Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (25 page)

‘It’s always like that, isn’t it?’ he remarked. ‘The rise of one is the fall of another. I shall be king but only at my father’s death. And at my death, my son will reign.’

‘Shall we call him Arthur?’ she asked. ‘Or Henry for your father?’

‘Arthur is a good name,’ he said. ‘A good name for a new royal family in Britain. Arthur for Camelot, and Arthur for me. We don’t want another Henry; my brother is enough for anyone. Let’s call him Arthur, and his older sister will be called Mary.’

‘Mary? I wanted to call her Isabella, for my mother.’

‘You can call the next girl Isabella. But I want our first-born to be called Mary.’

‘Arthur must be first.’

He shook his head. ‘First we will have Mary so that we learn how to do it all with a girl.’

‘How to do it all?’

He gestured. ‘The christening, the confinement, the birthing, the whole fuss and worry, the wet nurse, the rockers, the nursemaids. My grandmother has written a great book to rule how it shall be done. It is dreadfully complicated. But if we have our Mary first then our nursery is all ready, and in your next confinement we shall put our son and heir into the cradle.’

She rose up and turned on him in mock indignation. ‘You would practise being a father on my daughter!’ she exclaimed.

‘You wouldn’t want to start with my son,’ he protested. ‘This will be the rose of the rose of England. That’s what they call me, remember: “the rose of England”. I think you should deal with my little rosebud, my little blossom, with great respect.’

‘She is to be Isabella then,’ Catalina stipulated. ‘If she comes first, she shall be Isabella.’

‘Mary, for the queen of heaven.’

‘Isabella for the Queen of Spain.’

‘Mary, to give thanks for you coming to me. The sweetest gift that heaven could have given me.’

Catalina melted into his arms. ‘Isabella,’ she said as he kissed her.

‘Mary,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘And let us make her now.’

It is morning. I lie awake, it is dawn and I can hear the birds slowly starting to sing. The sun is coming up and through the lattice window I can see a glimpse of blue sky. Perhaps it will be a warm day, perhaps the summer is coming at last.

Beside me, Arthur is breathing quietly and steadily. I can feel my heart swell with love for him, I put my hand on the fair curls of his head and wonder if any woman has ever loved a man as I love him.

I stir and put my other hand on the warm roundness of my belly. Can it be possible that last night we made a child? Is there already, safe in my belly, a baby who will be called Mary, Princess Mary, who will be the rose of the rose of England?

I hear the footsteps of the maid moving about in my presence chamber, bringing wood for the fire, raking up the embers. Still Arthur does not stir. I put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ I say, my voice warm with love. ‘The servants are outside, you must go.’

He is damp with sweat, the skin of his shoulder is cold and clammy.

‘My love?’ I ask. ‘Are you well?’

He opens his eyes and smiles at me. ‘Don’t tell me it’s morning already. I am so weary I could sleep for another day.’

‘It is.’

‘Oh, why didn’t you wake me earlier? I love you so much in the morning and now I can’t have you till tonight.’

I put my face against his chest. ‘Don’t. I slept late too. We keep late hours. And you will have to go now.’

Arthur holds me close, as if he cannot bear to let me go; but I can hear the groom of the chamber open the outside door to bring hot water. I draw myself away from him. It is like tearing off a layer of my own skin. I cannot bear to move away from him.

Suddenly, I am struck by the warmth of his body, the tangled heat of the sheets around us. ‘You are so hot!’

‘It is desire,’ he says, smiling. ‘I shall have to go to Mass to cool down.’

He gets out of bed and throws his gown around his shoulders. He gives a little stagger.

‘Beloved, are you all right?’ I ask.

‘A little dizzy, nothing more,’ he says. ‘Blind with desire, and it is
all your fault. See you in chapel. Pray for me, sweetheart.’

I get up from bed, and unbolt the battlements door to let him out. He sways a little as he goes up the stone steps, then I see him straighten his shoulders to breathe in the fresh air. I close the door behind him, and then go back to my bed. I glance round the room, nobody could know that he has been here. In a moment, Dona Elvira taps on my door and comes in with the maid-in-waiting and behind them a couple of maids with the jug of hot water, and my dress for the day.

‘You slept late, you must be overtired,’ Dona Elvira says disapprovingly; but I am so peaceful and so happy that I cannot even be troubled to reply.

In the chapel they could do no more than exchange hidden smiles. After Mass, Arthur went riding and Catalina went to break her fast. After breakfast was her time to study with her chaplain and Catalina sat at the table in the window with him, their books before them, and studied the letters of St Paul.

Margaret Pole came in as Catalina was closing her book. ‘The prince begs your attendance in his rooms,’ she said.

Catalina rose to her feet. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I think he is unwell. He has sent away everyone but the grooms of the body and his servers.’

Catalina left at once, followed by Dona Elvira and Lady Margaret. The prince’s rooms were crowded by the usual hangers-on of the little court: men seeking favour or attention, petitioners asking for justice, the curious come to stare, and the host of lesser servants and functionaries. Catalina went through them all to the double doors of Arthur’s private chamber, and went in.

He was seated in a chair by the fire, his face very pale. Dona Elvira and Lady Margaret waited at the door as Catalina went quickly towards him.

‘Are you ill, my love?’ she asked quickly.

He managed a smile but she saw it was an effort. ‘I have taken some kind of chill, I think,’ he said. ‘Come no closer, I don’t want to pass it to you.’

‘Are you hot?’ she asked fearfully, thinking of the Sweat which came on like a fever and left a corpse.

‘No, I feel cold.’

‘Well, it is not surprising in this country where it either snows or rains all the time.’

He managed another smile.

Catalina looked around and saw Lady Margaret. ‘Lady Margaret, we must call the prince’s physician.’

‘I sent my servants to find him already,’ she said, coming forwards.

‘I don’t want a fuss made,’ Arthur said irritably. ‘I just wanted to tell you, Princess, that I cannot come to dinner.’

Her eyes went to his. ‘How shall we be alone?’ was the unspoken question.

‘May I dine in your rooms?’ she asked. ‘Can we dine alone, privately, since you are ill?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ he ruled.

‘See the doctor first,’ Lady Margaret advised. ‘If Your Grace permits. He can advise what you should eat, and if it is safe for the princess to be with you.’

‘He has no disease,’ Catalina insisted. ‘He says he just feels tired. It is just the cold air here, or the damp. It was cold yesterday and he was riding half the day.’

There was a tap on the door and a voice called out. ‘Dr Bereworth is here, Your Grace.’

Arthur raised his hand in permission, Dona Elvira opened the door and the man came into the room.

‘The prince feels cold and tired.’ Catalina went to him at once, speaking rapidly in French. ‘Is he ill? I don’t think he’s ill. What do you think?’

The doctor bowed low to her and to the prince. He bowed to Lady Margaret and Dona Elvira.

‘I am sorry, I don’t understand,’ he said uncomfortably in English to Lady Margaret. ‘What is the princess saying?’

Catalina clapped her hands together in frustration. ‘The prince…’ she began in English.

Margaret Pole came to her side. ‘His Grace is unwell,’ she said.

‘May I speak with him alone?’ he asked.

Arthur nodded. He tried to rise from the chair but he almost staggered. The doctor was at once at his side, supporting him, and led him into his bedchamber.

‘He cannot be ill.’ Catalina turned to Dona Elvira and spoke to her in Spanish. ‘He was well last night. Just this morning he felt hot. But he said he was only tired. But now he can hardly stand. He cannot be ill.’

‘Who knows what illness a man might take in this rain and fog?’ the duenna replied dourly. ‘It’s a wonder that you are not sick yourself. It is a wonder that any of us can bear it.’

‘He is not sick,’ Catalina said. ‘He is just overtired. He rode for a long time yesterday. And it was cold, there was a very cold wind. I noticed it myself.’

‘A wind like this can kill a man,’ Dona Elvira said gloomily. ‘It blows so cold and so damp.’

‘Stop it!’ Catalina said, clapping her hands to her ears. ‘I won’t hear another word. He is just tired, overtired. And perhaps he has taken a chill. There is no need to speak of killing winds and damp.’

Lady Margaret stepped forwards and gently took Catalina’s hands. ‘Be patient, Princess,’ she counselled. ‘Dr Bereworth is a very good doctor, and he has known the prince from childhood. The prince is a strong young man and his health is good. It is probably nothing to worry about at all. If Dr Bereworth is concerned we will send for the king’s own physician from London. We will soon have him well again.’

Catalina nodded, and turned to sit by the window and look out. The sky had clouded over, the sun was quite gone. It was raining again, the raindrops chasing down the small panes of glass. Catalina watched them. She tried to keep her mind from the death of her brother who had loved his wife so much, who had been looking forward to the birth of their son. Juan had died within days of taking sick, and no-one had ever known what was wrong with him.

‘I shan’t think of him, not of poor Juan,’ Catalina whispered to herself. ‘The cases are not alike at all. Juan was always slight, little; but Arthur is strong.’

The physician seemed to take a long time and when he came out of the bedchamber, Arthur was not with him. Catalina who had risen from her seat as soon as the door opened, peeped around him to see Arthur lying on the bed, half-undressed, half-asleep.

‘I think his grooms of the body should prepare him for bed,’ the doctor said. ‘He is very weary. He would be better for rest. If they take care, they can get him into bed without waking him.’

‘Is he ill?’ Catalina demanded speaking slowly in Latin.
‘Aegrotat?
Is he very ill?’

The doctor spread his hands. ‘He has a fever,’ he said cautiously in slow French. ‘I can give him a draught to bring down his fever.’

‘Do you know what it is?’ Lady Margaret asked, her voice very low. ‘It’s not the Sweat, is it?’

‘Please God it is not. And there are no other cases in the town, as far as I know. But he should be kept quiet and allowed to rest. I shall go and make up this draught and I will come back.’

The low-voiced English was incomprehensible to Catalina. ‘What does he say? What did he say?’ she demanded of Lady Margaret.

‘Nothing more than you heard,’ the older woman assured her. ‘He has a fever and needs rest. Let me get his men to undress him and put him properly to bed. If he is better tonight, you can dine with him. I know he would like that.’

‘Where is he going?’ Catalina cried out as the doctor bowed and went to the door. ‘He must stay and watch the prince!’

‘He is going to make a draught to bring down his fever. He will be back at once. The prince will have the best of care, Your Grace. We love him as you do. We will not neglect him.’

‘I know you would not…it is only…Will the doctor be long?’

‘He will be as quick as he can. And see, the prince is asleep. Sleep will be his best medicine. He can rest and grow strong and dine with you tonight.’

‘You think he will be better tonight?’

‘If it is just a little fever and fatigue then he will be better in a few days,’ Lady Margaret said firmly.

‘I will watch over his sleep,’ Catalina said.

Lady Margaret opened the door and beckoned to the prince’s chief gentlemen. She gave them their orders and then she drew the princess through the crowd to her own rooms. ‘Come, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘Come for a walk in the inner bailey with me and then I shall go back to his rooms and see that everything is comfortable for him.’