In April I observed the first anniversary of my husband's death. I was more than ready to throw off the mourning garments I had worn for a year and to seek some mild diversions in the life of the English court. Though Doña Elvira continued to cling to me like a shadow and to rule my days with an unbending will, there was no point in confronting her. With so little money in the household coffers, there was nothing at all to spend on pleasure anyway. The Great Feast of Easter was scarcely different from any other meal at my table—a little bread, a little meat, some poor wine.
When Juan de Cuero, my treasurer, refused to permit me to sell two or three pieces of plate in order to feed my household and to meet my obligations to my servants, I wrote to my parents yet again, pleading with them. My father answered that letter swiftly with a firm negative: The plate had to be preserved as part of my dowry and could not be touched.
But what, please God, was I to do in the meantime?
***
At last, on the twenty-third of June, five days before Henry's twelfth birthday, a marriage treaty was signed, betrothing me to the new prince of Wales. Certain agreements had been reached: The dowry—always the dowry!—would remain unchanged; the wedding would take place when Henry reached the age of fifteen, providing the pope granted the proper dispensations, and providing the balance of my dowry had been paid over to King Henry—100, 000 escudos, part in gold coin and part in jewels and plate.
The day after the marriage treaty was signed, Henry and I celebrated our betrothal with a great banquet. This was the first occasion of rejoicing and merriment since weeks before Arthur's death. I managed to put one of my gowns in good repair, sat between the king and his aged mother, and once again danced with my ladies, feeling almost lighthearted. My future husband led his sister, Princess Margaret, in a lively galliard with its rapid steps and vigorous leaps. I must learn those steps, I thought, watching as Henry danced with the abandon of a boy with no care in this world but to make merry.
The mourning period was over. I was betrothed to the future king of England. I would once more be invited to court and treated with the honor and respect that were due me. Surely my life would now improve.
Still, I was past seventeen, an age at which most young women were already married. Yet I would have to wait three long years until all the conditions of the betrothal were reached and I would once again be a wife. I felt that I was already growing old, my childbearing years fleeting, while my future husband—his cheeks flushed with the exertions of the dance—had not yet reached manhood.
But I knew that waiting was called for. I had already begun to imagine the man—and the king—that Henry would become. And I would be his queen. I was prepared to wait as long as I must.
CHAPTER 10
Waiting
Richmond Palace, September 1503
The king informed Henry that the marriage would not take place for several years. "And much could happen in the meantime. There is not a monarch in all of Christendom who would not be pleased to wed his daughter to the next king of England. Betrothals are made to be broken."
Henry wished to ask questions. Were betrothals so easily broken? Was this not the same as breaking one's word? What would then become of the princess? Would she be sent back to Spain? What other princesses were being considered? But his father did not allow such questions, and they remained unasked.
More troublesome to Henry than the matter of a broken betrothal was his father's new attitude toward him. Since Henry had been invested as prince of Wales and given a number of other titles, the king insisted upon peeping him constantly by his side wherever he went—to Richmond, Greenwich, or Westminster. Brandon and one or two others traveled with them.
"You have much to learn, my son," his father often reminded him. "I sometimes worry that I have not enough time in which to teach you."
Lessons in kingship were constant and ongoing, with his father's own history as the text. Again Henry heard the story of how his father had killed his rival, King Richard III, on Bosworth Field and since then had faced rebels, pretenders to the throne, and threats to his own life. "Seizing power is not difficult. It takes only courage," said his father. "Holding power—now that is the challenge. It takes shrewdness and ruthlessness. When threatened, do not hesitate. Strike fearlessly. Even if it means sending to the block men you have considered your friends."
King Henry reminded his son that he himself had only a few years earlier ordered the execution of the earl of Warwick, who had been heard to make claims to the throne.
"Do whatever you must to keep the crown on your own head," his father advised. "The end justifies the means."
King Henry also had a great deal to say about other European monarchs. The French, warned King Henry, were never to be trusted in an alliance. Maximilian, the Holy Roman Emperor, was a force to be reckoned with. His son, Philip, was married to Catherine's sister, Juana, and their children would one day inherit all of Maximilian's titles, plus the crowns of Spain. But Maximilian was fickle in his loyalties and might turn at any time. It was impossible to count on the emperor.
"And that damnable Ferdinand and Isabella! Spending every piece of gold in the Spanish treasury to pursue their war in Italy. And to what end? They are unable to pay the money due on their daughter's dowry, or even to support her and her court."
Henry listened carefully to his father's words and observed his actions. The prince had begun to imagine himself in his father's place, as king of England, all-powerful, beloved by the common people, and, if necessary, feared by noblemen with a hunger for power. At first he had enjoyed the new role of cherished son and the attentions now lavished upon him. But now he chafed under his father's stern restrictions and dreaded the outbursts of temper that had become more and more frequent.
Only Brandon's company gave him any relief from his father's demands and made the prince's life bearable.
SOMEDAY IN THE FUTURE I WAS TO BECOME THE QUEEN of England, yet my present life did not improve as I had every right to expect and, in fact, seemed more precarious than ever. I still had no money to support myself and my household.
Now that I was betrothed to Henry, the ambassador encouraged me to write to my father-in-law, explaining my impoverished circumstances. "Certainly the king knows of it," said Don Rodrigo. "But he is unlikely to offer aid unless you petition him for it." I followed Don Rodrigo's advice and sent the letter. The answer was immediate.
"You are like a daughter to me," King Henry replied fondly, apparently forgetting that not long before he had thought of me as a future wife. "You have only to inform me of your needs, and they shall be taken care of." He granted me an allowance of one hundred crowns a month from the royal treasury for the maintenance of my household.
It was a generous sum but still not enough to support a household of sixty. I would have to make do. I remembered gratefully how my mother had drilled my sisters and me in frugal household management, lessons we had scorned at the time.
Once the allowance had been settled, I was again treated with the honor and dignity due a highborn princess, and my spirits lifted. I wrote happily to my sister, Juana, describing my new life: I attended court functions and traveled with my suite as the royal court moved from one palace to another. I accompanied the royal family on hunting trips and danced with my ladies at splendid banquets, even with our shabby gowns. Occasionally Prince Henry was present, but we were seldom given the opportunity to speak together, and I had to be contented with smiles and bows. I ignored Doña Elvira's disapproving frowns and clucks of the tongue.
In August Princess Margaret departed for Scotland to marry James IV, and she invited me to ride part of the way with her huge retinue. From Don Pedro de Ayala, the former ambassador to Scotland, I had heard so many stories of the wildness of the Scots and their complete lack of civility that I wept with her as she set out for the north.
But Princess Margaret had other reasons for her tears. "My dear mother spent her last remaining strength helping me to assemble
my household goods," she confided as we rode together in her litter. She gazed out at the long line of wheeled carts creaking under the weight of her belongings. "Sometimes I blame myself for her death. Perhaps the effort weakened her."
This reminded me of my own dear mother and how deeply I missed her. Impulsively, I grasped Margaret's hand and brought it to my lips. "But, dear Margaret, we must go bravely to our future," I said, wiping away her tears and mine as well.
As the procession neared Hatfield, we made our last farewells, and I turned back toward London. For days afterward I felt lonelier for her going and far less brave than I wished.
When I first arrived in England I had hoped that Arthur's mother, Queen Elizabeth, would instruct me in the ways of the English court. I am certain that we would have drawn quite close had not so many tragedies intervened. With the good queen dead, the king's mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, countess of Richmond and Derby, had taken over the management of the royal household, watching over both Henrys, father and son, as well as little Princess Mary.
Despite the ten-year difference in our ages, I had formed an easy friendship with Princess Mary. She came to visit often, bringing her lute, and I taught her to play some pretty songs. Though only eight years old, the princess was a keen observer of her family. She often spoke of her grandmother, who had rules for everything in the household.
"There are rules for what we eat, what we drink, what we put on. My lady grandmother has ordered Father to wear a red nightcap with a hole in the top for vapors to escape, in order to sweeten his breath. She has rules for how Father's bed must be made: Every morning the gentleman of the bedchamber orders a servant to leap up and down upon the king's bed to fluff up the mattresses. The linen sheets are laid on in a particular order, and certain herbs are tucked into the pillows—to keep away the fleas, you know—and then the coverlets are piled on, and at the end the priest is summoned to sprinkle holy water over it all. Now the same is true for Henry. He has always been her favorite—after Father, of course."
"And your bed?" I asked Mary.
The little princess giggled. "Only the holy water," she said. "But no one leaps up and down upon it, and I do wish they would!"
I knew that Lady Margaret had been married three times. Her first husband, Edmund Tudor, left her a widow a few months before her son, Henry, was born when she was just thirteen. She married again, this time to Henry Stafford, who soon died. Shortly after her third marriage, to a widower, Thomas Stanley, earl of Derby, she took a vow of chastity and ever since had lived a deeply pious life, abstaining from banquets and entertainments, dressing in simple kirtles and shunning elaborate gowns and jewels.
"Grandmother's prayers begin long before the sun rises," Mary said. "She hears mass five times a day, attends morning and evening prayers with her gentlewomen, and makes a confession every third day. She eats scarcely anything—no breakfast and only a little dinner—and she strictly observes every fast day. Beneath her kirtle she wears a girdle made of coarse hair that rubs against her skin until it bleeds."
Now that I was betrothed to Lady Margaret's only living grandson, I quickly learned that I was under her intense scrutiny. The old countess seemed to watch everything, to miss not the smallest detail. As the new year of 1504 began, she summoned me to visit her at Richmond.
I was determined not to appear uneasy about my interview, but as soon as I had been ushered into her chambers by an elderly page, I felt that she took in every inch of me and found me lacking, beginning with my threadbare gown. She would not have known that my father had sent me no money, unless the king told her. She may not have realized that I had only the hundred crowns the king allowed me each month. If she had known, she may not have realized that was not enough.
Lady Margaret began by greeting me in French. I recognized some of the phrases, but I could not think quickly enough to frame a suitable reply. I grasped for words that would not come and finally managed to stammer a response in Latin.
"You do not speak French, my dear princess?" the old countess asked in Latin, her eyebrows lifted. Her eyes were shrewd, I thought, like the king's.
"I do not, Lady Margaret," I whispered.
She shifted to English and was rewarded by my gaping look of incomprehension. Her eyebrows plowed into a frown. "Nor English, either?"
"It has not been possible, my lady," I replied.
"Not possible?"
"I seldom hear English spoken, madam. All of my English staff resigned after Arthur's death. I have no one to teach me."
But the countess brushed aside my excuses. "You have been here for how long, Catherine? More than two years? And yet it seems that nothing of our very practical and, shall I say , forceful English language has made its way to your lips? True, English may seem to lack the elegance of French and the intellectual precision of Latin, but many of your new countrymen find it useful. Perhaps you, as their future queen, might find it useful as well."
"Yes, madam," I whispered, my head bowed in shame.
It seemed that the interview was at an end, and I fled, weak with humiliation.
In spring Princess Mary invited me to go hawking at Eltham with her and her cousins. Naturally, I wanted to accept. Every invitation was an opportunity for me to become more familiar with the ways of the English court, to learn a few words of their language, and perhaps to see Prince Henry. But it seemed the better I got along with the English, the more tightly my duenna gripped my reins in her clenched fist. Once again Doña Elvira refused permission, falling back upon her usual explanation of her duty to protect my reputation.
I had heard these same words dozens of times, and they infuriated me. "Must I live like this for two more years, until I am wed?" I cried. "I am no longer a child! I am a full-grown woman of eighteen. I have already had a husband! In what manner is this improper?"
She answered only with the haughty look I had learned to detest, a look that said, "If you must ask why it is improper, it simply shows that you are incapable of judging for yourself."
I seethed with resentment, yet I felt powerless in the face of her extraordinary will and, above all, my loyalty to my mother's wishes. Would my mother have issued the same edict? I no longer believed she would. After the hawking party had gone, I began to suffer attacks of ague. My complexion faded, my appetite declined, and a physician was summoned to bleed me. Every time I opened my eyes, there was Doña Elvira, and I shut my eyes again. The next time I receive an invitation, I thought, I shall accept, no matter what my duenna says. As soon as I had made that determination, I began to feel stronger.
Yet who else had I? Queen Elizabeth was dead. The old countess offered only criticism. As time wore on, King Henry paid me less and less attention. Perhaps because of this, the number of invitations from court declined, and those that arrived were to events of little interest or importance. I heard nothing from Prince Henry, and, in truth, I was not certain that I was much on his mind.
I found little comfort in my own household. My ladies were lonely and restless. Members of my small court bickered among themselves. Doña Elvira's son, Don Iñigo, insisted that he should have authority over my pages as well as over my mules, putting him at odds with Cueros son. I tried to keep the peace.
My allowance from the king of one hundred crowns a month barely met the current expenses of my household and did not help to make up their back wages. There was never anything left over at the end of the month, and I was sinking ever deeper into debt. Despite my pleas, Cuero continued to refuse to allow me to sell a few pieces of my plate. And my parents sent no help, because they had nothing to send.
That left only Doña Elvira and Don Rodrigo Gonzales de Puebla, who could scarcely bear to be in one another's presence. "Mark my words, he is working for the interests of the English, not of the Spanish," Doña Elvira insisted. "The ambassador is in the pay of King Henry, who bribes him well," she continued. "Your father sends you no help because Don Rodrigo tells him nothing but honeyed lies to set his mind at ease; that
all is well with you and your complaints can safely be ignored! Puebla eats at the king's table and seeks to advance himself at court with the most abject fawning and flattery. No doubt he lies to King Henry as well, and that is why the king treats you so coldly."
I hated to agree with her about anything, but I too, was beginning to mistrust the ambassador. It did not occur to me to mistrust Doña Elvira.
One pleasant summer afternoon, a smiling and blushing Maria de Salinas brought me her good news: Edward Stanley, the young gentleman who had been courting her, had asked for her hand in marriage.
"I do love him," she said, glowing with happiness.
Maria was sixteen. If she were back in Spain, she would certainly have been married by now. She had always expected to find a husband in England. Edward was certainly suitable. His grandfather was Thomas Stanley, earl of Derby, husband of the king's mother! Lady Margaret and the earl had given their approval, the king had given his, but there remained the matter of a dowry: Maria had none. It was my responsibility to provide it, and I had not a single escudo to give her. With the hope that my mother might send something, I wrote to her. We waited, but the months passed with no reply. With every passing day our hopes grew dimmer, and our hearts grew heavier.
As I approached my nineteenth birthday in the autumn of 1504, I had lived in England for three years. An entire twelvemonth had passed without papal approval for my marriage to the prince of Wales. The pope had died soon after the request for a dispensation was delivered to him, and a month later his successor was also dead. After the election of yet another pope, Julius II, the request passed into his hands. On his decision I now waited.
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