Philippa Gregory 3-Book Tudor Collection 1 (32 page)

It was a year to the day that Arthur had died and Catalina spent the day alone in the chapel of Durham House. Father Geraldini held a memorial Mass for the young prince at dawn and Catalina stayed in the little church, without breaking her fast, without taking so much as a cup of small ale, all the day.

Some of the time she kneeled before the altar, her lips moving in silent prayer, struggling with the loss of him with a grief which was as sharp and as raw as the day that she had stood on the threshold of his room and learned that they could not save him, that he would die, that she would have to live without him.

For some of the long hours, she prowled around the empty chapel, pausing to look at the devotional pictures on the walls or the exquisite carving of the pew ends and the rood screen. Her horror was that she was forgetting him. There were mornings when she woke and tried to see his face, and found that she could see nothing beneath her closed eyelids, or worse, all she could see was some rough sketch of him, a poor likeness: the simulacrum and no longer the real thing. Those mornings she would sit up quickly, clench her knees up to her belly, and hold herself tight so that she did not give way to her agonising sense of loss.

Then, later in the day she would be talking to her ladies, or sewing,
or walking by the river, and someone would say something, or she would see the sun on the water and suddenly he would be there before her, as vivid as if he were alive, lighting up the afternoon. She would stand quite still for a moment, silently drinking him in, and then she would go on with the conversation, or continue her walk, knowing that she would never forget him. Her eyes had the print of him on their lids, her body had the touch of him on her skin, she was his, heart and soul, till death: not – as it turned out – till his death; but till her death. Only when the two of them were gone from this life would their marriage in this life be over.

But on this, the anniversary of his death, Catalina had promised herself that she should be alone, she would allow herself the indulgence of mourning, of railing at God for taking him.

‘You know, I shall never understand Your purpose,’ I say to the statue of the crucified Christ, hanging by His bloodstained palms over the altar. ‘Can you not give me a sign? Can you not show me what I should do?’

I wait but He says nothing. I have to wonder if the God who spoke so clearly to my mother is sleeping, or gone away. Why should He direct her, and yet remain silent for me? Why should I, raised as a fervently Christian child, a passionately Roman Catholic child, have no sense of being heard when I pray from my deepest grief? Why should God desert me, when I need Him so much?

I return to the embroidered kneeler before the altar but I do not kneel on it in a position of prayer, I turn it around and sit on it, as if I were at home, a cushion pulled up to a warm brazier, ready to talk, ready to listen. But no-one speaks to me now. Not even my God.

‘I know it is Your will that I should be queen,’ I say thoughtfully, as if He might answer, as if He might suddenly reply in a tone as reasonable as my own. ‘I know that it is my mother’s wish too. I know
that my darling –’ I cut short the end of the sentence. Even now, a year on, I cannot take the risk of saying Arthur’s name, even in an empty chapel, even to God. I still fear an outpouring of tears, the slide into hysteria and madness. Behind my control is a passion for Arthur like a deep mill pond held behind a sluice gate. I dare not let one drop of it out. There would be a flood of sorrow, a torrent.

‘I know that he wished I should be queen. On his deathbed, he asked for a promise. In Your sight, I gave him that promise. In Your name I gave it. I meant it. I am sworn to be queen. But how am I to do it? If it is Your will, as well as his, as I believe, if it is Your will as well as my mother’s, as I believe, then, God: hear this. I have run out of stratagems. It has to be You. You have to show me the way to do it.’

I have been demanding this of God with more and more urgency for a year now; while the endless negotiations about the repayment of the dowry and the payment of the jointure drag on and on. Without one clear word from my mother I have come to think that she is playing the same game as me. Without doubt, I know that my father will have some long tactical play in mind. If only they would tell me what I should do! In their discreet silence I have to guess that they are leaving me here as bait for the king. They are leaving me here until the king sees, as I see, as Arthur saw, that the best resolution of this difficulty would be for me to marry Prince Harry.

The trouble is, that as every month goes by, Harry grows in stature and status at the court: he becomes a more attractive prospect. The French king will make a proposal for him, the hundred princelings of Europe with their pretty daughters will make offers, even the Holy Roman Emperor has an unmarried daughter Margaret, who might suit. We have to bring this to a decision now, this very month of April, as my first year of widowhood ends. Now that I am free from my year of waiting. But the balance of power has changed. King Henry is in
no hurry, his heir is young – a boy of only eleven. But I am seventeen years old. It is time I was married. It is time I was Princess of Wales once more.

Their Majesties of Spain are demanding the moon: full restitution of their investment, and the return of their daughter, the full widow’s jointure to be paid for an indefinite period. The great cost of this is designed to prompt the King of England to find another way. My parents’ patience with negotiation allows England to keep both me and the money. They show that they expect the return of neither me nor the money. They are hoping that the King of England will see that he need return neither the dowry nor me.

But they underestimate him. King Henry does not need them to hint him to it. He will have seen perfectly well for himself. Since he is not progressing, he must be resisting both demands. And why should he not? He is in possession. He has half the dowry, and he has me.

And he is no fool. The calmness of the new emissary, Don Gutierre Gomez de Fuensalida, and the slowness of the negotiations has alerted this most acute king to the fact that my mother and father are content to leave me in his hands, in England. It does not take a Machiavelli to conclude that my parents hope for another English marriage – just as when Isabel was widowed they sent her back to Portugal to marry her brother-in-law. These things happen. But only if everyone is in agreement. In England, where the king is new-come to his throne and filled with ambition, it may take more skill than we can deploy to bring it about.

My mother writes to me to say she has a plan but it will take some time to come to fruition. In the meantime she tells me to be patient and never to do anything to offend the king or his mother.

‘I am Princess of Wales,’ I reply to her. ‘I was born to be Princess of Wales and Queen of England. You raised me in these titles. Surely, I should not deny my own upbringing? Surely, I can be Princess of Wales and Queen of England, even now?’

‘Be patient,’ she writes back to me, in a travel-stained note which
takes weeks to get to me and which has been opened; anyone can have read it. ‘I agree that your destiny is to be Queen of England. It is your destiny, God’s will, and my wish. Be patient.’

‘How long must I be patient?’ I ask God, on my knees to Him in His chapel on the anniversary of Arthur’s death. ‘If it is Your will, why do You not do it at once? If it is not Your will, why did You not destroy me with Arthur? If You are listening to me now – why do I feel so terribly alone?’

Late in the evening a rare visitor was announced in the quiet presence chamber of Durham House. ‘Lady Margaret Pole,’ said the guard at the door. Catalina dropped her Bible and turned her pale face to see her friend hesitating shyly in the doorway.

‘Lady Margaret!’

‘Dowager Princess!’ She curtseyed low and Catalina went swiftly across the room to her, raised her up and fell into her arms.

‘Don’t cry,’ Lady Margaret said quietly into her ear. ‘Don’t cry or I swear I shall weep.’

‘I won’t, I won’t, I promise I won’t.’ Catalina turned to her ladies. ‘Leave us,’ she said.

They went reluctantly, a visitor was a novelty in the quiet house, and besides there were no fires burning in any of the other chambers. Lady Margaret looked around the shabby room.

‘What is this?’

Catalina shrugged and tried to smile. ‘I am a poor manager, I am afraid. And Dona Elvira is no help. And in truth, I have only the money the king gives me and that is not much.’

‘I was afraid of this,’ the older woman said. Catalina drew her to the fire and sat her down on her own chair.

‘I thought you were still at Ludlow?’

‘We were. We have been. Since neither the king nor the prince
comes to Wales all the business has fallen on my husband. You would think me a princess again to see my little court there.’

Catalina again tried to smile. ‘Are you grand?’

‘Very. And mostly Welsh-speaking. Mostly singing.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘We came for the queen’s funeral, God bless her, and then I wanted to stay for a little longer and my husband said that I might come and see you. I have been thinking of you all day, today.’

‘I have been in the chapel,’ Catalina said inconsequently. ‘It doesn’t seem like a year.’

‘It doesn’t, does it?’ Lady Margaret agreed, though privately she thought that the girl had aged far more than one year. Grief had refined her girlish prettiness, she had the clear, decided looks of a woman who had seen her hopes destroyed. ‘Are you well?’

Catalina made a little face. ‘I am well enough. And you? And the children?’

Lady Margaret smiled. ‘Praise God, yes. But do you know what plans the king has for you? Are you to…’ She hesitated. ‘Are you to go back to Spain? Or stay here?’

Catalina drew a little closer. ‘They are talking, about the dowry, about my return. But nothing gets done. Nothing is decided. The king is holding me and holding my dowry, and my parents are letting him do it.’

Lady Margaret looked concerned. ‘I had heard that they might consider betrothing you to Prince Harry,’ she said. ‘I did not know.’

‘It is the obvious choice. But it does not seem obvious to the king,’ Catalina said wryly. ‘What do you think? Is he a man to miss an obvious solution, d’you think?’

‘No,’ said Lady Margaret, whose life had been jeopardised by the king’s awareness of the obvious fact of her family’s claim on his throne.

‘Then I must assume that he has thought of this choice and is waiting to see if it is the best he can make,’ Catalina said. She gave a little sigh. ‘God knows, it is weary work, waiting.’

‘Now your mourning is over, no doubt he will make arrangements,’ her friend said hopefully.

‘No doubt,’ Catalina replied.