“To safety?”
“Of a sort. He told me once that he woke every morning expecting to be handed over to Edward. And once King Edward said that he should come home and there would be a kind welcome and a wedding arranged for him. My father pretended to be ill on the road and escaped. He would have come home to his death.”
Catalina blinked. “So he was a pretender too, in his time.”
He grinned at her. “As I said. That is why he fears them so much. He knows what a pretender can do if the luck is with him. If they had caught him, they would have brought him home to his death in the Tower. Just like he did to Warwick. My father would have been put to death the moment King Edward had him. But he pretended to be ill and got away, over the border into France.”
“They didn’t hand him back?”
Arthur laughed. “They supported him. He was the greatest challenge to the peace of England—of course they encouraged him. It suited the French to support him then: when he was not king but pretender.”
She nodded. She was a child of a prince praised by Machiavelli himself. Any daughter of Ferdinand was born to double-dealing. “And then?”
“Edward died young, in his prime, with only a young son to inherit. His brother Richard first held the throne in trust and then claimed it for himself and put his own nephews, Edward’s sons, the little princes, in the Tower of London.”
She nodded. This was a history she had been taught in Spain, and the greater story—of deadly rivalry for a throne—was a common theme for both young people.
“They went into the Tower and never came out again,” Arthur said bleakly. “God bless their souls, poor boys, no one knows what happened to them. The people turned against Richard and summoned my father from France.”
“Yes?”
“My grandmother organized the great lords one after another, she was an archplotter. She and the Duke of Buckingham put their heads together and had the nobles of the kingdom in readiness. That’s why my father honors her so highly: he owes her his throne. And he waited until he could get a message to my mother to tell her that he would marry her if he won the throne.”
“Because he loved her?” Catalina asked hopefully. “She is so beautiful.”
“Not he. He hadn’t even seen her. He had been in exile for most of his life, remember. It was a marriage cobbled together because his mother knew that if she could get those two married, then everyone would see that the heir of York had married the heir of Lancaster and the war could be over. And her mother saw it as her only way out to safety. The two mothers brokered the deal together like a pair of crones over a cauldron. They’re both women you wouldn’t want to cross.”
“He didn’t love her?” She was disappointed.
Arthur smiled. “No. It’s not a romance. And she didn’t love him. But they knew what they had to do. When my father marched in and beat Richard and picked the crown of England out of the bodies and the wreckage of the battlefield, he knew that he would marry the princess, take the throne, and found a new line.”
“But wasn’t she next heir to the throne anyway?” she asked, puzzled. “Since it was her father who had been King Edward? And her uncle who had died in the battle, and her brothers were dead?”
He nodded. “She was the oldest princess.”
“So why didn’t she claim the throne for herself?”
“Aha, you are a rebel!” he said. He took a handful of her hair and pulled her face towards him. He kissed her mouth, tasting of wine and sweetmeats. “A Yorkist rebel, which is worse.”
“I just thought she should have claimed the throne for herself.”
“Not in this country,” Arthur ruled. “We don’t have reigning queens in England. Girls don’t inherit. They cannot take the throne.”
“But if a king had only a daughter?”
He shrugged. “Then it would be a tragedy for the country. You have to give me a boy, my love. Nothing else will do.”
“But if we only had a girl?”
“She would marry a prince and make him King Consort of England, and he would rule alongside her. England has to have a king. Like your mother did. She reigns alongside her husband.”
“In Aragon she does, but in Castile he rules alongside her. Castile is her country and Aragon his.”
“We’d never stand for it in England,” Arthur said.
She drew away from him in indignation. She was only half pretending. “I tell you this: if we have only one child and she is a girl then she will rule as queen and she will be a queen as good as any man can be king.”
“Well, she will be a novelty,” he said. “We don’t believe a woman can defend the country as a king needs to do.”
“A woman can fight,” she said instantly. “You should see my mother in armor. Even I could defend the country. I have seen warfare, which is more than you have done. I could be as good a king as any man.”
He smiled at her, shaking his head. “Not if the country was invaded. You couldn’t command an army.”
“I could command an army. Why not?”
“No English army would be commanded by a woman. They wouldn’t take orders from a woman.”
“They would take orders from their commander,” she flashed out. “And if they don’t then they are no good as soldiers and they have to be trained.”
He laughed. “No Englishman would obey a woman,” he said. He saw by her stubborn face that she was not convinced.
“All that matters is that you win the battle,” she said. “All that matters is that the country is defended. It doesn’t matter who leads the army as long as they follow.”
“Well, at any rate, my mother had no thought of claiming the throne for herself. She would not have dreamed of it. She married my father and became Queen of England through marriage. And because she was the York princess and he was the Lancaster heir, my grandmother’s plan succeeded. My father may have won the throne by conquest and acclaim; but we will have it by inheritance.”
Catalina nodded. “My mother said there was nothing wrong with a man who is new-come to the throne. What matters is not the winning but the keeping of it.”
“We shall keep it,” he said with certainty. “We shall make a great country here, you and me. We shall build roads and markets, churches and schools. We shall put a ring of forts around the coastline and build ships.”
“We shall create courts of justice as my mother and father have done in Spain,” she said, settling back into the pleasure of planning a future on which they could agree. “So that no man can be cruelly treated by another. So that every man knows that he can go to the court and have his case heard.”
He raised his glass to her. “We should start writing this down,” he said. “And we should start planning how it is to be done.”
“It will be years before we come to our thrones.”
“You never know. I don’t wish it—God knows, I honor my father and my mother and I would want nothing before God’s own time. But you never know. I am Prince of Wales, you are Princess. But we will be King and Queen of England. We should know who we will have at our court, we should know what advisors we will choose, we should know how we are going to make this country truly great. If it is a dream, then we can talk of it together at nighttime, as we do. But if it is a plan, we should write it in the daytime, take advice on it, think how we might do the things we want.”
Her face lit up. “When we have finished our lessons for the day, perhaps we could do it then. Perhaps your tutor would help us, and my confessor.”
“And my advisors,” he said. “And we could start here. In Wales. I can do what I want, within reason. We could make a college here, and build some schools. We could even commission a ship to be built here. There are shipwrights in Wales, we could build the first of our defensive ships.”
She clapped her hands like the girl she was. “We could start our reign!” she said.
“Hail Queen Katherine! Queen of England!” Arthur said playfully, but at the ring of the words he stopped and l
ooked at her more seriously. “You know, you will hear them say that, my love. Vivat! Vivat Catalina Regina, Queen Katherine, Queen of England.”
It is like an adventure, wondering what sort of country we can make, what sort of king and queen we will be. It is natural we should think of Camelot. It was my favorite book in my mother’s library and I found Arthur’s own well-thumbed copy in his father’s library.
I know that Camelot is a story, an ideal, as unreal as the love of a troubadour, or a fairy-tale castle or legends about thieves and treasure and genies. But there is something about the idea of ruling a kingdom with justice, with the consent of the people, which is more than a fairy tale.
Arthur and I will inherit great power, his father has seen to that. I think we will inherit a strong throne and a great treasure. We will inherit with the goodwill of the people; the king is not loved but he is respected, and nobody wants a return to endless battles. These English have a horror of civil war. If we come to the throne with this power, this wealth, and this goodwill, there is no doubt in my mind that we can make a great country here.
And it shall be a great country in alliance with Spain. My parents’ heir is Juana’s son, Charles. He will be Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain. He will be my nephew and we will have the friendship of kinsmen. What a powerful alliance this will be: the great Holy Roman Empire and England. Nobody will be able to stand against us, we might divide France, we might divide most of Europe. Then we will stand, the empire and England against the Moors, then we will win and the whole of the East, Persia, the Ottomans, the Indies, even China will be laid open to us.
The routine of the castle changed. In the days which were starting to become warmer and brighter the young Prince and Princess of Wales set up their office in her rooms, dragged a big table over to the window for the afternoon light, and pinned up maps of the principality on the linenfold paneling.
“You look as if you are planning a campaign,” Lady Margaret Pole said pleasantly.
“The princess should be resting,” Doña Elvira remarked resentfully to no one in particular.
“Are you unwell?” Lady Margaret asked quickly.
Catalina smiled and shook her head. She was becoming accustomed to the obsessive interest in her health. Until she could say that she was carrying England’s heir, she would have no peace from people asking her how she did.
“I don’t need to rest,” she said. “And tomorrow, if you will take me, I should like to go out and see the fields.”
“The fields?” asked Lady Margaret, rather taken aback. “In March? They won’t plow for another week or so, there is almost nothing to see.”
“I have to learn,” Catalina said. “Where I live, it is so dry in summer that we have to build little ditches in every field, to the foot of every tree, to channel water to the plants to make sure that they can drink and live. When we first rode through this country and I saw the ditches in your fields, I was so ignorant I thought they were bringing water in.” She laughed aloud at the memory. “And then the prince told me they were drains to take the water away. I could not believe it! So we had better ride out and you must tell me everything.”
“A queen does not need to know about fields,” Doña Elvira said in muted disapproval from the corner. “Why should she know what the farmers grow?”
“Of course a queen needs to know,” Catalina replied, irritated. “She should know everything about her country. How else can she rule?”
“I am sure you will be a very fine queen of England,” Lady Margaret said, making the peace.
Catalina glowed. “I shall be the best queen of England that I can be,” she said. “I shall care for the poor and assist the church, and if we are ever at war I shall ride out and fight for England just as my mother did for Spain.”
Planning for the future with Arthur, I forget my homesickness for Spain. Every day we think of some improvement we could make, of some law that should be changed. We read together books of philosophy and politics. We talk about whether people can be trusted with their freedom, of whether a king should be a good tyrant or should step back from power. We talk about my home: of my parents’ belief that you make a country by one church, one language, and one law. Or whether it could be possible to do as the Moors did: to make a country with one law but with many faiths and many languages, and assume that people are wise enough to choose the best.
We argue, we talk. Sometimes we break up in laughter, sometimes we disagree. Arthur is my lover always, my husband, undeniably. And now he is becoming my friend.
Catalina was in the little garden of Ludlow Castle, which was set along the east wall, in earnest conversation with one of the castle gardeners. In neat beds around her were the herbs that the cooks used, and some herbs and flowers with medicinal properties grown by Lady Margaret. Arthur, seeing Catalina as he walked back from confession in the round chapel, glanced up to the great hall to check that no one would prevent him, and slipped off to be with her. As he drew up she was gesturing, trying to describe something. Arthur smiled.
“Princess,” he said formally in greeting.
She swept him a low curtsey, but her eyes were warm with pleasure at the sight of him. “Sire.”
The gardener had dropped to his knees in the mud at the arrival of the prince. “You can get up,” Arthur said pleasantly. “I don’t think you will find many pretty flowers at this time of year, Princess.”
“I was trying to talk to him about growing salad vegetables,” she said. “But he speaks Welsh and English and I have tried Latin and French and we don’t understand each other at all.”
“I think I am with him. I don’t understand either. What is salad?”
She thought for a moment. “Acetaria.”
“Acetaria?” he queried.
“Yes, salad.”
“What is it, exactly?”
“It is vegetables that grow in the ground and you eat them without cooking them,” she explained. “I was asking if he could plant some for me.”
“You eat them raw? Without boiling?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Because you will be dreadfully ill, eating uncooked food in this country.”
“Like fruit, like apples. You eat them raw.”
He was unconvinced. “More often cooked, or preserved or dried. And anyway, that is a fruit and not leaves. But what sorts of vegetables do you want?”
“Lactuca,” she said.
“Lactuca?” he repeated. “I have never heard of it.”
She sighed. “I know. You none of you seem to know anything of vegetables. Lactuca is like…” She searched her mind for the truly terrible vegetable that she had been forced to eat, boiled into a pulp at one dinner at Greenwich. “Samphire,” she said. “The closest thing you have to lactuca is probably samphire. But you eat lactuca without cooking and it is crisp and sweet.”
“Vegetables? Crisp?”
“Yes,” she said patiently.
“And you eat this in Spain?”
She nearly laughed at his appalled expression. “Yes. You would like it.”
“And can we grow it here?”
“I think he is telling me: no. He has never heard of such a thing. He has no seeds. He does not know where we would find such seeds. He does not think it would grow here.” She looked up at the blue sky with the scudding rain clouds. “Perhaps he is right,” she said, a little weariness in her voice. “I am sure that it needs much sunshine.”
Arthur turned to the gardener. “Ever heard of a plant called lactuca?”
“No, Your Grace,” the man said, his head bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Perhaps it is a Spanish plant. It sounds very barbaric. Is Her Royal Highness saying they eat grass there? Like sheep?”
Arthur’s lip quivered. “No, it is a herb, I think. I will ask her.”
He turned to Catalina and took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “You know, sometimes in summer, it is very sunny and very hot here. Truly. You would find the midday sun wa
s too hot. You would have to sit in the shade.”
She looked disbelievingly from the cold mud to the thickening clouds.
“Not now, I know; but in summer. I have leaned against this wall and found it warm to the touch. You know, we grow strawberries and raspberries and peaches. All the fruit that you grow in Spain.”
“Oranges?”
“Well, perhaps not oranges,” he conceded.
“Lemons? Olives?”
He bridled. “Yes, indeed.”
She looked suspiciously at him. “Dates?”
“In Cornwall,” he asserted, straight-faced. “Of course it is warmer in Cornwall.”
“Sugarcane? Rice? Pineapples?”
He tried to say yes, but he could not repress the giggles and she crowed with laughter, and fell on him.
When they were steady again he glanced around the inner bailey and said, “Come on, nobody will miss us for a while,” and led her down the steps to the little sally port and let them out of the hidden door.
A small path led them to the hillside which fell away steeply from the castle down to the river. A few lambs scampered off as they approached, a lad wandering after them. Arthur slid his arm around her waist and she let herself fall into pace with him.
“We do grow peaches,” he assured her. “Not the other things, of course. But I am sure we can grow your lactuca, whatever it is. All we need is a gardener who can bring the seeds and who has already grown the things you want. Why don’t you write to the gardener at the Alhambra and ask him to send you someone?”
“Could I send for a gardener?” she asked incredulously.
“My love, you are going to be Queen of England. You can send for a regiment of gardeners.”
“Really?”
Arthur laughed at the delight dawning on her face. “At once. Did you not realize it?”
“No! But where should he garden? There is no room against the castle wall, and if we are to grow fruit as well as vegetables…”
“You are Princess of Wales! You can plant your garden wherever you please. You shall have all of Kent if you want it, my darling.”
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