At the end of September, several days before we set sail for the second time, Captain Stephen Brett of the English navy arrived at Laredo, dispatched by King Henry VII to search for his son's missing bride. Captain Brett would guide us across the Bay of Biscay, grown even more dangerous now with autumn storms rolling in from the Atlantic Ocean, to safety in England.
"You have nothing further to fear, mistress," the grizzled captain assured me, displaying a smile of blackened teeth. "You will shortly be on English soil, and all will be well."
"I pray that you are right, sir," I replied through an interpreter, though I had no confidence that he was.
As it turned out, the captain was wrong. On the last day of the voyage, the seas again turned treacherous. The six ships were lashed by one furious squall after another as thunder boomed and lightning crackled ominously close by.
"Surely this is an ill omen, my lady," gasped Francesca, dark eyes wide with fright. "Perhaps God does not want you to go to England after all."
"Perhaps He is testing me," I replied, struggling not to let my fear overwhelm me. "And I shall not be found wanting."
The storms ceased as suddenly as they had begun, and hours later the Spanish ships entered Plymouth harbor under a bright sun, led by Captain Brett in the pilot boat. Dressed in a gown that had somehow escaped a second soaking, I waited in the waist of the ship with the count of Cabra, the bishop of Majorca, and the archbishop of Santiago, the three who would stand in place of my parents at my marriage ceremony. The ladies of my court, miserable in their damp clothes, arranged themselves behind me according to rank. I had never felt worse in my life—my head throbbed, my stomach churned, my legs were so weak that I could scarcely stand upright. Doña Elvira braced herself to catch me if I should falter.
A huge crowd had gathered on the wharf, watching as the ship was warped in by seamen pulling hard on stout ropes. "I shall never willingly set foot on board a ship as long as I live," I whispered to Maria, whose pallor surely reflected my own.
In the front of the cheering throng, feet wide apart, stood a short, round man arrayed in a red velvet cloak and a hat with a plume nearly as long as his arm. Whoever he was, he swept off the hat as he fell to his knees and shouted up to me. I wanted nothing more than a warm, dry place to lie down, but despite my wretchedness I behaved as my mother had taught me: I smiled and nodded through the official speeches, words that I did not recognize but believed I understood.
Welcome to England!
CHAPTER 2
The Bright Star of Spain
Richmond Palace, October 1501
Several days' journey to the east of Plymouth, Henry slid an ebony bishop across the chessboard. Brandon peered down hard at his few remaining pieces, and Henry congratulated himself that within the next move or two Brandon would fall into his trap. If Henry could not defeat Brandon at archery, he could easily do so at chess. Brandon himself readily conceded that he had no talent for the game.
Brandon had been brought by the king as a companion for Arthur, but even before Arthur was packed off to the Marches, Brandon had begun to spend much of his time with Henry. An orphan lacking both position and title, Brandon was a year older than the prince, six years older than Henry, and a superb athlete. He could outwrestle both of them—Arthur was no challenge—outride them, outshoot them, win every tennis match. But Henry was confident that in a few years he would lively best Brandon at every sport.
The duke loved Brandon like a brother—perhaps even more, but he could never admit that, even to himself—and the affection was returned. "My grandfather was once your father's standard-bearer at Bosworth Field," Brandon often told him. "My grandfather died defending your father."
Henry enjoyed hearing that story and understood its significance: His father had not inherited the throne; he had won it on Bosworth Field by killing the usurper, King Richard III. Exactly as I would have done, thought Henry. He could not imagine Arthur fighting to the death for anything, even the throne.
Henry barely glanced up from the board when a messenger clattered through the gallery with a letter for the king. Moments later the king burst out of his chambers and rushed to the queen's chambers, shouting, "She is here! She is here! The princess has arrived at Plymouth, and she is making her way toward London!"
Afresh messenger was dispatched immediately to carry the news to Arthur at Ludlow. Long-laid plans to welcome Princess Catherine to London with all the pomp and ceremony due the daughter of the monarchs of Spain must be set in motion. Arrangements for the wedding must now go forward. The king stomped about, shouting orders and announcing that no expense was to be spared, so great was the importance of this event. This announcement surprised Henry and Brandon, both aware of how close fisted the king was known to be. Henry felt a sudden, sharp twinge of jealousy—Arthur was getting all the attention, as usual.
But Henry said nothing and concentrated again on the chessboard, where Brandon had finally made his move.
"Check," said Henry.
MY JOURNEY HAD BEGUN IN MAY OF 1501 WHEN I left Granada. At the farewell celebration, bright flowers decorated every corner of the Alhambra, the great square-towered Moorish citadel at the foot of the looming Sierra Nevada. Every morning for a week I awakened to the smell of roasting meat, and every night, after we had feasted on venison and spring lamb and cakes made of pomegranates and almonds, my ladies and I danced for the members of the court. As much as I loved the feasting and dancing, each day was a painful reminder that I would soon set out on a journey to a distant land and might never see my parents again.
My mother, Queen Isabella, had been preparing me for my departure since my betrothal to Prince Arthur at the age of two. I was the last of her children to marry, and she was reluctant to let me go. The wounds inflicted by the deaths of my eldest sister Isabel, of Prince Juan, my only brother, and most recently of Isabel's little son were still fresh in my mother's heart. My sister Maria had left for Portugal seven months earlier to marry Isabel's widower, King Manoel, and my next eldest sister, Juana, had been in the Netherlands for almost five years as wife of Philip of Burgundy. Once I passed my fifteenth birthday, my mother could no longer postpone the inevitable. When the moment came for me to take my leave, she was unable to hold back her tears. I could scarcely bear to see the pain written so clearly on her dear face.
"You will be in good hands," my mother assured me, as she assured herself, and named some of those familiar faces who would accompany me: Padre Alessandro, who had been my lifelong tutor and chaplain, Juan de Cuero as household treasurer, and so on. "I can think of no lady better to serve as your duenna than Doña Elvira. She has been a member of my court for many years, and I know her character to be above reproach. We are little acquainted with the English and their ways, and I trust Doña Elvira to protect your reputation resolutely."
I bowed my head. I did not like Doña Elvira. She was harsh and tyrannical. But I would not go against my mother's will. I said nothing, keeping my head lowered so that she would not notice my distress. "We shall write one another often, shall we not?" I murmured, trying unsuccessfully not to weep.
"Of course we shall send letters, dear Catalina, and I shall always be happy to hear news of your life. I have great faith that the training I have given you and the advisers I am sending with you will provide the wisdom and sensibility you will require as wife, mother, and queen. In difficult times bring to mind my words and the sound of my voice. In that way, I shall always be present for you." Then my mother gave me her blessing, kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my lips, and turned away. "Go, Catalina," my mother said in a shaking voice. "Go now, and quickly."
I was weeping so hard I could scarcely find my way from her chamber. But I knew I must dry my tears and calm myself. When I felt able, I knelt before my father, the king, who showed as little feeling as the stones of the ancient citadel. He seldom did, though I believed I knew what was in his heart—I had always been his favorite daughter. I took his hand in both of mine and kisse
d it. My father merely frowned and made the sign of the cross over me.
Mounted on a mule in a red saddle-chair, I rode for the last time through lush gardens of jasmine and oleander, passed by the groves of almond, lime, and fig, and soon left behind the shade of the tall cypress trees of Andalucía. Now that the anguish of the parting was over, my thoughts turned toward the future. I was excited to be on my way, eager to begin my new life as the future queen of England.
The long procession—noblemen and churchmen, my maids of honor, tutors, chaplain, treasurer, equerry, majordomo, and duenna, plus innumerable knights and archers, countless cooks and bakers, servitors and muleteers, minstrels, and fools—stretched farther than I could see. Day after day, as the procession wound over rugged mountains and plodded across the stark and dusty plains of Castilla, we endured searing heat and sudden downpours. My ladies took turns riding with me in the royal litter, borne by sure-footed mules and curtained with silks to protect us from the dust and the relentless sun. Each night we stopped at convents where I and my attendants were accommodated. Our servants camped in the open fields.
On those nights when sleep would not come, I lay in my bed and practiced a few useful phrases Padre Alessandro had taught me: Good day, my lord and Good evening, my lady, If it please you, sire and Thank you, madam.
"You will learn quickly once you are living among the English," the chaplain assured me. I could only hope that he was right.
"They probably will not call you Catalina," he had said as we prepared for the journey.
"What will they call me then?"
"Catherine is, I believe, the closest the English will come to it. C-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E."
So I was to lose my name! The same had happened to my sister, Juana, when she married Philip of Burgundy and went to live in the Netherlands. Juana became Joanna —not a pretty name, I thought, and so difficult for the Spanish tongue to pronounce.
"Catherine," I whispered in the darkness. No more Catalina. Catherine.
Waiting for me in Plymouth and the first to welcome me in my own tongue was Pedro de Ayala, my parents' ambassador to Scotland. I had expected to be met by the ambassador to England, Rodrigo Gonzales de Puebla, who had negotiated my marriage contract and stood in my stead at the betrothal ceremony years ago. But when I inquired about him, the elegantly dressed Ayala merely waved his hand dismissively. "Don Rodrigo will, no doubt, greet you in London," he said, explaining that he, Ayala, had decided to leave Scotland for England. "Life here is so much more pleasant than up north."
Later I learned that each of the two ambassadors harbored a deep dislike for the other, and Ayala had managed to outwit his rival by riding out to Plymouth when he heard that my ships were bound there. Puebla had been left behind in London, unaware of my arrival.
After a few days of rest in Plymouth—to give the royal couriers time to carry the news to the king—my company set out for London.
"It will be a slow journey with numerous stops along the way," explained Ayala, "to allow my lady princess time to regain her strength. Also," he added, "we shall give the English an opportunity to see for themselves the woman who shall one day be their queen."
We rode in a light drizzle to our first stop, a country manor in Exeter where our host had prepared an elaborate feast. With a great flourish the lord of the manor presented me with a silver goblet filled to the brim with a golden liquid that smelled unpleasantly sour. He proposed a toast.
"Their finest English ale," Ayala murmured close to my ear.
I raised the goblet to my lips and tried to drink. The bitterness brought tears to my eyes. "This must be what was offered on the sponge to our Lord on the cross," I whispered to Ayala. As good manners required, I drained the goblet to the last drop to the cheers of those around me.
After a fortnight in Exeter we continued our journey eastward. We rode on mules brought from Spain; I seated in my red saddle-chair. Doña Elvira insisted that my face remain veiled, as befitted a royal maiden. A number of English ladies rode with us on horseback, dressed in bright velvets, their faces bared to anyone who cared to look. Here I discovered another odd custom: English ladies mounted their sidesaddles from the left while Spanish ladies mounted from the right. They sat on opposite sides of their horses and often rode facing away from one another.
How different it all was from Spain! The great procession moved past dark, forbidding forests and open fields, past green pastures crowded with grazing sheep and cows, past the thatched cottages of the country folk. The roads were no more than rough paths worn by sheep and cows, and the mud was already deep on my mule's withers. The ever present mist clung to my skin like wet silk, and at the end of each day's travel my gown was sodden.
I struggled to wrap my tongue around the strange names of the towns and villages through which we passed: Crewkerne, Sherborne, Shaftesbury. Such tumult greeted me! Cheering crowds surged around us, bells rang clamorously, men tossed their caps into the air, and women held aloft their little ones to give the children a glimpse of me.
From the center of each village rose a church steeple, and close by stood the sumptuous manor houses of noblemen who welcomed us graciously and served us banquets and more ale.
At each stop additional knights joined the procession. Commoners, too, often accompanied us, walking from one village to the next and then returning home to their labors. I found them a boisterous lot, the women as noisy as their husbands, and saw that they could be easily roused to brawling among themselves. Still, I sensed their goodwill.
As we made our way toward London, I thought constantly about Prince Arthur and wondered anxiously what he would think of me. The more I saw of English ladies in their bright colors and unveiled faces, the more I worried that my future husband would not find me to his liking. I was not tall, but I was well formed with a long, graceful neck and a narrow waist; the journey had been so arduous that I was no longer so plump as when I left Granada. I had my mother's wide gray eyes, bright smile, and pale, unblemished skin. The English ladies covered their hair with headdresses, but Spanish ladies took pride in their tresses. Bright as copper, lustrous as silk, falling nearly to my waist, my hair was my glory.
Each night I prayed earnestly for wisdom and patience and humility. I prayed that I would be a dutiful wife to Arthur, an obedient daughter to the king and queen, and an agreeable sister to the prince's younger brother and sisters. After I had prayed for the health and well-being of my family in Spain and for all of those who traveled with me, I allowed myself to make one small, personal request: I prayed that Arthur would find me appealing. I dreaded looking into his eyes and finding disappointment rather than delight as he lifted my wedding veil and gazed at my face for the first time.
I thought again of the letters Prince Arthur had written me during our long betrothal. In the small hours of the night before we were to arrive in Dogmersfield, our last stop before London, I crept from my bed—taking care not to waken Doña Elvira, who snored nearby—and opened the leather and silver case in which I kept Arthur's letters. Unfolding the last one I had received, I held the parchment close to a candle flame and read his words again: Let your coming to me be hastened that instead of being absent we may be present with each other, and the love conceived between us and the wished-for joys may reap their proper fruit.
Perhaps they were not his own words, but surely they expressed the true feelings of his heart. Or so I promised myself, before I returned the letter to its case and returned myself to my bed.
CHAPTER 3
Dogmersfield
Richmond Palace, November 1501
Every day a mud-splattered messenger galloped to the palace to inform King Henry of the Spanish princess's progress toward London.
But the king was restless, dissatisfied. He questioned the messengers closely: "What does the princess look like? How does she appear to you? Is she comely? Is she in good health? Is her neck plump, her skin white and unblemished? Her breath sweet?"
The messengers could reply
only that they themselves had not seen the princess, who was being kept in strict seclusion by her governess and appeared in public with her face hidden beneath a veil.
After three weeks of impatient waiting, the king announced to his privy council, "I shall go and see the princess for myself"
A messenger was dispatched to Ludlow, informing the prince of Wales that he and his gentlemen were to rendezvous with the king and his council at Dogmersfield, where the Spanish princess was resting. Once they had assembled, they would proceed to the bishop's palace to call upon her and her retinue.
Henry observed all of this, speculating with Brandon what the bride might be like. "I wish that I could have a look at her first, before Arthur does."
"Why?" asked Brandon. "You are not the one who is marrying her."
"Because I am curious," Henry had explained, adding with a wicked grin, "and because it always upsets Arthur when I am ahead of him at anything."
When he believed the time was right, Henry appealed to his father. "And I, Father my lord? Am I to accompany you?"
The king replied gruffly, "No, York. You shall stay here with your mother and sisters and prepare to greet the princess when she arrives in London."
"Yes, my lord." Henry managed to hide his anger and disappointment and bowed deeply, kneeling three times as he backed out of his father's privy chamber.
In a foul mood, he went in search of Brandon and found him waiting for him in the courtyard. "I have in mind a game of tennis," Henry said. "Perhaps today I shall show myself to be the better player."
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