The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon

by Erickson, Carolly

  But by then the first leaves were turning to gold and red in Epping Forest, and in the capital, Londoners were expecting the arrival of Cardinal Campeggio, legate and judge, sent from Rome to decide, once and for all, the vexed question of whether or not King Henry and I were truly married in the eyes of the church.

  * * *

  The eminent Cardinal of Santa Anastasia had hardly been among us a week when I realized that his mission was a sham. He was not sent to England to pass judgment, along with Cardinal Wolsey, on my marriage to Henry, he was sent to avoid having to make such a judgment.

  He did me the honor of coming to my apartments so that he could take counsel with me, something I would never have expected a man of his stature to do. I soon realized why. It was his intent to persuade me, as Henry had tried to do, to join an order of holy sisters, and thus to leave my marriage of my own free will. Once I had done that, Henry could marry whomever he chose. By discussing this matter in the relative privacy of my rooms the cardinal preserved my own dignity, indeed his intent was to make it appear to others that the plan originated with me, not with him.

  “Your devotion to the Lord is well known,” he told me after giving me his blessing and settling himself, with many a groan, into a nest of soft pillows Maria de Caceres had prepared for him. He was an old and weary man with sad eyes, his worn face wrinkled and his legs unsteady under him as he walked. He was said to be tortured by pain in his foot—which led me to wonder whether Dr. Vittoria’s unguent might help him.

  “Many pious wives choose a life of religious devotion,” the cardinal was saying once he was situated among the pillows, “after their years of bearing children are behind them—” He broke off, coughing, and at my signal wine was brought, my servant offering it to the cardinal reverently, on bended knee.

  “To devote oneself to a life of prayer and fasting, to enjoy the serenity of the cloister—” he coughed again “—is a blessing only those who have lived that life can understand.” He smiled a wan smile. “The peace of the cloister,” he began again, then his eyes slowly closed. He had drifted off to sleep.

  I was determined not to allow the cardinal to try to lull me into submission. I was no trembling girl, I was Queen of England, and the daughter of the great Queen Isabella of Castile. How my mother would have bristled with anger to be counseled to enter a convent! And yet, I reminded myself, my mother had worn a hair shirt under her gown. She had found a way to keep her worldly dignity while deepening her piety.

  But then, my father had never sought to put her aside.

  Cardinal Campeggio was not easily deterred from his goal. He made several more visits to me in my apartments, trying to persuade me to agree to become a nun. In the end, convinced by my stubbornness that I would not enter the religious life unless Henry did the same, the cardinal tried to convince Henry to allow our marriage to continue. To reconcile him to his fate. Henry objected, arguing, as he invariably did, that he had to provide the realm with a prince. And that I was now too old to give birth to one.

  In response the cardinal produced a letter from Cardinal Wolsey describing a ceremony we had witnessed several years earlier. In that time-honored ritual, Bessie Blount’s son Henry Fitzroy was created Duke of Richmond and Somerset and given other titles and offices reserved for the heir to the throne.

  “There is now a prince of this realm,” Cardinal Campeggio insisted, “and no need for any other. In due course, Henry Fitzroy will succeed to his father’s throne. The Holy Father Pope Clement can acknowledge the boy as your son, bearing the royal blood of the Tudors. He can, and will, if need be, grant a dispensation to allow Henry Fitzroy to marry your daughter Mary. Though they share the same father, and are half-brother and half-sister to one another, nevertheless it can be permitted.”

  The thought of this alarmed me and filled me, as it always had, with repugnance.

  “Any union, even one between brothers and sisters—or half-brothers and half-sisters—can be sanctioned through a dispensation from the Bishop of Rome. His power to dispense is without limit.”

  For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. I felt only distaste, and even Henry was, for the moment, taken aback. He had not expected this proposal to be made. Especially not from the aged, sleepy cardinal sent from Rome. He had been outsmarted. He glanced at me, a worried glance.

  “Indeed,” the cardinal added, “the Holy Father can even grant a dispensation to allow King Henry to marry a second wife while the first still lives.”

  “Can he indeed?” was Henry’s delighted response, his worries forgotten. But I could not keep silent. “What?” I blurted out. “How could that be?”

  The cardinal was nodding. “Such a dispensation has been granted before, and no doubt will be again.

  “Ponder these things,” he said at length, “and may the Lord bless and guide your thoughts, that you may serve his good purposes in all you do.”

  14

  “The papal court in Rome is a cesspit, my daughter. I speak as one who knows.”

  I had gone in search of Cardinal Campeggio after spending several days in distressing thought. I could not resign myself to either of the courses of action he had proposed when last we met. To take the veil of a nun would be to retreat into silent obscurity. To leave the field of battle without mounting so much as a defense.

  Yet to agree to become the lesser of my husband’s two wives, the older, rejected one, the one without a son, was loathsome. Especially since I had no doubt that Henry would choose Anne to be his other spouse. That the daughter of Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand should share a husband with the granddaughter of a London merchant was abhorrent to me.

  It had been hard enough for me to stand by, watching with envy, as Bessie Blount gave my husband a bastard son. That I should be expected to share the king with Anne and whatever children she might have, all the while smiling and making no complaint, for the rest of my life was impossible. No, abhorrent. I was bold enough to say so when the cardinal welcomed me to the richly appointed apartments he had been given in the palace, blessing me as he did each time we met. I thought he looked tired and dejected, and wondered whether his foot was giving him added pain.

  Once we were closeted together, I spoke my mind, as openly and honestly as I could, confessing that I could not reconcile myself to being one of the king’s two wives.

  “I quite agree,” the cardinal confided, nodding. “It is contrary to all vows of fidelity. It dishonors the marriage bed. But we live in extraordinary times. The end times, some say. The church has lost its way, and entered into the swamp of worldliness. All is greed and lies, and the lust for power. We must make our way through the swamp as best we can, any way we can.”

  I watched the aged prelate’s sad eyes as he told me, gravely, that the papal court was a cesspit, and that having lived there and experienced its evils, he knew it well.

  He told me of the malice and hatred that divided the members of the College of Cardinals, the brawling and conspiring that went on behind the altars of the venerable churches in the papal city, the church offices that were sold and the biblical teachings of love and forgiveness dishonored.

  “The Cardinal of San Onofre had a priest who was his secretary,” he began, “a strong, hefty man, young and full of energy, a priest who would rather tussle than say mass. The cardinal wagered his jeweled ring that this priest could wrestle any man to the ground in the time it takes to count to one hundred. Within minutes many had bet against him. Suddenly the church was a public fighting arena, with men shouting and jewelry and coins clinking and fighters with bloody faces clutching their ribs in pain. It was a spectacle I hoped never to see again—but I did see it, time after time. The church of San Onofre became a gambling hall and remained one, with women upstairs to relieve the gamblers of their winnings.”

  I was about to ask whether the strong young priest did in fact wrestle many a man to the ground in the time it took to count to a hundred, but the cardinal had gone on to recount other stori
es of corruption and vice, all having to do with money.

  I had to remind myself that it is said to be the love of money that is the root of all evil, not the money itself.

  He had gone on to say that the pillaging and destruction of Rome was nothing more or less than the just judgment of God against his faithless children who for years had bought and sold church offices, pardoned unpardonable crimes, indulged in every sort of vice.

  “My own palazzo was ransacked, my treasures stolen, my servants attacked and four of them killed before my eyes. I could not protect them.”

  After a silence he said, simply, “May they rest in peace.”

  Then he looked at me, as if assessing me, weighing my worth, though by what measure I could not have said.

  “We have spoken of two paths you may choose to take, Catherine. One leads to the convent, the other to, as it were, the king’s bed, only it must be shared with another wife.

  “A woman in your situation, Catherine, if she were a Medici, or perhaps a Wolsey, would follow a different path.”

  At the mention of Cardinal Wolsey’s name I became curious, then more alert than ever.

  The cardinal limped to a corner of the room where a large old chest stood against the wall. Taking a key from the pocket of his robe he unlocked the chest, lifted the lid, and drew out a small green ceramic jar. He brought it over to a table near where we had been sitting.

  “The healing medicine in this jar,” he told me, “was given to me by Dr. Vittoria. It eases pain and causes wounds to close and aids digestion. When dried for a year and then ground into a powder, twenty-five spoonfuls of this a day can do wonders to soothe morning sickness in women with child and men, such as the king, with infected sores.

  “When preserved green, however—” The cardinal said nothing, but merely made the sign of the cross.

  “This jar is full of preserved green ginger. Should any of it be consumed by an unwary person, its effects would be almost immediate. Yet the source of those effects would be impossible to discover.”

  It was the perfect poison.

  My every instinct told me to leave the small room at once. Yet I could not seem to move. I was in the presence of evil. I was certain of it. Frightened and horrified as I was, I was mesmerized. I began to tremble.

  The most I could do was to move away from the green jar. I cursed my cowardice! Yet I did not, I could not, leave the room.

  “You would not need to fear discovery, should any of this medicine do harm. Should harm befall—anyone—it would appear that he or she had simply collapsed suddenly from an unexplained cause.”

  I could not bring myself to object when the cardinal told me that the jar was mine to keep, should I ever need it. “Take the jar, Catherine. Put it somewhere safe. And let us both pray that it is never needed.”

  * * *

  I did not use the dread preserved green ginger, but I did pay the Count de Cabra’s son to marry Maria Juana and take her back to Spain. The old count had died, and his eldest son and heir was full of pride and ambition but short of money—the fate of many of the Spanish nobles in my household. The young count could not have been more pleased with the match, and Maria Juana, tiring of waiting for her opportunity to injure me, gave her grudging assent.

  My nephew Charles, as I hoped, made no objection—for reasons of his own.

  Maria Juana had become an intolerable nuisance, with her gossip about how I had failed to save her mother but had let her drown during the fierce storm at sea, how I lied about my marriage to the king’s brother Arthur and how in fact Arthur and I had slept together, not once but many times, before he fell ill and died. Two hundred escudos and the income from one of my estates in Estremadura was a small price to pay to rid myself, at least for the time being, of my half-sister.

  I did not delude myself that Maria Juana would never trouble me again. I hoped, however, that with time she might settle into her new life as the Countess de Cabra and lose some of her spite. And when at last Cardinal Campeggio and Cardinal Wolsey convened their court the following spring, Maria Juana did not attend it.

  The court that assembled in the great hall of Blackfriars was imposing indeed—though we were distracted from its solemn proceedings by loud shouting and the tramping of marching feet and clanging steel from the militias drilling nearby. Fear was spreading through London on the day that the court opened in that spring of the Year of Our Lord 1529. There were rumors that Emperor Charles’s soldiers would soon land on our shores in their thousands and conquer the capital. And then go on to conquer the entire realm. It was being said that the emperor’s men would take me away to Flanders or Florence (not to Rome, I hoped), rescuing me from the strict judgment of the cardinals who were intent on depriving me of my crown. Intent, as it then seemed, on declaring my marriage to Henry invalid.

  I remember well the joy I felt when I entered the great hall on the arm of Griffith Richards.

  “Our good Queen Catherine!”

  Cheers and shouts of encouragement followed me with every step I took. Much heartened, I held my head high and smiled, though my face was partly veiled from the onlookers by the black lace mantilla I wore over my jeweled headpiece. The long mantilla that swept almost to my knees had been my grandmother’s, then my mother’s, before it came to me. I cherished it, it was among my most prized possessions. Each time I wore it I saw Henry wince. To him it was a galling reminder of who I was and what my ancestry was. I was the proud heir of the Trastamaras; Henry was a mere Tudor, and as everyone knew, the Tudors were latecomers among the ruling families of Europe. Scavengers of the crown, as it were, rather than true inheritors of it.

  I was aware, even as I heard the many outcries of support, that my deep purple gown and the floating black lace of my mantilla must have looked dark and dull when compared to the scarlet robes of the cardinals and the shining cloth of gold that covered the royal throne. The splendor of the bishops and court officials, the tall gleaming gold crosses held aloft by Cardinal Campeggio’s attendants, the high narrow windows with their rich blues and reds all outshone my dark, dignified attire.

  Somewhat to my surprise, Anne was present in the great hall, sitting with her father who had just been awarded new honors and titles. She looked away as I passed, but I could see that she was fidgeting uneasily, nervously.

  I had a sudden impulse to break free of my gentleman usher’s firm, reassuring arm and announce, as loudly as I could, that Cardinal Campeggio had supplied me with a strong poison to use against Anne or Henry or anyone I chose. The thought both horrified and exhilarated me. I, Catherine, could bring to light the iniquities of the papal court. What the cardinal had called the swamp of worldliness.

  I could say, the cardinal himself handed me poison, and instructed me in how to use it! And he as much as told me that Cardinal Wolsey had used poison to try to gain the throne of Saint Peter for himself!

  Saints seek the Beatific Vision—I had been granted, or cursed, with a vision of hell—the hell made by the corrupt cardinals of Rome.

  But of course I would not disrupt the solemn court. I would not make a scene. I could hear my mother’s voice—the voice of reason—advising me against it.

  Who would believe you, Catherine? the voice was saying. You are eager for revenge, not justice. You would say anything to injure the men who are sitting in judgment against you. No one would believe you, no matter what you said. It would be whispered that you had gone mad, like your sister Juana.

  I let the impulse pass, took Griffith Richards’s arm once again, and let him lead me to my seat.

  The tribunal did not proceed quickly, despite the threat of an imperial invasion and, as May turned to June, the return of the sweating plague with its fearsome toll of suffering and death. My advocates pleaded my case eloquently and at length—but in vain. Days passed, then weeks, and the cardinals did not reach a conclusion. Instead delay after delay made the long proceedings even longer. Meanwhile there was a distraction, one that had nothing whatever to
do with the law: a rumor spread that Anne was pregnant with the king’s child.

  Could it be true? The French ambassador thought so, according to tales reaching me from more than one trusted source. My nephew Charles feared so as well. My women thought they could detect in Anne the rounded cheeks, the bilious stomach, the long naps and tearful scenes of a woman with child. In vain I pointed out that Anne had always been moody, querulous and demanding, full of vexation, by turns giddy and tearful. No, they assured me. This was different. And besides, her breasts were growing round and ripe with milk and her stomach was swelling.

  If it was true, if Anne was indeed carrying my husband’s child, then all the legal arguments were worthless. The court itself was of little weight. Henry would marry Anne, knowing that Cardinal Campeggio would obtain a dispensation from Pope Clement to sanction his taking a second wife. I would be cast into the shade. Anne would have her child, Mary’s rights would be disregarded, and the King’s Great Matter would cease to matter at all.

  I remembered reading, in Henry’s letters to Anne, about a gift she had sent him, “a present so beautiful that nothing could be more so.” He thanked her for “the ship in which the lovely damsel is tossed about.” Seated where I was in the great hall, I was close enough to Henry on his raised golden throne to see what he wore each day the court met. Among his jewels and finery was a simple gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a ship. Was it Anne’s gift? If so, it was a sign of his devotion for certain. But was it also a symbol of approaching fatherhood?

  I had to forestall disaster, if indeed disaster loomed. Anne might or might not be pregnant, but if she wasn’t, she might become so before long. I had to act, and soon.

  I summoned my courage and said my prayers. Then, without notifying my advocates or preparing anyone around me for what I intended to do, I rose from my seat on the next day the court convened and made my way to where Henry sat on his gleaming throne.