“Take this to the king. Let no one else see it, and let nothing impede you. Haste!”
He left at once, and I went to sit beside the hearth fire, holding out my arms to receive my child.
“There now, hush now,” I crooned to him, and before long my voice and the slow movement of my body began to lull him. Margery and the others, eased to have me among them and to see that the baby was growing quiet, were beginning to smile. I sang him my mother’s cradle song. His eyes closed. He went to sleep.
What kept me awake were the few words I had sent to the king: “The prince is ill. Come quickly! Your loving wife Catherine.”
* * *
My husband did come to the royal nursery, but he did not arrive for two days. Instead he sent my physician Dr. Alcaraz, who could do little but scold the midwives and shake his head over the prince as he lay in his cradle, and my confessor Fray Diego, whose breath smelt of wine and who was unsteady on his feet. I was impatient with them both.
“The king has no stomach for pain, or illness,” Dr. Alcaraz told me bluntly when I asked why he hadn’t come at once. “He shuns the sight of death.”
“Our son is not dead!” I insisted. “He is weak. He needs his father’s blessing!”
“As Your Highness wishes,” was all the physician would say, with a deferential sweep of his cloak.
Fray Diego, who as I well knew always turned to wine for comfort whenever he feared bad fortune, could do little to restore my spirits. He looked at me with sad, red-rimmed eyes and, laying his hand on my head, murmured a prayer.
When at last the king came to the royal nursery, he did not stay long. One glance at our boy was all he needed. He crossed himself, swore a profane oath and turned away. Before he left he gave me such a look as I had never before seen, and hope never to see again. It was a glare of rage—yet I could see the hurt in his eyes as well. For an instant he seemed bewildered. Then I heard him say, “Why did I ever marry you?” as he pushed past me, half stumbling in his hurry to get away.
I will not attempt to describe how we held prayer vigils for Prince Henry, how I knelt before the shrine in the nursery, praying for his recovery, or how many masses I told Fray Diego to say to Our Lady for his return to health. I could not eat or sleep, I could only give him what comfort I could and watch as he grew weaker and more quiet.
Then, on a freezing cold morning in February, while I sat beside his cradle, he grew still. He was gone.
Ayee ayee! My heart is wrung
I am a lifeless thing
He I loved most, he is gone
I am a stone
Only the crying of the wind
Only the tears of the moon
I am alone
* * *
It was in October of that year, the year we lost our son, that I went down to the London docks with Henry to watch the Twelve Apostles come ashore.
It took thirty men, sweating and straining, to push and pull each of the twelve immense cannons along on its wheeled cart as it came up onto the pier, the wooden planks beneath the cart wheels sinking and groaning under the weight.
The twelve great bronze guns had been cast in Flanders, and as I stood watching them, their long metal snouts gleaming wet from the rain that had been falling all that day, I looked over at my husband and thought to myself that I had rarely seen him in better spirits.
“Pull then! Pull together men!” he shouted to the gunners as they tugged and hauled at their task. In his exuberance he tore off his cap and doublet and threw them to Thomas Wolsey, then joined the line of laboring men, grasping the thick ropes that bound the guns to their carts and pulling for all he was worth.
He was in high spirits every time we went to the docks, shouting encouragement to the fitters and joiners at work building his ships, admiring the stamping horses—strong plowhorses, bought from farmers in Kent and Suffolk—as they drew heavy carts loaded with barrels and chests, shaking their large heads and swishing their tails.
“How he does love a challenge,” I remarked to Thomas, who was standing nearby, holding the king’s red velvet doublet and jeweled cap, watching intently everything that was going on and intervening as often as he thought it necessary. “My other pair of hands,” Henry called him laughingly, or “the other head on my shoulders.”
It seemed to me that Thomas Wolsey’s strong weatherworn hands were always ready to serve my husband in those days, and that his shrewd eager eyes missed nothing. As for his head, it was put to use writing letters or preparing documents in the royal chancery—indeed to any purpose required. Though he was a man of mature years and a tonsured cleric, and had been appointed royal almoner, he was swift to undertake any task, even the most menial. He would not only hold the king’s doublet and cap, he would sweep up the rushes and make up the fires, even turn the spit in the palace kitchens if my husband required it.
Not that I had ever seen him do these things, to be sure. Yet I had seen his diligence, and was aware of his constant presence, and I had no doubt he would undertake any duty, so long as it would increase his value in the king’s estimation.
Instead of answering me, Thomas called for a page and handed him the doublet and cap, at almost the same moment reaching out to steady a barrow that was leaning badly to one side and threatening to overturn.
“I only wish he would attend to the challenge of his chancery,” was Thomas’s low reply. “He reads none of the letters sent to him,” he added, frowning. “He leaves them unanswered for weeks, while he amuses himself with whatever else takes his fancy, whether it is hunting or hawking or warmaking.”
“He has you to read them and answer them for him, so that he can prepare his army for battle.”
Everything Henry did, it seemed, was for the sole purpose of invading France. Nothing mattered more to him than the victory he believed would soon be his.
The Holy Father, Pope Julius, had declared King Louis of France deposed. Henry was now the rightful king. And as such, he had not only the right but the duty to invade the realm that the Holy Father had declared to be his.
It was a crusade, a holy cause. Just as he was a renowned champion in the lists, Henry would now become the champion of the Bishop of Rome. He was determined to lead the holy war against the wicked Louis, who dared to claim a crown not his own. That this same wicked Louis had been godfather to our son was forgotten, a stray inconvenience that warmaking would soon put right.
I watched as another of the twelve heavy guns rumbled slowly past, and caught my breath as one of the gunners lost his footing on the slick wet planks of the dock and fell with a cry. Just then a grain sack fell from one of the provision wagons, bursting open and spilling its contents of damp oats. With an oath Thomas ordered two serving boys to sweep up the oats, meanwhile helping the injured gunner to hobble under a tent, so that the cannons could roll on unhindered.
“War!” Thomas muttered when he returned to my side. “He knows nothing of war! He toys with the pikes and bills and armaments as if they were playthings, brought out for his amusement.”
The almoner did not look at me as he spoke, but kept his eyes on the stream of horses and men, goods and weaponry being unloaded from the ships. I knew that his mutterings were about Henry, who was striding down the length of the dock, calling out to the workmen, urging them on in their exertions, rubbing his hands together, eager as ever to join in the common effort.
“My father was a pikeman. He went to war!” As he spoke Thomas allowed himself a swift glance at me. “He fought for King Richard. I was only a lad at the time, or I would have gone as well.” He grimaced. “He fought—and he came home bloody. He came home with a leg half gone, and pain that never left him, not for the rest of his life.”
He paused, his expression sullen, darkening at the memory, then went on. “He knew war.”
“As did my mother, Master Almoner. As do I. Did you know that I was born in a fortress? In the midst of a war against the heathen Moors?”
But Thomas did not hear me. He
had darted away to assist the king, who was shouting, “Cord! Stout cord for the bowstrings!” And we did not speak again that day.
* * *
If Henry was impatient to go to war, I too looked forward to it, for the sight of the Twelve Apostles and the other guns and equipment brought ashore from the German lands and Flanders, the splendid tents and pavilions, the suits of armor and swords and banners all quickened my vivid memories of my mother and our soldiers, of victories won and alarms and prayers sent heavenward when victory seemed remote.
Despite the danger we had known, I loved those childhood days, and missed the exhilaration they had brought me. I could not help thinking how my mother would have rejoiced at the might of the cannons, the soldiers, the creaking, jostling carts and the shouting men and neighing horses. She was at home among men of war, and so, I felt, was I.
All that winter and into the spring, as the numbers of soldiers increased and the bulk of their arms and equipment grew ever larger, I began to realize that Henry would do well to look to his ships. He had ordered his shipwrights to build two dozen new warships, one of them to be named for me, the Catherine Fortileza. And he had hired several dozen others. Yet I was sure that many more would be needed.
I had often heard my mother speak of the vast Arsenal where the ships and naval stores of the Venetian Republic were held. I took it upon myself to summon the Venetian envoy Sebastiano Giustiniani to the palace and asked him whether the Republic of Venice would be willing to donate twenty-five ships to my husband’s crusade. I reminded him that the Holy Father Pope Julius had granted the throne of France to Henry, and that the conquest of France was a holy cause.
“Most assuredly, Your Highness,” was the Venetian’s immediate reply. “The galleys of the Republic are always at the service of the King of England—for a price. We would be able to provide, let me see, perhaps ten vessels from our Arsenal very soon, and more could be built by our shipwrights should the king choose to order them.” He spoke ingratiatingly, though his response was not all that I had hoped for. Still, I was pleased. I was certain that the royal treasury was full, and that Henry could afford to buy the ships. After all, I reasoned, if Henry could spend hundreds of pounds (as I knew he had) on magnificent suits of armor for himself and gold and silver trappings for his horses, he could pay the Venetian Republic for its ships.
I waited for a day when we were once again at the docks, and Henry was happily engrossed in the fitting out of one of his newest ships, the Peter Pomegranat. The pomegranate was my emblem, and thus the emblem of Spain, and the ship paid honor to the close ties and promised alliance of the two realms.
Suddenly we were startled by the sound of a huge explosion. One of the wooden storage sheds near us burst into flame, and men began running in all directions, some calling for help, others doing their best to drag carts and horses away from the fire, still others drawing up river water in buckets and throwing the water on the flames.
Without so much as a glance at me Henry ran off at once in the direction of the dockside taverns and warehouses and did not stop until he reached the safety of a brick stable some distance from where we had been standing. Once there, he did not look back.
“Your Highness!” I heard a voice at my side, and felt a strong hand grip my arm. “You must come away!”
It was Thomas Wolsey, who led me protectively through the maze of running feet and flailing arms while I looked in vain for our guardsmen.
“Where are the guards? What happened to the guards?” I kept asking, panting as I was short of breath.
“With the king,” Thomas told me brusquely. “With the brave and valiant crusader.”
Startled to hear such sarcasm from the almoner, but too out of breath to chastise him, it was all I could do to hurry along at his side, frightened by a second explosion that led to more outcries and more chaos. After what seemed like an eternity Thomas left me in the care of a cordon of pikemen and laborers who had taken refuge from the fires. I wanted to be with Henry, and described the brick stable where I had seen the king go.
Promising to return as soon as he could, Thomas hurried away in the direction of the stable. Before long he was back, with a cart pulled by a strong plowhorse.
“Take Her Highness to the palace at once,” he ordered the pikemen. “Entrust her to the palace guard. I must stay to ensure that the traitor who has done this villainous thing is punished.”
“What traitor?” I demanded as I was helped into the cart. “Is the king safe? Where is the king?”
“The king has gone to the palace. As to the traitor—” He lowered his voice, and I bent down so that I could hear what he said. “One of the gunners was seen setting fire to the gunpowder stores. A Frenchman. A spy for the wicked Louis of France!”
Then with a jerk of the cart the huge plowhorse moved away from the docks and the clamorous tumult beside the river, the smoke from the burning storehouses thick in the darkening air.
8
At last the long-awaited day came, the day the royal army sailed for France.
Wind gusts swept the harbor, lifting the water into peaks and troughs and making the flags and pennons that flew from the ships’ masts snap and curl in the mild summer air. The smallest boats bobbed up and down, the galleys and store ships pitched and tossed, lurching from side to side until late in the afternoon, when a calm settled over all and the fleet weighed anchor, prepared to sail with the outgoing tide.
It was an auspicious departure, on that June afternoon in the Year of Our Lord 1513, for I knew that I was once again carrying a child and I hoped that this prince—how could he not be a prince?—would one day wear the crowns of both England and France. I expected him to be born in December, or perhaps early in the new year. Until then, or until my husband returned victorious, I would rule England in his name and as his regent, and all royal powers would be mine.
As the fleet sailed I exercised those powers for the first time. One of the carpenters, a rogue in the pay of the French called Antoine Bedell, had been caught boring holes in the hull of the Catherine Fortileza. I ordered the wretch hanged.
I knew that I would have many responsibilities as the king’s regent, and I looked forward to carrying them out. I would settle disputes and oversee the royal justices, I would receive messages from foreign courts and send messages of my own in return. All the wealth of the royal treasury would be mine to dispense. My husband’s subjects would come to me for aid, and I would preside, I hoped graciously, over the feasts and ceremonies that called for a royal presence.
My one regret was that Thomas Wolsey would not be there for me to rely on, as he was sailing to France with the king. Nor would Master Reveles be at my service for he too was aboard the king’s flagship.
I knew that I would need a secretary, and competent clerks, and experienced men to assist me with any matters new to me or requiring knowledge I did not possess. I felt proud and exhilarated at the prospect of reigning in Henry’s absence, but humbled by it as well. I trusted that I would not attempt, from mere pride, to undertake anything that I was not capable of doing well.
And I did not forget that, even as regent, I was still a wife and soon to be a mother; before Master Reveles left I required of him that he send me frequent news from France, especially news of the king’s health and diet, of his daily habits, and especially of his exertions in leading his men and doing battle. I admitted to him my fear that warmaking would tax my husband’s judgment and lead him to drive himself to do too much, for too long.
Hearing this, my almoner nodded. “I have seen it, just as you have, Your Highness. He makes mighty efforts, but does not rest himself.”
“You must make him rest. Tell him you speak for me. Otherwise he will go on and on until he pants and clutches his chest and makes himself ill. No warrior should let his men see him in that state of weakness.”
Master Reveles promised to do all that I asked of him, and I was satisfied. But no one, however trustworthy, could help me prepare for my
most pressing task as regent: that of ordering and commanding the guard and soldiery.
“The Scots are sure to sweep down into the northern borderlands as soon as I leave the kingdom,” Henry cautioned me just before he sailed. “You must send our soldiers to meet them and stop them. They will have arms and money from the treacherous French. They must not believe that you are weak, that you fear to confront them, just because you are a mere woman.”
That he called me a mere woman made me bristle. I reminded him that I was the daughter of the great Queen Isabella, and also of King Ferdinand, whose soldiers were at that moment marching northward from Aragon to aid in the crusade against the French.
Henry dismissed my argument with a shake of his head.
“You must prove yourself brave. Otherwise they will scoff at you, and your commanders, and any men they lead.”
“None will fault me for lacking courage. And as for my commanders, I will rely on the earl marshall.” The aged Earl of Surrey, whom Henry had appointed earl marshall, had proven himself able and resolute despite his years. I only hoped he would not scoff at me, or show me any lack of respect or obedience, just because I was a woman.
With Henry’s words in mind I ordered a metal helmet brought to me from the Tower armory, and had it embellished with gold so that it glittered in the sunlight. And to ensure that I wore it bravely, unencumbered by any womanly vanity, I ordered Maria de Salinas to cut my long thick auburn hair, so that it no longer fell to my waist but only to the midpoint of my back. She wept as she cut it.
“My mother did not allow her hair to grow any longer than this,” I said as she brushed out the shortened strands. “The soldiers respected her not only because she was brave but because she was not vain. She knew her valor lay in her courage, not in her beauty.”
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 10
