Katharine of Aragon (14 page)

Elvira laughed and held the letter in the flame of the candle.

THE LONG DAYS OF SPRING AND SUMMER PASSED UNEVENT
fully for Katharine. Always she was awaiting the summons to return home.

This did not come, although others had been summoned back to Spain. One was Father Alessandro Geraldini; another was Don Pedro de Ayala.

Doña Elvira had explained their departure to Katharine. Don Pedro de Ayala, she said, was unworthy to represent Spain in England. He led too carnal a life for an ambassador, and a bishop at that. As for Geraldini, he had whispered slander against the Infanta herself, and for such she had demanded his recall.

“Her Highness your mother declares that he is indeed unworthy to remain a member of your household. I thank the saints that I was shown his perfidy in time.”

“What did he say of me?” Katharine wanted to know.

“That you were with child.”

Katharine flushed scarlet at the suggestion, and Elvira felt very confident that, if it should ever come to the point when there must be an examination, her pronouncement would be vindicated.

“I had hoped my mother would send for me,” said Katharine mournfully.

Elvira shook her head. “My dear Highness, it is almost certain that there will be another marriage for you in England. Had you forgotten that the King has another son?”

“Henry!” she whispered; and she thought of the bold boy who had led her to the altar where Arthur had been waiting for her.

“And why not?”

“He is but a boy.”

“A little younger than yourself. When he is a little older that will be of small account.”

Henry! Katharine was startled and a little afraid. She wanted to escape from Elvira, to think about this project.

That night she could not sleep. Henry haunted her thoughts and she was not sure whether she was pleased or afraid.

She waited for more news of this, but none came.

It was so difficult to know what was happening at home. There were only fragments of news she heard now and then. The war for Naples, in which her parents were engaged against the King of France, was not going well for them. That, she believed, was why the King of England was hesitating over her betrothal to his son. If the Sovereigns were in difficulties he could make a harsher bargain with them. He did not forget that only half her dowry had been paid.

So the months went by without much news. She found that she had very little money—not even enough to pay her servants. She was worried about Maria's dowry, for there was no news from Spain about this.

The King of England said that she had no right to a third of the property of her late husband, because the second half of her dowry had not been paid. She needed new dresses, but there was no money to buy any. There was her plate and jewels, which represented thirty-five thousand crowns; could she pawn these? She dared not do so because she knew that they had been sent from home as part of her dowry; but if she had no money, what could she do?

There were times when she felt deserted, for she was not allowed to go to Court.

“She is a widow,” said the King of England. “It is well that she should live in seclusion for a while.”

Henry had his eyes on the Continent. It might be that, as the French seemed likely to score a victory over the Spaniards, a marriage for his son with France or with the House of Maximilian might be more advantageous than one with Spain.

Meanwhile, living in England was the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand— a Princess, but penniless, a wife but no wife, virtually a hostage for her parents' good behavior.

It was no concern of his that she suffered poverty, said the King. He could not be expected to pay an allowance to the woman whose dowry had not been paid.

Puebla came to see her, shaking his head sadly. He also had received no money from Spain. It was fortunate that he had other means of making a living in England.

“They are using every
maravedi
for the wars, Highness,” he said. “We must perforce be patient.”

Katharine sometimes cried herself to sleep when her maids of honor had left her.

“Oh, Mother,” she sobbed, “what is happening at home? Why do you not send for me? Why do you not bring me out of this… prison?”

IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS
. A whole year, thought Katharine, since she had come to England, and during that time she had married and become a widow; yet it seemed that she had been a prisoner in Durham House for a very long time.

She was not to join the Court at Richmond for the Christmas celebrations: She was a widow, in mourning. Moreover the King of England wished the Spanish Sovereigns to know that he was not showering honors on their daughter, since half her dowry was still owing to him and he was not very eager to make a further alliance with their House.

Maria de Rojas was fretful. “No news from home?” she was continually demanding. “How strange that the Queen does not answer your request about my marriage.” Maria was anxious, for shut up in Durham House she had no opportunity of seeing her lover. She wondered what was happening to him and whether he was still eager for the marriage.

Francesca declared that she would go mad if they had to remain in England much longer; even gentle Maria de Salinas was restive.

But the days passed, all so like each other that Katharine almost lost count of time except that she knew that with each passing week she owed the members of her household more and more, and that Christmas was coming and they would have no money for celebrations, for gifts or even to provide a little Christmas cheer for their table.

It was in November that Queen Elizabeth came to Durham House to call on Katharine.

Katharine was shocked when she saw Elizabeth, because she had changed a great deal since they had last met. The Queen was far advanced in pregnancy and she did not look healthy.

The Queen wished to be alone with Katharine, and as they sat together near the fire, Elizabeth said: “It distresses me to see you thus. I have come to tell you how sorry I am, and have brought food for your table. I know how you have been placed.”

“How kind you are!” said Katharine.

The Queen laid her hand over the Infanta's. “Do not forget you are my daughter.”

“I fear the King does not think of me as such. I am sorry the dowry has not been paid. I am sure my parents would have paid it, if they were not engaged in war at this time.”

“I know, my dear. Wars… there seem always to be wars. We are fortunate in England. Here we have a King who likes not war, and I am glad of that. I have seen too much war in my life. But let us talk of more pleasant things. I could wish you were joining the Court for Christmas.”

“We shall do well enough here.”

“I envy you the quiet of Durham House,” said the Queen.

“Tell me when your child is expected.”

“In February.” The Queen shivered. “The coldest month.”

Katharine looked into the face of the older woman and saw there a resigned look; she wondered what it meant.

“I trust you will have a Prince,” Katharine murmured.

“Pray that I may have a healthy child. I have lost two at an early age. It is so sad when they live a little and then die. So much suffering… that one may endure more suffering.”

“You have three healthy children left to you. I have never seen such sparkling health as Henry's.”

“Henry, Margaret and Mary… they all enjoy good health, do they not? My life has taught me not to hope for too much. But I did not come to talk of myself, but of you.”

“Of me!”

“Yes, of you. I guessed how you would be feeling. Here you live almost a prisoner, one might say, in a strange country, while plans are made for your future. I understand, for I have not had an easy life. There has been so much strife. I can remember being taken into the Sanctuary of Westminster by my mother. My little brothers were with us then. You have heard that they were lost to us…murdered, I dare swear. You see, I have come to tell you that I feel sympathy for you because I myself have suffered.”

“I shall never forget how kind you are.”

“Remember this: suffering does not last for ever. One day you will come out of this prison. You will be happy again. Do not despair. That is what I have come to say to you.”

“And you came through the cold to tell me that?”

“It may be my last opportunity.”

“I hope that I may come and see you when the child is born.”

The Queen smiled faintly and looked a little sad.

“Do not look like that,” Katharine cried out in sudden panic. She was thinking of her sister Isabella, who had come back to Spain to have her child, the little Miguel who had died before he was two years old. Isabella had had some premonition of death.

She expected some reproof from the Queen for her outburst, but Elizabeth of York, who knew what had happened to the young Isabella, understood full well the trend of her thoughts.

She stood up and kissed Katharine's brow. That kiss was like a last farewell.

IT WAS CANDLEMAS-DAY
and the cold February winds buffeted the walls of the Palace of the Tower of London, although the Queen was unaware of them.

She lay on her bed, racked by pain, telling herself: It will soon be over. And after this, should I live through it, there cannot be many more. If this could be a son…if only this could be a son!

Then briefly she wondered how many Queens had lain in these royal apartments and prayed: Let this be a son.

It must be a son, she told herself, for this will be the last.

She was trying to shake off this premonition which had been with her since she knew she was to have another child. If her confinement could have taken place anywhere but in this Tower of London she would have felt happier. She hated the place. Sometimes when she was alone at night she fancied she could hear the voices of her brothers calling her. She wondered then if they called her from some nearby grave.

This was a sign of her weakness. Edward and Richard were dead. Of that she was certain. The manner of their dying could be of little importance to them now. Would they come back to this troublous Earth even if they could? For what purpose? To denounce their uncle as a murderer? To engage in battle against their sister's husband for the crown?

“Edward! Richard!” she whispered. “Is it true that somewhere within the gray walls of these towers your little bodies lie buried?”

A child was coming into the world. Its mother should not think of the other children—even though they were her own brothers—who had been driven out of it before their time.

Think of pleasant things, she commanded herself: Of rowing down the river with her ladies, with good Lewis Walter, her bargeman, and his merry watermen; think of the Christmas festivities at Richmond. The minstrels and the reciters had been more engaging than usual. She smiled, thinking of her chief minstrel who was always called Marquis Lorydon. What genius! What
power to please! And the others—Janyn Marcourse and Richard Denouse— had almost as much talent as Lorydon. Her fool, Patch, had been in great form last Christmas; she had laughed lightheartedly at his antics with Goose, young Henry's fool.

How pleased Henry had been because Goose had shone so brilliantly. It had pleased the boy because his fool was as amusing as those of the King and Queen.

Henry must always be to the fore, she mused. “Ah well, it is a quality one looks for in a King.”

There had been a pleasant dance too by a Spanish girl from Durham House. Elizabeth had rewarded her with four shillings and fourpence for her performance. The girl had been indeed grateful. Poor child, there were few luxuries at Durham House.

The Queen's face creased into anxiety. Where will it all end? she asked herself. She thought of her son Henry, his eyes glistening with pride because his fool, Goose, could rival the fools of his parents. She thought of the lonely Infanta at Durham House.

The fate of Princes is often a sad one, she was thinking; and then there was no time for further reflection.

The child was about to be born, and there was nothing left for the Queen but her immediate agony.

THE ORDEAL WAS OVER
, and the child lay in the cradle—a sickly child, but still a child that lived.

The King came to his wife's bedside, and tried not to show his disappointment that she had borne a girl.

“Now we have one son and three bonny girls,” he said. “And we are young yet.”

The Queen caught her breath in fear. Not again, she thought. I could not endure all that again.

“Yes, we are young,” went on the King. “You are but thirty-seven, and I am not yet forty-six. We still have time left to us.”

The Queen did not answer that. She merely said: “Henry, let us call her Katharine.”

The King frowned, and she added: “After my sister.”

“So shall it be,” answered the King. It was well enough to name the child after Elizabeth's sister Katharine, Lady Courtenay, who was after all the daughter of a King. He would not have wished the child to be named Katharine after the Infanta. Ferdinand and Isabella would have thought he was showing more favor to their daughter, and that would not have been advisable.