“Kent?”
“We grow apples and hops there, I think we might have a try at lactuca.”
Catalina laughed with him. “I didn’t think. I didn’t dream of sending for a gardener. If only I had brought one in the first place. I have all these useless ladies-in-waiting and I need a gardener.”
“You could swap him for Doña Elvira.”
She gurgled with laughter.
“Ah, God, we are blessed,” he said simply. “In each other and in our lives. You shall have anything you want, always. I swear it. Do you want to write to your mother? She can send you a couple of good men and I will get some land turned over at once.”
“I will write to Juana,” she decided. “In the Netherlands. She is in the north of Christendom like me. She must know what will grow in this weather. I shall write to her and see what she has done.”
“And we shall eat lactuca!” he said, kissing her fingers. “All day. We shall eat nothing but lactuca, like sheep grazing grass, whatever it is.”
“Tell me a story.”
“No, you tell me something.”
“If you will tell me about the fall of Granada again.”
“I will tell you. But you have to explain something to me.”
Arthur stretched out and pulled her so that she was lying across the bed, her head on his shoulder. She could feel the rise and fall of his smooth chest as he breathed and hear the gentle thud of his heartbeat, constant as love.
“I shall explain everything.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I am extraordinarily wise today. You should have heard me after dinner tonight dispensing justice.”
“You are very fair,” she conceded. “I do love it when you give a judgment.”
“I am a Solomon,” he said. “They will call me Arthur the Good.”
“Arthur the Wise,” she suggested.
“Arthur the Magnificent.”
Catalina giggled. “But I want you to explain to me something that I heard about your mother.”
“Oh yes?”
“One of the English ladies-in-waiting told me that she had been betrothed to the tyrant Richard. I thought I must have misunderstood her. We were speaking French and I thought I must have had it wrong.”
“Oh, that story,” he said with a little turn of the head.
“Is it not true? I hope I have not offended you?”
“No, not at all. It’s a tale often told.”
“It cannot be true?”
“Who knows? Only my mother and Richard the tyrant can know what took place. And one of them is dead and the other is silent as the grave.”
“Will you tell me?” she asked tentatively. “Or should we not speak of it at all?”
He shrugged. “There are two stories. The well-known one and its shadow. The story that everyone knows is that my mother fled into sanctuary with her mother and sisters, they were hiding in a church all together. They knew if they left they would be arrested by Richard the Usurper and would disappear into the Tower like her young brothers. No one knew if the princes were alive or dead, but nobody had seen them, everyone feared they were dead. My mother wrote to my father—well, she was ordered to by her mother—she told him that if he would come to England, a Tudor from the Lancaster line, then she, a York princess, would marry him, and the old feud between the two families would be over forever. She told him to come and save her, and know her love. He received the letter, he raised an army, he came to find the princess, he married her and brought peace to England.”
“That is what you told me before. It is a very good story.”
Arthur nodded.
“And the story you don’t tell?”
Despite himself he giggled. “It’s rather scandalous. They say that she was not in sanctuary at all. They say that she left the sanctuary and her mother and sisters. She went to court. King Richard’s wife was dead and he was looking for another. She accepted the proposal of King Richard. She would have married her uncle, the tyrant, the man who murdered her brothers.”
Catalina’s hand stole over her mouth to cover her gasp of shock, her eyes were wide. “No!”
“So they say.”
“The queen, your mother?”
“Herself,” he said. “Actually, they say worse. That she and Richard were betrothed as his wife lay dying. That is why there is always such enmity between her and my grandmother. My grandmother does not trust her, but she will never say why.”
“How could she?” she demanded.
“How could she not?” he returned. “If you look at it from her point of view, she was a princess of York, her father was dead, her mother was the enemy of the king trapped in sanctuary, as much in prison as if she were in the Tower. If she wanted to live, she would have to find some way into the favor of the king. If she wanted to be acknowledged as a princess at all, she would have to have his recognition. If she wanted to be Queen of England she would have to marry him.”
“But surely, she could have…” she began and then she fell silent.
“No.” He shook his head. “You see? She was a princess, she had very little choice. If she wanted to live she would have to obey the king. If she wanted to be queen she would have to marry him.”
“She could have raised an army on her own account.”
“Not in England,” he reminded her. “She would have to marry the King of England to be its queen. It was her only way.”
Catalina was silent for a moment. “Thank God that for me to be queen I had to marry you, that my destiny brought me so easily here.”
He smiled. “Thank God we are happy with our destiny. For we would have married, and you would have been Queen of England, whether you had liked me or not. Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “There is never a choice for a princess.”
He nodded.
“But your grandmother, My Lady the King’s Mother, must have planned your mother’s wedding to your father. Why does she not forgive her? She was part of the plan.”
“Those two powerful women, my father’s mother and my mother’s mother, brokered the deal between them like a pair of washerwomen selling stolen linen.”
She gave a little squeak of shock.
Arthur chuckled. He found that he dearly loved surprising her. “Dreadful, isn’t it?” he replied calmly. “My mother’s mother was probably the most hated woman in England at one time.”
“And where is she now?”
He shrugged. “She was at court for a while, but My Lady the King’s Mother disliked her so much she got rid of her. She was famously beautiful, you know, and a schemer. My grandmother accused her of plotting against my father and he chose to believe her.”
“She is never dead? They never executed her!”
“No. He put her into a convent and she never comes to court.”
She was aghast. “Your grandmother had the queen’s own mother confined in a convent?”
He nodded, his face grave. “Truly. You be warned by this, beloved. My grandmother welcomes no one to court that might distract from her own power. Make sure you never cross her.”
Catalina shook her head. “I never would. I am absolutely terrified of her.”
“So am I!” he laughed. “But I know her, and I warn you. She will stop at nothing to maintain the power of her son, and of her family. Nothing will distract her from this. She loves no one but him. Not me, not her husbands, no one but him.”
“Not you?”
He shook his head. “She does not even love him, as you would understand it. He is the boy that she decided was born to be king. She sent him away when he was little more than a baby for his safety. She saw him survive his boyhood. Then she ordered him into the face of terrible danger to claim the throne. She could only love a king.”
She nodded. “He is her pretender.”
“Exactly. She claimed the throne for him. She made him king. He is king.”
He saw her grave face. “Now, enough of this. You have to sing me your song.”
>
“Which one?”
“Is there another one about the fall of Granada?”
“Dozens, I should think.”
“Sing me one,” he commanded. He piled a couple of extra cushions behind his head, and she kneeled up before him, tossed back her mane of red hair and began to sing in a low sweet voice:
“There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down
Some calling on the Trinity, some calling on Mahoun,
Here passed away the Koran and therein the Cross was borne,
And here was heard the Christian bell and there the Moorish
horn.
Te Deum Laudamus! Was up the Alcala sung:
Down from the Alhambra minarets were all the crescents flung,
The arms thereon of Aragon, they with Castile display.
One king comes in in triumph, one weeping goes away.”
He was silent for long minutes. She stretched out again beside him on her back, looking, without seeing, the embroidered tester of the bed over their heads.
“It’s always like that, isn’t it?” he remarked. “The rise of one is the fall of another. I shall be king but only at my father’s death. And at my death, my son will reign.”
“Shall we call him Arthur?” she asked. “Or Henry for your father?”
“Arthur is a good name,” he said. “A good name for a new royal family in Britain. Arthur for Camelot, and Arthur for me. We don’t want another Henry; my brother is enough for anyone. Let’s call him Arthur, and his older sister will be called Mary.”
“Mary? I wanted to call her Isabella, for my mother.”
“You can call the next girl Isabella. But I want our firstborn to be called Mary.”
“Arthur must be first.”
He shook his head. “First we will have Mary so that we learn how to do it all with a girl.”
“How to do it all?”
He gestured. “The christening, the confinement, the birthing, the whole fuss and worry, the wet nurse, the rockers, the nursemaids. My grandmother has written a great book to rule how it shall be done. It is dreadfully complicated. But if we have our Mary first then our nursery is all ready, and in your next confinement we shall put our son and heir into the cradle.”
She rose up and turned on him in mock indignation. “You would practice being a father on my daughter!” she exclaimed.
“You wouldn’t want to start with my son,” he protested. “This will be the rose of the rose of England. That’s what they call me, remember: ‘the rose of England.’ I think you should deal with my little rosebud, my little blossom, with great respect.”
“She is to be Isabella, then,” Catalina stipulated. “If she comes first, she shall be Isabella.”
“Mary, for the queen of heaven.”
“Isabella, for the Queen of Spain.”
“Mary, to give thanks for you coming to me. The sweetest gift that heaven could have given me.”
Catalina melted into his arms. “Isabella,” she said as he kissed her.
“Mary,” he whispered into her ear. “And let us make her now.”
It is morning. I lie awake. It is dawn and I can hear the birds slowly starting to sing. The sun is coming up and through the lattice window I can see a glimpse of blue sky. Perhaps it will be a warm day, perhaps the summer is coming at last.
Beside me, Arthur is breathing quietly and steadily. I can feel my heart swell with love for him, I put my hand on the fair curls of his head and wonder if any woman has ever loved a man as I love him.
I stir and put my other hand on the warm roundness of my belly. Can it be possible that last night we made a child? Is there already, safe in my belly, a baby who will be called Mary, Princess Mary, who will be the rose of the rose of England?
I hear the footsteps of the maid moving about in my presence chamber, bringing wood for the fire, raking up the embers. Still Arthur does not stir. I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” I say, my voice warm with love. “The servants are outside, you must go.”
He is damp with sweat, the skin of his shoulder is cold and clammy.
“My love?” I ask. “Are you well?”
He opens his eyes and smiles at me. “Don’t tell me it’s morning already. I am so weary I could sleep for another day.”
“It is.”
“Oh, why didn’t you wake me earlier? I love you so much in the morning and now I can’t have you till tonight.”
I put my face against his chest. “Don’t. I slept late too. We keep late hours. And you will have to go now.”
Arthur holds me close, as if he cannot bear to let me go; but I can hear the groom of the chamber open the outside door to bring hot water. I draw myself away from him. It is like tearing off a layer of my own skin. I cannot bear to move away from him.
Suddenly, I am struck by the warmth of his body, the tangled heat of the sheets around us. “You are so hot!”
“It is desire,” he says, smiling. “I shall have to go to Mass to cool down.”
He gets out of bed and throws his gown around his shoulders. He gives a little stagger.
“Beloved, are you all right?” I ask.
“A little dizzy, nothing more,” he says. “Blind with desire, and it is all your fault. See you in chapel. Pray for me, sweetheart.”
I get up from bed and unbolt the battlements door to let him out. He sways a little as he goes up the stone steps, then I see him straighten his shoulders to breathe in the fresh air. I close the door behind him, and then go back to my bed. I glance round the room, nobody could know that he has been here. In a moment, Doña Elvira taps on my door and comes in with the maid-in-waiting and behind them a couple of maids with the jug of hot water, and my dress for the day.
“You slept late, you must be overtired,” Doña Elvira says disapprovingly; but I am so peaceful and so happy that I cannot even be troubled to reply.
In the chapel they could do no more than exchange hidden smiles. After Mass, Arthur went riding and Catalina went to break her fast. After breakfast was her time to study with her chaplain and Catalina sat at the table in the window with him, their books before them, and studied the letters of St. Paul.
Margaret Pole came in as Catalina was closing her book. “The prince begs your attendance in his rooms,” she said.
Catalina rose to her feet. “Has something happened?”
“I think he is unwell. He has sent away everyone but the grooms of the body and his servers.”
Catalina left at once, followed by Doña Elvira and Lady Margaret. The prince’s rooms were crowded by the usual hangers-on of the little court: men seeking favor or attention, petitioners asking for justice, the curious come to stare, and the host of lesser servants and functionaries. Catalina went through them all to the double doors of Arthur’s private chamber, and went in.
He was seated in a chair by the fire, his face very pale. Doña Elvira and Lady Margaret waited at the door as Catalina went quickly towards him.
“Are you ill, my love?” she asked quickly.
He managed a smile but she saw it was an effort. “I have taken some kind of chill, I think,” he said. “Come no closer. I don’t want to pass it to you.”
“Are you hot?” she asked fearfully, thinking of the Sweat which came on like a fever and left a corpse.
“No, I feel cold.”
“Well, it is not surprising in this country where it either snows or rains all the time.”
He managed another smile.
Catalina looked around and saw Lady Margaret. “Lady Margaret, we must call the prince’s physician.”
“I sent my servants to find him already,” she said, coming forwards.
“I don’t want a fuss made,” Arthur said irritably. “I just wanted to tell you, Princess, that I cannot come to dinner.”
Her eyes went to his. “How shall we be alone?” was the unspoken question.
“May I dine in your rooms?” she asked. “Can we dine alone, privately, since
you are ill?”
“Yes, let’s,” he ruled.
“See the doctor first,” Lady Margaret advised. “If Your Grace permits. He can advise what you should eat and if it is safe for the princess to be with you.”
“He has no disease,” Catalina insisted. “He says he just feels tired. It is just the cold air here, or the damp. It was cold yesterday and he was riding half the day.”
There was a tap on the door and a voice called out. “Dr. Bereworth is here, Your Grace.”
Arthur raised his hand in permission, Doña Elvira opened the door and the man came into the room.
“The prince feels cold and tired.” Catalina went to him at once, speaking rapidly in French. “Is he ill? I don’t think he’s ill. What do you think?”
The doctor bowed low to her and to the prince. He bowed to Lady Margaret and Doña Elvira.
“I am sorry, I don’t understand,” he said uncomfortably in English to Lady Margaret. “What is the princess saying?”
Catalina clapped her hands together in frustration. “The prince…” she began in English.
Margaret Pole came to her side. “His Grace is unwell,” she said.
“May I speak with him alone?” he asked.
Arthur nodded. He tried to rise from the chair but he almost staggered. The doctor was at once at his side, supporting him, and led him into his bedchamber.
“He cannot be ill.” Catalina turned to Doña Elvira and spoke to her in Spanish. “He was well last night. Just this morning he felt hot. But he said he was only tired. But now he can hardly stand. He cannot beill.”
“Who knows what illness a man might take in this rain and fog?” the duenna replied dourly. “It’s a wonder that you are not sick yourself. It is a wonder that any of us can bear it.”
“He is not sick,” Catalina said. “He is just overtired. He rode for a long time yesterday. And it was cold, there was a very cold wind. I noticed it myself.”
“A wind like this can kill a man,” Doña Elvira said gloomily. “It blows so cold and so damp.”
“Stop it!” Catalina said, clapping her hands to her ears. “I won’t hear another word. He is just tired, overtired. And perhaps he has taken a chill. There is no need to speak of killing winds and damp.”
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