I was told all this, but not until long afterward. At the time, when I began to return to my senses, I was told nothing at all—except that I must never speak of having been in any pain, or having suffered any difficulties whatever.
It was as if nothing at all had happened, as if I still had a babe in my womb. I believed that I was still carrying the king’s son, and would be delivered in the spring. I took my chamber, isolating myself with my women, and everyone at court—everyone but my husband, and Fray Diego, and the midwives, who were too frightened to reveal the truth—waited in hope and expectation that before long I would give birth.
My belly grew and grew, just as if the terrible episode of pain and oblivion had been nothing more than a bad dream. I wondered why I no longer felt the babe quickening within me, when I had felt the inner pummeling of his small feet so strongly before. But the swelling mound beneath my gown and the awkward way I walked seemed assurance enough that I would soon be a mother.
But after a month, something very mysterious happened. Something that still haunts me, still mystifies me. My swelling suddenly went down. My vast belly simply disappeared.
I had no need of the groaning chair, for there were no birth pains. No flow of water, as I had been told to expect. No blood. Nothing at all. What had been inside my swollen flesh? Nothing but empty air.
The midwives were frightened, and crossed themselves whenever they came near me. I heard them murmuring that something had inhabited my body. Something that was not human.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” the oldest of them said, her voice quavering as she approached me. “Who are you, that your belly should rise up like new bread and then—and then—collapse again so swiftly? The king will surely blame us for this demonic thing!”
But I felt certain that he would blame me, whatever the midwives might do or say, and I was very apprehensive, especially when a message arrived from my father, who was growing more and more impatient for news of my delivery. Had I not yet given birth? he wanted to know. Or if I had, why had he not been told?
I waited, nervously, not knowing what to do or say, how to answer his urgent message—or how to answer the second, even more urgent message that followed the first, this one conveyed by a personal envoy. Besides, there were other messages, other envoys—from France and Portugal, from the Archduchess Margaret and even from far-off Sweden, all wanting an answer to the same inquiry, and a special ambassador from His Holiness the Bishop of Rome. All wanted to be informed about my condition. Had I or had I not borne the heir to the English throne?
It was then, after I had come out of my isolation and the birth chamber was being dismantled, that Fray Diego quietly revealed to me what I had not known—that during my time of pain and unconsciousness I had given birth to a very weak, undersized baby girl. Far too small and too fragile to live. And that everything that happened after that sad birth, especially my mysterious swelling and deflating, was impossible to explain.
“Yet we must believe that all is for the best,” my confessor reassured me. “The Lord governs all, He orders every event in His world. Good fortune and bad, healthy babies and sickly ones.”
“And dead ones,” I added bluntly, suddenly angry that the truth had been kept from me for so long. I sent Fray Diego away, I was feeling too tired to listen to his pious reassurances. And I dreaded my husband’s recriminations and blame. He too could be blunt.
“You have not only disappointed me, Catherine,” he told me, “by giving me a weak useless daughter instead of a strong son. You have made a fool of me. I am laughed at. Do you know what they are saying about you, not only here but at other courts? They call you a prodigy of nature, a freak. I am no longer the king who married the great Queen Isabella’s daughter, but the king who married a freak.”
“I see that the midwives have been eager to escape any blame by revealing to the world what should have been kept within the walls of the birth chamber.”
“It is no use trying to prevent talebearing,” was Henry’s sharp retort. “The monstrous puffing and flattening of your belly is making all of Christendom laugh. The best anyone can do is to make certain the tales are told in the most favorable way. One of my almoners, Thomas Wolsey, has been bold enough to undertake this. He is spreading the story that your womb is blessed, that its changing size and shape are a rare sign from the divine. A sign that my reign is a blessed one, and that a male heir of my body will soon be born.”
“I must thank this almoner, for his inventive mind.” I heard the scorn in my tone, and wondered at it, for in actuality I was very tired.
“You would do well to thank him,” was the last thing Henry said to me. “If only you were as productive as he is!”
* * *
Although I was much affected by all that I have described, my sorrow and bewilderment did not make me despair. I was young, and strong, I told myself. I had already endured many things that would have broken the hearts and spirits of a weaker woman. I was proud of who I was, and of my royal blood. My faith was stronger than my pride, and I prayed to be given even greater faith as I faced the days ahead.
I was well aware of the blame and ridicule that surrounded me, but I steeled myself to overcome its worst effects. I told myself that what I was facing was a time of trial, such as all Christian souls must endure. But that my time of trial, of testing, would not last forever. I would be freed. I awaited my freedom in hope.
All this was true—but I must also record that there were many nights when I struggled to overcome my darkest thoughts and fears, above all the fear that Doña Aldonza’s curse was hard upon me, and inescapable. I feared the nighttime dark as I never had before, and insisted that my chamberers light twice as many candles as in the past. Fearsome dreams terrified me, and when they did, I cried out—and reached for my duenna, just as I had as a child. I had no duenna, but I did have Maria de Salinas, and Maria de Rojas, who slept beside my bed each night and gave me comfort when I needed it.
My husband too came to my bed, not every night but often, though his visits did not last the night through but only an hour or two at most. We had a task to perform, after all; we had to provide the realm with an heir.
And before long, we did.
It was with great relief that I heard my chamberlain announce to the court that I was once again with child.
I saw the smiles and nods of satisfaction on the faces of the courtiers, and especially of my officers and the servants in my household. My husband’s joy was noisy and unrestrained. The royal secretaries, whose task it was to compose letters to be sent to other courts, went efficiently about their task. Thomas Wolsey could not restrain his grin of satisfaction. He had seen in my body a rare sign of divine favor; now that favor was coming to full fruition.
As for me, I hoped fervently that this time, with this child, there would be no confusing symptoms or mysterious events. No embarrassment or ridicule—or fear. This time, with good fortune, I would give birth to a living, breathing prince.
7
All the bells of London rang out their joyous clamor on the first morning of the new year, the Year of Our Lord 1511, to welcome my newborn son.
The Tower guns boomed again and again, making the ground shake underfoot. It was a cold, dark morning with snow falling and a thin margin of ice along the river’s edge. As soon as the clanging and thundering began, bonfires were lit in the narrow streets and alleys, and Londoners crowded near the warmth of the crackling flames, shouting and singing in celebration.
Even before the heralds announced the good news that I had been delivered of a son, and that his name was Henry, the more raucous rejoicing had begun. Londoners knew that whenever a king’s son was born, the king’s wine flowed freely from the conduits, and there was food in abundance laid out for them to share.
I envied them their revelry, for I was very tired that morning, and all the noise was keeping me from sleeping. My little son slept soundly despite the excitement and all the booming of the guns
and jangling of the bells, at peace in his gilded cradle near my bed, his wetnurse and his rockers standing by to care for him when they were needed.
My labor had been swift and without danger or drama. I had felt the pains begin at twilight the previous night, and by midnight the four new midwives who attended me (I did not want to be surrounded by any of those who had been present at the birth of my daughter, and had been alarmed by the frightening appearance of my belly) were encouraging me and telling me that my son would soon be born. Long before dawn I heard him cry and watched as the wet ropy cord of flesh that bound him to me was severed.
It was impossible to sleep amid the surge of sound outside the palace so I lay where I was, content to rest, for a time, with the holy relic that had aided my labor, the Girdle of Our Lady, still clutched in my hand. By evening I was able to sit up and eat and drink a little, and afterward the prince was laid in my arms.
His sweet-smelling body was warm, his round face and blue eyes expressionless. The small hands that clenched and unclenched seemed to me perfect in every detail, the small red mouth well shaped and healthy-looking. He resembled his father the king, I thought, more than he did his Trastamara ancestry. He had King Henry’s square face and a few wisps of fair hair. His firm, compact body seemed to me, as I held him, robust and strong. He will be a warrior king one day, I thought. A valiant king, who will lead his knights and footsoldiers into battle, just as my mother had done, and who will defeat his enemies.
Warmaking was in the air that winter, my husband was impatient to follow the example of his heroic forbear King Henry V and attack the French. He talked at length of his plans, how he would soon set sail with thousands of knights and bowmen, cross to the French coast and then, in battle after valorous battle, overwhelm the enemy and seize the French throne.
Master Reveles, who had helped me to learn English and had also taught me much about England’s past, had told me the story of the great battle of Agincourt, in which the young King Henry V had not only led his men but fought among them himself, with the utmost courage, urging them on to triumph against a much larger force of French. That battle had been won a hundred years earlier. Now my husband was eager not only to repeat what the earlier Henry had done but to surpass it.
“I vow, Catherine, that I will fight the whoreson dogs of Frenchmen just as King Hal did, and win, no matter how many men he brings against us. I will win,” he repeated again and again. “I will win an even greater victory than his at Agincourt!” It was a pleasure to see his excitement, and the grin on his handsome young face as he spoke, rubbing his hands together and pacing in agitation.
“Did you know that when he defeated the enemy, King Hal married the French princess Catherine, and their son became the heir to both England and France? Did you?”
I assured him warmly that I did know that.
“Do you see? You and I and our son are about to restore England’s glory by once again defeating the enemy and uniting the two realms of France and England under a single king. Our son, the ninth Henry, will be that king.”
Messengers were sent to carry the good news of the prince’s birth to all the foreign courts, and I sent a letter to my father telling him all about his grandson, and about the magnificent tournament soon to be held in celebration. I described the pony Henry had bought for the baby prince, with its ornate gilded saddle and harness, and the small suit of gleaming silver armor he had ordered from an armorer in Brabant for young Henry to wear once he reached his second birthday. I told him about the prince’s christening, and about the costly gifts of gold that his godparents, Archduchess Margaret and King Louis of France, had sent him.
I hoped that my letter would assuage my father’s disapproval of me and restore me in his good graces. I had, after all, done my duty and given my husband and the realm a prince.
And I was much honored at the splendid tournament held at Westminster, where for several days I sat under a canopy of cloth of gold, with my women around me, receiving the loud cheers and good wishes of the onlookers while the king challenged all comers in the lists and wore my colors as my champion, calling himself Coeur Loyal, Sir Loyal Heart, and shattering lance after lance until he had won the prize.
In his usual zest to surpass himself and all others, he outdid all the competing jousters—and overdid. He rode far more courses than any of the others. He went beyond the limits of endurance. It was a feat of prowess such as I had never witnessed.
And it left him faint and ill, panting and retching, though he hid his weakness skillfully, so that only his groom was aware of it.
He surpassed himself—and I wanted to believe that he did it out of love, his ardor inspired by his soaring hopes. At that tournament, for those few days, I believe that he rose above himself as heroes do, as his idol Henry V had done, impelled by his happiness at the fulfillment of our union in the birth of our son.
I could not bring myself to tell him that on the second day of the tourney, while I was being dressed in my robe of crimson velvet, one of the prince’s rockers, Margery Garnett, came to me, red-faced and out of breath, and insisting that she had to speak to me at once.
She had made the journey from Richmond to Westminster to see me. Her cap was awry, her plain blue gown and white apron wrinkled and smudged. Though my dresser tried to restrain her I saw at once that her errand must be important.
“Let her come,” I said to my women, and listened while the rocker, too distressed to remember to make a low bow, inclined her head rapidly and then poured out her message in a voice trembling with fear.
“If you please, Your Highness, the wetnurse says he will not take the teat. He cries and frets. He will not suck. She soaks her finger in sugar water, but he will not suck it.”
For weeks the little prince had been a lusty eater, growing fat on the wetnurse’s milk. What could have happened to make him refuse it?
“Why hasn’t my lady mistress of the nursery come to tell me this?”
Margery hung her head. “She would not, though we pressed her. She forbade us to tell you.”
“She forbade you?”
Nodding vigorously, Margery assured me that she and all the others in the nursery were forbidden to reveal anything about the prince.
“But we could not keep silent,” she went on. “We were all agreed. One of us had to tell you. We drew lots. I was the one chosen.” She looked at me, pleadingly, as if to say, please understand.
“I will see that you are rewarded, Margery—” I started to say, but she interrupted me.
“Oh no, Your Highness. I do not want anything for myself. I would so much rather there was nothing at all to tell you.” The quaver in her voice widened.
“You see, we all know you are a good and loving mother. You would want us to tell you if your son—when your son—” She could not go on.
“Of course, Margery. You did well. I will see that the lady mistress does not punish you for your disobedience to her.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Go now, do your best and say your prayers. Take care of my son. With the Lord’s favor he will start to suck once again.”
All that day, as I watched Henry ride up and down the lists again and again, making his powerful mount cavort and leap and pound on the wooden walls of the tiltyard with his hooves, delighting the crowd of onlookers and making them shriek and cheer, I felt increasingly worried and unwell.
Princess Mary, who at fourteen was among the beauties of our court, and had been a close and loving sister to me ever since she was a young child, sensed my dismay and reached for my hand. I was well aware that she had been watching her own hero, the broad-shouldered, handsome Sir Charles Brandon, as he ran his courses and took part in the parades and pageantry of the tournament. Yet she was sensitive to my unease as well.
She started to whisper to me, but I shook my head. We could not talk just then, not only because of all the loud clamor but because we were being observed by those nearest us. We needed to appear e
ntirely absorbed in the spectacle before us, overjoyed at every triumph of the king, my champion.
When the last of the contests had ended I handed out the prizes, with the greatest number awarded to the king. I was hesitant to tell him what the rocker Margery had said, but during the evening feast I decided to be bold.
“I must go to Richmond,” I said quietly, as Henry sat savoring his meat and wine. “The prince is in need of a new wetnurse.”
Henry frowned, then looked alarmed.
“Why must you go? Why not send someone?”
“I need to select the woman myself. And to assure myself that he is eating well.”
He regarded me, weighing what I said. “Go then,” he muttered in an undertone. “And send me word at once how he does.”
I left the great hall quickly, stopping only briefly to tell Princess Mary why I was leaving so suddenly. She offered to go with me, but I said no. I told her that if we both were seen to leave at the same time, there would be a buzz of questions, and the mood of revelry would be disturbed.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
I nodded, and told her that if anyone asked why I had gone, she was to say only that I was feeling unwell, and hoped to rejoin the others once I felt better.
The night was very cold, the stars bright in the winter sky when I rode, escorted by my chamberlain and a dozen trusted guardsmen, along the river to Richmond. When we reached the palace I made my way at once to the royal nursery, where the fretful baby lay in Margery’s arms. As she rocked him she was doing her best to soothe him. The lady mistress of the nursery was not there. I asked where she had gone.
“She left as soon as she found out I had been to see you at Westminster,” Margery told me.
The others nodded.
“And we have another wetnurse now,” one of the other rockers said, “but still the prince will not suck.”
I could see that he was thinner than the last time I held him, his cheeks less full and his face more pale. I had promised Henry that I would send him word right away. Calling for writing materials, I wrote a few words as quickly as I could and sealed the written message, handing it to my chamberlain.
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