Arthur- Prince of the Roses

by Alison Weir

  ‘Judging by his letters, he is as eager to meet your Highness as you are to see him. You are lucky to have a husband who loves you.’ Maria smiled encouragingly – and not a little enviously.

  ‘But how can he love me when he has never met me?’ Catalina asked, voicing a concern she had kept to herself for a long time. ‘Was he that much taken by my portrait?’ Master Miguel, her mother’s court painter, had taken an excellent likeness.

  ‘He could hardly have failed!’ Maria said. ‘You are so pretty.’

  ‘He is just fifteen!’ Catalina retorted. ‘He is nearly a year younger than I am. I think he has been told what to write, just as I was. And—’ she bit her lip, ‘I fear he is young for his years. Remember how my coming was postponed for a year until he was ready to be married, and then it was postponed again?’ That had been a strange business, veiled in secrecy. Not even to Maria would Catalina confide her secret suspicions that all might not be quite well with Arthur – and that some dreadful deed had finally made possible her coming to England. It was as if saying them out loud would confirm them. ‘At least it gave me time to learn French!’ she said brightly. King Henry’s Queen and his mother, the Lady Margaret, had specially requested it, as they spoke no Spanish or Latin. And they had urged that Catalina cultivate a taste for wine, as the water in England was undrinkable. She had duly complied. She had expected many such requests and instructions to prepare her for her life in England, but there had been just one more, one that had immeasurably troubled her.

  ‘King Henry wants me to forget Spain,’ Catalina revealed. ‘He thinks I will be happier not remembering it. Dr de Puebla wrote that to the King my father.’ Dr de Puebla was Spain’s resident ambassador in England, and it was he who had negotiated her marriage.

  ‘King Henry means well, I am sure, Highness,’ Maria soothed.

  ‘I can never forget my homeland,’ Catalina declared, tears welling as visions of the land of her birth came to mind, ‘but I am determined to be a good Englishwoman.’ She blinked the tears away.

  ‘We must make ready,’ she said. And then, mimicking her duenna, ‘I must always remember that, as soon as I set foot on English soil, I am longer the Infanta Catalina but the Lady Katherine, Princess of Wales!’ Catalina had been told that her name must be anglicised to please her husband’s future subjects, for one day, when King Henry died and Prince Arthur succeeded to the throne, she would be Queen of England.

  Maria laughed – Catalina had Doña Elvira to the life! Catalina smiled, but as she went ahead of Maria down the steep stairs to the sterncastle, where she and the ladies of her suite had been allocated cabins, she was dutifully resolving to think of herself as Katherine from now on.

  The cabins were cramped and creaking, with barely room for a feather bed, and they were unpleasantly stuffy after four days at sea. Mercifully it had been a smooth crossing, unlike the earlier one from La Coruña. It was hard to believe that she had set out on her wedding journey more than five weeks ago, excited at the thought that the long-awaited new life was about to begin, yet grief-stricken at leaving her own country and the mother she loved and revered.

  Four days on raging, storm-tossed seas had made homesickness pale into insignificance beside the fear of drowning and the constant irregular buffeting of the waves. Katherine and her ladies had been horribly, disgustingly sick. All those hours she had intended to devote to improving her English had been spent lying prone, clinging to her wooden cot as the ship bucked and dipped, and praying in terror for the tempest to stop. Her greatest fear had been that the storm had been sent by God as punishment for the great sin that had made her marriage possible, and that they would all be drowned. But God, it had seemed, was reserving His vengeance for another day. Never would Katherine forget the relief she had felt when the ship’s master had managed by a miracle to dock at Laredo; and she had been full of devout thanks for the four weeks’ respite there while they were forced to wait for the seas to calm. She had hated boarding the ship again, dreaded entrusting herself once more to the unpredictable temper of the waters of the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel. Mercifully they had been calm, but she had still been horribly seasick.

  Katherine and Maria found Doña Elvira in the largest cabin, which Katherine herself occupied. Her duenna came from an old and respected Castilian family, and was devoted to Queen Isabella and determined to do her duty by Isabella’s daughter. In the absence of Katherine’s mother, Doña Elvira’s word was now law in the Infanta’s household. She was a stern, proud woman in her late fifties, with a disdainful eye and a sharp tongue, too vigilant for comfort – and too old to remember what it was to be young and bursting with life! And yet, for all her strictness and rigid outlook on life, the Queen trusted her implicitly, and had told Katherine that she must do so too.

  Katherine watched as Doña Elvira heaved her bulk around the narrow spaces of the cabin and cast a critical eye over the four gowns laid across the bed and the travelling chest, gowns of red and gold damask, woven silk, velvet of the costliest black, cloth of gold. Queen Isabella had commanded that her daughter go to England dressed as befitted a future queen, and had paid for a sumptuous trousseau that reflected the glory and majesty of Spain. The chests that lay in the ship’s hold were packed with more magnificent gowns, undergarments edged with fine blackwork lace, hoods of velvet with biliments of gold, silver or pearls. There were night robes bordered with lace for summer and fur for winter, cloth stockings and lined kirtles, as well as the stiff, decorous Spanish farthingales that belled out the skirts of Katherine’s gowns. Also packed in locked and weighty coffers was the gold and silver plate that was to form part of her dowry, and her jewellery. She had exclaimed in amazement when her mother had shown her the intricate bejewelled necklaces, the ornate collars, the gold chains, the crucifixes and the brooches that had been provided for her.

  Then Queen Isabella had laid across her daughter’s outstretched hands a beautifully embroidered christening robe. ‘For your children,’ she had said. ‘I pray that God blesses you with many fine sons. I hope you will be the source of all kinds of happiness in England.’

  Katherine felt like weeping at the memory.

  ‘This one,’ the duenna said, pointing to the damask, ‘if your Highness approves?’

  ‘Of course,’ Katherine agreed. Her mother had instructed that she must trust Doña Elvira’s judgement in all things.

  She stood patiently while three of her maids – Maria de Salazar and twin sisters called Isabel and Blanche de Vargas – stripped her to her farthingale and chemise, dressed her in a kirtle and the rich gown, laced up the back and tied on the wide, hanging sleeves. Doña Elvira herself placed around Katherine’s neck the heavy gold collar adorned with gem-encrusted ‘K’s and pomegranates, the Princess’s personal badge.

  ‘The pomegranate stands for fertility,’ Queen Isabella had said. ‘Your first duty to Prince Arthur will be to bear him sons.’

  Katherine was ten when the collar was made, and ensuring the royal succession had been far in the future. But now she wished she knew more about the process of getting sons. Her mother and her duenna had told her that it was a wife’s duty to submit to the will of her husband in all things, and that children were born at his pleasure. Her mother, with many references to Scripture, had told her a little about how children were begotten, but there was still much mystery surrounding the whole business. Isabella’s obvious embarrassment and the euphemisms she had used had left Katherine confused, and showed that decent people did not like to talk about such things. And yet, in a few weeks, she would be married, and know the whole truth.

  Doña Elvira lifted up a length of the finest white lawn, exquisitely hemmed. ‘Her Majesty’s command was that your Highness be veiled in public until you are married,’ she reminded her charge, as she combed Katherine’s long hair and arranged the veil over her golden head. And so it was that, when the Princess emerged on the m
ain deck to see sailors leaping across to the busy quayside to fling stout ropes around the bollards there and secure the ship in dock, her view of Plymouth, the crowds gathered to welcome her, and the banners gaily flapping in the breeze, was a misty one, glimpsed through the folds of her veil.

  Once the gangplank was in place, her train began disembarking, led in stately fashion by the hero of Granada, the Count de Cabra, who commanded her escort. There followed Katherine’s first chamberlain, Don Pedro Manrique, who was Doña Elvira’s husband, the second chamberlain, Juan de Diero, Katherine’s chaplain, Alessandro Geraldini, three bishops and a bevy of ladies, maids, gentlemen and servants, all tricked out in their finest clothes and liveries. Never let it be said that the Spanish sovereigns, their Most Catholic Majesties King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, had sent their daughter lacking in any way into England!

  Katherine came last, escorted by Doña Elvira, whose bulk was resplendent in yards of green damask and black velvet, her grey hair covered by a voluminous hood. After waiting all her life – or so it seemed – for this moment, Katherine could hardly believe that it had arrived. She carried herself with conscious dignity and pride, aware that she was representing her parents and Spain, the greatest power in Christendom. Ahead of her swelled the sound of cheering voices, and when she stepped on land, even though she felt a little giddy after four days in motion on the sea, she knew a sense of triumph tempered with awe. This was the kingdom of which she would one day be queen. God send that she would be worthy of it, and of the unknown Prince, her husband.

  The Mayor of Plymouth and his brethren, splendid in their furred scarlet robes, were waiting to receive her, bowing low.

  ‘Welcome, your Highness!’ the Mayor boomed. ‘Welcome to England!’

  ‘I thank you, good sirs,’ Katherine replied, inclining her head. She had practised the words on board ship. Her English was not very good, and it was heavily accented, but she was determined to master it.

  The people were roaring their approval. Some were gaping and pointing at the dark-skinned Moorish servants in her Spanish retinue, but most were jostling each other to gain a better sight of their new Princess. Katherine felt humbled to be the focus of such wild excitement, even though she knew that her father considered the King of England lucky to have a Spanish bride for his son.

  ‘They could not have received your Highness with greater joy had you been the Saviour of the world!’ exclaimed one of Katherine’s gentlemen. Doña Elvira frowned. Men were not supposed to address the Princess familiarly. But even the stern duenna was gratified by her charge’s reception.

  ‘His Grace the King sends his greetings, my lady,’ the Mayor said. ‘He looks forward to welcoming you himself in London, with Prince Arthur. But for now, at your pleasure, a great feast awaits your Highness.’

  Katherine was feeling a little disorientated; the ground was still tilting disconcertingly. But she must not let that detract from the good impression she meant to make. ‘Please thank the Mayor for me,’ she said to Don Pedro Manrique, who spoke some English. ‘I will be honoured to be his guest.’

  Behind her there were shouts as the crew unloaded her possessions from the ship. The Count de Cabra was watching anxiously as the coffers containing the hundred thousand crowns that were the first instalment of Katherine’s dowry were brought ashore. It was his responsibility to guard them at all times.

  The Mayor, beaming and puffed up with pride, took an obvious pleasure in escorting Katherine on foot through the celebrating, cheering crowds to the feast. Her first impressions of Plymouth and its inhabitants were startling. In Spain she had been used to seeing stone facades on houses built around patios, but here there were streets crammed with stout, half-timbered houses, some – the more prosperous – with glittering diamond-shaped panes in the windows, and most with roofs of thatch above upper storeys that overhung the narrow, crowded thoroughfares. The smell of fish pervaded everywhere in this bustling port. She stared as women openly greeted the homecoming sailors with kisses on the mouth – and in public too! That would never be tolerated in Spain, where ladies led almost cloistered lives and thought themselves fortunate to be allowed glimpses of the world from their balconies.

  In a fine mansion called Palace House, the nobles and worthies of Devon were assembled, standing respectfully behind long tables laden with a hearty display of food. Everyone bowed low as Katherine and her entourage entered the hall, then a trumpet sounded and grace was said.

  She could barely eat. She was still feeling a little nauseated, the food looked and tasted strange, and it was difficult trying gracefully to convey it from the plate to her mouth when the constricting veil kept getting in the way. She felt uncomfortable partaking of a meal with strange gentlemen watching her, for the privacy of young girls of high birth was closely guarded in Spain. But clearly this was how they did things in England, and she must accustom herself to it. So she responded to everyone’s compliments through her chamberlain, and did her very best to be courteous and friendly, remembering how her mother exerted herself to set people of all ranks at their ease. And when the time came for Katherine to bid the good folk of Plymouth farewell, she knew that they had warmed to her for her own sake, and not just because of who she was.

  Her most pressing need now was to give thanks for her safe arrival in England. As she left Palace House, she asked if she might go to some holy place. The Mayor willingly led her to a church dedicated to St Andrew, where the rotund and rather excited little priest celebrated Mass for her. She knelt, filled with exultation, thanking God for His goodness to her, and praying that His wrath might not be visited upon her for the secret sin committed by others to her advantage, and that she might do as well in the rest of England as she had done in Plymouth.

  Outside the horse litter was waiting, with the lords of Devon mounted beside it, ready to accompany Katherine’s train to Exeter, where they were to lay that night. Katherine would have liked to stay in Plymouth and rest, but the Mayor had given Doña Elvira a letter from Dr de Puebla, saying that the King of England was eager to see her, and that he had been kept waiting long enough, so she must press eastwards to London with all speed. As she climbed into the litter and seated herself comfortably on its embroidered silk cushions, Doña Elvira, whose English was good, commanded that the curtains be closed, for Spanish etiquette demanded that none should look on the face of the royal bride until she was wed.

  Katherine could not sleep. The weather vane on the spire of St Mary Magnus next door to Exeter’s deanery kept creaking, and she had sent a servant to complain. But that was not the only thing keeping her awake. After two days in this alien land, she had found herself crying into her pillow, filled with an overwhelming longing to be at home in Spain, and to see her mother. And when she thought of how Queen Isabella must herself be feeling, now that the last of her children had gone from her, she wept even more. ‘Madre, madre!’ she sobbed.

  For as long as she could remember, her mother had been the guiding presence in her life, even though Isabella had often been busy with state affairs and with war. For many centuries Spain had been occupied by the Moors, who were cruel and savage infidels and in league with the Devil. They had haunted Katherine’s childhood nightmares, terrifying her as much as El Roba-Chicos, the man who was said to carry children off in his sack.

  Katherine had imbibed with her nurse’s milk the story of how, for hundreds of years, the rulers of the Christian kingdoms of the Spanish peninsula had fought bravely against the Moors, gradually reconquering their land, inch by inch. She had been told of the great rejoicing when her father, the King of Aragon, and her mother, the Queen of Castile, had married and united Spain under their joint rule. Both had been zealous in ridding the land of the Moors, and in 1492 the last infidel kingdom, Granada, had fallen to the victorious sovereigns.

  Katherine had been six then, but she remembered as clear as day riding across the River Vega with her
parents, her brother Juan and her sisters, and looking ahead in awe to see King Ferdinand’s great silver cross set up on the watch tower of the Alhambra Palace, and the royal standard being hoisted beside it. That was the signal for the royal procession to enter the city. She would never forget the shouts of ‘For King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella!’ resounding from hundreds of triumphant onlookers, or her father and mother falling to their knees to thank God for vouchsafing this magnificent victory.

  They had all been together then, the royal siblings. Sad Isabella, in her widow’s black, mourning Alfonso of Portugal, her husband of just seven months, cruelly dead after a fall from his horse; Juan, Prince of Asturias, the cherished heir to the throne – ‘my angel’, as their mother called him; tempestuous Juana, the beauty of the family, passionate and longing to be a bride; placid Maria; and Katherine, the youngest of them all. Those had been the happy years. After the conquest of Granada, Katherine and her sisters had lived in the Alhambra. For the children, the old fortress had been a magical place, and they had loved exploring the old palaces with their colourful tiles and strange Moorish decorations, the pavilions, the arched patios, and the water gardens with their pools and cool, splashing fountains, where once the caliphs had kept their harems. The views of the Sierra Nevada mountains from the Generalife Palace, where the sultans had once retreated in summer, were breathtaking.

  The Christian princesses had rarely left their sunny home, except for the great occasions of state at which their presence was required, nor had Katherine wanted to. She wept afresh when she remembered those long, spacious days in the Alhambra when the future seemed so far ahead and she had been content to play in its courtyards or apply herself to her studies. How sad it was not to know how happy you were until it was too late.

  Her mother, believing that princesses benefited from a good education, had appointed the pious Alessandro Geraldini as Katherine’s tutor. He had taught her to read and write, instructed her in Latin and the ancient classics, and given her devotional books to improve her mind and teach her virtue. Now he had come to England as her chaplain. From her duenna she had learned needlework and dancing, lacemaking and the intricacies of Spanish blackwork embroidery. It would be committing the sin of pride to say that she was good at the embroidery, but it could not be denied that she had mastered the skill well.