Patience, Princess Catherine (10 page)

"What shall you name him?" asked Henry, whose antics entertained me as much as the puppy's.

"
Payaso,
" I answered, laughing. "The Spanish word for clown."

Henry clapped his hands delightedly. "Excellent!" he cried. "I shall tutor you in French, and you shall tutor me in Spanish!"

Soon after Henry's eleventh birthday on the twenty-eighth of June, his family invited me to join them on the royal barge as they traveled upstream for a picnic. I was very pleased to be included. But as I mused aloud about what a pleasant outing it would be, Doña Elvira interrupted me. "You are to decline, Catalina," she said.

"Decline?" I cried. "But why?"

"You are still in mourning," she pointed out. "For you to be seen enjoying yourself publicly only months after the death of your husband would be most unseemly. It will damage your reputation, which is my responsibility to protect, as I promised your excellent parents. I cannot permit it."

The crushing disappointment I felt gave way to resentment. I wanted to shout,
Does that mean I am to live in a convent?
But I swallowed both disappointment and resentment and instead employed reason. "The invitation has come from the queen herself," I said, keeping my voice calm, though I felt anything but. "To refuse her would be an insult to her and to the royal family."

At last my duenna relented, on the condition that she accompany me.

What a lovely day it turned out to be! The weather was sunny and bright and the royal party in a merry frame of mind as we boarded the beautiful barge. The queen seemed happy to see me, and the two princesses were in merry moods. Henry charmed us all—even the dour Doña Elvira—by singing and playing upon the lute as we drifted languorously among the great white swans. The oarsmen rowed us as far as Richmond, where a splendid feast had been laid out beneath the great oaks. When the tide turned, we boarded the barge once again for the return trip. I hated to see the day come to an end but comforted myself that more such lovely occasions would surely follow.

I particularly wished that I could see more of the delightful young duke. But as the summer of 1502 dragged on, I saw little of the royal family and nothing at all of Henry. I was grateful for the distraction the puppy offered, for my life was otherwise empty and dull. On one of her infrequent visits, I told Princess Margaret that I wished Henry might come again to see how much Payaso had grown.

"I am certain that he would enjoy that, but he cannot. Father has become so fearful of Henry's health and safety that he keeps him shut up with his tutors and for bids him to venture beyond the palace walls. He refuses to send Henry to Ludlow, fearing the air on the Marches may be unwholesome—perhaps that is what took Arthur's life. No one is allowed to speak to Henry except by permission of the king. Father has complete control over him. The only way my brother can leave his chambers is by passing through the king's."

"Henry is like a prisoner, then," I ventured.

"Yes, and he hates it so!" Margaret said.

His life is nearly as sequestered as mine,
I thought. But Henry was heir to the throne, and one day he would be free of his fathers control. I wondered if I would ever free myself of Doña Elvira's.

 

Five months had passed since Arthur's untimely death, and I still had no idea what my future held. In that time I had received only two letters from my mother: the first offering condolences for my bereavement, the second advising me that their ambassadors would negotiate with King Henry for my future.

Following my wedding and departure for Ludlow, the witty and elegant Don Pedro de Ayala had been recalled to Spain by my parents, leaving his great rival, Don Rodrigo Gonzales de Puebla, as Spain's only ambassador to England. Soon after my arrival in London after Arthur's death, Don Rodrigo had come to call upon me. Into my privy chamber shambled a small, dark, and decidedly ill-favored man displaying none of Ayala's wit or polish.

In our first interview Don Rodrigo explained that in May, as soon as my parents learned of my widowhood, they had dispatched their special envoy, the duke of Estrada, to England with these instructions: Don Rodrigo was to call upon King Henry, demand the return of the 100, 000 escudos that had been paid for my dowry, require immediate payment of the revenues due me as Arthur's widow, and insist that I be allowed to return to Spain at once. "And I have done as ordered, my lady."

I leaned forward eagerly. "With what result, Don Rodrigo?"

"The king assured me that he will think upon it. But there is more that you should know. The duke of Estrada received a second, secret, set of instructions from your parents. As soon as Henry, duke of York, is proclaimed prince of Wales, Estrada is to propose to the king that you marry the new prince."

Marry Henry?
My head reeled with this news. "But Henry is only eleven years of age!" I stammered. "And I am nearly seventeen! It will be years before he is old enough to marry."

"Patience will be required, my lady," said Don Rodrigo. "It is a diplomatic ploy. King Henry will be forced to make a decision: to return you
and
your dowry to Spain, or to keep the dowry and marry you to his second son. Naturally, their majesties, the kings of Spain, hope that he will choose the marriage."

I had no say in this matter and expected none. If I could have had my wishes, I would have been on the next ship bound for Spain with never a backward glance. But marry Henry? I thought of him in the courtyard beneath his mother's window. Henry was a child! A great husky boy, but far from being a man.

Yet, even if King Henry accepted this proposal, the marriage would not be a simple matter, as Don Rodrigo then explained.

"Life can become very complicated at times, can it not?" said Don Rodrigo with a sigh. "I speak to you now as one who has been trained in church law, and I will speak frankly, as I know your parents would wish. In the eyes of the church, you and Prince Arthur were married with all due ceremony. I and many others were witnesses to that. What only God has witnessed, however, is the consummation of that marriage—if indeed it was consummated?"

Don Rodrigo peered at me from beneath wild black brows arched like drawn bows. My face burning, I lowered my eyes and studied the tips of my ten fingers. I was unable to speak to him openly as I had to the queen.

The question hung unanswered. After a silence he continued unhurriedly, "If you were to be carrying Arthur's child, and if that child were to be a son, that is another matter. King Henry has refused to declare young Henry the new prince of Wales until he is absolutely certain that you will not provide an heir."

"I am not carrying a child," I replied. I had been asked that question by so many that, though it distressed me, I was able to answer forthrightly.

"Ah," said Don Rodrigo, stroking his greasy beard. "Then let me explain further: There is a biblical injunction that prohibits a man from marrying his brothers widow. A papal dispensation would have to be obtained in order for you to marry the duke of York."

I raised my eyes to meet his jet-black ones. "When my sister Isabel died, her widower married my other sister, Maria. Is it not a similar thing?" I asked.

Don Rodrigo smiled, exposing long, yellow teeth. "Very similar. And in either case, it is the pope's decision in the matter." He squinted narrowly at me. "Pardon my seeming indelicacy, my lady princess, but these are important matters that will determine your future. Doña Elvira insists that your union was unconsummated. But Padre Alessandro insists that you and Prince Arthur lived as man and wife and that your husband sought your bed on numerous occasions. Whom am I to believe? Only you know the truth of the matter, my lady."

"Padre Alessandro said that?" I stared at Don Rodrigo in dismay, my face flushed with shame. Gathering my skirts, I fled weeping from the chamber while the ambassador stammered apologies. In my flight I nearly collided with Doña Elvira.

"What is it, Catalina?" she cried. She half carried, half dragged me to a private alcove. "Now tell me!" she commanded, gripping my hands tightly.

Still sobbing, I repeated the questions Don Rodrigo had put to me. "He claims to have heard these things from Padre Alessandro, and he has already written to warn my parents that a marriage with the duke of York might require the pope to intervene. Doña Elvira, how could my confessor have said such things? Surely Padre Alessandro knows the truth of the matter, as do you! I am still a virgin!"

"
¡Ese embustero!
" snarled Doña Elvira, her rage building. "That liar! Padre Alessandro is not fit to hear the confessions of a maiden as pure as she was on the day of her birth into this sinful world! And as for that boot-licking ambassador, I have always despised Rodrigo Gonzales de Puebla."
Un grosero malcriado,
she called him—an ill-mannered churl.

My duenna led me to my chambers and left me in the care of my ladies while she hurried off to berate Don Rodrigo and to demand his apology and his promise to write the truth of the matter to my parents.

Weeks later, after the ambassador had offered more apologies and sent off the letter, I received a brief note from my mother. "You have been ill served by Padre Alessandro, and he is being ordered to return at once to Spain."

Though I was angry that the priest had made false claims, I was also desolate. Padre Alessandro had been my tutor when I was a young girl, and he had been my chaplain since my arrival in England. But why had my confessor, whom I trusted, twisted my words and found meaning in them that I had not intended—and then passed on this so-called information to others?

On the occasion of my last meeting with Padre Alessandro, we both wept. "I meant only to help you, Catalina," he explained in a breaking voice. "By making clear that you were Arthur's wife in more than name only, I sought to prove you deserving of the honor due his widow as well as the revenues to which you are entitled. Instead, it appears that I have done you harm."

That same day the priest was gone. I was left with the detestable ambassador, Don Rodrigo; and Doña Elvira, who now watched over me more fiercely than ever.

Eltham Palace, September 1502

 

There had been times when Henry envied his older brother, who was always the center of attention. There had been times when Henry longed to be in Arthur's place but had to be content with being a duke. Second place scarcely counted.

Now Arthur was dead, and the world had changed. Suddenly everyone—especially his father—was watching him, hovering over Henry in ways he found oppressive. Why could they not simply leave him alone? Especially his father!

"Because, my lord," Brandon reminded him, "everything possible must be done to assure the well-being of England's future king."

"Then why has my father not proclaimed me prince of Wales?" Henry asked. "Arthur has been dead for five months
now." He picked up a stone and hurled it as far as he could. Brandon picked up a stone and hurled it even farther.

"The king believes it possible that your sister-in-law is carrying Arthur's child," Brandon explained. "That child would then become your brother's heir, not you."

"But I have heard that she is not," Henry argued.

"In these matters, one must be absolutely certain. The king believes that he must wait until your brother has been dead for ten months."

"Ten? I thought it was nine."

"To be
sure,
my lord."

And so they waited. Henry had always been restive, and waiting made him peevish.

Then came the startling revelation that Henry's mother, the queen, was herself carrying a child. In September, when it was announced that the infant had quickened in the queen's womb, the king ordered
Te Deums
to be sung in joyous thanksgiving in churches throughout England. Everyone prayed that the child would be a son.

While others rejoiced, Henry's older sister, Margaret, worried. "Our mother is too old to safely bear another child," she told Henry. That frightened him, for he adored his mother as much as he feared his father.

There was yet another revelation.

The king had taken Henry for a day of hunting in Buckingham's deer park. They had spoken little until they rode toward the lodge at sunset. Without prelude the king said, "You may soon become betrothed to the princess of
Wales. The king and queen of Spain have informed me that they expect their widowed daughter to be betrothed to the heir to the English throne as soon as possible. I have not yet decided."

Betrothed to Catherine?
Lately Henry had heard rumors—mostly from Brandon—that the king was considering any number of European princesses with whose families he wished to contract a useful alliance. The possibility of marrying his widowed sister-in-law had never been mentioned, but now that his father had put forth the plan, Henry decided that he liked it. The princess was certainly well favored, with a fine complexion and that wonderful mass of shining auburn hair that hung nearly to her waist. Besides, she seemed so intelligent—unlike the simpering, empty-headed ladies in his mother's court. Not that his father had asked his opinion.

He wondered what Arthur would think of his younger brother marrying his wife, besting him yet again.

Henry inclined his head. "As you wish, my lord."

The hunting party had reached the lodge, and nothing more was said. Later, though, Henry asked Brandon what he thought of the matter.