Arthur- Prince of the Roses

by Alison Weir

  The year when she turned seven had been an exciting one. Not long after the fall of Granada, Cristóbal Colón had returned to Spain to report that he had discovered a new world across the Atlantic Ocean. Queen Isabella had financed his voyage, and it was to the Spanish court that he brought the gold and the natives he had captured on his voyage. The dark-skinned savages were outlandishly dressed, but they looked terrified and ill, poor heathen creatures. Katherine had preferred the beautiful birds and plants that Colón showed her, his eyes afire at the prospect of many more voyages to come. Her tutor impressed on her how important Cristóbal Colón’s discovery was, for now that the Turks controlled the eastern Mediterranean, it was vital to find new trade routes to the East. One day, Father Alessandro told her, with a faraway look in his eyes, he hoped to visit this wonderful new world and see it for himself.

  It had been inevitable that Katherine’s older sisters would marry and go away before she did. She was ten when Juana had eagerly left for Flanders to marry the Archduke Philip the Handsome, Duke of Burgundy, and life had been very quiet after that. The Infanta Isabella had wanted to enter a nunnery and drown her grief in prayer, but King Ferdinand was having none of it, and she was packed off back to Portugal to marry the new King, Manuel, her late husband’s cousin. Three years later young Isabella was dead, Maria was married to her widower, and Katherine was all alone.

  That was after the great tragedy that had befallen her family. She still grieved for her beautiful, chivalrous brother Juan, who had died four years ago in the flower of his youth and promise, at just nineteen. Her parents had been inconsolable at the loss of their angel. The delicate Juan had not long been married to the lively young Margaret of Austria, the Archduke Philip’s sister, and Katherine had heard gossip that he had died as a result of overexerting himself in the marriage bed. She had not quite understood what that meant, but she was painfully aware – as was everyone else – that Spain had been left without a male heir, and that Juana was now next in line to the throne. Unstable, unhappy Juana, whose temperament had been volatile from childhood, and whose husband was making her life a torment with his infidelities.

  Queen Isabella had aged in these years, worn down by worry and grief. Her once-fair skin became puffy and lined, her green-blue eyes dulled by care. Yet to Katherine, her pious mother remained the perfect example of a Christian queen. There were people who said that women should not rule and should not wield dominion over men, but Isabella had proved them wrong. She had governed her kingdom and even led armies; not even female frailties had stalled her. Katherine had heard that, when campaigning against the Moors, her mother had given birth to Maria and been back in the saddle within days.

  It was true that Isabella had had little time to devote to her family, yet she had always loved her children. She had constantly looked to their welfare, and personally supervised their education whenever she could. She was their champion, whereas their wily, self-seeking father, Ferdinand, was more interested in what advantages his children could bring him. Katherine had been brought up to respect and obey her father, but she did not love him in the way she loved her mother. Isabella was everything that Katherine wanted to be, and she had resolved always to emulate her example.

  She had been thrilled when, shortly before they bade each other farewell (God, let it not be for ever, Katherine now prayed), Isabella had said, ‘You, Catalina, are the most like me of all my children. I pray that your life will be happier.’ Katherine had felt sure in that instant that it would be, especially with her mother’s prayers behind her.

  She did not want to think of the moment she had had to say goodbye. It had been postponed so often she had begun to think it might never come. But, inexorably, the day had arrived when she had knelt for the last time for her mother’s blessing, been raised by loving arms and folded into one last embrace. And at that memory she wept afresh into her pillow, racked with longing.

  The maid-of-honour on duty that night was Francesca de Cáceres. She had been asleep on the pallet at the foot of Katherine’s bed, her dark locks spread out on the pillow, but now she sat up, rubbing her almond-shaped eyes.

  ‘Highness? What is amiss? Why do you cry?’

  Katherine did not like Francesca as much as she did Maria, but she needed to talk to someone.

  ‘I think I am a little homesick,’ she sniffed, trying to compose herself. ‘Francesca, are you missing your mother?’

  ‘Of course, Highness,’ Francesca said. ‘I think we would be unnatural if we did not.’

  ‘Do you think we will ever see our mothers again?’ Katherine asked.

  ‘Maybe not for a while, Highness. But Prince Arthur might one day wish to visit Spain, or Queen Isabella may come to England.’

  Katherine thought mournfully that neither eventuality was very likely. She could not remember her mother ever leaving Spain. Again, the need to be with Isabella swamped her. If I go on like this I shall go mad, she told herself. Her grandmother had been mad – she could remember visiting the older Queen Isabella at the grim castle of Arévalo, and hearing the old lady say she was being pursued by ghosts. It had been a frightening experience for the young Catalina, one she had never forgotten. And now there were rumours that Juana had become more unbalanced, throwing tantrums and attacking ladies at the Flemish court because Philip’s eye had lighted upon them. Dear God, let me not end up that way, Katherine prayed silently.

  She made herself dwell on Prince Arthur. All her life she had thought of him as her husband, yet they had not been married by proxy until two years ago, and then again last year, just to make sure that the alliance was watertight. Now King Henry was planning a state reception and wedding of such magnificence as had never been seen in England, even though her parents had urged that he outlay only moderate expense, for they did not want their daughter to be the cause of any loss to her adoptive realm. But the King had insisted, and Katherine guessed why. He had pursued this marriage to seal his sovereignty, for he was king by right of conquest only, and needed the reflected glory of mighty Spain to legitimise his title. Spending a fortune on celebrations was a small price to pay for recognition by Ferdinand and Isabella.

  She knew that her father had worried that the English King was insecure on his throne. Henry had vanquished King Richard at the Battle of Bosworth, yet reports had reached Spain that there remained many kinsfolk of the late monarch to claim or contest the crown, and there had also been pretenders who had tried to unseat Henry. Yet Ferdinand had told Katherine last year that there now remained no doubtful drop of royal blood in England to threaten his throne. She did not like to dwell on what that had meant, and kept trying to put it from her mind. But she could not forget the whispers of what King Henry had done to ensure it . . .

  Again she wondered what Arthur would be like. His portrait showed a youth with pink cheeks, narrow eyes with heavy lower lids, and a pursed rosebud mouth. He seemed so young, so girlish, and so unlike the princely hero people had described. But then portraits often lied. As did people, whispered her inner voice.

  She would not listen or pay heed. These were night thoughts, and things would look different in the morning. The vane had now mercifully stilled. Francesca was lightly snoring, and Katherine resolved to do the same. She turned over and shut her eyes tightly, trying to think only of pleasant things.

  At Dogmersfield Katherine was so cold she could not stop shivering. The upstairs chamber of the Bishop’s Palace had a large fire roaring up the chimney, and she had had the table pulled over in front of it so that she could copy out her English sentences, but while the side of her nearest to the fire was warm, the rest of her was chilled to the bone, and when she had to force herself to get up and use the close stool in the privy at the far corner of the room, her teeth started chattering. The warmth from the hearth did not penetrate the stone walls. Winter was setting in with a purpose now, and she was trying harder than ever not to wish herself back
in the warmer climes of Spain. How was she going to endure months of this freezing, bitter weather?

  The bedchamber, with its fire stoked high, was only marginally warmer. Maria was preparing her for bed, and had just unlaced her gown when they heard the loud clatter of many hooves on the cobbles below. There was a stir and some commotion, then a man’s voice raised in anger echoing from beneath them.

  Minutes later Doña Elvira burst into the bedchamber, her normally severe features flushed, her erect figure bristling with rage. She was panting heavily.

  ‘The King is here with Prince Arthur,’ she announced, in a hoarse voice. Katherine began to tremble with anticipation, but Doña Elvira did not notice. ‘His Majesty is acting outrageously!’ she fumed. ‘We told him that your Highness had retired for the night, but he said he wished to see you. I said you could see no one, it was not fitting, and he gave me a very evil look, as if I had spirited you away somewhere.’

  It was bad enough hearing that the King had been angered, but almost worse to realise that Doña Elvira’s judgement was not as rock-sound as Katherine had always believed. It was as if the foundations of her world were suddenly shifting beneath her feet. But it just would not do to offend the King at this first, crucial meeting. Her whole future lay in his hands, and he was all-powerful here, as she of all people had cause to know. What was Doña Elvira thinking of?

  ‘I must go to His Majesty, if he commands it,’ she said. ‘Maria, please lace up my gown.’

  Maria moved to obey, but Doña Elvira stopped her with a furious gesture.

  ‘Your Highness will stay here!’ she insisted, plainly shocked at this unaccustomed defiance. ‘This English King is a rude, uncouth fellow. Despite what the Queen your mother told me to expect, he has no respect for Spanish customs! He demanded to know why I would not let him see you, and when I told him, he asked, “What is wrong with the Princess? Is she ugly or deformed?” Highness, I would not have repeated this, but you should know.’

  This was getting worse by the minute. Doña Elvira had to grasp that they were in England now, and she could not always stand fast on Spanish ideas of ceremony. It seemed that the duenna’s insufferable pride was about to wreck years of careful and courteous diplomatic negotiations.

  ‘I said to him,’ Doña Elvira was saying, ‘that in Spain a young lady must be veiled when presented to a gentleman. I repeated that you had retired for the night. And do you know what he said?’

  Katherine’s heart sank further.

  ‘He said that this is England, and that he would see you even though you were in your bed. The very shame of it! We are come among savages!’

  This had to stop. ‘Doña Elvira,’ Katherine said firmly, ‘the King is my father-in-law and this is his kingdom. We are bound to obey his orders and observe English customs. I pray you, do not think ill of me, but I must do as he commands.’

  Doña Elvira looked at her as if a lamb had just roared. There was a short, charged silence, then she said, ‘I am not a fool, Highness. I had not the courage to argue further, even to preserve propriety, so I told him that he might see your Highness. I had no choice, as you say! Maria – lace up that gown and bring me the veil.’ Having reasserted her authority, she picked up a comb and began raking it none-too-gently through Katherine’s hip-length, wavy red-gold hair.

  Katherine stood there bearing it patiently, looking at herself in the mirror. Duenna or no duenna, if the King asked her to lift her veil, she would. Her mother would surely hear about it – Doña Elvira was assiduous in sending reports – but Katherine trusted her to understand. Isabella would want her to comply with King Henry’s wishes. She stared at her reflection, her heart pounding; she was still shivering, although not just from the chill in her room. She could only hope that the King and Prince Arthur liked what they saw. A pretty, round face, a determined little chin, gentle grey eyes, soft lips and a clear brow.

  ‘If he insists that you remove the veil, Highness, remember what I taught you about custody of the eyes,’ Doña Elvira said, her voice cold. ‘Keep them demurely downcast, as befits a virtuous maiden! Do not stare.’

  In a trice Katherine was ready, the veil in place, and Maria gave her a mischievous smile and sped down the stairs to make her curtsey and invite the King to come up to her mistress’s chamber.

  In a moment, just a heartbeat, Katherine would come face to face with her destiny. And here, entering her chamber, was the debonair Count de Cabra, bowing and obsequious, and with him a tall, middle-aged man in riding clothes, booted and cloaked against the cold. His face was angular, his nose a prominent beak, his greying sandy-brown hair sparse on his fur collar, and he was regarding her almost greedily with shrewd eyes. His rich furs and velvet bonnet with its jewelled ornament left her in no doubt that this was His Grace King Henry VII of England, first sovereign of the House of Tudor. She sank to her knees, her attendants following her example.

  ‘Welcome to my kingdom, Princess Katherine,’ the King said. As the Count translated, Henry stepped forward, took her hands and raised her to her feet. His voice was high but manly, almost musical. She had been told that he had Welsh blood from his father’s ancestors, and the Welsh were renowned as a musical race.

  Before Katherine could reply, the King let go of her hands and raised her veil – and smiled.

  ‘The ambassadors of the sovereigns have not lied,’ he said delightedly. ‘I had heard of the wealth of Spain, but here is her most priceless treasure. Your Highness is doubly welcome for your beauty and your pretty face.’ He lifted her hands and kissed them, as Don Pedro Manrique translated his words.

  ‘I thank your Grace,’ Katherine said, reciting the sentence she had practised earlier. Ignoring the stony-faced Doña Elvira, she ventured a smile.

  ‘They told me you did not look like a true Spaniard,’ Henry told her. ‘By your red hair, you are a Lancastrian, like me and Arthur. By God, you look as English as we do! The kinship is plain, for we all descend from old John of Gaunt and King Edward the Third! I could not have found a more fitting match for my son.’

  ‘I am very proud of my English royal blood,’ Katherine said in Spanish. ‘I am named for my great-grandmother, Catalina of Lancaster.’

  ‘Gaunt’s own daughter! Well, well. But you must not let an old man keep you from your husband!’ the King declared jovially, stepping aside to reveal a youth standing in the doorway, flanked by several lords.

  Katherine’s first reaction was dismay, although she took care to keep smiling. It was the boy in the picture, grown slightly older, yet different. Prince Arthur was tall and auburn-haired, like his father, and had the air of confidence that was customary in those born of princely rank, but the thinness of his limbs was not concealed by his heavy travelling clothes. They hung on him. Even in the candlelight she could see that his cheeks were not rosy at all, but white with a ruddy flush.

  Again she knelt. Arthur gave her an uncertain smile, bowed courteously and raised her to her feet. His hands were colder than hers. Then he bent to brush her lips briefly with his, just as she had seen people doing in Plymouth. She had been told since that it was the custom in England. She dared not look at Doña Elvira.

  Speaking in Latin, Arthur asked her if she had had a pleasant journey. His voice was light and melodious. She assured him, in the same language, that she had.

  ‘I have been received warmly and made welcome everywhere in England,’ she said.

  ‘I heard that your Highness had nearly been shipwrecked,’ Arthur said. ‘We were all much alarmed, and relieved when we had news that you had made land safely.’

  ‘It was a frightening experience,’ Katherine told him, searching his face for some spark of warmth, some indication that he found her appealing.

  ‘Well, you are here now,’ Arthur replied. They smiled awkwardly at each other, for want of anything else to say, until the King rescued them, calling for wi
ne to celebrate this happy meeting and talking about the lavish wedding celebrations he had planned.

  Arthur said little. Although he politely asked if she had been comfortably accommodated, and what she thought of the food in England, and other such pleasantries, Katherine was unnerved by his reserve. Compared to King Henry’s hearty welcome, her husband’s had been lukewarm. She thought of the letters he had sent, so full of longing for her coming. It was hard to believe now that he had written them. Her heart plummeted. Was he disappointed in her? She could detect no ardour in him, none of the passion her brother Juan had shown from the first towards his bride. But she could see something in Arthur that she had seen, belatedly, in Juan – the signs of ill-health. Indeed Arthur looked so poorly that she feared he was ailing from some dread disease. Yet this was the young man it was her duty to love, as her husband. Her mother had said that it was up to her to win his love.

  ‘You must be tired after your journey here, sir,’ she said, thinking the Latin sounded very stilted and resolving again to learn English as quickly as she could. ‘It’s cold, and the ground must be hard for riding.’

  ‘I am freezing to my bones, your Highness,’ Arthur admitted. ‘I expect you find England very cold after Spain.’

  ‘I do, but already I have grown to love England,’ Katherine replied. It was not wholly truthful, for she had seen little of the country on her long journey, enclosed in her litter, with only occasional peeps when the curtains gaped – but it was politic, and one day, God willing, it would be true. ‘Come to the fire, my lord,’ she invited, noticing the King watching them approvingly as they walked together across the room. Arthur accepted a glass of wine, sipped it and coughed.