And with a bow she left me.
After what seemed an hour I heard rude sounds outside the bedchamber door. The raucous singing, hooting, drunken cries and loud laughter of young men. I could make out a few words, most of them words that made me blush. The door flew open and Arthur, wearing nothing but his thin, short nightshirt, was pushed inside. Behind him I could see the laughing faces of a dozen or so companions, shoving and snickering. Then the door closed.
I trembled at the sight of my dear Arthur, coming toward me, staggering as he came, and holding out his arms. For the firelight revealed that he was shockingly, painfully frail: so frail, in fact, that I was afraid his bones could break at the slightest touch. He grinned at me, the silly grin of a boy who has drunk far too much wine. Then he swayed, and lurched to the bed, and without saying a word to me he collapsed onto the velvet counterpane.
3
What was I to do?
Arthur was asleep. He was snoring. There was nothing I could do but climb up into the heavy oak bed with its four massive columns and lie under the warm fur coverings, listening to Arthur’s ragged breathing.
I lay there all night. I couldn’t sleep. I felt rejected, insulted, and very sad.
How could my Arthur, with his lightness of spirit and zest for amusement, turn into a drunken lout? How could he have abandoned me so cruelly, and on our wedding night? How could he have changed so much, so quickly?
Early in the morning he got up and left our bedchamber, without saying a word to me. When Doña Elvira, Maria de Caceres and my other ladies came in to attend me and found me alone, they were puzzled.
“Where has the bridegroom gone?” Doña Elvira teased. Instead of answering, I shook my head, trying very hard not to cry.
Doña Elvira hurried the others from the room—but not before Maria Juana had observed my troubled state. She looked at me fixedly through narrowed eyes, then left. Only Doña Elvira and my dresser remained. Maria drew a soft cloth from a pocket of her gown and held it out to me. I wiped my eyes.
“What’s this, Catalina?” Doña Elvira said impatiently. “Where has he gone? To brag to his friends? To boast of his conquest?”
In an attempt to recover my dignity, I stood as tall as I could, and answered Doña Elvira, but my voice broke slightly as I did so. And I was aware of Maria’s sympathetic glance. What I read in her eyes was, “Poor lamb.”
“There was no conquest,” I managed to say.
“You have not lain together, as man and wife?” was Maria’s question.
I shook my head.
Doña Elvira threw up her hands in exasperation.
“But they are waiting to see the sheets! They are waiting now! The trumpeters have already come!”
I remembered my mother telling me how, on the morning after her wedding night, the bloodstained sheets from the bed she had shared with my father were displayed with pride to all the nobles of the court, as drums beat and trumpets blew a triumphant fanfare. Bloody bedclothes were a sure sign that the bride had been a virgin when she came to her husband for the first time—and that he had been manly and strong, and had taken his prize. It was something to be celebrated, especially when the bride and groom were royal, and their children would carry on the succession to the throne.
“There are no bloodstained sheets then,” Maria said, adding, after a moment’s thought, “unless we were to cut off the head of a chicken, and—”
But by then Arthur had come into the room, no longer the tottering, drunken boy who had collapsed on our bed the night before but a prince in full majesty, looking very handsome and fully sober. He was dressed in a blue velvet doublet braided with gold. On his head was a blue velvet cap with a white feather.
“What is this talk of bloodstains and beheaded chickens? Of trumpets and barbaric Spanish ceremonies? We’ll have none of that here in my father’s kingdom!”
And he ordered the guardsmen who had entered the room behind him to send the trumpeters away, along with anyone who had come to witness the evidence of our lovemaking.
At the sight of Arthur I brightened, and when he spoke, I began to feel greatly relieved. My Arthur, my husband, the boy I loved, had returned to me—and had intervened to solve the dilemma of our need to prove a physical union that had not yet happened. Surely it would happen, and soon. Arthur’s drunkenness, and my dismay, were passing things; my anticipation and excitement began to return.
But after we had dined together, and the last of the servants had left us, we had a quiet talk that deflated my renewed hopes.
Arthur assured me of his love, then asked my forgiveness and understanding.
“I disappointed you last night,” he said, “and I am so very sorry. But it was only because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” I asked him.
“Afraid that I would fail.” He shook his head. “I regret my fear. My companions were taunting me, wagering with one another over how many times I could invade Spain, as they put it, on my wedding night.
“Their jokes and taunts made me uneasy. To calm my fears, I drank too much wine, and—” He shrugged. “By the time I reached our bedchamber, and saw you, looking so like an angel—”
He shook his head again.
I could not help pitying him.
That night we retired together in our bedchamber. Blazing logs high-piled in the hearth warmed the room, and our bed had been warmed with a heated iron, so that when we climbed into it and pulled the coverings over us, we were comfortable.
Arthur took me in his arms as we lay there, the only sound in the room the sharp crackling of the logs, the firelight playing on the walls. I could feel Arthur’s heart beating. Lying against him as I was, I could also feel the bones of his chest, he was so thin.
He stroked my hair softly. I closed my eyes and sighed. After a time Arthur broke the silence between us.
“A prince is never supposed to fail at anything. Yet I fail at everything. In the tiltyard, in the forest when we hunt, at the gaming table when we play cards and cast dice. I cannot dance—my leg hurts too much.”
“You are heir to the throne. Never forget that. That is your triumph over every failure.”
He looked at me. “Thank you, Catherine,” he murmured, and I cupped his face between my hands, his skin as soft and smooth as a child’s, and kissed him full on the mouth.
I had never kissed a boy before. The kiss was sweet, so very sweet. I lost myself in its depths. I lost everything but sensation, feeling, an indescribable warmth. I was sure the same thing was happening to him.
When our kiss finally ended, we looked at each other for a long time.
“Loving is not a skill, like dancing,” I whispered. “It is an urge, like hunger and thirst.”
After that we gave ourselves to loving.
* * *
But no, I must not write that: the truth was, we tried to give ourselves to loving. Arthur struggled to perform as men do, and I did my best to help and encourage him. The more effort he made, the more the exertion exhausted him. He began to grow short of breath. His face grew very red. He coughed. He soon abandoned his efforts.
I remained a virgin.
* * *
The next morning I summoned my physician, Dr. Alcaraz, and told him what had happened. I confided everything to him, including my worst fear, which was that I would be sent back to my parents’ court in disgrace.
Dr. Alcaraz said little, but listened closely to all that I told him, and pondered it. He was a thoughtful man, who had studied at the famed university at Salerno and had read the works of the most learned Arab physicians. I respected his knowledge and his skill.
“From what you have told me, Infanta Catalina, and from what I have seen of the prince your husband, it would seem that you are not in any way to blame for what has happened. You do not displease the prince. Should anyone say otherwise, I will dispute it.”
I told the physician that Arthur was often short of breath. That this shortness of breath came over him whethe
r he was walking or riding, or sitting, or even lying down. At this Dr. Alcaraz’s thick black eyebrows knit together in a frown.
“The boy must rest,” he said, looking worried. “He must not strain himself. It is possible he was too young to marry. Too young to couple with a lovely young wife. I will have my alchemist prepare a restorative medicine. One that will strengthen the prince and lift his spirits. Meanwhile you must be patient.” He smiled slightly.
“Boys are like young whelps, or colts. When they are old enough, they mate. It is only a question of when.”
I knew that the physician meant to reassure me, and I trusted his judgment and took his advice. Yet every time I saw Arthur my heart sank. Was he simply too young? And would the medicine be effective?
For weeks after our wedding the court celebrated with banqueting and pageants, jousts and special masses offered for our long life and my fruitfulness. Each day brought new festivities, including one feast given by Arthur’s grandmother, Margaret Beaufort, who at the age of fifty-eight was still the reigning lady of the court, more honored than the queen though she held no royal title.
She gave me the privilege of sitting beside her, and told me stories from her own girlhood long past, when she had borne her son, Henry Tudor, at the age of thirteen or fourteen and had seen him crowned many years later as King Henry VII.
All the guilds and livery companies in their barges escorted our royal barge as we made our way along the river to Richmond, the king’s favorite palace. The wintry air was full of music, for each barge held its own complement of lutenists, clarion players, drummers and performers on the sackbut and shalm. My feet itched to dance, but I held back, knowing that Arthur would not be able to join in and not wanting him to be left out.
It was in the elegant setting of Richmond, in the dancing chamber with its high windows and colorful tapestries, that I knew I must say my goodbyes to many in my household who had come with me from Spain. Not all were leaving; Doña Elvira and my dresser Maria de Caceres, my chamberlain and physician, Master Reveles my almoner, the Count de Cabra and a number of my women were staying on, more than fifty of them in all.
Unfortunately, Maria Juana was among those who were remaining with me in England. I did not dare dismiss her or send her away, since it had been my father’s wish that she remain in my household. But I would have been glad to see her go, as she continued to be a thorn in my side.
It was not only that she blamed me for the death of her mother, and told everyone how I had deliberately failed to catch hold of her when I had the chance to save her from drowning. She spread other lies about me. She said that she had heard me insist that the king was mad and that all Englishmen were coarse in their habits and speech. She repeated as fact a gross invention: that she had overheard me telling Doña Elvira that I regretted having married Arthur, now that we lived as husband and wife, and that I wished I had married the prince of Portugal instead.
There was excited gossip about whether or not I might be carrying Arthur’s child—and Maria Juana, I was told, dampened that excitement by hinting in whispers that I would never have Arthur’s child, that I was not capable of conceiving a child at all, and that my barrenness was the reason no bloody bedclothes had been displayed on the morning after our wedding night.
Nothing would have satisfied me more than to punish Maria Juana for saying these things, but I knew that if I did, she would tell my father, and would add her slander about my being to blame for her mother’s death. I could only imagine what my father—whose rage could be terrifying—would do then.
So I endured her covert slanders, and her sly, furtive glances, her stifled laughter and the darkness that would come into her eyes and over her entire face whenever I summoned her (as I had to) or came into a room where she was.
I made certain that when the departing members of my household were given their gifts—silver goblets, gold aglets, scented pomanders, lengths of cloth—Maria Juana also received a gift, a purse of coins.
When I handed it to her she looked at me suspiciously, as if wondering whether it might be an inducement to join the others who would be on their way the following day.
I nodded to her and tried to smile. She hesitated, then made a shallow reverence and hurried away. For once I had managed to surprise her, I thought. Instead of punishing her I had done what the Scriptures advise: I had shown generosity to an enemy, and in doing so I had heaped coals of fire on her head.
Meanwhile Arthur was taking the medicine Dr. Alcaraz’s apothecary gave him, and we were sleeping side by side every night—but not as husband and wife. The medicine did not strengthen Arthur as I hoped it would. After a month and more it was gently laid aside; Arthur said it gave him a headache.
His weakness was increasing and his cough growing worse.
“It is only the winter, the chill weather,” Doña Elvira insisted. “He will recover when spring comes.”
But long before spring came we had left Richmond and made the difficult, cold journey to Wales, and by the time we arrived at Ludlow Castle, high on its rocky peak, freezing winds and storms far more violent than any I had ever known in Spain were battering at the old gray stone walls and making my husband more ill than ever.
* * *
Arthur was Prince of Wales, Wales was governed from Ludlow. It was needful for him to be there, sitting on his princely throne, dispensing justice, settling disputes, overseeing the keeping of the peace, ruling in the name of his father the king.
And it was needful for me to be there with him, though there was little enough for me to do during the short, dark days of bleak weather and the long nights when we stayed near the fire, covered in furs and I read to Arthur from his favorite books of chivalry.
He no longer had the energy to write his own stories. Indeed he found the daily tasks of governing—most of which were carried out by others—quite wearisome.
He was becoming a wan specter before my eyes.
Thinner and thinner, more and more pale, he looked puzzled and confused. At times he forgot who I was—then suddenly remembered, only to forget again.
He limped. He stumbled. Before long he could only walk if a servant supported him, then two servants, one on each side, to prevent him from falling. During the Lenten season he tried to wash the feet of the poor folk who came to the castle for alms. But he soon gave up. The effort was too great. He had to ask Master Reveles to take his place. If he tried to speak he was overcome by coughing, so he ceased to try. Instead he smiled, his hauntingly sweet smile, and to see him smile so touched my heart that I had to look away.
I saw how those around him treated him in his sorry decline. His groom Thomas hardly left his side, and was most loyal and useful to him, even when poor Arthur reeked of piss and vomit, and the rushes on the floor were loathsome, they stank so badly. (Pardon me, I must write the truth.) But others, both servants and officers of his household, and especially the few nobles who were at Ludlow as Arthur’s advisers, laughed at him. I wanted to order them whipped for their arrogance and lack of Christian feeling.
Some of the Welsh folk, frightened that they would be blamed if he did not recover, brought a wise woman, a renowned healer, to the castle. She put her hands on him as he lay in bed. With a great effort he was able to tell her that he felt better. All of us were relieved, and took heart, assuring each other that he would soon recover.
But Arthur, with one of his gentle smiles and a shake of his head, conveyed to me that the wise woman’s visit had been for naught. He had only been pretending to feel better, so that she would not imagine that she had failed her prince.
One night he woke suddenly and cried out, a weak cry but loud enough to wake me, sleeping beside him as I continued to do throughout his illness. He waved away the guards and grooms and even Dr. Alcaraz. When the others had left, and only he and I were there together in the dimly lit room, he reached for my hand. His own hand was hot and moist, his cheeks flushed.
“Dear Catherine,” he murmured, “my d
ear Catherine.”
I forced myself to look at his pathetic face, his skin nearly translucent, his eyes sunk deeply into their hollows.
“I would not have made a good king,” he whispered, then with a sudden shudder he was gone.
* * *
Poor Arthur was laid out, his innards removed, his body embalmed, filled with spices because he stank. He lay in the chapel at Ludlow, by torchlight. I went to stand beside his casket and said my prayers for his soul. I mourned him, and felt a grim sorrow for myself—and my future.
If only Arthur had died leaving me with a child, a son who would be heir to his grandfather’s throne. Then I would be the honored mother of the next king. I would live at the royal court and my rank and standing would be assured.
I knew that was not to be. And I feared that once it became known that I was not carrying Arthur’s child, I would be shunned and scorned. I would never marry a second time, even though I was the Infanta Catalina, daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.
I stood in the rain, an icy wind whipping my woolen cloak, watching as the carriage that held my husband’s body passed slowly along the muddy road. He was being taken to Worcester, to be interred in the cathedral. He would have no monument there, no grand royal tomb. Before very long he would be forgotten. And I, his widow, his barren widow, would be best forgotten as well.
The rain fell harder, darkness was closing in. Though the wind was chill I suddenly felt hot, as if I had been standing too close to the fire. I swayed in the wind. I was unsteady on my feet.
Then the muddy ground rose up to meet me and I lost myself in its pungent depths.
* * *
I was burning. I was drenched in sweat. Cruel tormentors were pounding their mallets on my head. I clutched at my stomach. Sharp knives pierced my belly. Water! Oh, give me water!
I heard a woman’s voice.
“She fainted.”
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 4
