenger—not through the usual channels. It has occurred to me, Maria, that something—or someone—may have prevented my mother from receiving those letters.”
Maria lifted her head and stared at her mistress.
Understanding dawned in Maria’s eyes.
THE LETTER WAS WRITTEN; the secret messenger was found. A few days after he had left—far too soon to hope for a reply to that letter—Katharine, seated at her window, saw a courier arrive and knew that he brought dispatches from Spain.
It was six months since her betrothal to Henry in the Bishop of Salisbury’s house in Fleet Street, and now that she had become accustomed to the idea that she must marry young Henry she had come to terms with life. The slight relief which the new turn of affairs had brought to her living standards was welcome, and life was far more tolerable.
She found that she could speak English fairly fluently now, and as she grew accustomed to her country of adoption she was even growing fond of it.
News from Spain always made her heart leap with hope and fear; and this message was obviously an important one. There was an urgency about the courier as he leaped from his saddle and, not even glancing at the groom who took his horse, hurried into the house.
She did not wait for him to be brought to her, but went down to meet him. She was determined now that letters should come direct to her, and that they should not first pass through the hands of Doña Elvira.
She came into the hall and saw the courier standing there. Doña Elvira was already there. The courier looked stricken, and when she saw that Doña Elvira had begun to weep, a terrible anxiety came to Katharine.
“What has happened?” she demanded.
The courier opened his mouth as though he were trying to speak but could not find the words. Doña Elvira was holding a kerchief to her eyes.
“Tell me…quickly!” cried Katharine.
It was Doña Elvira who spoke. She lowered her kerchief and Katharine saw that her face was blotched with tears, and that this was no assumed grief.
“Your Highness,” she began. “Oh…my dearest Highness…this is the most terrible calamity which could befall us. How can I tell you…knowing what she meant to you? How can I be the one?”
Katharine heard her own voice speaking; she whispered: “Not…my mother!”
There was no answer, so she knew it was so. This was indeed the greatest calamity.
“She is sick? She is ill? She has been sick for so long. If she had not been sick…life would have been different here. She would never have allowed…”
She was talking…talking to hold off the news she feared to hear.
Doña Elvira had recovered herself. She said: “Highness, come to your apartment. I will look after you there.”
“My mother…” said Katharine. “She is…”
“God rest her soul!” murmured Elvira. “She was a saint. There will be rejoicing in Heaven.”
“It is so then?” said Katharine piteously. She was like a child pleading: Tell me it is not so. Tell me that she is ill…that she will recover. What can I do if she is not there? She has always been there…even though we were parted. How can I live with the knowledge that she is gone…that she is dead?
“She has passed peacefully to her rest,” said Doña Elvira. “Her care for you was evident right at the end. The last thing she did was to have the Bull of Dispensation brought to her. She knew before she died that an affinity with Arthur could not stand in the way of your marriage with Henry. She satisfied herself that your future was assured and then…she made her will and lay down to die.”
Katharine turned away, but Elvira was beside her.
“Leave me,” said Katharine. “I wish to be alone.”
Elvira did not insist and Katharine went to her room. She lay on her bed and drew the curtains so that she felt shut in with her grief.
“She has gone,” she said to herself. “I have lost the dearest friend I ever had. No one will ever take her place. Oh God, how can I endure to stay in a world where she is not?”
Then she seemed to hear that voice reproving her—stern yet kind, so serene, so understanding always. “When your time comes, my daughter, you will be taken to your rest. Until that time you must bear the tribulations which God sees fit to lay upon you. Bear them nobly, Catalina, my dear one, because that is what I would have you do.”
“I will do all that you wish me to,” said Katharine.
Then she closed her eyes and began to pray, pray for courage to bear whatever life had to offer her, courage to live in a world which no longer contained Isabella of Castile.
Maria de Rojas
THE KING OF ENGLAND WAS FURIOUS.
His envoy had returned from Naples with reports that the Queen of Naples was plump and comely; she had remarkably beautiful eyes and he
r breath was sweet.
Henry cared nothing for this, since he had discovered that the Queen of Naples had no claim whatsoever on the crown of Naples and was nothing more than a pensioner of Ferdinand.
He had been deceived. The Sovereigns had tried to trick him into marriage. Much valuable time had been lost and he was no nearer to getting himself sons than he had been at the time of his wife’s death.
One could not trust Ferdinand. There was not a more crafty statesman in the whole of Europe.
Moreover what was Ferdinand’s position since the death of Isabella? All knew that the senior in the partnership had been the Queen of Castile. What was Aragon compared with Castile? And although the marriage of the Sovereigns had united Spain the Castilians were not prepared to accept Ferdinand as their King now that Isabella was dead.
Isabella’s daughter Juana had been declared heiress of Castile, which meant that her husband Philip was the King. He was in a similar position to that which Ferdinand had occupied with Isabella. And Ferdinand? He was merely relegated to be King of Aragon…a very different rank from King of Spain.
Ferdinand was sly; he was unreliable. He would feel little anxiety concerning his daughter in England. All that had come from Isabella.
There was another matter which had upset the King of England. He had made a treaty with the Spanish Sovereigns to the effect that English sailors should have the freedom of Spanish ports and that they should be able to do business there on the same terms as Spaniards. He had just received news from certain merchants and sailors that this agreement had not been respected, and that they who had gone to Seville in good faith had found the old restrictions of trading brought against them, so that, unprepared as they were, they had suffered great losses.
“So this,” Henry had said, “is the way Ferdinand of Aragon keeps his promises.”
He sent for Puebla, and demanded an explanation.
Puebla had none. He was bewildered. He would write with all speed to Ferdinand, he had said, and there should be just restitution for the Englishmen.
